"On the ledge of lands
Long ribbon of golden sands
Eyes lead down to the golden dome
Cádiz, My noisy and blustery home."
Sevilla; Sevilla (Sunday)
We wandered her quiet, winding backstreets, saw peeling walls and spotless shining tiles while alluring wafts of cooking meats drifted barrios of differing styles.
Calle La Feria
Honey mustard colouring became tree lined and fine artists decorated a crowded square. My heart entwined with town and country, almost an obsession as down by the river meandering sat heavy-scented air. Summer still holding on, holding on.
plaza outside fine art museum
The very town centre imposing, arresting, grand and drenched with sun we lunched with Spanish wine. Breath pungent with garlic Chicken and oily fish our thirst, hungers and tiredness were quenched by an oil-painted waiter whose sharp and troubled eyes should have been gracing museum walls.
Took a final sweet sherry to end the meal, smelt of raisins and prunes and offered feelings of Christmas in a glass as I wrestled meat from between my teeth.
Regenerated we strolled past the never-ending wonders - The Cathedral and La Giralda - towering over posing horses, tourists and Sevillanos. We drifted to the Castle and its gardens and realised an amazing maze of seductive streets beyond; so much grandeur in one wander.
The shrill of flamenco came from one cornered bar where outside a troubled dog lay. Here we rested and listened awhile separately spinning our own wishes and thoughts as romance dwelled and wrote itself un-noticed.
The quiet, brand new and silvery metro was part of the final act almost getting us to Santa Justa where spent, weary and in love we left for Sunday night in beautiful Jerez.
Calle La Feria
Honey mustard colouring became tree lined and fine artists decorated a crowded square. My heart entwined with town and country, almost an obsession as down by the river meandering sat heavy-scented air. Summer still holding on, holding on.
plaza outside fine art museum
The very town centre imposing, arresting, grand and drenched with sun we lunched with Spanish wine. Breath pungent with garlic Chicken and oily fish our thirst, hungers and tiredness were quenched by an oil-painted waiter whose sharp and troubled eyes should have been gracing museum walls.
Took a final sweet sherry to end the meal, smelt of raisins and prunes and offered feelings of Christmas in a glass as I wrestled meat from between my teeth.
Regenerated we strolled past the never-ending wonders - The Cathedral and La Giralda - towering over posing horses, tourists and Sevillanos. We drifted to the Castle and its gardens and realised an amazing maze of seductive streets beyond; so much grandeur in one wander.
The shrill of flamenco came from one cornered bar where outside a troubled dog lay. Here we rested and listened awhile separately spinning our own wishes and thoughts as romance dwelled and wrote itself un-noticed.
The quiet, brand new and silvery metro was part of the final act almost getting us to Santa Justa where spent, weary and in love we left for Sunday night in beautiful Jerez.
Madrid; A Gift From Egypt
Arrived at the Temple Of Debod for sunset. Here, as the sun was lowering to sounds of spouting water, lovers interlocked on steps or leant against rails kissing, and as I watched on I felt something missing as their long reclining shadows stretched back together to the adoring darkening sky.
The fountain overflowed and spread with joy as the sky painted yellows, pinks and blushed in deep crimsons as ripples, clouds and reflections deepened and photos vastly improved and feelings became softened and content, mellow and reminiscent as amorous eyes gazed out over the horizon and to times far beyond.
In the east a full moon rose. It took charge of the changing skies and hung over the now illuminated temple surrounded by dark glassy water and satisfied silhouettes. With faint chill I ambled gladly on cutting through the early evening charge of human traffic on the imposing Gran Via.
The fountain overflowed and spread with joy as the sky painted yellows, pinks and blushed in deep crimsons as ripples, clouds and reflections deepened and photos vastly improved and feelings became softened and content, mellow and reminiscent as amorous eyes gazed out over the horizon and to times far beyond.
In the east a full moon rose. It took charge of the changing skies and hung over the now illuminated temple surrounded by dark glassy water and satisfied silhouettes. With faint chill I ambled gladly on cutting through the early evening charge of human traffic on the imposing Gran Via.
Madrid; Tourist
Amble to Plaza Mayor for touristy breakfast where an ugly bronze haired waitress entertains foreigners in different languages. I order toast and tomato in Spanish; she smiles and offers me an Orange juice as part of the deal in English. When I pay up, the orange juice costs €3.50. Bitch.
