Archives

Cotswolds

Apr12


Coursing through the Cotswolds and Castle Coombe

(In Lower Slaughter, one of the most picturesque villages in the Cotswolds)

What does your mind conjure up when you hear the word Cotswolds?  For me, thanks to marvelous memories of a most beauteous region, it has come to mean a clutch of medieval towns whose stone walls and homes are bathed in the warmest honeyed tones, of upscale antiques shops selling a tempting array of period silver, glass and English bone china, of curvaceous bridges spanning burbling brooks, of clock towers in wide central squares that date from the Middle Ages when wool was sold by weight in a thriving national trade.

Today, the medley of picture-perfect hamlets that make up the Cotswolds have become trendy, upscale Meccas for well-shod Londoners looking for luxury and anonymity far from the madding crowd. The are is best coursed by car and the town of Chipping Norton makes a good gateway through which this patchwork of fields, dales, dells, and villages may be explored. The very comfortable King’s Arms Bed & Breakfast in one of Chipping Norton’s quiet street was our stop for the night when Llew, Chriselle and I holidayed in the area.

“The Cotswolds” is the collective name given to a number of small villages and towns to be found in the middle of England where sheep farming once thrived and is still the main occupation. Indeed, during the medieval age, sheep selling and wool trading made the region richly prosperous and led to the creation of beautiful manors by the “wool merchants” who also endowed their local parish churches with their wealth in an attempt to “give back to the community”. The famous Cotswold wool, of course, derives its reputation from this region.

You cannot hurry on your exploration of the Costwolds. Nor can you have a set itinerary. Its best to go where the whim takes you, armed only with a road map that might suggest a route as you hop from one village to the other. There are no motorways to connect this web of villages. You will find yourself in narrow country lanes, some no wider than the width of your vehicle, passing by hedgerows buzzing with bees. Just when you begin to wonder what might happen if another vehicle should approach yours, the exact situation presents itself. Fortunately, the driver of the oncoming vehicle is far more experienced than you are at negotiating such sharply bending hairpin curves and he manages the feat without batting an eyelid. Once you do reach your destination, you will be best off on foot for the towns are walker-friendly and as you go from shop to church, from bridge to river bank, you will discover that your own two feet are your safest ally.

What is particularly remarkable about the Cotswolds is that entire villages and towns are constructed out of the local yellow stone which, over a period of several centuries, had been enriched with a golden grey patina that quite dazzles in the afternoon sunshine. Of course, if your trip includes the university town of Oxford in whose shadow the Cotswolds lie, you will discover the same honey-hued stone walls enclosing all the college buildings. Plentifully quarried in the region, this stone was used for everything from cottage construction to the creation of small dams over local rivers.

And then there is the British penchant for gardening, their love of ivy and wisteria which clings to every stone structure, their delight in roses and rosemary…and you have visual images that are hard to describe and scents that no perfumer can package. Sporting names that can be traced to their etymological and Anglo-Saxon roots, a tour of the Cotswold towns makes for a wondrous journey into the historical past before the days of the Industrial Revolution when rural England was an economic paradise—Stow-on-the-Wold, Chipping Campden, Bourton-on-the-Water, Burford, Moreton-in-Marsh, Upper Slaughter, Lower Swell. Each settlement has the mandatory river rippling gently past golden stone cottages, a buzzing village center, quaint shops and little ‘tea rooms’ advertising “Traditional Cream Teas” (think sultana scones with Devonshire clotted cream and strawberry preserves).

Castle Combe

The Prettiest Village in All England

Though it might not, geographically-speaking, fit exactly within the boundaries of the Cotswolds, there is a little secret village whose unfailing charm I’d like to share. This is Castle Combe in the county of Wiltshire, not too far away from the Cotswolds proper, not yet innundated by the downside of tourism’s throngs. Early one morning in 1962, the residents of this pretty-as-a-picture village woke up to find out that their village had been named The Prettiest Village in England! By noon, their sleepy hamlet was overtaken by tourists and they experienced their first ever traffic jam! Determined not to miss out on this delight, Llew drove us in the direction of Wiltshire and I can’t even begin to express how grateful I was for the research I had done before setting out on our discovery of the region.

Anecdotes aside, the village was the nicest thing we saw on our entire trip. Again, it boasted all the requisites of the model English village—stone cottages, abundant hanging baskets spilling over with colorful annuals—petunias, geraniums, impatiens, begonias were everywhere—a bridge across a babbling brook, the ubiquitous parish and churchyard with towering spire reaching heavenwards, a cluster of small shops and sprucely-pruned gardens. Castle Combe also had cute cottages and resplendent manors, a village well complete with pulley wheel and pail. As if to authenticate the English country scene, we were constantly sprayed with the gentle drizzle of summer rain, and had to explore the village our brollys firmly held aloft. But this did nothing to dampen our enthusiasm for an adorable little corner that, despite its distinction as England’s prettiest village, has yet managed to keep tourist hordes at bay. Indeed, it was the highlight of our entire English sojourn!

We loved the Cotswolds and we hope that you will consider spending some time rambling aimlessly amidst these rustic routes.

Bon Voyage!

Brighton

Apr12

Brighton


Britain’s Favorite Seaside Resort  

 

By the time my coach rolled into Brighton, the intermittent rain that might have plagued my day had petered off, though the skies remain cloudy. The city, as it passed by my window, appeared plain and nondescript until we turned a corner and the fairy-tale like turrets of the Royal Pavilion came into view. The bus terminated conveniently only a few meters away from the Pavilion and I headed there excitedly.

Brighton’s biggest attraction, the Royal Pavilion (left), has attracted visitors for at least two centuries. It is a vast complex of fantastical buildings that evolved from a little farmhouse cottage that King George IV used from 1783 for his secret liaisons with Mrs. Fitzherbert, the widow he loved but was forbidden to marry. Commissioning architect Henry Holland to create a classically styled villa on the site, George was delighted when the palace evolved into a marvel of Chinese design. When his father George III was declared insane in 1811, George became Prince Regent and commissioned John Nash to enlarge the villa. Nash transformed it into a confection of Oriental buildings, complete with minarets and onion domes–as Samuel Taylor Coleridge might have said, it became Xanadu–“a stately pleasure dome” of sorts . Indeed Nash let his creative energies run riot, borrowing freely from Islamic Moorish, Berber and Moghul styles—a combination that he somewhat quaintly termed “the Hindoo style”.

The end result is a series of palatial halls and courts through which the visitor roams quite bemusedly. Thank heavens for the audio guide provided with the admissions ticket (7 pounds) that allowed prolonged inspection of the premises. If you think the exterior is an oddity, wait till you explore the interiors. They quite took my breath away. For George favored the Orientalist style of interior décor that the eighteenth century’s penchant for Baroque excess most admired, resulting in a kind of look that came to be called “chinoisserie”. Characterized by elaborate wall paper and silk tapestry hangings, porcelain figurines, exotic chandeliers and lanterns in lotus designs and the frequent appearance of gilded dragons and snakes all executed in the Chinese style, these rooms truly beggar description. The Banqueting Room, for instance, is so magnificent and so completely covered by opulent design elements that the eye is overwhelmed by so much bedazzlement. There are marble mantelpieces, richly carved furniture, silk draperies on the windows, plush carpets underfoot, as well as china, crystal and silver to fill many museums. A brilliant use of mirrors creates fascinating illusions everywhere as reflections follow the visitor around the rooms.  Faux bamboo is ubiquitous especially when worked in metal and wood. The massive kitchen is a chef’s dream with its gleaming copperware, countless crocks and innumerable baskets. Hundreds of guests were fed, entertained and housed in this grandiose environment, no doubt feeling deeply privileged at being permitted such an intimate glimpse into the life of royalty.

