Monday 23 September 2002, Seville, Spain.
We need not have worried about our early departure as we arrived at the bus station just across the road from our rooms in plenty of time to join the knot of school children buying tickets, acquire our tickets, lose one of them, retrieve it from under a seat, buy and consume coffee and croissants before the bus arrived. We retraced our journey of the day before, missing the smaller stops then beyond Tavira to Villa Real de San Antonio, then striking a little way in land skirting the salt flats of the river Guadiana, which forms the border between Spain and Portugal, and over a grand suspension bridge, the Puente Internacional del Guadiana, into the little town of Ayamonte where we changed buses, our passports unexamined. The other coach, also run by the EVA bus company, was a swish double decker from Lagos with a group of young Americans on board. In fact we were by far the oldest on the bus. They listened to music on their portable CD players and dozed as we sped along the motorway through a parched landscape of orange trees, olives, vines, pine forests and scrubland to Seville. The countryside looked far more cared for than in Portugal, with less heaps of rubbish, but we did notice shanty dwellings as we drew into Seville which sprawled across the plain with its graffiti-covered underpasses.
We drew into an enormous bus station by the Plaza de Armas, a railway station converted into a shopping centre. Ian made a brief excursion to see the best direction to lug our cases in search of rooms, it was a humid 23 degrees centigrade, but only found one full hostel near the bus station. The information kiosk there however provided not just timetable information but also a plan of the city and the card of the Hostal Jentoft in the nearby Benidorm Street with 60 rooms at unbelievably low prices. We booked two nights at 24 Euros for a double room without shower. We soon discovered some of the reasons for its cheapness - no plug no hot water the hot tap wasn't even connected. Still, it was clean and our water heater could do its stuff for us. Then, settled in by 2:00 p.m., we set off to see the sights of Seville. Plunging into the side streets in the El Arenal quarter, we found a shaded street with tables and a lady who handed us on to her son when she realized we were English. He cajoled us into a plate of olives and capers which we washed down with beers while waiting for chicken paella and spinach with chickpeas. The latter turned out to be seafood paella which, to his great relief, we accepted. With a full stomach we turned the corner to find the huge gothic and Renaissance pile which made up Seville Cathedral, surely one of the largest churches in Christendom. When Seville was captured from the moors in 1248 it was converted from a mosque which had been built the previous century. In the 15th century the main part of the mosque had been demolished and the huge gothic nave constructed. The minaret became the bell tower (Giralda) and another Moorish part survives in the court of the orange trees, the brick channels which once carried cooling water now dry and a hazard hazard to unaware pedestrians.
The minaret can be climbed by a continuous ramp with 34 turns which rises over 50 meters to the Renaissance belfry perched on top of the Moorish minaret. A remarkable piece of architecture, largely in brickwork, which affords excellent views over the city across the roof of the main part of the cathedral.
Inside the main part, the Renaissance and later the baroque pour the wealth derived from the Indies into ever more extravagant decoration. Altars dripped with gold and alabaster, and carved wooden organ cases squirmed their ways up into the gothic vaults. Columns could not be left plain or simply fluted but swarmed with bas reliefs of figures and foliage. Masters such as Murillo and Zurbaran were called in to provide altar paintings or murals for the remarkable oval chapter house. The 19th century played its part with a tomb for Christopher Columbus supported by four larger than life figures in tabards. In the treasury were solid gold chalices, monstrances, vestments, reliquaries. But some of the most striking things were the simplest: the pre-Moorish inscription recording the installation of the bishop who succeeded the famous Isidor of Seville in the seventh century, the banner that was flown when Seville fell to the Christians, the bundle of documents that provided the evidence for the canonization of Fernando III in the 17th century. We left the cathedral and made our way through the Juderia in the Alcazar to the Gardens of Murillo with their tile seats, fountains, and the remarkable monument to Columbus with a galleon supported by two columns. Then on to the Plaza de España, an enormous brick edifice with tile pictures illustrating the history of the various Spanish provinces which was erected for the Latin American Exhibition of 1929. It was in the form of an enormous semicircle with a curved canal in front crossed by bridges with balustrades made of painted ceramics. In the courtyard horse drawn carriages circled or waited for customers. The whole thing was a little shabby, the ceramics broken and pigeons nesting above the grand central staircase, a problem with so many of these grand exhibition buildings.
