A week in Scotland Travelogue: caressing the White Rose DAY II (Part II)

The open space in front of St Giles entrance, facing uphill, is occupied by the statue of Sir Walter Scott, and I take a few minutes to enjoy a smoke under its shadow, remembering the great times I had reading the adventures of heroes like Ivanhoe or Quentin Durward. What I did not know, until I got to Edinburgh, was his important social and political influence in the country, widely commemorated. Near his statue a brass heart is engraved in the cobblestones, which, according to tradition marks the location of the Tollbooth, official building that served as administration centre, executions place, prison and tax collecting office. The outline of the building, demolished in 1817, is also marked in the ground. Traditionally you are meant to spit inside the Heart
for luck, but the origins of this superstition are not very clear and seem to spring from multiple sources. As for myself, I am aware of a few traditions in my own country that are frowned upon by local people so, seeming this (a spit) the kind of gesture that can be interpreted in many different ways, I decide to bide my time and find out some more about it, as I will have plenty of time to pay my humid homage. Nevertheless I make a mental note to watch the wind and other bystanders next time I walk by, and to never pick up a coin or paper if I was to drop one there in the future.
Many souvenir shops start appearing on the right hand side, as I continue up and leave George IV bridge to my left, entering the stretch of Royal Mile known as Lawnmarket. There is this freaky side to me concerning movies and subcultures, and ever since I saw Highlander I have had the impression that I would look pretty good in a kilt or tartan. Better a tartan, but I get the feeling that this is the most expensive option. Now, the typical highlander outfit is really the tartan, a colour patterned (the word tartan is also used to refer to the patterns, though the right term is sett) stretch of woven cloth rolled about waist and shoulder. The kilt is an invention (by an Englishman no less!) adapted past the XVIII century, when highlander culture was vindicated after a long period of prosecution. It was also more or less at this time when patterns started to define clans, rather than regions (many setts were made up at that moment). So I do some investigation around the shops, realizing, to my dismay, my budget will not allow for a kilt, much less a tartan. It is impossible to find a low to medium quality kilt for less than 30 pounds, and that is a lot of money for me. There are kilt like towels, but I will rather return in a more wealthy future and get the real thing. One of the shopkeepers has a kind of Hispanic accent to his English and for a millisecond I embrace the fantasy of a fellow Spaniard offering me a big discount. Upon asking I find out he is from Argentina. Close, but no cigar. I will stick to sightseeing and leave shopping for now.
For a while now, during my stroll uphill, my eyes have been often drawn to a long blackened spire that towers above all central Edinburgh and whose base I am reaching at this moment. It is The Hub, home and tickets office to the Festival of Edinburgh and some other festival in the cities, formerly St John’s church, built in 1842 and Assembly Hall for the Church of Scotland until the 240 feet high landmark was closed for religious use in 1929, and the Assembly moved to Greyfriars Kirk. The Royal Mile is getting steep in this last stretch, but I can already see the esplanade of the castle, and it is all I can do not to make a run for it, leaving, by the entrance to the esplanade and to my right, the Camera Obschura, an outlook tower that contains a funfair of light and mirrors illusions and effects, many focused on the city around, providing spectacular sights of Edinburgh (entrance fee is included in the Edinburgh Pass, 8 pounds otherwise, discounts for children, senior, students, and disabled visitors).
It is 10:30 am and the sun is shining (rare in Edinburgh) over the huge space before the Castle. Some minutes to enjoy a cigarette and walk around, admiring the views to the city, left and right, and take pictures. To the right/north the New Town, the Nor Loch gardens down below the crag, with a gigantic spire that dwarfs the Hub (the Scott Monument, a gracious gentleman points out) just alongside them, and beyond, the Firth and the sea. On this side of the esplanade stand a few monuments in memory of soldiers fallen, again, in the Great War. There are many like these in Edinburgh, including the Memorial that occupies one of the main buildings of the Castle. To the left, South Edinburgh, including most of the middle wealth range residential areas and, beyond, the tranquil landscape of the Lothians. A couple of landmarks attract my attention from here. The first one, right on front of me and below, is a castle like construction surrounded by a nice garden that I recognize at first glance as a very exclusive, old fashioned institution for young students. It brings to my mind the name of Eton School, where James Bond studied according to his literary father Ian Fleming. Later on a local guide will tell me how my shot did not fall far off the mark: apparently, one of the possible inspirations for Fleming’s character could have been an acquaintance of the author, a Scottish Intelligence officer whose name I don’t manage to retain, that had been educated at this institution: Heriot School. Curiously enough, one of the first jobs of Sean Connery when he was young was milkman of that area, delivering part of their breakfast daily to Heriot students. No further investigation on my part, however, has produced any other evidence or suggestion of a Heriot educated Bond’s inspiration.
