Kodachrome (Madrid - Hong Kong - Sydney)

After a few early mornings, we finally had a later start. Our tickets for the Prado listed an 11:15am entrance but before that, we had to download the audio guide. Of course, dear reader, this meant downloading another app with which to listen to the guide. Do you see where this is going? Have you been with me since the Gaudi Park in Barcelona? Correct. I was duped into purchasing tickets from a third-party web site. Again. That was not evident until we arrived at the museum, so as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself.

We left with enough time to arrive at the Prado at our appointed time, but not with enough leeway to stop for breakfast. Hardly an unusual occurrence for us when we travel. Had we not experienced the indulgence of the APT cruise and the Matt’s Produce food and wine tour, we would have come home significantly lighter.

We made it.

As expected, the line to purchase tickets for immediate entrance, stretched from the ticket office around the side of the museum building. A smug smile as we strolled past, around the corner to the entrance for ticket holders where there was no queue. To be fair, we did have to ask where the entry was - Spanish signage, as I have mentioned, is structured for the intuitive only. If you need a sign, it is invariably not there. I’m sure there is a philosophical discussion to be had around this. I think therefore I am. Do I need a sign of there is one present?

No queue for us.

Through security, I grabbed my camera and an extra battery just in case there was an issue like I had at San Lorenzo. Headphones on and map in hand we tried to decipher how the museum was laid out. I’m sure someone believes it was logical. My perspective? It was designed by a committee after a long lunch and several bottles of Pedro Ximénez.

We found the first headphone symbol with a number and went to our audio guides. No deal, as they say. Back out to the foyer area and a quick chat with one of the helpers made me realise I had been sucked in again. Our audio guide was not their official audio guide although the tickets were good.

One thing I have learnt about the major tourist attractions in Spain is that there are many, many sites that masquerade as the genuine site. We ended up with a guide that probably had notes on less than a third of the artworks when compared to the official guide. Not happy Jan. To exacerbate the problem, there were two voice overs, both British, who couldn’t pronounce simple words like ‘annunciation’ or ‘Titian’ or ‘typified’. The male couldn’t even follow the punctuated script in front of him.

The next shattering realisation was that there was a strict, enforced, absolute rule of no photography. I spent the whole day with my camera slung over my shoulder, as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. Which of course is the tenuous link to today's title, Kodachrome by Paul Simon from 1973.

The only photo I was allowed to take inside the museum - inside the museum cafe.

Nonetheless, we had an audio guide and three floors to cover. The no photos rule turned out to be a bonus. It meant no endless selfies, so some tour groups moved on faster than others. For you, dear reader, it means a shorter post than usual because I have no photos to illustrate our experiences.

The short story is that the Prado houses a wonderful collection of European art from the 12th century through to more contemporary pieces. There is one solitary painting of Picasso's from 1943 that sits uncomfortably in contrast with the works around it. Perhaps the pained look on some of the saints' faces is because they have to look at Picasso's Buste de Femme all day.

Goya before his depressing 'black' stage.

Around 2 pm, the constant standing and walking on an empty stomach was taking its toll and we hadn’t even completed the first floor. A quick espresso and something to pump up the blood sugar levels saw us back on the circuit in no time, realising that we needed to pick up the pace if we were going to make it home that night.

We walked from the Prado to head for dinner just after 6pm. We had been on our feet for almost 7 hours with an audio guide that was clearly deficient. If we’d used the official audio we might still be there. There was still a queue at the ticket office, a longer one than in the morning; it snaked all the way down the side of the museum.

A queue as far as the eye cold see.

My Amex card regularly delivers little presents to us (unpaid advertisement) like $200 off a meal while you’re travelling overseas. Happily one of the listed restaurants was less than a 10 minute walk from the museum. We were seated, perusing the menu in no time.

