Elche: City of..............

 ............a million palm trees and hardly any British people. Obviously there's loads of other stuff because more than 200,000 people live here, but I just used those two as my examples to grab your attention. A few blog entries ago, I can't recall which one otherwise I would have linked to it, I rather sarcastically suggested Elche only has two good things about it; a football club and the bypass on the edge of town. Some weeks after that rather stroppy event, I realise I was completely mistaken, should have chosen my words rather more carefully, and did my smashing adopted city a bit of a disservice. So here goes with my belated attempt to make amends.

A fabulous Moorish legacy

I've already done to death things that really bother me about the place, but what I would just add to that statement is check out this article a friend recommended, it's about a small Welsh town the author could easily have replaced with Elche. Anyway, I'll bash on now in an altogether more positive tone about the city. Over time it's been home to various invaders, many of whom have left their own legacies. A couple of thousand years ago the Romans arrived and promptly called the place "Illice" (pronounced ee-ye-they with the 'th' of they spoken very softly), to this day locals are still known as Ilicitano's or, for a single female, Ilicitana. Next up to try their luck were invading armies of North African Arabs, (Moors), who, upon finding very little sand and no dates, began to feel somewhat homesick. Their little leaving gift, just prior to being kicked out by some angry Christians, was hundreds of thousands of palm trees, which, these days are protected by law. The Greeks too also had a brief stay and nowadays one or two local organisations still bare the name Helike, although this Grecian handle is nowhere near as prevalent as the much better known Roman moniker.

Altamira Castle - in the heart of Elche city centre

Right bang up to date, estimates put the population of Elche, twinned with Toulouse in France and Oran in Algeria, at anywhere between 210,000 and 250,000 people; it's not at all scientific but taking the mean of these two puts it on a par with the city of Derby in the UK. I've never actually been to Derby, I'm sure it's really nice, given the choice though I'll stick with Elche, dog shit and graffiti notwithstanding, it's the kind of city that looks and feels old, I quite like that. Packed with historic buildings, and architectural gems, including Altamira Castle and the Basilica of Santa Maria, Elche combines the very best of ancient and modern, which are at ease with each other sitting side by side in comfort.

The Elche Alicante Santa Pola triangle, far safer than the one in Bermuda

Geographically, Elche is give or take twenty kilometres inland from one of my most favourite places, Santa Pola, the resort and fishing port that I once called home. Imagine, if you will, a triangle with these two places as the bottom corners, at the top about the same distance away and also on the coast is Alicante, the provincial capital. Rather curiously, folk from each of the three places aren't that fond of each other; so much so that I have it on reasonably good authority that not long back an Elche businessman was compelled to close his cafeteria/bar in Santa Pola because the locals refused to use it. Urban myth it may be but certainly one with a little credibility. (Is that not an oxymoron?).

A beauty spot within a beauty spot

I have to say, I first came to Elche for a day out years ago not long after arriving in Spain and, truth be told, I hated it. The city centre had a complicated one-way system, car parking was, (and still is bloody expensive), and on a stifling hot August day, I was scrabbling around for shade in a city I didn't know well. A very cleverly engineered chance encounter in April 2007 changed that biased opinion and since then I've grown to understand and love a very underrated small city. Elche doesn't have the cache of say, Granada or Salamanca, two of the more famous and historic Spanish cities, but it's no less nice. Visitor numbers are increasing year on year, and, thanks to a town council with an abundance of the handy pairing of civic pride and nous, so too are the amenities and attractions on offer. What doesn't half help to raise the Elche profile is the title, (in Spanish); Patrimonio de la Humanidad. Bestowed upon the city by UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation, it's a World Heritage award given to the Elche Palmeral Park, a fabulous green oasis, one of many, in the heart of the city. For first time visitors, this ungrateful sod excepted, that is just the start of the surprises.

