Lorca – A Phoenix Rising from the Ashes

On the 11th May 2011 an earthquake hit the town of Lorca in Spain. 9 people died and 10,000 people were left homeless. Significant damage was caused to local buildings by the 5.1 magnitude quake and, two and a half years later, the town is still in a state of repair and rebuild. Scaffolding supports many exterior walls and even the tourist information office is being held up by large metal beams and rods. However, life goes on around me as people do their daily shopping or meet up with friends for a coffee.
I find the Belen, a traditional nativity scene which most towns and cities display for the public. It is housed in the beautiful Palace of Guevara surrounded by the ornate columns of the courtyard. There is an overriding theme of Egypt in the miniature models complete with Nile crocodiles and elephants. It also features well known Lorca buildings such as the Collegiate Church of Saint Patrick and the Plaza de Espana.
Apart from the 2011 earthquake, Lorca is well known for the Semana Santa Festival which takes place at Easter each year. Two brotherhoods (Blue and White) compete in a colourful display of costumes depicting religious scenes as they parade through the streets. In the Church of San Francisco I find a new photographic exhibition of the festival. The photos capture the excitement and energy of the parade and when I enquire of the photographer I am pointed in the direction of a young man who I had thought was just another interested passer-by but who is actually David Giner, the imaginative creator of the work.
The church of San Francisco shows little sign of damage from the earthquake. It was one of the early historic sites to be repaired. However, the Collegiate Church of Saint Patrick is still surrounded by tall cranes and many others are closed to the public. Lorca is rising again like a phoenix from the ashes with a project of restoration but many people are still waiting for somewhere to live in the town and perhaps the construction of apartments has not received the same level of priority as the historic treasures.
I drive up to the Fortress of the Sun, a medieval castle which overlooks the town from a hill to the north. There are no cars in the parking area, it is December and not the height of the tourist season but I wonder if people have stopped seeing Lorca as a tourist destination following the earthquake. The truth is that there is still a lot to see and do in the town and supporting the local people and the tourist sites can only help speed up the recovery process.

Cabo de Gata

‘Don’t bother with Cabo de Gata. It’s just fields of plastic’. This is what I was told by a Scottish couple who I met in Granada.

‘Cabo de Gata is beautiful. You must go there.’ This is what I was told by the lady in the Motril tourist information office.

Now, I would normally be less inclined to listen to the tourist information as they are paid to promote the region and will undoubtedly put a positive spin on anywhere. However, I want to follow the coast and avoid the main roads as much as possible and my route takes me through Cabo de Gata so I think I’ll chance it. Admittedly, the approach to the area is plastic covered, much of it sloping up the foothills of the Sierra Alhamilla, but then I find myself surrounded by sisal plants and prickly pears. It’s as if I have been transported to Morocco or Mexico, though I’ve never actually been to the latter. I can understand why the area was such a popular setting for the spaghetti westerns, and even today film crews regularly arrive to use the unusual setting for any numbers of exotic locations. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade made use of Monsul Beach for the seagull scaring, plane crashing scene and then moved north to Tabernas for the horse riding, tank crashing action.

I see a sign for a visitors centre and stop for more information. I get more than I bargained for with Jose, who seems extremely excited to have a visitor to talk to. He lays out a map of the Natural Park and takes me step by step through every place I must see, from lighthouses to castles and from beaches to volcanic craters. Then he follows me through the exhibition room pointing at photos of all the places he has recommended. Exhausted, I ask about toilets. At least he can’t follow me in there and I finally get some peace.

My first stop on Jose’s suggested itinerary is the salt pans where hides have been set up for viewing the flamingos. One makes a good spot to stop for lunch. Then I drive to the lighthouse viewpoint. Unfortunately, Jose didn’t tell me just how narrow the winding road to the point gets and I find myself holding my breath as I slowly take each twisting turn, praying that nothing is coming in the opposite direction. Luckily it is siesta time for the Spanish so I’m safe. It’s impossible to reach the next village of San Jose from here unless you are on foot, quad bike or possibly a 4WD so I am forced to double back past the salt pans and inland. San Jose turns out to be a quaint little place and I’m tempted to stay there but I long to stay at the small beach of La Isleta which I’ve seen in photos, so I continue. It’s just as perfect as I imagined and there’s only a few other motorhomes on the site.