But all good things must come to an end, even for kings and their companions. George IV was king from 1820 to 1830. When he grew old and infirm, the same space in which he had once held court before a stunned audience became a retreat for quiet seclusion. Seeking privacy, he escaped to Brighton, and spent the last ill years of his life in the company of his daughter Charlotte. His brother William IV (1830-1837) shared George’s fondness for Brighton but their niece, Queen Victoria (1837-1901) found the town too crowded and sold the Pavilion to the Town of Brighton in 1850, having first stripped it of its most coveted accoutrements. Most of the furnishings found in the Pavilion today are reproductions of those once possessed by George IV or are similar to the kind of fine goods that gentlemen of the day preferred.

Leaving the extravagance of the Royal Pavilion behind, I crossed North Street to stroll through “The Lanes”, a maze of narrow alleys that once comprised the village of Brightelmstone. Today, the quaint lanes are a shopper’s paradise of boutiques and eateries that entice with their interesting window displays. I lunched on a stack of chocolate profiteroles that I found quite irresistible in the cold cupboards at Sainsbury’s, people-watching unabashedly as the world passed by. Brighton has a huge selection of shops because once holiday-makers have had their fill of the sea and its pleasures, the need to lighten their wallets by splurging on baubles seems hard to resist. Sparkling shopping malls line the busy commercial area where a Clock Tower marks the confluence of several store-crammed streets.

I decided next to check out the Pier (left) , for if you have an English seaside resort, can a pier be far behind? Brighton Pier reaches far out into the English Channel like an arm scooping up the salty waves. But while the simple pleasures of low-tech beach gear such as spades and pails have given way to the hi-tech attractions of video games in noisy arcades, some things remain timeless. Waves still thundered to the shore, raucous gulls still screeched overhead, beachcombers still strolled hand-in-hand along the water’s edge. I was particularly struck by the beach that lacked  sand being composed entirely of pebbles in shades of aubergine, orchre and cream. In sizes varying from walnuts to little marbles, they studded the entire surface making Brighton one of the most unusual beaches I have ever seen.

Bath

Apr12

Bath

Bewitching Bath

Resplendent City of Jane Austen, Beau Brummel and Sally Lunn

(Llew and Chriselle on their day out at the Roman Baths)

Bath is a gracious old city, nestling quietly in the Cotswold Hills, as if guarding some closely-kept secret. Our first view of the city came as we turned a bend on a heightened road while still a few miles from the town center.

Bath’s historical antecedents go back to the Roman occupation of the city when the medicinal waters of the hot springs that flowed under it were first used for therapeutic reasons. The city’s name, no doubt, derives from these utilitarian purposes. In keeping with their fondness for hot saunas, the Romans built public baths in this city and spent many a long hour deriving both pleasure and medicinal benefit from the soothing waters. Excavations on the Roman baths carried out in the 19 th century revealed the complicated series of rooms through which the swirling, smoking waters gushed. These excavated ruins are a site of tourist interest today. Crowned by statues of eminent Roman officials of the time, they are a testament to the power of the mineral springs and their ability to foster human settlements.

Then, long after the Romans had packed up their togas and left, the city gained prominence once again in the 18th century as a Center for Matchmaking. Indeed, it became the place for fashionable and wealthy young “dandies” to congregate with the idea of seeing and being seen. Among this ilke was the famous Beau Brummel who was known to have the most flamboyant sartorial tastes of the day and eagerly flaunted his fondness for extravagant couture. A statue to this Man About Town is seen in the Pump Room on the top floor of the Roman Baths.

The Pump Room was also made famous by novelist Jane Austen who during the Regency period set parts of her novels Northanger Abbey and Persuasion in Bath. In her Sense and Sensibility as well as in Emma, characters make reference to frequent visits to Bath where the rich and famous went “to take the waters”. When Llew, Chriselle and I sat ourselves down to a steaming cuppa and a traditional Bath Bun in the Pump Room, I could hear the faint rustle of crinoline skirts brushing against the chair’s legs as ghosts of eager bachelorettes hovered around our laden tables. In a corner somewhere lurked Austen quietly surveying the scene with her humorous eye for detail.

I found myself in Bath not during the gracious Regency period but at the turn of the 20th century to attend an International Millennium Conference on Film where I was presenting a paper on “South Asian Novels and their Cinematic Adaptations”. Llew and Chriselle joined me on the trip. We found accommodation in student dorm rooms on campus at the University of Bath perched high on a pretty hilltop. At the end of a busy day of conference participation, it was a thrill for all of us, international delegates attending the conference, most of whom were professors of English or Film Studies, to find that our celebratory candlelit dinner was held in the Pump Room (above left) after cocktails were served underground in the Roman Baths. It was a fabulous evening made even more special by the piano and violin recital provided by some of the university’s students while dinner was in progress.

Llew and Chriselle enjoyed sight-seeing around the resplendent Regency city which they were visiting for the first time. The city’s landscape is dominated by its fabulous medieval Abbey which we visited in the morning. Like most European Gothic cathedrals, its spire towers up into the sky. The interiors have fabulous soaring fan-vaulted ceilings. Right outside the Abbey, the road opens up into one of the beautiful architectural crescents for which the city is famed. Of these the Royal Crescent is most famous and is the site of some well-appointed hotels. Built in the 18 th century by some of the leading architects of the time such as John Wood and his son, also called John Wood, they house today some of Britain’s snazzier stores. A shop that several tourists frequent is the Sally Lunn Bakery, home of the famous English Sally Lunn Buns which originated here.

On the way to the Royal Crescent, we passed by the bridges that span the wiers on which water can be seen gushing down in picturesque curving steps. It is the interesting nature of early architecture and the present-day charm with which the city is endowed that makes it endlessly fascinating today.

Bath is best visited in summer when the roads are ablaze with color from the hanging flower baskets that are suspended over Victorian wrought-iron poles giving the entire city an air of freshness and refinement.

If you close your eyes and let your imagination take wing, you will see men in top hats and tail-coats sporting ornamental canes walking arm-in-arm with demurely clad ladies in the high–waisted Empire-line dresses of the Regency era as they promenade through the city hoping to attract the socially correct match.

You may not go to Bath today to sip medical waters or to find your dream partner, but I do hope you will consider going to partake of the rich treasures that history has left behind. Plan to pause a while to enjoy browsing aimlessly in the interesting shops or to nibble at a tea cake in one of the old-world tea rooms scattered around the city.

 

Bon Voyage!

United Kingdom

Apr12

United Kingdom


Brittania Rules the Waves!

(On the South Bank of London’s River Thames with St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Millennium Footbridge behind me) 

I have been afflicted with Anglophilia ever since my mother put the first lip-smacking drops of Waterbury’s Compound gripe water into my infant mouth. By the time I graduated to Britannia biscuits and Cadbury’s chocolates, I was well and truly smitten by all things British. Majoring in English Literature in college only strengthened my love affair with Great Britain. When I did eventually make my first visit to the country, twenty years ago, I found it to be everything I had imagined and more…

Over the years, I have had several opportunities to travel in the British Isles and each time I have discovered something newly fascinating. After I covered the Must-See Sights found in every tourist itinerary, I turned my attention towards the roads less taken. In the process, I developed a huge love for walking over ancient footpaths and canal tow paths, over hilly dales lined with hedgerows and sandy coastal trails , through busy highways and empty byways, along quiet river banks and over mountainous meadows. Whether in the company of my beloved family members, with fond friends, or entirely on my own, my rambles in the United Kingdom have given me some of the most pleasurable moments of my life.

