Carcassonne and Cassoulet

The main reason for any visit to Carcassonne is to see La Cité, a huge fortified city, high on a hill overlooking the main town and the canal du midi. I’ve been there many times and I never get tired of strolling around the cobbled lanes and the lises (the wide area between the inner and outer walls).

La Cité began life as a Celtic settlement which was then fortified by the Romans. In the 11^th Century, Raymond Bernard Trencavel took possession of the site and built the Chateau du Comtal and the Cathedral of Saint Nazaire. He also allowed the Cathar community to seek shelter there during times of persecution. In the 13^th Century, Simon du Montfort initially took control of the city and added more fortifications but when King Louis IX replaced him, he built a new city beside the river below, what is now known as the Basse Ville.

During Napoleonic rule, Carcassonne was struck from the list of official fortifications and La Cité fell into disrepair and a decision was made to demolish it. Luckily, the locals led a campaign to preserve the fortress as a historical monument and in 1853 the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc was commissioned to oversee the restoration. After his death in 1879, other architects were able to continue his work, following the numerous notes and drawings that he left behind.

The restoration was strongly criticised during Viollet-le-Duc’s lifetime. He made the error of using slates and restoring the roofs as pointed cones, where local practice was traditionally of tile roofing and low slopes, in a snow-free environment. However, whilst Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration of Carcassonne may not be authentic, it is agreed to be the work of a genius.

In the summer, La Cité is crowded with tourists, squeezing between the overpriced guide books and postcards displayed outside the many souvenir shops and listening to their audio guides as they visit the Chateau du Comtal. Place Marcou is packed with tables, and waiters run back and forth between them and the many restaurants which line the little square.

 

In winter La Cité is deserted and I see only a dozen people, two of them jogging around the lises. The shops are all closed up, except for a few near to the main entrance gate, and only a few restaurants are open for business. I arrive during lunchtime and, while I wait for Saint Nazaire to reopen, I decide to warm up with a steaming bowl of cassoulet. Several types are on offer but I choose the traditional one, which is also the cheapest. There are some arguments as to where cassoulet originates from but generally, it is agreed that there are varying recipes from the three places along the canal du midi; Carcassonne, Castelnaudry and Toulouse.

Chef Prosper Montagne is quoted as saying “Cassoulet is the God of Occitane cuisine. A God of three people: The Father is the cassoulet of Castelnaudry; The Son is that of Carcassonne; and The Holy Spirit is that of Toulouse.”

My cassoulet is very nice and the restaurant is atmospheric with small windows overlooking the chateau and dark wooden beams. However, I am serenaded by the most awful muzak. Given that the restaurant is named L’Ostal des Troubadours, I would have thought some medieval tunes may have been more appropriate.

Limoux Carnaval

Every weekend from January to March, it is carnaval in Limoux and I arrive in the large town on a cold winter Sunday. Inside the 15th century church of St Martin they are getting ready for mass, but outside in the colonnaded Place de la Republic, crowds are gathering in excited anticipation of the first parade of the day. Tradition dictates that the theme of the first parade is grotesque in style and the scene has already been set by the placement of a stage of prostitute models and a Madam suspended from a balcony, legs spread wide, offering local specialities!

A little later than scheduled, one of the many local groups partaking in the carnaval, Les Femmes (The Women), emerge from one of several bars in the main square. They are dressed in fluorescent colours, with afro wigs and carrying inflatable musical instruments. A brass band accompanies them as they slowly dance to the next bar and then disappear inside. Ten minutes later they emerge and continue their parade to the next bar. They visit five bars in total and it seems more like a pub crawl than a parade.