Next morning I rise early to catch the sunset over the village and beach from a perfectly placed viewpoint. It’s quiet in the sleepy village and I can’t even get a coffee as all the bars are still closed. Just down the coast, I explore Los Escuilos where there is a 17^th century fort build on a fossilised sand dune. The scenery is spectacular and I manage to get inside the fort where they are setting up for a wedding party later in the day.

A little way inland, nestled in the mountains is the old mining town of Rodalquilar. The volcanic region is rich with ores and minerals which have been exploited over the years but, as usual, the seams ran dry and now all that is left are the scars of the mines and the industrial buildings. Even the old town, which had a school, hospital and houses for the workers, is a ghost town of tumbling stone walls and graffiti. A newer whitewashed town sits nearby housing park staff  as Rodalquilar serves as the headquarters of Cabo de Gata Natural Park. I love being able to explore the abandoned mine site and long to discover some unfound gold, quartz or amethyst. Health and safety doesn’t seem to have reached this part of Europe for there are dangers lurking at each corner, but I’m not concerned.

Looking at the map, I believe I have to join the motorway for a spell to reach the northern part of the park, but then I see a sign for the town of Agua Amarga and I discover a marvellous short cut across barren land of rocks and gorse, dotted with ancient ruined farms and one which looks like an oasis due to the palm trees and other vegetation in the vicinity. Further on are piles of gypsum where mining still continues in some places. After my taste of desolation, I breeze through Agua Amarga, keen to discover le Playa de Los Muertos. The vista from the viewpoint is breath-taking. I can see another lighthouse on the mountain beyond and there is a road leading up to it, but I decide to leave it for another time. After all, I need an excuse to come back to this amazing Natural Park.

Costa Tropical – Paradise Lost

The coast between Malaga and Almeria has an almost perfect climate. Protected from the cold north winds by the Sierra Nevada Mountains, it has an average temperature of 20°C and up to 320 sunny days each year. Water is in good supply with rivers fed from the melt waters of the mountains, so the region is ideal for agriculture. When the Moors arrived in the 8th century they bought with them tropical fruits such as mango, banana, avocado and custard apple, which flourished and became popular with the Spanish people. Sugar cane also provided a profitable local industry, until recently.
Initially these rare subtropical fruits would be considered expensive, luxury items by the Spanish elite, but in the 21st century, consumer pressure has demanded cheaper and cheaper products, and to ensure this agricultural methods have had to adapt.
I expect the CostaTropical to be a vision of paradise with orange and mango groves glowing green along the coast, but what I find is a sea of plastic where the produce is hidden away in a hot house to force growth. I cannot see what is growing inside, but I understand that most of the fruit trees have been replaced with tomatoes and cucumbers. And it is not only Jesus who can walk on water, for I can see several men tip-toeing across the sea of plastic as they repair the roofs or replace the old, thin, sun-bleached covers.

Salobrena and the Sweet Gold of Andalusia

The old town of Salobrena spirals around a large hill which sits between the slopes of the Sierra Nevada and the sea. At its peak is a war-torn, weather-worn Moorish castle and several viewpoints offering vistas along the coastline. Below lies a flat floodplain dotted with squares of smallholdings defined by bamboo windbreaks and growing various beans. Among these is a grassy car park cluttered with motorhomes from across the European Union, including my Trixie. This land was once covered with sugar cane fields and in the neighbouring village of La Caleta stands Azucar Guadalfeo. Built in 1860 by Don Joaquin Agrela, it was the last working sugar factory in Europe, having stopped processing sugar cane back in 2006. All that is left now is tall red brick chimney and the shell of the processing building, crumbling walls and broken windows. Some of the machinery from the factory has been recycled as artwork for the middle of Salobrena’s roundabouts.

