Ice Ice Baby (Seville - Carmona - Écija -Córdoba)

And sadly, dear reader, that brings an end to our time in Seville. It's interesting how your arrival can set the tone for the coming days. The drive in was relatively easy, there was a car spot out the front of the hotel, the car park (expensive) but the spaces were large and we liked Seville from the first instant. 

After breakfast, we were driving to Córdoba via two smaller towns, Carmona and Écija. There was no real reason to stop at either town except to break up the trip. Carmona was about a 30 minute drive from Seville and we found a street parking spot relatively easily. 

The entrance to the Carmona old town.

Like so many of the other towns, it had an old town area protected by walls or a fortress dating back to Roman times. It also had many churches, curiously, none of which was open to the public. As we walked towards the high walls, we observed two men in fluro vests, leaning up against cars that were parked right next to old town. Jayne had read about them prior to our visit. The car parking is actually free but the town apparently ratifies these two charging visitors €1. If they pay up, fine, if they don't, it appears nothing happens to your car but we were happy to walk for 5 minutes to avoid the entrepreneurs.

Another church.

We wandered the narrow streets, alerted to approaching cars by the squeal of rubber on limestone. It was a public holiday today, in lieu of yesterday and the main square was beginning to fill up with locals enjoying their day off work.

The walls above a café.

As we left to go back to our car, I attempted to take some final photos of yet another church across the main intersection, outside the walled old town. It took a good 10 minutes to take one shot free of traffic as every car within miles of Carmona seemed to converge at this roundabout. It was actually busier than the traffic in Seville as we departed the city earlier in the morning.

Worth the wait.

The next stop, Écija, was about 45 minutes drive. Somewhere along the A4 we could see a brilliant light that seemed to get brighter as we came closer. The light was so intense you could see dust particles and the rays of light themselves. Apparently it is a solar tower and is able to generate sufficient electricity to power all of Seville's homes. Sorry there are no pictures, but if you are interested you can read more about it here.

The palace wall in Écija.

Écija is known as the town of towers and that comes as no surprise as you drive down toward the town from the A4. Once again street parking was simple and we programmed the map to set off for the palace in the old town.

One of the many towers.

The old town was like every other, narrow limestone roads, narrow footpaths (if they existed), churches and cafés. It was even quieter here than Carmona and all the action seemed to be focussed on the new town. We walked around and snapped a few photos, marvelled at all the churches with doors firmly closed, found a palacio with decorative walls and then made a bee-line back to the car. Well, as much as that was possible.

A distant tower.

Back in the car, we put the hotel address into Apple maps, my preference because it provides more detail as you drive. Arriving in Córdoba was quite straight forward and I followed the instructions until I was taken off piste into the old town and told we had to park and walk the remainder of the distance to the hotel. We knew this was not correct.

We reprogrammed the address and were taken god knows where, down tiny little streets that couldn't fit a car and a pedestrian. "You have arrived," came the announcement, but clearly we hadn't. No hotel in sight. Another fruitless drive and eventually we found somewhere to pull over and swapped maps to Google. Off we went again.

At this point I was unsure if we'd travelled these same streets but I was hellbent on following Jayne's instructions as I tried to avoid pedestrians, motorbikes and cars. Turn right came the instruction, but I was not able to comply which meant being rerouted and driving away from what possibly could have been our hotel.

As we neared the missed turn for the second time, we had been driving around Córdoba for almost 30 minutes. We screeched down one last street and saw the name of the hotel. Jayne went inside to enquire about parking. We had arrived, park here said the man.

The drive way to our hotel.

I can't begin to articulate the stress I feel driving a car on the wrong side of the road, down streets too narrow for cars, with signage in a language I do not read, all the while having other road users behind me and pedestrians walking down the road centre. I was glad to be out of the car and for it to be valet parked. €32 a day parking is extortion but there was no way that car was coming out until it was time to leave Córdoba. All exploration would be done on foot.

