Pete and Jan in Andalucia, Two
Aug. 21st, 2008 08:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peterbirksSATURDAY:
One of the first sights to greet me on Saturday morning as I walked into the front room (my first Saurday without an FT in about 14 years, I reckoned) was that of a peacock staring at me through the French windows. Hmm, I said to myself, that's not something you come across that often in Lewisham. We had been told of the presence of this bird, so it wasn’t a great shock. Percy the Peacock was to become quite a companion for a couple of days.
Slobbing around, we munched on some of the food bought Friday night. Chocolate biscuits do not suit Spain. They merge into a soggy solid inseparable mass. Lots of swimming, reading, etc.
In the evening we went for a meal in Jimena Frontera, the old town on the hill. Driving in these places is for masochists only. We eventually reached a hill sufficiently steep for Jan to refuse to drive up it. She then encountered a temporary but potentially inconvenient inability to find reverse. Hopeless as I may be at driving cars, I’m not that bad at parking them. And, useless as I may be in the car with the gearbox from hell in driving forwards, my reversing was top notch. So I parked it for her.
The restaurant was not crowded, and the waiter was friendly. The weakness of the pound compared with the euro makes the attributes “cheap” and “expensive” rather harder to apply at the moment. But I felt that the meal was a fraction overpriced at E41.50 for two, before tip. Then again, that’s tourist areas for you.
Jimena de la Frontera clearly attracts a large number of British holidaymakers and an equally large number of expats. The description “Dordogne by Africa” wouldn’t be inaccurate. Mainly middle-class, middle aged people, who have tried to get away from the “commercial” Spain where “all the Brits” retire, only to create their own different little England inland.
Driving back, I managed to stall the car on a railway line. Yes, driving in Spain with me could never be described as dull. The problem that I have with the Seat Ibiza gearbox (well, one of the problems) is that it’s so easy to find fifth when you want to be in third (or, indeed, on one occasion, first). Jan said that if I’d listened to her and ordered an automatc... But, well, as a rule, I prefer manual transmission. It’s just nice to have one which has power ratios that come from somewhere other than the planet Zog. A Seat Ibiza Diesel does not need five gears. Indeed, I’m not sure that it needs four. But, everything has five gears these days (at least, the MR2, I hear, has six), so what you end up with is a fifth gear that will stall the car if you are going less then 30mph and will stall the car if you are attempting to climb an incline of more than 1 in 100. Oh, and the rather rocky road up to the villa causes the car to stall in second gear. I know this not because I tried it (I was pessimistic enough about the interplanetary gearbox to keep it solidly in first gear up that particular minefield) but because Jan did, later in the week.
I owned a Volkswagen Beetle once. I reckon that the Beetle could have negotiated the hill to the villa in third, stopping off for a cigarette half way up.
The house is fantastically situated, with gorgeous views, bar the fact that we are 100 yards uphill from a functioning farm and silage plant. And the water supply, both hot and cold, could most kindly be described as temperamental. Luckily it doesn’t matter too much if the hot water goes off (which, we were to find out as the week progressed, it did, with monotonous regularity – I suspect that all four houses up the hill use the same hot water supply. The house above us has three teenage visitors; I need to shower and shave by 7/.30am to get to the early morning hot water supply before they do) but when the cold water cuts out, that’s a mite irritating. Particularly if, as happened to Jan once before we drove into town, you have your hair full of shampoo.
Sunday:
“So, how long do you think it will take to get to Ronda?” asked Jan.
“Oooh”, replied I, glancing askance at the map, “shouldn’t be much over an hour and ten minutes”.
I had failed to allow for two, fortunately at least partially counterbalancing, factors.
1) Jan drives faster than I do,
2) Driving to Ronda entailed ascending a mountain a fraction higher than Ben Nevis.
It was when we got to 900 metres in altitude and my ears popped (they were to do so once again at 1,400 metres) that I realized my 1hr 10 minutes assessment was going to be woefully inadequate. We must have driven at least 20 miles without getting out of third. And this, remember, is the gearbox from hell, as well as a diesel engine.
An Almond tree
______________
My clearly ridiculously optimistic plan to get to Ronda, get round and get out before the worst of the heat attacked, was finally scuttled. We arrived about 1hr 40 mins after setting off. I then made the stupid mistake of, when reading the Rough Guide, of assuming that “Up” = “North”. I might be able to read maps ok, but when Up equals East and I haven’t realized, it’s a recipe for disaster.
Which, amazingly, we escaped. We arrived in via the old town (pre 16th century) and managed to find Puento Nueva, the “new bridge”, built around 1850.