A disappointed wintry chill hangs out with me as I head down through half asleep streets to the Queen Sofia gallery. Here, the art is more contemporary and the museum filled with expressionless European faces and heavy feet. I enjoy the visual poetry, Dali’s bizarre passions and Picasso’s uncanny talent.
For lunch visit the Museo Del Jamon where waiters yell orders and requests across mirrored bars. Pig legs hang upon every wall and as noise reflects off shiny surfaces towers of white plates slide lower. I have one Lácon Bocadillo, the shoulder of pig, and a beer for 2 euros.
Early afternoon spent wandering a few streets past dying tramps listening to transistor radios, yellow jacketed men offering to exchange gold for hard cash, lottery sellers with large desperate eyebrows, the wealthy and glossy supping from glistening wine glasses in San Miguel market and artists expressing themselves in Plaza corners.
Call into bar Andalu, Plaza mayor, partly because of Hemingway and partly because of Andalusia. The walls are burdened with bullfighting photos and special visitors who’ve shaken hands at the bar. Three large Bulls heads watch as I sip beer and the provincial green and white colours are outstandingly present.
Move to Moore’s Irish bar. Inside, gangs of hefty, ageing Chelsea fans arrive and “I couldn’t believe it’ and ‘Chelsea’ and ‘don’t f****** go there mate’ echo the gloomy tavern. Spot them later on, their eyes bleary red, falling off chairs, intimidating locals and shouting orders in their finest English.
A disappointed wintry chill hangs out with me as I head down through half asleep streets to the Queen Sofia gallery. Here, the art is more contemporary and the museum filled with expressionless European faces and heavy feet. I enjoy the visual poetry, Dali’s bizarre passions and Picasso’s uncanny talent.
For lunch visit the Museo Del Jamon where waiters yell orders and requests across mirrored bars. Pig legs hang upon every wall and as noise reflects off shiny surfaces towers of white plates slide lower. I have one Lácon Bocadillo, the shoulder of pig, and a beer for 2 euros.
Early afternoon spent wandering a few streets past dying tramps listening to transistor radios, yellow jacketed men offering to exchange gold for hard cash, lottery sellers with large desperate eyebrows, the wealthy and glossy supping from glistening wine glasses in San Miguel market and artists expressing themselves in Plaza corners.
Call into bar Andalu, Plaza mayor, partly because of Hemingway and partly because of Andalusia. The walls are burdened with bullfighting photos and special visitors who’ve shaken hands at the bar. Three large Bulls heads watch as I sip beer and the provincial green and white colours are outstandingly present.
Move to Moore’s Irish bar. Inside, gangs of hefty, ageing Chelsea fans arrive and “I couldn’t believe it’ and ‘Chelsea’ and ‘don’t f****** go there mate’ echo the gloomy tavern. Spot them later on, their eyes bleary red, falling off chairs, intimidating locals and shouting orders in their finest English.
Madrid; Artistic Sunday Stroll
1950’s breakfast with Nick at Café Commercial where dark woods, firm leathers, polished gold and proficient waiters encircled us. A pleasant cafe to correspond or discuss the finer points of Goya and where best he’s seen. Spun out the chocolate coloured revolving doors afterwards to immerse into Madrid’s creative streets.
Arrived at house-turned-museum of artist Sorrolla where fine paintings of ladies at leisure on Valencia’s beaches were a personal highlight. Continued down the tree-lined boulevards past questionable sculptures and drifts of autumn to Plaza Cibeles. Here, grand city buildings intersected fountains and rooftop delights highly impressed while traffic lights chirped.
Moved onto the Barrio de Letras and a swift nod to poet Lorca. Visit Hemingway’s old haunt, Bar Vicente on Calle Echegarary. We sit in a dimly lit corner with sweet Sherries observing nicotine-stained walls and old artworks of Jerez Festivals. We leave after two glasses. Sheen shines the afternoon.
While waiting for free entry to the Prado we eat a famous ‘Bocadillo de Calamari’ and take a siesta in Parque Del Buen Retiro while exotic birds eyed up our man bags and gold leaves and Madrileños fluttered, sauntered by. Find cheap thrills in the ham museum afterwards; mirrors, lagers and free nibbles.
Finally walk freely into the Prado, a much raved about place where apparently you might spend hours or days. We joined an army of others wandering earthly delights of lustful abandon, suffering saints and Goya’s darkest moments while night quietly sketched across the Spanish capital. We left content after 45 minutes.
