Top tourist tip. Visit Sitges, as we just have, on a bright day in January. You’ll have the place almost to yourself.
We last visited a few years ago, when Emily took us to see the Corpus Christi Flower Festival in June. We could barely move for other people doing exactly the same thing.
Today was different. We mooched round enjoying the narrow streets of the old town, the Modernista buildings, and the wide sunny beach. I even paddled. Malcolm didn’t.
A tasty tapas lunch was in a quiet bar in a quiet park. It was the perfect antidote to busy Barcelona, a mere half hour train journey away.
The last time we went to la Sagrada Familia was maybe twenty years ago. My abiding memory is of seeing a monstrous fork lift truck parked in one of the aisles, totally dwarfed by the Cathedral in which it incongruously found itself.
Today was different. The Cathedral which Gaudí began in March 1882 is due to be completed exactly 100 years after his death, in June 2026: so the fork lift trucks are long gone.
What is there new to say about this inspiring, spiritually uplifting and imaginative building? Even the selfie stick dependent visitors thronging through can’t destroy its power.
Imagine, as Gaudī wanted you to do, walking through an ancient forest, the sunlight filtering through the topmost branches, dappling the trunks and forest floor with dancing daylight. Imagine the changing colours of that forest as the chilly morning sun rises in the east, then finally sets, warm and vibrant, in the west. La Sagrada Familia captures all that. It celebrates nature in stone, glass, ironwork and mosaic tile. Here are just a few shots to try to capture that mood.
On the way to meet Emily and Miquel today, we spotted a large arena. Surely that must be a bullring? But bullfighting’s outlawed in Catalonia, so what could it be now?
It was the former bullring. Built at the turn of the twentieth century in Moorish style, with a capacity for sixteen thousand spectators, it never really earned its keep. Even before the sport was banned, Catalans didn’t enjoy bullfights, and the Arena saw its last fight in 1977.
The building stood empty and unused till 1999. Richard Rogers’ architectural practice was selected to design a state-of-the-art complex of shops, cinemas and restaurants which also preserved the historic red facade.
It’s wonderful. Shopping’s no fun as far as I’m concerned, but gazing at the massive girders which hold the current structure in place, or walking round the roof terrace (in the pouring rain) to have 360° views over Plaça d’Espanya and beyond was a fine way to spend a morning.
Today was why we came to Barcelona in early January. Emily’s partner’s family invited us to share in today’s traditional family gathering. How could we refuse?
We’ve just had the best of days, with about thirty members of Miquel’s wider family. We’ve muddled through in Spanish, in English, in French. We’ve watched with pride Emily’s integration into this loving and close family group.
Lots of eating, lots of drinking. Then everyone had to share in eating the traditional Three Kings cake, el roscón de Reyes. We’d all chucked five euros into the pot, and the person who found the little pottery king in their slice won the lot – all but five euros. Miquel won that, for finding a bean in his slice.
Then it was charades. Can you imagine? But this little detail made us laugh. If you need to indicate that the title you’re miming is in English, you drink from an imaginary cup of tea whilst crooking your little finger ….
A very good day has been had by all. Thank you, Miquel’s family, for making us so welcome.
Did Father Christmas come your way the other week? I hope so.
But this year we’ve come to try to spot another team bearing gifts. We’re in Barcelona, where tonight children are waiting eagerly for their Christmas presents from – the Three Kings.
It was at Epiphany that the Magi visited the infant Christ, and at Epiphany that they continue the tradition by bringing gifts to all Spanish and Hispanic children.
We’ve already spotted them. Here they are, slowly winding their way through the crowded streets of Barcelona with their accompanying queens, elves, African drummers and jungle creatures. My phone hasn’t made a good job of recording their visit. I hope my camera will have done better.
This was a weekend of travel. Of packing up and leaving my temporary home in Valencia and catching a coach to Barcelona (there was some kind of disruption on the rail network which I was keen to avoid).
A view from the coach
I was a little anxious about Barcelona. Every day for a fortnight, I’d watched the evening news on TV with my hostess. Every day for a fortnight the situation in Catalonia had been top of the agenda, for a good twenty minutes or so. There were pictures of massed placards, of disaffected locals chuntering volubly into microphones, of city fountains running in Catalonia’s colour of yellow.
Yes! It’s time.
I arrived in a city where everyone was enjoying a normal sunny Saturday, Spanish style. There were flags and posters certainly, but mainly concentrated in various hotspots. Catalonia’s been keen on nationalist flags for years in any case. What was (not) going on? ‘You’ve been watching Telecinco?’ howled Emily and Miquel, leaving me in little doubt that this less-than-even-handed commercial channel is the Daily Mail of the Spanish airwaves.
I don’t feel qualified to comment on what’s going on in Catalonia. But it does seem an awful lot like Brexit. Nobody is going to be happy whatever happens. Families and friends are divided. Hatred is legitimised. It’s a mess.
Still, I was there just to catch up with Emily and Miquel before flying home. To join the crowds of locals enjoying the warm autumn weather, calling in for a drink at a bar every now and then, before later, much later, having a convivial meal in a thoroughly convivial restaurant.
Dancing in the street in Gràcia on Saturday evening.
On Sunday, a bit more of the same, with Miquel’s family this time, before flying back to a windy Leeds, where the temperature was a mere 23 degrees colder than it had been in Valencia in the middle of the week.
Barcelona skyline from Miquel and Emily’s flat, Can you spot la Sagrada Familia?
And this week? I’m doing as little as possible. Exhaustion has set in.
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.
Top tourist tip. Visit Sitges, as we just have, on a bright day in January. You’ll have the place almost to yourself.
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