Sugar cane originates from the Far East gradually being transported through Asia, Africa and then into Andalusia by the Moors in the 10^th Century. The Mediterranean coastline around Motril provided the perfect climate for the sugar cane to grow and soon it became the main crop on the plains. Up to 500 people were employed in the fields and up to 300 in the processing mills which were built to extract the sugar. This ‘sweet gold’ was then shipped around the world from the port. Over the centuries, demand increased and more mills were built, but they could consume more than 3000 cartloads of wood each season and by 1540 the pine and oak forests of the region had disappeared.

This deforestation resulted in a lack of fuel for the mills and caused flooding of the plains, destroying the sugar cane crop. From 1495 to 1621 significant pirate raids also took place along this now prosperous coastline. By the end of the 17^th century, only 3 sugar mills remained in operation. Competition from America, which produced beet sugar, excessive local taxes and climate change all assisted in the decline. The 19^th Century industrial revolution led to a resurgence of the sugar factories which could use steam power to work the rollers and presses. However, the revival was to be short lived and now the chimney stacks dotted around the city of Motril are smokeless and the factories recycled into radio stations or museums.

Salobrena now makes its money from tourism and the beach front is lined with bars, restaurants and souvenir shops, though few of them are actually open in December. I decide to stop at one next to a rocky outcrop called El Penon, which juts out into the sea from the grey gravel beach. The waters are calm in this sheltered bay and instead of crashing waves, I can hear the breeze rustling the fronds of the palms and the seagulls searching for their supper. I have a glass of chilled white wine and a bottle of ice-cold Sierra Nevada mineral water from the village of Lajaron, which I passed through from Granada. I can feel the sun on my face and it feels good. It’s a lot warmer here on the south coast than the freezing interior of Spain and Salobrena boasts 320 days of sun. So, for me, the sun is the new ‘sweet gold’ of Salobrena.

Alhambra – A Tale of Expectations

I first visited the Alhambra fifteen years ago and I don’t remember much about it except for the beautiful architecture and the numerous black and white photos that I took of the plasterwork and tiles. Now, I’ve returned to find it busier, more expensive and less enthralling. A victim of its own fame after Washington Irving immortalised it in his 1832 book ‘Tales of the Alhambra’ and its increased status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1984.
In 2007 more than 3 million visitors passed through the gates of the Alhambra. The ease of 21st century travel enabling many Asian and American tourists to reach this treasured place. In order to control the numbers and the subsequent effects of deterioration, tickets are now limited and timed. During the busy summer months it is essential to reserve them in advance but it’s only 9am on a December morning, and although it’s a Spanish public holiday, I find obtaining a ticket rather easy. It is timed for 9.30 and had I not engaged the friendly entrance guard in conversation, I would not have realised that this time is for entry to the Nasridian Palace, a good 10 minute walk from the entrance I am currently standing at.
My visit to the Palace turns out to be disappointing, possibly because in the last 15 years I have become very well-travelled, especially in the Middle East, and this type of architecture is no longer novel for me. I get greater enjoyment from wandering the gardens, where fewer tourists bother to venture, and climbing the towers of the Alcazaba, which offer stunning 360° views of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the city of Granada and the plains beyond.

I wonder if I was wise to return to such a well-known and evocative location. Perhaps disappointment was to be expected the second time around. Or perhaps my expectations have changed through experience, and I suppose I now have a preference of avoiding the popular tourist traps and seeking out little known spots off the beaten track.

Olive Oil – From the Fruit to the Bottle.

As I drive south from Toledo to Granada, the surrounding plains and hills are covered with olive groves signifying that this must be a good climate for growing olives. At one point I see a man knocking down the ripe olives with a stick onto the plastic sheeting laid carefully around the base of the trunk. Several kilometres later, I see olives being piled onto a conveyor which takes them into a press.

