Almost gone!

The tail end of a cough and cold is, in a way, worse than the actual full blown affliction.

You have spent your time sniffling and hacking; drinking strange draughts and sucking suspicious pastilles and leaving a disgusting trail of paper handkerchiefs behind you (though thinking about it, that is probably me, sorry) and generally feeling sorry for yourself.

Then the bright day dawns when you can breath through your nose again, you sound less and less like Elieen Stritch when she burst an office where I was ‘helping’ out in a charity gala and announced to no one in particular in a voice which sounded as though ossified by rust and packed in gravel that there was ‘something wrong with my fucking voice!” When she sang that evening, I did not noticeably register a difference from the voice of the outburst.

Anyway, you regain your voice and sound less like some articulate bear. Life, it would seem, is getting better.

But the malady doesn’t go away completely: mucus still succumbs to gravity; the tonsil fairies continue to wave their feathered wands absentmindedly at sensitive parts of the throat and subterranean lung gremlins occasionally rumble their way along the tubes. You think for a few glorious moments that all these ill omened creatures have been banished only to reappear (usually at the most inopportune moments) with feverish force. But you are conscious that this animosity is of a rear guard nature and not the out and out attack that you are conscious you have survived.

My voice lacks its usual smooth gravitas while certain rough strands of barbed wire have insinuated their way around my vocal chords making my voice sound different (startlingly different on the phone) and, as I stubbornly maintain, sexy.

I shall work steadily to re-enter the human race when friends and family will be able to kiss me rather than treat me like an ambient leper!



The cheaper alternative to the stratospherically priced Brompton Folding Bike is found in Carrefour for about 15% of the price. This is an altogether more basic bike and it doesn’t fold into such a small space but, 15% for goodness sake! To my infinite shame I attempted to wobble a few yards in the supermarket and felt, well, uncomfortable.


Not only uncomfortable but decidedly unsafe. I am now rethinking my idea of placidly cycling down the newly constructed walkway on the beach and returning to walking sedately. I might try and borrow a bike to find out if one of the fundamental credos of the human species that ‘once you can ride a bike you never forget how to’ is true in my case. Perhaps the architecture of my inner ear has changed over the years and my sense of equilibrium is differently balanced.

Or it might be the Rioja.

Days well spent!

The last two days have been reminiscent of the worst excesses of my student days.

Not, I hasten to add, for the consumption of Small Sweet Sherries (for which I was notorious in University) but rather for the multiplicity of experiences packed into a 48 hour period. I well remember the occasion when a group of university friends and I descended on the vulnerable city of London and they urged me, as a habitual London visitor, to take them around. We set off on my punishing cultural hovering up of experiences and, during the day, they all fell by the wayside until I, alone, was still resolutely opening the catalogue for the next exhibition.

Although not quite in that exhausting league I think for sheer variety I do come close to those energy fuelled food denying days.

I started with the Caixa (my new best friend) sponsored exhibition in the Caixa Forum (just down, as you now know, from MNAC) and free, gratis and for nothing.

This exhibition was ‘El Pa Dels Àngels’ (The bread of Angels) was a collection of paintings for the collections of the Uffizi in Florence illustrating the theme of the ‘mystery’ of ‘transubstantiation’ - as a good Anglican atheist you will understand why I feel the need for quotation marks! Such an exhibition does raise expectations given the wealth of masterpieces in the Uffizi’s collections.

I cannot pretend that this exhibition lived up to its poster which boasted a real Botticelli. There were big names here as the subtitle to the exhibition explained, “de Botticelli a Luca Giordano” and there were paintings by Pisano, Parmigianino, Signorelli and Veronese as well – but the feeling from the paintings on view is that the Uffizi has emptied some of its vaults to give an airing to paintings not generally seen. Even the works of the most famous artists do not seem to be important examples of the artists’ brushes.

This is, perhaps, being ungenerous to a most welcome exhibition in Barcelona to complement the meagre holdings of paintings from this period in the city collections.

The overall impression was of second rate art chosen to illustrate a theme rather than paintings which could stand in their own right.

The most interesting picture for me was of a Deposition, a copy of Federico Barocci (1582) which looked as though it could have come fresh from the brush of a Victorian pre-Raphaelite! The details of the painting recall specific British paintings and I am tempted to put this character (of whom I have never heard) into Google to see if any British painters knew him.

The meal in Laie the CaixaForum café restaurant was excellent as usual and it gave me the opportunity to try and bluff my way through the catalogue which was printed in Spanish and Catalan.

A meal in Vilanova in the evening was extraordinary. We were the only people in the restaurant for the whole of the evening, yet the food that we had for a meal under twenty pounds was exceptional. An appetizer of a selection of French cheeses with a glass of Cava followed by a selection of tapas including salad with anchovies, clams with white beans and a selection of cold meats. The main course was paella, followed by a selection of desserts. And coffee. And useful conversation. Productive even!

Today started with my Spanish lesson, but little did I know that in my absence last week (when entertaining my guests) the rampant collection of foreigners learning Spanish with me combined in an unholy alliance to do down the Brit. Our language school has twisted ideas of representation and asks for ‘student’ reps from the hapless learners. What amounts to a full blown conspiracy was hatched in my absence so that when the ‘voting’ for a representative was held I found myself elected to represent my fellow students. So, they now have a fluent monoglot English speaker to communicate with the Spanish and Catalan speaking management. It must make sense to them, but I’m buggered if it does to me.

Fresh from my election I hied me away and dressed in my finest to go to a school in the heights of Barcelona for a ‘talk’ with the head of English. There was no job in the school but this was an exploratory visit on both sides to see if there was a possibility of a job in the future whether I could (or would want to) fill it.

My GPS got me there, but I couldn’t stop or park. The area is full of schools and universities and hospitals and reeks of money. I eventually parked the car in the hospital underground car park where the cost is reckoned in periods of five minutes!

With my fabled sense of direction I was lost within feet of leaving the hospital car park and by the time my (hand held) GPS had indicated my destination I was hot and tired and angry.

I walked into the school (after walking into what was probably a private house on my first attempt!) stopped by no one. I wandered around until I chose a door at random and found a desk with a man talking into the telephone in Spanish. He completely ignored me and continued talking on the phone and turned his back on me. I did the grown up thing and stalked out and chose another entrance.

This one was more productive and I met up with the voice on the telephone. As there was no job this could not be looked on as an interview, but our conversation was extensive and detailed. We agreed about many things and she painted a picture of the school that was realistic. We will have to see if anything comes of this.