I wonder if they do mature students

Educational, Scientific and Cultural sum up Elche pretty well perfectly in just three words. A leisurely stroll through the city centre and beyond offers up a wall to wall cultural experience second to none, you can also add to that half decent culinary and shopping experiences too. Educational is taken care of in fine style by not just one but two seats of learning. The Miguel Hernandez University, (UMH), is a publicly funded facility that enjoys a burgeoning reputation with five campuses shared around the region, one of which is situated in Orihuela, birthplace of the Spanish poet after whom the University is named. The second, University Cardinal Herrera - CEU, is a private establishment and altogether smaller. It's the first of these two that does the business with the scientific in the shape of institutions specialising in neuroscience, bio-engineering and all matters biological, molecular and cellular amongst loads of other really complicated stuff.

The Basilica of Santa Maria

2011 is my fourth year living in Elche, and, having been so rude about the place a while back I hope these words have painted an altogether more flattering picture. I certainly intended them to. During the creation of this blog entry I've done quite a bit of walking around and it's only when you stop and stare that you can appreciate your surroundings. I live no more than five minutes away from the very best the city can offer and it's only recently I've started to realise how lucky I am. If you get the chance do pop by, Elche won't disappoint. As I began to say at the start, it's a city of so much.

Pyromania: The people's passion

Dangerous in inexperienced hands

Search for long enough in my blog and you'll stumble across articles describing the fun of the fiesta and the Spanish national obsession with dangerous things like matches and fireworks. What I forgot to mention, accidentally on purpose but for a good reason I'll come to presently, is that once a year the city of Alicante has a bit of a shindig involving both. Think about that for a quick second while I just add that the United Kingdom can only be trusted to play with bonfires and fireworks on one evening a year.

A typical Hoguera

For quite a few weeks now some incredibly talented and artistic citizens of the provincial capital have been hard at work preparing exquisitely detailed papier mache caricatures of fictitious, and sometimes famous, people which will all be painted with the same love and attention to detail in all manner of pastel shades.  Financed by neighbourhood collectives, Comissió's,  these fabulous monuments, Hogueras, some of which are 15 or 20 metres high, will then be strategically placed at important road junctions and plazas throughout the city on the evening known as La Planta. This, in order to be inspected by a local judging committee and admired, photographed and generally swooned over by the passing public.

Alfresco dining? certainly Sir!

In keeping with fiesta week everywhere else in Spain, various different events take place during Las Hogueras de San Juan, (the city's homage to Saint John and the coming of the summer solstice), which run from June the 20th until the 24th. For seven nights the second category Plaza de Toros is put to good use as bull fight aficionados enjoy the best corridas of the year in Alicante. Glance around and you'll see marquees and sound stages being erected, beer pumps being polished and the outdoor caterers begin to see euro signs. Meanwhile, the clock ticks inexorably onward to the 24th!!

Smell that gunpowder

In and around Alicante city, the 24th of June is the biggie; all fire brigade leave would have been cancelled months ago, burns units at local hospitals are on red alert, (have you figured out yet where I'm going with this?) and nearly every major thoroughfare is closed to traffic. The day starts just like most others and slowly gains momentum, until, by early afternoon, the real fun kicks off with a mascleta competition, which, the official guide book describes thus.   .....an explosive display of the concussive effects of co-ordinated firecracker and firework barrages, where people catch the pungent smell of gunpowder smoke and feel the earth shaking beneath their feet.....    Not a bad Spanish to English translation at all I'd say.   You like??
Read on then because that's just the start of all the mayhem.

Sometime around midnight, a few hours after the last bull fight of the week has finished, a sparkling palm tree rises from the highest part of the city, Benacantil Mount, atop which sits the imposing Santa Barbara Castle. This signals the start of the burning of all those street monuments, La Crema, the part of the evening the thousands and thousands of people, who by now have thronged the streets. eagerly await. One by one the simply brilliant Hogueras are burnt down to their skeletal wooden frames under strict instructions from those ever so attentive officers of Blue Watch, who I'm reliably informed, douse the millions of spectators with their hoses as each blaze dwindles away.