I return to the square in the afternoon, for a second parade. This time they are dressed in traditional white pierrot costumes, with beautifully painted masks. As they pass, they sprinkle the spectators with white confetti, which settles on the pavement and looks like snow. I’m surprised at how many people are braving the freezing temperatures to see them. I’m driven inside in search of something warm. Limoux is well known for its sparkling wine, blanquette de Limoux, but I opt for the hot red wine and slowly sip it while watching through the window for the parade to pass by outside. However, it doesn’t pass, but instead the bar doors are flung open, allowing in the cold air and the parade. Drinks are lined up on the bar for them and they seem in no rush to go back outside where the spectators are waiting for them to re-emerge.

The third and final spectacle of the day takes place at 10pm and is by torchlight. Much as I want to return and watch, I know that I will be more tempted by the prospect of a warm bed. On Sunday 22^nd March, it will be the night of the Blanquette, when the best group, as voted by the local people, will be presented with a prize for all their efforts and the sparkling wine will be flowing in celebration of a successful carnival.

 

Shaken but not Stirred – Taking Shelter among the Cathar Castles

When entering France, I had planned to spend some time on the coast between Perpignan and Narbonne. However, Mother Nature has other plans. Despite the glorious sunshine, it is bitterly cold. That alone would not deter me, but the fierce north wind, averaging 50 km/hr does. My motorhome is not really designed for this weather. While being small and agile is good for driving, Trixie cannot really cope with the wild winds. My first choice of overnight stop, just outside the village of Leucate, with great views overlooking the etang, turns out to be too exposed and after 30 minutes and having checked the weather forecast, I realise I need to move.

About 10 kms north is the town of Port-la-Nouvelle, the third largest Mediterranean port in France and not really very pretty. But here I find an aire that is slightly more sheltered. It’s not a very good night, with the wind buffeting the motorhome and the noise from passing trains and fuel trucks, I get very little sleep and wake up feeling a bit seasick!

My only option is to give up the wide open, sunny, coastal plains and head for the mountains in the hope for a little more shelter. I take the main road from Perpignan to Foix, which follows the River Agly and the narrow gauge railway tracks for a little red tourist train, but there’s no train today. It only runs during the summer months and for a special Santa service at Christmas.

I stop in Maury, to pick up some information for the region, and discover that there are numerous trompe l’oeil paintings to be found along the village streets. I brave the wind and go in search of some. They are large and imaginative, and certainly liven up the dull concrete walls. A large thermometer hanging outside one of the houses reads 5 deg C, but with the wind chill it feels more like -5 deg C.

I continue towards Foix, in the shadow of some of the Cathar Castles. To the north are Queribus and Peyrepertuse, and to the south is Puilaurens. These are three of the castles known as the five sons of Carcassonne and I was lucky enough to visit them 7 years ago while leading a walking tour in the area. Further to the west is the ruined fortress of Montsegur, where the Cathars retreated from the Catholic French troops and withstood a long siege before surrendering and being burned to death after refusing to renounce their faith. Some believe that a secret treasure was smuggled out of the castle at that time and hidden in the nearby mountains. Treasure hunters have scoured the area for years, hoping to find it, including German Otto Rahn who visited Montsegur in 1929 and linked it with the Holy Grail.

Maybe the real treasure is the wealth of history to be found in the region and perhaps the publication of the hundreds of books about the local mysteries.

 

Roses – A Personal Tour of the Citadel

Roses is a town which appears to have been built for summer vacations. Hotels and apartments line the beachfront, interspersed with restaurants and bars, but the majority are closed and I’m about to discover that Roses’ origins were not related to sunbathing at all.

 

As I enter the town, a large wall forms on my left. This is one side of the monumental citadel, inhabited by Greeks, Romans, Medieval monks and 17^th century soldiers. It has also been systematically destroyed by many wars throughout the centuries and was almost turned into a housing development in the 20^th century. Luckily, it’s still here to educate us about the town’s long history and to provide something to do on a less than perfect beach day.

When I arrive, wrapped up in my fleece against the cold winter chill, I discover that in 45 minutes, and for only €1 more than the normal entry fee of €4, I can have a guided tour in English. While I wait, I visit the excellent museum which tells me about the history of the citadel, which was first settled by the Greeks and called Rhode, meaning rose, which is where the present day town gets its name. My tour guide is also called Roser (rose bush) and I’m the only client.

