Tag Archives: cathedral

Orientation

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An exploration of the locality surrounding our Seville hotel reveals two useful supermarkets [one exactly opposite us] and a network of small streets in which there are plenty of cafes, bars and restaurants. Every one has outside tables with people sitting and partaking. One reason could be that we’re in an area of university student accommodation blocks.

Exploring further, we meander towards the historic part of the city. Seville is blessed with a network of green spaces- gardens and parks- many with water features and all with beautiful, landscaped planting; palms, exotic trees and flowers and of course, the ubiquitous citrus trees.

At last we arrive at Plaza de Espana, an iconic space that was built in 1929. It is vast, a Spanish square, though the curved canal and semi surround render it less ‘square’- like. It’s hard not to be impressed, even though the ornamental canal is depleted of water. The park the square sits in is closed off due to storm warnings, but we are able to access the Plaza via steps and through the building [which houses a military museum]. The lower part of the curved wall of the museum displays mosaic maps of the Spanish provinces. Today, at the base of the main steps, a Flamenco dancer accompanied by a singing Spanish guitarist is entertaining a crowd.

An open top bus tour seems a good idea next day. It’s something we often do in an unknown city- a good way to understand the layout of a place and identify sights we may wish to visit.

One issue we find is that, like Madrid, there is a dearth of public lavatories, although we get lucky and having bought the bus tickets we are directed to one attached to a cafe in the park opposite the bus stop. Husband declines the use of the commentary on board the open top bus, resulting in my having to hiss information to him piecemeal as I receive it. The bus drives us past a lot of famous bits we’d never have time to visit on foot- the ‘pavilions’, a set of buildings from south American countries, the palace of justice, the golden tower, the river Guadalquivir and its beautiful bridges, the technology centre with a replica of Europe’s Ariane space rocket, the old Romany quarter, an area famous for tile-making and the Macarena district- an area I especially like, with its narrow streets of historic houses and beautiful squares.

Seville’s streets are decked with Christmas decorations, all ready for the festive season, although [just as in Adelaide] it feels bizarre to see sparkly Christmas baubles in warm sunshine. When the bus loops back to the river we get off by the golden tower- the Torre del Oro. It’s a wide promenade overlooking the water where there’s a ‘galleon’ moored.

We’re in need of some refreshment by now and have walked back into the city centre and to the area housing the huge cathedral, the street thronged with visitors and trams swishing by. There is an inevitable Starbucks and we dive in there, as much for the toilet facilities as anything else, although there is no lock on the ladies’ ,which makes for a nerve-wracking few minutes for me!

As with so many iconic buildings these days, we are supposed to have bought tickets for the cathedral, but we discover we can buy them from a counter, which we do, then we’re in straight away…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Sins on Site and Off

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St David’s cathedral in Pembrokeshire, Wales is a magnificent building and well worth a look, outside and in.

After our visit we climb the steps back up to the village and get an early evening beer before exploring evening dining possibilities, opting for The Bishops, which looks to have a good menu and a quirky interior.

On our return to the camp site we’re greeted with a message attached to our mirror. Apparently we’ve transgressed by parking the wrong way round and we’ve encroached on the next door pitch, as well as committing the grave misdemeanour of having our awning out! Who knew? It’s a wonder we’re not banished or the van impounded for such heinous sins!

We’re rarely subjected to strict rules and regulations when touring- I can only recall once having to park facing the same way as everyone else somewhere in Italy, a town site where it was all hard standing and terraced; but never before in a vast, rural site with oodles of space. The admonishment does nothing to endear the owners/managers of this place to us!

The meal at The Bishops is good, the venue characterful and just busy enough to be interesting. We return to site- up through the village and down the lane.

We’re off again next day to begin our return. Husband has found a site en route. We could have made our return in a day, although it would have been a long day’s travel. The site is outside Bath next to a busy road and half a mile along from a few houses and one large pub. There’s an unexpected shower of rain as we attempt to drive through Bath, clearly a mistake as we get into a muddle and [weeks later] end up with a fine for emissions, something we’d not considered! More sinning!

