Percy Moo as Einstein

Percy Moo as Einstein
Dog=Einstein2

Saturday 11 April 2015

A Trip to Cuenca - Homeward Bound

Wednesday was the day we returned to Sanlu. As teachers, both of us had the whole of Easter off and as such were able to travel in the first half of the week when prices were lower. Still, it was with a heavy heart that we packed and left La Antigua Vaquería.

Our first stop, as already advanced in my previous post, was the Restaurante Isis
The restaurant. Image from the Hostal Isis website
for brekky. It was rather disappointing - perhaps due to a lack of communication, as different terms have different meanings in different parts of Spain. In (at least) Andalusia a café cortado is an expresso with a mere dribble of milk. It would appear that in the Restaurante Isis café cortado seems to mean an expresso with a whole udderful of warm, caramelised milk. The toast, however, was excellent and the owner's wife's pyjamas and fluffy slippers up to snuff. At least standards hadn't slipped there, then!

We breakfasted outside on the deserted terrace. In my first post on Cuenca, I mused whether plants were sentient beings. I sincerely hope not. We subjected the nearby potted plants to unbearably exquisite torture by pouring the undrinkable coffee into their pots, à la Mr Bean. I doubt if El Ocejón would have survived a millenium on such a nauseating diet.  The sufferings of sentient vegetables were, however, soon forgotten as we were treated to yet another display of eccentricity. 
The terrace.  Image from the Hostal Isis website. unfortunately for the
owner, the pyramid's ratios are not those of Gizeh.

As we sat, minding our own business and quietly killing the plants with the Isis' own particular interpretation of Agent Orange, my Dark Lady decided to have a cigarette. Our table did not have an ashtray, so she went to the next one along and got the (used) ashtray from there. Among the detritus of the burnt offerings to the goddess Nicotiniana was a rumpled 1.5-inch stub of a slim cigar. We had been at our table for about 20 minutes, drinking black coffee and in the Dark Lady's case, smoking, when a couple of families emerged from the hostal and sat around the pyramid. The father of one of them took a seemingly nonchcalant stroll around the terrace and then took his place back at the pyramid.

After a while, he started to steal shifty glances towards us and after a bit of scratching, fidgeting and leg-crossing and re-crossing, he stood up and sidled past us again, muttering to himself. I began to get worried. Was he an axe murderer? Did he think that one of us was someone famous and was coming over to ask for an autograph? Was he a jealous husband who thought I, or indeed my Dark Lady, had been rootling around with his wife? Or, quite simply, did he have The Fear? He had The Fear. His mind was made up. Purposefully, he approached and, towering over our table, he muttered "Good day", snatched up the cigar stub, retreated a couple of metres, straightened it out and started to smoke enthusiastically, if somewhat defiantly.

WTF???

Unanswered questions still pullulate in my mind:
1) He didn't exactly look like a tramp, so why pick up a second-mouth cigar?
2) If it was his own cigar, why had he left it in the first place? It had the concertina shape of having been put out dliberately.
3) How long had it been there?
4) Why didn't he just light up a new cigar and save himself the embarrassment?
5) If he had The Fear and was so in need of a nicotine hit, and had no more cigars, why didn't he just buy a packet of ciggies from the machine, or ask for one from my Dark Lady? 
6) Did he realise that he was making a spectacle of himself in front of his family and an appreciative public?

Before he came back to eat what was left on our breakfast plates and lick the Agent Orange from the potted plants' fast wilting leaves, we paid and departed. 

A nice church, Almodóvar del
Pinar.
Our plan now was to return home via Úbeda and Baeza, two historic cities in the province of Jaén, Andalusia. This time the idea was to avoid motorways, which we did most of the time. Indeed, in one case we unwillingly avoided a motorway, of which more anon. 

First stop on the way back was a little town called Almodóvar del Pinar where we bought a packet of fine pork scratchings and a loaf of disappointing bread. Curiously, it must be the only town in the whole of Spain that doesn't sell lottery tickets. We found  this out because it's a tradition in my Dark Lady's family to buy such a ticket in one of the places visited when on a journey. We gleaned this information from the ciggy shop lady, who was unable to give us an explanation as to why no-one sells lottery tickets there. It's not even as if the locals don't play the lottery - they go to the next town along to get the tickets. 



A typical street, Úbeda
This was the last stop before Úbeda, a couple of hours later. During the journey the Google Maps Witch managed to direct us off a motorway, take us on a route in more or less a figure of 8, through a couple of post-apocolyptic industrial estates and in sneering triumph, deposit us back on the initial motorway about three exits further down. We had asked her to take us to Úbeda avoiding all toll roads and I think that this was her final hissy fit before we switched her off. Obviously, if you'll pardon the pun the journey had been taking its toll on her, too!
Façade, Hospital de Santiago,
Úbeda.