Once divested of the car, we proceeded inside the hotel to check in whilst sipping a glass  of welcome cava. The hotel is boutique, formally a private palacio, with amenities and rooms going off in multiple directions. We were given a tour of the place which includes Roman ruins, visible underneath the floor of the breakfast restaurant. This was followed by the spa and sauna suite, after which we walked through the first building out through gardens, complete with a pool and outdoor bar area, into a separate 3 storey building and up to our room on the first floor. All very grand first impressions.

The lounge area.

After the ritual unpack, we headed off with map in hand to check out our rendezvous point for the next day's organised tour. The reconnoître took us through the main square and down a main street towards the river and the Alcazar that would be our first tour focus tomorrow. Once we knew where we were going, we headed back for a beer in the main square to relax, do some people watching and get the feel of our penultimate destination.

As we sat, taking in the sights, several Spanish matrons came through the establishment's tables and chairs and pushed past us, apparently not impressed that we were in their way. They settled at a table not far from us and continued to glare at us until we departed to return to the hotel. We have no idea what the problem was nor how we managed to cause offence when there were many other patrons sitting just like we were. 

The main plaza.

Anyway, back at the hotel it was time for dinner in the open air courtyard out the front of reception. The evening was very pleasant and we were one of the first groups to arrive. By the time we finished our meal, every table was occupied by guests. We were greeted by the Maître d' who showed us to our table and then sent one of the waiters to take our drinks order. This is where the 5 star rating of the hotel started to come unravelled slightly.

We ordered our food and a bottle of Verdejo, the Spanish really do rule supreme with that grape. The wine arrived in an ice bucket which I told him we did not require. He wanted to argue with me. I felt the bottle temperature, it was chill, unlike our wine waiter. "No ice bucket," said I. "The ice is not too cold," he said. No, I replied. He left with in a huff with the bucket. Our wine continued to open up as it warmed a little and allowed all those hidden honey notes to come to the fore. I watched with amusement as the wine waiter fawned over other more compliant guests. He didn't come near us again. Perhaps we should have summoned him to put an ice cube in each glass.

Which finally brings us to today's title. Who would have thought I'd be using white boy rapper Vanilla Ice as an theme? Not me. Anyway, in honour of our wine waiter who clearly doesn't understand wine, let's listen to Ice Ice Baby. I couldn't make it to the end of the song and all it proved was that John Deacon could write a ripping bass line. You can draw your own conclusions about the rapper.

I am uncertain as to whether there was discussion amongst the wait staff but the young woman who served our table, needed some serious lessons in how to wait and serve a table and how to place the dishes. It is not right to lean across the guests. Nor is it ok to slap the plates down on the table. If this was a café in the plaza, I would still make a comment about the poor etiquette, but this is a five star hotel and the food was coming from the Michelin kitchen. I guess it was easy to see why both of these servers had been relegated to the garden and were not allowed inside the restaurant.

We actually had dinner reservations for inside the hotel restaurant, Arbequina for Wednesday night, but cancelled on the back of tonight's performances. The food is the same in the restaurant or the garden, but I'd had enough of the service. The only other thing to note was the soundscape to dinner in the garden. It was just inside the walls of the palace so the screeching, squealing tyres of the taxis serenaded us throughout.

Another smooth transit day is over.

Until next time.

Holiday (Seville)

Another beautiful day dawned in Seville. Eventually. Sunrise was close to 8:30am. I mean the day is half gone, dear reader. We called home to speak to the uncontactables from yesterday and then walked to our next breakfast spot, Tarta Home. It was actually closer to the hotel than yesterday's café and had quite an extensive menu. More importantly the coffee was very good. 

Capitania General.

Blood sugar and caffeine levels sorted, we made our way to the Plaza de Espana. The exterior of the Capitania General faces our hotel. There were a few more people around than expected, but, it was a public holiday - the National Day of Spain, Christopher Columbus Day, October 12, the day he died. Getting a photo without selfie-adoring blights on the landscape would prove a challenge.

Holiday, today's title is by the Bee Gees from 1967. I was going to use the Spanish National Anthem, but opted for something more poppy.

The side entrance.

We walked down the side of the building towards the plaza. Unlike last time when we were met with black uniformed rifle carrying soldiers, this time it was people in suits and formal attire. Hmmm, wedding we thought. We followed them down the street and into the building. 