We make our way past a group of happy primary school children, who Roser has just been educating, and head over to an excavated area of the Greek settlement. From her shoulder bag, my enthusiastic guide extracts a piece of Greek pottery and explains how it helped to date the site. I’m amazed that I’m allowed to handle a piece of ceramic that is more than 2000 years old. However, the silver coins that we also discuss are reproduction and probably not silver at all.

Next to the Greek settlement is the Roman one. At one point this was the main port, though we are now some way from the sea. On slightly higher ground, a large church represents the site of the medieval village, part of which has also been excavated and I can clearly see the cobbled streets and walls of dwellings. The church has been partially restored. The multi-coloured stones, some recycled from the earlier settlements, are very interesting, as is the story of the destruction of the main apse. It’s easy to imagine that it was destroyed during one of the many wars and sieges of the citadel, but Roser tells me that it occurred in the 1930s due to a dispute between two local brothers which resulted in a fire.

Part of the tour takes us along the high, thick walls of the 17^th century citadel. Some areas were destroyed by Napoleon’s army, while others were destroyed by the town council and building planners for a proposed housing development in the 1950’s. Luckily, the archaeologists persisted in examining the site until they found something of historic significance that would stop the housing plans and, in the end, common sense prevailed over financial gain. The citadel and the ghosts of its inhabitants over the many centuries have been preserved for future generation to appreciate. Though, I suspect that most visitors to Roses would appreciate a cold beer or an ice cream much more.

 

Girona for Free

After 24 hours of rain, I expect the city of Girona to be drowning, but the river which flows through the city is calm and the clouds have dissipated to leave clear blue skies.

There are many museums in Girona and the main ones offer a discount scheme so that after visiting the first one, the others are half price. But I only have one day and I don’t want to spend it all inside museums. So, I limit myself to just two.

I start with the Girona History Museum in the hope that it will offer me some good background information. It is spread over 4 floors of a former Capuchin monastery and a self-guided route takes me from the first Roman settlement, through medieval times, the Napoleonic War and the Spanish Civil War. There’s an interesting section about music and dance, as well as the Capuchin cemetery were the deceased friars were left to desiccate.

Just down the road, on the site of a Jewish Synagogue, is the Museum of Jewish History. In the late Middle Ages, up to 800 Jews lived in Girona. They worked in many trades, including goldsmiths, blacksmiths, tanners and tailors. Unfortunately, well before Hitler’s promotion of anti-Semitism, the Spanish Jews were persecuted by the Catholic Church. Those that did not agree to be baptised and renounce their Jewish faith were executed. The museum displays several stone tombs, including one which was rescued from a local garden, having been used as a fish pond.

Having a better understanding of the history of Girona, I wander down to the river and, from the pedestrian footbridge of Sant Augusti, I have a good view of the tall, terraced houses which overhang the water. I end up having lunch in one with a wonderful view of the Cathedral and Sant Feliu Church. I choose from the menu del dia and end up with a unusual assortment of dishes, not all good.

As the weather continues to bless me, I decide to walk the length of the city walls which stretch for over a kilometre around the eastern side of the city. They are very high and offer great views. I can clearly see the single towers of the Cathedral and Sant Feliu Church (in fact, they both look a bit lopsided, as if waiting to be completed) and beyond the red-tiled rooftops, the snow dusted peaks of the Garrotxa Volcanic Mountains.

For me, it seems criminal to charge entry to a holy place and it costs me €7 to visit Girona Cathedral. However, this also includes entry to Sant Feliu Church and a very good audio guide describing all the main features in some detail. Unfortunately, Charlemagne’s chair and silver canopy are hidden under scaffolding and cloth while they are being cleaned. The cloister is peaceful with each column capitol telling a biblical tale; Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah and his ark. However, the best has been saved for last. Hidden behind a panel at the far end of the treasury is the Creation Tapestry, a masterpiece from the 11^th or 12^th century depicting scenes from Genesis.

