As far as blogging goes, I’m still in Barcelona: though in reality I’m snuggled in a cosy jumper looking upwards as a grey sky turns greyer.
In Barcelona, we visited the Monasterio de Pedralbes. It’s not actually a monastery, because no monk has ever lived there. It’s a priory, built in 1326 by King James of Aragon for his wife Elisenda de Montcada, who wished to found a community of Poor Clares there. Poor Clares? These are nuns who devote themselves to a life of simplicity and prayer, and in Elisenda’s time were almost always drawn from the ranks of the aristocracy. She herself never became a nun, but she was very real presence in the life of this community.
And what a fine place it is. A graceful three-storied cloister surrounds a peaceful garden. Here is a fountain, topped off with a rather cheeky looking angel. This is where the nuns would wash their hands before dining in silence in the refectory, while devotional works were read to them from a pulpit.
But it’s the kitchen I’d like to show you. In its day, this was a state-of-the-art workroom. Who wouldn’t like to cook at this unusual kitchen range, supervised by Saint Anthony? Look at these fine sinks, dating from about 1520. There are bread ovens, tiled worktops, and it was here that the simple diet of the nuns was prepared: fresh and salted fish, pulses, rice, vegetables and fruit. Meat was reserved for festivities.
Saint Anthony’s range cooker.
A double drainer kitchen sink, without constant running hot water.
This is another of Barcelona’s hardly-discovered treasures. Just a couple of school parties there, and once they’d gone, we had the place almost to ourselves. Put this on your must-visit list too.
Twelfth Night is a bit of a grumpy day for me. Nothing festive happens. It’s just the day for dismantling the Christmas tree, packing baubles and Christmas wreaths away for another year, and reading through Christmas cards from old friends for the last time before they’re taken off to some recycling point. The house looks sparse and bare, and maybe in need of a spring-clean.
I think of Emily over in Barcelona. She’s not at work today because Twelfth Night is Epiphany. It’s the day on which Spanish children at last get their Christmas gifts, because the Day of the Three Kings is when legend has it that the Magi presented their gold, frankincense and myrrh to the infant Jesus. As Emily points out, the main downside to this late arrival of gifts is that this is the very last day of the holidays: school tomorrow, and no time to get to play with those new toys. Still, today is another chance to party and enjoy a family feast.
Our caganer is clockwork. He does back-flips.
It was Emily who may have been responsible for our finding ‘el caganer’ in our Christmas stocking this year. If your Catalan isn’t up to translating this, let me explain. It means, um, ‘the crapper’. El caganer is a little fellow in Catalan costume, squatting with his trousers down, and defecating. Why? Well, he’s a traditional part of Catalan nativity scenes. Maybe he’s a fertility symbol. Most people these days prefer the idea that it shows that great or small, we all have the same very basic needs.
Caganers on a market stall. Anybody you recognise here? (Wikimedia Commons)
So these days at any street market, you can buy caganer figures who represent the Pope, the Queen, Barack Obama, a whole range of footballers – any personality you can think of. And they’re just the same as us. Even if it’s Twelfth Night, I don’t think I’ll pack away our little ‘el caganer’ just yet.
Galette des rois, courtesy of Wikimedia CommonsA dusty miller. (Wikimedia Commons)
And when we lived in France, Epiphany was the start of the Galette des Rois season. As guests anywhere, you’ll be sure to be offered a slice of this almondy pastry confection. Part of you wants the good luck of being the person to find the ‘fève’ within your slice. This used to be a lucky bean, making you king for the day. Nowadays it’s a small china figurine, and maybe quite collectable. I’ve just been looking unsuccessfully for our little fireman ‘fève’: goodness knows where I’ve hidden him . The downside of finding the lucky bean though, is that it’s your turn to make the galette next time round.
Parts of Europe seem to be having fun. Ho hum. Here, it’s all too easy to be aware that there’s January to get through before we can think of the days lengthening and the arrival of Spring.
No sooner back from England, than we were making tracks for Barcelona.
Why? To help daughter Emily and her flat-mate move.
A trailer load Barcelona-bound
Saturday saw us leave Laroque with a large and unwieldy trailer load of cast-offs for Emily and her flat-mate’s new home. Two beds and mattresses, a table, a blanket box, a linen basket, a bike, ephemera from the kitchen, all kinds of detritus. We’d spent an afternoon on Friday packing the load, carefully, and with lots of thought and planning. Ten minutes after we set off on Saturday, it became unstable. We stopped and rejigged, went on a few miles… and more of the same. It started to rain, with quite high winds. We stopped a third time, bought more rope (OK, washing line. It’s all we could find), really had a good go at things, and finally, we had a steady load that got us all the way to Barcelona, in said wind and rain, as far as the frontier. Hooray! In Spain, the sun shone.