Tiles everywhere.

This is a landing on the stairwell.

As we mounted the steps, the noise level was increasing as we went through the mosaic tiled foyer area with the domed ceilings; they know how to do grand architecture in Spain. Then we were out onto a wide verandah overlooking the plaza itself. All was ready for the National Day ceremony.

Not as crowded as I'd imagined.

The Plaza was packed with seated guests, fans flapping furiously under the direct sun. We stood in the shade of the verandah. The crowd below us gathered, the verandah crowd stretched its length and waxed and waned with interest. There were also spectators upstairs on the balconies above the portico. It was all quite grand and supervised by armed soldiers.

No idea who he is, but he must be important.

At the stroke of midday, the marching band, carefully secreted in the park across the road, struck up and commenced their march into the plaza. They were followed by various arms of the defence forces and support services. The special people, the besuited crowd, were melting in the sun as their fan speed reached epic proportions. It was still cool in the shade on the verandah.

The band played on and the speeches commenced, a clear signal for us to leave. Now, be fair, my Spanish is limited to ordering breakfast or beer so we wouldn't have gained much by staying. And we weren't close enough to see any of the invited guests faint, as amusing as that would have been. 

Zaragoza.

It was time for some photos on ground level. Around the semi-circular construction of the Plaza building are a number of bays that highlight each of the fifty Spanish provinces. Either end of the building has an exclamation mark in the form of a tower. All in all, a rather spectacular building. The water feature is a let down - I was expecting something you could boat on, not that it would have been allowed today. The ducks were unconcerned by the ceremonies taking place.

Impressive.

Then it was off to explore the park and see what lay beyond the limits of our map. Well, it was Christopher Columbus Day so exploring beyond the known reaches seemed the thing to do.

The first sight and sound we experienced, however, was not unknown - from the moment we arrived in Seville, the sound of clip-clopping has been the sound backdrop both day and night. For some reason best known to the locals, there is a large band of open carriage drivers who 'take tourists for a ride' around all parts of the congested old town and down the wide avenues that lead into the park. They are literally everywhere, and, like government buses back home, they travel in convoys, grouped it seems by colour of horse. 

Not only do you need to keep an eye out to avoid being run over, but you also need to keep an eye in front of you to avoid stepping in the political commentary the horses leave behind.

We decided it was better to get off the main roads to try to take in some of the serenity in the park oasis, seeking out shady arbors and water features as the Spanish afternoon sun started to ramp up. We spotted what looked like a fountain and headed towards it, only to be blocked at every turn by barricades and signs to keep out. In fact the entire water scape, complete with ponds, bridges and fountains was off limits.

The forbidden water feature.

Suddenly, we thought we were back in Paris where civil disobedience is a way of life. There were people everywhere inside the barriers: wandering, taking selfies, prancing over bridges, sitting on the benches, ignoring the signs that, I believe were pointing out some sort of avian illness. My photos were taken from the legal side of the barricades and you can't prove otherwise.

Arty shot.

We selected paths at random and ended up beyond our map, such trail blazers. Actually we were in front of the Art Museum, another rather grand building with beautiful gardens. 

The Art Museum.

Turning around we followed another path that led to a waterfall. Water, flowing water, was an important part of Moorish culture, not just for practical agricultural reasons, as it also provided a peaceful sound backdrop.

The waterfall.

The waterfall was man made and created for the sole purpose of ensuring a constant flow around the park via gravity. Very clever.

An uninspiring 'fly past'.

Our journey had taken us back towards Plaza de Espana where it appeared that festivities were wrapping up. The marching band was heading our way which created its own moments of interest as stupid tourists were unable to follow the directives of the soldiers. One woman sat on her hire bicycle and was amazed when she was told to move because she was in the middle of the street that all the band and following soldiers were going to march into. Just one look at what was coming towards you and common sense. No?

Listen to the band.