Are there things about the UK I dislike? But, of course. Their frosty reserve, for instance, which for someone from the United States, borders on unfriendliness. The choice of either boiling or freezing water in their dual faucets. When will they introduce mixed water temperatures from the same tap? The high cost of living and their frugality–I was once asked to pay 10p for the plastic spoon that accompanied the cup of takeaway soup I ordered. I could go on…

But as every seasoned traveller knows, every country in the world has its shortcomings. And when it comes to Great Britain, I’m willing to give it a long rope.

Come with me now on a tour of some of my favorite corners of the United Kingdom. Let me show you My London. Let me take you on a unique walking tour of Oxford, one of my most beloved cities. Let me accompany you on an exploration of Regency Bath and the seaside resort of Brighton. Let’s stop to forage for rare books in Hay-on-Wye or see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform in Stratford-on-Avon.   Let’s lose ourselves in the wild mountain pathways of the Lake District and hunt for antiques in the elegant shops of the Cotwolds. Let’s down draught beer in Liverpool and stop to smell the roses in a garden in Kent. Let’s stumble over cobbled streets in Rye where smugglers once plotted to stash contraband and novelists plotted scenes for their contemporary masterpieces. Take your pick and go wherever your fancy leads you through the travel  secrets contained in my enthusiastic pages .

Only don’t be surprized if like Susan Allan Toth (My Love Affair with England) and Bill Bryson (Notes from  a Small Island), Paul Theroux (The Kingdom by the Sea) and Jan Morris (Oxford)–fellow-Anglophiles who have been equally smitten by this rainy isle in the Atlantic and in whose eloquent company I have taken many a jolly jaunt–you too are seriously afflicted with Anglophilia  by the end of your armchair wanderings with me.

Bon Voyage!

Toledo

Apr12

Terrific Toledo

Where Don Quixote and El Greco Dominate

(The beautiful city of Toledo on the River Tagus)

Our drive to Toledo took us through the very heartland of Spain into Castilla-La-Mancha, made famous by Cervantes’ novel Don Quixote that featured the adventures of the dreamy knight and his paunchy sidekick Sancho Panza (below).

 

 

The Spanish plains are dry, arid and dusty but have been fabulously well irrigated to grow purple crocus that produces Spain’s valuable condiment, saffron. Olive groves are another key crop in the region and animal rearing is equally evident. Close to the town of Consuegra, we hit the Tourist Route that takes Cervantes’ fans into the region made familiar by the windmills over which Quixote tossed his proverbial hat. Reminiscences of the novel are seen in the few inns and tabernas we passed that are named after the novels’ characters.

Toledo is picturesquely sited high on the hills above the Tagus River that flows regally through the medieval town. Driving though the town, you soon understand why the UNESCO World Heritage Foundation has placed the entire city under its protection for indeed it is a living museum. Every building is significant, every stone is historic, every pebble tells a story. Muslim, Jewish and Christian influences co-exist in this unique and graceful city for the Romans, the Visigoths, and the Moors made this settlement their home, each adding their own imprint to create a mosaic of pluralism and cultural diversity. We did not have the time to linger in this lovely town, but we did spend a whole afternoon there focusing on its three main attractions.

Walking Toledo’s toy town like streets can be a frustrating business for everything is an uphill climb. Almost all the streets look the same, bordered by red brick walls and lined by souvenirs shops. When we did arrive at the Iglesia de Santo Tome (The Church of St. Thomas), we found it mobbed by tourist groups, all eagerly viewing El Greco’s most famous religious painting, The Burial of the Count of Orgaz which is on the right hand side at the main entrance. This painting features the miracle that occured at the burial of the Count who was the church’s main patron and a great humanist. St. Steven and St. Augustine are said to have come down from heaven to place the Count themselves in his crypt which lies just below the painting in a stone sarcophagus. This huge canvas contains a self-portrait of the artist as well one of his son whom he considered to be his finest “work”. There are also portraits of Cervantes and several senior prelates of the church. As a religious work, it is a showcase for El Greco’s marvelous talent and sensitivity. No wonder the painting has never been moved from this venue.

Our next stop was Toledo’s colossal Cathedral whose spires rise high above the city and are easily visible as one approaches it. Work on this gothic edifice began in 1226 and spanned three centuries. It was mind boggling for us to come to terms with the fact that these churches were completed long after the donors who paid for their construction were alive. This cathedral’s sacristy is crammed with El Greco paintings for the artist made Toledo his home in the 16the century—almost all the apostles’ portraits are here as are other silver and gold relics and sacred objects. I found the Baroque altarpiece by Narciso Tome made of marble, jasper and bronze the most stunning piece of work in a space that was distinctive for its Gothic design elements.

Taking a break for some cooling sangria in a street side café, we finally made our way to the Sinagoga del Transito, which is notable for its mujedar interior design despite its deceptively humble façade. It was built in the 14th century by Samuel Ha-Levi, when Jews were allowed to live peaceably in Spain under Moorish rule. The synagogue, one of only two in all of Spain blended so many interesting design features—Islamic, Gothic and Hebraic—and had the added advantage of providing the visitor with a Sephardic Museum that documented the lives of Spanish or Sephardic Jews before they were driven out of Spain by the Catholic Rulers.

Our rambles done, we returned to our car for our final drive to Madrid from where we boarded our flight back home to the States at the end of ten incredible days.

Bueno Viajes!

Seville

Apr12

Home of Europe’s Largest Gothic Cathedral

Next stop: The Andalucian City of Seville is noted for its Cathedral and the bitter rind of its oranges that seem to grow wild on miniature trees everywhere you turn. After parking our car, we went out in search of dinner, only to find ourselves in the main square with the massive Gothic Cathedral of Seville staring us in the face. Superbly illuminated, the cathedral glowed with a wondrous light. The plaza that holds the third largest Cathedral in the world, built in 1410, still attracted stragglers out for an evening meal. A trio of musicians, formally clad in black tie and tails, played softly stirring classical music that transformed the whole place into a magical setting.

But Llew was hungry and did not wish to lose time that could be spent eating a good meal. We chose La Cueva, a restaurant in the former Jewish quarter called the Barrio Santa Cruz. Like all Spanish spaces that are frozen in time, Santa Cruz is a complicated network of narrow cobbled streets and alleys full of souvenir shops, restaurants and tapas bars. Le Cueva Restaurant was located on Calle Rodrigo Caro in a very pretty patio and was decorated in typical Spanish colonial style with ceramic pots and plates hanging on the walls, the heads of bulls stuffed and mounted on walls, festive costumes of the renowned matadors framed as wall art. There were wooden chairs painted quaintly with faiance designs and patterns, checkered tablecloths, antique Spanish religious statuary, and lovely ceramic plates and pitchers to hold our food. One could also choose to sit outside in a charming orange grove that was softly lit by wrought-iron lanterns. We decided to eat an assorted platter of Spanish sausages as our first course (13 euros). These arrived promptly—Serrano ham, cured in the cold mountain air (serre) is a national staple, a variety of smoked sausages, liverwurst and Spain’s famous manchego, a sheep’s milk cheese produced on the flat plains of Castille La Mancha, hence its name. Llew chose a Caldera or Lamb Stew while I went for the Frito Mixto, a plate of assorted fried fish, lightly dipped in batter and fried to a crisp (12 euros each). It reminded me very much of the fried fish my mother serves back home in India. A pitcher of icy cold sangria with bits of apple and oranges floating in it (8 euros) made a very interesting drink with which to enjoy our meal. A noisy group of middle-aged French tourists at an accompanying table brought much life and vitality to the atmosphere while we savored our Spanish repast. Then, replete, we picked out way through the hushed quietness of the streets to get to our Bed and Breakfast called Naranjo on Calle San Roque. Llew was afraid that there would be no one to let us in at that late hour of night (it was past 10 pm), but the reception area was buzzing with activity and we settled down comfortably for the night.

