Gaudi Rules-OK?

Above all, even greater than the influence of its world conquering soccer team,Gaudi's mark on Barcelona is all pervasive and his exotic creations are all the more stunning when one considers that he was born in 1850 and died after being run over by a tram in the 1920s.
He designed apartments, the as yet uncompleted cathedral-the Sagreda Familigia-and even an elevated piazza in a park high in the hills behind the city, affording superb views across Barcelona to the sparkling mediterranean and his ecclesiastical masterpiece.So where to start?

Why not at the Gueli Park, for its glorious overview and because it has become such a popular playground for the populace.Typical of Gaudi it combines almost outrageous design with the practicality of providing an elevated piazza on which crowds enjoy a South American band, Flamenco dancing and the displays of traders, whose wares represent the crafts of manylands from which they have fled to seek sanctuary in Spain and the greater EU.



No, this is not a ginger bread house nor the home of the Mad Hatter. It is the gate house guarding entry to a once private estate which he was commissioned to enliven in his inimmical style and which is now a civic park.


The road up is very steep and getting there is an adventure in itself, requiring the ascent of demanding staircases and alleviated by the most amazing,and welcome, outdoor escalators.

Cordoban Lanes

The Mesquita is the hub of the labrynthine lanes and is itself surrounded by a quadrangle of lanes, enlivened by cafes, boutique hotels and purveyors of tourist tat.





Wandering the lanes was my main pass-time in Cordoba.There is neither order nor logic.One just ignores any map and plunges into the maze, ever expectant for what may present around the inviting mystery of every corner

White walls and pastel shades on doors, balconies and window sills, all offset by black wrought iron lamps, ballustrades and all carpeted with painstaking-plotted granite-grey cobble stones.


The lanes and bijou squares hold evidence of religious separation-the Jewish lane leading to the old synagogue, baroque churches and statues to Islamic scholars and benign rulers who tolerated such difference, allowing the best of each culture to flourish.


Even on a rain-sodden winter's night, the lanes take another kind of beauty and mystery.




Should one be tempted to seek sanctuary, especially on a withering summer's afternoon, in the seductive private courtyards, ferocious canine guardians are quick to dissuade you.

Alhambra, Fortress, Gardens and Palaces

The Alcazar (Arabic for fortress) is a formidable defensive point, high above the rest of the Alhambra complex and dominates the city below.It must have been a formidable deterrent to would be conquerors.



From the highest point, sweeping views extend to the Snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains on one side and across the valley to the sloping, sinuous streets of the Albaicin on the other.




If the Alcazar is the mighty ironed fist, within is the softening and cooling, velvet glove of the Moorish gardens. The Soothing greenery reflects the rulers botanical skills and the perpetual running water and pools to their mastery of hydrological engineering.

Cordoba! Can this be real?

CORDOBA,CAN THIS BE REAL?
No maps in the bus and train stations and Tourist kiosk locked in siestal slumber.
Still, no harm in a walk after 5 hours on a bus from Madrid.
Gorgeous day.Sunshine like Melbourne in Spring and down the modern boulevardes rolled my luggage using sun and sheer bloody guess work to find where the old town should be.

Despite contradictory signs, I walked straight ahead, somewhat influenced by where every pedestrian was going to or coming from and there was the city wall that not even Islam could defend.
Through the great gateway and into a Cordoba that has waited eleven centuries to greet me, words can barely express my delight. This was the Spain I had hoped for and what I had come to see, feel and taste. I was frustrated to be towing a bag, despite its dutifully bouncing across the cobbles, as crowds fronted courtyard and laneway cafes to drink, smoke, kiss and love life. Steeling myself against the allure of this revelry and glimpses of seductive, shady, private courtyards with palms, fountains and recliner couches (for what purpose I cannot imagine) I blundered on.