Alicante city map with the location of each Hoguera

This year, my sixth Spanish summer, I'm going to make the handy five minute walk from my house to Elche railway station and leap on the train for the twenty five minute ride to Alicante. Very thoughtfully, those jolly kind RENFE folk have laid on return chuffers round the clock so I'm going to make good use of their generosity and invest 3.50€ of my hard earned on the very comfy return trip. Assuming I make it there and back, look out in the coming days for a post script to this blog entry. If you don't see one immediately you can rest assured I'm being given expert medical attention at the Spanish equivalent of Holby City.

Alicante's beautiful Esplanada on a quiet day

POSTSCRIPT - SATURDAY JUNE 25TH 2230 HOURS

Well, we made it there and back unscathed and with nothing important singed off. I would just add though that my faith in RENFE, the national rail operator, was badly misplaced. Their promise of a return train every hour turned out to be when they fancied sending one, invariably at a random departure time only when the things were full, rather than anything close to a scheduled service. Maybe that's just me being churlish. Whatever. Alicante city centre and waterfront on the night of the Hogueras really are the places to be and busier than I've ever seen them; with visitors squashed into the usually large, open spaces shoulder to shoulder, the evening is a pickpockets heaven and a demophobics hell.

Fireworks, as always in Spain, start things off.

So difficult is walking from place to place with that number of people, the girlyfriend and I quickly realised our intended viewpoint, somewhere near to Alicante town hall close to the historic old town, was going to be out of the question. Instead, we settled for a spot at the northern end of the Esplanada, an exquisitely tiled walkway lined on either side by palm trees that runs parallel to the yacht marina. We'd been here a few days earlier on a leisurely stroll to admire the impressive Hogueras and could see immediately the lines of masceleta's strung around the model specifically for tonight. A short time later, an ear shattering racket from these strings, accompanied by plumes of grey smoke, fireworks and a huge roar from the crowd, signalled the start of the burning.


It was all over within moments, the flames licked hungrily skywards as weeks and months of detailed work caved in on itself, sending showers of sparks and dense black smoke skywards. Sooty smuts then headed in the opposite direction, covering my immaculate white polo shirt in unwanted black extras. Almost immediately, I was struck by a feeling of intense disappointment, a mammoth anti-climax in real time exacerbated by narrowly avoiding being soaked from the jet of high pressure water sprayed in my direction by an over eager fireman playing to the gallery. We sloped away, with me deep in thought or dismay, quite probably both, wondering what all the fuss was about and feeling somewhat underwhelmed.

Beautiful works of art were soon reduced to a water soaked pile of ash

Spain's biggest religion

El Rosario

The answer to my rhetorical question may not actually be the one you were thinking of. Judging by the vast quantities of rosary beads, for which the best description can only be ubiquitous, Catholicism is clearly massively popular up and down the country. As a rule of thumb though its devotees tend to come in two large groups; older folk and pre-teenage children who, from a young age learn the teachings of the Catholic faith, (Catechism), as the precursor to taking their first communion at about the age of eleven or twelve. Itself a massive event for the families involved. That then is the young and old catered for but what about the people, and there are millions of them, who are neither? Who are they and where do they perform their acts of religious devotion? Read on for those answers and more. 

Bill Shankly once said.........

For a start, and unlike kids and pensioners, they get the whole summer and every second Sunday off, although at busy times Tuesday and Wednesday nights can be a bit of a nightmare and every couple of years they might have to put in a few hours in June or July. So who exactly are they? If you've not guessed yet I'm going to torment you for another five or six lines. The objects, (plural because they often have more than just the one deity), of their desire alternately delight or dismay and yet these passionate followers still turn up in their droves week in week out in hopeful expectation. So fervent is their dedication, a great many television companies in Spain now feel compelled to broadcast events live for the insatiable masses. Masses that worship a pastime involving a spherical object made of leather being hoofed about various green fields in all weathers by eleven grown men.