Naranjo provided a good Continental breakfast which allowed us to fill up before beginning our exploration of the city. Walking through the area called El Arenal, we passed right by the impressive Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza (left), Seville’s 18th century bull-ring, one of Spain’s oldest, with its Baroque white and ochre façade and the staring black eyes of a bull painted at the entrance. Because bull-fighting season doesn’t open until June, the arena was open only for guided tours but we chose to pass on and head for the Cathedral instead. Just before we turned off a narrow street to find the Cathedral, we spied the Moorish Torre del Oro or Golden Tower built in the 13th century to protect the port of Seville. The Cathedral, when we did get to it, after a slow stroll, looked completely different from the way it had done the previous night. Gone was the magic and the atmosphere of religious sanctity. Tourists milled around, going about the serious business of covering all the items on their agenda. We bought a few souvenirs and believing that we had to wait until 11 am. when the Cathedral would open to visitors, we attempted to kill time by browsing through the shops. It was at that point that we discovered some people entering the cathedral through the side doors and after inquiring of one of the guards, we were told that we were free to enter.

Upon arriving inside Seville Cathedral (below left), we found ourselves awash in the solemn tones of Gregorian chants and to our enormous delight, we saw that a High mass was being said at that very moment in Latin by the highest prelates of the Seville church community. How marvelous it was to listen to the organ and to the choir as they sang the Latin mass, to hear the main celebrant bless us frequently by uttering Dominusco Bisco. Only a smattering of people were actually hearing mass, but we joined in and received Communion, just thrilled to be in the presence of so much sanctity.

The mass was said at the main altar or the Capilla Mayor that was stunning to say the very least, the Retablo Mayor or altar decoration featuring over 1000 heavily gilded figures from the Christian pantheon. Santa Maria de la Sede, the Cathedral’s patron saint was carved into the main niche in the altar holding the Christ Child in her arms. The fragrance of incense floated about the stupendously large Cathedral and rose up to the fan vaulted ceiling with its intricate stone carvings. Behind us, a group of younger priests attended to other rituals in the choir hall. Monumental iron grilles separated the congregation from the altar where the con-celebrated mass was being offered. We felt truly blessed by the unexpected pleasure of getting to hear such an unusual mass and were informed later that the High Gregorian Latin mass is said every single day at 10 am in the Cathedral—which is why it is closed to tourists with their distracting cameras at that time.

On our right, we could see the handsome memorial to Christopher Columbus whose disputed remains are said to be contained in a casket hauled up by four pall-bearers representing the four houses of Castille, Leon, Navarre and Aragon. The elaboration of this monument, notwithstanding, there exists the common belief that Columbus’ true remains are in the Dominican Republic while the casket in the Seville Cathedral contains the remains of his son Hernando. The cathedral is also home to a large number of religious paintings by Spanish Masters such as Goya and Zurbaran.

            As the morning wore on, more and more tourists congregated in this square, some venturing to climb the several hundred steps into the bell-tower or Giralda (pronounced Hiralda–left) which was first built as the minaret of a mosque in 1198. As the Cathedral was constructed on the same site, the minaret was transformed gradually over the centuries to become ultimately the Cathedral’s Christian bell-tower with a large weather-vane (in Spanish Giraldillo) giving the tower its name. Since we had a busy day ahead of us, we chose not to climb the tower, but we did stroll close by to the Reales Alcazares or Royal Residence, a lavish palace that has served Spain’s monarchy for centuries.

            Very similar in conception and form to the Al-Hambra Palace, the Reales Alcazares  (right) was the result of an order given by Pedro I in 1364 to start the construction of a royal residence within the palaces that had been built by the city’s Almohad (Muslim) rulers. Local artisans responded enthusiastically and within two years, they arrived from Granada and Toledo to create a nest of patios, rooms and gardens in mujedar design. The similarity in the delicacy of the stucco and plaster work with the Al-Hambra Palace is notable immediately as is the abundant use of ceramic tile.

It was from this Seville residence that Isabel dispatched her navigators to explore the New World, for it was in the Casa de la Contratacion (left) that they received their orders. Accordingly the room is decorated with seafaring motifs. As in other Moorish architectural gems, gardens play a dominant role in the layout. The central feature of each patio is a fountain from which tumbling water creates an aural as well as a visual sensation. The majesty of these dwellings can have a very seductive hold upon the visitor and it difficult to tear oneself away from the uniqueness of the design. But we decided to leave and explore the city of Seville somewhat more thoroughly.

On a beautifully stimulating day in spring, we made out way back to the banks of the Guadalquivir river (left), armed with chocolate Popsicles made by Magnum called Double Chocolate. In all of these cities, the weather was so completely hospitable to us that most times we wore only a very light jacket. As we enjoyed the colorful vista of Sevilla’s apartment buildings whose pastel exteriors gave them a very pleasing appearance, we realized how much we had lucked out with the weather for it hadn’t rained once since we had first begun our travels. We enjoyed Seville as much as we had Madrid. Spain’s major cities are superbly laid out and very sensitive of the needs of tourists and visitors. So it was with much delight that we anticipated our arrival, later that afternoon, in the ancient Moorish city of Cordoba.

Bon Voyage!

Madrid

Apr12

Memories of Madrid

(In the Parque Bueno Retiro in Madrid)

Taking a red eye flight into Europe from New York City means arriving early in the morning and taking a nap and rest as soon as we check into our hotel. In Madrid, ours was Hotel Marlasca, situated right in the heart of the busy Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s Times Square, and boasting, to our delight, French windows that led out to our own little private wrought-iron grilled balcony. .

When we did set out to explore Old Madrid, an hour later, on foot, armed with our trusted Eyewitness Travel Guide, we found ourselves warming instantly to a city that is a fascinating combination of ancient and modern elements. Tio Pepe’s huge billboard advertising Spain’s famous sherry looked down upon the bustling Sol square where shops and offices intersected narrow streets and historic buildings stood steeped in memories of its Bourbon past.

Calle de Postas took us down a winding route to the massive Plaza Mayor (left), Madrid’s best-known public square that has seen bull-fights, parades, inquisitions and executions within its four impressive walls. The equestrian statue of Felipe III is central to the square among whose buildings the Casa de la Panaderia (Bakery) was most striking for its allegorical painted frescoes. Plaza Provincia led us to the tiny, narrow alleyways of the inner city where we were continually struck by their charming quaintness. Strolling past the Arc of Cuchilleros, we felt as if we were back in medieval times and when we reached Plaza de la Villa with its brick buildings, central sculpture, arched bridge connecting two official buildings and beds of cheery primroses, we were certain we had strayed into the pages of history.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Calle Mayor ended where the imposing domes and spires of the Cathedral of Nuestra Senora de la Almudena (left) began. Right opposite, just beyond the massive Plaza de la Armeria, the regal façade of the Palacio Real (below left), Madrid’s Royal Palace, hinted tantalizingly of the treasures stored within.