Úbeda. Hooray! We arrived at about 15.00 and the city's shops - including all of the chains - were closed for lunch, as were the churches and historic buildings. Unfortunately we had very little time to see anything. Anyway as the Easter processions were also about to recommence, we got back into Mr. Bubbles and drove off to Baeza for an ice cream in the main square before the final couple of hundred km back to Sanlu.

Thus ended our trip. We had, as the Spanish saying goes, been left with with honey on our lips. In other words what we had seen and experienced in Cuenca and Jaén had less than scratched the surface of what was to be enjoyed there. As the great thespian and politician Arnie has so expressively declaimed on several occasions, "We will be back".


Friday 10 April 2015

A Trip to Cuenca. Day 2. The Second Waterfall and Meetings with Remarkably-clad Individuals.

And so we left Tragacete, but not without driving along a river bed that was also officially part of a road.

A question: When is a Citroën not a Citroën? Answer: When it Fords a river. Oh, what scintillating wit!

Next on our list of to-dos was a visit to the Ciudad Encantada, or literally Enchanted City. To get there we had to growl up a narrow mountain road behind a pair of camper vans. Still, it gave us time to admire the view. When we arrived, our enchantment dissipated like dew-laden gossamer in a gusty gale. You had to pay to get in. We didn't, so we didn't. 

Climbing back into trusty Mr. Bubbles, we began the drive back and I had plenty of time to admire El Salto hydroelectric power station. Its architecture is breathtaking - more like a monastery than a power plant. Unfortunately, the road is so tortuous and narrow that my Dark Lady was unable to park, so we took no photos. Luckily however, the job had been done magnificently by JR Regaldie for his blog. This link is definitely worth following!

By now, camera fatigue had also set in, so by the time we got to our next port of call, a trail leading to the source of the river Cuervo, few photos were taken, but here they are. 

On the way up, we passed a family who clearly took this outdoor adventuring lark seriously. The degrees of seriousness were, moreover, reflected in the dress of the individuals. The teenage daughter was in jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of trainers and the mother in a nice tracksuit and trainers. The father, however, was a man on a mission. He had a determined look on his face and obviously meant to out-Livingstone Livingstone in the exploring game. He sported tight-fitting lycra leggings (he was definitely nowhere near being in the Linford Christie league), fluorescent walking shoes, technical T-shirt and jacket, a torch, whistle, compass and mapholder hanging off his belt and all of those little pockety things in his backpack bulging with energy bars. Perhaps that's what Linford Christie... No, let's not follow that particular train of thought!

The waterfall with a secret...
My Dark Lady, myself and most of our fellow walkers were as irresponsibly dressed as the daughter and with our recklessly rash attitude towards the correct garb for survival in the great outdoors, richly would we have deserved any natural disaster that might have befallen us. To this day, I don't know how we survived or found our way along the well-kept and clearly signposted wooden walkways. When I look back on my foolishness, I tremble to think what might have happened. Anyhow, in the best traditions of Mallory, Hillary (no, not Clinton, the other one!) Tensing and The British Climbing Man, we persevered and were rewarded with a sight and sound that made the 1-km walk worthwhile. The photo is merely a taster of the experience. The sound of the water cascading over moss-clad rocks into crystalline pools was entrancing. Hats off to the Dark Lady for her choice of Easter holiday destination! 
And the waterfall's secret? next to a viewing balcony I spotted a water company manhole and, following its orientation, espied a line of younger trees and undegrowth marching up the hill in a straight line. My conclusion? In times of drought, water is piped to the fall to preserve its flora and fauna. What a wonderful idea!

It was now getting late and time to head back - we had about 100 km to travel to get back to La Vaquería, or about 250 if we took any notice of the Wicked Witch that had possessed my Google Maps app.

Back in La Melgosa, a very friendly old lady told us how to get to the village's ghost restaurant ("you can't miss it!"), or to another one in a nearby village. We decided to try the other one, as we had passed the place where the locals claimed the village restaurant was several times and had seen no sign of an eaterie.

To get to the other village we had to drive down a - yes, you've guessed it - rutted farm track in the dark. 

And promptly we got lost.

We could have gone the long way round on proper roads, but where's the fun in that? 

Luckily, it turned out - as even hypereconomical Citroën C4s need diesel occasionally and My Dark Lady's was down to its last 8km - we found a petrol station whose manager rather cautiously directed us to the Restaurante Isis. We, however, found the food to be good, plentiful and cheap, although the hostal itself seems to get mixed reviews.