This brought us into the new town (of course, I thought we had crossed in the opposite direction) and we found a parking space. And THIS, it transpired, was precisely where we had originally been aiming for, a square which had the best restaurants.
After some coffee, and after I had finally worked out why my map-reading had gone so awry (Jan has no worries about being lost; I meanwhile, descend into gibbering panic), we walked down to the bullring. I’d never seen one of these before.
The first thing that strikes people used to cricket grounds and football grounds is that it seems tiny. The second thing that struck me was that, as obviously happened to Hemingway and Orson Welles (the latter being buried nearby according to his wishes), I began to see the appeal of the whole thing, something which had passed me by before. All very Spanish, of course, but within the concept of “Spanishness”, eminently logical in a way which, say, rugby is not.
We walked back across the bridge (famous for its very high arch) and visited some restored gardens and “hidden mines”.
These latter were incredible, having been carved out of the rock and descending 200 steps through tunnels to the valley floor. As you leave you are on a platform just above the river, looking up 170 feet to the split towns above. The health and safety people in the UK would probably have barred this to public access decades ago. (“Ancient Mines of Moria, you say? That’s as may be, but I can’t grant you a licence without you offering disabled access”.)
After that we made the minor error of eating tapas near the Cathedral of Ste Maria Mayor. It’s always possible to obtain vaguely disappointing food, no matter what country in the world you are visiting, if you stick to the tourist areas. However, the waiter was friendly (although his excellent English should have been a warning sign) and he did bring me a very large coke, which was much needed.
The sights on the drives through the Ronda Mountains were incredible, although we managed to stop on the way back at a cafe where the main view was a mobile phone mast, the junction of two roads, and a cement mixer. But the coffee was superb.
Percy the Peacock was staring dejectedly at his reflection in the French windows when we got back. Where had we been all day? He wanted that muesli that I had, perhaps mistakenly, fed him the previous afternoon. He also appeared to have butted his head against the other French windows, losing feathers and splutzing in several places. I found the water hose. Gave the peacock some more muesli. Percy showed his gratitude by crapping on the patio.
For dinner, I cooked on a barbecue for the first time (yes, it’s amazing how many things I quite simply have never got round to doing) and didn’t make a bad job of the marinated pork chops at all, if I say so myself. Served with salad, mushroom and mustard sauce, and fresh beans. (done by Jan, as was the original chop marinade – she does the hard bits; any fool can barbecue) Yum.
One of the first sights to greet me on Saturday morning as I walked into the front room (my first Saurday without an FT in about 14 years, I reckoned) was that of a peacock staring at me through the French windows. Hmm, I said to myself, that's not something you come across that often in Lewisham. We had been told of the presence of this bird, so it wasn’t a great shock. Percy the Peacock was to become quite a companion for a couple of days.
Slobbing around, we munched on some of the food bought Friday night. Chocolate biscuits do not suit Spain. They merge into a soggy solid inseparable mass. Lots of swimming, reading, etc.
In the evening we went for a meal in Jimena Frontera, the old town on the hill. Driving in these places is for masochists only. We eventually reached a hill sufficiently steep for Jan to refuse to drive up it. She then encountered a temporary but potentially inconvenient inability to find reverse. Hopeless as I may be at driving cars, I’m not that bad at parking them. And, useless as I may be in the car with the gearbox from hell in driving forwards, my reversing was top notch. So I parked it for her.
The restaurant was not crowded, and the waiter was friendly. The weakness of the pound compared with the euro makes the attributes “cheap” and “expensive” rather harder to apply at the moment. But I felt that the meal was a fraction overpriced at E41.50 for two, before tip. Then again, that’s tourist areas for you.
Jimena de la Frontera clearly attracts a large number of British holidaymakers and an equally large number of expats. The description “Dordogne by Africa” wouldn’t be inaccurate. Mainly middle-class, middle aged people, who have tried to get away from the “commercial” Spain where “all the Brits” retire, only to create their own different little England inland.
Driving back, I managed to stall the car on a railway line. Yes, driving in Spain with me could never be described as dull. The problem that I have with the Seat Ibiza gearbox (well, one of the problems) is that it’s so easy to find fifth when you want to be in third (or, indeed, on one occasion, first). Jan said that if I’d listened to her and ordered an automatc... But, well, as a rule, I prefer manual transmission. It’s just nice to have one which has power ratios that come from somewhere other than the planet Zog. A Seat Ibiza Diesel does not need five gears. Indeed, I’m not sure that it needs four. But, everything has five gears these days (at least, the MR2, I hear, has six), so what you end up with is a fifth gear that will stall the car if you are going less then 30mph and will stall the car if you are attempting to climb an incline of more than 1 in 100. Oh, and the rather rocky road up to the villa causes the car to stall in second gear. I know this not because I tried it (I was pessimistic enough about the interplanetary gearbox to keep it solidly in first gear up that particular minefield) but because Jan did, later in the week.
