Thursday 25 November 2004, Residencia Universitaria Jacinto Benavente, Avenida Jacinto Benavente 24, Málaga.
As can be surmised from the address, we are now staying in a student hostel for the University of Málaga. We are old enough to be the parents of the people running the place, let alone the students. I found it on the internet and it is fine, though probably far too basic for most of our contemporaries.
I met Ian at the bus station in Exeter and, with our two small bags, we took the bus to the airport. Check-in was a dream and we were taken without any bother or delays to Málaga, passing over Brittany where we were able to look down on the Baie de Morbihan with its plethora of little islands. We saw the Presqu’ile de Quiberon, where we bought tins of fish soup when we were there with Wotan, our trusty Volvo, and looked down on Belle Isle beyond Quiberon. We have Brittany on our list of "must dos" with Modestine, but this was a foretaste. The area looked most impressive, being able to view it in its entirety with all the offshore Islands. We passed on across the Bay of Biscay and across Spain, passing over the Pyrenees and the Sierra Nevada with their white capped mountain peaks where snow has already fallen. Generally though, Spain gives the impression of being very barren with little colour, endless brown scrub with groves of fruit or olive plantations and bare and inhabited mountainous areas. Little isolated white houses and hamlets showed clear against the brown landscape as the sun set and a full moon rose.
We landed in Málaga at dusk around 6:30 local time. For one Euro each we were taken into town on the local bus, a long drive in what seems the Spanish rush hour. Quite an experience, and I'm glad I don't have to do it in Modestine. We asked in Spanish at the bus station for directions to reach the hostel but as a walk with luggage was required we took a taxi - why be rich and crusty old folk if you can't enjoy the odd luxury?
The hostel is at a distance from the centre, in a new area near the music conservatory and the Garden City, a sports complex with football pitches. We were made welcome in English and given a very basic room with twin beds and a shared bathroom. There don't seem to be many students around at present, however. A walk around the area showed it to be mainly new residential flats with very little to see and do. There are palm trees, flowering hibiscus and bougainvillea even in November. People are friendly and it all feels very safe indeed. We found a supermarket and bought wine and peanuts, and made our way back across the bridge over the totally dry and rocky torrento. After a glass or so we went down to the students’ café area and joined them for supper. Five Euros (about £3.50 each) bought us pork chops, chips and spinach with a glass of water,. hardly the best of Spanish cooking but atmospheric, eating with the students. The room is 16 Euros a night, that's to say about £5.60 each, with a free breakfast included.
Friday 26th November 2004, Málaga
Just to clear up the above point, tonight we asked to book for a further two nights and were charged 16 Euros each a night, rather than per room, so we have got a real bargain for yesterday, and today the realistic cost is closer to £11.00 each, which is still good value. We took breakfast here this morning, no more than a roll, a glass of quite nice coffee with jam, butter etc., but pretty good for free.
Then we took the bus down into Málaga (85 cents each), and spent the entire day exploring the town on foot. We are exhausted and footsore this evening but most of Málaga has been well and truly done. Generally it's a very pleasant town of about 520,000 inhabitants, fairly low rise and very spread out and still growing. Surrounded by the sea to the front and the rising Sierra Nevada on all other sides, it is squashed into the flat plain between, except for the Alcazaba which rises very steeply above the town on the Gibralfaro hill. First however we visited the covered market, busy and fascinating, with three main areas. The meat section with skinned rabbits and plucked chickens hung up with their heads on, trays of brains, dishes of sheep's heads, still with their eyes following you as you walk past. Otherwise there were countless stalls of quality meat. Then fish, every kind imaginable, including dried salted cod, popular in Spain, octopus, squid and all kinds of shellfish. Everything was displayed like works of art. Finally the fruit and vegetable market, with everything beautifully displayed including many fruits we've never seen before. We bought some tiny Canary bananas, a useful standby when walking around all day.
Spanish people are very nice and friendly, and they are also amazingly small. We seem to tower above them and they seem quite stocky and several inches shorter than is normal for their width, except the young señoritas who are beautiful and perfectly formed, but seem to change suddenly to become sturdy matrons who even in Málaga go shopping in their aprons.
