This being part five of the saga of our summer 2006.

After the Alhambra we went down the hundred odd klms to visit Michael, our friend (and onetime best man of 33 years ago) who now lives near the coast in Manilva.

I have already recorded my impressions of the Costa in a blog I put up from there in July Flamenco

There are terrific rewards from living here.
It has a wonderfully benign climate and, even the Tramontana,
the “Mistral” of this part of the world,which they hate , we
found deliciously cooling in the heat.

“The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn’t sleep”

So I stood up on Michaels roof and took photos of the dawn.

The amazing and unsung revelation about this part of Spain
is that you travel just a few klms. back from the coast and
you easily find the real Spain.

I already mentioned the Pueblo Blanco of Guicín.
We went with Michael to visit another called Medina Sidonia.

This is rather more prosperous than Guicín due to the famed Dolces
which are made in a factory at the outskirts of the town.

These Dolces, which are rather like French Petits Fours, are delicious.
We bought a ridiculous amount of them and are still eking them out
slowly and greedily six weeks later.

One of the striking features about these villages is the strong
Moorish influences still evident.
The very whitness of the villages shows the arabesque style.
But there plenty of other vestiges

The interior of a chemist shop

Some battered tiles in the foyer of an old house

Even the church had a door which they, unashamedly, said came
from the Mosque which they tore down to build it.

The church was itself a joy, I’m only sorry my pictures
didn’t turn out better.

The images were amazing.
This statue was of a female saint, dressed in fabric.
complete with a crown of thorns and carrying a cross.
An icon I had never seen or heard of before.

The general understanding of the images was marred a
little by the bizarre translations into English.
In one case Santa Rita was translated-I joke not- as
Father Christmas Rita!

This primitive bleeding and pleading Jesus was strangely moving.

We even climbed the tower at the end of the visit.
This gives a good overview of the Pueblo.

Before we went away this summer Sile decided to take the garden in hand and to plant some perennials in a bed at the back of the house.

Before we left it looked something like this.

We came back to this.

Many thanks to Mary D who minded the house while we were away
and kept the weeds down.

Being part four of the tale of the summer of 2006

On my one previous trip to Granada we had been taken on a tour of the Alhambra by night, and indeed some of the vistas and reflections we had seen then were entirely magical.
I was convinced that it was the most beautiful building I had ever seen and I determined that I was going to visit again, with Sile and during daylight.
The visit this year to the Alhambra and the Generalife was the fulfilling of this dream.
The Alhambra was not built to display its beauty to the world, from the outside it looks large and red but not very impressive.
All of its beauty in in the inside, in the way the walls are decorated, the way the pillars and windows frame vistas both within and without the walls, and with the marvellous grace and proportions of the buildings and their relationship to the gardens.

This is a view of the Albicin, the white Arab quarter,
famous for its enclosed Carmens, courtyards with
vines and lemon trees.

Marco was our guide, all cool and immaculate in white linen.
He was Italian spoke perfect English and from his badge
also did tours in Italian, German and Spanish.

This is the most famous vista in the Palace,
The Courtyard of the Myrtles with its beautiful still pool
reflecting the Comares Tower.
This was equally beautuful when seen by moonlight.

This is the fountain in the Courtyard of the Lions.
It is most unusual for the Moors to depict any live animal
or person in their art.

Another superbly decorated window with a glimpse
of the gardens outside.

Many of the openings are decorated with fretwork like this.

It is now believed that these windows were originally filled
with tiny panes of coloured glass as in this artists impression.

The only remaining vestiges of glass are at an angle on top
of a window where only my camera could see.

On the moonlight tour we hadn’t visited the gardens,
The Generalife.
They rival the palace for their formal beauty.
(Sorry about the Posers)

I finish the tour with yet another shot out a window.
Hollywood should learn from the way these people
were able to frame their shots.

This holiday another weakness has hit my aging body and mind.
I have developed a tendency to write doggerel.

It all started at the end of the week in Goudargues when I wrote
the following mock Irish ballad, it got worse after that as you will
eventually discover.
Squemish people and those who read poetry for pleasure should
press the little x on the top of their screens NOW

The Ballad of the Haut Toupian

Come all ye young men and I’ll sing you a song
Of a house party up in the Haut Toupian

There were eight stalwart people all gathered there
To partake of good food and the warum French air

There was boul’ Mary Dorgan, as moist as could be
-the best bloody house guest you ever did see

Colm Ronan was there with his net and his glass
A guarding us all from the snakes in the grass

There was Eugene Mc Veigh,he’s a Scotsman by birth
But can still hold his own with the wordplay and mirth.