After this professional conversation there was just time for me to re programme the GPS to go to a new part of Barcelona. The journey, leading up to rush hour was horrendous with the usual Catalan distain for the common courtesies of road etiquette together with major roadworks adding to the general joy of driving in the Catalan capital.

However I did find my destination and thereby learned the horrible truth about Brompton folding bikes. At more than 900 euros they are not a casual buy. Or, indeed, any sort of buy! I had visions of riding my sedate way along the new prom which has recently been constructed outside our beach gate. I think that a slow walk is more likely now!

Leaving the over priced bike shop I managed to struggle through fully rush hour traffic to the centre of Barcelona and especially work my way from one side of a five lane road to another for one turn and managed to park to join my union demonstration.

The negotiations for 2008’s pay award has stalled with the employers expecting a wholesale diminution of working conditions in return for a rate of inflation increase in wages. Nothing changes!

The ‘demonstration’ was indeed in the centre of Barcelona in the Plaça de Catalunya but was not something to stop the traffic. Our union and affiliates were restricted to a small side street down one side of The Hard Rock Café. My union rep was there sporting a white tabard with the union name on it and holding a long thin banner (reminiscent of Japanese medieval Samurai films) with a less than convincing air. I was issued with a Catalan flag on a stick with the union initials emblazoned on it and a small plastic whistle. Our demonstration consisted of making a devil of a racket and waving our flags vigorously.

At one point I heard a police siren and looked forward to something interesting happening. I was less than pleased when a man wheeling a pram appeared with a howling machine in it. That incident was the most interesting thing that happened. My photo taking was limited by being one handed – the other one being occupied with waving the flag.

This did not hinder a young lady with a camera sporting a ridiculously elongated lens from taking a series of pictures of me flag waving and blowing my whistle with sublime indifference to her intrusive activities. I feel that my suit and tie might have had something to do with the composition of her photo as I was still dressed from my non interview in the school up the hill.

Eventually the noise subsided; we rolled up the flags and departed with, presumably, a job well done.

Returning home with a take-away was, understandably, something of an anti climax.

I can live with.

Plus ça change!

Committee meetings have a flavour all of their own.

It makes no difference that they are in imposing buildings on one of the most imposing streets in Barcelona, just a stone’s throw from the Cathedral.

The fact that the introduction to the meeting was in a language almost totally incomprehensible and that I was sitting directly opposite the speaker was as nothing. I have developed a particular stance and expression when confronted by conversational speed Catalan which is best expressed as ‘non committal interest’ and has seen me through many difficult situations successfully – as long as they don’t ask questions.

This was a union meeting complete with ‘interesting’ cup of coffee. There, sitting at the front were the world-weary union officials smiling in a pitying way at the evil of the employers as I struggle to make sense of the disconnected words which sometimes emerged from the waves of language which swept over me.

The second part of the meeting was thankfully in English and we were told exactly what the employers had suggested as a suitable settlement for 2008 in the unregulated sector of education. I will not sully the computer screen with the contemptible ‘offer’, I can only assume that they are playing an infantile game of the ‘silly offer so when we give them a little they think they will have succeeded’ type.

There is a demonstration on Thursday in Barcelona to which I have said that I will go. I think I will take my camera as well.

Such larks!

Having OD’d on a deceptively innocuous pink cough mixture with a thoroughly unpleasant itchy aftertaste, I have now graduated to the lemon and honey and hot water to try and re-establish my erstwhile mellow voice to charm the hapless denizens of the school that I am visiting before I go to the demonstration.

Never a dull moment!

Cough, and you cough alone!

Lilian Baylis is credited with the immortal words, “In desperation I turned to Shakespeare.”

Far be it from me to equate my present condition with that of the indomitable founder of the basis for the National Theatre, but I do share her solace in the classics.

My continuing cough-in marathon is debilitating demanding as it does the whole of one’s concentration and precluding normal social intercourse. Conversation is punctuated by plosive outbursts which broadcast germs wholesale which does not encourage talking.

My refuge has been following the progress of Miss Eyre, governess, as she comes to terms with the new experiences that life is throwing at her. Reading for my own pleasure rather than scanning a text for teaching opportunities means that I can appreciate the fluid structure of the narrative and positively wallow in the complexity of the layered narrative. Always at the back of my mind is the triumphant chapter opening, “Reader, I married him.” But it is easy to forget this ‘happy ending’ as you suffer with Jane as she presents, with painful honesty, the vicissitudes of her far from easy life.

Every reading of this extraordinary novel offers a different perspective for each reading. The present reading encourages me to focus on the moral and religious basis for Jane’s actions and to try and work out what she retains from her upbringing and how she evaluates her experiences to develop her ethics. She is a complex character especially as the reader can only understand her development through the perspective of the older Jane looking back on her early life.

I have now reached the point at which Rochester has hoodwinked the ladies in his party when dressed up as a fortune telling gypsy and when he finishes with Jane we are presented with an emotional outpouring worthy of any romantic melodramatic novel – except that everything which is said will have direct relevance to the action which develops.

Literature for ever!

The world gone mad!

Am I the only person in the world who really and truly doesn’t give a damn about who wins in the Brazilian Grand Prix?

And before anyone accuses me of losing my national identity by not supporting Hamilton, am I the only one to find the whole concept of Formula 1 racing obscene at worst and boringly irrelevant at best?

This ‘sport’ is the best example we have of the ‘bread and circuses’ approach to public entertainment. At a time of national and international crisis the unbelievable amounts of money expended on car and driver seem, at least, insensitive. It was hardly a surprise at a time when we are all supposed to be concerned about our carbon footprints that the gratuitous expenditure of energy that is a grand prix race was held at night time so ensuring an even greater expenditure of pointless energy!

The whole concept of this form of motor racing reeks of conspicuous expenditure: the mind bendingly large sums spent on the development and building of the cars to the equally eye wateringly large amounts spent on ‘entertainment’ for the punters.

It is also a truly inhuman sport. The human element has been progressively encased in the motor car until the only part of the driver readily visible is the helmet with its visor looking like a single eye: man and machine truly at one. As the corporate sponsors sip their Champagne they are able to look benignly at the little insects scurrying their noisy way round and round the track and congratulate themselves such an insanely energy wasting event which still has public support.

Well, not mine!