Not surprisingly, we decided to take the audio guided tour of this magnificent monument to Spain’s monarchical history (Euros 8 plus 2 Euros each for the audio guide) and spent the next couple of hours wandering at will through rooms resplendent with the wealth and artistry of the ages. From the very first climb up the royal stairway, decorated with a stunning Rococco ceiling fresco by Giaquinto to the end, when we visited the Royal Pharmacy, chocful of Talavera pottery storage jars, glass bottles, urns and containers, herb drawers, etc. that told stories of royal ailments and their cures, we were fascinated.

Each room was more breathtaking than the next and as we ventured through them and listened to the commentary, we realized how wealthy this imperial power once was and how proud it became of its global significance. Indeed the sun never set on the Spanish empire and evidence of its glory was all over the walls, ceilings, furniture, mirrors, clocks, paintings and tapestries that adorned the royal lodgings. My favorite rooms were the Porcelain Room covered entirely in faiancé made in the Buen Retiro porcelain factory and the Gasparini Rooms named after its Neopolitan designer who decorated it with elaborate chinoiserie. Back out on the plaza’s balconies, we enjoyed distant views of El Escorial, another royal palace located an hour away from the city.

But it was time to rest our weary feet and we paused in the gardens of the Plaza de Oriente, decorated with innumerable marble sculptures, while listening to a stirring rendition of Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca played by a street side accordionist. Then strolling past the Teatro Real (Royal Theater), we arrived on Calle de Arenal, known for its Chocolateria San Gines, an old establishment that still serves the best version of Spain’s fast-disappearing national snack—chocolate and churros. We plonked down at old-fashioned marble topped tables to enjoy the treat (a steal at 3 Euros) and dunked our churros (deep-fried sticks of dough) fondue-style into the sauce-like hot chocolate as we saw the local Madrillenos do.

Our evening ended with a visit to Madrid’s Museum of Modern Art (more about that later) which left us deeply moved but quite exhausted. Fortunately, the Museum was open till 9 pm that evening, leaving us ample time to browse through its highlights at our leisure. By this time, having covered more than we expected on our first day in Madrid, we made our way back to our hotel, pausing only for dinner at La Truscha Restaurant near Plaza Santa Ana for wonderful grilled trout stuffed with Serrano ham and Chicken grilled with Garlic after consuming deliciously simple tapas—smoked ham and pickled manzilla olives. I opted also for the house wine, a white Valdapenas, that was surprisingly good and surprisingly cheap—wine is often cheaper than soft drinks in Spanish restaurants.

Walking the Art Trail:

The hot chocolate and churros had whetted our appetites for more sightseeing the previous evening.  Regenerated, we found our second wind and hopping on to the subway at Sol tube station, we tunneled our way to Atocha, Madrid’s busy railway hub, in order to walk towards the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, Madrid’s Museum of Modern Art, which has two rather incongruous glass elevators plying along its exterior in the same way as Paris’ Centre Georges Pompidour does. Since it is possible to purchase a discounted ticket (12 Euros) that gives the visitor entry into three of Madrid’s main museums (the Reina Sofia, the Prado and the Collection Thyssen-Bornemisza), all conveniently located within a short walk of each other on the Paseo del Prado, we bought our tickets upon entering this Museum of Modern Art.

Picasso’s Guernica, the twentieth century’s most famous single work, is the biggest attraction in this museum and we headed straight for it, never expecting that this stark black and white canvas would have such a moving impact upon us. As we stared at the horrors of war depicted so eloquently by the Father of Modern Art, we were stunned into silence. This painting, a protest against the Spanish Civil War, was completed in 1937. Picasso found his inspiration in the 1936 mass destruction of the border Basque town of Guernika-Lumo by German pilots flying for the Nationalist air force led by General Franco who went on to hold Spain under a dictatorial regime until 1975. Picasso stipulated in his will that the painting should not be returned to Spain until the country became democratic. It arrived in Madrid’s Prado Museum in 1981 and was moved to its present location in 1992.In this work, men and animals, caught by the surprise attack, raise their eyes heavenwards as if seeking a reason for the madness. Horses rear upon their hooves, a bull bellows in agony, women with babes in arms stare upwards emptily, their arms akimbo. I have waited at least twenty-five years to see this painting, having first heard of it as an undergraduate in college, and I was deeply moved by its deafening silence. Having seen this work, we moved on to the Surrealist canvases of Salvador Dali that are also plentifully available here and to the abstract artistry of Joan Miro.

The next day saw us continue to walk the Art Trail, for Madrid is superbly endowed with fine art museums. We strolled down Calle des Huertas, past the Neo-Classical façade of the Teatro Espagnol, Madrid’s public theater, that has been home to such literary giants as Lope de Vega and Garcia Lorca. The sidewalk was littered with embedded quotations from the work of Spain’s best-known writers such as Cervantes who lived just around the corner, and as we slowly read their lines, we arrived at the Paseo del Prado and saw the museum standing solidly before us.

(Outside the Prado is a large sculpture of Goya)

A rather unassuming building, the Prado contains one of the world’s most enviable art collections procured through the marriages of the Spanish monarchs with some of Europe’s most eligible princesses, most of whom brought fine art into the country as part of their dowries. Towering sculptures of Goya and Velasquez, two of Spain’s most celebrated artists, decorate the two opposite entrances of the museum. I was so happy to be in the Prado, having waited for this moment for so many years, that my excitement was palpable. Stuffed to the rafters with Old Masters, the Prado’s nooks and crannies seem to conceal the ghosts of these artists who haunt it at every awesome turn.

Velasquez’s Las Meninas  (left) is the biggest draw and art lovers from all over the world congregate with reverence in front of this canvas that inspired so many artists through the ages and was an obsession for Picasso. Featuring the visit of the Infanta Margherita to Velasquez’s studio while her parents, the king and queen, were being painted by him, this canvas features multiple portraits in tightly composed groups. Indeed, the canvas also contains a self-portrait of the artist and is an amazing play of light, shadows and scale.

The Prado boasts many other works by Velasquez and the court painter Goya who followed him a century later. Goya’s famous The Third of May (seen at left, which is said to have influenced Picasso’s Guernica) is a major attraction as are his Nude Maya and Clothed Maya and his many portraits of royalty. The third artist whose work features prominently in the Prado is Domenikos Theotocopoulos, simply “The Greek” or “El Greco” to the Spaniards among whom he made his home in Toledo, just a short way from Madrid. El Greco specialized in religious paintings and there are a number of deeply stirring ones in the Prado, featuring his stylized dark, brooding, elongated faces and limited color palate. We were so taken by all these treasures that we could barely bring ourselves to stop for lunch. When compelled to do so, simply because our feet were killing us, we settled for a cafeteria meal of Beef Ragout and a hearty Spinach Soup with Chickpeas, both very satisfying indeed and very well priced.

The afternoon passed swiftly before us as we drank in the phenomenal talents of Rubens and Tintoretto, Caravaggion and Fra Angelico, Jose de Ribera and Albrecht Durer. Two of my all-time favorite paintings are in the Prado: The Immaculate Conception by Murillo which I have seen in ‘holy pictures’ since I was a little girl and The Deposition of Christ (c. 1430) by Rogier van der Weyden whose use of perspective is so astonishing that the viewer is fooled into thinking the canvas is three-dimensional. Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthy Delights which inspired most Surrealist artists at one time or another is also at the Prado. I was just thrilled to be in the presence of all these world-famous works, but we decided to take a break after spending almost the entire day in this museum.

Sundaes in colossal coupes blended for us the pleasures of coffee, chocolate and vanilla ice-creams with amaretto liqueur at VIPS, a chain of fast food eateries in Spain, where we cooled our heels and our palates and found the enthusiasm to visit the Parque del Bueno Retiro, located just behind the Prado (below).