And so ended our second day in Cuenca - with a delicious meal served by the owner, a Ray Liotta lookalike whose pj-clad wife held sway at the bar. These (eminently respectable, non-revealing) pyjamas are a constant in tripadvisor reviews. Indeed, she was still wearing them the following day when we stopped there for brekky, although swanning around the place in pjs in the morning somehow seems more natural to me than holding a soirée in them with dining clients at about 9 at night.   

The best of company, beautiful countryside, adventure, both on foot and at the wheel, good food, friendly locals, plus the occasional eccentric. Who could ask for more? A perfect day, indeedy.

A Trip to Cuenca. Day Two.





Mesón Herminio, home to the 
pork scratchings and red wine 
brekky.
Having slept well in  La Antigua Vaquería, We set off in search of brekky. As La Melgosa is an extremely small village with no sign of a café (we later found out that it had a café and a restaurant, but were unable to find either during our stay), we headed back towards Cuenca. Just like most cities, the first thing you come to when entering the city is a business park-cum-industrial estate. Experience has taught us both that the best food is usually to be found in the cafés and restaurants in such places, so, we hauled up in front of Mesón Herminio. 


Imagine our surprise when we saw, as soon as we entered, a barbecue going at full throttle with the eponymous Herminio manfully stoking, scraping, prodding, flipping, chopping and  chanting out the finished orders. Meanwhile, the locals were avidly breakfasting off barbecued black pudding butties, freshly barbecued pork scratchings and belly pork, &c. &c. &c. I though for a moment I had died and gone to heaven! I then thought better of it and ordered a piece of toast and the worst coffee of the trip so far. The coffee was far too milky and tasted burnt. Little surprise really, as it seemed that the breakfast drink of choice was either beer or red wine. Probably the waiters could barely remember how to make it. Still, it was an interesting experience as I imagine that this was like a distant memory of the coaching inns that were omnipresent across Europe until the age of rail travel.

Once we had fortified our inner man and woman, we set off on our adventures - and promptly got lost. The young lady from Google Maps was playing up again, to the extent that she took us round in a circle on two different occasions. This was probably due to the fact that we had almost given her high blood pressure the night before with our antics in the city centre and she was getting her revenge.

Eventually we managed to find our way into the Serranía de Cuenca mountain range, part of the Iberian system, which is truly breathtaking.


I refer you to David Bowie, 'nuff said.
The first surprise was the road to Uña. It was here that the feeling that we had somehow fallen through a wormhole and popped out in the USA.


Having left Uña behind, we headed to Tragacete where we took to local tracks and spent hours walking, driving and exploring. 



First up was the route to find the head of the river Júcar which eventually disembogues, some 500km later, in Valencia.

 
A view of the Júcar, about 2km from its source. As you can see from
 the bare trees and bushes, Spring is stil on its way.  

Taking the well laid-out and well-maintained footpath, we started our walk to the first major waterfall on the river's course. As we did so, we passed constantly by such scenes as the photo on the left. Needless to say the urge to have a wee was sore upon us as we walked along.


A bladder-bursting km or so later, we arrived at our first waterfall of the day. Here's a short video:




Another tourist has a Thelma 
and Louise moment. And, as it 
is Easter, the Baby Jesus sends 
a Divine sign, too
 After a brief rest, it was back to the  sturdy C4 in search of other    adventures. By  now, and as usual, our plan had gone out of the window    and fancy took its  place. No wonder the Google Maps lady is always    getting into a strop with us!

 The latest whim was now to look for a 1,000-year old pine, el Ocejón so it was  time to negotiate rutted logging tracks for a few miles and, once again, we  were back in familiar territory. Familiar, that is, from seeing numerous  American films shot in the endless(?) US forests. It turns out that in some  parts of the mountain range there are actually bears ambling around. We  didn't see any - or hilbillies à la Deliverance, thank heavens. To date, our  only Deliverance moment has occurred near Aracena, Huelva. But that,  as  they say Dear Reader, is  a whole nother story. 
Mr. Bubbles enjoys a rest


A logging track, reminiscent of Deliverance.
Looking up El Ocejón's 28-m trunk towards its
 28-m crown.


A detail of the trunk. each layer
 of bark = 1 year.

 After quite a long time in the presence of this amazing being,  sitting between its roots or just soaking up the atmosphere and  contemplating the surrounding trees, we carried on to new, and  as yet unknown, destinations. 