Recre' - by Royal appointment 

Believe it or not, football in Spain genuinely does equal or better the huge popularity of that German bloke from Rome with a hat that's just a bit too small for his head. To prove my point I'll also just add that the biggest selling daily newspaper in Spain is a football based publication; when you've finished screwing your face up in disbelief, rub your eyes and read that again because it's true. Presumably though sales of Marca in and around Barcelona are a little down on other parts of the country because it's so heavily biased in favour of Real Madrid. Fans of Gimnastic de Tarragona and Athletic Club de Bilbao would strongly disagree, but Recreativo de Huelva are generally accepted to have been the first football club in Spain and just to ensure nobody forgets it, especially the aforementioned two clubs, both ends of Recre's Nuevo Colombino ground have the year 1889 spelled out in the blue and white seats.

Four hours to Old T by car

Obviously, believers in Spain can't practice two religions and so something has to give, invariably the confessional, because during the season a great deal of top class, in fact every category of football, takes place on a Sunday. In the UK much is made, usually by fans of Manchester City or Liverpool, of the fact Manchester United's fans don't have a Lancashire accent and travel to Old Trafford from somewhere like York or Basingstoke. Imagine then the fun this lot, with their sour grapes, could have in Spain, where every small or medium sized town wherever that may be in the country, has a traditional supporters club, Peña, (penya), where the members can pay homage to their heroes at Barcelona or Real Madrid. Even with a top division of twenty clubs and a couple more than that in the decent quality second category to choose from, you wouldn't believe the following the two giants of Spanish footy have built up. In point of fact, many fans have a "clasico" favourite, Madrid or Barca, and like me also follow their home town club. You can probably guess the preferred option faced with a choice of whether to watch one of the big boys live on television or head of to the stadium to watch a Second Division match. This a particular problem at Elche CF who have to make do on gates of considerably less than ten thousand, an ongoing problem exacerbated greatly by attractive looking fixture clashes.

Sunday best in Bilbao

The final word goes to season ticket holders at Basque outfit Athletic Club de Bilbao for whom, much to their disgust, the history books don't lie. Not only are they blessed with a successful side, (eight times league champions and second only to Barcelona on the all-time list of Spanish cup winners), their stadium, the San Mamés, is also affectionately known by their flock as The Cathedral, (La Catedral). This therefore bestows upon them the honour of being the only club side in Spain revered in a place of worship, mighty handy I'd say for the kids and the OAP's. Rather aggravatingly, Spanish blokes look good in football shirts too, probably the absence of a beer gut and tattoo's I spect!!

15 May 2011.....

Do keep up

....was a Sunday, just one of fifty two scheduled to take place this year. It was also the one hundred and thirty fifth day of 2011 and for those of a female persuasion looking to make an early start on the shopping, there were two hundred and twenty three days to Christmas. Family birthday's aside, anything else spring to mind? Thought not, so put the news on!!

Last December, Mohamed Bouazizi,  a Tunisian fruit and vegetable street seller set himself alight in protest at the dictatorial Government regime which denied him, and many others of his impoverished ilk, the opportunity to scratch a meagre living. Long before his death, he was the first of hundreds, the protests had spread far and wide as downtrodden citizens found their voices. Other nations, Algeria, Bahrain, Libya, Yemen, Egypt and Syria to name but a few, soon followed and for the same reasons as countless pro-democracy rebellions took hold and a popular uprising, the Arab Spring, very quickly grew a pair.

The Cathedral or great Mosque of Córdoba

Even though they both begin with the letter C, Cairo isn't Cordoba and even the giant Mezquita, (pronounced meth-kee-ter), once a great mosque in the beautiful Andalusian city, provides little more than a tenuous connection between the two. Sentiment clearly crosses continents though because, inspired by the manner in which mass resentment forced historic change throughout the Middle East and North Africa and fearful for their own future, Spanish students, youth groups, unemployed folk and a great many employees; the self styled "Indignados" (The indignant), embarked upon their own campaign of protest in the very heart of their nations capital Madrid. Tahrir Square anyone?