Sant Feliu Church also has some lovely features, detailed by another audio guide. A large marble chapel is dedicated to St Narcissus, the patron saint of the city. Above the silver casket containing the remains of the saint, is a large statue of him and on a side wall is a large painting depicting the miracle of the flies, when Sant Feliu saved the town from attack by the French in 1285 and 1653. Behind the main altar of the church, embedded into the walls, are eight 4^th century Roman sarcophagi with detailed carvings of biblical stories and events.

Girona is a fantastic place to spend the day, especially if you are on a tight budget. Both the Museums I visited had free temporary exhibits which were equally as good as the main museums. Walking the walls is free, offers fantastic views of the city and some good exercise. Access to the Cathedral is free on Sunday and the Jewish Museum is free on the first Sunday of each month. There are many free car parks around Parc de la Devesa, if you don’t mind a short walk back into the city and, if you’re looking for somewhere nearby to spend the night in a motorhome, the then village of Quart has a nice, free Aire and the picturesque, medieval village of Besalu allows you to stay in their car parks for free.

My Own Montserrat

“Nowhere but in his own Montserrat will a man find happiness and peace”

Goethe

I first visited Montserrat over 20 years ago, on a day trip from the coast. It was summer and our coach accompanied many others winding their way up the mountain to the revered pilgrimage site where the Virgin of Montserrat resides. According to the information office, Montserrat received 2 million visitors last year and in the summer months that can be up to 5000 in one day.

Luckily, January is a much quieter time to visit and, on this bright winter’s day, I am joined by only a few Asian tours groups, an American school party and some individuals. First, I pay my respects to the Virgin by following the corridor of side chapels and up the marble staircase to where she sits enthroned, looking down upon the congregation of the basilica through an arched window. Then I pick up a leaflet from the information office and read about the many walks in the area.

Although the monastery site is in the shadow of the mountain, I can see the sun is shining high above, so I take the funicular up to the Tarantulas Plain with a large number of loud, American teenagers and a terrified Spanish grandmother.

At one point, there were 300 hermitages dotted around the mountains and a path from the upper funicular station takes me to the site of two of them, St Joan and St Onofre, which were originally built around natural caves. I find a secluded spot in the sun with a spectacular view and enjoy a picnic lunch, until the teenagers catch up with me and so I decide it is time to move on. Retracing my steps to the funicular, I then follow a long, but easy, downhill route back to the monastery, via the chapel of Sant Miquel.

“What a difference a day makes, 24 little hours.”

Stanley Adams / Dinah Washington

The next day I can no longer see the valley below due to low lying cloud, or the peaks of the mountain, which are also shrouded. However, I can see the destination of my morning walk – the chapel of Santa Cova, built on the site of the cave where the Virgin was first discovered in 880. Legend says that some shepherd boys saw a bright light on the mountain, and when this was investigated with the local priest, they found the cave and the image of the Virgin inside. However, when they tried to remove her to the town of Manresa, they got no further than the site of the present monastery, where she became too heavy to move and so a shrine was built around her. It was also said that she was carved by St Luke and bought to Spain by St Peter in 50AD, though as the Virgin has been dated to the 12th century this cannot possibly be true.

As I climb back up to the monastery complex, it starts to rain, so I treat myself to a hot cup of coffee in the self-service cafeteria. It could easily seat several hundred people, and there’s another, even larger restaurant next to the coach park, though it is currently closed. The cafeteria is linked to a long shopping area, so I don’t have to go back out into the rain. Postcards, books, CDs and many religious souvenirs are on offer but I prefer to spend my money on entrance to the Audio-visual Centre where I can learn more about the mountain, the monastery and the history of this fascinating place. A short introductory video is followed by a display of key historical dates for both the monastery and the world. Then further videos inform me about the increasing popularity of the pilgrimage site and the modern day monastic life of the monks who live there. The final section is about the Escolania, the music and choral school for young boys, who perform daily in the basilica for a brief, though magical moment. The Audio-visual tour concludes with an enthralling music video, using three separate screens to show the two opera singers, the choir and the magnificent mountain scenery of Montserrat.