We walked round the Maria Luisa Park which also had areas cordoned off for restoration. There were lakes, tiled fountains, one with a circle of ceramic frogs, and at the far end the Plaza de America, lined with three further exhibition pavilions in an eclectic mix of styles, two of them housing museums.
Tuesday 24 September 2002
Bless Ian for writing up the events of yesterday. Personally I have felt unwell ever since we arrived in Seville and am putting it down to air quality. I've had severe ear, nose and throat disturbance that seem to imply the outbreak of a violent cold that doesn't arrive. I felt somewhat better yesterday in the Maria Luisa Park away from the traffic, but bad again as soon as we returned to the town. I'm completely dosed up on paracetamol and am blessing our little portable water heater that permits us endless supplies of surreptitious Earl Grey tea to lubricate my throat.
It was still dark when we got up at 7:30 this morning. All the traffic shone their headlights on the way to work; Spain is an hour ahead of Portugal which has the same time as the UK. From darkness to hot sunshine is a matter of minutes, as is the rise in pollution levels. We must keep as far from roads as possible today. One thing that is wonderful for travelling is that, with the introduction of the euro, it makes no difference which country we are in and it is so much easier to compare prices. Spain is supposed to be more expensive than Portugal but so far our impression has been the opposite. Our room is over an eight-lane motor route through the center of Seville but it's cool and has tripled glazing plus shutters, so the constant roar becomes a soothing hum, which I find easier to contend with than drunkards and barking dogs. Here we are playing 24 euros a night for a clean modern room plus an extra euro each for use of the spotless efficient showers down the corridor next to the equally clean loos. In Faro we paid 45 euros for a very clean and pleasant room with en-suite bathroom. I think this is far better value, and it is only minutes away from the bus station and the main sites of the town.
8:15 p.m. Tuesday evening.
We are in our room drinking wine but will be off out shortly to attend a flamenco evening at the Museum of Memories where we have been promised an outstanding performance from a young Spanish guitarist. I hope there'll be some dancing too.
There is no way that I can do justice to a day such as we have just spent. It is a must in the life of anyone wishing to travel in Europe to see the Alcazar of Seville. First though we went to the old railway station of Cordova, opposite the bus station in Seville. It has now taken on a new life as a chic shopping precinct with a supermarket in the basement and a cartoon cinema and coffee shops on the top floor, the main shops being on the ground floor. It is a beautiful building and the single-seater aircraft suspended from the roof at each end, silhouetted against the Moorish style stained glass windows, gives some idea of the large scale of the place.
We walked through to the area around the cathedral, exploring the shady, narrow cobbled alleys with their ceramic and craft shops in the Santa Cruz area, with outdoor pavement cafes wherever they could be fitted into the little courtyards and squares from which the alleys lead.
From there we explored the attractive cool gardens with their tiled pathways, clipped hedges, fruiting citrus trees, orange, lemon, grapefruit, all as yet unripe and deep green in colour. Wherever possible, tiny fountains bubble beneath the tall palm trees, offering ample shade from the already hot sun on Moorish style tiled seats. We settled on one of these seats to eat a banana and brown roll we had purchased at the supermarket by the station. It was interesting just people watching as all the many different nationalities passed by in couples, or more frequently in large groups following their guide who waved an umbrella and gabbled in whatever they hoped was the language of their tour group. We couldn't understand much of the guide speaking English, attractive as it sounded, so I doubt the others were any clearer.
