Not a quiet revolution.

By Richard Morley.

The times they are a-changing.

Something is happening here is Spain, and I am not sure what it is.

Now, not being a native, but a guest, I do not feel it has been appropriate for me to take sides with the “indignados” (the indignant ones) who have recently been encamped in the Pueta del Sol here in Madrid and in public squares around the country. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion.

Before moving to Spain permanently I would compare the control being imposed by central government on the people of the UK with the relative laissez faire attitude of the Spanish authorities. However, recent events here, for whatever reasons, have inculcated a feeling that the state is sticking it’s nose in where it’s not wanted. And in the minds of those who can remember a time when the Government very much imposed its will on the populace, this latest interference is not welcome. Particularly when the activities of that government seem to be doing nothing to relieve the very real and current concerns of a nation with massive debt, high unemployment, and a lack of confidence in the future.

Even though the next general election will probably see a change of political will in congress, the indignados don’t think that will change the direction in which the country is going.

Of course, part of the problem does not lie with central government, but with each of the autonomous regions where each  creates their own problems. The workers’ unions must also take some of the blame. The “sindicatos” have been engaged in negotiations with the government in order to come up with some sort of policy that would make the creation of jobs easier. The employers say that the cost of employing people is high under current legislation and the social packages Spanish workers are entitled to make it expensive to fire people also. As the sindicatos have been refusing to relinquish workers rights and the employers have also dug their heels in, the negotiations reached an impasse. As the government want to be seen doing something, they will now impose an employment policy that no one will agree to.

Last year Esperanza Aguirre’s Comunidad de Madrid said it would cut fifty-eight legal steps from those needed to create a new business. They cut fifty-eight! How many are left? A friend of mine involved with starting a new business here in Madrid can answer that. Too damn many!

Many are not taking those steps. The ex-construction workers who want to put a roof over their family’s heads and food on their table can’t afford the luxury of time or the cost of legally starting a new business, so the lamp post are adorned with computer printed, or hand-written, advertisements for their services to decorate your home or replace a kitchen or bathroom. I am sure that most cannot afford the €3000 payment that must be made when starting any form of business, or the very high social security payments demanded of the self-employed. Not being legal, I doubt they are declaring their earnings for tax. They can’t legally take on employees either, so the unemployment numbers don’t get reduced and the hacienda, the tax office, loses revenue. But to make the process easier would mean that government funcionarios, civil servants, (a misnomer in many cases!), and notarios would have nothing to do. Except get a proper job, of course!

So, the indignados have been protesting. Firstly in the month long encampment that formed in Sol and other plazas around the country. Then in small demonstrations everywhere and culminating last weekend in street protests all over the country. They claim to want “Democracia, Ya!”, or democracy now, but enticed voters to spoil their ballot papers at the recent local elections. I don’t follow that. A young protester that recently gate-crashed the inauguration ceremony for the swearing in on the newly elected representatives of the Comunidad and managed to demand from Señora Aguirre what right she had to represent all the Madrileños as voter turn-out was far from 100% and there were so many spoiled papers. She replied that, “This is a free country and …… each is entitled to vote ……. and the nature of elections is to renew the mandate of those who had done a good job and throw out those who had a done a bad one.” She went on to remark that voting was the one important responsibility of a country’s citizens. I agree and will also say that those who did not vote, or enticed others not to vote, were not supporters of democracy.

As Winston Churchill said (I think) “democracy has many faults but it’s better than the alternative”.  

The protesters’ camp in Sol had their own problems with democracy. They had lots of noisy protests, but couldn’t actually agree an anything. Apparently their decisions needed everyone to agree. Just one dissenting voice meant they would not reach concensus, because the voice of the majority was not the voice of all. As Abraham Lincoln remarked, “…….. you can’t please all of the people all of the time”. In a democracy the minority have to lick their wounds and wait for their turn.

But whatever the demonstrators protested about, they did it very noisily. Walking though Sol one Saturday evening at the height of the protests I was struck by the sheer volume of the voices raised in anger and was pleased that I wasn’t living in that neighbourhood and trying to get to sleep. It would have been impossible. And it would have been impossible for four long weeks. The erection of the encampment brought with it, despite the best efforts of the organisers to impose some order, a hygiene problem and restricted free passage though, and free use of, the Plaza. Many businesses reported a severe drop in trade because the “Democracia, Ya” protesters had imposed their own, un-elected will on the area.

And just as an aside here, When I wandered though the encampment which was set up to highlight and publicise the plight of so many, I noticed many notices restricting the taking of photographs. What were they afraid of? Surely they wanted all the publicity they could get? If you want someone to take notice, you have to stand and be counted.

However, Spain is, whatever the protesters say, a democracy. They have the right to protest and freedom of speech. Having lived and worked in countries where neither of these things is a “right” I probably value them more highly than those under forty here do. Perhaps they should ask their parents and grandparents what the country was like before 1975.

But did they have the right to disturb the sleep and business life in Sol during their month long protest? You see, while the authorities let them do what they wanted, those same authorities are prohibiting loud music in the street in Chueca during Gay Pride weekend – because the local residents have complained.

And it’s not just Chueca. Over thirty barrios that traditionally have “fiestas patronales” such as the Verbena de Poloma in La Latina, in Tetuan for the Fiesta de Victoria and for the Fiesta de Carmen in Vallecas. All of them are being reviewed regarding the loudness of the entertainment that will now be allowed. A spokesman for the barrio of Tetuan commented,”…. In the first week of July there will be concerts and fairs in the plaza de Remonta. Of course they are noisy and some residents have already complained”. But “What would become of Madrid without the streets fairs?” said Fernando Garcia of the Cuatro Caminos neighbourhood association.

Suddenly Madrid’s, and Spain’s, live and let live attitude is undergoing a sea change. After years of smoking being allowed everywhere, now we have had to adjust to being restricted. Most of us smokers have happily taken that on board, but it must have affected sales as twice in two weeks the price of cigarettes came down recently.

Yes, that’s right. They came down! Amazing.

My recent remarks regarding a speed restriction on cycling in the new cycle lanes in Madrid Rio meant that I watched with some amusement interviews with cyclists on TV last week. They were angry. “Six kilometres an hour is hardly enough to allow you to balance”, claimed one. Another, echoing my point, argued that painted lines delineating walkers from those on wheels was the sensible solution. One more made the point that the cycle lanes were designed for the users to enjoy exercising on their machines and introducing ridiculous speed limits was not a proper solution. After all, they are called “Cycle Lanes”. Were these of a similar age to the young “indignados”? No, they senior citizens wanting to enjoy a bike ride in the sun.