Despite her idiocy, we were up close and personal with the departing defence people and the band. One group, I don't know what arm of the forces they are, have the most stupid hat ever. You've seen Foreign Legion hats that have a flap down over the back of the neck, dear reader. Well, these hats fold upwards. Rednecks. It should be the state hat of Queensland.

The hat for rednecks.

After all that time in the sun, it was time for a beer at the hotel and a siesta before our final dinner in Seville. We even turned on the television to see what the Spanish were watching on the national holiday. It turns out, in Seville, Christopher Columbus Day coincides with the feast of Our Lady of the Pillar, Seville's patroness. The street procession of Our Lady wound its way at snail's pace through many streets and many, many, many hours of television coverage to eventually arrive at the Cathedral. 

There are many eucalypts in Spain.

We assume it arrived; we left for dinner at Barrio Cervecería Sevillana again. Another excellent tapas dinner and that brioche dessert even I get excited about.

Tomorrow is a public holiday in lieu of today and a transit day. What could go wrong?

Until next time.

Sherry (Seville)

We had a later start to the day because we contacted the children, well, those still in Australia. We had selected a bakery for breakfast but it had no seating so we opted for a café a few doors down. The coffee and food was ok, but the service was, um, Spanish. You know what I mean, dear reader. Table service only which is quite common. Then it is not easy to attract the attention of staff. It is very much, relax and take it easy, it will happen when it happens.

Back at the hotel, we grabbed the camera and the map and set out for Santa Cruz. It is part of the old town with that quaint, cobbled stone charm. According to the tourist information. It also houses a hospital with Baroque architecture. It's not in the same class as the hospital in Barcelona, and is now a museum, but still worth a visit.

Columbus statue on the outskirts of Santa Cruz.

Finding Santa Cruz was easy. Finding the hospital not so much. Finding a way out, almost impossible. It is billed as an interesting area to wander around. Probably because it is easy to get lost and problematic to navigate. The tourist maps never show all the streets. Challenging. Google maps kept losing the satellite between the narrow buildings. You could be 100 metres beyond the 'turn left now' before it managed to manifest itself on the screen.

Santa Cruz streets.

It was hot. It was crowded in part. It was an endless maze of narrow streets. That didn't stop the traffic though and evidence of cars not quite fitting through a gap was scraped onto many walls. It is Seville's answer to Venice, without the canals. Eventually we found an area open enough to load the maps on the phone. It was packed with locals enjoying Spain's long weekend, courtesy of its National Day. Standing room only at the bars and cafés. It was, however, open enough to get sufficient map time to find the Hospital des los Venerables.

Found it!

Around a corner we walked away from partying locals to confront the door of the 17th century building. As doors go I've seen many more impressive examples and you couldn't score the building's Baroque credentials from the outside. That however, is as close as we got. It was closed despite a reconfirmation of the opening hours. A printed page blue-tacked to the door proclaimed an insurmountable barrier.

An unscheduled closure perhaps.

We looked at each other and laughed and walked the short distance to the garden on the outside of one of the palace walls to consider our next move. Map consulted, we plotted a course for the venue of our afternoon Sherry tasting. It was still about 20 minutes away. Once discovered, we ventured back to one of the main streets outside the old town for a beer.

Sherry brings us to today's title, Sherry by The Four Seasons from 1962. Go on, have a listen, you know you want to.

The garden.

Suitably rested, we returned to Gracias Gastro (Gastronomic Experiences and Shop) to find others had already arrived. We assumed our high chairs and chatted with the couple opposite. There were eventually 10 of us, but of the initial 8 there were a couple from the US, one from Britain and the youngsters in the group; he was from French Canada and she from Brazil. Another couple from the US joined later and, by way of introduction, apologised for being American. Hearing another American accent, the woman next to me commenced a conversation across the table almost immediately and at the first opportunity, decamped from her chair and joined her compatriots. It is behaviour I do not comprehend. We have come across a few Australians and while there is an acknowledgement, that is about the extent of it. There is no overshare and no attempt to become besties, for the next hour or so.

Antonio was our host for the tasting and he was certainly passionate and knowledgeable about both the sherries on offer and the Golden Triangle that produces them. His background is as a trained chef but he also has studied in both History snd Geography, disciplines that have all combined to make him both an informative and entertaining leader of this experience.

