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Monday, November 10, 2008

The past has a false allure





Some towns do not immediately reveal their true character from a casual approach.

We went, en famille, to Súria to visit what was advertised as the VII Fira Medieval d’Oficis, Súria 2008. A medieval fair sounded like a good idea so off we went. We called into Terrassa because Súria is in deepest, darkest Catalonia. Picking up assorted relatives we eventually proceeded in two packed cars.

One of the advantages of approaching Súria from the direction that we did was that I had another and even more astonishing view of Montserrat.

I am used to mountains in various shapes and sizes but usually, as long as you are not in the Pyrenees or the Alps, they are fairly gently rounded with an abundance of tree orientated vegetation. On the road to Súria we were presented with hills and mountains of the regular sort directly in front of us – a perfectly normal vista. But there was something else.

Looming above what I might call the natural landscape was an outline of a range of hills drawn by an untalented child. The silhouette was bizarre with odd promontories, serrated, jagged outcrops and some configurations looking like Gothic cathedrals. What made the whole thing even more other worldly was the skein of diaphanous cloud was lurked just above the conventional hills making the Montserrat range look as though it was floating above the other hills. It was not difficult to imagine an extra-terrestrial race gently lowering an alien set of hills onto the native landscape.

Although unsettling the view of the two sets of hills was grotesquely picturesque. It had that absurd, almost tasteless beauty which depicted as a painting would be kitsch in the extreme, but which, when provided by the environment can be enjoyed with an almost guilty pleasure. That view made the whole trip worthwhile. Which, as you will see, is just as well!

The road into the town is horizontal; everything else is virtually vertical. The whole place seems to be built on a one in one slope. The streets might be atmospheric and cobbled and small and windy, but they are certainly not ideal for hobbling! Crowds pushed their way along constricted pathways and blocked access to stalls and sights.

The actual ‘fair’ or ‘fayre’ of ‘fira’ was not as impressive as I had envisaged and put me in mind of a slightly higher class Splott Market in Cardiff rather than an exotic, archaic re-enactment of aspects of Catalan cultural heritage.
Continuing the Cardiff comparisons, it was nothing as impressive as an ‘Open’ day in St Fagans – but I should imagine that St Fagans must be well on its way towards becoming a World Heritage Site these days given the quality and range of buildings now housed (ha!) there.

There were trades people there: I saw a potter; a stone mason; a glass worker and a very unconvincing weaver. The latter was sown up by the companion worker, a very convincing spinster who made the production of yarn look deceptively easy.

Here I know of what I speak: during a short but traumatic period I was instructed how to spin wool into thread. Not only did I not manage this, but I couldn’t even get the bloody wheel to spin in the right direction. There is nothing like being condescended to by a matronly woman dressed as a Welsh peasant smiling in an encouraging sort of way to the inept idiot who cannot work out which way is forward. At least I was not alone in my ineptitude!

With a child of three and another of three months you do not have a lot of opportunity to stand and stare. So we didn’t. Which rather spoiled the point of going to the fair in the first place.

The town is actually a mining community and for the first time for a long time I actually saw some winding gear.
Not coal here through, but salt. The spoil heaps are a little more aesthetically pleasing than coal, but they look unsightly and artificial.

A river (a real river with water) runs through the place and almost gives some picturesque views; but not quite.




And our lunch was very average there as well.

After struggling up to the top of the town to look at a nondescript ‘castle’ and an uninspiring church with a central idol of Mary our way down was via a vast number of painful, hip jarring steps.

On the via dolorosa of endless steps we passed a landing on which was pitched a Moroccan tent serving green tea with herbs; an archery range; various exhausted people making the upward journey and, most disturbingly a statue of what looked like the flayed outline of a man in some sort of metal.



By the time we passed this horror I was prepared to experience anything which would bring me nearer to a level road to the car.

When, eventually I reached the bottom I was beyond caring about medieval fairs in salt mines and I was ready for home.

Not an altogether successful jaunt and certainly one that I would not recommend. The next jolly foreign fair I go to will be on a surface on which the bubble of the spirit level will be dead in the centre of the little tube.

Or I will not be there!

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