The smoking restrictions, noise controls (on a normally noisy city), reduced speed limits on the motorways and now other petty rules are seen by many here to be unwarranted intrusions into the citizens’ right to enjoy life. Non-smokers, those wanting peace and those who like to walk without fear of accident will all have their opinions – as do those who think otherwise.

Shouldn’t we all learn to live together?

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Far from the Madding Crowds.

By Richard Morley.

If you look very closely at the photograph above, below the towering, grey limestone cliffs and set among a sea of trees, you will spot a remote hotel. Six long hours south of Madrid, far from any other civilisation, with no chance of escape, it is a place of peace and harmony with nature. And a wonderful place to meet and scare the living daylights out of some new Spanish victims.

I have written before about the English Villages I attend here.

This is where a group of Spaniards eager to improve their use of English are thrown together with an equal number of Native English Speaking volunteers. The idea is to immerse the Spaniards in English for an entire week. (Speaking Spanish is a hanging offense!).

This time I went with Pueblo Inglés to a new venue hidden deep in the Sierra de Segura not far, as the crow flies, from the town of Cazorla. Straddling the border of Andalucía and Murcia, a brief glance at the map with a rule to convert the scale would have put us about 120Km north east of Granada.

For a week we hid ourselves away in a deep valley in the heart of the Parque Natural de las Sierras de Cazorla Segura y las Villas, which is quite enough of a mouthful and from now on will use the name of the hotel: Coto de Valle.

The word “Coto”, in this case, refers to an estate or hunting reserve and the hotel is used by hunters during the season. The walls are liberally decorated with the heads of deer and wild boar the hunters come to shoot. Some of the boar were not so wild and a family of a sow and her two piglets would arrive most evenings outside the hotel gates to be fed with the left-overs from our meals, of which there were plenty – but more of that later.

Left: The wild boar came down to feed each evening. Mum was very protective of her children.

Right: The author posing at a safe distance. Seconds after this we had to run for it.

Photos: Brigitte McKay

We travelled by bus, which was a little un-nerving as from the town of Cazorla we climbed a very steep mountain road cut into the side of a cliff-face. I seriously suspect the road builders followed the path of some nimble-footed mountain goat. Sheer walls of rock on one side, a deep descent on the other. I seriously got the jitters when we met another bus coming the other way!. We inched past and was glad that we were on the inside, realising later that on our return to civilisation our bus would be the one teetering on the edge. (But we were lucky and there was no bus that day.)

We climbed ever upwards and eagerly scanned the vertiginous valley walls for our hotel when someone pointed down and said, “there it is!” And there, many hundreds of feet below us, in what seemed a small clearing in the forest, lay our hotel and I wondered just why had we climbed so high? Once over the hump of the mountain we descended rapidly into the valley. Around us mountain gullies poured with snow-melt engorged streams. Above us the mountain tops were wreathed in cloud. Below we watched the valley emerge and noticed the ruins of cottages, now abandoned from the flight into the towns and better paid, less back-breaking jobs.

It had been a long, six hour journey from Madrid. Several of the braver students and had taken advantage of that extra time to get a lead on the cowards who came by car, although some feigned sleep! Now, on arrival at the hotel we met others who had arrived by personal transport. They had but one thought: What the *%!” are we doing? Suddenly faced with a range of English accents that ranged from “Sarf” London esturian with unpronounced “Ts” and “THs” pronounced as “V” through standard English to Canadian with their “oats” and the broad spectrum of US American. It was slowly dawning on them – there was no escape.

The Hotel Coto de Valle is a hunting lodge. As Spain is emerging from a drawn out winter I have to state we probably saw it at its worst. The trees were naked of foliage, the unused, outdoor pool murky and green with algae. But the staff were welcoming and despite having very little English, did their best to make us feel at home. Most of the rooms are built around a central courtyard. A terrace overlooked the valley where patio tables and chairs dotted the stone floors. There would be plenty of places to have our English conversations – assuming the weather allowed.

But first, the serious job of assuaging the hunger of forty tired travellers. The hotel was more than up to the task. Used to feeding ravenous hunters fatigued after a day in the woods, the kitchen staff made sure we would want for nothing. In fact, a joke circulated at the end of the week: “What did you gain from this course? About 5 kilos!” I reproduce the menu blow.

They brought more - and more!!

Suitably stuffed, we went to our rooms or explored the extensive grounds.

One tourist guide describes the Sierras de Cazorla, Segura and Las Villas as one of Spain’s best kept secrets. It is the country’s largest national park and one of the most “beautiful, peaceful and biologically diverse” areas in Europe. Continuing, it claims the area “combines the natural beauty of mountains, rivers, waterfalls, forests and wildflowers with the charm of ancient villages”. I wouldn’t know. By late afternoon banks of dense cloud had slithered in between the peaks and obscured everything.

However, we were not there to admire the scenery, but to terrorise our Spanish victims and improve their English. Those who have been to an English village here is Spain will know what I am talking about. There are two main companies that run this programme, Pueblo Inglés and Vaughan Town.

They offer similar programmes in that they put together diverse groups of Native English Speakers with Spanish Students. Throughout the week they are thrown together to speak, speak and speak some more. I guarantee you will find out more about the country in that week than you would from years of vacational visits. And as the conversations are all in English, there is no barrier to understanding.

It’s not just head to head chat though, as there are group discussions, theatre, and many presentations. And one should not forget that the nattering continues through meals, walks, parties and over a few drinks at the bar – probably the most unstructured, but important part of the course. This is known as “Liquid English”, where the barriers of timidity, low confidence, and nervousness are diminished by the alcohol and bonhomie of the activity. (Actually, I doubt this is an official teaching method, but it definitely works!)

Among our victims that week was a potato farmer from Valencia, engineers, civil servants and an inventor who claims to have invented a green alternative to detergents. He was off to Chicago the following week to promote his product. You can be sure of many intelligent, interesting, funny and varied conversations.

The low cloud brought rain; too much rain, but the hotel was large enough to cope with twenty couples in search of somewhere to have quiet conversation. In the occasional breaks in the inclemency it was possible to escape the grounds and walk the twisting roads or explore the forest path behind the hotel with a stroll across a narrow bridge over the torrential crashing stream. Breaks in the cloud would reveal the surrounding mountains and occasionally, just occasionally offer a view down the valley towards the village of Arroyo Frio.

And then it snowed. Twenty centimetres overnight. “Brrr!” Some of us moaned. “How wonderful”, remarked others. It certainly produced some great photo opportunities. As one American lady commented, “That’s my next Christmas card picture problem solved”.