I am convinced in years to come people will look back on this intensely boring inhumanly mechanical display of wastefulness and display the same shocked approach as we would now reserve for bull baiting, cock fighting and voting for the Conservative Party.

I suppose the thing which sticks in my craw more than anything, as a lover of the bubbly stuff, is what the winners of this farrago of wastefulness do when they have been given their trophies. I regard the waste of even a cheap Cava as little worse than sacrilege therefore the wholesale dumping of quality Champagne on mere racing drivers smacks of the worst excesses of disestablishmentarianism - and we all know what that led to!

My jaundiced attitude towards this event may, in part, be ascribed to the fact that I have spent the greater part of the day ensconced in my bed grumpily trying to get rid of the cough and cold which has assailed me.

The Pathetic Fallacy continues with the weather mirroring my lack of comfort but producing, for the Mediterranean, quite spectacular waves with the wind whipping back the spray in the best traditions of the picturesque.

Alas! I could only gaze out of the window and look rather than venture out and try my continuing best to photograph some of the beauty which is a daily occurrence looking at the every changing sea. The evening sky was astonishing with a band of bright orange looking as though someone had painted it in a most unconvincing manner – but to stunning effect.

I have just listened (thanks to the wonder of my internet radio) to a programme on Radio 4 called ‘Beanz Meanz Rimez’ – a discussion of the use of poetry in advertising. It was almost ‘perfect’ Radio 4 fare exactly attuned to their target audience. By way of illustrating the sort of poetry used they cited various slogans, “some going back fifty years” and I knew them all!

Many of those slogans have been resting quietly in my deep memory for many years. When was the last time that I heard, “This is luxury you can afford with Cyril Lord” or “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent” and heard the music behind them? Spain (and I suspect the rest of the world) has little of offer by way of competition on a daily basis with the quality of product that Radio 4 turns out. The sad thing is that most of the population of the UK do not realise what a treasure they have lurking in the radio waves around them and rarely tune in. A real loss.

My internet radio should allow me easy access to the BBC but it is a sensitive little machine and dislikes being moved from place to place. There are also areas of sulkiness where the radio refuses to work. It has a radio link with the internet and you would suppose that wherever the laptops work then the radio will work too, but this is sadly not the case and it has a quirky coquettish refusal rate which is infuriating, especially when you are just being offered a typically quixotic piece of essential information much beloved by a typical Radio 4 listener.

In spite of self pitying illness, I am not so infirm that I am unable to claim my share of the 'panellets' which are customary for All Saints Day. These are traditional sweets which are composed of marzipan and various other additions to get the taste buds tingling. One of the most delicious is a ball of marzipan covered with glazed pine nuts. They come in a variety of shapes and flavours and for me they actually look better than they taste.

This is another one of the traditions of Catalonia which is at risk because of the progressive Americanization of the world. The vulgarity of ‘trick or treat’ has even penetrated Catalonia much to the disgust of traditionalists who regard such foreign imports as diluting the culture of an already much threatened region.

Talking of culture I have started re-reading ‘Jane Eyre’ – a by product of having my Sony e book reader filled with classic (out of copyright) novels and short stories. I merely wanted to look again at the opening as the weather outside reminded me of the conditions that prevented Jane from taking her walk, but a few paragraphs and I was hooked again.

Jane’s exchanges with her aunt are among my favourite passages in literature. Who is not on her side as she speaks her mind and the only response that Mrs Reed can give is, “What more have you to say?” in a “tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.”

At that point Jane was not a child who needed more encouragement and thrill that a young reader gets from the defiance of her continued condemnation of her aunt is only matched by the adult reader who can perhaps understand her frustration more closely.

“I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will ever come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.”

There is not even an exclamation mark at the end of that statement because, as Jane herself says, “it is the truth.” That at least is in italics and is to be a strength and a cross for Jane for the rest of her life.

It is wonderful stuff and its complexity is, paradoxically, one of its great strengths. What some modern readers find prolix is nothing of the sort; Bronte only uses the words she needs.

Like an early Giles cartoon there is always something new to be found in the books one loves.

Including the ones that one has forgotten!

The truly great thing about loving reading is that your drug is inexhaustible and unlike the other more destructive forms of addition you can reuse your ‘drug’ time and time again – and the purest form of drug does not suffer from that economic concept of ‘eventually diminishing returns’ but almost renews itself with each use transforming itself in accordance with your life experience.

A true delight!

What day is it?

When a day that you happen to know is Wednesday starts off sounding like Sunday, there is something seriously wrong somewhere.

The opening of ‘The Day of the Triffids’ always comes to mind when the days do not appear to be following their true diurnal characters and your sense of time is being taken down a different part.

If asked I would have sworn that today was Sunday. The less than encouraging weather meant that the tourists were not out in force so all the restaurants and cafes had a forlorn, abandoned look and

the traffic was sparse.

What is even more surprising is that we can now get a menu del dia at the weekends as well as during the week. Although this is normal elsewhere, it doesn’t usually obtain in Castelldefels. It is another sure sign that the season is truly at an end.

More intriguing is the attitude of one of the larger restaurants near us. Last year this restaurant was barely open and when it was it had few customers. Its erratic opening hours and poor quality of food ensured that it never had many customers.

This year the place has undergone a transformation. It has been renamed and a stylist restaurant part established. The site of the restaurant occupies a busy corner and can accommodate more than 100 covers as well as people at the bar. They must have lost money every week they have been open. The food is expensive and they refused to countenance a menu del dia – in spite of the fact that every restaurant around them did and they might have drawn one or two lessons form the fact that the restaurants had customers and they didn’t. Throughout the summer and the high season they continued with their financially disastrous programme of giving customers what they obviously didn’t want.

Now that autumn is well and truly here, today, they have decided to start a menu del dia. With their usual disregard of reality, they have pitched the price 5€ higher then the very successful restaurant next door!

The recent ‘unpleasantness’ in the financial markets shows that powerful, experienced, well respected and obscenely well paid bankers, the demi-gods of capitalism, have absolutely no idea at all about what they are doing; why then should we expect a mere restaurateur know any better?

Where finance is concerned the counter intuitive seems to be the best bet. The simple Puritan ethics which also seemed to be part and parcel of a basically Protestant ideology (is that the right word?) no longer work in the mad world we now inhabit. Who was it said that taxes were only for poor people to pay? They obviously lived in the real world: the world in which only the stupid live within their means and save!

The poor weather has abated somewhat and we were able to go out to lunch and to sit outside to eat it which says something for this climate on the first of November!