Eventually we stopped as a little square for lunch. The dish of the day was four euros, for which we got tuna, onions, eggs, olives and potatoes in a mixed salad with bread and wine under a shady umbrella surrounded by a crowd of interesting company. Then we went to the old tobacco factory, an enormous building that now houses part of the Seville University. The original at tobacco factory formed the setting for Bizet’s opera Carmen. With our quirky sense of luck, they just happened to be filming a version of the opera in the courtyard and for some reason didn't stop us walking in on rehearsals accidentally. We were asked to stand with a few other folks out of the line of the cameras and watched with interest as beautiful Spanish girls in costume filled pitchers from the fountain in the courtyard and rustic looking young men walked around with baskets of tobacco leaves. Meanwhile horses stood in the shafts of carts loaded with sacks and hessian covered parcels of tobacco, and handsome young Spaniards in soldiers’ uniforms of an earlier age wielded swords and charged about with bayonets fixed to their rifles.
The long queue to enter the Alcazar was much shorter now, so we joined it and for five euros each had the experience of a lifetime. We had not read up much about it but our impression is that it dates originally from the 14th century and was commissioned by Christian rulers, based on the mudejar Moorish style with specially commissioned Moorish craftsman to create it. It is cool inside despite the heat of the day, dark and shady with the most stunning carved ceilings, walls and door frames. Moorish tiles cover the walls in a riot of mosaics, all perfectly cut and interlocking in complex geometric designs. It is all so different from anything I've ever seen that I can honestly say that I felt quite overcome, and very near to tears with the sheer joy of looking at it and the urgent desire to emulate it in some way. Elsewhere of course it would look quite wrong, but here it was stunning. Keyhole shaped archways, delicate columns with ornate capitals, carvings of roundel shapes, figures, birds, animals, Arabic texts, all were there, but it was the tiles that stunned me most. In Portugal the house fronts were tiled in modern attempts to reproduce this style and they were hideous. Here they are absolute perfection but only because they are here; in the ceramic shops and doorways of the town they lose their splendour. The buildings of the Alcazar also had chambers of tapestries, paintings, Moorish art and decoration.
There were hundreds of Gardens, it seemed, each magnificent, with flowing water everywhere making a peaceful cooling sound in the heart of this busy City. Potted plants lined balustrades above the gardens, with aspidistras in huge tabs - I really must repot mine when I get home.
We bought a couple of chilled drinks at the cafeteria and sat in a woven basket chairs overlooking a little lake with ducks and a fountain, laid out in a very formal style, as were all the gardens, and wrote postcards. Then further exploration before we reluctantly left the Alcazar, wondering whether we'd ever see anything so amazing again in our lives.
It's now time to go to our flamenco evening which takes place in the Museum of Memories of Andalucia at 10:30.
By 10:00 p.m. there was already a queue of people at the Museum hoping for good seats in the small covered courtyard. About 60 chairs were arranged round three sides of a small wooden dance platform in front of which two lamps burned either side of a large bowl in which blossoms floated. Two young men came on and sat on the two chairs at the back of the dance floor. The guitar player strummed his instrument while the singer coughed took a drink pulled up his socks then sat, his hands together in front of him clapping softly and entering a sort of trance before uttering a long wail. A series of quavering phrases alternated with guitar accompaniment the player clearly trying to match the mood of the singer who seemed heartbroken, angry, anything but happy. The elaboration of the notes with their semitones has an Arabic feel to it.
The two men were joined by a dancer and the trio worked wonderfully as a team, the two young men dressed in black and the beautiful tiny lithe Spanish dancer in her shawl and flounces, her hair sleeked back into a heavy black bun on her neck. The Spanish guitarist performed a couple of beautiful solos whilst the singer rested and the dancer changed her dress. In the Courtyard setting, listening and watching such a skilful young player, was a perfect taste of real Spanish culture. I confess myself to be nonplussed by the singer, a young man of about nineteen with a black ponytail and dancing shoes for tapping the essential rhythm. He really seemed to work himself up into a state of trance while listening to the music before beginning to gently tap and feel his way through the music, gradually taking over so that the guitarist bent to the mood of the singer, who would contort his facing agony and start to emit gentle wails, sobs and whoops, the sound fading, then returning, riseing and falling, increasing in volume and intensity. Gradually his feet would move, tapping then stamping, faster and faster, louder and louder, the guitarist thumping and stamping too, building up to a crescendo of shouting, wailing, stamping, strumming and thumping which stopped abruptly, erupting into total silence.
