An uneventful 24 hour crossing of the Cantabrian Sea brought us back to Portsmouth and a traffic bound one hour extra drive saw us home. All well, except for the greeting of the Merc’s wing mirror being broken, exactly three weeks after it was broken the first time – thank you Max for organsing the first replacement. No forwards without some backwards. So insurance claims for the phone and for the car mirror.
Welcome home.
After the best meal so far – Peruvian Latino slant on Spanish fare – last night ended with a couple of craft beers and then a stolen phone (mine). This morning was spent going to the police station, then to another police station to obtain the police report which should enable the insurance replacement to be easy. Bum!
So to cheer us up, we went to the transporter bridge by metro, crossed over the river in style and returned on the metro running on the other side.
On the way back, we stopped off at the funicular railway for a journey up one of the mountain sides; Bilbao is built along a valley and occupies land at the bottom, on the sides and at the top, too. It is Spain’s fourth biggest city and certainly one of its most height defying. This was the view from El Mirador, the mountain top view, with The Guggenheim far below. Apparently, we were over 1,000 metres up. The funicular’s journey seemed longer.
We visited the mighty Gugg yesterday, shortly after arriving in town. Its architecture is still so stunning but we were underwhelmed with its temporary exhibitions. Art! What can you do?
A walk along the Turia riverbed was a gentle saunter of an introduction to off-time Valencians. They walk, run, bike, play soccer, rugby, baseball, skateboard, electric scooter, much like everyone else, but never seen so many electric scooters. And on a Sunday, the “lifeblood” of the city is very busy.
A tour of the Modern Art Museum, aka IVAM, was headed by a cartoon around the walls from Paco Roca, whose work we’ve previously admired, not least at Tate Modern. He’s a local Valencian lad.
Unlike Saturday in hip Russafa, the area is not heaving on a Sunday, so our dinner at El Camarino was unpressured. At least, until about 10.30; these Spanish eat late, a 11pm start is not unusual!
Along came Monday, so rearwards journey begins with a drive to Zaragoza. The old town features a huge square adjacent the city’s huge Basilica/Cathedral. We checked: cathedral is the centre of worship of a diocese, basilica is just a favourite church. This city has a two in one, as per photo.
There’s a lift up one of the corner towers, so of course ….. us suffering men to be tested by testes. Is that why they’re so called? At the end of the square was a waterfall sculpture, apparently inspired by the Spanish speakers in North & South America’s. Excellent, once you’d been informed of its subject matter.
There’s also an exhibition about Goya, who came from just down the road. Not great fans, but the exhibition dealing with his Caprice series was a clever use of black, white, light and dark and digital. We’ll, so says I.
Tuesday was another drive to Bilbao, where we’re staying for two nights before the 24 hours ferry to Portsmouth. We love Bilbao. Even if it’s a bit of a nightmare to drive down into the old town to find the guest house; then the drive back up out then back down again to the car park, is a journey of 20 mins by car, 5 mins by foot. Worth it though. The guesthouse has a beautiful wooden staircase that could well be 400 years old. The old quarter dates from medieval times, though it was substantially rebuilt after flooding in 1983. You wouldn’t know it.
Going to check out the Vizcaya transporter bridge (world’s oldest) this time, complete with car carrying gondola, at the mouth of the river Nervion. It’s similar to the Newport (Gwent) one, which also still works.
Second day camping – mildly more awake after earplugged night – spent in the city’s truly amazing science and culture park.
If ever there was a statement of a local authority’s intent to create legacy, this is it. And the newest building is already 13 years old, though it doesn’t look it. Admirable in almost every way.
Then there’s the riverbed. Back in 1957, the city elders got together with the surrounding farmers and agreed to reroute the river Turia, cause of frequent floods, into seven different channels. So now the Turia’s riverbed features a swathe of green that goes right through the city and provides gardens, leisure parks and space for those futuristic buildings, aka The Science Park, surrounded by about two feet depth of water. Beautiful, indeed.
We spent all of one day in parts of the Science Park, mostly in its so impressive Science Centre, the most eye catching of these new buildings. And the night saw us in The Jimmy Glass Jazz Bar, listening to not that good a quartet; the highlight was when the guitarist turned round and complained to a section of the audience that he could hear more of them than of his own music. If that had happened in one of my promoted gigs, the guitarist would have been asked to leave. If he’d been brilliant, I might have suggested otherwise, but he really wasn’t like a Keith Jarrett other than in temperament.
Today we’ve been sunbathing on the beach because it’s due to be cloudy tomorrow. It is blue sky 29° today. And tonight we’re off to Cafe Mercedes Jazz to see another band, which we hope is better than last night’s. We did have some extraordinary Rioja last night and a couple of beers at midnight, out in one of the street cafes where our bedroom, part of a seven floor hostel of rooms, is located. Indoors suffering today.