In Barcelona, we unloaded, unpacked, fetched and carried, and did our best to get the new flat …er … ship-shape. Sunday morning, while the girls played house, Malcolm and I were off duty. What to discover today? Well, look one way from the street outside her flat, and you’ll see far below you, the sea.
Yes, that’s the sea down there.
Look the other way, and you’ll see far above you…. bunkers.
Bunkers above
Those bunkers are among Barcelona’s lesser known secrets, and they looked intriguing. It’s a toughish climb up there, but stop for breath, and your reward is increasingly dramatic views of the city spread far below you.
View part way up.
At the top, there are battered concrete remains: the bunkers that were built by Spanish Republican forces in 1937 in their efforts to defend the city. Little could be done against the air power of the Nationalists. The Republicans were under-resourced, and their best hope was to use this high vantage point as both a look-out,and a place from which to launch protective curtains of artillery fire.
Once peace was restored, the bunkers came into use once more: a chronic housing shortage in the city meant that right up until the 1990’s, the site developed into a shanty town, housing up to 600 residents, though the council resisted providing services such as water and refuse disposal until well into the 1980’s. Remnants of this improvised town can still be seen in vestiges of tiled floors.
View of the city glimpsed through the morning glory
Another, glimpsed through the remains of a bunker.
Floor tiles from the former shanty-town.
Looking down the other way, away from the coast.
Now, you’re most likely to make the trek up here to get the very best views of the city: better than from Tibidabo. It’s not the view those Republican forces saw. From up here at La Rovira, you look down on a modern city: recent tower blocks dwarf the older buildings, though your attention will always be caught by the spires of la Sagrada Familia, still under construction. A highly-recommended excursion. Get yourselves there before everyone discovers it.
Climb down again: this is what you see.
I knew I’d be writing at least one more post about Girona. In my mind I’d plotted a quick run through the city’s exciting history, or an art history essay about one or more of the churches perhaps. In the end though, you can get these things from any guide book, or by questioning the search engine of your choice. What I’d like you to do is to plan a visit if you don’t know the city already, or to suggest other places to explore here if you do.
We’ve enjoyed pounding the streets. Look up, or down as you’re walking, and you’ll find some gem worth your attention. We’ve enjoyed finding little bars and making them our own for an early breakfast or a mid-morning coffee stop. It’s astonishing how many Catalans seem to need a caffeine-rush before, during or after the daily grind. Nor is it simply tourists who hunt for restaurants with outside tables and just enough shade to keep cool and comfortable: for the Spanish, irritatingly, being outside means chain-smoking too.
Churches mean the chance to explore centuries of fascinating history. We passed almost an entire afternoon in Sant Feliu and then the Cathedral: and more or less accidentally discovered the outside of another- Sant Domènec, and the interior of one more – Santa Susanna.
We enjoyed our visit to the Arab Baths, the 12th century descendants of the Roman bath house, and antecedent of baths such as our own familiar Turkish baths in Harrogate.
Oooh, but it was tiring. How good it was to end each day relaxing over a meal, people watching in the evening warmth, before strolling back through Devesa park to our hotel, perchance to sleep.
A first view of Girona
Evening in the old town.
A meal in ….oh, I can’t remember. And we’d go there again.
Evening scene in Plaça Independència.
An unexpected find: Santa Susanna
These flags are everywhere, in English and Catalan.
The Arab Baths.
The Arab Baths.
And just one more view of the Arab Baths.
Look up: that’s one way to get the shopping upstairs.
A view over the roof of the Romanesque church of Sant Pere de Galligants
The Cathedral, Sant Feliu, and the old city.
Look down: there’s always something at pavement level.
One house, miscellaneous windows…..
… and a front door.
Sant Feliu seen from Park de la Devesa
And the Cathedral, seen from the same place.
Inside Sant Feliu.
In Sant Feliu, take time to explore the wonderfully carved sarcophagi
An unexpected and opulent marble Baroque chapel in Sant Feliu…
… with the sun shining in.
In the Cathedral now. Shadows on the floor of the nave.
And here’s the nave: the widest Gothic nave in Europe.
Looking down on the Cathedral cloister.
Time out in a bar.