I first began to understand olives when I spent time in Morocco almost 10 years ago. It was here that I learned that all olives come from the same type of tree and that their colour depended only on the ripeness of the fruit. I’ve never liked eating olives but I do make use of the oil for cooking and salad dressings. It seems expensive to buy but when you appreciate the work required to produce the oil it can be understood. It can take up to 10 years for an olive tree to reach maturity and start bearing fruit and 4 to 5 kilos of olives are required to produce 1 litre of oil. The olives have to be knocked from the tree, gathered, washed and then taken through a process of squeezing and separating in the mill. The oil can easily be affected by climatic conditions as I know only too well when my oil became an opaque gloop in the arctic temperatures of Avila.

Climbing up through the Gorge of Despenaperros the olive trees still cling to the steep slopes and I wonder how the farmers manage in this terrain. I need a break so I pull off the main highway to some services at the top of the pass which are surprisingly modern. There’s a large self-service cafeteria, hundreds of toilet cubicles, a duty free shop and a ‘Museum of Olive Oil’ which turns out to be a rather grand title for an olive oil shop. I suspect the target audience for these services are the tourist coaches that ply the route between Toledo/Madrid and Granada. Luckily there are no coach parties today, so my visit is quite calm which is just what I need at the half-way point of my 400km drive.

Ice Cold in Avila

After driving all morning through thick, freezing fog, I finally arrive in the city of Avila in Central Spain. As I sit having a picnic lunch inside the relative warmth of Trixie, the fog begins to clear and I get my first view of the 12th century walls which stretch for 2.5 kilometres around the city. I’m realising that the main difference between the walled towns in France and those of Spain is size. Avila is even bigger than Carcassonne and I thought that was big!

A narrow flight ascending of steps brings me to the Carmen Gate and I enter the maze of medieval cobbled streets. In France the streets of the walled towns were very much pedestrianized, whereas here I have to dodge the erratic Spanish drivers as they weave through the city like Fernando Alonso. But then the city is still a living, breathing place with a population of 58,000. In the past Jews, Moors and Christians all lived together and their legacy can still be seen in the religious buildings that they left behind. There are many beautiful churches, synagogues, monasteries and convents, as well as the fortified St Vicente Cathedral. There are also many shops and my eyes are drawn to the traditional ‘Yemas de Santa Teresa’ (yolks of Saint Teresa), a sticky ball of sweet egg dough, spiced with cinnamon.

Saint Teresa was a Carmelite nun who was born in Avila and was canonised in 1622. She is the most important female saint in Spain and many pilgrims visit Avila to worship her. I was able to visit the Convent of Santa Teresa with its attached museum and small reliquary room / souvenir shop where you can see holy relics of the saint, including the bones of her ring finger, with the ring still on them!

Unfortunately, after only 90 minutes of clear sky, the freezing fog descends once more and envelops the city and its walls. Back in the car park, I can barely see the next motorhome so I huddle up with my gas fire and sleep under my duvet, blanket and sleeping bag with my winter hat pulled down around my ears.

When I wake in the morning I can see my breath and the windows are encrusted with ice, both inside and out. It takes Trixie 30 minutes to warm up and I still have to scrape ice from the wing mirrors and headlights. There’s no water, it’s frozen in the tank but luckily I’ve stocked up with bottled water. As I leave Avila, the sun beams down and I can finally enjoy the surrounding scenery as I continue to head south to Toledo. A petrol station signboard informs me that it is -8°C but I heard that it could get as high as 15°C later. I can only hope.

Bilbao – Art and History

It’s a blustery, wet Saturday in Bilbao, so what better way to spend the day than discovering art and history in some of the city’s museums. Of course, the famous Guggenheim is the obvious choice and it’s swirling, titanium covered exterior is certainly impressive. However, I am not a big fan of modern art and so I decide to visit the nearby Museum of Fine Arts instead. It costs much less than the Guggenheim and for an extra €1 I can have an audio guide which is worth every centime. Several key works of art are commented upon, giving colourful details of the artists and their paintings. It also includes extra information about the current special exhibition of Dario de Regoyos who died 100 years ago. I like his artwork, city and rural scenes influenced by the pointillism of Seurat, Signac and Pissarro. My personal favourite is “Snow on Corn”, which seems slightly unbelievable but still beautiful. There are also scenes of places I have been (e.g. San Sebastian) and places I have yet to see (e.g. Burgos).