 I also took away with me two questions: 

 1) If the rest of El Ocejón's contemporaries and innumerable  other generations of surrounding pines have been cut down and  replaced either naturally or by man, Why has El Ocejón been  spared?

 2) If - as some believe - trees and plants are sentient beings,  how much anguish has this tree suffered and will continue to  suffer as it presides the cutting down and dragging off of  generations of companion beings that share its  genes?

 It doesn't bear thinking about, so I'll stop there.

Sunday 5 April 2015

A Trip to Cuenca. Day One.

Setting out early(ish) from Sanlúcar, in My Dark Lady's Citroën C4, aka Mr. Bubbles, we drove the 600+ km to Cuenca on the dual carriageways and thus avoided being led into temptation by inviting signposts pointing to places of interest.

Our destination was La Antigua Vaquería (literally the Former Cowshed, or for the more poetic among us, the Bygone Byre ) in La Melgosa, a small village about 6km outside Cuenca. Click here for photos from their own website. The hostal was amazingly clean and well-run. Its owners managed to combine helpfulness, discretion and friendliness perfectly. We were shown up to our spotless room
A room with a view, indeed!
with an en-suite bathroom and perfumed towels. Opening the blinds on the window, this is the sight that met our eyes. 

After a refreshing shower, we set off for Cuenca with a view to seeing the famous casas colgantes, or hanging houses. We didn't actually reach that particular goal, so here is a rather dramatic photo published on the sobreturismo.es website. Click here to see more photos of the houses.
sobreturismo.es
Objective number two was to see one of Cuenca's famous Easter processions where statues of Christ and his mum are paraded around the streets accompanied by penitents wearing pointy hoods and tunics. It is said to be quite something. Unfortuntely, we didn't have the patience to hang around for it, but we did take some pretty photos of the cathedral, the main square etc.

An aside: anyone who has seen films about the Ku Klux Klan or the Spanish Inquisition will be familiar with the garb of the penitents. Another aside: the Mediterranean tradtition of carrying painted idols around towns as a sprigtime celebration of rebirth and fertility goes back as far as Ancient Greece. 


Penitents in all their 
sinister glory. Image
 courtesy of
diariosur.es

Here we can see one of the local penitents swilling a swift beer before putting on his hat and working both it and his sins off with a bit of candle-waggling idolatry, with a blithe disregard for the 1st & 2nd commandments: 
"“You shall have no other gods before Me.
The 16th-century façade of Cuenca's
 Gothic cathedral. 
“You shall not make for yourself a carved image—any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them." Exodus 20, 3-5 (New King James Bible).

It all seemed rather hypocritical to me but, hey, we are talking about religion after all - and the Romish Sect in particular.


The Cathedral's 16th-century façade was obscured in the 18th century by a new one, this latter being demolished in the 20th century. This also led to a lot of restoration work being done on the façade that we see today. In fact most, if not all, of the decorative carving is new.



Detail of one of the Cathedral porticoes.  Note the lancet arch's  new
 stonework compared with the eroded interior



A view from one of the archways
in the  main square towards the
 steps leading down to the river 
Júcar.


Above: a view of the main square from the Cathedral Steps
Below: the rooftops of the former Sisters of Mercy 
Monastery, now home to the FundaciónAntonio Pérez.


It was then literally onwards and upwards to ontinue exploring. So we arrived at the Fundación Antonio Pérez which was closed.

Nevertheless, from the street above it, the roofs of the different buildings that make up the former convent where the Foundation is housed made a pretty picture. 


A view from the street next to the Fundación.
It was now time to leave the old city, with most of its treasures unvisited and pending a further trip. Tums rumbling, we looked for a place to dine and ended up in a pizza place, American Piccolo where we shared two delicious pizzas. Our sojourn at the restaurant was spolied, for me at least, by the arrival of other clients. We arrived early and this, coupled with the fact that that most people were in the old part of the city, meant that we had the pick of the tables.  Halfway through our meal, another party of people arrived and chose, out of all of the empty tables, the table behind us. Then another family arrived (complete with a seven-year-old, iPad-toting brat) and sat opposite. My question is this; if the restaurant was practically empty, why did they have to come and take the tables next to us??? Sometimes I despair of this herd mentality, especially when it directly affects my digestion.

Anyhow, having finished our meal, we decided to go back to the hostal. Easier said than done. We got lost several times looking for the car and tried the patience of the the woman in my phone's Google Maps to breaking point. Finally, we found Mr. Bubbles and, after several adventures in the city's narrow streets, we escaped into the suburbs and drove back to the bucolic surroundings of La Antigua Vaquería for a good night's rest.