Left - Mr Bean   Right - The Spanish PM 

The Spanish economy is massive, the fourth largest in the eurozone and amongst the top twelve in the world, it's also in deep, deep trouble. Soaring unemployment, presently well in excess of 20 per cent of the workforce, is only matched  by the rate at which Spain is accumulating debt, a burden becoming harder and harder to service with plummeting tax revenues. Beleaguered Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, unkindly likened to Mr Bean, appears to have few answers and a year ago introduced massively unpopular austerity measures in an attempt to tame the spiraling deficit.  Spaniards aren't stupid though and on Sunday May 15th hundreds gathered in Madrid's iconic Puerta del Sol square to vent their anger and frustration. Many simply stayed on at the end of the day and so began the first tented city with more and more of the disenchanted and jobless joining the completely peaceful protest every day.

The movement known as 15-M after the day on which Puerta del Sol was first occupied soon spread to other Spanish towns and cities, and, at the last count more than 160 locations nationwide, mainly town squares and plaza's, housed protesters demanding economic and political reform. While the world watched, just as it did as events unfolded elsewhere, Mr Bean, (does anyone actually know his first name?), was dealt another humiliating blow by the Madrid group on the eve of the countrywide local elections scheduled for May 22nd. The Spanish Electoral Board ordered a "day of reflection" free of campaigning, mass gatherings and political messages for the Saturday before the poll. This order was upheld by the Supreme Court who also decreed protesters should vacate their encampment by midnight on Friday the 20th. The deadline came and went; unlike the "squatters in the square" who studiously ignored the instruction and mockingly painted one placard with the words, "leave us alone we're reflecting" A day later the ruling Socialist party were stuffed out of sight in all four corners of the country.

Finally, the authorities in Barcelona, the scene of another massive protest camp, lost patience and began to forcefully remove people from the the site at the city's Plaza de Catalunya on the flimsy pretext of clearing the area to allow Barcelona football fans to celebrate their teams victory, or otherwise, in that weekend's Champions League final. Predictably, heavy handed police action resulted in injuries and outrage. 
Spain is a Constitutional Monarchy and has been so with a democratic Government, albeit a largely successful one, for less than forty years. The politicians at the top of the tree mistakenly believe that they control the reins of power, an error they'll need to put right pretty quickly because the people who elected them to high office in the first place have never been more disgruntled. A salutary lesson.

Any flimsy excuse

Friday May 20th

None of their countrymen live in Elche

It started at about eleven o'clock on Wednesday night, completely unannounced, just like always and must have gone on for a good half an hour. Each time I thought it had finished, even more bangs, in rapid succession and increasing in volume, rent the air until it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Living in Spain, these things are commonplace and are rarely publicised beforehand, at first I thought Real Madrid or Barcelona had just won something important, that's often the start of most of the impromptu ones. But no, Barca had had the whole day off and earlier in the evening Madrid had taken part in a pretty docile friendly in Murcia for the Lorca earthquake victims. FC Porto had just won the Europa League but to the very best of my knowledge not many, if any, Portuguese live in Elche, so unless a few American pilots had inadvertently bombed my home town instead of Tripoli, which is perfectly feasible for the US military, I was well and truly stumped.

Ring-fenced

If you haven't already guessed, I'm writing about the mightily impressive firework displays Spain, and the Costa Blanca in particular, do so well, seemingly on a whim. I guarantee you that whatever the size of the national debt, however many jobs or services get chopped as part of cost cutting exercises, the Spanish obsession with  pyromania will continue unabated and the budget for sending hundreds of thousands of euros up into the night sky amid colourful and noisy plumes of smoke will be ring fenced. Forever! It isn't just town councils spanking all that dosh either, I'll get to that in a bit, but whatever the rights and wrongs of whether or not it's money well spent, the end result is, well, pick an adjective; spectacular, amazing, brilliant, incredible. They're all appropriate.