In the end, I’m unable to avoid the modern art as there is a dedicated space in the Museum. My mind is not imaginative enough to understand the meaning of the paint spattered canvases, the twisted bronze sculptures or the pieces of broken picture frames scattered across one corner of the floor.

I escape the chaos of modernity by walking across the city to the old town. Another labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets lined with pintxos bars, delicatessens, wine merchants and souvenir shops. Next to the river is the Mercado de la Ribera, one of the largest food halls in Europe. It’s a very clean and modern building with lifts and escalators serving both floors and decorated with stained-glass windows. I’m feeling hungry now and it is the time that the Spanish stop work to take a long, lazy lunch. I find a restaurant in the old town and settle down to a feast of Basque bean stew, monkfish and cheesecake, accompanied by ½ a litre of red wine and a huge crusty bread roll. It’s a lovely relaxed meal until the restaurant is invaded by a large group of men wearing red t-shirts and black berets, who are either a local football team or a stag party.

I retreat to the calm of the Archaeology Museum, located in the old town in a former railway station. The exhibits chronicle life in the region from 40,000BC to the present day. Neolithic stone tools, bronze weapons, pots and plates and Roman engravings. Even the remains of an ancient boat found buried in river silt. It makes me realise that my days on this earth are an insignificant speck on the progress of time. That’s why it’s important to make the most of it, and I intend to continue doing just that.

A Tale of Two Caves

Santillana del Mar is a confusing town, not least in the fact that its name derives from the words Saint (Santo), flat (llana) and sea (Mar). It is certainly not a saint, the land it lies upon is actually ratyher hilly and it’s not even that close to the sea, which is some 3 kms away. However, it has always been a popular stop on the pilgrim route and became a major tourist destination due to the discovery in 1879 of some caves featuring Neolithic artwork from as far back as 16,000 BC.

The Altamira cave network is about 300m in length and contains many figures of animals and hand prints created using a variety of techniques from engraving, black charcoal drawing and painting with red ochre sediment. Even more incredible is the use of the natural formation of the cave ceiling to create 3D figures and utilizing holes and fissures in the rock as features in the artwork.

Sadly, the popularity of the site led to its deterioration. During the 1970s thousands of visitors passed through the caves which had been modified to improve their viewing. Paths were made, electric lights were introduced and in some areas, timbers were installed to support the cave ceiling. The impact of the heat, increased CO₂ and micro-organisms from the wood resulted in irreversible damage to the artwork. A decision was made to close the cave in order to protect it but having been added to the UNESCO world heritage list in 1985 it was deemed necessary to provide the public with a “New” cave. So, it is this replica of the Altamira cave which I am visiting on a cold December day. Bizarrely, it is a guided visit and I am encouraged by the fact that the guide is wearing a padded jacket – perhaps it is more authentic than I imagine. Sadly, I’m disappointed. Video information boards and modern visual effects try to recreate the atmosphere of Neolithic life and the paintings are over illuminated. Add to that the incredible speed at which the guide gives information in Spanish and I’m completely lost. The museum area makes up in some way, providing an informative overview (in English) of these early artists, their lives and the tools of their trade. However, I can’t help feeling cheated by the whole experience.

The following day I drive up into the Cantabrian Mountains to the village of Puente Viesgo where loud explosions signal that a fiesta is underway. But I’m not here for a party. High up above the village, deep in the mountain peak, is the cave of El Castillo. Like Altamira, it contains intricate Neolithic art, but this cave is still open to the public, though visitor numbers are limited. However, at this time of year it is deserted and I’m the only client for the 13.15 tour. While I wait for the guide at the entrance to the cave, I can feel my excitement rising. I’m cold and damp and about to enter a real cave and see real Neolithic art with my own eyes.