The other landscape feature I feel drawn to is some steep hill standing just west of town: it has a kind of personal charisma, and in think I can see tiny spots of movement on the summit; one of the security guards tells me it’s called Arthur’s Seat, a popular spot for easy trekking. I am using the word “easy” somewhat loosely here, as I am anything but athletic and quite on the heavy side. Still, that connection with the Arthurian legend, first (and only) I find in Scotland, draws me. My eyes keep staring at it. Nay, I will have a stroke before I get midway to the top. Get it off your head boy.
Time to visit the Castle proper. The entrance fee is pretty expensive (11 pounds, only discounts for children) but visiting is something I don`t like to spare money on. Later (too late always) I will find a way to enter the Castle for free: all you have to do is go up to the guards at the gates and say that you want to pay homage to the War Memorial (you may say you are of Scottish ancestry, or have friends of Scottish ancestry who had someone in the fight…). It may take some insisting, but apparently they have let you in. They may let you go by yourself or they might give you escort. Either way, the memorial is at the very top, and you have to go through most of the Castle to get to it, so you will have a very good look at it. You will not be able to access the interior of the buildings, though, unless they let you go alone (and even if they do so, you know you are not meant to visit the other buildings, right?). Goes whithout saying, this hint is offered with my uttermost respect for those remembered at the Memorial.
Crossing the gates, guarded by the stone visages of Rober the Bruce and William Wallace, a steep wide road leads spiralling up, through the portcullis to the highest point of the complex. At a calm pace it takes me the best part of two hours to visit the Castle, the Memorial, prison, dungeons and the tower where the Stone of Destiny (or Stone of Scone, after the Abbey of Scone, where it was kept in medieval time) and the Jewels of the Scottish Crown (Crown, Sword and Scepter) are kept. The Stone is a block of sandstone over which every king and Queen of Scotland swore their oaths in old days. Abducted by the English, the Stone, also used for coronation of British rulers, was kept in Westminster Abbey for centuries, and suffered a rescue attempt in Christmas 1950, an eventful adventure in the process of which it was dropped by the rescuers and broken in two pieces, took a ride in the back of a borrowed car the keys of which were later lost by the abducters (the stone still inside), spent a night of pagan celebration and partying with some sympathising college students in Ilkley moor and was finally left in a Scottish abbey, I believe by the Perthshire area, in the hope that the Church of Scotland would protect it. Apparently when the poor abbot saw what had been left in his church and realised the trouble he had gotten himself into, he called the Scottish police, who, not knowing really what to do, called Scotland Yard in turn and they finally recovered the item, after what I imagine a long succession of “you have found what?”’s at the phone. A local tells me that when the Stone was finally given back to Edinburgh and brought to the Castle, not long ago, they played the soundtrack of “Mission: Impossible” during the parade. Isn’t that great? I love Scottish sense of humour. On my way back out I make another stop by a balcony with awesome views of the New Town and the Firth, alongside a battery of old cannons. From here I get my first good view of Calton Hill, west of New Town, another popular landmark of Edinburgh: it is a small hill on top of which are assembled a few constructions of neoclassical style, included a Parthenon-like one, which are one of the reasons why this city is dubbed “The Athens of the North”. To the left of the old cannons there is a modern one, nick named the “One O’clock cannon”, as it shoots every day at that time. I would like to see it, but it is still 12:30 and I am not good at waiting. Last thing I do is having a look over the balcony at a small pet cemetery two meters below, where the soldiers best friends rest in peace (part of the Castle are military facilities and barracks).

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A week in Scotland Travelogue: caressing the White Rose DAY II (Part I)

I make an early (for me) start at 8, in order to make most of the day, and I go out into the street intending to find a pub and wolf down a huge breakfast complete with bacon, eggs, sausages, etc. I walk up Grayfriars to the Royal Mile and stop to gaze upon Edinburgh in daylight for the first time.
Espectacular. Up to present date Edinburgh is the most beautiful city I have had the honour to visit. The decadent buildings, crammed to each other, crowned by rows of old looking chimneys, look taken right out of a tale, and every façade has its own architectural charisma. Blackfriars opens onto the stretch of Royal Mile called High Street, roughly by its middle point. A few feet uphill, an avenue crosses from New Town north to the south of the city, partly made up of what once was the Edinburgh Bridge. To the north, spanning the difference in height between the hill and New Town and passing by the Balmoral hotel (the most luxurious, decadent and historical hotel of the city) and its typical five minutes fast watch, this avenue is called (admittedly) North Bridge, while to the South of Edinburgh, South Bridge maintains the only open arch that remains of the bridge, above Cowgate, and finally becomes, past the University area and the Surgery School with its sinister stories of bodysnatching, Nicholson Street. My first sun lighten steps through the Old Town take me uphill, towards the Castle.