It was a seafood restaurant so we ordered prawns and octopus, a side of asparagus and a bottle of Albariño. Sadly the octopus was overcooked and Jayne left it all to me. Since Amex was picking up the bulk of the bill, we also ordered dessert and my favourite Spanish accompaniment, two glasses of that thick, luscious Pedro Ximénez. Aside from breakfast, it was the cheapest meal we had at $74 AUD including tip, after the Amex contribution.

The streets were coming alive as we walked back to the hotel to pack for the long trip home.

Titian's Last Supper from San Lorenzo.

The night was punctuated, as usual, by the comings and goings and discussions of the other residents on the floor of our hotel. The number of people who conduct all their conversations with outside voices is amazing. Anyway, there would be payback tomorrow morning as we dragged our suitcases down to the foyer at 8am before the sun rose.

The guy at reception unlocked the car park lift for us and the first step in a very long journey was taken. The drive to the exit was negotiated safely and then the exit door creaked and groaned after I pushed the exit button and stuttered to a stop. Here we go, I thought, transit day drama. I leant out and pushed the clearly signposted exit button again and the door miraculously opened - we were free. It would have been nice if the entry to the car park had been as clearly marked quipped Jayne.

Titian's St Jerome in Penitence from San Lorenzo.

Our route to the airport was a circuitous one because we needed to fill up the tank of the hire car. How many petrol stations are there on the lead in roads to the airport in Madrid, dear reader? None, actually. Why? Spain. Things are not what you might think they should be at times.

Anyway, tank full, we set off again into the Madrid morning peak. We had programmed Google to take us to the rental car return as Google suggested. Except it listed Terminal 1 and we were departing from Terminal 4. The journey to this point had been punctuated by the usual trauma of driving on unfamiliar roads in heavy traffic. As we neared the turn off I had cold feet and headed for Terminal 4 instead of the mapped route to Terminal 1.

A marigold to break up the text.

As we approached Terminal 4, it was again decision time. Do I take the road to arrivals or departures? Rental car return was at arrivals. I chose departures because we were leaving the country. Incorrect! It was a drop-off area only. A quick trip around the area and its numerous round-a-bouts had us shortly driving into a car spot at the Europcar rental, just prior to the 9:00am deadline. Key handed over, mobile phone signed, I’ll never get used to the lack of paperwork, and we headed for the terminal to check in.

This would be the next test. I couldn’t check in online because some of Jayne’s details were missing. This is not usually a problem, but booking through a third-party agency to get cheap Business Class flights meant I didn’t have the details. We were third in line when the desks opened and they called all the Business Class ticket holders straight to the attendants. Nice. We were sitting in the lounge in no time. It seemed an easy transit but we were both on edge and keen for a glass of cava. Not today, they had red or white wine or beer. Coffee and croissants it was; the bubbles would have to wait until we were on the plane.

Boarding happened on time and we left as scheduled. Double thumbs up to Cathay Pacific. The champagne was delightful and the meals okay. The plan was to sleep on this leg and stay awake on the next so when we arrived home, we would be ready to sleep. No, it didn’t happen. Jayne binged movies and I wrote the blog posts.

Another text breaker.

We landed in Hong Kong on time but the process through security was ludicrous. The queue stretched almost as far as the line to get into the Prado. We were directed to another area, about 500 metres away where at least there was no queue. 

Drappier champagne in the Cathay Business Lounge helped calm the nerves. Once again, comparisons with our national carrier are not flattering. The food offerings here were amazing but we did not have the time to explore them. Separate breakfast bar, noodle bar, teahouse and a bar for alcoholic beverages.

We were late leaving for reasons that weren't explained. The flight was uneventful except for a few minor bumps and the fact that Jayne did not receive her selected main meal again. Not what we'd been told to expect with Cathay.

Almost nine hours of flight time with minimal sleep again. In Sydney we were forced to wait 20 minutes for our disembarkation bay because it was blocked by an Emirates A380. Our bags were out early, well done Cathay, and customs was a breeze. Can anyone tell me why, in Sydney, we still need to fill in those ridiculous 'arrival cards' when everything should be available in digital format?