For me, Montserrat is not the spiritual sanctuary, or the myth of the Madonna, but it is the majestic mountains and the memorable music.

Montblanc and the Monastery of Poblet

It’s very easy to fall under the spell of the medieval walled town of Montblanc. Peaceful cobbled streets lead from the gate towers to the central, main square of Placa Major, bordered by a gothic town hall, a former noble’s mansion and a simple fountain. Several cafes offer the chance to warm up with a coffee, and even in January, the outside tables are popular with local ladies, dressed in stylish coats and fur hats.

Steps lead up to the 17^th century baroque portal of Santa Maria la Major Church. It’s just approaching 10am and I patiently wait while a grey-haired lady opens the main door with a huge iron key, allowing me access to the interior which is pure 14^th century gothic. There are some interesting wooden and stone carvings and a beautiful, stained glass rose window but I’m enticed by the possibility to access the roof for views across the town. Like Miravet Castle, I have to squeeze up a stone, spiral staircase before emerging under the large, cast-iron bells. From beneath the arched buttresses, I have a 360 degree view of the walled town and red, tiled roofs of the buildings below. The only downside, is the loud audio recording of screeching birds, seemingly designed to deter the pigeons from making a home there, but more likely to deter any potential human inhabitants to the surrounding area.

Next to the Church is the Regional Museum, with interesting displays of local trades, such as ironwork, barrel making, paper production and agriculture. Upstairs there are some history and art exhibitions, including some rather phallic Roman pendants.

 

 

Nearby is another Museum dedicated to the interpretation of rock art. Several caves in the local Prades Mountains were discovered to contain Neolithic paintings of red symbols and hunting scenes and the museum displays life-sized replicas of these caves, as well as lots of information about other rock art from the Iberian Peninsula and the rest of the world. Having already visited the caves of Altamira and El Castillo in Northern Spain, I am fascinated by the wealth of information on offer here and inspired to visit more rock art sites on my future travels.

After spending the night in a small car park just outside the town walls, next to the Convent de la Serra, I drive out to the monastery of Poblet, at the base of the densely wooded Prades Mountains. It is the largest of three Cistercian monasteries in the region, the others being Santes Creus and Vallbona de les Monges, and has been declared a UNESCO cultural heritage landmark. This may account for the expensive and, in my opinion, unjustified entrance fee. Founded in 1150 by the order of Count Ramon Berenguer IV, it was first populated by French monks who established an important spiritual and economic centre at the site. Even today, it is surrounded by vineyards and the powerful priorat wine is an expensive accompaniment to any meal.

The monastery was abandoned in 1835 following the Act of Dissolution but a few Italian monks returned in 1940 and began the restoration of Poblet. The main facade is very impressive with the twin towered Royal Gate and the baroque portal of the church. Inside, the main buildings of the monastery are simple and teach us about the daily life of the monks. The refectory is still used today and tables are laid up with cutlery, glasses and carafes of wine, whilst the library holds thousands of historical manuscripts but also a modern computer and printer. However, it is the church which holds the most historical and architectural interest. Lying upon two low, intersecting arches are the tombs of 8 Kings and 6 Queens of Catalonia and Aragon. They date from the 14^th and 15^th centuries but were carefully restored by Frederick Mares in the 20^th century.

 

Back in the local village of L’Espluga de Francoli, I visit the art nouveau wine cellars of the Museo del Vi. There are many such buildings in the region, built to hold the vats of the wine cooperatives.  I find the museum very interesting, even though there is no information in English. The wine tasting afterwards is even better and I’m especially warmed by the sweet, fruity moscatel. Luckily, I only have to stagger back to my motorhome, parked up for the night in a small car park across the river.