Mrs. Kelleher Lynch was her good stately self,
Powerful with orders but slow to wash delf

Young Ann Kelleher was there with her soon-to-be groom
A guarantee-someone said- that she’ld get a large room

And Milo, the lizard whom the sun couldn’t fill
Got his chance to sing most of the Boul’ Thady Quill

Teacher Sile Dwyer kept us up to the mark
(though for once ‘twas her bite was much worse than her bark)

And lastly chef Dwyer, a bit battered and gored
But producing the food Mary D could afford.

And the eight friends enjoyed all the mirth and the cheer
Please God they’ll repeat it, the same time next year.

Part three of the saga of the summer of 2006

After our week of luxury in Goudargues it was back to the tent for our first attempt at camping in Spain.

The first night was a disaster, we stayed in a noisy, over-priced and cramped campsite in Castello d’Empuries near Gerona (you know who you are!).
Thus losing confidence in Spanish campsites we were delighted with our second night which was in a site called El Berro in the Espuna mountains.

There the considerate management had erected
awnings over the sites for extra shade. There was also
an excellent pool and the height made it much cooler
than the lowlands. The temperatures were in the forties
still, as there was a heatwave all over Europe.

I became so hot and sweaty when I was setting up the tent
that I hung my t-shirt up to dry.
As it dried I was able to see from the “tide marks” that I had
lost considerable amounts of salt as well!
We stayed two nights in El Berro.

As we headed down towards Granada, our next goal, we decided to stop in a cafe for breakfast. Looking for Coffee and Croissants we hopefully asked for them. “No”, said the proprietor firmly, “Tostados”.
He then promptly served with that delicious, and I had previously thought Catalan speciality El Pa y Al about which I had written but not eaten in Spain.
It was far better than Croissants!

Our next goal was to the Sierra Nevada Mountains over Granada.
There we had booked Camping Los Avellanos de Sierra Nevada on a strong recommendation from Alan Rogers’ most unreliable guide. (He had after all recommended La Laguna near Gerona -oops, now I’ve named them!)
This time however he came up trumps.
This camp site was a winner.

It was another Olive Farm, this time the terraces had been
converted into beautifully private pitches.

All with a marvellous view of the Sierra Nevada.

But the best thing about the place was the young owner; Pilar.
As soon as we had the tent pitched she escorted us to a shady spot
and fed us tapas of chilled sweet tomatoes and icy beer.
The most refreshing thing I have ever eaten!

A terrific camp site and beautifully run.

The following day we went in to have a quick preview
of Granada.
I had been before to a Euro-Toque conference but Sile hadn’t.
We went to the ominously named Paseo de Los Tristes to
have lunch of chilled Gazpacho and Manzanilla under
the shade of the Alhambra.

We then bought some Dolcis, sweet anis flavoured
biscuits, through a hatched turnstile from some
Carmelite nuns who lived nearby.
(Melt in the mouth they were too).

Had a wander into beautiful cool Moorish palace
which now houses the Museum of Archeology.
(It is amazing how an open courtyard with a fountain
is as cooling as air-conditioning.)

Had a look at Ferdinand and Isabella’s busts in the
over-ornate cathedral.
(It is easy to tell who wore the trousers by the faces alone)

Then back to Pilar’s in time to meet my old friend Michael,
now living in Manilva just down the road, in preparation for
our trip to the Alhambra the following day.

He proved that given the the magic of modern
telecommunications he can manage to do business
with America even in a campsite in the middle
of the Sierra Navadas.

Part two of the saga of the summer of 2006

Our one booked and paid for part of the holiday
was in this house “Haut Toupian” just outside
Goudargues in the Gard.
This was again a clever conversion, the hill had
been terraced for olive trees.

As next door still was

And these terraces had been incorporated to make it
a house and garden on many levels.
There was a swimming pool on one.

And a handy bower for me to do my writing on another.

There was still very much a feeling of being in the middle
of the country and as well as singing to us constantly, the
crickets kept dropping in.