Following advice I have ventured out onto the beach to walk about to ease my hip and loosen my knees. The effects of the stormy weather of the past few days has altered the profile of the beach and deposited a certain amount of vegetation on the sand. My slow progress down the beach was punctuated by desultory photographing of waves.

This is an on-going project to produce one (just one) good picture off the coast of Castelldefels.

I have been prompted to new efforts by the sight of one of my neighbour’s efforts. He did point out that his image was actually a composite of five separate photographs magicked together with the power of Photoshop – a program costing only six or seven hundred pounds! I have to achieve the same results by catching exactly the right moment. Thank god for digital cameras and the costless ability to make mistakes!

I go on trying.

Wasted day?

My enforced domestic sojourn today has been as a result of cough, cold and sore throat courtesy of you-know-who who has only just emerged from his own days of illness. An illness I suspect has its origins in his taking up baby sitting services with his new nephew!

The petty malady of a cold merely encourages a pleasant self satisfaction born of the complacency which comes with mild self pity. The realization that the negative health aspects of the condition are only temporary means that you have to get your sympathetic responses in quickly otherwise they will be lost in the process of recovery.

My extended morning in bed did not, I fear, lead to any philosophical insights as I used the opportunity to go to sleep with a Strepsil dissolving efficaciously in my mouth. Mucus can become the guiding feature of my existence and I look forward eagerly to a future period of aridity!

In a poignant exemplification of the Pathetic Fallacy the weather has exhibited a clear tendency to share my unsettled condition and, whipped up by strong winds, our little domestic waves are now crashing down onto our depleted sands.

In spite of the weather and my less than 100% fitness I have ventured onto the balcony to view the progress of the promenade which is being constructed on the beach in front of the flats. This project has been ongoing for a considerable length of time and it is only in the last week that we have viewed real progress as a pathway of sorts stretches along the beach.

Its eventual size and sophistication can, at the moment, only be guessed at. By way of a joke, Dave suggested that the powers that be might be thinking of building on the sea side of the structure and obstructing our view. I did not find it funny. Here, anything is possible – negative laws do not necessarily restrict development.

I have to say that any extraneous structures in our direct line to the sea will necessitate instant decamping!

The ability for people to parade along just the other side of the wall which separates the beach and the pool will change the dynamic of our lives. At the moment, because of two large globular lights which illuminate the end of the pool and shed their light indiscriminatingly over part of the beach as well, it has created a small haven of gloom for the younger elements of Castelldefels society to gather and partake of various intoxicating liquors which encourage raucous enjoyment. If the new promenade is illuminated then there will a whole stretch of beach which will, by spill over, become available for nocturnal frolicking!

The motto of Castelldefels is ‘More than a beach.’ That might well be true in the minds of the town fathers, but without a beach Castelldefels is nothing; its raison d’etre would disappear. Because numerous blocks of flats have been built on the first line of the sea there is not the same opportunity for a promenade as there is in other coast resorts in the area. Castelldefels are rather late in trying to improve the ‘people friendly’ approach to the beach and the sea. It will be interesting to see what they do with the obstacle of the Boat Club which is a little further down the beach from our place which will be a real obstacle for the continuation of the promenade.

It’s always a pleasure watching others work!

Normal Service Resumed

The sun (if not the required temperature) has returned.

The workmen are busily driving large vehicles up and down the beach in an important sort of way. Drivers are parking on roundabouts and zebra crossings. In short, all is approximately well with the world.

The last day of the Pauls’ visit was lazy with only a generally abortive visit to the large Carrefor to count as a jaunt. We were hunting for a digital box to increase the range of programmes available. Spanish television is of an awfulness that those who have not visited the country can only guess.

The number and length of advertising breaks in Spanish television is not so much a breaking of the law which limits the total advertising time in an hour to twelve minutes as a complete ignoring of it. During one advertising break I had a shower, then made dinner and a pot of tea and the break had still not finished.

Films shown on Spanish television last for hours as advertising break follows break with the last break using placed just a few minutes before the end of the film! Usually bed is a more attractive prospect than prolonging the agony by watching a film slowly unwind in an advertisement extended period of teeth grinding frustration in front of the television screen.

Anyone who questions the value of the television licence fee should spend some time watching the rubbish which foreign stations offer! The ultimate horror in televisual tedium is of course found in the United States of America where ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ was regarded as high class educational programming on the public service channel!

The ideal would be to have BBC Gold

which is the mainstay of most of the Brits that I know, but we have a problem in our block of flats as the street has not had cable laid so we have been reduced to the appalling fare that comes with a simple aerial pulling down the terrestrial rubbish that is broadcast as Spain’s contribution to the televisual arts.

Something must be done!

The Matthews Family has come and gone. They have had a very wet couple of days in which to wander through the city. At least Castelldefels did its bit and produce the first sun that they had seen during their holiday in Catalonia!

Their gift of Welsh Cakes was surprising and most welcome. I had produced a recipe from the internet for the Welsh Week in The School That Sacked Me, but I had not gone to the extreme reality of actually making any! It will be a delight to indluge in eating them as a form of remembering the Old Country!

Having now been passed the illness of my partner I look forward to a relaxing couple of days lounging in bed and being waited on hand and foot.

I was ever an optimist!

Wot no sun!

Two days of rain!

That horrible familiar oppressive grey which characterises autumn in my memory has come back to haunt me in Catalonia!

The rain has that personal touch of vindictiveness which is usually absent from the clement weather of the peninsular. Luckily the Pauls have adopted their usual ‘holiday mode’ which means that half the day is lost in the arms of Morpheus which allows me time to get the hard domestic slog of loading the dishwasher out of the way! The detritus of the previous evening lying like the dressing of a film set for the morning afterwards waiting for a tender conscience to clear it all away!

What finally drove me to bed last night was fleeing from the interminable programme which is devoted to the Spanish version of Gran Hermano (Big Brother) which seems to last for hours.