A quiet corner of a quiet street.
Climb dozens of steps, and you’re outside the battered church of Sant Domènec, looking at this frieze.
One of several slogans plastered round the city. They all have an apparently anti-tax theme
Lovers’ padlocks , or bike locks on a bridge over the Onyar?
Looking along the river towards the Cathedral.
This is cheating. It’s Barcelona. Where we went – can you imagine? – for a vegetarian Indian meal. Jolly good too.
We had a mid-week break in Girona last week. Because I needed the dentist.
Despite the general all-round good quality of the French health system (though it’s not what it was), dentistry does not on the whole measure up. Ask anybody round here to recommend a dentist, and they’ll either say ‘not mine, definitely not mine’, or suggest someone miles and miles away with a weeks long waiting list.
So when my daughter over in Barcelona recommended her dentist in nearby Girona, it seemed too good a chance to miss. A quick holiday in a town on the ‘to-visit’ list, a chance to see Emily, and a pain-free set of teeth.
The dentist there sorted things out, but said he’d need to see me again. So we realised we didn’t need to dash round on some frenzied must-see-everything-double-quick self-imposed tour. We took our time. We wandered up and down the narrow stairways that make up the ancient Jewish quarter, walked the old city walls, and spent time in the cool shaded Jardins d’Alemanys. There was time for an early morning coffee, a relaxed meal, a cool beer in shady squares among the narrow back streets.
In its day Girona has been invaded by Romans, Muslims, Franks, enduring over 30 sieges in 800 years. As Robin Gauldie, travel writer says: ‘It’s like Barcelona in miniature, with all the history, heritage and great food but without the insane traffic’. We don’t need the excuse of a toothache to go back. There are churches to visit, museums to explore, gardens to relax in, meals to enjoy. There are riverside walks, and the countryside beyond. So much to do and see, but all within walking distance of the ancient city centre. Roll on my next dental appointment.
To view any of the pictures in a larger format, simply click on the image.
My daughter Emily’s just visited from her home in Barcelona, bringing her Catalan boyfriend, and an enormous bundle of calçots sent by his mother.
Calçots! Think we have enough?
Eating calçots is a century-old tradition in Catalonia at this time of year. Garden onions are planted deep in the soil, and earthed up throughout their growing period, so they have long thick white stems, just like a leek’s. Harvested between Christmas and Easter, they’re a much appreciated local delicacy.
Really, they should be grilled fiercely over an open fire or barbecue. We lack a barbecue, and in any case, southern France has its own traditions: Holy week is cold, wet and miserable. Without fail.
Preparing the calçots
So we settled for baking them in a fiercely hot oven. And then we got down to the cheerfully messy business of eating them. You strip the hot slippery skin off each calçot, and then dunk it in a punchy romanesco sauce before tipping your head back to ingest the lot. You need napkins, yards of kitchen roll – bibs would be good – and good bread to mop up the juices and sauce.
Serving the calçots. Another break with tradition. They should be on a terracotta roof tile.
We had fun, but probably not as much as if we’d visited one of the outdoor festivals dedicated to the eating of these alliums. Watch the video from Valls.
Eating the calçots. No red wine for us. The calçot-bearers drove back to Barcelona straight after the meal
These three figures look down on you as you wait to visit the Dali Museum. And the loaves of bread?
“Where, if not in my own town, should the most extravagant and solid of my work endure, where if not here? The Municipal Theatre, or what remained of it, struck me as very appropriate, and for three reasons: first, because I am an eminently theatrical painter; second, because the theatre stands right opposite the church where I was baptised; and third, because it was precisely in the hall of the vestibule of the theatre where I gave my first exhibition of painting.”
That’s Salvador Dali, speaking about his wish to create a museum to his own work in the shell of the theatre at Figueres, destroyed, like so many other buildings in Catalonia and throughout Spain, at the height of their Civil war.
The courtyard, the Cadillac, the tyres… and… and….
It’s an astonishing place. Start out in the central courtyard, and you’re confronted by a Cadillac – Al Capone’s allegedly – beside a tower of tyres topped off by a fishing boat. Wander round – in any order, please: Dali insisted there was no timeline or other imperative to be followed.
Homage to Hieronymus Bosch?Gold cross.