This expanse, Madrid’s Central Park, enticed us with its sprawling green lawns, towering topiaries and marble statuary. It was too early for flowers but some spring plantings were already in evidence. We found a quiet parapet on the periphery of the pleasure lake where rowboats were plying just across from the half-moon colonnade in front of which an equestrian statue of Alfonso XII is mounted. Because Llew and I always look for some madcap thing to do to make our travels overseas memorable, we spied the perfect opportunity on a tall pedestal in the park that was, astonishingly, devoid of a sculpture. With Llew’s help, I mounted the pedestal, then giggling, half-concealed myself in the fluffy branches of a “brocolli-shaped” tree and posed while Llew took my picture. It is crazy spontaneous moments like these that bring levity to our travel memories and we grab them whenever we can.

But Madrid’s third museum of fine art, the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, still remained unexplored and having rested sufficiently in Madrid’s largest park, we walked to the museum’s entrance, making use of the third stub on our joint ticket. Though we were left with very little time to explore this magnificent private collection of 800 paintings, the acquisition of two men—Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza and his son Hans Heinrich–we managed to see its highlights. Picasso’s early work, Harlequin with Mirror (1923) was a far cry indeed from his Guernica of 1937. Far more realistic than his later abstract work, the painting was a good example of his Blue Period. Edward Hopper’s Hotel Room (1931) was a very poignant portrayal of 20th century isolation while Francisco de Zurbaran’s portrait of St. Casilda was astounding in the detail to be found on her splendid robe.

Madrid’s museums are a treat for the eye and the soul. The art-lover in me was fully enthralled on this trip and though we were often tired, our appetites were never completely sated. We could have spent days devoring these art works alone, but we’re grateful that careful planning and research allowed us to see most of the world’s greatest works of art as held in Madrid in just two days. It would have been a shame indeed to have made it to Madrid and to have missed Titian’s work on St. Jerome in the Wilderness, or Goya’s Saturn Devoring his Son or Rubens’ The Three Graces. Most visitors talk about feeling saturated after only a few hours in an art museum. Fortunately, Llew and I can go on for days and not feel sated.

Despite sightseeing fatigue, Llew and I decided to end our day by going out in search of a restaurant named La Sirena Verde on the Gran Via, the main artery that meanders its way through Madrid’s busy commercial area. This restaurant, we were assured by a professor we met on the flight into Spain, served the best Paella in Madrid and was worth searching out. Well, let’s just say we were not disappointed. While the lower level of the restaurant leaves one unimpressed, you climb the stairs and enter a very formal space indeed decorated in nautical blue. A very attentive wait staff supplied multi-lingual menus and opting for the Paella del Marisco (the Seafood Paella, 24 Euros for two persons), we enjoyed Spain’s national contribution to global gastronomy. Our meal was accompanied by a bottle of white Rioja (Cune semi-dry) which was cold and very refreshing and made a sparkling counterpoint to a meal that was just superbly flavored with saffron and spice. As night fell, we returned to Hotel Marlasca vowing to wake up early for what would be a long drive south into the heart of Moorish Spain in fascinating Anadalucia.

To follow us on the next leg of our journey through Spain, please click Gateway to Granada.

Bueno Viajes!

Granada

Apr12

Gateway to Granada

(The Albaicin seen from the Al-Hambra Palace)

At some time or the other, everyone has heard Jerry Vale’s lyrics to a song he wrote entitled Granada:

Granada, I’m falling under your spell
And if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you would tell
A vantage, the world has long forgotten,
A vantage that weaves a silent magic in Granada, today……

I had personally heard them as a child growing up in Bombay where the song was popular at singing contests. Never did I dream that one day I would walk through the streets of this historic town, picking at stones to hear stories of an age when the world still remembered the splendor that was Granada. Though most tourists come to Granada to see the world-renowned Al-Hambra Palace, this ancient city has much more to offer. First occupied by the Moors who arrived in Spain from the shores of Northern Africa in the 8th century, Granada reached its fullest glory under the rule of the Muslim Nasrids from 1238 to 1492 who set out to build an awesome monument to their greatness.

Our exploration of Granada began in the main square of the Puerta Nueva where we lunched on doner kebabs wrapped in a pita—a meal that gave us our first understanding of the extent of Muslim impact in this part of Spain. The minaret-like spire of the Iglesia Santa Ana (left), a 16th century church, looked down upon the square as we decided not to waste any time in drinking in the scene spread out before us.We used the Eyewitness Travel Guide one more time to take a walking tour of the Albaicin (pronounced Al-bye-seen), the ancient Moorish district which hugs the sides of the hills opposite the Al-Hambra to create a labyrinth of cobbled streets lined by high-walled, white-washed houses with red-tiled roofs and patio-ed gardens within. Thank heavens for sturdy walking shoes which eliminated the risk of twisting an ankle on those challenging cobbles. Walking alongside the banks of the River Darro on Carrera Del Darro, we paused to take pictures of the picturesque red brick bridges and the old homes that seemed to tumble down to the river’s edge. Once inside the maze that comprises the Albaicin, one had better remain glued to a map and one’s wits—you could easily get lost and never find your way out. The eerie silence that accompanied this stroll was also rather unusual, for tucked as far away from civilization as it is, the Albaicin’s spirit is uninterrupted by blaring horns, traffic noises or street vendors.

A chance encounter with fellow-tourist Julian from Germany led us on the route back to the Mirador San Nicolas, a church square dominated by the Church of St. Nicolas, where weary strollers had congregated to take a break from their uphill climb through those stunningly evocative alleyways. The Al-Hambra lay spread out before us on the opposite bank of the Darro river, its high walls, square towers, and fairy-tale windows looming dauntingly on the mountainside. This mirador (or view point) provided stunning views of the Andalucian countryside as it lay bathed in the warming sun. Street entertainers provided interesting diversion at every turn.

Before long, we were on our way again, passing by Plaza Largo with its busy farmer’s market, noting the street signs at the corner of each tiny intersection in ceramic tile and blue calligraphy recalling the Moorish occupation of this city so many centuries ago. Every mosque in the picturesque district was converted long years ago into a church but the distinctive mujedar (Muslim) architecture as exemplified by the minaret-shaped spires, was ample evidence of the glory of the Nasrids. Then it was time for us to take the bus back up to the Al-Hambra to begin our exploration of one of the world’s most splendid monuments. We purchased audio guides for 3 Euros each and made our hurried way to the main archway of the Nasrid’s Palace for our 3.30 pm entrance into it as specified on the ticket we had purchased online before our departure for Spain (10 Euros).

The Al-Hambra was built gradually under the glorious reigns of Nasrid caliphs Ismail I, Yusuf I and Muhammed V whose love of beauty, symmetry, architectural design and embellishment were easily evident at every turn. The buildings create poetry of grace, style and imagination as seen in the uniform arches, the magical domes, the spacious patios, the slim pillars. There is beauty at every turn—in the wealth of ceramic tile used as a kind of wainscoting on every wall, laid out in complicated geometrical designs that the Spanish call azulejos (below left).

Though the materials used to build the Al-Hambra are far from gorgeous—just timber, stucco, ceramic, plaster and occasionally marble—the manner in which the decoration was visualized and implemented is nothing short of magnificent. In many ways, this style of Islamic architecture is similar to what one sees of Moghul greatness on the Indian sub-continent. For instance, the channels of water that run through the rooms, the lattice work on the windows (in timbered frames as opposed to marble ‘jallis’ in India and Pakistan), the natural air cooling devices that were built into these palaces, and the incorporation of gardens that were symbols of Paradise to these Muslim kings, are universal in most Islamic construction. But the Al-Hambra had certain other elements of interior design and decoration that I have never seen anywhere else. The appearance of what is called “macarabe” design was breathtaking.