When we pull up, the iron gates across the site are closed. I ring the site’s number. Apparently we were supposed to look at an email which contained the access code- on a pad next to the gate. Failed again! The manager drives along in a 4×4 tom let us in. It’s an unusual site, highly un-manicured, with huge fields either side of a rough track. I assume it’s a work in progress, as the showers and toilets are in portacabins. There’s no electricity. All of this is fine for us for one overnight stop.

The site isn’t busy but there are a number of tents, some tiny- a group of singles with small cars and a pair of Dutch walkers. This is clearly a site much used for visiting Bath.

We wander up along the busy road to the pub- which is a big, cavernous place hosting a few diners. The fields flanking the road are dusty, beige prairies, bearing the mark of repeated heatwaves and drought that the UK has suffered this year, but there remains a wonderful crop of blackberries in the hedgerow, so brambles must be exceptionally resilient plants.

Then it’s home again and a start to planning the next getaway…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Lane of no Memory

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Having looked at Porth Cawl and had a very acceptable meal in the Rose and Crown pub in Nottage, it’s time to leave and move on to the next site.

We’re booked into a site at St Davids, in Pembrokeshire. I’ve been here before, many years ago and subsequently learn that I’ve been here twice, apparently having been on a camping trip with my youth club. I remembered we’d had a camping trip but forgotten the location. What I do recall is that I was on my own with a load of lads. Heaven knows how I was allowed to go by my parents!

The site is down an extremely narrow lane some little way out of town and down a steepish hill. At least the return from St Davids town will be downhill! It’s a huge site with several fields, of which ours is some distance from the gate and also the shower block.

We park up and chock up, as it’s a slope and we make sure we have a good view of the coastline from the van- and it is a spectacular view- rocky cliffs, coves and caves, dashed by foamy waves. We set up and decide on a walk [up the hill] into St Davids. It’s narrow enough that we must press ourselves into the hedgerow whenever a vehicle comes, and there are plenty of them as ours is not the only site down this lane.

I don’t remember much about St Davids, so the fact that I’ve been twice before isn’t an issue. But I do remember the amazing cathedral.

Is it a village or a town? It’s hard to say but it has just one main street, although it’s packed with a lot of well known retailers like Fatface and Go Outdoors, plus ice cream parlours, gift shops and a kind of antiques emporium in a grand building. Of course, none of these retailers was here for either of my previous trips, or even existed, I imagine. Perhaps it is one benefit of older age that poor memory blurs past events and travel? I may as well not have been here at all!

The ice cream parlour is very busy but has only one, unappealing vegan ice cream flavour, so I pass.

Further down the street there’s a small craft market on the island in the centre and further still, through an archway, there is the cathedral. It’s a glorious sight- vast and beautiful, nestling in the dip between the hills. But it’s still a long way down to the entrance, a choice of slope or steps.

There’s a stream at the bottom and we cross the bridge between the ruins of what used to be the bishop’s palace and the great cathedral. Here is a great setting for such iconic buildings, although when we take a look at the exterior of the bishop’s palace we decide not to pay to go inside, since there’s little left to see!

To the cathedral, then; we return to the main entrance and through the porch. And we’re not disappointed…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Nantes at Last

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Arthur: the young man in reception’s name tag informs us. He steps around his desk towards us, all other staff being occupied. It’s clear from the outset that we’re not the standard of tourers he’d like to be welcoming to the site, as a curling sneer hovers around his lips.

I begin in my [not too shabby] French. Here I feel compelled to add that plenty of Frenchmen and women have complimented me on my delivery of the language. The exceptions have tended to be young men, like Arthur.

‘Would I prefer him to speak English?’

I capitulate. He casts me a pitying look and tells us that only the most expensive pitches are available. I look at him. Does he assume, then, that we don’t appear as if we can afford it? Husband steps up. We’ll have 2 nights!