Unfortunately the snowfall meant that a planned excursion had to be scrapped. The steep mountain roads were unsafe. Despite the continual efforts of snow ploughs and gritting trucks, the road were treacherous. Locals mostly owned four-wheel drive vehicles, but even so, the climb outside the hotel proved too slippery to make much progress. Released from the worries of normal life, the participants regressed into childish ways and snowball fights broke out. It was wonderful to hear threats of retaliation declared in English.

At midday, on the snow covered terrace, the owner provided a table of jamons, cheeses, salads, stewed meats, bread and wine. Over a log fire he cooked a local dish. To my ear I understood him to say “Cashmiga”. This was not, I was told, the traditional “Migas”, a meal made with day old breadcrumbs in other parts of Spain. However, given the Andalucían tendency not to pronounce the s at the ends of words and the fact that the resulting meal looked like “Migas”, I am going to say that that is what it was. However, he did not use stale breadcrumbs (“migas” means crumbs in Spanish), but instead used mixture of flour and olive oil formed into a dough which was then cooked, absorbing the delicious smokey flavour of the fire. With the addition of some “Padrones” peppers (are they hot or sweet? – only a bite will tell!) and slices (ok, they were lumps) of fatty bacon he produced a feast fit for a king.

An hour later we sat down to a “proper” lunch!

However, it was not all cloud and gloom, snow induced jeopardy and depressing rain. Ok, forget the last. We were having too good a time for depression. But it was fantastic when eventually the bad weather gave way to sunshine. Now the sheer walls of the valley could be seen in stark clarity. The hotel sits at the bottom of this natural sun gathering bowl. Facing the hotel is grey limestone cliff, behind a sweeping slope of trees. Birds chattered. There were noises of unseen animals. Vultures circled overhead.

“Richard”, asked one Spaniard, as I sat on a wall with my face turned sunward, “What do you mean when you say you are working on your tan?”  At nine hundred metres above sea level, our pale guirri skins were starting to turn to lobster pink in the new sunlight.

I am pleased to report that mine had darkened sufficiently by the following week that I received just comments on my darkened complexion from my Spanish friends and not the normal guirri jokes. Still, it introduced a new idiom to discuss.

This was a part of Spain I had not visited before. It was a welcome relief from the “Jungla Cristal” of Madrid. With the disappearance of the clouds the air was clear and fresh. The scent of the forest a joy to the senses; the openness of the forest trails a contrast to the bound pathways of the city; the silence uplifting.

Spain is such a diverse country. Those whose only impression is of the costas, of the bustling resorts, should take time to explore the interior.

Far from the madding crowd, this was a perfect location to exchange our language for good company and glorious solitude. I am always amazed at how the level of English and confidence of the students improves on the sixth and seventh days. I am no psychologist, but I think, for some students, it takes as much as four or five days to overcome their timidity and to trust us. We would never make fun of their use of English, but it takes time for them to realise that. Then the damn breaks and they never stop talking. One shy lady would disappear during breaks as if to avoid the chattering groups. By the end of the week she was deliberately joining those gatherings and having fun with her new found confidence. Yet another English Town miracle!

I hope to be part of many more.

Postscript: This week I met with a lovely Spanish friend who I met for the first time at an English Village. She told me that the first time she attended she was so afraid of looking stupid that before leaving her room she would check that there were none of the Native English speakers outside. Her confidence in using English was so low she did not want to speak. Now she is super confident to the point of reprimanding me for my Spanish mistakes – and I do feel reprimanded, believe me! Yet another success for the English towns.

Grub for Guiris: A beginner's guide to not starving in Madrid

By Richard Morley
This post is directed at those who have never been to Madrid before. Purists and lovers of Spanish food should look away now.

Spanish food is very good. Fact!

Spanish food is not like English or North American food. Discuss.

No I won’t. There are plenty of websites that seek to educate potential visitors to the joys, and there are many, of Spanish Cuisine. On first arrival the experts will know exactly where to go and what to eat and will shun, with great distain, those ubiquitous golden arches and who’s to say they are wrong.

But you, like me, are not a gourmet geek. You’ve just got off the plane and want to eat – anything. But you look at some menus and don’t really know what to order and you wander from place to place looking for something you vaguely recognise as food. And you won’t know if the place you finally eat in is good or not.

Confession time: My first meal in Madrid came on a tray in Burger King, but I didn’t go to bed hungry. On my second day, after I had plodded the streets for a while, I found restaurants with English menus, or boards with sun faded photographs of their combinations, or combinados, which means a complete meal on one plate – something foreign to the one foodstuff at a time Spanish, but normal to us – and ate what I knew was not wonderful food. That, incidentally, in my humble opinion, means just about any restaurant inside the Plaza Mayor, where you will pay tourist prices for average food. A friend of mine recently described these places as “Quasi Spanish”, because they lure the unsuspecting traveller in with easily recognisable food in an exotic, to the traveller, setting.

It took me a while to find my way around and learn about the local specialities, and whether I liked them or not. Again, that’s not what this post is about. You are here to see the sights or perhaps on business. You have other priorities, but you have to eat. I wouldn’t want you to leave this wonderful city saying you couldn’t get a good meal.

To begin with I should clear up a couple of common misconceptions. A “Spanish omelette”, as known to the British, is not a Spanish omelette. The visiting Brit expecting a thin, French style omelette with a vegetable filling will be disappointed. A Spanish omelette is a Tortilla. Ok, now we are confusing the North Americans who think that a “Tortilla” is a small disk of unleavened bread used for tacos and burritos. In Spanish a “torta” is a cake, and when the conquistadors arrived in Mexico and found the natives making small wheat or corn flat bread, they called them “Little Cakes” or “Tortillas”. The “illa” part of the word being used as a diminutive. In Spain a Tortilla is a heavy potato and egg, with optional onion, mix, fried into a thick, and to my taste, rather stodgy omelette. Just order a “Porción” or a “Ración”, you will never eat a whole one.

Así que, se ha cambiado la tortilla. So, the tortilla is changed, which is a Spanish expression that basically means that “That’s a completely different story”, or “That’s a horse of a different colour”.

I would also like to point out to North American visitors that, believe it or not, Spain is not Mexico. They might, almost, have the same language, but do not share common tastes in food. The Spanish do not do spicy food. I have a Mexican friend here who complains that outside of his apartment, he hasn’t had a decent meal in months!

You will quickly realise that McDonalds, Burger King, KFC and Starbucks are all over town, so there’s no need to starve. But if you don’t want to supersize yourself by the end of your visit, then perhaps that’s not a good option.