There was a fig tree in the garden which was being
devoured by wasps.

But we managed to save a delicious bowlful or two.

A great terrace for Barbrcues

And more barbecues (this one of Magret de Canard)

Inside the cool veranda was shaded by a canopy.
This we needed as the temperatures hit the 40’s
while we were here

We did however manage one meal out.
We dined again in the Vieille Fontaine in Cornillon.
A restaurant which has a breathtaking view of the
valley of the Ceze.

It also manages extremely good food.
This was my starter of Scallop, Artichoke
and Asparagus.
I couldn’t have done better myself.

Rather a lot of food in this entry isn’t there.
It must have been the hungry company.

Part one of the saga of the summer of 2006

Sile on the boat on the first leg of the journey.
(sporting a new hair cut)

I was just trying to take a shot of the setting sun
when this couple walked in front of me.
Then when I saw the shadows I blessed them!

We stayed by the almost still River Lot on
the way down through France.These rivers
which drain into the west coast of France, the Lot
and the Dordogne especially,are very beautiful.

In the Village of Capandac by the Lot we saw this sign.
The mind boggles!
Do you lap directly from the toilet bowl?

This is the hotel we stayed in Sommieres in Languedoc.
Called l’Oustelou it was an old railway station which had been
restored without changing its basic character.

At the back of the hotel the old railway line had been
turned into a cycle/skating track which was in constant
use. This was a man of a certain age prepared to try
it on roller blades. I tried it on the bike with rather
disasterous consequences!

We did manage to get to a Brocante fair in a local village.
(and I bought some glasses!)

This cafe by the river became our second home while
we were in Sommieres. This is most of our party.

Myself testiculating with my brother in law Colm.

The French plane trees have this tendancy to grow into
their environment, they sometimes capture passing railings.

Last summer in Languedoc I saw in a church my first picture of St Roch.
For some reason this saint has never made it to Ireland and I was fascinated to discover what this man was doing lifting his skirt to show off a mark on his thigh.

I later discovered that there was a legend of St. Roch being fed by a dog when he had the plague.
The skirt raising gesture was to show the buboes, which are symptomatic of the plague, and which are generally at the groin.

Last spring I was delighted to read in Alan Bennet’s Untold Stories;
“St Rocca…is more difficult to take however well he’s painted because he must always be hitching up his skirt to show you his boil…..In the painting by Crivelli which is in the Wallace Collection you half expect him to be wearing suspenders”

All this has put me on permanent look-out for pictures of the saint and this summer I was well rewarded.

There follows a sampling of my research.

This one we found in Jaca in the Spanish Pyrenees.
A standard and quite modest version

This lad was hiding behind the altar in the little
village of Azille near Carcassonne.
Hiding with him were the ass and the ox from the Christmas crib

This far more flamboyant version was in the wealthy
monastery in Lagrasse

This was from the village of Trebes and had the slightly
sinister addition of a cherub to display the boil.

As had this one from Montaulieu, but here he had the discretion
to be looking away.

This church also had a second one in stained glass

This human and natural version is my favourote.
He was in the old chapel of Saissac in the Aude

These two were in the church in Dinan.
The second one of his death is the only time I
saw him depicted without the skirt lifting.

This dark and sinister image was in the church
in Carcassonne.

And this is the image from the Wallace
collection which Alan Bennet mentions.
I certainly did not find anything to rival the
exhibitionism shown here!

PS

Our friend Finola found this black garbed St Roch in Montenegro.
Could he be wearing specs?(and sock suspenders!)

Well well well, home again after the longest and most significant holiday ever.
47 days of holiday, nearly seven weeks during which we drove over 5000 miles,
visited whole loads of France and Spain and the significant bit is that, if all goes well, we have also started the process of buying our house in France.
As a true and dedicated blogger I kept a longhand journal of the whole epic, I filled most of a large foolscap copy with my ramblings, I also managed to take a few snaps, over 500 (and that only with merciless pruning).

Now begins the process of trying to transcribe all of that into edible “words” pieces.

But first things first.
The French house.

The house is an 19th century Presbytery in the village of Thézan-les-Béziers.
The village is in Herault, in the Languedoc, about 15 minutes from Béziers, and about half an hour from the Mediterranean.