The tour is again in Spanish but Jose speaks slowly and chooses his words carefully so that I can easily understand him. Using lamps and a laser pointer he helps me to discover and identify the paintings – bison, horses, a deer, as well as a myriad of hand prints created by blowing the ochre dye through a pipe across a hand placed on the wall. ‘It takes two people to make this hand print.’ Jose tells me. ‘One to place his hand on the wall, and another to blow the paint.’ He also informs me that most of the hand prints are of the left hand and that these are the oldest form of art in the cave because some are superseded by parts of the animal paintings. I am amazed at how clever these Neolithic artists were but my credulity is stretched when Jose tries to show me a half-animal, half-human statue whose shadow is superimposed onto part of a wall painting. Also the scratches in the walls that have been made by a Neolithic hibernating cave bear. I’m sure that when you’ve spent as much time in the cave as Jose has, you could see just about anything with a little imagination, but it certainly makes the tour interesting. We emerge into daylight over an hour later and I’m so delighted with the experience that I want to jump up and down and shout about it. Instead I vigorously shake Jose’s hand and grin like a Cheshire cat.

My two days in the caves leaves me with a lot of questions. Why did the Neolithic men paint in the caves? Was it a kind of spiritual devotion, communication with future generations and other clans, or just a way to pass the time during rainy days? Another conundrum is whether these caves should be closed to the public and resealed to preserve them for future generations and replaced with replicas for educational purposes. I can appreciate the argument for this but Altamira proves that it is impossible to recreate the true atmosphere of the caves and the anticipation of the discovery within them. Perhaps visits should be limited and controlled, like the path to Machu Pichu in Peru or visiting the gorillas in Uganda.

One thing I know for sure is that unless we respect the delicate balance between tourism and conservation we will lose these treasures forever.

Footnote: Both the museum in Altamira and the caves of El Castillo cost €3 to visit and can be reached easily from Santander.

On Safari – Again

Even though I’m touring Europe, the opportunity to see some African animals is too good to pass up. So I make a detour from my coastal route into the mountains to Cabarceno Park. Not only is it an area of outstanding natural beauty, it is also home to a large number of species from all over the world.

Conveniently, I am able to stay next to the park entrance, in an area overlooking a small lake where ducks glide effortlessly across the surface and the leaves of the beech and elm trees fall like confetti. Opposite, in a natural hollow of the land, are a herd of elephants heading down to a waterhole, surrounded by buffalo and antelope. If it wasn’t such a cold, dull, grey day, I could almost imagine I’m actually in Africa.

The park itself is set in 750 hectares of mountainous land, dotted with pinnacles of karst. The suggested itinerary takes me from the lows of the hippo pool to the highs of the lions and tigers in their natural rocky amphitheatres. Unfortunately the spotted hyenas and wild dogs are a no show, and it seems impossible to reach the wolves in a motorhome. Many of the animals have been born here, including a baby white rhino and several elephants. Although the matriarch of the elephant herd is from England and her name is Penny. Some of the vistas offer stunning views across the park and down to the city of Santander and the sea beyond.

As it is a Monday in December, there are very few other visitors in the park and we keep running into each other as we follow our maps and the bold signposting around the park. For the most part the animals seem very content. Not surprising given the huge areas they have to roam. I too am extremely happy as, unlike Longleat and Planete Sauvage in France, I am not confined to my vehicle but can get out and wander around the roads and exteriors of the enclosures. Only the birds of prey, tethered to metal rings stuck into the muddy ground, seem discontent. They were born to fly, not to pose for photographs. The local crows appear to mock them from the surrounding trees and fence posts.

Nearly all of the cafeterias, snack bars and souvenir shops are closed, which is no great loss as I’d rather take a late lunch in one of the local village establishments outside the gates. On the menu today is the special – Highland Stew. It’s a variation on the Basque stew which I have already tried in Bilbao but the Cantabrian version uses fava beans. Next is another local speciality – baby squid in a sauce of their own ink – served with burning-hot chips. The grand finale is queso fresco con membrillo – a wedge of soft, white cheese with a slab of quince jelly. I don’t think I would be eating this well if I was in Africa. However, as I settle down for the evening I can just about hear the rumbles of the elephants, the whooping of the hyenas and the screech of an eagle owl.