The master at the table.

Antonio took us through the history, the climate and the locations within the region that all contribute, along with the process, to create the sherries that are the hallmarks of the area. As with Champagne, Sherry is now subject to Designation of Origin, appellation as we would call it, and the name can no longer be appropriated by other regions to label their products. This is fair enough when you compare Australian "sherry" with the real McCoy. Actually don't compare them, the Australian product is inferior.

The beginning.

As with all the tastings we have done in Spain, we worked up a thirst in anticipation of the actual tasting. We heard about the 10 types of sherries and the 3 grape varieties, as well as the blending between oak barrels and the use of yeast and sugar to ferment and fortify the wine.

There is clearly a vast amount of science involved in replicating this method, year after year, but ultimately, a sherry master has the final say over what goes into the bottles to ensure the product is consistently of the same quality and style expected. Romance is not dead and science does not totally rule.

We tasted sherries from dry to fino to sweet, ending with Pedro Ximenez, all accompanied by perfectly paired food offerings of olives, crackers, cheese, sausage and apples. I don't think any of the participants were sherry aficionados but the sherries were all excellent examples of the range of this wine, and we appreciated their qualities, despite not being in the habit of consuming them as a matter of course back home.  As always, we love talking to someone who is both passionate and knowledgeable about wine so we thought the tasting experience was something we would recommend to others.

Finally, Antonio produced a bottle of orange wine which only one couple had pre-booked. The joi de vivre of the moment overcame everyone else and we were soon discussing the merits, or otherwise of this offering. In rudimentary terms, it is a red wine with Seville orange peel added late in the process. One sniff and you were in no doubt as to what you were drinking. I thought it would be a refreshing afternoon aperitif, even with ice. Jayne was not convinced.

Orange by name ...

The 90 minute tasting stretched well beyond the allotted 5:50pm finish time as alcohol loosened lips and questions were asked of Antonio. It was after 7pm when we walked out into the softened evening light. The crowds had not diminished, particularly around the Cathedral area. We wended our way back to the hotel, content that the sherry and snacks would be sufficient to carry us through to the morning.

The street lights were on before we made it home.

Until next tomorrow. Spain's National Day.

Spanish Flamenco Matadors (Seville)

Our first full day in Seville dawned bright and sunny and we headed off to our first pre-booked experience of life in the Andalusian capital. In our Spanish travels so far, we have wandered past a number of bull fighting arenas dear reader: Barcelona, Màlaga, Ronda... but we have not ventured inside one yet. Today, we were off to a self-guided tour of the arena in Seville where it is the last legal place to witness this controversial expression of Spanish culture. 

It would not be our cup of tea to actually attend one of these spectacles but they have been immortalised by writers such as Hemingway and, as the tour documented, the contests are steeped in tradition, built around honour for both the bravery of the matador and the power of the bull.

It seemed like a relatively straight forward path from our hotel to the arena but we allowed an additional 20 minutes so as to arrive the recommended 10 minutes before our booked time slot without having to rush. The aim was to observe what we found along the way to inform future planning for our time here.

Jayne continued to consult the street map as we walked, trying to locate street signs to confirm we were headed the right way. There were lots of grand buildings to look at and interesting things to see, including an entire platoon of soldiers, complete with automatic rifles who happened to be heading the opposite way along the footpath. We thought it best to give way to them since they outnumbered and out-gunned us.

The lack of street signage prompted us to confirm our position with Google. Instead on being closer to the  Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza,  we were in fact further away. Clearly we had taken a wrong turn so we headed across a park, now hurrying to make our 10am booking time.  

After 20 minutes of rushing past points of interest we would have to revisit later, we made it to the river that runs through Seville, where sadly there was a cruise ship docked. I thought we would be safe this far inland. Wrong. We turned towards the Plaza de Toros, arriving with a couple of minutes to spare.  Tickets presented and audioguide downloaded, we entered the inside corridors under the arena seating, to examine the various displays of artwork, posters and artefacts that chronicle the history of this Spanish iconic cultural phenomenon. 