Our pick-up was a few minutes later than expected but we were at home by 10:30pm. All up, door-to-door we spent 32 hours in transit with less than an hour's sleep.

And that, dear reader, is a wrap. There will be another blog in March when Dave and I tackle the Tarkine again. The big trip in '26 will be a return to Europe, Tuscany with Matt's Produce and a cruise down the Nile on the way back to Australia. I still need to fill in the bit in between. Stay tuned.

Until next time.

Pressure Down (Madrid)

Sunday in Spain, dear reader, like that in France, is civilised and quiet. While some establishments do open and hospitality workers score the worst part of the deal, it is genuinely a day of rest and relaxation to enjoy with friends or family (if you like them enough). Just like Australia was before we became all 24-7 American in the eternal chase for more. It does take some getting used to, but it is worth it. It takes the pressure down (by John Farnham) one might say. 

As a result of this intelligent behaviour, we had decided to do little more than head to the main park in Madrid for a relaxing afternoon. That was after we called Dave to hear about the horrendous transit day he and the family had, returning from Japan. You know in my world, dear reader, everything is a competition. Except transit days. Transit days are no longer a competition, Dave reigns supreme. If you need to increase your stress levels then click here - it is a traumatic read.

The Parque de El Retiro is at the bottom of Gran Via and whatever it changes into when it turns a corner. The street, not the park. As usual the best laid plans … we hit the crest of the Gran Via and looked down the streetscape to crowds. Glances were exchanged. “Not sure we can get through there,” Jayne said. Scanning further down the street, I saw people movement, “Yes, we can, over there” I said, pointing to a moving mass of people. Teeth gritted, off we went.

Down the street we walked, past some barricades and hundreds of people who were standing on the road’s edge, obviously waiting for something. A fun run? A parade? A protest? A pope? I had a flashback to my time in Madrid with World Youth Day in 2010. There didn’t seem to be any flags of support for any particular event or team. We pressed on to find section of the road closed off with barriers preventing people and vehicles going further.

When we arrived at the Palace of Communications, there was a special corralled area with chairs and a podium. We looked back towards where we had been, the crowd was growing as was Jayne’s interest. The park would have to wait. Out came the phone and after a few attempts, Google managed to stop trying to sell me shit and answered my question.

Behind the dignitaries' corral.

Today, October 19 was the Transhumance Festival, something that has embraced the streets of Madrid since 1994. Despite its history, the organisation was, well, not all it could have been. More on that later. The gist of the festival is to celebrate the historic, sustainable farming methods that have been used in Spain forever. This has now blended with climate change (yes it’s real and yes we are responsible for the speed of the change) and a renewed focus on organic, sustainable farming.

Now how does that manifest itself in a festival? Good question, dear reader. With a parade of people in traditional dress from Leon and Castille who dance their way down the streets, followed by some 1,000 sheep and 200 goats. Allegedly. And the crowds continued to grow.

The dignitaries started to arrive.

Jayne wanted to see the sheep. A girl from Dubbo wanted to change our plans and see some sheep. I thought she would have seen enough sheep in her early life. Wonders never cease. So we set ourselves up behind the muster station for the dignitaries, with a view directly up the Gran Via. All the better to see the sheep with my dear.

And we waited. And we watched the electrical leads being taped down in the visitor area. And we waited. And we watched the electrical leads being untaped and placed inside the rubber risers that allow safe pedestrian access. And we waited. And we watched the police ride around on their motorbikes. And we waited. And we watched the police move the barriers to contain the ever expanding numbers of people. And we waited. And we watched some of the dignitaries arrive – they just looked like old female famers. And we waited. And people ran from one side of the road to the other. And we waited. And the police moved them back again. Then there was a flurry of activity and barriers were moved and people rushed from everywhere to fill the void and the police got active and nothing happened.