We followed three routes around the city, first taking in the old town with its narrow passageways, tiny courtyards, beautiful old churches, tubs of flowering plants and shady corners with palm trees. Then the route taking in the monuments and historic buildings, such as the cathedral, the art gallery, the Alcazaba, the port area and the chic marble-clad shopping centre, pedestrianized with attractive cafés and terraces at every corner. Finally we enjoyed the walk through the long parkland down near the harbour, which was like a jungle in the city. Buses and cars roared down the roadways on either side but beneath the banana trees, bougainvillea, flowering hibiscus and countless other flowering trees and shrubs we were in a cool green oasis of calm. And we are grateful for the coolness. It may be the end of November, but it is still 18 degrees in the evening. When the sun shines, as it chose to do today, it is really too warm for even a jacket. We walked along the beach, deserted at this time of year, lined with apartment blocks all the way along the front, the hills rising steep, brown and bare into the distance beyond the bay.
Returning toward the town, we discovered the English cemetery and climbed the long, steep, winding path up to the old Moorish castle with its spectacular views down onto the town, the bullring, the port and the beautiful green foliage of the jungle of palms and bananas we had wandered through earlier in the day. We made our way to the very top, only to find the castle was about to close, so we walked down a deserted, winding road on the far side for a couple of kilometres, descending through Monterey pines and huge eucalyptus trees in the cool of the gathering dusk. Around 6:00 p.m. we found ourselves back in the centre of town on the far side of the road tunnel that cuts through beneath the Gibralfaro hill and its castle.
By now night had fallen so we made our way to the Museum of Picasso where we spent a couple of hours trying to convince ourselves, not all together successfully, that Picasso was not laughing up his sleeve at everyone by churning out scribbled pencil drawings worthy of any kids’ playgroup, and calling it art. His early works had interesting blends of colour and very passable portraits, but he obviously had a very weird thing about women. His treatment of them struck me as both insulting and obscene. His abstract material is very acceptable, but being abstract with the female body the way he was, to me was downright sickening. I know nothing of his personal life, but he must have been obsessed with women and hated them, both at the same time and in equal measure. As he got older he became even worse in his attitude and then, in his 70s, he started producing whole series of infantile pencil drawings. It was as if he realized he could con the world into accepting anything he did as art and wanted to prove how stupid and gullible we all were. [More of Jill’s ranting edited out, ending …] □ □ balls to Picasso!
During the day we also explored the bus station and railway station, gathering details of where we could get to by public transport from here. We stopped for lunch, paella and a beer, not a good move. The meal was OK but nothing special, but we were ripped off and grossly overcharged. Oh well, win some lose some, I suppose.
The torrento is shown on the map as a huge river running through the city. It has imposing bridges but is just a dry river bed full of the city's rubbish. Maybe it does flood sometimes but it seems that water needed for the town is held back in a series of reservoirs up in the hills behind the town and there is nothing left to flow on down. Can the demand for water always be met, I wonder? The dam is just above the hostel, so if it were breached this will be one of the very first places to be washed away.
Saturday 27 November 2004
I'm beginning to get a little fed up with student food. It's cheap and convenient but we seem to have chips with everything. Tonight we had hamburgers and tomato sauce in white bread rolls and a plate of chips followed by a horrid chemical strawberry yogurt. Still they did let us use the internet for free while we ate it, which meant we didn't really notice the food as we were too busy working out the Spanish internet commands and keyboard to notice what we ate. We sent a message to Neil and Kate, telling them that the Costa del Sol has more to offer than we'd ever imagined. This morning we ate in our room as breakfast at weekends was not served until 10 a.m. By 9 a.m. we were heading into town on the bus. Unfortunately we saw through the window a poor man who had been run over, lying in the middle of the road. We have no idea how badly injured he was.
At 10 a.m. we boarded the bus and travelled along the coastal route through Torremolinos and Fuengirola to Marbella. It was astonishing, a veritable Little Britain. Everyone looked and sounded English, all the signs were in English, with Irish pubs streaming the latest UK football matches, estate agents galore trying to sell real estate to the Brits, and apartments to let by the thousand. There were hundreds and hundreds of flats and villas for sale, most well constructed and attractive, lining the route beside the coast road all the way to Algeciras and Cadiz. The Costa del Sol is a narrow strip of land crammed full of rendered, colour-washed luxury flats squashed in between the sea and the bare, grey, magnificent mountains which rise up immediately behind the resorts and provide superb and impressive views behind the crowded seaside towns. They are well laid out, spotlessly clean, full of beautiful flowering trees and shrubs, the streets lined by acacias and orange trees. We did try an orange but it was too sharp and bitter to eat; I think they normally stay on the tree over the winter to be gathered next May.
