After a late start in Coimbra, Kate successfully navigated us to the Lisbon campsite, a drive of some 4 hours on the back-roads while my arms fried in the afternoon sun and we munched on juicy nectarines from a small shop in Porto.
Arriving early in the evening, I cooked while Kate played guitar, eating out under the shade of a eucalyptus. Later we sat in Sheena, read and played rummikub while listening to Bonnie Prince Billy, Feist and Joe Volk. Almost exactly like being back in our flat in Clifton.
Except we're in Lisbon's municipal campsite inside a 2 x 6 metre squared Madza E2200 van surrounded by a purr of feral cats.
It's a funny old world sometimes.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Town, Gown & Fado
We loved Porto, but mindful of our limited time in Portugal before going to the Rocket Festival (and that there are a lot of places in Spain we still want to visit before the end of May), we decided to push on towards Lisbon. Our guidebook recommended Coimbra as an interesting city to see and as our new South American friends had also given the place their thumbs up, we decided to call in on route.
The city only has one campsite, but it was easy to find, very reasonably priced, has good, clean facilities and a regular bus into town - perfect. It also had the biggest European mix of clientale we'd encountered so far, with fellow campers including Dutch, French, Spanish, Portugese, German and another English couple. AND the young woman on reception spoke some English, so that made everything much more straightforward.
It was very hot in the afternoon - Theo chose to spend it snoozing in Sheena while I mooched around doing domestic things like the washing up and wrestling unsuccessfully with the campsite clothes washing machine. Eventually, I gave up, went and got my three Euros back from reception, only to return and witness one of the Dutch women sticking a load on in nary a blink of the eyes. I've noticed Dutch people seem to be very efficient campers (well, motorhome enthusiasts) - next time I want to do some laundry I think I will lassoo a Netherlander first. It could save me a lot of frustration.
We took the bus into Coimbra for the evening after the inevitable confusion buying tickets - not only does every country have its own system, but as we've discovered in Portugal, every city and individual bus firm does the business of ticket buying and stamping (or not) and return issuing (or not) in a different manner as well. Rather baffling to the unwary foreign traveller, but don't let that put you off. Without taking the bus, how would you get to see the scruffiest suburbs and lowliest housing estates of all these proud cities? It's also cheap and you can get all the thrills of a fairground ride with some of the more gung-ho drivers.
Coimbra is a city with a university at its heart. King Dinis gifted his Coimbra palace to the institution and it's been established in the city since the early thirteenth century. The buildings are crumbling but still impressive, with the university precincts dotted with statues and steeped in a long, proud history.
The town itself has a multitude of steep, narrow streets, lined with tall appartments, many of them tiled in patterns of blue and green and festooned with their residents' drying clothes. We spent a happy hour or so wandering round (after the obligatory cafe pingo and cup of hot chocolate taken outside a cafe beside the Santa Cruz monastery, itself a rather beautiful converted chapel) before going to the Restaurante Jardim da Manga for some food. We were greeted by a very friendly, English-speaking waiter, Diago, who guided us through the vegetarian options at the cafeteria-style sevice counter. We ate our huge platefuls outside beside the water garden, formally laid out with heavily-laden citrus trees dropping their fruit into the quartet of fountains. We got complimentary glasses of port (yay!) and the whole thing cost less than fourteen Euros.
While at the top of the town during our walk, we'd noticed what looked like a festival laid out in the city's riverside park. It turned out Coimbra was midway through it annual student extravaganza, Queima das Fitas. Essentially, ten days of each faculty celebrating that year's graduation with an eclectic mix of live music, beginning after midnight and ending with traditional Portugese Fado.
Having encountered Fado already through seeing Mariza at WOMAD (the stylish young Fado singer, who has almost single-handedly opened it up to the rest of the world) and then Dona Rosa (who I preferred), I was interested to catch some live. Coimbra's most succesful bar is aCapella, where they put on shows every night in a fourteenth century monument. For ten Euros a head you got three shows, explanation and background to the music in Portugese and English and a drink. We got a jug of sangria, which lasted us the night and watched two young guys, one on Portugese guitar, the other on English classical guitar, deliver a beautiful and intricate set of ballads, serenades and dances. They had a singer with them, who was less impressive - not bad on the more uptempo numbers, but tended to confuse emotion for volume on the slower more melancholy songs and had all the over-bearing vibrato of the lead tenor in a small town, church choir.
Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable couple of hours and I was interested to learn that every year each faculty at Coimbra university composes a new fado song so the students can say their farewells. Some of these have become incredibly well-known throughout Portugal and the finale was the 1958 Medical Faculty fado, which had the Portugese members of the audience all singing along...a lovely moment.
When we got outside, this year's graduates had filled Coimbra's streets, many of them still wearing their black graduation gowns with badges sewn on, scout-style. We contemplated joining the celebrations and going along to the party in the park, but all that sangria and dolorous Fado had made us feel sleepy, so we got a taxi back to the campsite. Tomorrow if it's hot, we decided, we would get our laundry done and go canoeing while it was drying and maybe head to the beach later on.
We woke this morning to the familiar sound of raindrops pattering onto Sheena's roof. Nah, we'll get on the road to Lisbon and the laundy will have to wait.
The city only has one campsite, but it was easy to find, very reasonably priced, has good, clean facilities and a regular bus into town - perfect. It also had the biggest European mix of clientale we'd encountered so far, with fellow campers including Dutch, French, Spanish, Portugese, German and another English couple. AND the young woman on reception spoke some English, so that made everything much more straightforward.
It was very hot in the afternoon - Theo chose to spend it snoozing in Sheena while I mooched around doing domestic things like the washing up and wrestling unsuccessfully with the campsite clothes washing machine. Eventually, I gave up, went and got my three Euros back from reception, only to return and witness one of the Dutch women sticking a load on in nary a blink of the eyes. I've noticed Dutch people seem to be very efficient campers (well, motorhome enthusiasts) - next time I want to do some laundry I think I will lassoo a Netherlander first. It could save me a lot of frustration.
We took the bus into Coimbra for the evening after the inevitable confusion buying tickets - not only does every country have its own system, but as we've discovered in Portugal, every city and individual bus firm does the business of ticket buying and stamping (or not) and return issuing (or not) in a different manner as well. Rather baffling to the unwary foreign traveller, but don't let that put you off. Without taking the bus, how would you get to see the scruffiest suburbs and lowliest housing estates of all these proud cities? It's also cheap and you can get all the thrills of a fairground ride with some of the more gung-ho drivers.
Coimbra is a city with a university at its heart. King Dinis gifted his Coimbra palace to the institution and it's been established in the city since the early thirteenth century. The buildings are crumbling but still impressive, with the university precincts dotted with statues and steeped in a long, proud history.
The town itself has a multitude of steep, narrow streets, lined with tall appartments, many of them tiled in patterns of blue and green and festooned with their residents' drying clothes. We spent a happy hour or so wandering round (after the obligatory cafe pingo and cup of hot chocolate taken outside a cafe beside the Santa Cruz monastery, itself a rather beautiful converted chapel) before going to the Restaurante Jardim da Manga for some food. We were greeted by a very friendly, English-speaking waiter, Diago, who guided us through the vegetarian options at the cafeteria-style sevice counter. We ate our huge platefuls outside beside the water garden, formally laid out with heavily-laden citrus trees dropping their fruit into the quartet of fountains. We got complimentary glasses of port (yay!) and the whole thing cost less than fourteen Euros.
While at the top of the town during our walk, we'd noticed what looked like a festival laid out in the city's riverside park. It turned out Coimbra was midway through it annual student extravaganza, Queima das Fitas. Essentially, ten days of each faculty celebrating that year's graduation with an eclectic mix of live music, beginning after midnight and ending with traditional Portugese Fado.
Having encountered Fado already through seeing Mariza at WOMAD (the stylish young Fado singer, who has almost single-handedly opened it up to the rest of the world) and then Dona Rosa (who I preferred), I was interested to catch some live. Coimbra's most succesful bar is aCapella, where they put on shows every night in a fourteenth century monument. For ten Euros a head you got three shows, explanation and background to the music in Portugese and English and a drink. We got a jug of sangria, which lasted us the night and watched two young guys, one on Portugese guitar, the other on English classical guitar, deliver a beautiful and intricate set of ballads, serenades and dances. They had a singer with them, who was less impressive - not bad on the more uptempo numbers, but tended to confuse emotion for volume on the slower more melancholy songs and had all the over-bearing vibrato of the lead tenor in a small town, church choir.
Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable couple of hours and I was interested to learn that every year each faculty at Coimbra university composes a new fado song so the students can say their farewells. Some of these have become incredibly well-known throughout Portugal and the finale was the 1958 Medical Faculty fado, which had the Portugese members of the audience all singing along...a lovely moment.
When we got outside, this year's graduates had filled Coimbra's streets, many of them still wearing their black graduation gowns with badges sewn on, scout-style. We contemplated joining the celebrations and going along to the party in the park, but all that sangria and dolorous Fado had made us feel sleepy, so we got a taxi back to the campsite. Tomorrow if it's hot, we decided, we would get our laundry done and go canoeing while it was drying and maybe head to the beach later on.
We woke this morning to the familiar sound of raindrops pattering onto Sheena's roof. Nah, we'll get on the road to Lisbon and the laundy will have to wait.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
observations of Portugal (and Spain)
The Spanish label their railways, so when you drive over a railway line is says which line it is, much in the same way that rivers in the UK (and elsewhere) are labeled. Whether this for the benefit of lost travelers or train spotters isn't clear.
The Portuguese have lots of rocks. They are everywhere. You wouldn't think they'd need to bother quarrying for stone seeing as it seems to be pretty much the only thing in some of the fields, but there are loads of quarries anyway.
Whoever decides where to put road signs in Portugal seems to take great delight in misleading would be picnic-ers, as there were a plethora of "picnic-table-under-shady-tree" signs on the way to Porto that lead instead to baking hot service station car parks.
After a schlepp of a drive yesterday, powering (ahem) Sheena up the highest mountain range in Portugal, we are now in the lovely city of Porto. Portugal's second city reminds me equally of Newcastle and Zanzibar, in the way that high, beautiful bridges span the Duoro river between castles and cathedrals, while the old town is full of cramped, tiled, slightly decrepit, but nonetheless attractive buildings. there's a heat haze over the city, but with the breeze from the Atlantic it's cool and pleasant. The lower bank - a separate city called Gaia (more parallels with Tyneside) - is full of Port distillers and wholesalers, their signs dominating the bank. We'll probably head there after we've finished rinsing the various wireless networks we've managed to find while Kate samples the best coffee in Europe.
The Portuguese have lots of rocks. They are everywhere. You wouldn't think they'd need to bother quarrying for stone seeing as it seems to be pretty much the only thing in some of the fields, but there are loads of quarries anyway.
Whoever decides where to put road signs in Portugal seems to take great delight in misleading would be picnic-ers, as there were a plethora of "picnic-table-under-shady-tree" signs on the way to Porto that lead instead to baking hot service station car parks.
After a schlepp of a drive yesterday, powering (ahem) Sheena up the highest mountain range in Portugal, we are now in the lovely city of Porto. Portugal's second city reminds me equally of Newcastle and Zanzibar, in the way that high, beautiful bridges span the Duoro river between castles and cathedrals, while the old town is full of cramped, tiled, slightly decrepit, but nonetheless attractive buildings. there's a heat haze over the city, but with the breeze from the Atlantic it's cool and pleasant. The lower bank - a separate city called Gaia (more parallels with Tyneside) - is full of Port distillers and wholesalers, their signs dominating the bank. We'll probably head there after we've finished rinsing the various wireless networks we've managed to find while Kate samples the best coffee in Europe.
observations of Portugal (and Spain)
The Spanish label their railways, so when you drive over a railway line it says which line it is, much in the same way that rivers in the UK (and elsewhere) are labeled. Whether this is for the benefit of lost travelers or train spotters isn't clear. But it´s probably comforting to know that the train passing beneath you is the 10.45 to Madrid. If you're a train spotter, well that knowledge is clearly invaluable.
The Portuguese have lots of rocks. They are everywhere. You wouldn't think they'd need to bother quarrying for stone seeing as it seems to be pretty much the only crop in some of the fields, but there are loads of quarries anyway.
Whoever decides where to put road signs in Portugal seems to take great delight in misleading would be picnickers, as there were a plethora of "picnic-table-under-shady-tree" signs on the way to Porto that lead instead to baking hot service station car parks.