Miravet – Conquering a Templar Castle

I’m hoping to maybe get a glimpse of the castle of Miravet from the opposite side of the Ebro River but the morning mist has yet to lift and I can barely see the river, let alone anything on the far side. The ferry crossing is closed, so I have to go the long way around and even when I reach the village, I still cannot see the castle. However, I do find the ferry, a 7m square of old planks with narrow bench seats on each side and rusty metal rails.

I follow signs for the castle, winding my way through the small village whose houses cling to the rocky cliffs above the river. Some are undergoing a facelift to appeal to renting tourists or wealthy Spanish city dwellers seeking a holiday home away from the busy coastline. Above the houses and the church, the path becomes steeper and deteriorates into nothing more than a scramble over rocks. I can appreciate how medieval soldiers must have felt when mounting and attack on the castle; staggering upwards through the pine trees, breathlessly trying to find the castle in the mist.

 

 

Having succeeded in reaching my goal, I am somewhat insulted that I have to pay €3.50 to enter. Numbered signs tell me about the layout and purpose of each section but it is nothing more than a bare shell. Inside the restored church, the media have gathered with local restauranteurs and council officials to launch a week-long regional food festival. I have to intrude on their celebrations in order to reach the entrance to an incredibly narrow, spiral staircase which I have to squeeze up to gain access to the rooftop. When I eventually pop out, the mist has lifted and I can finally admire the views back down to the village and along the river. On the other side, I can see a road which ascends to the castle car park, but arriving that way would have felt like cheating.

The Road to Morella

When I headed inland to the hilltop town and castle of Morella, I never thought I’d be swimming in mountain rivers or bouncing over a “Lost World” plateau where vultures soared overhead.

But first I had to navigate my way around Valencia’s busy roads where a lost rear bumper in the fast lane was about to cause a serious pile up on the motorway. Realising that he couldn’t retrieve it and the possible destruction it could cause, the driver responsible was fleeing the scene, in true Spanish style. Safely on a quieter road, climbing to Teruel, I could now enjoy the beautiful landscape, dotted with small picturesque villages. Then a deserted minor road threaded its way up a narrow gorge to the spa town of Montanejos.

As I entered the town, there should have been a big sign saying “Closed for the Winter”, not that it needed to be advertised as the sealed shutters and empty streets told me that much. I parked up and followed signs for “banos” which took me down to the wide, shallow river which runs below the town. Testing the water, I discovered that it was barely tepid. Besides, I wasn’t sure how I could swim in only 2 inches of water. I was feeling rather disappointed as I drove out of town, but then I saw the large parking area beside the road and the footpath leading down to the true hot springs.

Luckily for me, two English guys had already tested the water and declared it “warm”. Unfortunately, the high side walls, carved by the river over millions of years, prevented the sun from penetrating the bathing area, keeping the outside temperature a chilly 5 degrees. But I couldn’t pass up the challenge and boldly stepped in. First discovered by the Moors, who built baths here in the 13th century, the waters are supposedly a balmy 25 degrees. I beg to differ, discovering some warm patches but also some equally cold ones.

The road to Morella continued, in spectacular fashion, up the gorge, through narrow tunnels and overlooking the river far below. Then, as the sides opened up, I found myself at a dam which had created a large reservoir. When it was decided to dam the river in 1977 the village of Campos de Arenos was submerged below the water, and the villagers were forced to relocate.

The last part of my journey took me across a lost world plateau, up to 1659m above sea level. It was a barren, craggy place, except for a few farms breeding hardy, long-haired cattle. Stopping at a viewpoint which looked out towards a sheer cliff face, I stopped at a low, dry-stone wall and stumbled across a pile of bleached-white bones and an emaciated, dead horse. This was a feeding zone for a colony of griffon vultures, reintroduced to the area. As they soared quite close above me, I felt like prey and hastily retreated to the safety of my motorhome.