This is not merely a case of my healthy loathing making any broadcast length of this pernicious programme seem unbearable but it also has the uncanny quality which distorts your perception of time. Watching it reminds me of my experience of that ponderous and gelatinous dimension in which Henry James thrived to produce his more geologically dense novels

The bloody thing extends through the evening in a never ending parade of trivial, inconsequential horror – and in a foreign language. That did not stop the Pauls watching it with unfeigned interest, their enthusiasm being kept up to speed with snippets of translation from our native Spanish speaker. This was the Halloween Special with the contestants having to traverse a corridor of fake webs, skeletons and grasping hands that would have been shamed by the most casual efforts of a poor primary class without their teachers. It reminded me of what I have heard of one of those Saturday morning TV programmes in which ‘gunking’ was an essential element. Ugh! One does not need the level of pretension that I possess to despise the whole affair and abominate the whole concept. I have and I do! Let’s face it; ‘Big Brother’ is no ‘Dukes of Hazzard’ – now that is classic television!

For the second time in two visits to one of the homes of the Bubbles of Happiness; it rained.

Obviously, one of the reasons for living in Catalonia is that it is the home of Cava, the champagne you can drink without ruining your bank balance. After being an enthusiastic devotee of the drink and of the correct pronunciation of the name in Rumney it seemed only fitting that I should go on my own Caminio de Sant Sadurní d’Anoia and pay homage in the home town of that sparkling beverage.

The first damp experience was en famille and was exhilerating, not only for the excitement of being in physical proximity to some one hundred million botttles of the right stuff,

but also because the basic winery buildings comprised another materpiece of Josep Puig i Cadafalch – the architect whose works are studded throughout Barcelona and the region. He should be as famous as Gaudí, and certainly within Catalonia he is highly regarded, but his world fame lags behind the builder of the Sagrada Famillia.

The second trip, this time with the Pauls (a different sort of family!) was again accompanied by downpours of completely superfluous amounts of rain water. This deluge did not appreciably add to the general lightness of spirit that accompanied our continued failure to find the winery when we had found Sant Sadurní d’Anoia. Our proximity merely encourage feelings of despair as its location continued to evade us. On the horns of such a dilemma and taking the bull between the teeth so to speak, I asked two workmen for directions and we eventually found ourselves in more encouraging surroundings as we drove through serried lines of damp grapes.

Our arrival (without booking) was sternly rebuked and we were told to return for the next English language trip an hour or so later.

Our hunger drove us to a nearby establishment rejoicing in the name of Café Rosa and packed with locals eating and drinking and smoking. The propriatoress assumed control of our bedraggled selves and we were soon seated at a long table jigsawing ourselves into the locals’ places!

Our request for water to accompany the meal was brushed aside by the propriatoress with brusque contempt and we were thus able to sample the local red vinegar! The meal was excellent, both in taste and value and gave us the necessary strength for the ensuing visit to Codorníu.

Because of the rain the view of the Josep Puig i Cadafalch architecture was lost as we took the lift directly to the cellars without passing through the garden with the views of the Modernista buildings.

The well remembered smell of slightly sweet dry rot assailed the nose as we plunged deeper and deeper into the astonishing caves of the Codorníu family. Dust dulled bottle bottoms stretched implausibly far into seemingly endless corridors of liquid wealth as our little electric train bumped us through dimly lit low arched vaults. Each vault was named in ceramic tiles and we were duly rewarded by seeing ‘Londres’ on one. Given the amount of the drink that I helped consume in my city it would be only fitting is any new extension to the 30km of tunnels is called ‘Cardiff!’

The journey home was in the gathering gloom and torrential rain. Given the wayward attitude to the continuation of life that is the keynote to Catalan driving I was grateful that the bulk of the journey home was via motorway. The Spanish drivers regard adverse weather conditions in the same way as a junkie regards a fix – something to calm you down so you can perform better! For a non drug taking Brit this makes driving in a biblical deluge on a Catalan road a thing of true horror!

Our evening meal, a signature hamburger from the restaurant on the corner, was washed down with an exquisite Cava, recently purchased by myself and a case of which had been carried to the car by Paul with me hobbling in front to open the boot so that he wouldn’t be drowned before entering the comfortable dryness of the car.

This Cava is a development of the previous delight that I bought on my last visit and managed to retain for special occasions.

The present impressive vintage is called Gran Plus Ultra, a Brut Nature which is not yet available for export. Each bottle of this delightful liquor comes complete in its own impressive box and tastes utterly delicious. I feel it is the sort of drink that Dianne (“I can only drink the best Champagne all the others make me ill”) might be able to sample without ill effects. We will see in the early part of next year when they come for their visit!

It is now well into the afternoon and only half the visitors and half the residents are up and doing.

I blame the rain!

Food for thought

Memories of my mother came back with burnt paella.

My mother was an excellent cook, but she did like things ‘well done.’ For years, certainly well into my adolescence, I thought that uncooked mushrooms were poisonous and that onions had to be cooked almost to a crisp blackness before they were suitable for the discriminating palette!

In the same childhood I was presented with cauliflower cooked to that degree of marshmallow softness that a fork gently rested on the vegetable would sink with its own weight. And sprouts, cooked to that fuzzy point of fluffiness where they looked like emeralds seen with myopia – the bright green colour ensured by the addition of bicarbonate of soda, which also ensured the complete absence of vitamins! Ah! Happy days!

Appropriate vegetables were eventually served al dente but mushrooms and onions were always well cooked. My mother always maintained that it was the ‘burnt bits’ that gave the real flavour to the gravy – and my mother’s gravy was legendary.

The truth of her assertion exploded in the mouth with the fork full of paella with the crisp bottom. Our chef had bewailed the inefficiency of the electric hob (with entire justice) which meant that the spread of heat in the paella pan was uneven and she constantly had to move the pan to try and achieve the sort of consistency of which she is justly proud. Her failure to achieve this gave the sort of success which competent cooks always manage to present on plates: even mistakes are delicious!

Sunday was a generally lazy day and prepared us for the excursion to the jagged mountains.

Although I now seem to be visiting Montserrat on an almost weekly basis I never tire of experiencing (the word ‘seeing’ gives no indication of the visual excitement the rocks evince) the panorama of extraordinary shapes that the weathering of the landscape has produced.

The buildings of the Abbey complex are mundane at best and unsightly at worst and bring to mind Charles Saxe-Coburg and Gotha’s misplaced comments on the extension to the National Gallery about the construction looking like a “monstrous carbuncle.” The buildings do, indeed, have all the sympathy with their surroundings of Russell Brand on the Samaritans phone help line.

However, the buildings are not the reason to be in Montserrat and for the first time we were in time to catch the famous boys’ choir singing the Montserrat hymn. Our arrival in the basilica was a close run thing with me hobbling along aided by my inexpert use of my recently acquired walking stick.