We went back to waiting. The throng continued to grow, all the way to the top of the hill. This could be a triggering moment for me as I experienced more flashbacks to World Youth Day. Then a helicopter appeared. A good sign, the media were close, so must be the sheep. From the top of the hill came a cheer. Excitement rippled through the crowd. The police all caressed their automatic rifles in anticipation. Pandemonium. The crowd broke the barrier again and surged forward as the first of the people in traditional costume danced into view and were then lost behind a sea of civilly disobedient spectators.

And the view was gone.

There was no sign of sheep. We were the goats standing and waiting for … nothing. The perfect view we had was gone. The police at the front of the dignitaries’ corral looked at the organisers and shrugged their shoulders. One man mouthed, what can we do?

Well, let me tell you. Get your shit organised for starters. This festival has been run annually for over 30 years. Nothing, at this stage, should be a surprise. How about close the streets at 3am. Set the barricades up where you want. Don’t keep moving the barriers at the last minute. Don’t assume police tape will stop people running through it. Have the police in numbers where you know they’ll be needed. You know, like the areas where the sheep all stop and the people dance.

A church opposite the park.

With our view decimated and disappointed hearts, we turned back toward the Park of Retirement and strolled away, right up the middle of the main street which normally is bumper to bumper traffic. Still no sheep in sight, nor sound, nor smell for that matter.

There were many fountains.

The park is very large and, despite me thinking that most of Madrid was lining the streets to watch the sheep spectacle, the rest of them were clearly in the park enjoying a Sunday afternoon. The cafés and bars were well patronised. There were people on boats on the big pond. There were puppet shows, Disney characters, kids on bikes and skates; if it was happening it was at the park. However, there were no sheep.

One of two puppet shows.

To mask our disappointment, we paused for a beer. To add insult to injury, the clown (figuratively speaking) who served me, not only replied to my Spanish in French, go figure, he dispatched two bottled beers to the table, not draught. Really? If you opt for the same bottled beer that can be supplied on tap, you might as well drink VB.

The aptly named 'Big Pond'.

Homeward bound, the crowds were gone and there was no evidence of sheep having been anywhere near the street. No droppings, no smell, nothing.

The Crystal Palace greenhouse. Closed for renovations.

Back at the hotel we relaxed, did some blogging and research and enjoyed Cava Sunday. While we sipped our drinks, we turned on the television to see if there was any coverage of the Transhumance Festivities. Eureka! There was the footage of the flock, milling around in the Plaza as promised. 

We dined in house again partially because it was Sunday. The service and food at El Telón is excellent and I’ve never been a fan of hotel restaurants. Cristian looks after us so well, extra food while we’re waiting for our mains, a discount when the bill arrives, recommendations of dishes, it’s almost perfect. Tonight he presented us with a farewell bottle of our favourite red wine with the strict instructions it was not to be opened until we are home so we can remember Madrid.

Tomorrow is the Prado.

Until then.

Bus Stop (San Lorenzo de El Escorial via Madrid)

I was certain I would not adjust to dawn being at 8:30am, dear reader, especially when we had an Uber booked for 8:00am to take us to the bus interchange. The Uber was dead on time and I had my first ride in a BYD Seal. Very tidy. We were at the interchange in a little over 10 minutes. That provided the first challenge of the day. Moncloa is not just a bus stop; it stretches underground and has buses arriving and departing for all points. Here's another lesson for Australia: an extensive public transport system with regular connections take cars off the road.

After perusing a notice board, Jayne decided to do the feminine thing and ask directions. Luckily she did, because our bus to San Lorenzo de El Escorial was leaving from the terminal across 8 lanes of roadway and downstairs from gate 11. Sounds confusing but it was easily found with a bus waiting for us. We paid the €6 for two tickets and perched ourselves on the back seat. Happily, a few stops into the 45 minutes journey, a pair of seats over the wheels became available and we gave up bouncing around for a smoother ride.