At Marbella we left the bus at the terminus above the town and walked down to the town centre. At the market we bought a couple of tapas from a Turkish store and ate them as we wandered about the old town. The old town of Marbella is quite rightly listed as one of the main attractions of southern Spain. Every house front is whitewashed and spotlessly clean. The narrow passageways between them are paved in Spanish marble tiles, frequently laid in patterns. Each tiny road, too narrow for a vehicle to penetrate, is lined by huge tubs filled with climbing plants that cover the housefronts with green flowering foliage, adding to the cool shade provided by the walls in the height of summer. The plants are all beautifully tended and the alleys permanently swept clean of dust. All these little streets of pretty residential homes lead into countless tiny courtyards or out onto the parvis in front of a little church, again paved in marble with a fountain playing and seats scattered around, sheltered from the sun by tall spreading date palms. Everywhere the Mudejar influence oozes onto a very old Spanish town centre. Today was perfect weather-wise for wandering the streets of old Marbella, the chic seafront with its marina and smart cafes and the long boulevards of modern quality stores, enticing you to window shop. It was frequently too warm for our jackets and, sitting on the beach in t-shirts in late November, we enjoyed warmer weather than we did in Cornwall last August.
Inland slightly from the sea front but away from the old town we discovered a delightful park laid out entirely with marble tiled walkways between beds of flowering bright scarlet and purple shrubs, orange trees groaning with fruit, acacias and wisterias with their pretty white flowers - so many plants in bloom and so many beautifully shaped and tended green trees and shrubs. Benches were placed near permanently playing fountains so everywhere was the sound of running water. Both the benches and fountains were covered in bright Spanish tiles with geometric designs, looking very Moorish in style. We found a little café in the park, blending with its surroundings with its heavy Spanish tiled roof, yellow rendered walls, keyhole-shaped arch entrance and Moorish tiles. We sat outside amid the palm trees, listening to the sound of water, soaking up the afternoon sunshine and enjoying a perfect cup of strong coffee.
I'm so glad we went to Marbella. It has destroyed my prejudices against the south of Spain. I think I would hate to live here, but there are a good 300,000 at least British expats who disagree with me. It is certainly a pretty clean, warm, attractive place to be in winter, but I don't know that there's a lot to do unless you go for yachting, golf, posing on the beach - empty today except for us eating our banana butties and paddling. There would be no difficulty in finding a flat to rent, or you could simply wait until tea time by when they would probably have built you one to buy - properties are being constructed along the seafront so quickly. Indeed, one massive hill behind the town has completely disappeared beneath the blocks of flats constructed on it its side, providing natural terracing to ensure all properties enjoyed a balcony and a view of the Mediterranean.
We returned on the coach at 4 p.m., dozing much of the way, to the busy streets of Málaga, thronged with people just strolling and staring at the living statues that moved every time they were thrown a little money by the delighted children. In the square in front of the cathedral we noticed that the Renaissance Bishop’s Palace was open with a free exhibition of religious art, Tota Pulchra, to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the declaration of the dogma of the immaculate conception by Pope Pius IX in 1854. The images of Mary on display dated from before then, 16th to early 19th century, and were laid out in modernised rooms around the original courtyard of the palace. Most were anonymous and a large number came from Antequera, paintings, statues, illustrations in books and manuscripts of Mary standing on a crescent moon, often with the devil below her holding an apple in his mouth and, in the paintings, surrounded by mischievous cherubs. There were also some unusual images of Mary with her parents, Saint Joachim and Saint Anne, including one with the Virgin and Child on the lap of Saint Anne. We made our way back to the Alameda Principal where we found our no. 2 bus waiting to carry us back to the hostel.
Sunday 28 November Málaga.
Another warm, not to say hot, day. Before breakfast we walked up to the Jardín Botánico La Concepción, across a couple of motorways and rubbish ridden patches of waste land. Needless to say, on arriving it was cerrado until 10 a.m. So we ended up clambering down below the vast dam supplying Málaga with all its water requirements and scrambling along the bed of the wide dry rock-strewn torrento that eventually ends up in the centre of the city. This struck us as the quickest way back to our hostel. Having scrambled under the two motorways, we followed a dusty overgrown trackway through a waste land passing odd shoes, dolls heads, broken bike parts, old mattresses, bits of chairs, old plastic bottles and other assorted rubbish to exit onto the Calle de Benjamin Britten, lined by blocks of flats, broken cars and copulating dogs.