So first of all let me point you at a chain of cafés called Café y Té. For you, breakfast is no longer a problem. Their coffee is very good and if you order that, a glass of orange juice (zumo de naranja) and a croissant (pronounced here crow-i-sant ) then breakfast should be under three euros. Or you could order the Croissant “a la plancha”, which means it will be toasted and come with a little pot of jam or marmalade. That’ll probably cost you another euro.
A recent visitor told me that his hotel charged around ten Euros for breakfast, so Café y Té sound like a bargain.

Café y Té open early and stay open late. Like any other café they also serve beer during the day and do some reasonably cheap pasta meals for lunch and dinner.

Their menu, however, is a little limited. So let’s move on to VIPS, pronounced “Bips”. Again, this is a chain you will find nearly everywhere. Look for the big red sign. Their menu is lavishly full of photographs, so you can just point, or it’s quite likely they will hear your accent and give you their English menu. For some reason this has no prices on it, unlike the Spanish menu. The food is good, wholesome and tasty. Their salads are delicious and huge. Go for the “New Orleans”, which has ham, cheese, guacamole, nachos, tomato and tons of lettuce. They do sandwiches which they call “Fundys” for some reason, properly cooked hamburgers, fish and a couple of oriental dishes if that’s your choice. Trust me on this. I still eat at VIPS several times a month. The quality never diminishes and the service is excellent. Oh, if you patronise the same one all the time and the staff get to know you they are happy to correct your Spanish, but with a smile. They are open all day too.

Look around too for the yellow signs of “Pans and Company” who sell burgers and sandwiches and I can certainly recommend “Rodilla” who serve superb sandwiches and salads at very reasonable prices.
When I first came here there were not many places for vegetarians. Be warned, the Spanish don’t think ham is meat – it’s ham, something that holds a unique place within Spanish cuisine. If you order, as I did once, a vegetable stew, don’t be surprised if it comes liberally sprinkled with flakes of ham. If you comment or complain, the waiter won’t understand. Ham comes with everything!

But times have changed. Madrid now has some very good vegetarian restaurants, but they tend to be a little expensive. However, there is a chain called Fresc Co that has the most wonderful selection of buffet style vegetables and salads any self-respecting veggie could ask for. What’s more, it’s a set price menu and you can keep going back for more. During the day time €8.95 will get you a meal with a drink and dessert. In the evening this increases to €9.95. Their website says it’s even less, but that might be a special deal. Meat eaters can go there too as inside you will find a separate hot food counter with pizzas, roast meats etc. Excellent value.

Another place for vegetarians is Maoz. There are several branches around the centre of town and make delicious pita bread pockets of all sorts of tasty stuff. Quite cheap if I recall correctly, though I haven’t been in one for a while now.

But if meat definitely is your protein of choice then the Muslim immigrant population provides many many kebab, here known as kepap, shops. Some of them, I will admit, look a little dingy, but at €4 for a meal that will leave you stuffed I recommend them highly. They usually have one or two veggie kebabs on the menu too. I often go to one with a vegetarian friend and it’s usually his choice.

Kebabs are inexpensive food, but you don’t want a diet exclusively of fatty meat and you don’t want to be ripped off either. Be careful. Some places look cheap and then you find they charge for the bread rolls they casually lay on the table, or for the jug of water that they have just filled from the tap.
For lunch the best options are to go with that splendid Spanish institution, the Menu Del Día. Nearly every restaurant offers this for lunch. You will get a three course meal, with a drink, for around ten Euros. VIPS do one and change the menu through the week. I have had some excellent lunches at these budget prices. I remember a particularly good Cordero, lamb on the bone, at Ginger, in the Plaza del Ángel, that came with starter and dessert and a beer, for just €10.50. A few places will do a set meal in the evening, but it’s rare. And then, in the more select places, prices will shoot up.

Many of the restaurants I mention here are easily found in the city centre. If you venture a few stops out of the centre on the metro you will find Menu del Días a third less. My local bar does one for €7.50. I doubt I could buy the ingredients at that price to make myself. If you don’t want to wander that far afield then go a couple of blocks north of Gran Via to the Plaza Dos de Mayo. This little plaza serves the best pizzas in town, though the pigeons can be annoying.

While we are on the subject of cutting the cost of your meals, here is some news that will surprise you. The Spanish don’t tip. At most, they will just leave the few coins of unwanted change. I remember taking a couple of girl friends out to lunch one day. We each had the Menu Del Día and the bill for all of us came to €27.50. I gave the waitress thirty Euros and left the change on the table. One of my friends picked up the two euro coin and gave it to me. “Fifty cents is enough”, she said. Of course, if you want to leave a twenty per cent tip the waiters will love you, but walk away muttering about “These strange Guiris”.

So you won’t starve, and will actually eat quite well while you are finding your Spanish feet. I was going to write “pies español” there, but then realised it would seem I was writing about pastry encrusted food. But you should experiment a little. Get out your dictionary or phrasebook, (The Lonely Planet “Fast Talk Spanish” has a brilliant “menu decoder”,) and try “Huevos estrellados”, it’s just ham, egg and chips with an unusual name. There are lots more that you will find absolutely delicious, and a few you won’t, but that’s the fun of travel. And if you don’t find your way to that special restaurant, then you will be in illustrious company!

Restaurante El Cuchi. Famous for who they didn't feed.

If you like this post and find it useful, or can add more information for the benefit of Madrid virgins, then please feel free to comment below.

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1492 and all that

When I was young and naive – about four years ago – when I was about to make my first, and I thought only, trip to Spain, (My goodness, if I had only known then what I know now!), I downloaded from the internet a street map of Madrid.

I can’t help it. I’m a guy and we like maps. Before I had even climbed aboard the plane for Madrid I knew my way around the city streets and the wonderful metro. The map only lied in one respect. That piece of paper is flat and smooth and Madrid – isn’t.

They say Rome is built on seven hills. I think they lost count when they built Madrid.

But I digress.

So there I was, young (!) and naïve and with zero knowledge of Spain, it’s history and especially its language and staring at this map. In the centre was a Plaza called “Colon”, which I am ashamed to say I mispronounced. I thought, you don’t need to be an explorer to discover this city, but a proctologist!

Well, four years on and older and wiser, well at least more knowledgeable, I know that the plaza Colon celebrates the voyage of Christopher Columbus, or Cristobal Colon as he is called here, and his discovery of a few islands in the Gulf of Mexico. Jeez, if only he had gone a bit further. He might have found something even bigger.