The basilica was crammed with people – I hesitate to say worshippers because of the amazingly poor behaviour of the individuals who pushed and shoved their way past those already at the back of the church.

One ‘lady’ writhed her sinuous way through the crowds to gain a better vantage point. The fact that she was built like a bulky and ungainly Sherman tank meant that her progress was marked by bodies lurching out of her way as various prominences of her deadly body made contact and brushed aside the human obstacles.

At one point I raised my stick in what can only be called a threatening manner and for one delirious moment I actually considered using it, giving Paul the opportunity to say that I reminded him of the worst excesses of Margaret Rutherford!

Alan and Hadyn will be delighted to hear that the Pauls behaved with due decorum (with allowances) and filed past the idol and reverently placed their hand on the exposed orb.

I, however, as a hardened idol visitor placed a kiss on the upper part of the curved surface using the full advantage of my height. The two ancient ladies who preceded us only managed to kiss the knuckles of the idol leaving the upper expanse clear for me!

Our lunch in the restaurant was, from my point of view, excellent – though the boys looked askance at my choice of rabbit with snails!

By the time we got to the sweet course many of the items on the fixed menu had gone so we were given a free choice. My confection, the creation of a named chef whose name I have now forgotten, was the sort of small and unprepossessing looking dessert which packed a punch beyond its appearance. Its concentrated sweetness reminded me of a parallel experience with a meal which was so fatty that it drew in the sides of my mouth with its excess.

The coffee with ice to end the meal was not so much a drink as an act of self defence!

Our choice of film for the evening was ‘The Chumscrubber’ (2005) Director: Arie Posin.

An amazingly high profile cast, headed by Jamie Bell present a self indulgent parable directed against the soft target of comfortable middle class middle America.

The title refers to a typically vicious computer game which utilizes the Sim environment to produce the sort of housing development satirised much more effectively in ‘Edward Scissorhands’ which is then destroyed by nuclear explosion leaving the living dead and a headless hero. The usual sort of thing! The action of the ‘real life’ story takes a dysfunctional group of kids trying to gain the drugs stash of another kid who has committed suicide. The film is funnier than it sounds and there moments of hard hitting cynical political and social comment.

The full effect of the film is greatly lessened by the ending. The first ending is when the mother of the suicide comes to a realization that she is as much to blame as the people she has pointedly (and unconvincingly) excused from any part in the death.

The film however adds a sort of epilogue which ties up all the loose ends, giving what is presented as a taut narrative satisfaction, but actually lessens the whole effect.

This was an enjoyable film – if only for the astonishingly good American accent of Jamie Bell. He promises much for the future.

And the immediate future promises Cava.

Days pass

UNITED NATIONS DAY 24th OCTOBER






I would like to say that my enthusiasm for the United Nations Organization is born of a burning desire to see nation speak peace unto nation and for all the peoples of the world to live in amity.

Those statements, positive in themselves and pious enough to be uttered through the gleaming lips of any vacuous beauty queen simpering up to a microphone, would be a credit to my social conscience.

Alas! My fellow feeling is explained by the mere coincidence of the day on which the United Nations celebrates its continued existence and the date which marks my entrance into this world.

UNO is older than I am (if you count the League of Nations, very much older) and . . . I was going to continue the comparison in a playfully metaphorical sort of way but, as soon as you start looking of the history of the United Nations and the skittish behaviour of countries, it gets a little depressing when you start to compare it with your life!

So I will draw on what optimism I possess and affirm my continuing belief in the essential worth of UNO (as long as they continue to celebrate on my birthday) and restrain my logical dismissal of an organization which can put the Saudi representative as the head of a committee on human rights! It is easy to see UNO as an expensive joke and it is as easy to list its failures. As with my union so with UNO: only as good as the members!

The day has been commemorated in a number of ways: telephone calls; e-mails; electronic e-mail cards; ordinary cards; spoken greetings and even via surface mail!

I have gained an excellent book, ‘Retrats de Ramon Casas’




which is exactly what I wanted – charcoal sketches by one of the finest Catalan artists of the last century.

So it goes!

A godly haul for United Nations Day with (astonishingly) three books bought by those presumptuous enough to assume they knew my tastes! By great good luck they were, as it happens, well within the target of the acceptable with the aforementioned book on Cassas, another on Klimt and a third on the Welsh contribution to the Spanish Civil War. Chocolate, a calendar, various teas, Clinique after shave and booze completed a heterogeneous collection of the usable! Thanks to all!

The latish arrival of the Pauls meant an even laterish meal in Tallerinas, a small restaurant at the end of our street.

The meal we had was, in its own refined way, more like something out of the Satyricon than something akin to your basic fish and chip shop.

The starters were large and various ranging from grilled prawns and the eponymous tallerinas

(small bivalve delicious shell fish) though squid and Catalan bread to whitebait – all washed down with white wine, red wine and gassy water.

My main course was lubina (a white fish) cooked in salt. This was shown to use in all its saline glory before being taken away and thoroughly filleted and presented as luscious meaty fish with accompanying vegetables.

The sweet course was well in accord with the idea of a Roman feast. The owner of the restaurant having suggested that a ‘surtido’ of cake would be acceptable returned with a stepped volcano-like construction with a frothy lava of whipped cream burgeoning up from the middle of the plate. Gasps of mixed admiration and horror greeted this appalling example of indulgence as eyes identified chocolate, lemon, almond, caramel, nut and various other types of pastry. A few of the fainter hearted (and, as it turned out, hugely hypocritical) diners gasped that they could not under any circumstances make any reasonable impression on the mountain of beckoning calories and it was, basically, all too much.

The end result you can guess and we left the restaurant bow legged with satiety.

Conversation bounced from topic to topic while we were in the restaurant but the focus of our attention was directed by the voluble high speed Spanish of the owner who in child-like enthusiasm gushed that sitting in that very restaurant was a Famous Person.

You have to understand that the ‘restaurant’ comprises a perfectly ordinary bar with stools for the drinkers with half of the remaining space taken up with bare wooden tables for basic eating and the other half the space filled with table cloth covered settings for those wishing to have the expansiveness of the extensive menu. The hierarchy of eating was levened by the omnipresent televisions blaring out over all.

I understood nothing of the torrent of language the owner used to convey his excitement about the honour he felt at the Famous Person’s presence.