There were no matador heads on display.

There were matadors outfits from famous contests as well as the taxidermied specimens of several revered bulls, some full bodies others were heads mounted on walls. I didn't any information regarding how many bulls won the contest. If any. 

An unnamed opponent.

Curiously, while all these were labelled and explained in the audioguide, nothing was written or said about the several displays of models human heads that were hanging from ropes amid the displays. Haven't read anywhere that human sacrifices were part of the process?

Flashy.

Further along, we saw the yards where the horses were prepared to be ridden out into the arena to commence the fights, the chapel where the matadors say their final prayers to calm themselves before entering the fray and then finally, we entered the arena itself. 

Horse feeding station.

Well almost. I wanted a shot of the passage into the arena. Sadly it was a day for the vapid and vacuous. Once the four ladies of a particular nationality who had taken 62 photos of each other and checked them carefully had moved to the side of the entrance, I had to contend with one last couple. 

Probably not worth the wait.

They were in the centre of the ring and continued to take still photos and then video of each other. Over and over and over. I managed to get the photos I wanted when they moved to the side of the ring. However, they dominated the ring for a full 30 minutes before moving to the stands where they continued to self-document their shallow lives. And she wasn't that good looking anyway. If medals were being awarded for this self-indulgent behaviour they would sweep the pool and be awarded gold, sliver and bronze.

You really had to be there.

The Plaza de Toros has a capacity of about 12,000 but today, it was virtually empty, except for a few groups of tourists most of whom were, it seemed, in total awe of where they were standing. You could always tell when a family group arrived because the kids all charged around the ring with their bull horn-fingers either side of their head. Most amusing.

The best seats are in the shade.

If you ever wondered about the authenticity of the bullfight, a quick look at the barriers that protect the matador from a raging bull would dispel any doubts. The barrier closest to the royal box was the one with the most damage because that is where the action would be centred.

Get behind the barrier.

Leaving the selfie crowd still taking photos of themselves, we thought breakfast might be a good idea. Down one side street and a couple of deft steps to get in front of a tour group and we found ourselves at the back of the Cathedral and outside a café. Time for espresso and tostados and to review the map to see where we were in relation to the hotel. 

Service, as appears to be the custom in Spain, is relaxed so it took a while to get served and even longer to get la cuenta. No worries, we weren't in a hurry and were able to watch the many tour groups being led around the Cathedral. This spectator sport also included several near deaths as the trams rattled down their tracks, stopping for no-one, especially stupid tourists listening to their guide at the exclusion of the rest of the world. Sadly the gene pool was not the winner today, but it was touch and go a couple of times.

We skirted around the Cathedral to observe the queue, hoping to gain entrance. It went around the corner. These were people queueing to buy entrance now and the line was barely moving. Toward the rear end of the Cathedral were two other queues, one for groups 😬 and the other for tickets purchased online. Again, neither were making any progress.

The front of the Cathedral.

Jayne spied a 'tourist information centre' which is code for, we sell you tours. In she went to enquire about the Cathedral. No deal. And the Palace? No deal. See, we might not have managed to be here for a major foot race (see Berlin, Barcelona) but we scored Spanish National Day and a long weekend. It is Christopher Columbus Day on Sunday and his remains are allegedly (it's disputed), in the Cathedral where there will no doubt be a huge mass (in both senses) in two days' time. Monday, is of course, a public holiday in lieu of Sunday. We haven't run across this many random closures since being in France in May - avoid it if you can.

The Cathedral, the largest Gothic Church in Europe, and the Palace have now been added to Alhambra as sites to pre-book for our next visitation to Spain. 

The tower at the rear of the Cathedral.

Suitably foiled, we walked back to the river to the Torre del Toro, or Golden Tower and checked out the required river crossing for tonight's Flamenco show. If ever a bridge was made for lovelocks it is this one and yet there was not a lock in sight. We turned back to the hotel and photographed some of the sites we had passed in our haste in the morning.

The Golden Tower.