It consists of stucco work that hangs down like stalactites from ceilings and arches (left) and in domes to form an intricate honeycomb pattern that is simply mind boggling. I took scores of pictures to try and capture this artistry. All over the walls, scripture from the Koran was sculpted in abundance. Geometric forms, flowers and fruits, especially the motif of the pomegranate (Granada in Arabic means “Land of the Pomegranate”) appeared in varied guises through cupolas and arches, in towering minarets and in pillars. Everywhere the sensuousness of the Islamic aesthetic overwhelmed the eye. The Patio de los Leones (The Patio of the Lions) was distinctive for the central marble fountain encircled by carved lions (below).

Paintings on leather panels hugged the walls of the rooms, many being refurbished for preservation. The use of reflecting pools added more excitement to the design as was the frequent presence of water. For Islam, a religion that originated in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, Paradise is always associated with the abundant availability of water—hence the fountains, gardens, etc. that are the epitome of Moorish landscape design.

As we left the main buildings of the Al-Hambra (already very tired indeed) to saunter at will through the leafy arbors and canopied avenues of the Generalife (pronounced Henera-lee-fay), the private estate gardens of the Nasrid rulers, I could not help but feel a pang for the passing away of so grand an epoch. The facile surrender of his kingdom by Boabdil, last of the Nasrid rulers, to the fanatic Catholic monarchs Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabel of Castille in 1492 not only put paid to Muslim presence and power in Andalucia but led to the systematic destruction of so many of the Moors’ most highly prized monuments. Fortunately, better sense prevailed in regards to the Al-Hambra, for instead of destroying this splendid place, the Catholic rulers decided to make it their own base, adding a chapel in order to consecrate the space as holy ground. Indeed, the Al-Hambra Palace is soaked in history. It was here that Ferdinand and Isabel received a young Genoan named Cristobal Colon who sold them the idea of reaching the Indies by sailing westwards. Thus, it was here that the idea of a Spanish Empire was conceived.

A walk down a footpath that connects the Al-Hambra to its surrounding gardens leads one to the Generalife, that are some of the best-known gardens in the world. Though we were too early in season to enjoy the magnificence of its flowers and the soft scents of jasmine that perfume the night air in the spring and summer, we still had enough of an opportunity to appreciate the genius that created these arcades and bowers for the sensual enjoyment of nature. Though the word ‘Generalife’ has many meanings, the most commonly accepted is said to derive from the Arabic Yannat al Arif or the “Garden of Lofty Paradise”.

Begun in the 13th century, they have been continually modified over the centuries. An army of gardeners and landscape artists work on the space even today to keep it in the glorious array of its ancient roots. One meanders peacefully and sensitively through the flower-beds and rectangular pools, pausing frequently to appreciate the blend of architectural and natural elements in these special environs. There is a profusion of roses, myrtle, rosemary, jasmine, lavender and camellia plantings everywhere and, no doubt, every passing season brings its own natural contribution. The Patio de la Acequia is the most beloved of the various patios in the garden for the graceful jets of spouting water that flow into a reflecting pool make gentle arches around visitors as they pause in the scented air. As you climb the marble steps along the Escalera del Aqua, you are surrounded by dwarf bay trees that lend a soft herbal perfume to the space as the flowing of water lilts quietly around. I plucked a bay leaf to stick in my scrapbook, a tiny souvenir from the annals of history and time that seemed to stand still as my fingers caressed the cool marble landings.

Though very pleasing to the senses, touring these environs is wildly exhausting, and we were forced to stop for a rest before exploring the Alcazabar or the Castle Keep through which the townspeople of Granada found access to their rulers. Here was where the artisans and local merchants made their homes and carried out their trade. Here are the barracks of the army and the public baths of the soldiers. Here is a stairway that leads up to the roofline from which once can gaze upon the natural ice-encrusted towering peaks of the Sierra Nevadas that cast a frowning glance upon the man-made heights of the Al-Hambra’s steeples. Here is where the royal pendant flew on that fateful day in 1492 when determined to seize power back from the Moors and stop Muslim expansion in Spain, Ferdinand and Isabel made Boabdil give up his rights to rule in exchange for the promise that his Muslim people would be allowed to practice their faith without hindrance—a pact that was rapidly broken. Here is where he cast a last poignantly sorrowful glance upon the power that once was his—a thought that brought the tears flowing from his eyes and caused his mother to comment icily, “You are crying like a child for a kingdom that you could not defend like a man”.

Before we left, we peaked into the Palace of Charles V, an ambitious Renaissance square-shaped building (to symbolize earthly power and stability) with a completely round, spherical interior design (to symbolize the greatness of the heavens and the powers of the cosmos). Never completed, this building today houses Spanish-Islamic archives and art objects, the most famous of which is the Al-Hambra Vase.

I cannot even begin to express how fortunate I felt to be walking through these pathways and patios, through these arcades and arbors. For years I have read about the beauty and significance of the Al-Hambra Palace in Granada never believing that I would, one day, have the privilege of touring these unreal spaces in person. It was unfathomable to me that such marvels were produced so many centuries ago and that it was not just aesthetic pleasure that was sought here but intellectual pursuit as well for the gardens and the domes are often laid out in accordance with the principles of Pythagoras’ Theorem. Learning and intellectual endeavors were never very far away from the Islamic mindset in the medieval ages and the enduring importance of such cities as Cordoba and Granada attest to the extent to which human determination can produce splendor while attempting to assuage one’s God.

Leaving the fairytale magic and enchantment of Granada behind us, we set out in search of our lodgings for the night—Villa Ithaca Bed and Breakfast located in the tiny village of Padul that is run by a British couple, Jeremy and Sophie Colwell with the assistance of Jeremy’s parents Dudley and Ann. When we did find it at nightfall, tired and hungry after our day’s sojourn, they suggested we find sustenance at a nearby restaurant, Valle del Punta. A short walk took us to this charming establishment in which a gigantic fireplace warmed the very casual seating. We opted for Spanish tapas—Serrano ham and olives in brine as a first course then ordered Shrimp sauted in olive oil, garlic and parsley and served with crusty bread. Washed down by Spanish beer, it made a lovely end to our very enlightening day and it was with great fatigue that we flopped into our beds for the night.

Jeremy served us a humongous breakfast, the next morning, in a dining room that overlooked the patchwork fields of the Andalucian countryside. Over the first fresh melon of the season, fruit and nut studded muesli, scrambled eggs on toast, hot buttered croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice and freshly ground coffee, we talked about our plans for the day with another English couple, Mike and Susan, who were also resident at our B&B. Then, it was time to leave but not before Ann gave me a tour of her lovely gardens and discussed with me her plans to develop the B&B into a far more upscale space for long-term lodgers. Bidding goodbye to our very friendly hosts, we drove off to discover the enticements of the ritzy Costa del Sol.

To follow us on the next leg of our journey in Spain, please click on Costa del Sol.

Bueno Viajes!