After a schlepp of a drive yesterday, powering (ahem) Sheena up the highest mountain range in Portugal, we are now in the lovely city of Porto. Portugal's second city reminds me equally of Newcastle and Zanzibar, in the way that high, beautiful bridges span the Douro river between castles and cathedrals, while the old town is full of cramped, tiled, slightly decrepid, but nonetheless attractive buildings. There's a heat haze over the city, but with the breeze from the Atlantic it's cool and pleasant. The lower bank - a separate city called Gaia (more parallels with Tyneside) - is full of Port distillers and wholesalers, their signs dominating the bank. We'll probably head there after we've finished rinsing the various wireless networks we've managed to find while Kate samples the best coffee in Europe.
Later note from Kate:
We certainly did sample the the local tipple shortly afterwards. We deliberately chose the Ferreira tour and degustation because of its strong Portugese connections and spent an enjoyable hour in the company of a couple (Argentinian and Brazilian respectively, but currently resident in the UK so with very good English) being taught all about Port wine by the guide, then an even more enjoyable time sampling the different types and vintages, with the conversation becoming more convivial and extravagent with every sip. By the end of it all, we were firm friends with Cecile and Guillermo, so went and enjoyed some "pingos" together (glorious shots of wonderfully smooth-roasted espresso coffee with a drop of milk...Theo had hot chocolate) at a cafe back in Porto itself before parting company with fond regards all round. We then came upon an uproarous student graduation parade, which put the English graduation tradition of hats in the air to shame. Ah, this is indeed a fine city. And that's not just the Port talking.
The Portuguese have lots of rocks. They are everywhere. You wouldn't think they'd need to bother quarrying for stone seeing as it seems to be pretty much the only crop in some of the fields, but there are loads of quarries anyway.
Whoever decides where to put road signs in Portugal seems to take great delight in misleading would be picnickers, as there were a plethora of "picnic-table-under-shady-tree" signs on the way to Porto that lead instead to baking hot service station car parks.
After a schlepp of a drive yesterday, powering (ahem) Sheena up the highest mountain range in Portugal, we are now in the lovely city of Porto. Portugal's second city reminds me equally of Newcastle and Zanzibar, in the way that high, beautiful bridges span the Douro river between castles and cathedrals, while the old town is full of cramped, tiled, slightly decrepid, but nonetheless attractive buildings. There's a heat haze over the city, but with the breeze from the Atlantic it's cool and pleasant. The lower bank - a separate city called Gaia (more parallels with Tyneside) - is full of Port distillers and wholesalers, their signs dominating the bank. We'll probably head there after we've finished rinsing the various wireless networks we've managed to find while Kate samples the best coffee in Europe.
Later note from Kate:
We certainly did sample the the local tipple shortly afterwards. We deliberately chose the Ferreira tour and degustation because of its strong Portugese connections and spent an enjoyable hour in the company of a couple (Argentinian and Brazilian respectively, but currently resident in the UK so with very good English) being taught all about Port wine by the guide, then an even more enjoyable time sampling the different types and vintages, with the conversation becoming more convivial and extravagent with every sip. By the end of it all, we were firm friends with Cecile and Guillermo, so went and enjoyed some "pingos" together (glorious shots of wonderfully smooth-roasted espresso coffee with a drop of milk...Theo had hot chocolate) at a cafe back in Porto itself before parting company with fond regards all round. We then came upon an uproarous student graduation parade, which put the English graduation tradition of hats in the air to shame. Ah, this is indeed a fine city. And that's not just the Port talking.
Monday, 5 May 2008
Soundtracks of our sojourn
As we drive we mostly listen to music on our laptop, the records of which get published on our Last FM profile. However we´ve a few CDs to keep us entertained when the laptop battery dies:
An ace compilation CD, a wedding present from Kate's old gigging & hitch-hiking friend Wigs, featuring Bob Dylan, Midlake, Bright Eyes, Beiruit, Herman Dune and loads more. It's great and many of the tracks (and artists) were new to us.
The Flying Club Cup by Beiruit which I left in the Sheena's stereo - cheers for introducing us to them Anna, as it's become a firm favourite.
Tied to the Mast By The Hinkley Veltones - an awesome wedding present from Steven Marr, one of the band who have been firm favourites of ours. I gave them their very first gig, they asked Kate to manage them, they came on both our radio shows, and they were brilliant supporting Frank Sidebottom the week before they left. It's a really great album and we suggest you get it.
(Rose Kemp also gave us a copy of her brand new album, straight from the studio, which we managed to feed into the Mac before we left. It too is excellent and we suggest you get it when it comes out on One Little Indian Records later this year.)