It was beer time back at the hotel where we booked a sherry tasting for tomorrow and a tour of Córdoba. I mean we wouldn't want to miss out. We also checked out various tours to Alhambra from Seville and other places. Yes, we could have secured tickets but the prices were astronomical. The spectator sport in the hotel lobby, was watching some unrestrained children banging things on a table, screaming intermittently and smearing some sort of food stuff on the decorative mirrors. I mean you couldn't expect any of the six adults in the group to actually supervise them, could you?

Just after 6pm we left the hotel for the Baraka Flamenco Show. The tickets requested you to arrive 20 minutes early so you could be served your drink. Given Spanish pace of service, that made sense. We arrived at the appointed time and were seated next to a couple of Australians from Gladstone. The drinks were ready on the bar, well, jugs of Sangria were on the bar. I ordered two glasses of white wine.

The show was very up close and personal. The performance space was quite small and we were front row. There were three chairs behind the 'dance floor' one for the guitarist, one for the singer and one for one of the dancers, depending on what was happening. Flamenco is quite intense and extremely loud. My watch warned me several times that I was in a loud environment.

The facial expressions of the dancers, their movement and the plaintiff voice of the singer suggested the story was quite emotional. It was amazing to watch the dancers and the speed with which they could move their feet. The show lasted an hour and given the intensity, I doubt they could have continued much longer and there was a second show at 9pm.

At the conclusion, we bid farewell to our fellow Australians and crossed the river to walk back to the hotel. On the way we had to step aside to allow a marching band to pass. Totally normal. None of the restaurants peaked our interest on the way home so we opted for room service, after a day filled with Spanish culture and history.

The title today might be a bit obscure, but it suits the day. The Spanish Flamenco Matadors. Enjoy.

Until tomorrow.

        

Help Me, Rhonda (Màlaga - Ronda - Seville)

Ah, transit day fun, dear reader. We commenced the morning in the usual fashion with breakfast at Krumble. Except we were a tad early. They don't open until 10am so we wandered the promenade for a while before being the first customers through the door.

We had already packed, I'm sure I've mentioned how packing cells have changed my world. So easy to pack, unpack and repack. Check out went smoothly. The car appeared quickly and, unlike the Porsche of yesterday, was unwashed. Sigh. Then it was on the road to Ronda. Ah, yes, you are ahead of me, dear reader, the link to today's title, Help Me, Rhonda by The Beach Boys.

Ronda is described as a typical Andalusian white town (almost all the buildings are white) up in the hills above Màlaga and was recommended to us by one of the staff on the day we arrived. It was only 90 minutes or so away and provided a nice break from the direct drive to Seville. The drive was all on A class roads, so no tolls and according to Google, separated dual carriageway. Again, Google lies. There were significant stretches of single lane road, but it was well marked and there were no precipitous cliffs. All good.

Ronda, the white town.

We'd had a bottle of wine from Ronda at dinner one evening so I was looking forward to seeing the grape vines. They must have been well hidden because I didn't see one vine on the way in or the way out. The only minor hiccup in the journey was locating the selected car park at the train station. After a couple of false starts we found an underground car park that was close to where we needed to be. 

Outside the Ronda Bullring.

The main shopping street in the old town stretched from the car park to the bull ring almost a kilometre down the hill. It was the usual polished limestone pedestrian thoroughfare, closed to through traffic but open to cross traffic. It was crowded despite the fact that the shops weren't all open yet. We made the bullring and to my dismay there were tour groups everywhere. Large tour groups. I thought we'd safe this far inland, but no. And like Mostar in Montenegro, Ronda has a famous bridge, and a superior one in my opinion.

The gorge from the new bridge.

We visited the tourist information centre to get a town map and walked the short distance to the 'new' bridge where everyone in Ronda had gathered. It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience with the tour groups who, like a tsunami, just keep coming until you step off the bridge out of their way. Fortunately there were not many vehicles about.

The old bridge in the distance.

The 'new' bridge (late 1750s) takes cars, the 'old' bridge, is for foot traffic only. Both span the gorge that cuts Ronda in two. The gorge is around 100 metres deep so, to construct a stone bridge to span it, is some engineering feat. As I said, more impressive than Mostar, but then Hamish and Andy haven't jumped off this one.