Gibraltar

Apr12

Barbary Apes on the Great Rock

 (In Gibraltar with the famous Rock in the background) 

By the end we arrived in Gibraltar, we were so close to Africa we felt as if we could reach out and touch the mountainous coastline. It became so clear to me how easily the Moors had reached Spain after their march through Tunisian, Algeria and Morocco. Once Northern Africa fell to Moorish rule, could Spain be far behind? Just a short row over the Straits of Gibraltar brought the Moors over to Europe and it was through the gateway of Southern Spain that their conquest of Andalucia began. Indeed it was in AD 711 that Tariq Ibn Zayed, the Muslim governor of Tangier, Morocco, landed at Gibraltar to begin the Islamic invasion of the Iberian Peninsula. The name Gibraltar is derived from the Arabic Jebel Tariq (Tariq’s Mountain).

Gibraltar is a very strange place indeed. Nothing quite prepares you for the combination of cultures—Spanish, Islamic, British–in this tiny town that still belongs to Great Britain. The astounding dimensions of the Rock seem to consume the entire town. You must drive through Spain’s border town of Linea de la Conception, however, before arriving at Checkpoint Charlie where documents are checked by immigration officials to clear one’s entry into Gibraltar. Linea itself, like most tiny Spanish towns, was a maze of narrow winding streets. God forbid if you get lost in this labyrinth or do not have the skills to negotiate a car through the limited space available. Once we did join the queue to get our passports checked, we coasted across the tarmac of an airport into the town of Gibraltar where street signs seemed to spring out quite suddenly at us in English. After having struggled for days with the inability to get ourselves understood in Spain, our arrival in Gibraltar was a relief at least from the point of view of language.

 

Gibraltar’s main attraction is its Rock, of course, a place that hides a multitude of interests for the traveler including the famous Barbary Apes (left). To the ancients, this was one of the Two Pillars of Hercules set up by the Greek hero to denote the edge of the world (the other pillar was in the coastal town of Musa in Morocco about 25 kms. south). On the Rock, a huge monument has been set up to recall its connection with Hercules who is something of a local hero in these parts (below left).

As we followed signs to Upper Rock Nature Reserve, we began the steep and somewhat scary climb up the sheer limestone escarpment of the Rock. Twelve Euros buys entry into the nature reserve where one can see the famous macaques or Barbary Apes that are said to have made their way to Europe from across the Barbary Coast of Africa on ships in the 18th century. These cheeky animals congregate throughout the Rock, boldly pulling ice-cream cones from the unwary or snatching cameras from tourist hands.

We kept our distance while taking pictures with them and headed towards St. Michael’s Cave  (left)which has a spectacular natural formation of stalactites and stalagmites within. Now converted into a concert hall, the backdrop of the stage is both eerie and exciting and I could just imagine what it would feel like to listen to a stirring orchestral rendition in these echoing caves. Spain ceded the Rock to Britain in 1713.

Our final stop on this exploration of the Rock was the Great Siege Tunnels (left and below left), a very interesting exhibit that recalls the 1779-83 Spanish Siege that attempted to wrest the town away from the British for the last time. Today, most Gibraltrians are of British descent.

They have lived in the settlement for generations and are unwilling to cede back under Spanish control. And why would they want to? Their High Street holds stores like Marks and Spencer and Mothercare and their red pillar post boxes and bobbies almost fool them into believing that they are in the very heart of the Home Counties. Overall, Gibraltar had a nautical, seafaring look about it and reminded me very much of the atmosphere of the small coastal villages of England.

While it is possible to climb up the Rock on foot, I cannot even begin to explain what a nightmare it was to drive up it. Llew who is a skilled and very experienced driver, had a very challenging time indeed as he dealt with the temperament of a stick shift car on very narrow two-way streets on steep slopes that kept me on the edge of my seat. It was altogether too much stress for one driver to deal with and we were grateful when our visit ended and we reached the base of the Rock.

The heights of the Rock, however, do present panoramic views of Spain’s southern coast and Africa’s northern coast. From every vantage point, there are lovely views of the sea and the mountains (left) and it was fascinating to know that very shortly we would be crossing those straits and arriving on the other side—to another Continent and another world. We could not wait…

A short drive away from Gibraltar, further west, one passes through the town of Algeciras and arrives at Tarifa, the last point along the coast from where one can pick up a ferry to cross the Straits of Gibraltar and enter Morroco. Our arrival in Tarifa coincided with dinner time, and contenting ourselves with a pizza, we boarded the ferry run by a company called FRS that took us, during a very pleasant cruise, across the waters. Roundtrip fares were 48 euros per head. We cleared immigration formalities on board the ferry, changed euros into local Moroccan dirhams and sat down to observe our fellow- passengers, most of whom were speaking Arabic and were clearly of Moroccan descent. Men wearing the long traditional robes of the Moroccans and women clad in flowing robes and hijabs were returning home to Tangier after a day long excursion in Spain.  As for me, as the coast of Spain faded in the distance, as we left Europe behind to set foot on the continent of Africa, I was hugely excited as it was my very time on the Dark Continent and who knew what secrets this land would reveal to me? A short 45 minutes later, our ferry docked in Tangier Port where a huge sign in English, Arabic and French welcomed the visitor to Morocco.

To follow us on our travels in Morocco, you will need to click on Africa. Then, to return to our travels in Spain, you must click on Seville, which was the next stop on our explorations in Europe.

Bueno Viajes!

Costa del Sol

Apr12

A short drive south through the heart of Andalucia took us through fields of cork oak and olive trees. Spring had already sprung in this part of the country and early blossoms bathed the landscape in a pink glow. The road wound down past towering gorges, rocky river banks, old and new bridges to Motril from where we drove west along Spain’s southern border, the equivalent of France’s Cote d’Azur. The Costa del Sol is fast becoming as snazzy as the French Riviera and we were astounded by the vast amount of construction activity all along the coastal towns. Huge billboards on the highway advertised the availability of sea-facing real estate. While ancient white-washed towns sparkled in the bright sunlight as they clung precariously to hillsides in Almunecar and Nerja, more modern apartment-style housing is devouring the green mountains of the Alpajurras as they slope down to the Mediterranean Sea. After the development of the EU, Europeans have so much more mobility and retirement options have opened up exponentially for them. Little wonder that the English are buying up real estate in warmer countries such as Italy, France and Spain where their preference for the sea, the sun and the sand is clearly evident. But press on we did past the large city of Malaga, Southern Spain’s biggest, to the well-known town of Torremolinos and the lesser-known town of Benalmadena, now completely taken over by seasonal visitors from England. Finally, we arrived at the ritzy-chic beach resort of Marbella.    

  Of all the little towns on this coastal stretch, Marbella is the glossiest as a result of the Marbella Club Hotel that was set up in the 1950s by Alfonso von Hohenloer that attracted the rich and the famous. I was determined to take in a piece of the action in this Cannes of the South of Spain and we made our way to the water since all Marbella’s beaches are still free to the public. The pebbly beach at Playa de Venus  (above) allowed us to dip our toes into the aquamarine Mediterranean where the waters were still icy. While sunbathers caught their share of rays on the clean stretches of sand, but for one brave little girl, there was no one else in the water. The streets were elegant and clean, full of real estate offices offering snazzy accommodation. Since it was a Sunday, most of them were closed, so that an air of relaxed quietness hung about the town. Swim season was not quite upon the resort, but I could just imagine how many hordes would descend upon these beaches in June, July and August. We were happy to sneak a peek into this little celebrity town before we motored west along the coast heading towards the weird anomaly that is the U.K. held territory of Gibraltar. Long before we arrived anywhere close to the town, the monolithic Rock of Gibraltar, seemingly rising out of the ocean, was clearly visible to us along the highway as were, across the waters of the Straits, the misty blueness of the peaks of the Rif Mountains on the northern coast of Africa.

Bon Voyage!