We returned to our hostel for breakfast and, revived by coffee and jam rolls, we repeated the experience in reverse, and spent a superb morning exploring the historical botanic gardens, filled with specimens from around the Mediterranean and the Antipodes. It was a cool jungle of ferns, palms, dragon trees, pines, plants you see in garden centres, but ten times bigger growing in the open and frequently in flower. I never realized that most of them actually produced flowers yet many such as Swiss cheese plant even produced edible fruits, which is why its Latin name is monstera deliciosa. It was well worth a visit and we learned so much. It was beautiful and cool with views up to the hills behind and down to the town and the sea in front. We even saw several dragon trees like those we saw in Tenerife. Trees I have been calling acacias I have now discovered are actually jacarandas with pretty purple flowers, delicate leaves and seed pods that resemble shell-shaped purses.
Around 1:30 p.m. we caught the hourly bus down into town. On the way we saw a Sunday market, heaving with people, so jumped off the bus to investigate. Big mistake - Spanish markets are mega mega boring, unlike like those in France or Greece or even Exeter. How can the entire population of Málaga get switched on by really naff clothes? They fought and struggled through between endless stalls of knickers, aprons, ponchos, tight jeans, suede jackets, curtain materials, socks and cheap-looking jumpers. It took half an hour of fighting claustrophobia before we managed to edge into a side alley full of second hand CDs and bric-à-brac. Even this was fairly boring, unless you wanted a heavy framed religious picture to hang in your home or a pewter fruit dish, or some outmoded carpentry tools, or an electric circuit for something or other.
We ended up in a very poor part of Málaga, full of run-down housing, flats, closed boarded-up shop fronts, grubby streets, unfinished building work and frequently no pavements. Eventually however we found the main area of the town and sat in a square, the Plaza de la Merced, to eat our banana butties and drink our water, pestered by pigeons.
We then made our way to the truly wonderful Alcazaba. On Sunday afternoons entrance is free but is only 1.80 euro anyway, a superb bargain. It is a 10th century structure with wonderful walls built up the hillside, and with a fairly recently discovered Roman theatre at the base. Set in peaceful gardens with flowing water, it may have been built for defence but it is a place of sheer beauty with wonderful views down over the town and the port. It is very Moorish in style, with orange trees, jacarandas and palms superbly displayed against ancient walls, shady corners and ceramic displays. It is absolutely superb, giving a great sense of the culture of early Arab civilization. This was a stroll through peaceful gardens that just happened to be a fortified Arab defence.
We then, gluttons for punishment, repeated our climb of Friday, winding steeply up behind the curtain wall between the alcazaba and the higher Gibralfaro (gibral means rock in Arabic and pharo means light in Greek). We are obviously getting hardened because we found it easier than our visit on Friday, even passing folk half our age struggling up. On Sunday afternoon the Alcazaba was also free but even at 1.80 euros it was an absolute bargain. We wandered along the narrow ancient walls, looking down on the town, the port, the bullring, the beautiful gardens and even the ancient walls of the old Alcazaba.
Having wandered around the sites of Málaga all day, my legs were now in serious disagreement with each other about which one was going first. Each deferred to the other and I had to severely chastise them both in order to struggle down to the town again. By now it was paseo time, so we wandered the chic pedestrianized area with the smart set of Málaga for a while. However our legs ganged up against us, dragging us towards the bus stop, even refusing to accompany us around the cathedral - we thought we would get in free as there was a service about to start. Our legs however were set on returning to the hostel and directed us to the number two bus stop in the Alameda Principale. Not long after 7:00 p.m. we were home. Two hours were spent recovering and emptying a wine bottle before supper. However, it turned out we'd be going hungry tonight because the restaurant here is closed, despite displaying a menu announcing paella. Oh well, we have tea bags and a packet of chocolate biscuits so that would have to do. It's all a bit mañana really as most of what is promised on the internet is in actual fact not deliverable. Still, it's cheap, clean and an experience. Tomorrow we move on to Granada, I hope, so now a shower and bed.
Monday 29 November 2004, Granada
We kept waking up last night, fearing the we might be too late to catch the 10:00 a.m. bus to Granada. In the event we had breakfast shortly after 7:00 and arrived in time to catch the 9:00 bus. There was a slight problem when we were issued with a ticket for seat 56 on a 55 seat coach but fortunately another seat was not taken and we soon sped along the motorway past the end of the Avenida Jacinta Benavente, past the Botanic Gardens, then climbing into the mountains behind Málaga, skirting gorges where there was actually some water flowing and passing through tunnels to join the motorway from Seville.