Evening in Barrio La Latina with professors Chris and Seb. Joined the Sunday night squabble that the area is well known for: people spilling out of bars and beer out of little glasses. For dinner, we eat chocolate Croquettes washed down with a lager. ‘As you do’ says Chris.
Arrived at house-turned-museum of artist Sorrolla where fine paintings of ladies at leisure on Valencia’s beaches were a personal highlight. Continued down the tree-lined boulevards past questionable sculptures and drifts of autumn to Plaza Cibeles. Here, grand city buildings intersected fountains and rooftop delights highly impressed while traffic lights chirped.
Moved onto the Barrio de Letras and a swift nod to poet Lorca. Visit Hemingway’s old haunt, Bar Vicente on Calle Echegarary. We sit in a dimly lit corner with sweet Sherries observing nicotine-stained walls and old artworks of Jerez Festivals. We leave after two glasses. Sheen shines the afternoon.
While waiting for free entry to the Prado we eat a famous ‘Bocadillo de Calamari’ and take a siesta in Parque Del Buen Retiro while exotic birds eyed up our man bags and gold leaves and Madrileños fluttered, sauntered by. Find cheap thrills in the ham museum afterwards; mirrors, lagers and free nibbles.
Finally walk freely into the Prado, a much raved about place where apparently you might spend hours or days. We joined an army of others wandering earthly delights of lustful abandon, suffering saints and Goya’s darkest moments while night quietly sketched across the Spanish capital. We left content after 45 minutes.
Evening in Barrio La Latina with professors Chris and Seb. Joined the Sunday night squabble that the area is well known for: people spilling out of bars and beer out of little glasses. For dinner, we eat chocolate Croquettes washed down with a lager. ‘As you do’ says Chris.
Madrid; Tapas
9:30 p.m. Nick and I head to La Oreja Del Oro on Calle Victoria to sample pigs ear and a glass of Ribeiro Galician White. The bar is small and full and loud. The ear is far too garlicky and a bit crunchy. It is my first pig disappointment.
Second is the wonderful Casa Del Abuelo where prawns or prawns are served. Ordered in by a lively direct waiter we order ours battered and skewered with a tiny glass of heavy red. The bar is well mirrored and buzzing with brief customers as waiters yell and garlic sizzles.
Second is the wonderful Casa Del Abuelo where prawns or prawns are served. Ordered in by a lively direct waiter we order ours battered and skewered with a tiny glass of heavy red. The bar is well mirrored and buzzing with brief customers as waiters yell and garlic sizzles.
Madrid; To The Centre Of Spain
Leave Cádiz early morning just before the sunrises behind sea cranes and sleeping buildings. Snooze comfortably on the train as far as Cordoba then seek out Nazaret the receptionist at school who is also travelling to Madrid. We stand and wobble with a coffee in the carriage café at 250 mph.
Arrive Puerta Del Sol early afternoon; the centre point of Spain and where all roads and rails meet. The sun blazes and the volume of people although anticipated is already annoying as I sidestep my way to accommodation. Hole up at Hostal Victoria, a stones throw from the plaza. Very pleased with room.
When organised meet fellow professor Nick and catch up with a ‘picnic para llevar’ from the ham museum. We sit and chat in peaceful, ornate Plaza Oriente. Enjoy late afternoon in the Cerveceria Alemania, Plaza Santa Ana where we drink Amstel in Ernest. Leave at sunset as outside buskers guilty feet have no rhythm.
Arrive Puerta Del Sol early afternoon; the centre point of Spain and where all roads and rails meet. The sun blazes and the volume of people although anticipated is already annoying as I sidestep my way to accommodation. Hole up at Hostal Victoria, a stones throw from the plaza. Very pleased with room.
When organised meet fellow professor Nick and catch up with a ‘picnic para llevar’ from the ham museum. We sit and chat in peaceful, ornate Plaza Oriente. Enjoy late afternoon in the Cerveceria Alemania, Plaza Santa Ana where we drink Amstel in Ernest. Leave at sunset as outside buskers guilty feet have no rhythm.
Cádiz; Sunset
Another glorious southern sunset sank down pulling the sleeping skies behind it like dark silk sheets and lifting the cradled moon from its daytime slumber. The Sea blushed between praising gold and silver reflections as Old Cádiz town watched from the distance, her lights tingling with excitement for Saturday night.
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