An ace compilation CD, a wedding present from Kate's old gigging & hitch-hiking friend Wigs, featuring Bob Dylan, Midlake, Bright Eyes, Beiruit, Herman Dune and loads more. It's great and many of the tracks (and artists) were new to us.
The Flying Club Cup by Beiruit which I left in the Sheena's stereo - cheers for introducing us to them Anna, as it's become a firm favourite.
Tied to the Mast By The Hinkley Veltones - an awesome wedding present from Steven Marr, one of the band who have been firm favourites of ours. I gave them their very first gig, they asked Kate to manage them, they came on both our radio shows, and they were brilliant supporting Frank Sidebottom the week before they left. It's a really great album and we suggest you get it.
(Rose Kemp also gave us a copy of her brand new album, straight from the studio, which we managed to feed into the Mac before we left. It too is excellent and we suggest you get it when it comes out on One Little Indian Records later this year.)
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Kate and Theo´s Big Night Out
Our time as a married couple had been threatening to settle down into a routine comprising a modest beer or glass of wine and in bed before midnight, with French socialising confined mostly to people older than us and revolving around eating (mostly lunch - but it´s hardly an easy deal, you need the rest of the day to recover from some of those dejeuner do´s, I can tell you). So we resolved to put that right in Spain and do some partying. Our first night on the tiles en Español was last night, here in Salamanca - and if that´s an average night out with the Spaniards, then I´m sold.
We arrived in Salamanca at lunchtime and pitched up at easily the best campsite we´ve stayed in so far, at the Hotel Regio in St Marta, a few kilometres outside Salamanca itself. After an easygoing afternoon, we took the bus into town, which conveniently left the campsite every hour and cost a little over one euro each.
When we got to Salamanca, we followed the general drift of humanity until a joyous hubbub reached us and the narrow street we were walking down opened out into the wonderful Plaza Mayor. It´s a very large, very beautiful and very popular square with the city´s residents, tourists and large student population. All sides are lined with tables and chairs put out by the cafes and the centre of the plaza was filled with teenagers and twenty-somethings sitting in groups, just hanging out on the flagstones.
We chose a table and opted, like most of the other clientale, to enjoy a caña and coffee and drink everything in for a while. As we sat there, three storks flew gracefully overhead to their nests on one side of the Plaza. Soon after, as the light fell, the Plaza was suddenly lit up, a moment greeted with appreciative applause from all its assembled visitors.
Our time after that was spent trying out the Spanish habit of taking small drinks accompanied with tapas - basically small portions of barsnacks. We tried out El Bardo, which had a few vegetarian options among its tapas. More memorable was the bar specialising in Asturian sidra, which confusingly gave out very small measures of the drink served in glasses about the size of a pint, plus two tapas and even more confusingly, two corks. These last were taken away when we opted for a second helping, although we never quite worked out what their significance was. Meanwhile, we watched intrigued as portable sidra dispensers were wheeled around to groups of customers. A tall, metal, snake-like contraption, which held a bottle of sidra at the back and had a cradle for the glasses at the front, was operated by a large handle - which at first glance looked like the non-business end of a big kitchen knife. The sidra itself was dry with a clean, appley taste. Good stuff.
Eventually - gone midnight, when the night was still young as far as most of Salamanca´s younger generation was concerned - we decided to sample some of the clubs. This was easy to do because none of them charged for entry. The first one we went into, Camelot, was a haven for under-agers, with most of the clients looking like they were still waiting for their sixteenth birthday. Even Theo felt old there, so you can imagine how I felt. We didn´t stay long.
The next stop was at the Country Club, which was actually nothing of the sort. Steps led down to a cramped, mosaiced room and glowing with UV. It played vaguely left of centre rock music, which was actually pretty good, so we stayed and danced for a while. Before we moved on, we were accosted by a friendly and somewhat merry young Spaniard, who initially took Theo to be an Italian. As I had invested in some trousseau for him in Biarritz (Theo´s default mode of dressing being best described as scruffy), I felt reasonably pleased, given the Italian reputation for being stylish. Mind you, the guy was pretty drunk.