We sped eastward across an arid open plain with rows of olive trees, wide bare fields and plantations of spindly trees, perhaps poplars. In the distance were bare rocky mountains, none as yet with a covering of snow. Within two hours we were in the outskirts of Granada, a partially developed wasteland, as unprepossessing as most Spanish towns, and were dumped at the bus station, a modern building but over two miles from the town centre. We asked advice at the information kiosk from a very nice English-speaking lass who not only recommended a hotel but phoned to book a room for us and explained how to get there. We found it fairly easily and it is indeed very pleasant, clean and comfortable. We have a shared bathroom but it doesn't seem to be a problem. It is floored with Spanish marble tiles which is chilly on bare feet but we also have room heating and air conditioning. It's 32 Euros a night for the room without breakfast. Actually the central area is bursting with hotels but it saved us making a choice. I expect the lady at the bus station gets a commission, but it is so convenient and helpful. So, having left our luggage we were free to explore Granada.
Being 2,000 feet higher here than in Málaga, it is, not surprisingly, much chillier and we were glad of both our fleeces and our waterproof jackets. It even rained slightly this afternoon. At lunchtime however it was sufficiently warm for us to sit on a terrace on the Plaza Nueva with a bocadillo and a coffee each.
The main streets are smart and fashionable, crossing a right angles with small side streets, partly pedestrianized and crowded at all hours with shoppers. We have seen virtually no food shops; every other shop is a pharmacy or a cafeteria. Here this means exactly what it says; people sit all day drinking coffee and all night drinking beer, nobody ever seems to eat. Spain is definitely the worst country we have encountered for restaurants with a pleasant ambience or decent food. We never see people enjoying a meal together, and when you are served it is a rapid process with the bill presented far too promptly at the end of the meal and, apart from paella, what has Spain contributed to the culinary map of Europe? Oh yes, doughnuts for breakfast. I have never been to a country where vegetables are so totally ignored as they are here, yet there always seem excellent displays in the market halls. Enough of my tirade.
We made our way on foot up the steep hillside to the Alhambra we spent the rest of the afternoon for ten euros each. Having already experienced the ultimate in Moorish culture and style at Seville's Alcázar, we knew what to expect, but it was still very impressive and its setting high above the town is more dramatic than the Alcázar. There is less use made of those gloriously coloured geometric tiles and more of the delicate stucco work on the upper walls around the keyhole-shaped door arches and windows and from the ceilings, high and dome shaped, where one had the feeling of beautifully arranged stalagmites suspended over perfectly proportioned rooms. Throughout our visit we were accompanied by the perpetual sound of water trickling from fountains into pools or ponds or running in narrow channels amidst the marble-paved walkways, bubbling down from level to level. In the heat of summer this would give us a sense of cool and calm, but this was less necessary on a day when we regretted not having gloves with us. All rooms opened onto courtyards filled with beautifully designed gardens, shaded on all sides by covered walkways, with fountains playing in the centre and wonderful vistas across to other corners between white marble columns supporting Arab style stucco archways into the dark interiors. Above loomed the heavy defensive walls with their protective towers; indeed part of the charm is the contrast between the red, heavy, square-shaped defensive exterior and the beautiful, tasteful, magical interior of the royal quarters of the Palacio Nazaries with its gardens and royal harem, dating from around the 14th century.
Also of note, but about to close, was the heavy, rather inappropriately juxtaposed 16th century palace of Charles V. We only had time to glance in at the entrance. Inside it has a huge circular multi-story courtyard, the exterior of the heavy building itself being square in shape. We visited the Alcazaba, built for defence rather than beauty, which inspires through its size and grandeur with huge square towers and ramparts. If you struggle to the very top, the views down and across Granada are stunning, or the least would be were it not for the ugly yellow industrial haze of a winter's afternoon that lies across the entire city, trapped between the surrounding peaks of the barren Sierra Nevada rising black and menacing from the grimy yellow haze.