The dancer had about six foot square of space in which to perform. She looked magnificent despite her diminutive stature. With scarlet bodice and tassled shaw, pink floral overskirt and sleek dark skirt with its layers of huge flounces, she moved as one with the music and the wailing singer. Her arms above her head, twisting and writhing to the very tips of each finger, swaying and turning, her head thrown right back, her fingers snapping the beat, her hands occasionally clapping, her feet moving and stamping to the rhythm, her skirt moving beautifully on her hips, the flounces shaking and flying, being lifted high to display the astonishingly fast foot movement as the dancer stamped the rhythm and the musician and singer and increased their speed. Soon it was extremely fast with staccato stamping and clapping, the platform a whir of red and black as the dancer twisted, bent, whirled and stamped. It went on for ages and she must have been exhausted, seeming quite oblivious to the audience as she danced, intent only on being a part of the performance, all three of them creating a wild live thing that existed for itself and not for the audience. Then it stopped. There was total silence after the passion of a second before. Then the audience broke into uproar of clapping even giving a standing ovation in the small Museum courtyard for a unique and wonderful experience. We walked back to our hotel at midnight through little lantern-lit this streets of old Seville with people still in bars and restaurants, up to the river and then along beside the now quiet eight-lane ring road to our hotel.
Wednesday 25 September 2002.
We are back in our room for a quick rest and tidy before going out for supper. We are shattered having been on our feet virtually all day. We decided to stay another couple of days and see Seville properly rather than rushing off to Lisbon this morning.
So, following assurances from the tourist information, we turned up at 10:00 a.m. at the Archivo de Indias when it was due to open. Ian was really looking forward to this, as it dealt with the Spanish conquest of the New World and the life and culture of the native Americans of Mexico and Peru. However, as soon as we pushed open the door, we were jumped on by a uniformed official who assured us it was cerrado. Apparently it is closed indefinitely for restoration, but word had not reached the tourist office, and we had walked right across Seville to get there.
We cut our losses and made our way through the narrow backstreets, crowded with cars, chaos, dogs’ mess and dead rats squashed by car tyres and dried in the sun – only one rat actually – and came out onto a shopping street near the Museum of Fine Arts. Here we were highly amused to see a man taking his little sausage dog for a walk, wearing a pink and white spotted flamenco skirt with layers of frills at the bottom – I'm talking about the dog, not the owner. It was absolutely unbelievable and an incredible indignity to the poor dog to treat it like that. The man was rather angry when he saw us laughing, so we disappeared quickly down the side alley leading to the art gallery.
First though we went for a coffee, fried eggs and bacon in a friendly-looking cafe nearby. It was indeed friendly, and with us pointing and a few odd words, they worked out exactly what we wanted and it got a – six Euros for both of us about £4.00. Then we visited the art museum, free to EU members. It is housed within a former monastery and the collections are predominantly Spanish. Except for a few later additions, the collections of paintings, carvings and plaster statues are entirely religious, having been formed from items seized from churches during the dissolution of the monasteries in Spain in the 1840s. There were a number of Flemish works and one by Lucas Cranach. Many of the 15th and 16th century Spanish works left me feeling very unhappy about the way people must have thought back then, to depict so graphically the gruesome scenes of martyrdom and the crucifixion. I also wondered about the later works, where the saints always seem to be depicted as very Spanish and very beautiful women wearing seductive drapery. Was it just an excuse to ogle pictures of women on the walls of the monasteries – maybe not.. There was only one Goya and two or three works by Velasquez among others by painters from Seville, Zurbaran, Valdezeal and Murillo. The whole museum was wonderfully set in the 17th century monastery, complete with lovely enclosed gardens with flowering shrubs, fountains and cool seats for weary visitors to rest between the different galleries.