We left the bridge and the mindless crowd to find the Palace or Palacio Mondragãn. After a slight detour due to orienteering issues, we found a church, no surprises there, but not the Palace. A pause and review took us back past the Palace entrance, cleverly disguised and double badged as the Museo de Municipal. A more careful reading had us inside in minutes.

They love a painted dome in Spain.

The museum is a potted history of the this part of the world from first habitation until more recent times. There were the usual artefacts and displays. Nothing outstanding. The Palace itself was really the garden. While it was pleasant with great views over the countryside and provided a nice break from the hordes outside, it was also nothing special.

The path to the garden.

From the palace, we returned to the square that provided access to a viewing platform where you could photograph the entire bridge structure from river bed to road surface. Allegedly. Spoiler alert, I never found out. Jayne found a shady spot in the square and I headed down the ramp. About half way to the bottom of the gorge sits the viewing platform, but there is a catch - it's not free. Now it was only€2,50 for access, but I was pissed that that information had been withheld. It should have been a part of the signage in the square. While others in front of me were deliberating, I turned and climbed back to the square, passing many breathless people, all younger than me, on the way back. 

The new bridge, not from the viewing platform.

We walked back to new bridge where the crowds had thinned significantly. There were a couple of photo ops on the way but I tired of waiting for the vapid and vacuous selfie brigade to get out of the shot. Back in the main street, we dodged the remnant tour groups blocking the street and headed for the car park. 

Beyond the tour groups.

Ronda is a beautiful little town - it is certainly all white, and precariously perched along the top of the gorge but to experience it's true allure, you need to stay a couple of nights so you can wander the streets in the mornings and afternoons without the bus groups. The crowd crush did not make this detour an enjoyable experience.

The rest of the drive to Seville was relatively uneventful although the terrain looked very dry and barren with occasional areas of oasis plantations of various fruit trees. No hot houses here like the coastal farming areas. Periodically, small white towns appeared in the distance and then, suddenly we were in the outer fringes of Seville, the capital of Andalusia. 

The navigation to the hotel was straightforward with only a few death defying roundabouts and happily there was a parking reception area in front of the hotel, allowing us to check in and find the carpark proper.

No car elevators, no tight squeezes - in fact, a super large car space and a lift directly up to the hotel lobby. We found our room and walked in - to find there were two single beds and a sofa double bed made up. Wrong room? Back we went to reception who did not understand why the room was configured like this but allocated us a room that was as we had arranged. 

Once we were settled, it was time to work out our dinner plans and using our street map, we headed out to a tapas place literally around the corner - or so it seemed. Up and down the street we went but there was no restaurant entrance in sight. Google was then consulted and confirmed we should have been looking right at the front door of Barrio Cervecería Sevillana. 

Mystified, we started back towards the hotel, resigned to a room service dinner when a glance up one side street revealed the signage we had been looking for. Into an almost deserted restaurant we went, wondering where everybody was, considering it was past 8pm. We were shown to a table and the waiter introduced himself as Alejandro who then said he could only take drink orders at this stage but not food as the kitchen did not open till 8:30pm. Wine chosen, the place slowly started to fill up although there were always vacant tables inside while we were there.

One more of the new bridge.

The menu had a number of tapas options that had no translation so we asked Alejandro for some advice. He obliged with descriptions of the dishes, some of which we had tried elsewhere. We settled on three at his recommendation, since he said it would be good to leave room for dessert. We generally don't eat dessert but figured that we could always order another tapas dish if we were still hungry.

Out came the first dish, patatas bravas, which looked different to other servings of this we have eaten. It was served with chips rather than scalloped potatoes and beneath the chilli foam was a spicy tomato oil. Then arrived a small serving of calamari, followed by a "sandwich" of pork. It was actually pork loin, bacon, cheese and garlic mayonnaise on brioche. So good.

So good in fact we booked for Sunday night. Sunday is Spain's national day, Christopher Columbus Day. Who knows what will be open and there is plenty to explore on the menu.

Until tomorrow.