The sides of the Alcazaba's main tower drop sheer to the tiny stream flowing way below amidst the yellowing leaves of the late autumn trees. Across the valley can be seen all the white walls and heavy beautiful Spanish roofs of the city with gardens and cypress trees interspersed between the buildings. There are far fewer palm trees or even oranges here, although they are still to be found, but plenty of peach trees, now without leaves but heavy with ripe, velvety, orange peaches. I have yet to see my first truly native pomegranates. I saw a tree in Málaga, heavy with red and orange fruit, but here I'm still searching for a “pomme Grenade”.
Finally we strolled in the beautiful walled gardens of the Generalife with lovely beds of roses, salvias, mint, thyme, syringa and neat box hedges. We wandered shaded avenues of neatly clipped cypresses and pines, along paved walkways with seats beside the many fountains in the centre of lily-covered ponds filled with very lucky goldfish swimming in the crystal clear water. From here we had spectacular views across to the exterior walls of the Alhambra and up to the yellow gash at the top of the fog above the town where the black ships of the surrounding mountains seemed to float.
We walked back down to the town beside a fast flowing stream along an unmetalled path through woodland beneath the castle walls. It was now raining slightly and nobody else was around. At the bottom we climbed up into the old town, exploring the gardens of the city archives on the way. The gardens have cypress and fruit trees inside the heavy white stone walls, and the building would be the envy of any British archivist obliged to work in a warehouse on the outskirts of our main cities. This was a huge beautiful 17th century palace with views of the Alhambra from the office desk.
We ended up though at the mirador of Saint Nicholas, a magic viewpoint for the valley and the rose-coloured walls of the Alhambra. Here other people were around on a more frequented path which led steeply down through the narrow streets of the Albaicín, the old Arab quarter, to run directly into the souk area, selling bright embroidered materials and clothes, leather goods, brightly coloured Moroccan slippers and jewellery, all from tiny shop fronts opening directly onto the street.
Then we were back in the main town. We searched for ages before finding anywhere to buy wine and food for breakfast but eventually returned to our room exhausted. Here we relaxed for 40 minutes with a drink before venturing out again in search of supper. As I said earlier, Spain has no interest in food. We found nobody eating, though plenty of people drinking and smoking. It was now 9:00 p.m., maybe still early for Spain on a Monday night. However, back near the souk area we discovered a wonderful little Arab restaurant, Naturi Albaicín, selling vegetarian food. We had mixed salad and a Moroccan couscous to die for, prunes, almonds and raisins with vegetables liberally sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. This we ate with water — no alcohol was served in an Arab surrounding — with the CD player behind the counter providing an appropriate musical accompaniment of Moroccan music.
Tuesday 30 November Granada Hotel Meridiano.
The notice in our hotel room is translated into English for our convenience. It reads:
By reason for security is totally prohibited the entrance to people who do not lodge in this hostal.
By well-beeing of all the client’s, we requested to maintain silence from the 23:00 at night inside and out side the room’s.
By the same reason we requested not to use the shower’s as of the same hour 23:00 at night.
The day has been spent filling in the bits of Granada we didn't do yesterday. After breakfasting surreptitiously in our room, we made our way to the chapel of Ferdinand and Isabella, the first Christian rulers of Granada, to whom the Moors surrendered in 1492.
Our circuitous route took us past some university buildings. The main campus is on the outskirts of the town but the Law Faculty uses beautiful old buildings nearby. A walk through the tiny botanical gardens with specimens of plants from Andalucia brought us to the paved open courtyard of the Law Faculty with a fountain and statue at the centre. It had tabs of huge aspidistras and benches around the edge packed with students. In summer this would be cool and refreshing; today we shivered in two jackets and gloves as the rain fell steadily. Corridors led from the courtyard with lecture rooms opening off. Other courtyards and fountains opened up at the end of each corridor, a very attractive building.
At the chapel of Ferdinand and Isabella we paid our three euros each and discovered that a large amount of the gold from the New World must have to gone into gilding the chapel, altars and screens. They were a blaze of gold leaf with the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella in beautifully carved marble in the centre of the chapel, along with those of Felipe el Hermoso and Juana la Loca (Philip the Handsome and Joanna the Mad) of Castille. Their bodies actually lie in lead-lined coffins beneath. There is also a gallery of religious paintings and icons including one of Christ in the Garden of Olives by Botticelli.