After a nearly three hour drive, we got lost inside Tarragona’s old walled town, replete with one way streets and streets that end in staircases. Once parked in yet another underground car park, we found our hotel immediately next to it, located in one of the main eating areas which were almost deserted – it had been raining for most of the day.
A walk showed us the Roman amphitheatre, right next to the beach, the beautiful old town centre – not in a car now – a fine cathedral and, further away, more Roman remains of “Tarraca”.
We also came across this statue, revealing the long established Catalonian pasttime of human scaffolding.
On the way out the next morning we found this additional Roman edifice, a magnificent three level aqueduct. Found, as in we walked off in the wrong direction initially and after a 20 minutes red herring came back to where we had started, to realise we left the car park from the wrong end, whereas bus loads of children had picked the right end. Ooops.
Three hours later, we arrived in the huge and splendid city of Valencia. And drove straight out, on the way to our campsite. Yep, campsite. The time has come. Near a ridiculously long sandy but stony beach, we have a tent pitched in a campsite taken mostly by winnibagoes, hemmed in between the local road (not much traffic) and, yep you know it’s coming, the CV500, one of the main southern feeders into the city (busy even at 2am). So we have another night here before three nights in a hostel with a double room and private bathroom. We’ll, we’ll see ..
We did have a fab paella last night, with chicken, duck, rabbit and snails. Indoors strangely had difficulty encouraging the latter to leave their shells. We’re told this is where paella was invented, so more to come, of course.
Morning has broken, as am I. There is a 20 minutes bus ride from the campsite into the city, so when Indoors has finished snoring and the etcs., we start the Valencia thang. Hope I don’t sleep through it.
Travelled down, via beaches near to Beziers, to Perpignan but decided not to have another city night so carried on to the resort of Argeles-sur-Mere. As well as the only east facing French resort – check it out, it’s true – it was heaving. Found a bed in an hotel with a balcony overlooking the sea and later a good value, local fare restaurant, so we were content.
The hotel felt a bit like Fourcroft: it was clean, everything worked but the entire package wasn’t really contemporary; they even had an extensive dining area, now only used for breakfasts. And very friendly staff. A swimming pool at the rear was metal-fenced off. It felt like it needed substantial money to refind its former glory…..
The next morning we drove for about an hour, partly retracing our steps, to medieval Villefranche-de-Conflent, about 500 metres up at the fringe of the Pyrenees. There we picked up le Petit Train Jaune.
A beautiful little electric train (the other side is graffiti-free) scampers up, well into the mountains. About 1,550 metres worth. We went up inside one of the normal cars and came down in its special open car. Felt like being on a fairground ride that lasted 60 minutes. All with stunning views. Brilliant experience.
And then off to Gerona, via one of those glorious motorways that soar over the Pyrenees. And G G Gerona is indeed mighty. A beautiful walled town dating in parts from the Roman occupation, with many medieval buildings leading down to the river Ter. And you can walk the old walls, well most of them, high up over the city. Great squares and cobbled and paved streets, all unfriendly to cars, very friendly to people. Below, the famous photo of the river-facing buildings in their yellows, reds and, occasionally, other colours. The cathedral overlooks the city somewhat imperiously.
There are at least five different flags used here. The yellow and red horizontal stripes version is from the Kingdom of Aragon and celebrates all things Catalonian. The version with a blue (pro-independence) or red (pro-independence, socialists and communists) star are everywhere. Then there are versions of the yellow graphic ‘scarf’, which is a sign of support for the prison threatened or actual in prison separatists. This logo is illegal. And also prevalent.
We have our “B” and they have their independence aspirations. Theirs are not new, just think the ETA Basques freedom movement, but for the time being it seems their emotions are fluttering with their flags, whilst ours have run out of puff.
Spain is blue skies hot, their wines ridiculous value, even in comparison to the local French we’ve just left behind. And tomorrow we go to Tarragona, one night’s stop away from our destination.
Despite modern Ibis hotel, with parking underneath, we discovered old town next to the river Loire which is charming. Impressive cathedral was outshone by gleaming new tram system. A shame the riverside live music venues only open at weekends. A great meal at La Ruche.
After various wrong turnings and beautiful drives through forests, we stopped at Brive-la-Gaillarde, to stay in l’Hotel la Truffe Noire. Couldn’t resist. Had a delightful Prix Fixe meal in a square outside a lovely restaurant, thinking this is the southern European meal thing we love.