You’ll discover rooms of paintings in which he worked in the style of other artists as diverse as Vermeer, Picasso, Goya, Velasquez, Millet, de Chirico: was he in search of a personal voice, or simply exploring and celebrating his knowledge of art history? A room full of fantastically bizarre creatures shows an affinity with the work of Hieronymus Bosch, but only a few yards away is a room full of exceptionally fine gold and bronze jewellery, largely made from coins with the heads either of Dali or his beloved wife Gala on them.
Then there’s the Mae West room. Walk in, and you’ll see some random objects: a couch, two wall paintings, a fireplace. Climb the stairs at one side of the room however, and look though the lens, and there she is, Mae West herself, in all her ruby-lipped glory.
And here she is.
It goes on. He’s copied Michelangelo’s Moses: but what’s an OT prophet doing with a giant squid?
Or go and get vertigo while standing four-square on the ground, viewing the dizzying perspectives of the ceiling in the Palau del Vent.
…and that’s only a bit of the ceiling.
The whole thing was by turns stimulating, exciting, puzzling and sometimes even annoying – bizarre for the sake of being bizarre. We’re really glad we went, though once may be enough. And if you want to know more, there’s an interesting account in the blog ‘Elsewhere’
The Civil War came up again when we visited the Castell de Sant Ferran, just outside Figueres. It’s an enormous, star-shaped site, built in the 18th century to protect the Spanish from the French, but it saw almost no action. But in the 1920’s, Salvador Dali did his military service there. It only came into its own during the Civil War. Then it provided secure storage for masterpieces from the Prado in Madrid, and became a stronghold for international brigades and ammunition.
We spent so long tramping round the walls – it’s a 3 km walk to encircle the entire site – that we didn’t explore the interior, which may have been a pity: some other time. But what a walk! As we began we could clearly see the Mediterranean coast and towns such as Roses. Then the Pyrenees, covered in snow over to the north, and the dusty more barren nearby hills. Figueres itself doesn’t give a good account of itself from up here: modern concrete factories and lots of high-rise blocks.
A small stretch of castle wall, with the Pyrenees beyond
And that was it. Our brush with the law in Barcelona had left us feeling a bit sour, and we felt our holiday was at an end. So off home for us, planning a return one day to explore that coast we’d caught distant glimpses off from the castle walls.
Christmas in Barcelona. A perfect way to celebrate. Son and daughter-in-law were there too, and we all stayed in Emily’s flat, since her flatmates had gone away. Perfect times for us don’t make for interesting reading for others: the balmy weather, meandering round the endlessly fascinating streets as desultory sight-seers, coffee stops at the outside tables of bars in picturesque squares, shopping at temptingly- stocked shops and market stalls in the cosmopolitan quarter which is Emily’s home, eating out or sharing tapas at simple neighbourhood restaurants…. Here’s the story in pictures.
The Sagrada Familia – always under construction
The camera can see details like this better than I can.
Barcelona by night: so many Christmas lights.
At the Christmas market, one of the magi spits sweets at us.
Street furniture, Barcelona style.
…. and some more
Tapas on the way: and look at the Seville oranges on that tree.
Spotted on one of our walks
An UNESCO World Heritage Site, the modernista Hospital de Sant Pau is one of Barcelona’s best kept secrets
… and here’s a detail from one of its entrances
Whimsical lobster at Port Vell.
And here’s Port Vell on the sunny afternoon of December 26th
This building near the waterfront took my eye
.. as did this one
A very modern Christmas.
So something had to come along and spoil it.
The car and Barcelona don’t go well together. Even driving in and out of the ill-signposted city is something we always dread. With a superb and cheap public transport system, we’d have liked to have left the car at home, but it was stuffed with extra bedding, presents, bits and bobs Emily needed from home, so when we arrived, we unloaded and then took it off to park elsewhere for the duration, since she lives on a square with little parking. She’d taken advice, and suggested a quiet nearby corner of town where a Spanish friend said it would be safe and out of the way. Once there, we checked, and checked again that there were no restrictions. One morning, we popped up and checked yet again. All was well, so we left it until we were packing to go….. walked to the street where we’d left it…… No car.