Right by the corner of the bridge stands one of the evoking stone needles that scrath the air from the steets of Edinbugrh: the Tron Kirk (kirk:church) in present times home to the Old Town Informaiton Center. Its name derives from an old measuring device for weighing salt that was found outside the building in old days (from the old French “Tronel” or “troneau”, which means scales or balance). Built in 1648, the stone needle is actually two centuries older, built after the Great Fire of 1824 burned away a previous wooden tower. Nowadays there exists a polemic project to mutate the building and the adjacent space of Hunter Square into a kind of restaurant and club. I admire the style and lines of its blackened walls and continue my way some feet up the street to the Mercat Cross.
The Mercat Cross is a conjunction of pulpit and balcony, hexagon planned, which used to serve multiple functions. The present construction dates from 1885 and uses some elements from the original one from 1615. Aside from being the main meeting point in town, where newcomers would turn to hire the services of a cadie (yes, this is is the origin of the term used in golf) to carry his belongings and guide him around, most mercantile contracts were sealed under its shadow and all kind of official announcements were made from its balcony. However, its most renowned use is, probably, that of gallows and place of public execution.
The history of the city has a sinister side which is exploited to good profit by the tourism industry. One of the elements that are part of this dark face is a long list of examples of the administration of justice in medieval times. Credit where credit’s due, one must concede the Scottish society of the day an impressive creativity in certain things. For a start, they invented the guillotine much earlier than the French: a very similar device called The Maiden shared with the axemen the work of beheading highborn (this method was usually reserved for noblemen) transgressors. According to some sources the maiden was not nigh as sharp as its French counterpart, sometimes resulting in, how to put it, somewhat unhygienic messes (curiously enough Edinburgh’s Maiden was stored in the Cathedral, so much for harmony and peace of spirit, mine is the vengeance, claimed the Lord!); on the other hand, the axeman was not free of error: some registers of the time describe how Mary Queen of Scots took three blows of the axe before the executioner could raise his terrible trophy, circumstance this that was not unusual. Most common criminals were hanged, or sometimes drowned (often used for women, this method); for particularly hideous crimes (“hideous” in a political context, i.e. killing someone important enough, even if you did so clean and vicelessly) no expenses were spared: some David Hackstone, charged with murdering a bishop during the religious conflicts of the Reform, was executed along a period of three days. First his hands were cut by the wrists. Then his feet were severed by the ankles. After that he spent the night on top of Mercat Cross, recovering. Next day, his arms and legs were tied behind his back to the gallows, with a rope not long enough for him to reach the ground, and thrown down (see, Scots also invented Bunjee jumping!), so all his joints yanked out of place. There was still sunlight, so he was thrown down a couple of times more (no rope this time, to hit the ground) to make most of the day, and was left a second night at the Cross. The third day the executioner tore out Hackstone’s pulsing heart from his ruined but still living body and showed it to the crowd (an estimated 40.000 people used to attend executions, just like a rock show nowadays) shouting “See the heart of a traitor!”. After that, just to be on the safe side, he was hanged, and cut in pieces that were sent to different parts of the country. Cool, huh?
It is 08:30 and I am very hungry, but in the pubs I have tried the kitchens will not start serving the big breakfasts until 09:00, so I walk back to my hostel, where, at the reasonable (for Edinburgh, I mean) price of 3 pounds, I can prepare myself a treat with six items out of all the possibilities offered (scrambled eggs, sausages, beans, haggis, tomatoes, bacon and more). I choose two portions of scrambled eggs, two sausages and two slices of bacon. Tea, coffee, toasts, butter, etc are complimentary. Three toasts and a tea will do. Mmmmm. Much better. You just can’t find these kind of spiced pork sausages in Spain, after Marks and Spencer retired from the European market, and I miss them to tears. Satiated, I continue my visit of the Old Town.

In front of Mercat Cross I find the City Chambers, official building that rests atop what once was Mary King’s Close. All homes in this close, during the plague, were walled and sealed with their inhabitants still alive inside. As it happened, their ghosts (this people can´t take a joke) got a bit miserable about it and it is said they still roam the place, which claims to be the most haunted spot of the U.K (then again, it’s not the only one to claim that title). One of the walking tours involved in the supernatural side of Edinburgh organizes visits to Mary King’s Close.
