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.

Under the Bridge (Córdoba - Madrid)

We are nearing the end, my dear reader, and I fear we are starting to slow down. This post covers our last full day in Córdoba and the dreaded transit day to Madrid. It was time to go domestic again. We needed a laundromat before we ticked off a few other tourist spots in the afternoon.

The laundromat saw us leave the old town and walk into a nearby suburb. It was around a 20 minute walk. The laundromat was relatively new and everything functioned the way it was supposed to, even if some of the online reviews were inaccurate. The machines were clean, although the dryer shortchanged us on time. Anyway, job done we returned to the hotel and scoped out an afternoon walk and possible venues for dinner.

The statue between the bridge and Alcázar.

Down through the old town to the Roman Bridge we strolled. As it turned out, the bridge was very close to the Alcázar and where we commenced yesterday's walking tour. It is a very substantial piece of stone work and is wide enough to drive a car across. This clearly is not permitted and the gate at the other end would provide a serious impediment.

The gate.

The bridge is an obvious tourist attraction and on this hot, sunny day wasn't too crowded. It provided an excellent view of the waterwheel that provided water to the old palace. The river is quite wide but very shallow and carp could be seen digging in the mud under the bridge creating a silt trail. Under the Bridge is today's title from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

A substantial piece of architecture.

It was beer time and we walked the streets of old town back up towards the square looking for a suitable table, ie. one not near any smokers. We found one and were enjoying the early afternoon people watching when a truck carrying gas cylinders rounded the corner and the cage on the back of the truck caught the edge of one umbrella. The earth didn't quite move for me but it caused a moving and a shaking among the umbrellas and a domino effect. It was close to collapse, like the Liberal Party in Australia.

The Mosque-Cathedral in the distance.

The crowds continued moving up and down the street. people wandered past looking forlorn, waiting for a vacant table. We, happy to give our table away, waited for 'la cuenta'. Nothing happens quickly in Spain. Eventually we waved one couple over to our table and they sat with us while we finalised payment. They were very grateful.

The Roman ruins.

From there we set out for the site of the Roman ruins. Actually that could mean any part of the old town, but it referred to a specific site. It appears untouched since its discovery and partial repatriation. It was not particularly interesting. I mean, it's like churches and Cathedrals, how many can you see and maintain genuine interest? Oh, look, Roman ruins ... some columns, partial walls and a statue. Yep, that about sums it up.

It's no David.

That night we went back to the old town to a 'traditional' Italian restaurant. Except it wasn't in Italy and was being run by Spanish people. Aside from that ... anyway, the food was good and it was a nice alternative to tapas.

The square at night.

Prior to bed, we researched the entry to the carpark at out hotel in Madrid. Suitably armed, we retired for the evening.

Our street to freedom.

We departed the hotel the next morning, a vastly easier exercise than our arrival had been. The only stop on the road to Madrid was for petrol. Otherwise it was an uneventful journey. A transit day without issue. Yeah, nah.

Despite Madrid's tunnels and my satellite navigation system spinning out until it could locate us again, we found our destination with relative ease... until I attempted to turn into the car park that Google had identified. It was the drive way right next to the hotel door which Google had informed us was the correct entry. I drove the car up over the footpath toward the ramp and a man emerged from a booth waving his arms and shaking his head. Ok, this is not the way, I gathered. However, he was on his mobile and was unwilling to put it down or finish his call to provide any further directions other than his windmilling arms. Spain!

We waited. Jayne wanted to go next door to the hotel. I was unwilling for her to do this in case the balding, overweight old guy decided he might earn his salary and provide some assistance. We waited. He emerged partially form his booth and provided the expectation that he would would do something, a bit like Andrew Hastie, and then retreated to his booth to count numbers or continue on his phone.

Eventually I relented and Jayne went into to the hotel and came back with a map to show the correct car park entrance. Hastie was still discussing his next move behind closed doors. I reversed back out onto the street and joined the heavy traffic to drive to the corresponding street on the other side of the hotel.

The written instruction was to drive down the ramp and, before the boom gate, there was a button on the wall. Push the button and the door would open and then there were specific instructions on where to park. After enduring the abuse of a taxi driver, not an unusual occurrence in Madrid, I turned the car onto the ramp and down we went. There was nothing on the wall near the boom gate so I pushed the help button. And someone came to help! It was a miracle.

Except he did the same arm gestures. Back up the ramp he was pointing, except there was a car behind me. He sent him back as well, allowing me to reverse half way up the ramp to an insignificant grey box on the wall. There was no signage. He pointed at the box and then to a door in the wall. He rang the bell for me and the side door opened. Still no signage anywhere until you drive in through the door and see the Hotel Indigo sign and an arrow.

I'm still suffering trauma from my attempt to park the car so I shan't recount it in any detail, dear reader. Suffice to say that it was necessary to fold in the side mirrors to park the car in the slimline spaces available. I am yet to master the use of reversing cameras in cars. Despite our best research efforts the day before, it was not a fun afternoon, albeit a suitable end to a transit day.

At the hotel check-in a voice says, "An Australian accent". Of course we started chatting. "I run a tour company," he says. "I've already booked a walking tour for tomorrow," I replied. "Mine is better," he says, handing me a card. "But I'm booked with you," say I. After a few, no way exclamations, I produced my booking. In one of those quirky moments, the guy who owns the company and is conducting the walk was in the hotel spruiking his business and we run into him. Tio Tours. If you're in Madrid, check him out.

After the usual unpacking and calm down, we headed to the roof top bar for a drink, or two. Transit days really are stressful. And then, because we didn't feel like engaging with the world on a Madrid scale, we dined at the restaurant in the hotel.

The TV is massive.

El Telón, the restaurant, offers a reasonable range of meals, genuine Spanish and fusion food to keep tourists happy. The man who was running the show was absolutely delightful and super helpful. He tempered our order when we weren't sure how many tapas dishes to select. He suggested the wine and at the end of the meal produced some cheese and candied walnuts to nibble on as we finished our wine. Classy.

Yes, that is a spa bath in the corner of the room.

Then it was back to our room. Well, suite. I decided when I was planning everything that by the time we reached Madrid, we wold want some space to spread out and relax. Also we're here for five nights, so there will be times when we don't do much during the day and will want the extra room.

Tomorrow we're off on our walking tour with Nick from Tio Tours.

Until then.