(There is a story told that the ancient Vikings were actually the first to discover America – but had the good sense to keep quiet about it!)

The Plaza Colon is a place where the Spanish gather. It was where thousands followed the advance of the Spanish football team on huge TV screens during last year’s Eurocup and where the victorious team received the accolades of their countrymen on their return. It is where the king takes the salute on Spain’s national day. And it is where many sit on sunny days and take their lunch.

Over these scenes of celebration or mundane munching Cristobel Colon stands high on his column, gazing ever westward, and surveys the traffic passing along the adjacent Paseo de la Castellana. And also keeps an eye on my bank, which just happens to be opposite. Behind him flies what is reputed to be the largest Spanish flag anywhere. The day that I took my photographs was very windy and displayed the flag to its full extent, but normally it sags rather sad and forlorn from it high flagpole.

To the east of the Plaza rests (it is the only word to describe it) a huge block of rendered concrete set in a watery pool on which inscriptions tells of those who went with Columbus and what they did. Unfortunately, this monument is surrounded by the (I hope) temporary offices of the construction company in charge of creating a speedier route between the railway stations of Atocha and Chamartin, ands so is obscured.

The four faces of the base of his column tell the story of his life, but the story of his journey is told much more graphically underground. Because, like most of Madrid it seems, (and there’s a post coming about this very soon), under Madrid lies another Madrid, and under the Plaza Colon is a theatre and arts centre. Named for the prolific Spanish actor, writer and director Férnan Gómez it hosts many of the most celebrated plays in the Spanish language.

The covered pavement outside its entrance, where there is a small plaza under the plaza!, is also home to a few of the sin techos, (without roofs) or the homeless. But I can see there point, because I too took refuge there this week when it rained. And there I found a huge mural depicting Columbus’s voyage. You cannot see it from the street, which is why I am writing about it. One of Madrid’s little surprises!

All the information you could need is there: The dates of embarkation and return; the dates of discovery; and the routes followed by the Pinto, the Niño and the Santa Maria.

Incidentally, if you cross Castellana to the foot of the Torres Colon, you will find one of the most amusing sculptures in the city. I have no idea of its real name, but I call it “Naked Vanity”. My pictures will show why.

So I became a little more educated this week and, of course, I now pronounce the name of the Plaza correctly!

The Legend of La Alberca

By Richard Morley

At our hotel in La Alberca, Las Villas Abadia de los Templarios, the bell in the clock tower always strikes the hour six minutes early. Recently, while touring the village, which is about a kilometre distant from the hotel, we noticed that the bells in the village church also chimed early. A lady in our party wondered why this was. I told her a much shortened version of this tale:

The story of Maria Esperanza Garcia Garcia.

Maria Esperanza Garcia Garcia was born of dubious parentage in the pueblo of La Alberca, not far from Salamanca in North Western Spain. Why dubious? Well, her mother was an unmarried girl in her mid teens who died while giving birth to the child. Her father was unknown, but as her mother’s brother suddenly disappeared when Maria’s mother began to show signs of the pregnancy, there was speculation that the young child was the result of an incestuous relationship. Hence the repetition of the surname. This would be shocking today, but in the mid eighteen hundreds in rural Spain it caused great revulsion in the small community.

While Maria Esperanza was still a child she was cared for by her widowed grandmother. The supposed scandal of her birth turned the community against the family. Neighbours, previously good friends and even the priest of the parish would have nothing to do with them. The priest even refused to baptise her, but somehow they survived.

Her name, Esperanza, means “Hope”, but what she could hope for in those circumstances was difficult to know. But she was a happy child. In the summer the woods and fields around La Alberca were pleasant places and full of adventures. She would leave home early in the morning and return before dark. Her grandmother had taught her to count and she would always stop to listen when she heard the bells of the Church of our Lady of the Assumption peal the time across the fields. When she heard the bells she never felt afraid.

The area around La Alberca at that time was one of the poorest regions in Spain. A film made within living memory calls it “La Tierra Sin Pan”, or the land without bread. Just a child, Maria Esperanza had no idea of the sacrifices her grandmother had to make to care for her. Often there was just food enough for one, so her grandmother, a woman often in poor health, would none the less make certain the girl’s needs came first.

So it really came as no surprise that shortly after Maria Esperanza´s eleventh birthday, her grandmother died. At a stroke Maria lost her support and home. She moved into a shepherd’s hut just off the mountain track that leads up to the monastery on the Peña de Francia. In summer she lived on apples stolen from neighbouring orchards and in autumn on the chestnuts that grew so plentifully on the mountain slopes. In winter she had very little. She had no friends, no education, and, despite her name, no hope.

When the food was not easily obtainable she would beg in the streets of the town. There were some in who believed in Christian charity and they would secretly slip her the odd peseta. Occasionally someone would pass on a couple of chorizos that were past their best, but most days she would return to her shack hungry and empty handed.

She grew into a pretty young woman, although very thin, and pretty young women have their charms. She soon learned there was money to be made if she waited in the dark narrow streets when the workmen came out of the bars after an evening’s drinking. But in a small town like La Alberca there are no secrets. Now when she came begging in the streets the townsfolk gave her no help. Men treated her like dirt, women spat at her, called her “puta”. On more than one occasion she was bodily carried to the edge of town and told not to come back. The priest condemned her from the pulpit. And one cold, dark night a group of vigilantes set fire to her shack while she was sleeping inside.

She escaped and after spending the cold night trying to keep warm by the heat of her own smouldering home, moved further up the mountain side to a small cold cave.

But her prostitution had brought her more than a few pesetas thrown at her feet by a spent man. At the age of fifteen she was pregnant and in the summer gave birth to a baby girl. Starving and destitute she would sit in the Plaza Mayor, her babe wrapped in a dirty cloth in her arms and beg passers-by for money. People from outside who travelled from Salamanca to buy the jamón that was the town’s main product would throw her a few coins and because not everyone was mean spirited, she managed to survive.

Then one August during the Festival of Our Lady of the Assumption, when the ladies of the town paraded in their finery and there was dancing in the streets, a market and a corrida, a gypsy entered the town looking for work. His hair was lank and dark, his face pitted with smallpox scars, and he had a limp. In the gaiety of the festival he was like an ugly mole on a pretty girl’s face. No one would speak to him.

Except one; A pretty girl with a dirty face and a baby: Maria Esperanza Garcia Garcia. Somehow this odd couple came together against the rejection of the town. She told him of her life and showed him the rotting, charred remains of her burnt shack. Within a month he had rebuilt it and they moved in together.