The house is big,they say 195 sq metres, (about 2000 sq feet) but this omits the attic and the cellar. In Ireland we would call it closer to 3000 sq feet.
It has six bedrooms, a living room, a huge kitchen which leads out on to big terrace with great views down to the Pyrenees, a court yard and a little garden
(100 sq metres) which has a huge tree growing in it.

It is very ratty at the moment,dirty and unloved with wallpaper and carpets from the sixties but has some beautiful features, two marble fireplaces, some terrific plasterwork, and some great tiles on the floors.
It was last lived in by some nuns attached to the church, and it is from the parish council of Montpellier that we are buying the property.

Here are some pictures.

This is the front door, it looks hundreds of years old,
note the boot scrapers on each side.

The terrace.

Marble fireplace in one of the bedrooms
with beautiful plasterwork over.

Looking out of the kitchen on the terrace and the tree.
(and the Pyrenees in the distance)

In the courtyard we found a life sized Lady of Lourdes.

Our bid has been accepted and now we await the process of purchase which will take about three months.
You may await further developments.

We are still at the Costa del Sol staying with my friend Michael.
We have never come near this part of Spain before not being the sun sea etc holidaymakers and, at first sight, the place does seem to be everything one would expect and dread.
There are mile after mile of appartments and house owned by second homers and the planning officer for the area does seem to have spent a lot of time dozing. (quite a lot of them are now dozing at the expense of His Majesty Juan Carlos having been found with Sterling, Kroner and yes, Punts in their home safes.)

The second home belt however is but a thin band and go a couple of miles back into the hinterland and the real Spain is very much alive and well.
On Saturday night we made such an excursion inland up to the hilltop Pueblo Blanco of Gaucín.

A Pueblo Blanco is a white village usually perched on hill tops like the French Bastides but all painted white for maximum protection from the sun and clustered together intersected by narrow shady lanes. They are quite enchanting and I can’t understand why the Spanish tourist office doesn’t use then endlessly on its tourism literature.
I had never heard of them before.

Gaucín is reached by a switchback road full of hairpins with unexpected drops of hundereds of feet.
I was delighted Michael was driving and kept my eyes firmly closed.

Once we got there we parked the car and then we got to know the village quite well.
We got totally lost as we crossed and recrossed the labyrinthine lanes and paths trying to find the Fiesta Flamenco.
Eventually a small boy took pity on us and led us to the barn where the fiesta was taking place.
We wern’t long seated before we realised that we were at a serious recital of male flamenco singers.
Any ideas we had had of ladies in colourful dresses stamping clapping and castinetting were soon dissipated, this was the real thing.
We were treated to a series of performances by just two men, the singer and his guitarist.
I was totally captivated.
When we arrived Rubito Hijo was singing.
He was a young man, perhaps early thirties, and accompanied by a similarly aged guitarist.
The true performance of a flamenco song is highly formal and mannered, seems to follow certain rigid traditional rules but is also open to enormous variation of interpretation and hugely emotional.

Rubito Hijo was a good introduction, being quite young and cool but well capable of turning the emotion when called for.
The second singer was quite different.
El Pele, as witness his reception, had obviously been a huge star but was now of an age with me.
He gave what I suspect was a more old fashioned performance.
His emotional outbursts were very strong, perhaps a little OTT but still extraordinarily engaging.
The best wine was certainly keprt until the last.
There was no doubting why Arcangel was so called.
Small dark slim and bearded and very hansome he could have stepped from any old master’s religious painting.
He sang like an angel too.
Accompanied by an incredibly accomplished guitarist – I kept checking to see was there a second man in the wings playing some of his notes(there wasn’t)-Arcangel was a total contrast to El Pele.
He started off gently and utterly sincerely, I was with him from the begining, but he was well capable of lashing out emotion as demanded.
I almost began to think that I could understand some of the songs as he sang them so expressively. (I speak practically no Spanish)

The crowd loved him too, shouting Ole! after a particularly heartfelt passage and frequently breaking out in spontanious applause if they were particularly carried away with the singing.
I was with them all the way.
As soon as he finished I was gently edged towards the door by the others.
There were some more singers yet to perform but it was now 2.00 am and we had a long and hairy drive down the mountain to do to get back to Michael’s house.

I dreamed Flamenco all night.
If you google in the nicknames you will find all these men on the internet.
As I said they were serious artists.