A full day!

Given the sacrosanct nature of bureaucracy in Spain, I suppose that I should be grateful that signing up for my Spanish classes only took just over an hour. During the complex series of manoeuvres where, like some form of ancient dance, movement, conversation and the offering of documents must be executed in the correct ritualistic style, in the time honoured order, one step following the other like an ancient Pavanne.

The payment of the exorbitant fee for the course of lessons which are twice a week from September to June could not, of course, be handed over to the person registering you. The frightening sum of €20 (!) had to be paid by your being given a bill which then had to be taken to a bank (the despised BBVA) where the actual money was paid, your receipt stamped, then you had to return to the centre and wait again for your receipt to be accepted.

Yet again, even though I was talking to someone in Spanish who spoke Spanish I have managed to convince a native speaker that I am actually more competent in the language than I really am. I think that this is one time where my easy plausibility will come back to haunt me during my very first lesson where my inability to decline the verb ‘to be’ will be my public downfall!

Lunch with Caroline seemed to be a fully deserved recompense for my travails in the morning and we managed to talk with fluency and interest about subjects great and small while consuming a very reasonably priced Japanese meal.

As we are looking around at other possibilities for renting I accompanied Caroline to look at the outside of a house for rent near her in the last urbanization of Castelldefels before The Tunnels on the slope of one of the hills that surround the town.

From the outside the place looked interesting and the shared pool certainly looked attractive but there was a series of steps down to the front door and the view was of houses and flats on the other side of the hill. Considering the price I think that this is one viewing which will not take place. As I sit here listening to the waves I think how hard it is going to be to leave the beach – even for the ‘Freeing of the Bluespace Thousands’ as my books are now generally known.

The gadget event of the day was the arrival of the new camera. This has arrived in record time and came with little extras like an ineffective tripod and a camera case that doesn’t fit that I didn’t expect.

The camera itself (a Canon powershot G9) looks a little bit retro but the pictures it takes are excellent. The x6 optical zoom and the 3” LCD viewer are both astonishing. The verticality of the viewed image is maintained even if you turn the camera – a feature which almost caused an accident when first discovered!

The instructions are dense to the point of opacity but I am told that there is a photography course on line which might help. Otherwise it is going to be a question of trial and error to find out how some of the features work.

The first results are pleasing though and I am looking forward to producing shots which can get me back to some of the pictures I took ‘on a roll’ during an unusually productive and successful couple of weeks back in Rumney.




There was only time to charge the battery before I had to be off to Barcelona for the first in the series of my visits to the Liceu.

Having left just over three hours to travel the 20 km to Barcelona, and finding the roads gratifyingly free of the usual traffic jams I was able to take a series of ‘artistic’ shots of various locales in the city within spitting distance of the Ramblas and have a quick meal.



Here I broke one of my cardinal rules and was duly punished for it. It is perfectly possible to eat on the Ramblas for a reasonable sum of money but, as they say in all the best fairy stories, stick to the path. In the case of eating in Barcelona this means: find a set cost meal and do not deviate from the menu provided.

My mistake was water. I had an excellent value meal of chicken, salad, spaghetti and chips on one enormous plate with bread and what I thought was a drink and sweet. Wrong. The drink of agua con gas was almost three quid! It was a large glass, but it was still water. And coffee was another quid. I have now, well and truly, learned my lesson.

Uncharacteristically the performance I had gone to Barcelona to see in the Liceu was of dance. I am subject to the ‘Banana Yogurt Effect’ in this art: I don’t ever choose it, but quite like it when I get it.

The company performing was Tanztheater Wuppertal under the direction of Pina Bausch. A person and company of whom I had never heard.



The first part of the programme was ´Café Müller’ which was a load of pretentious twaddle which reinforced my pre-existing prejudices about the value of Dance with a capital ‘D’. I was not best pleased when the start was delayed and then when the lights when down it was delayed further before the ‘action’ got started and one of the protagonists limped into action crashing into furniture on a stage littered with chairs and tables.

The ‘characters’ in this piece were loosely enough defined to accommodate any half baked psychological, social or political meaning a viewer cared to attach to the paucity of meaningful movements visible on stage. The music was not continuous, but when it did hiss into audibility at least there were a few good tunes from the extracts from ‘Dido and Aeneas’ by Henry Purcell.

According to an overheard conversation from the gentleman on my right who had one of those plumy, sonorous English accents that make me feel like a provincial clodhopper, ‘Café Müller’ was about ‘isolation.’ I suppose that was as good an explanation as anything.

So, the action: it was about isolation you know. The couple playing the lovers were competent enough as was Pina Bausch herself playing a sort of ghost at the feast. Other characters included a small stepping sort of fussy Women’s Institute character and a pony tailed man whose function seemed to be to smash a path through the furniture to allow other characters to thrash their way about the stage.

I really do not think that a series of vaguely interesting, unrelated movements gain in significance by inane repetition. I began to wonder if Pina Bausch was seeking to be the dance equivalent of the minimalist music of Philip Glass.

When this interminable pseudo intellectual crap finally subsided into blackness I was so disgruntled that I could not bring myself to join in with even a token clap to accompany the ringing applause from the character on my right.

During the interval I descended the few steps to the foyer as I have now decided that my traditional scorn for those members of the audience who frequent ‘the upper levels’ can be transferred to the Liceu and I have therefore decided to sit in the stalls this season. Finding a vacant seat I scribbled some insulting notes into my programme to vent my spleen and awaited the second half with dread.

I returned to the auditorium to find the stage occupied by a dozen stagehands busily covering and raking the stage with a layer of earth. This was preparation for the performance of ‘The Rite of Spring’ – at least, I thought, I will be able to listen to the music and if necessary close my eyes.

And everything I said about the first half now has to be turned on its head. The lack of coherence, pointless gesture, and meaningless repetition: all the negatives were transformed into as griping a dance performance as I have ever seen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXVuVQuMvgA&feature=related

It was the sort of experience which made the (remaining) hairs on my head stand up. The compelling narrative of ritual sacrifice was brilliantly presented by the girls wearing diaphanous costumes and the boys stripped to the half. In the course of the exuberant action the dancers became covered in the earth in which they danced, kicked, stamped, shuffled and rolled.


It may be an overworked word but the performance was electrifying with the vitality of the generally young dancers barely contained by the passion of their steps and movements.

The applause which greeted the exhausting final dance of the victim and the end of the production was tumultuous with some patrons actually ululating their appreciation.

Many members of the audience actually stood when Pina Bausch finally came on stage to accept the plaudits of the crazed audience.

As is well known, a British audience would hesitate about standing for The Second Coming, so the gentleman on my right and I stayed firmly in our seats.

It was good, but not that good!