Not in the Truffe, though, which was very expensive and, as we discovered at breakfast time, full of black paint and figures, with a barred staircase to the basement – Marquis de Sade / new Goth feel about it. We left.
Via a bit of a detour, and a couple of promises to Indoors, we ventured forth to the amazing architectural statement known as the Millau viaduct.
This has the Norman Foster design stamp, the highest bridge in the world, completed in just three years, for a £400m cost. It is just ….. simple, clean, elegant and, of course, functional. Inspired architecture.
Drove on to stay the night in Beziers. Not on the normal tourist trail, it is a ‘real city’, unlike some of the touristic hubs we’ve visited. Gritty and characterfull, with some big open space squares, fringed by restaurants, cafes and bars, but mostly by big houses and unused offices / shops / homes; it sings of wealth and poverty like so many deprived bits of France.
And it has an old bridge, due to be refurbished, dating from the 16th century.
The no small matter of a family “Essex” wedding attended near Hereford, complemented by a two night family camping collective, the journey began with a one night stay in a Winchester city centre inn – 5 Bridge Street. And jolly fine it was, too. 
Had chance to look around the glorious 11th century beginnings of this deceptively prestigious city.
The ferry from Portsmouth to Caen, replete with 90 year old veterans on their way to mark 75 years post D-day, delivered-ish us to Honfleur for two nights, a town we have always wished we could better experience. And for one day and two nights we have savoured the exquisite architecture from the 16/17/18th centuries of this harbourside town.
A tourist hotspot, this town is also one of my special three, the others being Kinsale in Co Cork and Tenby. The daytime was only mildly disappointed by rain, as we walked the riverside (this is the mouth of the Seine) to the beach. We returned via The Garden of Personalities, recording, most tastefully with small statue heads and hedged enclaves, individuals from the town who have ‘made something of themselves’.
And being a tourist hotspot, it is full of cafes, restaurants etc etc, with most offering fine fare; this included two fine Calvados – we are in Normandy after all.
Tomorrow we journey south to Tours.
Red kites are all around the main beaches and over our hotel. We can now discern their calls. Unusually, it’s me being bitten, not her. Not by kites, by mozzies.
On Friday night we were directed by another guest of the hotel to see a gig by Kevin Brown. Great gig, great bluesman – transpires he played Tenby Blues Fes 13 years ago. He’s available this year.
A twenty minute tuk tuk ride on Saturday brought us to sea eagles & kites circling over two uncommercialised beaches to the south – golden sand; powerful waves; freshly caught King fish fried in garlic and onions and cold beer in a beach shack. With very few English accents within earshot, possibly within five miles, this seems a suitably final destination of our Indian tour.
Sunday was chill out, with an Ayurvedic “best I’ve ever had” massage for Kath. She has applied for Indian status.
Leisurely departure at 10 tomorrow morning for the 2.75 hrs Goa to Delhi flight, then the 9.5 hrs flight to Heathrow. A gasp in between of nearly 10 hours. Delhi airport games await.
A final list of explanatory notes:-
Indian showers (not to be confused with normal bathroom showers which we had in three Indian hotels) – one small bucket inside one big bucket: you fill the big bucket with water and then ‘spoon’ the water from big via small over your body. It works.
Rikshaw – 350cc lawn mowers with seats above and kamikaze drivers, aka tuk tuks.
Markets – an inundation of colours, some being worn, food, materials, things you don’t want, might want, really do want but are not coming home with you, as baggage is airline limited (phew). The colours and spices are truly breathtaking. Kath now has an oxygen tank – I’m hoping it won’t be baggage barred. There are markets everywhere, but everywhere!
Food – in three weeks we’ve had two bad meals, which means we’ve had over 50 superb curries (yep, sometimes for breakfast!). Struggling to imagine eating anything else. Why would you want to? Quite a few people have mentioned “Blighty”. Is this why?
Left – a side of the road you might choose to drive down.
What used to be a beautiful city, full of history and heritage, is undergoing some major modernisation. The UNESCO World Heritage recognised ‘Durham peninsular’ is intact, but all beneath it seems to be under threat.
We went to a concert in The Old Cinema Launderette, some two miles out of town, to see Pica Pica. An OK gig, full of female harmonies, made better for its random venue, complete with dry cleaning kit.
Our walkabout today has been chilled, not augmented by a viewing of Jurassic World, which was …… shit. Great Lebanese meal some compensation, however.
Last day in Durham mostly spent in Newcastle and Gateshead, where we saw Benjamin Zephaniah perform. His tale was mostly about his new autobiography, interspersed with a few, old pomes. Bit disappointing. But The Sage was magnificent – we were in Sage 2 – the smaller of the two auditoria.
Chris & Kath's Travel Time 