The sun was rising over Madrid as we climbed the hills towards San Lorenzo. We arrived at the interchange around 9:15 am and it was a refreshing 10°. Out came Google maps, searching for a nearby café that was open. After a slight orienteering error, we arrived at a very popular, cosy little establishment and settled down for the usual double espresso, accompanied by tomato tostados and a muffin.

Our tickets for San Lorenzo listed entry at 10:30am but we decided to test the system and arrive at 10am when the doors opened. Tickets scanned, in we went, through security, dropped the backpack in the cloak room and commenced our tour via our audio guides.

Looking up from the first courtyard.

And what is San Lorenzo I hear you ask, dear reader? So glad you're interested. It is a former monastery in the hills above Madrid and has a Basilica at its centre and was a royal palace at one time. One of the other major attractions is the library where it holds the Speyer Gospels that date back to the Holy Roman Emperor Henry III. They are written in gold ink. It also contains some serious artworks by Titian, among others. The whole site was declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO in 1984.

The library.

We dutifully followed our audio guide,  commencing with the library and monastery apartments and then on to the Basilica. The dome of the Basilica dominates the entire palace precinct. I've got to hand it to the architects, every time I think "another bloody church or Cathedral" I walk in and am awestruck. They got me again this time. The soaring dome, the side altars, the reliefs on the ceiling ... you get the idea.

The altar.

The dome.

From there, we walked through the royal palace and the mausoleum. There were separate rooms for the royal babies and the kings and queens. At some stage, my camera battery gave up the ghost. The spare battery was in my backpack in the cloak room. I never thought I'd be grateful my phone can also be a camera but here we are.

Corridor with frescoes.

The young royals.

Then it was out to the pool and garden. The pool is now more of a pond for frogs. Lots of frogs. The gardens are typical of the earlier time period when they were created. Manicured hedges, orange trees for sweet scent and they over look the countryside back toward Madrid.

The war room,

and ceiling.

All up, we were there for almost 4 hours. The fresh air and the more relaxed pace with less invasive tour groups was a most welcome change.

The frog pond.

The next challenge was getting the bus back to Madrid. Foolishly, we assumed that it would leave from where we were dropped off. Partially correct but without the assistance of a friendly off-duty bus driver, we would have been stranded until we worked out the vagaries of the situation. 

Part of the gardens.

We walked directly back to the bus interchange where we were dropped off hours earlier. There were very few people around, although in the area beneath us there were several buses. I walked forward to the railing that stopped stupid people falling over the edge and there was a sign in Spanish, who’d have thought, that translated as, ‘not beyond this point’.

The view back to Madrid.

That made sense, so I returned to the waiting room/information area. The information office was closed because it was Saturday afternoon. There was a scrolling timetable that had either of the buses we could catch back to Madrid leaving at times that were not evident on the online timetable, like in five minutes. It’s a bit like the Spanish Inquisition with the time schedules, no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition and we weren’t expecting a bus for about thirty minutes.

Another perspective.

As the five minutes counted down, an off-duty bus driver arrived and spoke to us in Spanish. Obviously, we didn’t understand him, but he knew we were waiting for a bus and he communicated to us that the bus would not stop here. Weird, we were standing directly outside the waiting room opposite where we had been set down hours before. Urging us to follow him, we crossed to the other side of the building and walked towards the ‘no go’ railing. Were we being lured to our deaths, dear reader? Were our kidneys about to be harvested? Can you tell I’m killing time and writing this on a plane?

A chapel in the Cathedral. Interesting.

Two of the above can be answered in the negative. On this side of the building, there was a ramp leading down to a row of buses waiting for passengers. Was there a sign? From the gods, or any bus authority? No there was not. Spain (read that in an exasperated voice). He generously walked us to the 664 bus to Madrid and saw us safely on board. The engine roared to life as soon as we were seated and the bus pulled out and drove around the circular drive up to where we had been waiting moments earlier. Passing some other unsuspecting potential passengers, we sailed out onto the street toward Madrid. Cheers to you, unsung hero, I raise my glass to a person who went above and beyond for a couple of unwitting tourists.