By the sidewalk outside the chambers there are a few stalls selling souvenirs and jewellery. It turns out a couple of the keepers are Spanish. The girl I cross a few words with confirms our presence in the city.
“Gibraltar may be British…” She says, smiling “… but Edinburgh is ours!”
Next to their stall has its own a lady that claims the Guiness Record of highest number of piercings in the face. Takes me just one look to decide that I believe her, and I don’t look close.
Back across the street and next to the Mercat Cross stands St Guiles Catedral (still coming by the title of Cathedral although it is not one anymore). The exterior shows a beautiful gothic style, with elegant flying buttresses around the apse and the dome. Inside, the main naves are not particularly impressive, but his walls are soaked in history and dozens of plaques pay tribute to those fallen in the Great War, while the bearded statue of John Knox, father of the Religious Reform, stands vigilant to one side. His body lies close by, albeit outside the walls. Much more striking is the adjacent Thistle Chapel (symbol of the most noble knighthood order of Scotland) which, to the right of the apse, contains a kind of round table and a choir with beautiful carvings. It is, I have it, one of the only two places in the world where you can find a piper angel.


Behind this building is the old Scottish Parliament, rendered useless when the Parliaments of England and Scotland were united in the XVIII century. It is curious to find, in the space between Cathedral and Parliament, now a parking lot, a little bronze plaque in the pavement, with nothing engraved on it. John Knox wanted specifically to be buried there, so when the kirkyard was removed from that place, his body was the only one that stayed. Since that space has, in time, been needed as parking space for the Old Parliament, it turns out that the main architect of the Scottish Reform rests in peace under lot 23. Definitely striking.

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A week in Scotland Travelogue: caressing the White Rose DAY I

Not much to tell about the flight, apart from some minor setbacks and delay in boarding our plane; flying with a low cost airline these things do not catch me unaware. Already inside the boarding finger and the gate open, they take us out again and walk us around the airport, changing our boarding gate yet another three times. We all take it lightly, some jokes, some more patience, and there we go. Flight is about 2 ½ hours long and crew and commander provide a goodhearted easy going attention, seasoned with some light well taken humour; only my own eagerness to reach Scotland makes the journey feel a little longer than it is: will it meet my expectations? After all the years passed since I last went on a trip like this, how will the backpacking experience turn out? Will I be able to make the most of it?
As soon as we land I direct my steps to the Tourist Info Office in the airport. Aside from collecting my Edinburgh Pass (a card that, during 1, 2 or three consecutive days provides access to several activities and attractions in the city, as well as to the Lothian buses network, and a range of special offers and discounts), I intend to gather some information on the possibilities for some day trips from Edinburgh. Behind the counter, my attention is drawn by a huge picture of the typical Scottish castle, by the typical Scottish lake, amid the typical Scottish low range mountains. It is hard to resist, and feels very familiar. I play the smart ass and produce the first castle name that springs to my mind from reading my guide:
“That is Urqhart’s Castle (one by Loch Ness), right?”
The girl smiles patiently and corrects my mistake (big mistake, by the way, Urqhart and this castle are nothing alike, as I will have the chance to confirm myself)
“Nay, this is Eilean Donan. It features in a few important movies, you might recall it from “Highlander”.
Riiiiight. Of course I knew I had seen it before. The girl looks down to the Lonely Planet guide I am carrying: “Escocia” and asks if I am from Spain. On my affirmative response, she welcomes me in perfect, Madrid native, Spanish. I read the name in her id tag: “Belén” (absolutely Spanish name). Well, what do you know!
Actually it should not be surprising, as I learn later: 20.000 people in Edinburgh, out of a 400.000 population, are Spanish. That is a 5 per cent, not bad at all!
I tell Belen my poorly planned itinerary, I am open to suggestions, and, sure enough, fifteen minutes later I have cancelled my reservation in the hostel of Glasgow for the weekend, and have arranged a place in a 3 days, 2 nights tour to the Isle of Skye, with McBackpackers.com (apart from this and some other tours for backpackers they run a range of hostels around Scotland) The price is 79 pounds, accommodation not included (13 pounds night, to be paid on spot on arrival to the hostels) Wow. I have just arrived and my expectations are literally booming!