His hard work on the shack did not go unnoticed. He may have been ugly, and a gitano, but he was strong and soon found labouring work on the surrounding farms. His powerful arms could wield an axe and so, with the end of the year rapidly approaching, he was employed in tree felling and to cart logs into town to fuel winter fires.

His work earned him enough to support himself, Maria and her baby. No longer did she have to beg or sell her body. But memories are long. Her scandalous birth and reputation as a puta still brought her rejection from the townsfolk. But at least now she did not have to face that rejection. While the gypsy worked, she stayed out of the town, kept house and looked after her baby.

Yet the people of La Alberca, rather than rejoice that Maria Esperanza had at last found happiness, now castigated her for living in sin.

For one bright and beautiful year they lived together. The ground around the shack grew vegetables. The gypsy proved to be an artful hunter and so there was rabbit meat on the table, and once an illicit cochinillo. “That sow had so many children”, he told Maria, “she won’t miss one of them”. Maria began to smile more and her baby grew sturdy and fat.

When the autumn leaves began falling from the trees the gypsy was again employed to gather winter fuel for the town. One icy morning his axe slid from the slippery tree bark and the blade severed a foot. Alone in the wood, the gypsy bled to death. Men brought his body to the shack that evening and without a word dug his grave and lowered his body into it. Then they left. The priest did not come to commit the body to the ground and she was left to fill the hole herself. No one came to console Maria. You can’t be a widow if you were not married.

The gypsy had had no money save what he earned. He left Maria nothing except one thing. She was pregnant again.

Following a hard winter and a late spring Maria Esperanza had a baby boy. What crops she had harvested from her garden had long run out. She was hungry and desperate. She could barely produce enough milk for the new born. Forlorn, she returned to her old place in the Plaza Mayor and begged for help.

Now with two illegitimate children and no husband the Christian folk of La Alberca were both repulsed and embarrassed by her presence. They protested to the priest and to the town hall. Many people came to the town to buy the jamón. They did not want a beggar in their midst. It did not present a good image.

Maria Esperanza, belying her name, had run out of hope. Her body was wasting away. Her two children cried with hunger all day. The man she had loved lay buried near his now weed strewn and unkempt vegetable plot. Crying bitter tears she prayed for her children and herself to be released from that hell. But rejected by the church, God did not hear her. And so she decided to take the matter into her own hands.

One evening, just after dark, she bundled her children and walked silently into the town. In the shadows of the Plaza de Iglesia she crossed to the rear door of the church and let herself in. The church was empty and dark. The statue of the virgin high on its mount cast vacant eyes across the gloom. In one corner she could make out the form of the baptismal font that had been denied to both her and her children. Despite it being summer the interior was cold. She shivered and her new son whimpered in the chill air.

Hugging the babies closely to her frail body she silently crossed to the steps that led to the high tower and then climbed the cold stone treads to the top. Through the huge portals that allowed the sound of the bells to carry across the town and the surrounding fields she viewed the rooftops of the village that had rejected her and then glanced down at the hard cobbles of the plaza so far below. She laid a flat palm on the cold metal of the bell and remembered hearing it chime the hours in her childhood. For a fleeting moment a memory of her carefree life as a little girl passed though her mind. It saddened her that her own children would never experience such a time, and for a brief moment emotion battled with reality. She almost turned and left, but a vision of a future as bleak as her past strengthened her resolved. She knew there was no turning back.

She set her oldest child on the floor near the great bell that chimed the hour and removed the wraps from the baby. Despite all the hardships she had suffered, this was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do in her young life. She was still not twenty years old.

She hugged him close, wetted his face with her kisses and then with a cry cast the tiny boy through the arched opening and watched as his fragile body crashed onto the unforgiving stones below. He did not move. Quickly, she turned before her resolve weakened and picked up her beloved daughter. She did not waste time on kisses. If she kissed the child and the child hugged her she knew she could not do it. With one last glance she held the child high – then let her go.

The little girl dropped, slowly turning then smashing against the hard cobbles beside her lifeless brother. Maria Esperanza gazed down in horror at what she had done. She was illegitimate, had been a prostitute, lived with a man out of wedlock and was now a murderess. She would surely go to hell and, she thought, it was no more than she deserved.

It was, of course, her intention to follow her children into the oblivion of the unforgiving stone hard cobbles of the plaza. But the thought of what she had done to her beloved children weakened her. Her legs began to buckle and she leaned against the vast cupola of the great bell for support. She heard voices coming up from the plaza. The bodies of her children had been discovered. She heard the shouts of men, the wails of women, “Oh Dios Mio. Los pobres niños pobres”. Now they worry about my children, she thought. Now it is too late.

Maria straightened, resolved herself for her final act, pushing against the bell for support. It moved. Suddenly there was nothing to push against and Maria began to fall into the void below the bell. Wildly she flailed attempting to grab hold of anything that would stop her fall. The drop inside the tower would kill her just as surely as if she threw herself through the smooth arched portal, but she wanted, in death, to be with her children.

The bell moved first away then swung towards her as it pivoted on its axis. As it rose before her Maria made one last grab when her foot slipped. She fell against the bell, which now swung away, opening a gap wide enough for her to fall through and nothing to hold on to. But as she dropped, a loop in the bell rope appeared before her. She made a wild grab. Held it for a second then slipped, but long enough to pull the loop towards her. Her head went through and the weight of her body pulled the loop tight, like a noose. She fell another two metres before the rope snapped tight. With an audible crack the vertebrae in her neck snapped and mercifully, instantly, Maria Esperanza Garcia Garcia was dead.

The weight of her body pulled on the rope and the bell completed its swing. Sonorously its hammer chimed, then swung back and chimed again and continued to chime until her body was still.

It was six minutes before the hour.

When news of Maria Esperanza’s final act spread beyond the town her treatment by the people of La Alberca was universally condemned. The priest, who had led the persecution against her, was replaced. Those few who had secretly aided the girl now became public to avoid the shame and those who had overtly damned her, roundly castigated. The new priest ordained a Christian burial for Maria, insisting it wasn’t suicide but a terrible accident. And in a spirit of contrition from that time on, the hour was always chimed six minutes early in her memory.

In recent times, to celebrate the new millennium, the church decided to replace the bells. Now a prosperous town and always full of visitors, a new hotel was being built on the outskirts and in a spirit of whimsy the owner decided to include a bell tower in the design. He bought the old bells from the church.

When the new bells were installed in the church the tradition of chiming the hour six minutes early was officially discontinued. An expert from Salamanca reset the mechanism and went home. Yet the next day the bells continued to chime before the hour. And when the old bells were set in the new tower in the hotel, the same thing happened.