Doh

In the United Kingdom, there's probably only November the fifth and New Year's Eve where, to any great degree, fireworks are that popular. This is just as well because on "Bonfire Night" the fire service is at full stretch and casualty departments have to bring in extra staff as people set fire to themselves, lose fingers, eyes and generally do themselves all kinds of avoidable damage. Even innocent animals aren't immune to the mayhem either, some people, delinquent teenagers in the main, think it's a bit of a spoof tying a Catherine Wheel to a dog's tail or sticking a rocket in a cat's bottom and then videoing the ensuing terror on their mobile phone once the blue touch paper has been lit. Even the "organised" displays are dismal, because from behind the safety perimeter, which is usually about three thousand yards away, you can see still a team of blokes in silhouette scurrying around lighting the fireworks individually by torchlight. Britain needs to get with the programme!

Fire Brigade not required

For a start, in Spanish towns and cities whole blocks are closed  to traffic and off limits to pedestrians the day before a big show and miles and miles of cabling criss crosses the streets. Sure, it never starts at the time the organisers advertise, (nothing, not a single thing ever does here), but it is always, without fail, worth the wait. Having been weaned on a diet of asthmatic ten minute shows in England which you can just about see let alone hear, the first proper event I witnessed since moving to Spain took my breath away for a variety of reasons; the ear popping sounds, the length of the thing, the carefully choreographed timetable and the sheer spectacle. Even the vast amount of smoke generated during and after was thoughtfully blown out to sea. For the record too, this, (and loads more of comparable brilliance since), took place in a small town - Santa Pola - that has no permanent Bomberos (Fire Brigade) presence.

Briefly because there's a little more I'd like to say, every August in Elche, the thirteenth actually, the mother and father of all firework shows takes place. I've covered it before so read my words here and then check this out on You Tube which is just one view of a city of 200,00 people celebrating the most amazing event, an occasion that makes the national news the morning after. It's called the nit de l'alba, the evening when all four corners of the city lob monumental quantities of explosive ordnance into the sky for almost an hour. You have to see it to believe it, if only once.

Never under-estimate the element of surprise

Weddings seem to be quite a favourite amongst the unofficial or private "do's" at which fireworks feature quite prominently, not at the church obviously but I bet someone has tried in the past. I once had the misfortune to be walking past an apartment building when a bride in her pretty frock emerged. A split second later a string of fire crackers fifty metres long erupted into life just the width of a road away on the opposite pavement. To say I was startled would be slightly understating things. I wasn't sure what to do first;  gather my scrambled senses, attend to my badly ringing ears or double check I hadn't just filled my nappy. Spain just seems to be the kind of country that knows how to celebrate properly; where the Brits get blind drunk and then fight, (New Years Eve is a case in point), natives here import shed loads of Chinese fireworks with the stated aim of setting fire to the bleedin' lot of them. The football season has just ended and because it's only ever one of two teams that win anything, both sets of fans stockpile ammo ready for the middle of May. It's great. On Sunday, as I've described before, it's the Municipal elections here so no doubt in the early hours of Monday morning one or other of the warring factions will be getting the matches out.

Getting back to Wednesday night, apparently this was the tenth anniversary of the city of Elche being conferred with the title Patrimonio de la Humanidad.  The designation is assigned by UNESCO to signify cultural magnificence or something like that. I think the bods down the town hall were a bit pleased to get the award a decade ago, so as I said, any flimsy excuse!!