Stolen! Panic! What to do next? Contact our insurers, see if we could sort out one-way car hire between Spain and France? Would insurance pay? What about replacing the car, which we’d newly and expensively fitted out with snow tyres? How could we possibly afford that? Emily rang the police, who promised to call back once they’d made enquiries. After a couple of hours to-ing and fro-ing, we learnt that the car wasn’t stolen, but had been towed away because of parking infringements. There should have been a notice stuck on the road where the car had been, telling us what had happened: but there was nothing there. We’d need to go in person to the Police. There are three sorts here: those belonging to Barcelona itself, local Spanish police, and the national service. We went to see the Barcelona lot, a 20 minute walk away. Eventually they tracked our car down – thank goodness for Emily’s command of Spanish – to the Spanish police’s car pound at the last stop on the metro line. If we went with ID and 239 Euros, we could have out car back……
Walk to metro. Impatiently sit out long journey. Emily spends time texting Spanish friends. They’ve all had similar experiences: ‘It’s to try to fill the city’s empty coffers’, they explain. Track down car pound. Join disgruntled queue of fellow-sufferers. Pay up. No choice. Receive form on which to write our grounds for appeal. Try to make our way back to Emily’s from a completely unknown part of town – we get good at buying time by circling roundabouts twice. All the time fuming at the loss of precious hours with Tom and Sarah on our last day together.
Heigh ho. Even run-ins with the Police however, can’t take away our memories of a wonderful Christmas break.
We’ve just come back from a weekend with Emily. Every time we go to see her in Barcelona we’ve stayed somewhere different. But now we’ve cracked it. Sabadell does it for us.
The accommodation was the first thing that went well: an art deco factory converted into a smart and well-priced hotel, the Arrahona, not too far from the town centre.
Discontent, even in Sabadell
We liked Sabadell itself straight away. It’s not Barcelona: there’s not a tourist in sight. And that’s one of its attractions after the hurly burly and stimulation of a day spent sight-seeing. We had feared Sabadell might be a bit down-at-heel and depressing, because it is, like many towns in our part of the Ariège, a place whose glory days as a centre of the textile industry are long over. It seems to have successfully reinvented itself however, and despite Spain’s present undoubted economic problems, Sabadell and some of the surrounding towns like the one where Emily works, Sant Cugat del Vallès, seem to be in some protective bubble. The bars and restaurants are full, shops are functioning and selling well-made and desirable goods, and this weekend at least, all seemed well with the world.
Drummers prepare the way for the devils
Because on Saturday and Sunday Sabadell had a festival. We’ve struggled to find out why. It doesn’t seem to have been for Corpus Christi, which provided nearby Sitges with an excuse to carpet the streets in flower petal pictures. It looks as if perhaps it was just an excuse for the inhabitants to dust off the drums, unpack the ‘gigantes’ – papier maché heads surmounting giant bodies, dig out the costumes, order the fireworks and have a good time.
We happened upon part of the festival by accident on Saturday night when we found hordes of people gathered in the main town square. Quantities of drummers in red costumes – adults and children – kept up a regular and stimulating rhythm to warn of the approach of whirling dancing devils whose horns disgorged sparks, flames and loud bangs. These demons leaped in frenzied groups round the church and through the back streets until their ammunition ran out.
Devils run amok near the church
And then, as darkness fell, the crowds who had been watching wandered off to one of the dozens of restaurants in town and sat in large friendly groups at outside tables, laughing and chatting about the evening’s events.
We didn’t find out till later that the festival was happening all the following day too. We caught up with things again in the evening when children dressed as dragons, dogs and mythical creatures took pride of place in the central square.
Child? Or dragon?
Showers of golden sparks spun into the crowd as the children wheeled and pranced through their routines. It turned out though that this was the Grand Finale. Market stalls were beginning to pack up. The ‘gigantes’ were shrouded in dust sheets and slid ingloriously into workmen’s vans, and once again the crowds finished off the evening in the bars and restaurants.
One of the ‘gigantes’ waits to be bundled off home
The main Rambla had been closed off to traffic, and it seemed as if the entire town’s population was enjoying strolling around, settling occasionally for a drink or some food with friends or family.
A perfect way to end the day: a meal with friends at an outside table in one of the town’s restaurants
We’d chosen to stay in Sabadell because it was near enough to Emily, and seemed to have a hotel that would meet our needs. We didn’t expect that being there would be such a positive and enjoyable part of our short holiday. We’d like to go back and explore it again
The Rambla, the main street in Sabadell, taken over by pleasure seekers, just for the weekend
In Barcelona, we visited the Monasterio de Pedralbes. It’s not actually a monastery, because no monk has ever lived there. It’s a priory, built in 1326 by King James of Aragon for his wife Elisenda de Montcada, who wished to found a community of Poor Clares there. Poor Clares? These are nuns who devote themselves to a life of simplicity and prayer, and in Elisenda’s time were almost always drawn from the ranks of the aristocracy. She herself never became a nun, but she was very real presence in the life of this community.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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