An original Titian.

The 664 was the quick bus and it was soon on a freeway heading back to the city. The traffic was congested at times, but otherwise it was a smooth trip. And the bus (non) stop inspired today's title. A classic by The Hollies.

Back at Monlcoa, we opted to walk back to the hotel, given there were no time constraints. There were a few photo opportunities in the area, a triumphal arch and some space age building beyond it, but ultimately there was effort involved in dodging traffic and people, so I opted out. It was downhill, mostly, back to the hotel and we passed many interesting looking patisseries, cafés, the usual stuff until I found a supermarket and popped in to purchase a bottle of Brut Nature Cava for Cava Sunday. Some traditions, dear reader, are worth preserving. Others, like the monarchy in Australia or the Union Jack on our flag, not so much.

Cava in backpack, we continued our walk to the hotel. We refreshed ourselves and waited until a civilised Spanish dinner time before walking to a local restaurant. To do this, we had to negotiate Plaza del Calleo where there were the usual queues of people and (this time) a marquee in the middle of the square. The explanation for these phenomena remains a mystery.

We scored an outside (tourist) table, an excellent people watching place because it was a pedestrian thoroughfare. Opposite us was a churros restaurant/café, whatever the term, which ensured Jayne’s fascinated and undivided attention for most of the evening. She was quite disbelieving of the amount of churros and corresponding chocolate that was consumed by people she thought far too thin to be able to do so and maintain their figure. Not to mention that it would soon be dinner time for these people.

The plaza was even more crowded on our return trip, although the marquee had gone. In its place, amongst the throngs of tourists and shoppers, were hosts of the beautiful people. Suits, dinner gowns, it was like a red-carpet experience. They appeared to be arriving for the cinema. Yeah, I don’t get it either, dear reader. Maybe it was an opening night, but I’m not convinced, I think it was just the place to be seen to flash your wealth. Sad really.

Anyway, in Spanish street walking style, I took no prisoners as we made a direct line for the hotel.

That was a very big day on our feet.

Until tomorrow.

The Best Things in Life are Free (Madrid)

On our first full day in Madrid we had booked the walking tour with Tio Tours and Nic, the guy we met in the foyer yesterday. We were meeting at the plaza in between the Palace and the Cathedral for a 10:30am start. We were unsure of where we were going so we arrived just after 10am. This was fine, dear reader, because the plaza was quite the spectacle even before the day really got underway.

The Palace.

The Cathedral.

There was a pilgrim or school group on the steps of the Cathedral and tour groups meeting at varying points of the plaza. There were family groups and couples, so it was the place to people watch. Then there were those trying to make a Euro. A giant bear who had a small fan for ventilation in the back of his suit, trying to attract kids for photos. It was a reasonably cool day by Madrid standards but it would be a tough way to make money.

There was also a transformer, the yellow one. Beyond that I have no idea. I even had to Google that. There were also the tuk tuk drivers touting for business.

Just after 10:30am, Nic arrived with the other tourists. A German family of five and a solo Argentinian, making a nice group of eight including our guide. That should ensure we don't cause too many issues blocking pathways.

Random flower. Impatiens I think.

This is a 'free tour' so you pay what you think it is worth when it's all over and Nic certainly didn't press the point. With that, our experiences were all outside the buildings. I thought this was good because it gave us the option of returning, should we wish, to explore at our own pace. This is the obvious link to today's title, The Best Things in Life are Free. I've chosen the Frank Sinatra version from 1949 because the original was from 1927 and the more recent cover was by Janet Jackson (whoever she is) and some arch enemy of Superman's, Lex Luther or someone.

The tour wound itself through the old town commencing with the Palace, the largest in Europe, modelled on Versailles of course, but it has over 3,000 rooms. The Cathedral next door took forever to build. Not Sagrada Familia style, this one is complete - it was commenced almost 400 years after the Palace and consecrated by John Paul II in 1993. It is a genuine architectural mish-mash and apparently, most locals do not care for it, aesthetically speaking.

