“The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” – Samuel Johnson
A plan for a quiet day turned into a 10 kilometre stroll around the pokey Medieval streets of Cordoba. We wandered the incredible planned gardens of the Alcazar, also the courtyards and patios of a large rambling house and in between trod the cobbled lanes glimpsing interior courtyard gardens of houses that had their front doors open.
We found a large park in the commercial district growing two aged eucalypts and an avenue of silky oaks in flower.
A drive today will land us in Granada.
Lonely Planet Spain led us yesterday to Merida where we toured nearly all day through the ancient Roman sites around the old city. Very impressive but tiring. We have yet to come to terms with the Spanish ways. The sun stays up late and so do we, but afternoon rests are neglected. So today in Cordoba we are lying on the bed, sun streaming in the window, socks and undies drying on the sill, having a siesta.
Never trust a GPS.
Entering Cordoba today, we were cruising until the British lady in the dash with the sweet and steady voice directed us down the narrowest set of lanes I have ever driven. Footpaths either side of the passage were the height and width of a brick and with the mirrors in, the tyres squealed either side against the “footpath”. It was like one of the kid’s toys where the Matchbox car runs along the plastic track with raised sides. If the path got any narrower, there was no hope for this brand new, unmarked car. A man with a big belly stepped into a doorway to let us pass and he had to breathe in as the mirror left a track across his tightly stretched shirt.
There were just two ways out, forward and hope for the best, or hire a crane to lift us out. The throngs of tourists down in the sunshine staring at us in amazement, taking photos of the crazy driver in the blue Citroen and laughing under their polite faces, gave us hope that we might be soon be spat out of this sausage. We were, and we slunk as low as we could in the seats our chins barely visible to sniggers and drove around the corner, more erect this time, grinning and finger waving at new tourists as if nothing had happened. Another Mr Bean moment.
From our window, I could roll one of my wet socks on the sill into a ball and toss it onto the roof of the Mezquita, the city’s main attraction. The tour through the complex and a couple of beers and a lie in the sun has made this not a bad day after all.
When Sharon was recuperating from her first knee operation, a comment from her about the Gaudi’s church in Barcelona, led Julie to present her with this book, “Back Roads of Spain” and yesterday we began the road trip. True to form, we hit the hills immediately and had a wonderful, but dampish day in the sierra west of Madrid. The book told us about some 3rd century BC carved bulls up a side road. Damn handy book!
We ended up in a small town called Mombeltran, a decent view of the local castle thrown in. Sun in the afternoon took us into the back streets of the town.
Bullfighting is big in these parts and we watched with interest the TV and the three old men and a pair of women in the local bar as they cheered and groaned as first the matador poked pointy objects into the bull’s back and then himself was poked into the air by a horn up his backside.
At present we are in Trujillo, home of the Pizarro clan, looters of Peruvian gold. Pizarro is on a horse across the square. Trans-Atlantic pigeons continue to visit his head after all these years. As I write this, Sharon is watching a bride arriving at the church across the plaza from our room.
Our guide book suggested this hostal, and at 45 euros a night with a decent view, another thank you to Paula and Julie.