It was pouring with rain as we exited, so we went for a pleasant coffee and sandwich at Via Colón, an extravagant dark wood and marble restaurant with carved angels and musical instruments on and over the marble-topped counter. We then walked below the Alhambra walls along beside the river to the Arab baths. These are a wonderfully preserved national monument and free to enter. They are reached by a pretty walled garden with a fishpond and fountain in the centre where a brick path leads to a keyhole-shaped entrance. Inside, the roof is barrel-shaped and pierced by circular or star-shaped holes to admit daylight. The roof is held on a series of circular columns with carved marble capitals. There are several such rooms with carved archways linking them, all beautifully preserved and dating from around the 13th century.
We cut up back into the steep, narrow, cobbled streets of the Albaicín area of yesterday and explored further. Because of the ceaseless rain, the water was flowing down between the cobbles which now glistened wet, showing them to be made of a variety of stones ranging from white marble to green malachite. In front of churches and in small squares the cobbles have been laid in geometric patterns with crescent moons or eight-pointed stars. White pebbles have been used to depict flowers, leaves and tendrils amongst the black pebbles. This was all to lovely effect, particularly when wet.
We ended up at the Mirador del Sacromonte with its wonderful views down onto a sodden city, the surrounding hills blotted out by mist. It was in a pleasant little residential area with children finishing school for the day at 2:00 p.m.
We returned to our room to dry out for an hour and enjoy illicit cup of Earl Grey. We read out emails on the hostel’s internet, a message from our daughter Kate saying that she has applied for a job in Cadiz. Then we braved the rain to investigate the Realejo, the old Jewish quarter of the city. Seeing the open sewer of the city flowing into the river Guadalquivir we were not greatly impressed and, because of the rain, gave up our quest and visited the public library instead. I have since discovered that we may have missed something rather special.
The library is small and overcrowded with students, not a spare seat anywhere. The book stock is small and underused with issues still made by reader card and filed in paper format. Students obviously have no study facilities at their University. A poor man wishing to read the paper migrated to the children’s section and was told off for being there. I was already there (there were no kids in the building at the time) reading an exciting Spanish picture book about the camping adventures of little Tito with his family, a lovely way to learn Spanish. The man demanded to know why I was allowed there and not he, reasonably enough. The poor librarian was finding it difficult to explain to him that it was acceptable for me because although I was a 60 year old non-rate payer sheltering from the Granada weather, I was reading a children's book in the children's section, whereas he was a similar age ratepayer trying to read the local newspaper, which could only be read at one of the tables currently occupied by non-rate paying students who were not even using the books of the library, simply occupying the space that should have been provided by their faculty. I gave up, leaving Tito and his friends building a tree house while his sister fed a duck and his baby brother played with his cuddly velvet teddy, and we left before the outbreak of the next Spanish Civil War.
We then visited a department store full of Christmas decorations, more muted and tasteful than ours despite a singing Santa that startled me as I passed by, rising up and singing a verse of “The holy and the ivy” in Spanish. A white-haired Santa Claus gave us some sweeties as we passed him so he he must have thought we looked like good children. Finally we returned to our room for a glass of wine and then set off for the worst part of the day, finding somewhere for supper. I've already said that it's bad for food in Spain, but discovered that this was a great understatement. It's awful. We walked around in the rain until gone 10:00 p.m. simply searching for somewhere that looked friendly, with people eating. There are bars, cafeterias etc. by the hundred but always full of macho little Spaniards drinking, and surrounded in clouds of cigarette smoke. Nobody seems to eat here. Eventually in desperation we went for a place where three people could be seen actually eating. They left just after we arrived. The staff were pleasant enough, but wanting to go home. They eat late but, if you blink, it's too late. Eating is not a pleasurable experience as in France, where you linger and chat with friends. Here we had a watery salad without dressing plonked in front of each of us. Before we finished, but not intended to overlap or come together, we had chicken and chips placed on the table as an next course. This was swimming in fat with some feathers still clinging to the loose, flaccid chicken skin. The chicken had been microwaved and was still cold in the middle. The chips – we had ordered potatoes - were not cooked in the centre and the whole was tasteless with no sauce or seasoning to speak of. We had ordered a beer and that was fine and not to be faulted. As we ate, a couple of slices of tinned pineapple were placed on flat plates in front of us with no accompaniment at all, the huge dustbin was wheeled in, the debris from the surrounding tables being swept into it. We decided that after 30 minutes maximum our presence had ceased to hold any interest, so we paid up and left, feeling grossly cheated, and bitter about Spanish cuisine and hospitality. All I can think though is that it is not personal, because we are English; it's just the Spanish way.