I owned a Volkswagen Beetle once. I reckon that the Beetle could have negotiated the hill to the villa in third, stopping off for a cigarette half way up.
The house is fantastically situated, with gorgeous views, bar the fact that we are 100 yards uphill from a functioning farm and silage plant. And the water supply, both hot and cold, could most kindly be described as temperamental. Luckily it doesn’t matter too much if the hot water goes off (which, we were to find out as the week progressed, it did, with monotonous regularity – I suspect that all four houses up the hill use the same hot water supply. The house above us has three teenage visitors; I need to shower and shave by 7/.30am to get to the early morning hot water supply before they do) but when the cold water cuts out, that’s a mite irritating. Particularly if, as happened to Jan once before we drove into town, you have your hair full of shampoo.
Sunday:
“So, how long do you think it will take to get to Ronda?” asked Jan.
“Oooh”, replied I, glancing askance at the map, “shouldn’t be much over an hour and ten minutes”.
I had failed to allow for two, fortunately at least partially counterbalancing, factors.
1) Jan drives faster than I do,
2) Driving to Ronda entailed ascending a mountain a fraction higher than Ben Nevis.
It was when we got to 900 metres in altitude and my ears popped (they were to do so once again at 1,400 metres) that I realized my 1hr 10 minutes assessment was going to be woefully inadequate. We must have driven at least 20 miles without getting out of third. And this, remember, is the gearbox from hell, as well as a diesel engine.
An Almond tree
______________
My clearly ridiculously optimistic plan to get to Ronda, get round and get out before the worst of the heat attacked, was finally scuttled. We arrived about 1hr 40 mins after setting off. I then made the stupid mistake of, when reading the Rough Guide, of assuming that “Up” = “North”. I might be able to read maps ok, but when Up equals East and I haven’t realized, it’s a recipe for disaster.
Which, amazingly, we escaped. We arrived in via the old town (pre 16th century) and managed to find Puento Nueva, the “new bridge”, built around 1850.
This brought us into the new town (of course, I thought we had crossed in the opposite direction) and we found a parking space. And THIS, it transpired, was precisely where we had originally been aiming for, a square which had the best restaurants.
After some coffee, and after I had finally worked out why my map-reading had gone so awry (Jan has no worries about being lost; I meanwhile, descend into gibbering panic), we walked down to the bullring. I’d never seen one of these before.
The first thing that strikes people used to cricket grounds and football grounds is that it seems tiny. The second thing that struck me was that, as obviously happened to Hemingway and Orson Welles (the latter being buried nearby according to his wishes), I began to see the appeal of the whole thing, something which had passed me by before. All very Spanish, of course, but within the concept of “Spanishness”, eminently logical in a way which, say, rugby is not.
We walked back across the bridge (famous for its very high arch) and visited some restored gardens and “hidden mines”.
These latter were incredible, having been carved out of the rock and descending 200 steps through tunnels to the valley floor. As you leave you are on a platform just above the river, looking up 170 feet to the split towns above. The health and safety people in the UK would probably have barred this to public access decades ago. (“Ancient Mines of Moria, you say? That’s as may be, but I can’t grant you a licence without you offering disabled access”.)
After that we made the minor error of eating tapas near the Cathedral of Ste Maria Mayor. It’s always possible to obtain vaguely disappointing food, no matter what country in the world you are visiting, if you stick to the tourist areas. However, the waiter was friendly (although his excellent English should have been a warning sign) and he did bring me a very large coke, which was much needed.
The sights on the drives through the Ronda Mountains were incredible, although we managed to stop on the way back at a cafe where the main view was a mobile phone mast, the junction of two roads, and a cement mixer. But the coffee was superb.
Percy the Peacock was staring dejectedly at his reflection in the French windows when we got back. Where had we been all day? He wanted that muesli that I had, perhaps mistakenly, fed him the previous afternoon. He also appeared to have butted his head against the other French windows, losing feathers and splutzing in several places. I found the water hose. Gave the peacock some more muesli. Percy showed his gratitude by crapping on the patio.
For dinner, I cooked on a barbecue for the first time (yes, it’s amazing how many things I quite simply have never got round to doing) and didn’t make a bad job of the marinated pork chops at all, if I say so myself. Served with salad, mushroom and mustard sauce, and fresh beans. (done by Jan, as was the original chop marinade – she does the hard bits; any fool can barbecue) Yum.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-22 05:24 pm (UTC)I beat a sharpish retreat.
Titmus