And continues to chime six minutes before the hour to this very day. The memory of Maria Esperanza Garcia Garcia lives on. As does her ghost.

© Richard Morley 2009

Victimising The Spanish

(I am going to be away for the next two weeks. I am going to have a fantastic time. The following article explains all. )

The film star, the politician and the chief of police arrived courtesy of their respective chauffeurs. The rest of the twenty odd Spanish came with us, in a four hour coach trip to the mountains near the Portuguese border. But whatever their position in real life, for one week they would all be equal. They would be our victims.

Why are we “victimising” the Spanish and who are “we”? Let me explain…

The Spanish half of our group have all been learning English and have passed an audition to gauge their level. They can all ask “How do you do?”, “What is on the menu for tonight?”, “Where is the Chemist?” and hold up their end conversationally in reasonably good English, but no one has taught them that the answers could be, “Gradely”, “Bubble and Squeak” or “Next to Woollies”. That’s our job.

“We” are a raggle-taggle bunch of volunteers chosen from every corner of the English speaking world. The answers to those questions could be delivered in accents ranging from broad Scottish to South Island Kiwi, deep southern states American to prim and proper home counties. It’s very different from what they learned in the classroom.

We are instructed that we are not there to teach, but to give them a taste of the “real” English speaking world. Slight grammatical and syntactical errors will be corrected, but if they don’t know the word, or the sentence is ambiguous or nonsensical, they have to rephrase or try another approach. Communication is the name of the game and a businessman at a conference or tying up the latest Spanish purchase of a foreign company cannot expect to have everything explained.

So, from nine o’clock in the morning to at least ten thirty at night, for eight days in a row, us “Anglos” flit from Spaniard to Spaniard talking normal, everyday English, whatever our English might be. To even think of speaking Spanish is a hanging offence. This is why the venue is called English Town. They are held in some of the remotest parts of Spain to avoid the students over-hearing Spanish in the streets. One venue does not even have a mobile phone signal. A fact that greatly upset the five engineers from Vodafone. “Do something about it then”, we suggested, while also reminding them that “vodafone” began with a “V” and not a “B”.

What do we talk about? A prim and proper Canadian librarian once stated, “I suppose the three taboo subjects of Religion, Politics and Sex are off the menu”. The organisers and experienced Anglos wondered what she would talk about after the second day! No subject is banned if the two having the conversation are happy with it. Likewise, neither are any words. Spanish executives at an international conference could expect to hear English in its crudest four letter terms and be expected to understand. And it amazing just how early on in the week those words become quite regular currency.

However, we are not expected to rough it. The organisers arrange for us to be comfortably housed and well fed and watered. The food is good, there is wine with every meal except breakfast and the bar is well stocked. However, we are expected to stay reasonably sober as the days are long and the students have paid the price of a good vacation to come and practice their English. We are expected to give value for money.

However, much has been written about the value of a little alcohol in the speaking of foreign tongues. Something about breaking down the inhibitions and ridding the mind of that mental barrier of translating in the head. So it is not surprising that the conversations really start to flow when the booze does likewise. I remember being with a group of five Spanish executives who, realising it was half past three in the morning, were really proud that they had been speaking English non-stop for five hours. But none of us were strictly sober!

By the end of the second day most of the Spanish are complaining that their brains can take no more. However, on the morning of the forth day they are excitedly telling us of the dream they had in English. All Anglos begin their week speaking in slow, measured phrases. By the end of the week our victims are telling us to get on with it. Proof, if any were needed, that the system works.

Since I discovered the English Towns I have returned over twenty five times as a volunteer. But why would people with challenging jobs give up valuable vacation time to come to Spain at their own expense to talk to Spaniards? Well, even the organising companies are hard pressed to answer that one. They remain amazed that in the past eight years over five thousand of us have done so and that their books are crammed with yet more eager Anglos. About the only thing the Anglos have in common is an ability to use the internet, as that is the only way to register. We have retired bankers, young backpackers, teachers, truck drivers, nurses and bakers. In fact, a complete cross section of ordinary people. Some are academic, others practical. Some just like a good natter.

A side effect of being a volunteer is that you become such an expert on all things Spanish; From how to make the best tortilla patatas to the Spanish attitude to sustainable energy. If you want to start an argument, ask each student which region produces the best wine. If you want to get serious, ask about ETA. The politician gave me chapter and verse and the police chief told me how they were dealing with the problem. One day, the actor might play either of them in a film. But he will do so in much improved English.

(Note: I wrote the original version of this nearly two years ago and it appeared on the best website about Spain, Notes From Spain.com. Since then there have been a few changes. Primarily, the original company has split into two independent companies. They are PuebloInglés and Vaughan Village. Although they differ slightly in the way the week is organised, both will give the visiting “Anglo” a wonderful experience. I guarantee you will make good friends. And they both fulfill the aims to improve the English of the students. The results are amazing! So much so that the actor mentioned above has recently completed his first major Hollywood movie – in a leading role. When he gets his Oscar I’ll tell you who he is.)

Escape To Seville

A few months ago I headed south, to Seville. These are my recollections:

If being Moorish means making you want to come back for seconds, then Seville spectacularly fails. What appeals to me about Spain is its phoenix like resurrection from the ashes of its past. Yet, like an insect in amber, parts of Seville remain mummified in its history.

Once Seville grew rich from trading with the Americas. Now its vendors prosper by selling trinkets to Americans.

That’s not to say I did not enjoy my visit to the Real Alcazar. Without realizing it I had sneaked in through the back door. I have no idea if there is a charge for entry, but I noticed that the crowds coming towards me held small maps; others held electronic guides to their ears. I wondered from where they had got them until I found myself just inside the entrance and saw the long queue waiting to get in. I was` pleased I had missed that.

The labyrinthine passages and the relaxing gardens were a sheer joy. I am pleased we no longer rely on film in our cameras; the processing costs from my walk in the Jardines would have cost a fortune. Around each corner is a delight; an unexpected pleasure. The imagination of its builders is impressive. It is if every niche is planned to appeal to all the senses; from the intricately designed interiors to the cool, relaxing arcaded plazas and shady gardens. The perfume of the roses is not over-powering, the fountains not exuberant. They trickle rather than spurt, whisper rather than gurgle.