Finally, we opted for a rather more tacky dive in the "street" area of Salamanca - a litros bar, where you could get beer, spirits and other concoctions in one-litre buckets costing from three and a half euros. I ordered "agua de Valencia", which turned out to be a mixture of Cava and a shot of rum, topped up with orangeade, in a half-litre plastic glass. A terrible thing to do to Cava, really. The whole thing tasted like an alcoholic Fanta.
By now it was almost three and although we´d been told many of the clubs didn´t really warm up until four am, we were beaten and took a taxi back to the campsite (more like UK prices - cost us just over nine euros).
We both thoroughly enjoyed our experience of partying with the Spaniards and I truly wish going out could be such fun occasion in the UK. No aggro or edgyness, just loads of people out to have a great time. It´s certainly whetted our appetite for our forthcoming visit to Madrid and the Rocket and Primavera Sound festivals. Bring it on!
Today we both awoke mainly unscathed from our agua de Valencia experience and after a lazy time at the campsite, are now back in Salamanca appreciating some more of its considerable culture. The buildings are absolutely stunning. It´s a friendly place and I can highly recommend the ice-creams (helados) and hot chocolate with churros. Although you need a strong constitution for the latter - Theo and I felt quite dazed after a cup each of the really thick, dark chocolate served with four deep-fried strips of doughnut mixture. I´m amazed the Spaniards aren´t a great deal fatter in general, but it explains where they get the stamina for their marathon nights out.
Tomorrow, Portugal.
We arrived in Salamanca at lunchtime and pitched up at easily the best campsite we´ve stayed in so far, at the Hotel Regio in St Marta, a few kilometres outside Salamanca itself. After an easygoing afternoon, we took the bus into town, which conveniently left the campsite every hour and cost a little over one euro each.
When we got to Salamanca, we followed the general drift of humanity until a joyous hubbub reached us and the narrow street we were walking down opened out into the wonderful Plaza Mayor. It´s a very large, very beautiful and very popular square with the city´s residents, tourists and large student population. All sides are lined with tables and chairs put out by the cafes and the centre of the plaza was filled with teenagers and twenty-somethings sitting in groups, just hanging out on the flagstones.
We chose a table and opted, like most of the other clientale, to enjoy a caña and coffee and drink everything in for a while. As we sat there, three storks flew gracefully overhead to their nests on one side of the Plaza. Soon after, as the light fell, the Plaza was suddenly lit up, a moment greeted with appreciative applause from all its assembled visitors.
Our time after that was spent trying out the Spanish habit of taking small drinks accompanied with tapas - basically small portions of barsnacks. We tried out El Bardo, which had a few vegetarian options among its tapas. More memorable was the bar specialising in Asturian sidra, which confusingly gave out very small measures of the drink served in glasses about the size of a pint, plus two tapas and even more confusingly, two corks. These last were taken away when we opted for a second helping, although we never quite worked out what their significance was. Meanwhile, we watched intrigued as portable sidra dispensers were wheeled around to groups of customers. A tall, metal, snake-like contraption, which held a bottle of sidra at the back and had a cradle for the glasses at the front, was operated by a large handle - which at first glance looked like the non-business end of a big kitchen knife. The sidra itself was dry with a clean, appley taste. Good stuff.
Eventually - gone midnight, when the night was still young as far as most of Salamanca´s younger generation was concerned - we decided to sample some of the clubs. This was easy to do because none of them charged for entry. The first one we went into, Camelot, was a haven for under-agers, with most of the clients looking like they were still waiting for their sixteenth birthday. Even Theo felt old there, so you can imagine how I felt. We didn´t stay long.
The next stop was at the Country Club, which was actually nothing of the sort. Steps led down to a cramped, mosaiced room and glowing with UV. It played vaguely left of centre rock music, which was actually pretty good, so we stayed and danced for a while. Before we moved on, we were accosted by a friendly and somewhat merry young Spaniard, who initially took Theo to be an Italian. As I had invested in some trousseau for him in Biarritz (Theo´s default mode of dressing being best described as scruffy), I felt reasonably pleased, given the Italian reputation for being stylish. Mind you, the guy was pretty drunk.
Finally, we opted for a rather more tacky dive in the "street" area of Salamanca - a litros bar, where you could get beer, spirits and other concoctions in one-litre buckets costing from three and a half euros. I ordered "agua de Valencia", which turned out to be a mixture of Cava and a shot of rum, topped up with orangeade, in a half-litre plastic glass. A terrible thing to do to Cava, really. The whole thing tasted like an alcoholic Fanta.