In spite of little Arthur, we make our way to the posh pitch- although I’m at pains to see why they’re more expensive. It’s a small patch next to a tiny square of grass with a picnic table. The piece de resistance seems to be the shed type building, to which we have a key. No- this is not a personal bathroom- this is indeed a shed, containing a scruffy, cold water sink, a fridge [useful] and some loungers. I’m not sure whether these will be used given that the pitch is almost entirely shaded- still, we’re not here to lounge around.

Where are we? We’re at Nantes- in a site we’ve attempted to get into before with no success, it being stubbornly ‘complet’, hence the fact that we’re prepared to pay extra for the pitch. Otherwise the site is fine- if pricy and has a bar/cafe of sorts.

We’re on a tram route into the city. We need to work out how to buy tickets, then we’re set. It’s just a question of gauging when we’re at the centre. I have a slight moment of panic when our tram comes, Husband gets on and the door closes- leaving me on the outside, but when I press the door button it opens. All good; I’m not about to be stranded not knowing where to alight in Nantes.

Using the map on the wall, we take a guess at our stop and get off. First impressions are of a huge and imposing city with massive, elegant buildings and wide streets and pavements. Wow!

We’re not so impressed by the portacabin toilets near the cathedral, though. They are in a thoroughly revolting state and unusable. The cathedral is, itself, disappointing, since while the exterior looks wonderful, it is encased in fencing due to needing repairs from a fire. Ho hum…

Nantes has a photogenic chateau with a big wow factor and great views from the top of the walls, which makes up for the cathedral’s parlous state. The chateau contains a museum, but there’s too much to see in Nantes for us to use up the time.

The majestic Loire travels through this city, dividing up for an island, the Ile de Nantes. There’s something thrilling to see on the island, so we head that way and across the footbridge…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Caught without a Web

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We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Santiago de Compostela-for Philistines.

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Travel along Spain’s north coast and you will be guaranteed stupendous views, beautiful beaches and the sight of a great many ‘pilgrims’ trudging along the Camino de Santiago, following thousand upon thousands of sunburst signs as they make their way towards their Mecca, Santiago de Compostela.

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In true martyr-ish style, wholly in line with Catholic traditions, this Easter’s weather helps them on their way by being utterly appalling. This part of Spain is renowned for wet weather but this year’s exceeds all expectations. The entire country is deluged with torrential downpours while the UK basks in unusual warm sunshine.

Groups of walkers line our route, clad in voluminous, dripping capes that cover them and their rucksacks, giving them the appearance of soggy, deformed camels. Many have walking sticks and a fair number use Nordic walking poles. Is this a true dedication to the cause of suffering, I wonder?

The pilgrims come in all shapes, sizes, nationalities and ages; entire families with children, pairs of young girls, single people. Many meet up along the way and travel together, like the two young American girls with a short Portuguese man we met on one of our [non pilgrim] walks. Some look grimly determined, some chat as they walk, others sport beatific smiles as though already transported by their ordeal.

The nearer you get to Santiago, the more pilgrims there are, waiting at crossings, standing on corners, munching things, looking at phones.

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We’ve waited until Easter is over to visit Santiago and arrive on the Tuesday after, thinking it will be less fraught to negotiate the traffic, but we are still caught out by a parade of some kind and must effect a slow crawl through the narrow streets to find the camper-stop, which is situated up above the city-at least we can’t be flooded out. It is well organised and well used, a manned entrance cabin, tickets, a useful city map, water and emptying supplied.

Since there is no sign-from any source-that the rain is going to abate we don raincoats, grab umbrellas and run for the city centre bus, which takes us down into the heart of what is a beautiful, elegant place, wet or not.

Santiago seems designed for rain, cloistered walkways abound and there is no shortage of drains, into which rainwater gushes or tips from rooftop spouts. Crowds accumulate in the worst showers, huddling in doorways or squeezing into tiny shops selling religious icons and souvenirs.