Later we walked across to the district of Macarena to look at the huge crenelated walls of the old Moorish fort and a couple of Moorish churches, including that of Santa Marina. The whole area is being redeveloped, and is a massive building site inside the Moorish walls. It is chaos, with the noise of hammering and bulldozing. The streets are full of rubbish, skips, cars block all the roads and the pavements are absolutely smothered in dogs’ mess. Amid all this, people sit at tables on the streets sipping coffees and beers – how awful. We were rather disappointed with Macarena – unless you are mad about the Moors, don't bother to go all the way across there.
We made our way back through the dirty streets where abandoned cars had their wheels removed. As we passed some lads took off the sunroof at one such car, popped it into their own car, and drove off. Back at the main bus station we checked out buses to Lagos. Then we had a beer and walked miles across town to the other station to see if you could get a bus tomorrow to Carmona. A very helpful young man at the bus stop explained all the complexities of travelling there. He spoke in Spanish and was charming and very helpful.
By this time our feet were quite worn down but we still had the Trian area across the river to explore. It proved to be very pleasant but mainly shops and residential. So we returned to our hotel via the bullring. It was not a lot to see at the bullring unless you wish to visit the museum bullfighting, which we didn't especially, feeling so weary. There appears to be a training school for toreadors and a farm for the rearing of bulls for the shows. I've no idea how the bulls are treated and it doesn't interest us at all to know. It generally seems a barbaric thing like fox hunting, about which we also know nothing.
Back at our hotel, we washed, changed, rested and then went down into the town for supper. It was okay but rather pricey, and we were pestered by singing, dancing gypsy folk several times as we ate, which took the pleasure away as we don't know the situation here and don't know how genuine any of it is.
Thursday 26 September 2002
We were up before daylight to get across Seville to the bus station for buses to Carmona, Cordova ,Cadiz, Granada and Malaga – even to Barcelona. It is exciting just writing these cities names and realizing they are a few hours on the bus. However, as we flew to Portugal, we have decided not to wander further east or south to Tangiers and Morocco on this occasion and wait a couple more years for retirement and our camping car to explore everywhere in more detail.
Today we have decided on the 45-minute ride to Carmona, so we will stay yet a further night here. We saw a sweet shop yesterday bursting with bags of toffees. Just what I've been looking for, to say casually to Ian “there's an awful lot of toffee in Seville”. And on the subject of dreadful puns, in the museum yesterday we saw a picture inspired by Cervantes Don Quixote with the knight on his horse in the distance and Sancho Panza in the foreground embracing his donkey. We decided it was the original for the American expression “kiss my ass”.
This morning we set the alarm for 7:00 a.m., purchased our last night's lodging at the hostal and were at the bus station in good time for the 9:00 bus to Carmona. We purchased tickets from the driver only 1.95 euros each for the 30 kilometre, 45 minute journey, and soon we were passing through the blocks of flats and warehouses on the outskirts of Seville and then heading east on the motorway. The bus turned off at each junction to pick up and drop off passengers who seemed to come from nowhere in the vast, flat, empty landscape, with few trees to break the monotony. The bus finally left the motorway and climbed the first hill since Seville into Carmona where the square that the bus stopped in was one of Spain’s ubiquitous building sites. The town however was a gem, its defensive position attracting Carthaginians, Romans and Arabs. The town lies in a flat plain of orange coloured sandstone. What it is like earlier in the year, I don't know but today it rose on a sandstone outcrop from the top of the of which there were views out to eternity across a parched, flat, orange landscape, where the only sign of life was the motorway stretching across from side to side of the horizon. The motorway followed the via Augusta from Italica to Carmo. The Seville gate with its great castle was on Roman foundations as was the Cordova gate cut in the cliffs. The castle has fortified walls still remaining, guarding the gateway into the old town, while the shops and commercial areas are outside the town walls. It is an absolute jewel of a town, making no concessions the tourism. Even the tourist office was closed, there were no public toilets and very few places to eat at all. It had few tourists, considering its proximity to Seville.