By now it was almost three and although we´d been told many of the clubs didn´t really warm up until four am, we were beaten and took a taxi back to the campsite (more like UK prices - cost us just over nine euros).
We both thoroughly enjoyed our experience of partying with the Spaniards and I truly wish going out could be such fun occasion in the UK. No aggro or edgyness, just loads of people out to have a great time. It´s certainly whetted our appetite for our forthcoming visit to Madrid and the Rocket and Primavera Sound festivals. Bring it on!
Today we both awoke mainly unscathed from our agua de Valencia experience and after a lazy time at the campsite, are now back in Salamanca appreciating some more of its considerable culture. The buildings are absolutely stunning. It´s a friendly place and I can highly recommend the ice-creams (helados) and hot chocolate with churros. Although you need a strong constitution for the latter - Theo and I felt quite dazed after a cup each of the really thick, dark chocolate served with four deep-fried strips of doughnut mixture. I´m amazed the Spaniards aren´t a great deal fatter in general, but it explains where they get the stamina for their marathon nights out.
Tomorrow, Portugal.
Friday, 2 May 2008
the road to Salamanca
We took our time leaving Miguel's place in Galkao this morning. Partly because of my usual habit of spending ages having a shower and coating my skin in unguents supposedly guaranteed to keep it young and beautiful. Partly because of a clutch of emails needing pressing and thoughtful replies. And partly because our genial host was keen to chat. About Sheena (he's very keen on getting a camper van himself); about where we should go next on our Spanish tour (he recommended spending the day in Segovia before heading for Salamanca - a rather optimistic suggestion given Sheena's stately pace on the road and our habit of taking long-drawn out lunch breaks and siestas); and his own desire to move to England and what his chances were of getting employment (pretty high given his abilities in renovation and driving - he's already been a building manager and train driver and after seeing his reversing and manouvering skills, I'd say he's the kind of potential bus-driver Bath is crying out for).
But after a stop in Bilbao old town to buy a Spanish dictionary and road atlas and a visit to the Eroski mega supermarket to stock up on supplies, we were on the road towards Burgos. Okay, it was gone one by then and Segovia looked like it was off the menu for the time being. But we had a beautiful drive through the sierra dividing Basque province of Bizkaia and Castilla and eventually made it to a brilliantly quirky campsite at the Paster monument, not far from Miranda.
There we chummed up with two friendly New Zealanders, also on a tour of Europe and currently hot-footing it to Madrid to meet relatives before driving on down to a villa the south of Spain. We spent a most convivial few hours chatting with Andy and Tracy, sharing wine, beer, cake and prunes in eau de vie (which had already caused something of a sensation with Miguel and Beatriz) - thanks in part to chairs and table loaned by a very friendly Spanish guy from the neighbouring chalet.
We've now resolved to get on the road by 0730 tomorrow so we can make it to Salamanca in time to sample some of its famed Saturday nightlife. The fact that the campsite showers can be best described as bracing will probably cut down on the ablutions and help hurry us on our way.
But after a stop in Bilbao old town to buy a Spanish dictionary and road atlas and a visit to the Eroski mega supermarket to stock up on supplies, we were on the road towards Burgos. Okay, it was gone one by then and Segovia looked like it was off the menu for the time being. But we had a beautiful drive through the sierra dividing Basque province of Bizkaia and Castilla and eventually made it to a brilliantly quirky campsite at the Paster monument, not far from Miranda.
There we chummed up with two friendly New Zealanders, also on a tour of Europe and currently hot-footing it to Madrid to meet relatives before driving on down to a villa the south of Spain. We spent a most convivial few hours chatting with Andy and Tracy, sharing wine, beer, cake and prunes in eau de vie (which had already caused something of a sensation with Miguel and Beatriz) - thanks in part to chairs and table loaned by a very friendly Spanish guy from the neighbouring chalet.
We've now resolved to get on the road by 0730 tomorrow so we can make it to Salamanca in time to sample some of its famed Saturday nightlife. The fact that the campsite showers can be best described as bracing will probably cut down on the ablutions and help hurry us on our way.
to Bilbao
Suddenly we were in Spain.