My brushes with the famous have been almost entirely linked to one glorious evening in the Drury Lane Theatre in London when Clarrie organized a Stephen Sondheim AIDS Benefit Concert. This gave me the never to be forgotten opportunity to giggle over a drink with Dirk Bogade and deliver a message to the Queen of Slink - Eartha Kitt. The latter I found knitting in her dressing room wearing an old cardigan and large owl glasses! By the evening performance however, she had transformed into a glittering vision in lame and sequins!

That was in London: this was Catalonia. No singers here but a character who, even though he was out of my normal metier I should have been able to recognize.

We were told that we were dining in the presence of a legend of the football field.

My memory of this legend was not of a particular moment of sporting excellence but rather its antithesis. The moment when, watched by a world audience of umpteen million he head butted an opposition player.

God knows football players in the higher echelons of the sport are not noted for their restraint, taste or decorum but you might have thought that when your actions are being watched by witnesses whose numbers add up to the inhabitants of a major country their observation might have tempered your temper.

Not so, of course, with Zinédine Yazid Zidane.

This player whose part performances have gained him accolade after accolade and convincingly placed him in the pantheon of the greatest players of the game will be remembered by shallow followers of the Noble Sport like me as the idiot who nutted Marco Materazzi in the World Cup tie of France against Italy. In his very last professional game Zidane was given a red card and sent off.

The man sitting a few tables away from us looked nothing like the man that I had seen play for Real Madrid and his country. Nothing at all. We all agreed that he looked nothing like the player. Nothing like. But during the evening he was constantly pestered by diffident grown men who asked for his autograph and had mobile phone photos taken with him. He had, apparently, produced his identity card to prove his credentials to the restaurant owner.

If you looked closely you could see the ghost of the previous player, but his face was thinner and there was none of that intensity that he showed on the field.

To be truthful the most noticeable thing about him was not his relaxed courtesy (so different from his tough hard faced approach to the game) but his accoutrements.

Football players are the best exemplars of the ‘if you’ve got it flaunt it’ philosophy. They are not generally noted for their restraint and take every opportunity to disfigure their bodies by poking jewel topped things though various parts; exhibiting epicene growths of facial hair; restraining flowing locks with inappropriate head bands and writing inane drilled messages on their skin.

Were this not enough, when dressed in civilian clothing they accessorize with a vengeance.

Zidane (if it were he) was wearing a ring that the combined exuberance of Zandra Rhodes, Barbara Cartland and Joan Collins might have baulked at. A massive central stone bordered by a square of large diamonds created the sort of costume jewellery that could only be worn as a joke – but with his money, who knows?

I’m sure that there is moral lesson to be drawn from all this, but the sun is shining, so who cares?

Music and the masses

The question of whether Verdi’s Requiem is a sacred liturgical mass or an operatic work was settled emphatically in favour of the latter last night in the performance in the Liceu.

The Orquestra Simfónica I Cor del Gran Theatre del Liceu together with the Cor de Cambra del Palau de la Música Catalana were conducted by Enrique Mazzola with real verve and passion. His athletic performance elicited a range of textures from the combined forces which was astonishing.

The soloists Hasmik Papian (soprano), Luciana d’Intino (mezzo-soprano), Josep Bros (tenor) and René Pape (bass) were not the group that I would have chosen and I disliked aspects in all their voices. Papian’s vibrato seemed to have a life of its own, while Bros voice was harsh and sometimes strangled. Pape’s bass voice was perhaps the most successful though his extended notes were not always secure.

Generally speaking the orchestra was superb though the entry of the cellos at their most exposed was disturbingly untuned and shattered an entire section of the Requiem.

However, the overall effect was deeply moving and the sheer excitement of the Dies Irae was electrifying.

The audience for this performance was almost entirely comprised of elegantly dressed elderly ladies with surprisingly ancient bald husbands. Closer inspection of the female half revealed careful facial ‘improvement’ which might have passed muster in the professional restoration rooms of major art galleries but which failed to remove entirely the well disguised evidence of age.

The imaginative use of jaunty jackets and abundant jewellery deflected attention from age ravaged skin whereas the staid suits of their male partners were of a piece with the gnarled inhabitants of such garments.

I am sure that the higher you got to the ceiling of the Liceu (and in the topmost tier you can touch it I believe) the younger the member of the audience, but the ancient glittering eyes by which I was surrounded were a reminder that the Liceu is Barcelona’s equivalent of Covent Garden. The price that I paid for my ticket for the Requiem was probably three or four times more expensive than for an equivalent seat in Saint David’s Hall in Cardiff. It was a little cheaper than for a full scale opera, but not that much.

I can be philosophical about the price because I bought all my tickets at once months ago and so I can look on the cost as something historical and not of immediate horror!

The move from the sublimity of the concert hall into the ever busy mundanity of the Ramblas was depressing. Considering that it was a Wednesday night I was shocked at how many people were milling around obviously in the throes of a continuing good time. It looked more like Caroline Street in Cardiff on a bad weekend rather than the central spine of one of the most sophisticated cities in Europe! Still, it’s only a short walk to the car park and the greater gentility of Castelldefels!

On the job front two schools have responded to my CV and the second one has asked me to come for a chat – not that they (or the first one) have any job for me but just to check me over.

Cheek!

Generosity and genocide

Sometimes people surprise you.

Having left my ‘reassuring expensive’ (as they used to call Stella Artois) glasses in Sitges to be repaired a second time after the ineffective footling of the amateurs in Castelldefels who had failed to effect a permanent join between frame and glass, I had been using my old (solidly expensive) glasses. They served their purpose and, as Judith and I were constantly on the go, they had to suffice until yesterday.

The journey to Sitges was justified by an extended period of lounging on the beach and sunbathing. This was possible because there was virtually no wind. The slightest breeze and the realities of the date were forcibly borne in on one! Tempting fate I also threw myself (perhaps not the truest expression I could have used) into the sea. Not once but on three occasions. If one used the standard of the waves’ welcome based on the temperature of the sea on the coast of Mexico then this was an ocean and a sea away; but make your standard of comparison the waters which lap the coasts of southern Wales and the Mediterranean was brisk but acceptable!

The glasses were in a small optician’s on one of the narrow streets leading to the square with the clock tower. There was a brief period of tension when they couldn’t find the things and then success. They fitted perfect and the join looks secure. And no charge! I bought an ONCE ticket on the basis that such an ungrasping approach must portend financial success elsewhere. And we are still waiting for the €2.3m to buy the house we fancy!

Today the weather is different: grey, colour drained and raining gently.