The following day, a pair of griffon vultures circled above Morella Castle as I visited the hilltop fortress. Despite its dilapidated state, it has a commanding view from the top of the 1062m high mountain. Some of the buildings are built into the limestone rock, utilising existing deep caves from Neolithic times. The town wraps itself around the foot of the mountain, entered via grand, arched gates, leading to a long, arcaded, main street with bars, restaurants and local food shops selling a multitude of different cheeses, cured meats, honey and truffle infused products. The other typical product is woven blankets of soft sheep’s wool. Traditionally red and black, they now come in many colours to suit modern tourist tastes and are used to make ponchos, tops, bags and scarves.

I take lunch at Pizzeria Restaurant Lola which not only serves pizza and calzone, but also has an extensive menu del dia of local dishes. I dine on chickpea soup, roasted lamb and a local desert of sweetened sheep’s milk curds. Later, at a local patisserie, I buy another local delicacy, flaon, a kind of sweet Cornish pasty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morella is a fabulous place to visit, but the highlight was the route I took to get there. I wonder what the next road will bring.

Motorhome tip: The tunnels north of Montanejos are quite low and narrow and may not be suitable for larger, longer motorhomes. No height or width measurements are given prior to entering the tunnels. The road across the plateau between Mosqueruela and Iglesuela del Cid is narrow and in very poor condition, though it seems that it is partially being widened and repaired, so may be improved in the near future.

Albufera – Home of Paella

I’ve returned to El Palmar, an island in the depths of the Albufera rice fields and a popular holiday destination for boat trips onto the lake to birdwatch or watch the sunset.

It’s the 6^th of January, an important public holiday in Spain when the arrival of the Three Kings is remembered and when Spanish children finally get to open their presents. I’m glad that I didn’t have to wait that long to open mine!

The car park is full to overflowing and, as usual, the Spanish are getting creative with their parking, blocking pedestrian crossings and, in places, the streets themselves. I feel that I’ve left it too late but the Three Kings seem to bless me and offer a present when I spot a space, partly hidden by another motorhome. The restaurants are very busy, well most of them are, and I avoid the ones that aren’t, trusting that the local Valencians are avoiding them for a reason. Most are offering a mouth-watering menu del dia, featuring the regional speciality of paella, which comes in many forms.

Arroz a banda – rice cooked in fish stock

Arroz con marisco- rice cooked with seafood

Arroz Valenciana – the original paella with chicken and rabbit

Arroz negro – rice cooked in squid ink

However, most restaurants specify a minimum of two people for this favoured rice dish and prices range between €15 and €25, not always including a drink.

I find myself at the same restaurant where I ate last year. The few outside tables are full but the maître de beckons me inside where the noise of chattering families and friends is quite deafening. He marches me through the throng to an isolated table beyond the kitchen and next to the bar. The cooking smells are not particularly pleasant and, after 10 minutes of being ignored by the overwhelmed waiters and bar staff, I decide to leave via the handy back door and seek somewhere else to dine.

Back along the canal I stop at the Isla Restaurant. There are many tables outside in the sun, under the silver birch trees. The waiter greets me warmly but is unsure whether the menu del dia is possible for one. Luckily, a young waitress corrects him and I settle down at my small, blue table and await a feast. First come deep fried chipirones, tiny and greasy, not as good as those in La Isleta. Then, a small pan filled with saffron coloured rice, though little in the way of seafood, which is very tasty and filling. Dessert ticks all my boxes – panna cota, smothered in sweet honey. A middle-aged woman at a neighbouring table eyes me suspiciously. In Spain it is uncommon to eat alone and I sometimes feel like a leper. She has clearly eaten well with her husband and they even have a doggy bag – well these days it’s a plastic container and I doubt it’s for the dogs!

Whilst it was a lovely experience on a happy, festive day, enhanced by glorious weather, I think I will stick to making my own paella. In my opinion, it’s much better and a lot cheaper too.