With my first sight of the cathedral a phrase entered my head. If God’s works are miraculous, then Man’s are wonderful. The massive bulk of the cathedral is lightened by amazing external carving. The flying buttresses soar, the tower of the Giralda almost penetrates the sky. I am both fascinated and overawed by medieval architecture. How the craftsmen constructed such edifices without the benefit of modern technology is incredible. I can, and have, studied for this for a long time. In Amiens or Chartres I have sat and contemplated the inspiration and dedication of the men who formed them.

No chance for such contemplations in the cathedral in Seville however. At nearly eight euros to enter it is somewhere to go once only. This is a shame as there is much to see, or perhaps not see, as I really feel that they have over-egged the pudding. The only real marvels that can be clearly seen are the massive vaulted ceilings. All else is obscured by gaudy wooden gilt carvery. The views are limited and the enjoyment consequently diminished.

And the crowds! As a tourist myself I cannot blame anyone from making the grand tour and seeing the sights. But Seville cathedral has become a theme park for tourists and screaming parties of schoolchildren. It is a place on their itinerary; a place to gawk and exclaim, not to contemplate and wonder. I felt cheated out of my eight euros.

The streets around the cathedral also pander to the tourist. It is a matter of a few metres from the cathedral walls to the nearest Irish bar. The carriage drivers with their patiently waiting horses solicit for custom and I can honestly say I had the worst dinner I have ever had in Spain in one of the narrow streets that radiate from the Plaza Virgen de los Reyes, which lies at the foot of the Giralda tower. I actually found myself wishing I had gone to McDonalds!

But the view from the Giralda tower is fantastic. The highest a member of the public can climb is ninety-seven metres above the town and from there one can see forever. To glance directly down is to invite a severe case of vertigo, but to see Seville laid out beneath your feet is really quite breath taking. And it was pleasing that one could climb the tower at no extra charge, unlike St. Paul’s in London, where they charge both on entry and then again for the crypt, the dome and so on. But the space up there is limited and yet they had allowed a thousand kids to run rampage down its sloping access. (There are no steps, until the very last part, just a continuous ever ascending helix – except it’s square, if that makes sense!) I was pleased none of the kids had thought to come equipped with a skateboard. In the cramped spaced I was jostled and pushed by bored, belligerent children. The spaces for viewing are limited and impatient queues formed. One could not stand and contemplate. There was just a mad scramble to get the camera to where its aim was unobscured by the crowd and take the picture for later viewing.

To ease my aching feet I took a tour in one of the open topped buses. For fifteen euros I expected more than a tour of two now defunct trade expo sites and a brief glance at the Plaza de España. Ok, it did come with a set of free earpieces that enable one to hear the commentary which claimed to be full of history and anecdotes. Another disappointment! “On the left is the tobacco factory on which Carmen was based”, “On the right was the Mexican pavilion for the trade fair in 1929”. And then???? Nothing! No tales, no insights, very little history. After one complete circular tour I alighted at the Plaza de España and enjoyed the frescos and the relative peace. Once the centerpiece of the 1929 expo, the semi-circular building is now a tax office and a place for weddings. I witnessed one happy bride pose with her retinue on the steps of the Viennese style bridges which cross a waterless, litter strewn sunken moat.

But with the obvious tourist traps done I wandered away to other parts of the city. I have always had a fascination with engineering on a large scale, and in particular, bridges. Seville serves well in this respect and has among the several that cross the wide Rio Guadalquivir two spectacular examples; the Puente de la Barqueta and the Puente del Alamillo. The last had recently been a subject of a History Channel documentary and I was keen to see it up close.

The receptionist at my hotel told me it was about forty minutes walk. He lied. It took twice that, but I didn’t mind. The Paseo Rey Juan Carlos is a riverside walkway that is a pleasure to amble along. The view of the gently curving river with its leaping fish made for an enjoyable excursion. And the quality of the graffiti on the bridge supports quite high! The Puente de la Barqueta preys over the river like a giant insect. Thick stays descend from its belly to support the platform. The Puente del Alamillo rests like a harp on its back. Its massive supporting, reclining tower shoots one hundred a four metres skywards, the roadway below suspended by the harpstrings. Under the bright blue sky it gleams a brilliant white and can be seen from the train a long time before reaching the station.

Puente de la Barqueta Puente del Alamillo

I saw both the bridges, crossed them, photographed them and was happy and turned back into town. But I was footsore and thirsty. Just off the Puente de la Barqueta begins the area known as Macarena. There is to be found a bit of the old city wall, with its synonymous gate and the tower of Los Perdigones, which boasts a camera obscura with which to view the city.

Just up a side street I found a cerveceria. It was mid afternoon. A few workmen stood at a street side counter and ate tapas and drank their beer. Inside secretaries ate and read newspapers. The floor was littered with discarded sugar sachets, napkins and cigarette butts. I felt at home.

The barman, who wore a stained tee shirt emblazoned with “The best is yet to come” (in Spanish, which I translated but cannot remember the exact wording,) seemed curious that I was English. The choice of beer was either non-alcoholic Barbican or the local Cruzcampo. It was a no brainer!

And suddenly, from not liking Seville very much, I had a complete change of heart. All around me people were speaking Spanish. Not an American, German or French accent anywhere. What’s more, (thanks in part to having learned a lot of Spanish from Pimsleur recordings with South American accents,) I could understand the conversations around me.

The next day I went back into Macarena and wandered the alleys and streets so narrow they can be crossed in a couple of paces. I found a tiny plaza where an enterprising café owner had set up tables on the steps of the church opposite and there I sat in the shade of the bell tower drinking coffee and contemplating the world as it passed me by. It was so quiet I could hear the birds singing. A couple of blocks away the plaza Alameda de Hercules was a mass of construction machinery and a maze of protective fences. A place of cheap tapas bars and hostals, it belonged to the young. There must be a music school nearby as the pavement cafés were full of students with instrument cases at their feet enjoying cheap food. Soon the restoration of this square, or rather oblong, will be complete, but I hope the tourists don’t find it quickly.

So there is hope for Seville. A new tram system now clangs its way through the centre. Away from the Giralda and the Alcazar the city behaves like any other. The area of Macarena will remain unspoiled as they would have to tear it down and begin again. The street musicians will continue to play in the Calle Velázquez, the little shops in the Calle Sierpes will carry on trading. The citizens are friendly. My taxi driver from the railway station, unlike the taxi drivers of Madrid, immediately began a conversation. He wanted to talk football. When I told him I didn’t really like the game he pronounced me, “Muy raro”, and carried on regardless. The alleys proclaim to be for pedestrians only, but beware of motorcyclists who don’t read signs. If you are coming to Seville get the tourist traps done quickly, then find that little hidden square in the depths of Macarena and chill out.