Following the same time-tested male method of navigation(scorning map and not seeking local advice) I proceeded to wind through the pedestrian only, shake-hands-across streets

until again, there it was, the incomparable Mezquita, a Christian cathedral built on the foundation of a 9th century mosque. My Hotel was said to be facing the church and with well-earned tourist scepticism, I walked to its North side, where the possible side street ought to be when, to my delight there it was, directly opposite the Mesquita's wall and close to the Roman bridge that crosses the river into the 21st century (let's not go back there for a night or five)
My pocket handkerchief room, though at the end of a fire-trap, one way corridor was cleaner than many I have encountered and with double bed and bidet in the bathroom, was clearly designed for more than one.
The urge to guzzle it all at once was great but as I have five days here, I can afford to let the rest of this evening and Sunday go by and flush the locals out of the streets and back to work (recognising that there is 30% unemployment down here and no mining industry to come to their aid and rescue yet another spend-athon, bankrupt, socialist government). The tourists are more obvious and numerous than so far encountered but nothing like the throng that spring and summer must bring.
So, a quiet evening in an off-stage tiny restaurant, still quiet at 9pm and waiting for the Saturday night rush. Dutch, Spanish and home counties English have beat me there but None enjoyed my Bull's tail casserole( or knew of oxtail stew that my mother used to make on those dark, smoggy northern nights) with bread to dip up the residual gravy. Ah Bisto!!
Look out do I hear loud Americans, time to stroll home and blissfully retire. Couples pass going out or coming home. Girls, for the record-you need to be "poured" into your jeans or tights and be able to wear (master) Knee length, high heeled Musketeer boots to make it here. Why does a coat zipped up(or is it down?) from left shoulder to right knee look so alluring?? Down boy!-time for bed.
Think I could like this place???

Sleepless in Granada

SLEEPLESS IN GRANADA
The Alhambra and its surrounding fortress are so impressive with vistas out to the snow- capped Sierra Nevada mountains where people must still be skiing. Strangely enough the Pakistani-Mancunian who wrote East is East, a film about growing up Muslim in Manchester, lives in the mountains beyond email and is planning a sequel, west is west-his parents sent him back to Pakistan, alone, to sort out his teenage wildness!!!! The palaces are not be-jewelled but the craftsmanship of the stonemasons is impressive. Pity the stone lions in the courtyard were under wraps for restoration. I was able to look back across a deep valley to the Plaza in the old town from which I had first seen it on Thursday. A Christian church and cross challenging the Moorish pile across the way.

The gardens are ornate and replete with running water and fountains-those Caliphs really knew how to cope with very hot summers.



The overall feel of old Granada is much more Islamic than Cordoba and at the foot of the steep streets is an area of traders whose shops emit scented smells (could it just be hash) and as in Crete there are hookahs set up at tables on the street. Owners seem to be North African or Lebanese in origin.

At the same time there is much evidence of feckless English in the bars-are these strays from the awful British dominated coastal resorts or are they on business?
Hard to explain the contrast between the old and the new Granada-one minute you are on a boulevarde of heavy traffic with the most spectacularly different street lights and most up to date traffic signals and then you are puffing(at least I am ) up the narrowest of cobbled streets straight out of the middle ages. What stories they could tell.



Seems that as the Islamic era declined, the Christian conquest morphed into the Renaissance and built on the shoulders of what the Moors had achieved. It was only in the 19thC that Granada was allowed to decline and although it looks more tatty than Cordoba, there is a lot of work going on such as building of a new tramway system and restoration of villas in the old town-some absolute gems with terraces looking out to infinity





and surrounded by bars for indulgence and churches for repentance.
















Walking down from the heights of the Albaicin (original Moorish town)offers the chance to meander in and down precipitous streets and take in superb views across to modern Granada and up to the Alhambra.



My head must be a whirl with all I have seen as I have been dreaming about difficult work of the past and career choice pressures-such that I am writing this at 5am-pity there is no coffee facility in the room. So back to bed for a couple of hours and then for Saturday morning in sunny Grenada. Don't you wish you were here?

Night Out in Seville

NIGHT OUT IN SEVILLE
It's a quarter to eight, cool night air has started to descend and I have moved under overhead protection outside an Irish bar which is appropriately alongside the cathedral.


Having killed a pint of Guinness the honey glazed pork ribs have caught my eye and I have shifted gear to order a less barbaric drink- a Copa de Rioja. The waitress speaks excellent English and might even be one of those expatriate Irish that are recruited to these make believe Irish pubs, as I have discovered in Bendigo and Fremantle. Still, anything must be better than unemployment in Dublin at this time.
The sun's warmth is radiating from my body and makes the alfresco evening dining more than bearable. The only downside is the cluster of smokers standing outside the bar and peering in at a football match-something local I think-maybe last night's pathetic draw between Real Madrid and Lyons. Manchester United's turn to-night against Marseilles-wonder whether the Spanish will be interested enough for it to be televised. Still as they showed the full rugby union encounter between Gloucester and London Irish last night, anything is possible in this continuingly surprising country.
I was right an exchange between an Irishman and the waitress confirmed she is not a native of Seville. Good, my order is going to be right. English, Spanish and French swirl past my ears, the different races united only in indulgence or in my case gluttony. As the rotund English comedy actor, Robert Morley said, when he felt the urge to exercise coming on he lay down until it had gone. I know how he felt. Let’s leave that topic until I front up in the Richmond gym in late March
Wow! My first real thick cut chips in Spain(with tomato sauce) and whilst the glaze on the pork ribs is not nearly as good as that in Memphis nor on those smoked in my Weber in Richmond, the quantity of meat on the bones is far superior.