It was as abrupt as that. Not that our arrival in Spain was unintended, but it was certainly unheralded. No passport control, no "Welcome to Spain" signs, just a sudden change in the style of the traffic lights and the languages on the signs becoming Spanish and the unintelligible Euskara. It was an abruptness that we found elsewhere in the Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, most obviously in the landscape, with there seeming no middle ground between mountain and sea, or countryside and town, the coast road to Bilbao perching on the narrowest of passages between towering, forested hills and the heaving Atlantic which even on this calm, sunny day breached the sea defenses at one point to give Sheena a good drenching. Goodness knows what the road is like on a stormy day.
Bilbao caught us by surprise. Suddenly we were there, an urban sprawl surrounded by peaks and hills, offering us no sense of location. We were so surprised that we hadn't had time to properly look over the directions given to us by Miguel and Beatriz, our hosts for the evening, and so promptly got lost and it took us a stressful hour to find our way back out of Bilbao and take another run at things. In the gloomy rain that had now descended, matched by our moods, Bilbao was looking far from attractive. However Miguel's directions turned out to be perfect, and he and Beatriz were superb hosts, as we sat around their kitchen sharing food and wine, attempting to communicate - Miguel spoke pretty decent English but as Beatriz didn't, and our Spanish is infantile as best, it was Miguel who did most of the talking!
After a good night's sleep Bilbao was looking more attractive in the bright sunshine of the next morning. Armed with Miguel's advice, we ventured into the city and found the stunning Guggenheim Museum, which definitely lives up to its hype; a row of beautiful bridges linked by a pleasant riverside promenade; a lovely old town full of gorgeous, balconied buildings and a score of May Day demos and marches.
In the afternoon we headed out to the coast, to be treated to more spectacular views of forested slopes crashing into the ocean as we puffed our way up winding mountain roads. We finished up at Gernika, the heart of the Euskla Herria, the site of the Basque Parliament and of the atrocities which heralded the advent of carpet bombing civilian targets when Hilter's Condor squadron practically destroyed the town during the Spanish Civil War. Then, after a siesta, a gentle drive back to another very warm welcome from Miguel and Beatriz, and an evening spent sharing beer and photos.
So definitely worth the stress of getting here.
It was as abrupt as that. Not that our arrival in Spain was unintended, but it was certainly unheralded. No passport control, no "Welcome to Spain" signs, just a sudden change in the style of the traffic lights and the languages on the signs becoming Spanish and the unintelligible Euskara. It was an abruptness that we found elsewhere in the Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, most obviously in the landscape, with there seeming no middle ground between mountain and sea, or countryside and town, the coast road to Bilbao perching on the narrowest of passages between towering, forested hills and the heaving Atlantic which even on this calm, sunny day breached the sea defenses at one point to give Sheena a good drenching. Goodness knows what the road is like on a stormy day.
Bilbao caught us by surprise. Suddenly we were there, an urban sprawl surrounded by peaks and hills, offering us no sense of location. We were so surprised that we hadn't had time to properly look over the directions given to us by Miguel and Beatriz, our hosts for the evening, and so promptly got lost and it took us a stressful hour to find our way back out of Bilbao and take another run at things. In the gloomy rain that had now descended, matched by our moods, Bilbao was looking far from attractive. However Miguel's directions turned out to be perfect, and he and Beatriz were superb hosts, as we sat around their kitchen sharing food and wine, attempting to communicate - Miguel spoke pretty decent English but as Beatriz didn't, and our Spanish is infantile as best, it was Miguel who did most of the talking!
After a good night's sleep Bilbao was looking more attractive in the bright sunshine of the next morning. Armed with Miguel's advice, we ventured into the city and found the stunning Guggenheim Museum, which definitely lives up to its hype; a row of beautiful bridges linked by a pleasant riverside promenade; a lovely old town full of gorgeous, balconied buildings and a score of May Day demos and marches.
In the afternoon we headed out to the coast, to be treated to more spectacular views of forested slopes crashing into the ocean as we puffed our way up winding mountain roads. We finished up at Gernika, the heart of the Euskla Herria, the site of the Basque Parliament and of the atrocities which heralded the advent of carpet bombing civilian targets when Hilter's Condor squadron practically destroyed the town during the Spanish Civil War. Then, after a siesta, a gentle drive back to another very warm welcome from Miguel and Beatriz, and an evening spent sharing beer and photos.
So definitely worth the stress of getting here.
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