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 by John Clare
Easter
I was working away the other
morning, and noticed a familiar sound: spurts of gas.
No, I wasn't about to get blown up, it was the sound of a hot air
balloon somewhere close. Yes, very close.....
It drifted on over next door's garden. The dogs were out in force
barking away like mad. And the balloon gradually came down in a field a
couple of hundred metres away.
Spring is in full cry here in the Algarve. The skies are blue, the
temperatures are now into the twenties, and everything is burgeoning.
Last week I decided I needed a change so we took a short break across
the border into Spain. Every so often we go either to Rocio or to
Ayamonte for one of the ferias. Rocio was seriously commercial and
chock-full of tourists. We didn't stay. But Ayamonte was it's usual
happy-go-lucky self.
Before we leave Rocio, have a look at this amazing tree. It is over
1000 years old.
You will also notice this is a town strong on horses. This is where you
park you horse when you come out for lunch.
(I have a chapter on the
Festival of the Three Kings at Rocio which I attended a few years ago.
It's in my book on Spain.
Easter sunday was a fine day, and everyone was out in their finest.
After living in Portugal it was nice to see girls wearing skirts for a
change. The chairs were set in the main square. The streets were ready
for the procession, with flags and drapes hanging from most balconies.
I took quite a lot of film footage which I'll edit into a movie and
stick on YouTube when I get a day or so, meanwhile I'll cut a few
stills and add them to this posting.
The parade was all wrong really. It is supposed to be a parade of
penitents. Traditionally that happens on Good Friday. But religion has
always been a total mess in Spain. Back in the Middle Ages (which
lasted until the sixties in Spain), folk were simply frightened of the
priests, and acted accordingly. They did as they were told until they
had a chance to join in an uprising. There were several during the
twentieth century, which led to several monasteries being burnt to the
ground, and quite a few bishops and priests having their throats cut.
There is an interesting chapter in my book on old Spain
(http://www.property.org.uk/spain/books/012.html)
which tells of a
church service I attended back in the sixties in a northern town. Like
the rest of the teenage lads, I attended solely for the purpose of
chatting up the girls. It was the only chance we got to talk to them up
close. However, on this occasion the service was interrupted by a game
of golf, and the whole occasion descended into farce. A wonderful time
was had by all, and we ended up following the golfing game round the
town, leaving the priest to fulminate against us all to the remaining
half dozen old bats in black who harried us all with fierce threats of
eternal damnation, which of course no-one heeded.
But, I digress..... back to the plot.
First in the parade came the penitents in their long hooded green hats.
They were followed by a float carrying a statue of Jesus. Under the
float were a couple of dozen citizens doing their annual penance by
carrying this great ediface around the streets for half a day. In front
was a guy directing the shuffling feet, and behind another guy, both
shouting directions to those underneath who couldn't see where they
were going. There is one particular turn which is very difficult. First
the street narrows, and the float just manages to shuffle between the
overhanging balconies. Then the float has to turn through 90 degress
without hitting any of the balconies jutting out from the next street.
Behind this float is the band with trumpets and drums. The trumpets
play a high-pitched wailing tune which can be quite harrowing. Then
more girls in green, followed by the Virgin Mary on her float.
It is traditional for folks to collect the wax from the candles the
penitents carry along the route, and some ladies have quite large
accumulations, the size of tennis balls, that have built up over the
years.
I only followed the
procession for about a hundred yards, and then
moved off to a restaurant we rather like where we sat and ate a
selection of tapas, with a couple of glasses of rioja wine, while
watching the paseo. One of the tapas is rather special, being rillets
of aubergine in a honey sauce.
Then we drove off to the white towns of Cadiz. We stayed in a quiet
hotel by the side of the embalse el Santiscal (a large reservoir) at
Arcos de la Frontera.
All these little towns are perched on top of hills, or on the side of
ravines, no doubt for defensive reasons. So many of them are de la
frontera, or on the frontier. This means we can date them back to the
time when the Castilians were beating back the Moors, and the frontier
between Christendom and Islam kept changing with every series of
battles.
Arcos is quite a large town, and is spread along a ravine above the
river Guadalete. It is rather pretty, and worth a visit.
I am amused at what is presumably a robot translation of a description
of the next town (village really), Espera, which I found on the web:
"Espera is the next destination of this route. From many kilometres
before the arrival that wanders through a fertile countryside, Espera
shows to an impressive cliff that serves as the base of an old castle
semi-attached to the hermitage which venerates Cristo de la Antigua. It
is worth going up to the cliff and observe the amplified panorama of
almost 360° of the whole cliff and of the town."
The translation of this is: "Pleasant little hilltop village, with
suicidally narrow streets. Your car tyres slip and slide on the
cobbles, making a strange squealing sound. Pleasant views from the
ruined castle at the top across rolling farmland."
The place is pretty
dead. The fields looked rather sad in places as the winter rains have
ravaged them and blocked the roads. There were deep gullies where the
rains have washed the earth down the hillsides and into the roads. One
of the roads alongside the reservoir at Arcos was only passable because
the locals had shovelled the sandy soil into piles along the roadsides.
Next day we went into Jerez so I could buy a couple of special sherries
that I had first tasted at El Bulli restaurant. (See my chapter in the
Spain book: http://www.property.org.uk/spain/books/057.html).
I
can
thoroughly recommend them to anyone who likes their sherry. The company
is Emilio Hidalgo in the Rua de Claveles, just to the south of the
bullring. This is the small Hidalgo, not the company that makes La
Gitana.
I walked in through an old archway into a quiet room. The place looked
like something out of a Dickens novel. There was a strange mixture
inside. An old typewriter sat on a table next to a computer. There was
a modern metal office table and filing cabinet next to an old marquetry
table. In the corner was a grandfather clock. There was a square
missing in the ceiling, and the plaster was peeling. The windows were
arched like church windows, and through one of the doors was a small
courtyard with trees. Across the yard was the bodega where my wines
were waiting for me.
The fino is called La Panesa, and is a lovely golden colour despite
being a
very dry wine. Apparently it is aged in oak barrels for rather a long
time to give it a softness and delicacy. When I uncorked a bottle at
home the following day the aroma of the wine was so powerful it
enveloped the whole
kitchen.
And so, here I am back home. I shall have to be careful. A very young
adder has taken a liking to me. He used to live in an old tree stump,
but as I have moved that (obviously a mistake) he has been looking for
another home. I tried a swim in the pool on April 1st. The top few
inches of the water were very warm but of course it got colder the
further down one went. When I came back for my towel, this adder
tumbled out as I picked it up. He seems a pleasant enough little snake,
but I just hope he doesn't decide to bite me. Now if he were a garter
snake I'd build him a nest indoors.
The first gig I did with my band many years ago was at a party given by
someone who collected snakes and lizards and such things, and a couple
of garter snakes took a great liking to me, and spent most of the gig
sliding in and out of my shirt, up my arms, and slithering through my
hair. I got quite fond of them, they seemed such sweet curious things,
and they have such sexy skins.
Now, I need to pick a few nispirus, which I will cut into my evening
meal. I'm going to do a sag alloo, with some albondigas in a tomato
sauce, and I shall pick some of my new broad beans in their pods, cut
them small, and gently steam them with the nispirus, and have them all
with noodles. Nice!
See ya next time.
john
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