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We are spoilt for choice for our naff shelf collection [read here].

At last we seek refuge from the showers in the cathedral museum, where I am clucked at for photographing. The art works are fascinating and also slightly bonkers, as religious art can be. The topmost floor is open to the elements with rooms off, containing cases of bejewelled, silver or gold crosses and paraphernalia in abundance-a demonstration of the wealth of the Catholic church.

Another set of rooms has wonderful, wall-sized Belgian tapestries depicting country scenes of people carousing at Inns. The detail is worth studying-drinkers at tables, dogs stealing food, babies being fed, a man peeing up against a wall-all most un-ecclesiastical.

When we tire of the relentless deluge we get the bus back to our warm and cosy van.

Next day there is a lull in the rain, long enough for servicing the van, then we’re off to brighter skies, drier roads and a quieter time-and Portugal!

It’s not so far. We stop for lunch on a small quay by the River Minho, choppy waves in the stiff breeze.

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Onwards to Vila Cha, the latter stages of the journey corrugated by cobbled roads. After a series of winding lanes we reach our chosen site, but as we approach we realise-of course! We’ve stayed here before. This is not bad news-the excellent restaurant opposite the entrance is still thriving!

Spanish Nights and Gourmet Delights

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We are sitting outside at a restaurant table in Caceres, central Spain. It is 9.30pm. The balmy evening sky is a clear cobalt blue and I pause in my perusal of the incomprehensible menu to zoom my camera lens up to the summit of a church steeple where two storks have mounted guard over their mountainous nest. It is a pleasing shot-mostly silhouette. At any rate-I am pleased.

Meandering up from Portugal through central Spain has become an unexpected pleasure and explains why this kind of travel is such a joy. You happen across places you’ve barely, or never heard of and yet they may be tourist magnets [underlining your ignorance] or simply unpretentious, lovely and little known.

Caceres is evidently well known, judging by the thronging masses clogging up the centre on this Tuesday evening, although it is Holy Week-only the most important week of the world in the entire Christian world, which explains the crowds waiting outside the cathedral, lining the roads and blocking our access to any likely-looking restaurants. From the grand cathedral doors some elaborately got-up figures have emerged. They are dressed in white habits with purple capes and some sport alarming pointy headgear a la Klu-Klux-Klan. One is trudging along with a black timber cross slung over his shoulder, for all the world as if he is off to complete some roofing work.

We perform some lengthy manoeuvres in order to access the square offering up most of the restaurants which takes up enough time for Husband to become vociferously grumpy, such are his hunger pangs. He has expressed a desire for steak and nothing else will do.

Having accomplished the mission and found a table by virtue of being only two rather than a family of eight we enter a period of confusion involving several waiters until someone is found who can explain the list of delights. The attention of a Spanish diner at the neighbouring table is captured. My schoolgirl Spanish fails beyond ‘carne’. Earlier I’d thought myself accomplished when asking ‘Hay aseos aqui?’ in the tourist office but my understanding of the rapid stream that issued as reply let me down. Fortunately the toilets were next door.

We finish our starters-enormous plates of salad-and some small plates are brought, plus steak knives-we are evidently to get a shared dish. A large area of table is cleared. A waiter emerges bearing aloft a platter the size of a tray which spits and sizzles like a cornered alley cat then lowers into the cleared space something that may be the pieces of half a cow. Full of salad we stare speechless at the mountain of sputtering ribs before dissolving into semi-hysterical laughter, which is vastly entertaining for the neighbouring Spaniard.

We do our best, struggling through as much as we can before admitting defeat. Would we like desert? Er…

When I ask Husband why they are taking so long with the bill he tells me they are in the kitchen chewing on the returned ribs. He mimes this, using his hands, prompting a loud explosion of laughter from me and causing the Spaniard’s face to crease into mirth despite having no knowledge of the cause. I mop my tears with the napkin, we pay up and leave, only to discover we’ve missed the last bus back. Ho hum.