The rear of the Cathedral.

From the Cathedral, we walked to the 'wall of fire', a barricade built by the Moors,that had a surface of flint. Therefore every time an invader's arrow hit it, the metal sparked, causing the impression of a wall of fire. This was the backdrop to the garden where the cats lived. Cats are the symbol of Madrid because one invader climbed the flint wall 'like a cat'. The tag stuck although there was only one cat visible today. To be a proper cat, however, one's parents and grandparents have to have been born in Madrid.

The remnant wall of fire.

Into the old town now, we paused at the St Nicholas Church, the oldest church in Madrid. It had definite Moorish influences, being constructed of small bricks and having arches in the bell tower.

St Nicholas.

The next stop was at the memorial to Spaniards who were killed in the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria. They were made stateless by Franco after the civil war and when WW2 began they were in France. When it was captured by the Nazis, they were interned in Austria, with most being murdered.

Names are inscribed on each memorial.

We wandered through other points of interest, along with many other much larger tour groups. Through the original main square of the old Madrid to the "oldest" of everything, restaurant, barber and hotel, denoted by a local plaque placed on the footpath outside the door of each establishment. Some had Guinness Book of Record plaques. The restaurant has achieved its fame by being the longest continuously operating restaurant in the EU. It has a wood fired kitchen and they kept it burning throughout COVID to maintain the record. Actually the concern is that if the fire goes out, the cooling may shatter the ancient oven structure.

There is no tooth fairy in Spain. Instead they have a small rodent who lives in a hole in the hall in one of the old streets. It leaves its home and collects the teeth of the children and replaces them with a coin. Sorry, no photo of the home of El Ratoncito Pérez - there was a queue of small children and their parents and they justifiably took priority over me barging my way in to take a photo .

Nean, or the Banksy of Madrid as he is known (a bit of a stretch if you ask me), has arranged small mosaics of tiles at night on various walls around Madrid. They are all based on a basketball and hoop and some make political statements. In some council areas they are removed or painted over as soon as they are seen; in others they are welcomed. We spotted a couple on our tour.

A Nean piece. 

Plaza Mayor was next with the story of its construction and destruction by fire three times before it was decided stone was a better building material than wood. Who knew? Originally a market place and public  execution place, the whole Plaza is now a tourist trap, with overpriced restaurants, cafés and shops.

Louis XIV anyone?

The full stop of our tour was Puerto del Sol where we saw the statue of the bear eating strawberries, the plaque where all roads in Spain are measured from and the engraving of the sun on the ground that dates back to the original gate to Madrid through which you could view the sun rising each day.

All roads lead from Madrid.

All  in all, an interesting, informative, quirky and entertaining overview of the history of Madrid in about 2 and a half hours. Highly recommended if you should venture this way.

We headed off to a small street off the main Puerto del Sol to find a place for a well earned beer and some very late brunch, read breakfast, before we then retraced our steps to the Cathedral to venture inside - the interior was much more impressive than the exterior. Again, a mixture of styles.

Typical Gothic arches.

Not so typical frescoes.

Also not so typical.

After a quick rest stop back at our hotel, we walked down the Gran Via towards several other landmarks, the Fuente de la Cibeles, a significant fountain in the middle of a very large roundabout, backdropped by am impressive white public building, Palacio de Comunicaciones and the gate, Puerta de Alcalá.

Palacio de Comunicaciones.

Puerta de Alcalá.

After that we took on the Friday night crowds to wend our way back up the Gran Via to our hotel for a second in house dinner and an early retirement, well early by Spanish standards. Tomorrow would be a pre-sunrise start, albeit the sun does not appear before 8:30am right now in Madrid, for our Uber/bus trip out to San Lorenzo El Escorial to see the palace and monastery.

Madrid's answer to Shibuya.

Until tomorrow.