Out of this weather, however, I welcomed a young lady who looked like one of those hearty characters who welcome rain as adding to the delights of camping. She was muffled in a damp anorak and had the gleaming eyes of the fanatic.

She was, of course, the mosquito lady.

We have phoned up the local council about the number of flying terrorists who zoom about seeking who they might devour. I am glad to say that my flesh seems not to the taste of our winged fiends, but the number of nasty bites on other skins has prompted the call to the officials.

After a searching examination of our balcony and a penetrating scan of other terraces in sight, she was off in a storm of excited Spanish to search for larvae further afield.

Her slow inspection of pool, hedge, grass, shower and crannies revealed little suspicious to her eagle eye so she tramped off to the beach.

In front of the flats is a rain water overflow outlet which sometimes has standing water in it. From the dry seclusion of the balcony I saw her crouched at the margin of the pool and The Leech Gatherer of Wordsworth came into my mind.

The lines (suitably altered in deference to her gender)

At length, herself unsettling, she the Pond
Stirred with her Staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which she conned,
As if she had been reading in a book

seemed particularly appropriate.

As she stood to leave I waved to her from the balcony and she tramped her way through the sand and rain to shout from the other side of the wall that there were ‘Muchos! Muchos!’ while at the same time clenching and unclenching her raised hands to give me a visual picture of the number of larvae she had found.

This was probably in response to my excited ‘Spanish’ that I used with her, the sort I speak when confronted with situations when I know that I do not have the requisite vocabulary to cope!

This confirms all of our worst hopes and at least gives us some justification for calling the people in the first place.

We will now wait to see what happens. My money is on the fanatic seeing this thing through. I confidently expect to see council workers with flame throwers pursuing a scorched sand policy towards the ‘Tiger’ mosquitoes which are foreign invaders and must be repulsed with vigour.

As I am still waiting to hear from the police and the inspection team who have been directed towards The School That Sacked Me, my enthusiasm is tempered by reality.

So it goes.

Always something new

If any one or any thing is to blame, then it would have to be the hotel trade exhibition.

It is never a good thing to be shown up in your lack of knowledge about the cultural life of a city of whose cultural life you thought you were the corner stone.

But I was.

Mondays are not good days for culture vultures in Barcelona. The majority of the cultural venues that are worth visiting are closed (much in the manner of the French) and the most you can do is look mournfully through the plate glass windows at the forbidden delights of our artistic heritage.

When one of those closed palaces is MNAC on Montjuic then the view itself is compensation enough. Compensation that has to take into account the somewhat laborious ascent to that pinnacle of Catalan excellence. There is first the long mall-like road whose entrance is marked by two towers in the style of the large bell tower in Saint Mark’s Square in Venice. This mall is flanked by a series of pavilions and the odd fountain until you get to the beginning of the flights of stairs which will eventually (and I really mean ‘eventually’) get you to your destination.

In the best spirit of access for the arts a connected series of open air escalators has been installed to make the long walk as untiring as possible. Admittedly it took me the best part of a year to discover the last link in the chain which deposited my weary feet at the bottom of the last few steps to the actual entrance, but now I can guide guests almost effortlessly from one vista of shining metallic steps to the next.

But not when a massive international hotel exhibition spreads itself over the mall and the adjoining pavilions. Entrance forbidden except to the lost souls queuing to gain their credentials so they could start sampling the freebies.

We were forced to try a flanking manoeuvre to hit the hill at a more congenial point. Judith strode off purposefully with me limping wearily in the background as my hip seems to be trying to make up for its relative quiescence during the whole of my life and now seems to be asking for attention in a tiresome way like a fractious child.

We strode and hobbled past static traffic; ripped up road; indolent workmen and a burnt out flat and then found ourselves gazing at a remarkable building which bore the sign of one of the local banks.

I had previously only seen this building from the lofty prominence on which the grandiose building which houses MNAC sits. I had attempted in the past to take an ‘artistic’ photograph of the pseudo-crenulated brick roof, but I had regarded the building as nothing more than an extra pavilion in the Montjuic complex.

I was wrong.

The building itself is a restored brick built factory designed by the famous Catalan architect Josep Puig i Cadafalch, you can get more information about the building in English at http://obrasocial.lacaixa.es/centros/english/caixaforumbcnbuilding_en.html

What was worse than not realising that the building was an outstanding example of the work of an impossibly famous architect was finding out that the restored building is a positive treasure house of artistic events.

The current exhibition was of the work of Alphonse Mucha (1860 – 1939) it was exhaustive and brilliantly presented. It is always gratifying to leave an exhibition (which was free!) with extra information. Who would have thought that the artist who produced all those Art Noveau posters showing Sarah Bernhardt looking demented and clutching a dagger actually lived until 1939? And that the reason he died was that he was viciously interrogated by the Gestapo after which he developed pneumonia and died in a few days?

The next exhibition (also free!) opens in a few days time and consists of paintings from the Uffizi in Florence from Botticelli to Luca Giordano.

There are other exhibitions opening, together with music events and readings and debates and all those things that should have been clearly within my cognizance.

And if it hadn’t been for hordes of suited men and women making for the refreshment areas and blocking my usual route to MNAC this cornucopia of artistic delights would have been nothing more than an interesting brick roof!

I have put myself on the mailing list and eaten in the very reasonably priced restaurant.

I am thinking of writing a short monograph on ‘Eating in the Arts’ – I feel it would be revealing and interesting!

Judith has been an excellent companion during the days of her stay in Castelldefels and has made all the right noises about my favourite parts of the city and has exhibited the appropriate degree of envy when contemplating the view from the balcony.

We have eaten out every day; we have sneered at meretricious contemporary art; we have suffered the unrelenting seats of our local bus; we have disturbed the lesser breeds without the law in The School That Sacked Me; we have travelled; we have been (momentarily) placid – and we have talked.

Who could ask for more!

Time passes . . .

The Picasso Museum; Sitges; talk; Santiago Rusiñol’s house; dinner with the girls; planes; talk; Monserrat; living statues; rain; lunch with a view; Quat Gats; Santa Maria del Mar; the Ramblas; plotting; kissing idols; coffee; sun; talk; Basque tapas; too much drink; talk; photos; talk; travel; sights; sounds; drink; talk . . .

There is nothing like a visitor for prompting you to sample the delights of a location that you thought you knew. There is always something new to be gained from the perception of someone looking at old sights afresh and asking obvious questions that you haven’t thought about.

Roll on the next batch of visitors!