Six-nil again

Henning Earnestway - Norwegian novelist

There's probably not much which polarises Spanish opinion more than the season which runs from the end of March, stages many of its biggest events during the summer, and concludes in late September or early October. Almost fifty years after Ernest Hemingway - a vociferous proponent - accidentally discharged both barrels of a shotgun into his mouth, the debate still rages, just as it did back then. I refer of course to bullfighting, aka La Corrida. Prohibited by law since 1991 in the Canary Islands and due to be banned in Catalunya from the start of 2012, bullfighting is still the subject of an ongoing battle between the traditionalists and the animal rights campaigners. So, an outdated and cruel spectacle or an enduring emblem of Spain's cultural identity? I haven't got the foggiest to be honest and I'm not here to referee the warring factions either. Instead, I'm going to put my own slant on things just like I do with most of the stuff in this blog.


The WSHOAGSABD in North London, the wrong
 shape for bullfighting

For an event where the result is never in doubt, (the refrigerated truck that waits out of sight round the back always leaves full), the biggest occasions sell out weeks before and are quite often televised live. The most popular matadors,(Toreros), have a dedicated following and are very much in demand at "first category" bullrings such as Sevilla, Bilbao, Córdoba, Zaragoza, and, the largest in all of Spain, the twenty three thousand seater Las Ventas in Madrid that has a full name numbering an incredible ten words. A bit like giving Wembley the full style "Wembley Stadium - Home of a Great Sport Adminstered by Dinosaurs" I suppose. For a week at a time all of the above cities hold their famed fairs, (Ferias), on each evening of which La Corrida is held - the April feria of Sevila actually runs for two weeks and overlaps into May. Closer to home, the bull ring in Valencia is the nearest first category Plaza de Toros to my neck of the woods and the place to be when the city hosts it`s own prestigious Las Fallas in March and San Jaime in July. Elsewhere, the Feria de San Fermin is a rare opportunity for the beast to get his own back on a man during a week in July when some unfortunate tourists will end up maimed for life in Pamplona.

 Julio Aparicio Diaz meets with his mis-hap

By law, every bull ring in Spain of whatever size has been required to have an on site chapel for a number of years now. Once in a while this is quite handy because periodically the smallest lapse in concentration has ensured a careless matador ends up with bully's special prize. Usually, the ambulance fare to the nearest hospital coupled with wall to wall coverage on the Spanish television news and the next morning´s newspapers. The most spectacular incident of that nature in recent years happened in May 2010 during the San Isidro Feria in Madrid, where a 41 year old native of Sevilla, Julio Aparicio Diaz, was gored through the chin. A split second later the offending horn emerged back out into the daylight through his mouth having nearly cut his tongue off. During his lengthy recovery in hospital, rumour has it the terribly unlucky Señor Diaz had to use a pen and paper to ask for the loo because he couldn't actually talk.

Have a look at what you woulda won

Generally speaking, and I believe Julio Aparicio is making good progress with his lessons, the larger the arena the more famous the matador and the higher the ticket prices to get in. Obviously, the fee for the intrepid Torero, who also has to settle up with his entourage of six helpers, goes up quite a bit too. This is just as well, for the star of the show is expected to show no fear whilst mincing around in his gold, and one other colour, suit of lights. Bulls appearing at venues such as Las Ventas in Madrid and La Maestranza in Sevilla, Spain's oldest, are carefully chosen for their size and aggression, thus making the job of El Cayetano, (they´ve all got nicknames), that much harder. Woe betide anyone who shows any nerves too because the knowledgeable spectators will spot a fake, or a passive bull, and quickly make their feelings known. Those that display the requisite skills and demonstrate sufficient artistic impression, each Corrida features three matadors who each get two goes, are awarded the ears of the, by now, deceased beast.

FOOTNOTE: There's a bull ring in Birmingham too, but it´s nowhere near as nice as the one in Burgos!   With a title like that, did you honestly expect something serious??