We are so glad we stayed the extra day because it was a wonderful cool place inside the narrow alleys of whitewashed walls with shade at all times of the day – it has been up to about 30 degrees today. Big wooden doors with brass knockers open onto cool dark tiled entrances, Moroccan in style with tubs of plants. Frequently there were glimpses of little courtyards with aspidistras and flowering cactuses with cool fountains in the centre. It is really ingenious the way everything is designed to produce a cool and comfortable place in the searing heat of this vast deserted burned plain. We discovered a little tile factory where people were hand-painting the designs onto the tiles prior to firing. They all looked wonderful but not practical to purchase as a tourist. In the tree lined central square the local old men gathered together on benches, while from behind wooden doors the sound of women laughing proved there were little shops in among the houses, and indistinguishable from to us from them to us until we saw through the doors the owners cutting meat, gutting fish or selling peaches.
We found an open square with sheltered stores around the edge where foodstuff was being sold. A little stall sold cold drinks and coffee and, in the centre under huge sunshades, clothing was sold as it appeared to be market day. We both needed a comfort break by now, and our searches took us to the very top of the hill where the ruins of the old castle looked out over the plain. One end had been renovated into a stupendous parador, a state-run hotel. Lizards ran across the vertical walls high above the rocks below, and there was a bright blue sparkle of a swimming pool amid the arid surroundings. Curious to see the inside of such a luxurious hotel, as a contrast to our simple hostel in Seville, we walked boldly through the doors and into a lovely courtyard with its bright marble fountain. Nobody stopped us so we wandered around until we found the much-needed loo. Then we explored the lounges and dining rooms. It would be nice one day to try a bit of luxury – it didn't seem that expensive for what you got.
By now we were shattered and falling asleep. However somewhere Ian had picked up a map of the town about two inches square and managed to work out that, if we left the shady alleys, walked across the modern town in the afternoon heat and out onto the edge of the plain for a mile or so, we would come to a Roman amphitheatre and necropolis. Some 30 or more years ago I agreed to take him for better all worse so, with only minor protests, I followed my master out into the wilderness. Even the lizards were seeking shade by now. Eventually we passed a Spanish couple of about our age crawling back to the town. Seeing a fellow spirit and realizing I was suffering the same fate, the woman gasped at me in Spanish, “Don't go, it's another half an hour …”. I couldn't understand the rest but she wasn't exaggerating. The site was free when we got there and the lady guide took us round talking in Spanish. It was all in the open out on the plain but very interesting in fact. The Necropolis is the largest known outside Italy with cremations in niches in voltage Tombs cut from the rock. Some tombs took the form of houses complete with colonnaded courtyards and with the stucco and murals still visible. I loved climbing down ladders into subterranean burial tombs where the cremated ashes of the Romans were stacked around the sides in tiny stone boxes set into niches cut into the sandstone rock, the only light coming from the narrow hole in the roof I had just descended through. They had a job to persuade me to come out because it was as actually blissfully cool down there. However at the next burial pit I was in time to see a two foot long snake slither its way across the arid rock and disappear into the tomb. Lizards darted a way as it came. I've no idea if it was poisonous but somehow my enthusiasm for going down into dark pits had evaporated. But it was a very interesting experience. On top of the Roman town the Arabs built and then the Christians with their many churches mainly baroque but with traces of Gothic doorways all in all of depth of three thousand years of history almost as much as we had found in Crete.
On our return to the town centre our bus was waiting to take us back to Seville. It was air conditioned – bliss, joy. I have no idea what happened next as I fell asleep, and when I next opened my eyes in the bus station in Seville. There we hugged the shade on our way from one bus station to the other, stopping only for an ice cream to soothe our throats. We purchased our tickets for tomorrow and some wine at 45 cents a litre. In our hotel room, showered and full of tapas – i.e. frankfurters and peanuts washed down by cheap plonk – we are able to ponder the depth of history we have encountered.