The wine is receding to the bottom of the glass and perhaps it is time to cede the night space to Seville’ s youthful ravers and head back to my convent hotel to watch United on my personal LG TV and reflect on the days of the Busby Babes, when it really was a Manchester team.

Seville Sans Sailors

SEVILLE SANS SAILORS
Seems very strange to be drinking beer in the late sunshine so close to the largest Gothic cathedral in Europe whilst Christchurch cathedral in New Zealand lies in ruins. Wonder what condition the city will be in when I go there in September for the world rugby cup-it will certainly need all the spending it can get from now on.

Seville is the warmest place I have been in since I left Egypt in November. Lighter clothes are appearing and northern European tourists are ever more in evidence. Whilst no longer a maritime city like Bristol, which in the 16th century was an inland port, the home of John Cabot the "discoverer" of Canada and thriving on the import of slaves, furs and sherry, at the same time, Seville grew in culture and architectural beauty on the rivers of South American Gold and was home to Christopher Columbus and the baroque painter Murillo. The old waterside area is a tourist mecca and close to the 200 year old and still operational bull ring there are many fun bars and music dives.


The river tour boats look as though they can carry hundreds of tourists but they are desperate to drum up trade at this early season. The river flows out to the sea through Cadiz from whence the Armada and equally doomed Spanish contribution to the fleet that ran in to Nelson on his last appearance, at Trafalgar.
The massive cathedral overtops all with the high bell tower-La Giralda-standing like others in Andalusia on the shoulders of the original Moorish mosque builders. Another courtyard with flowing water for pre-devotional ablutions and shaded by trees burdened with large oranges. In answer to my concern as to why they are not picked I am reliably informed that a long suffering Spanish guide told his English tour party that they were too bitter for Spaniards and were left for English tourists to take home and turn into marmalade.


Yet it blends in with the younger streetscape of stylish art nouveau apartments

and is not discomforted by the passing of horse drawn carriages (the smell reminds me of following them as a boy to scrape up their droppings to feed neighbours roses) and the sleek modern trams which like those in Melbourne and Manchester have their own stops with raised platforms(excepting here and in Helsinki, despite the snow, they come when their electronic notice boards say they will).


I like substantial refined cities and am pleased to have visited the Andalusian trio in an order that finished here. Like Barcelona it feels right and reinforces my love of my maritime home at the other end of the earth. Whilst I expect to pay more for beer and many other things when I get back I am hoping that a stable regular autumn will deliver similar mild and sustaining sunshine. It is still dark and well below zero in Helsinki-one has to be of a particularly stoical mind set to last out its winter-but looking in the paper I see that my trip to Berlin could see me geared up again for minus temperatures. Still one can't expect much warmth from a city that inspired-"Brandenburg"(written by a fellow Selwyn man) "funeral in Berlin" and "The spy who came in from the cold" I Can only hope that "cabaret" will be back in vogue when I get there. "Wilkom and Bien Venue, Welcome!!" You will not believe that Judy Dench sang and danced in this on stage before Minelli got a look in. I was taken as a farewell treat before leaving for Australia in 68(thanks Howard) and she was a far more realistic Sally Bowles.
But, back to here and now reality as, on a nearby table, delightful northern English ladies of a certain age, in Marks and Spencer summer couture of unflattering horizontal stripes, discuss curtains and soft furnishings whilst their husbands, just younger than me, silently drink their beer and dream. Speaking of which one of my favourite painters from my home town, Lowry, has been honoured this week by the owner of Sam's Chop house, in Deansgate I think, who has installed a life sized bronze statue at his former place at the bar. There are still new things to be dreamed about and seen.
Perhaps my newfound Vaughantown friend, David next time he goes home, will do me the honour of going there to toast him on my behalf in Guinness. Perhaps they do Bury black pudding (simmered not fried) as well as chops??
BARRY