A Guiri in Galicia - part three

Sunday March the 20th

Queso de Tetilla - just like Scania wheelnuts

Freshly attired in clean chino's with no stitching issues, I was up and about early for our last full day in Cee and with no sign of anything untoward in the throat department following yesterday's foolhardy meddling with the firewater. The first plan of action was a visit to the local Sunday market, quite why we had to travel to the other side of Spain to do so when there's a perfectly good one twice a week at home was beyond me, but who was I to complain? In the end it was quite instructive and put to bed a little teaser that had been puzzling me since our arrival a day or two back, when, a finger buffet was laid on for the pair of us that included, amongst other things, Queso de Tetilla - a speciality of the region. The way it was explained to me I understood it to mean cheese of the tit or nipple in English and was unsure if I was the unwitting victim of some kind of joke. A brief glimpse at the dairy counter and my fears were immediately assuaged; this particular Galician cheese offering - in it's uncut state - closely resembles a popular part of the female anatomy - on a very cold day!! The lady stallholder even me offered a little nibble of hers.


Percebes - for me, just as pointless as pipas

With that little matter neatly tucked in, it was off  "home" again to do battle with plates full of things which normally reside on or near the sea floor. In a restaurant, menu items that require to be sucked out of a shell or opened up using nutcrackers are way down my list of priorities. Today though, in the absence of pizza or pasta, no wasn't an option, and, in no time at all I had carefully amassed an impressive collection of crustacean body parts and empty shells on my side plate. It seemed to be just like eating potato crisps or chocolate biscuits, you know you shouldn't but can't help yourself until there's none left. I even found myself offering the last item on at least two plates round the table whilst simultaneously hoping no-one would say yes so I could fill my boots. I did draw the line though at something which resembled a cross between some sort of plant and a horses todge. Percebes, is the name of the stuff and the idea is you nip the end off with two fingers and then pull the skin away to reveal a soft pink fleshy thing which is edible. Apparently. They put me in mind of something else Spanish folk rave about and can't seem to get enough of - pipas, which, to all intents and purposes is just budgie food.

Rugged, unspoilt and fantastic - La Costa de la Muerte

When you go away and have enjoyed a fabulous time in new surroundings with incredibly kind hosts, wherever you are on the last full afternoon, that sinking feeling of having to go home is never far away is it?
For the pair of us, Galicia did it's level best to take our minds off having to say goodbye and the flight home early the next morning by saving some of the best it had to offer until the very last. South and Eastern Spain takes a certain pride in the Costa del Sol and Costa Blanca, but for me one of the best kept secrets is La Costa de la Muerte, the North West corner of the Spanish mainland where the Atlantic Ocean greets Southern Europe. Perhaps greets was a little charitable, head-butts would be slightly more appropriate because it certainly arrives in mighty angry fashion as sailors down the centuries have found out to their cost. Those lost seafarers may be gone but they definitely aren't forgotten, just feet from where the highest winter tides comes crashing ashore sits the chapel of remembrance at Punta de Barca, a poignant and permanent tribute to those who have perished in the surrounding seas.


Playa do Mar de Fora - so peaceful

Conscious our time was dwindling away we headed back down the coast to one of the most Westerly points in Spain, a place immortalized, until recently because the miserable sods changed it's name, in a BBC institution, The Shipping Forecast. Cape Finisterre, which clings to Spain by a thread, is a rocky peninsula barely three kilometres wide at it's narrowest point and home to the little seaside village of Fisterra. Continuing on, the road kicks up as the climb to Monte Facho, site of the rather grand Fisterra lighthouse that shares it's name with the nearby pueblo, begins in earnest. This is the final trek for some of the pilgrims who began their walk some ninety five odd kilometres away in Santiago, but it wasn't our destination. Instead of heading up we turned right and down, where the ankle high tussocks of grass eventually gave way to the picturesque Playa do Mar de Fora, a curved, sandy beach that could easily have been a secret corner on the Mediterranean. In complete contrast to the raging torrents of white water just along the coast, this secluded bay, with it's tiny waves creeping silently ashore, was the perfect end to a perfect weekend. At that very moment, sat on the sand staring out to sea watching the sun sink slowly beyond the distant horizon, life just felt right.

Muchisima gracias para todos José, Lola, Gema and Elmo.