Belen is from Madrid (if I recall right) and has been living in Scotland for the past five years. Though she loved it from the start, she misses Spain and is planning her return. She gives me some suggestions about what to see and do in town. Very quick, as I have to catch the bus downtown, I am already somewhat behind schedule. Following her indications I find the stop for the Airport Link Bus (5 pounds return usual fare, included in the Edinburgh Pass I just collected) and make the 25 mins journey to the very centerspot of downtown Edinburgh: Waverley Bridge. Downtown Edinburgh is comprised by the Old Town, perched on the hill and crested by the medieval castle, and the New Town, built in Victorian style by the feet of the hill when (after English and Scottish governments were united and living within the old walls was no longer a tactic need) town was enlarged, tackling a very serious problem of overpopulation. Both the main train station, Weaverley, and mentioned Weaverley Bridge, stand in the middle of both areas, in what was, in its day, the Nor Loch. When you exit Weaverley station, or drop off the airport bus, you stand thus under the huge basalt crag over which the Old Town climbs, admiring a spectacular view. If you arrive by day, that is.
I arrive late, however, night stealing such welcome from me. All cats are black at night, as you know, and I am little disoriented. I get directions from the bus driver and make my way up the steep Cockburn street to the spine of the hill and the old quarter which clings to the line of the main avenue, the Royal Mile that joins the Castle on top of the crag with Holyrood Palace at its base, following the backbone of the hill. This main street also comes by other names in its different strands: Castle Hill, High Street and Canongate. In the time it takes me to reach my hostel, for which I have to ask several people (navigating Edinburgh is dead easy, I must say, and I reach my goal in just a few minutes), a particular aroma starts envolving my nostrils. One of Edinburgh’s oldest nicknames is “Auld Reekie”; it comes from a time in which the city was gravely overpopulated and polluted, and the smoke from hundreds of chimneys mixed with the smells of non existing sanitary conditions and a terribly unhealthy and filthy environment. Now, this smell around me is neither unpleasant nor does it obey to such reasons. After some consideration I end up identifying it (or at least naming it, I do not know if my judgement is right) as smoked ham or maybe a combination of cooking odours in which smoked ham is predominant. The sense of smell is a very powerful suggestive which leaves very strong impressions in the mind. Through my life I have confirmed that, if most of our memories are made out of visual items, memories of these tend to turn diffuse with time, while a smell can suddenly awaken a torrent of very vivid images, sensations and feelings. I do believe that Edinburgh will always be associated, in my mind, to the smoked ham, just as Havana reminds me of the smell of Luzbrillante (the kerosene derived gas they use in Cuba), as Galicia in the north of Spain smells of sea to me, and as memories of England conjure up an aroma that I can not name but that I surely identify as soon as I get off the train in Victoria and walk the streets of London.
My hostel (SmartCity Edinburgh) stands in Blackfriars street, down the other side of the hill. It features the 5 stars quality mark of the Scottish Tourism Office VisitScotland. This mark does not define a category for services, but their quality levels within a given context; in this case it means that, for a hostel in which accommodation is shared in multiple rooms and for a price of (in that time, booked through VistScotland.com) 10 pounds per night, it is the best you can get, and I think the judgment is sound. The place is of very recent construction, and, although you share rooms, all have within shower and wc facilities (2 of each). All clean and well managed. 1,60 P for a washing machine and 20 pence for a 12 minute cycle of tumble drying. It also has a very well equipped common kitchen to prepare your own food, as well as a bar where you can buy breakfast, lunch or dinner. The common hall is ample and comfortable, with several low tables and sofas and a massive screen in which to watch tv and a dvd flick every now and then. Also two outdoor spaces with tables, chairs, and sunshades equipped with heaters for the cold (only places to smoke in the hostel). All in all, everything nice and well run, with young and friendly staff.
When I reach my room to leave my things I find the bed I had assigned, lower side of a bunk, is occupied. It doesn’t bother me, I will make it do with the top one. Let sleeping with the knowledge of having 250 pounds suspended over his head be punishment enough for the transgressor. He apologizes when he returns. Its OK. He is Australian, a decent chap. I already made my bed on top, so I stay there. The room is for 8 people but we are only four: the Australian bloke, a peculiar Scotch named Martin, a Chinese guy whose name I do not catch and myself. A quick shower and out for a walk, I am too excited to sleep.
Finding nightlife poses no difficulty: just as I round the corner by Cowgate (in other strands named Holyrood road, Grassmarket, West Port and East Fountain Bridge) I hear a Spanish couple chatting in a portal and I seek some advice. It turns out that in the very first street parallel to Blackfriars, Niddry St., there are a few pubs which feature live music shows. I take a look and decide myself for the Nicole Edwards, which boasts being haunted. Nicole Edwards occupies some locals (it actually comprises three small bars) which dig under the street, inside the Edinburgh Vaults (that I will explore more thoroughly next day), and that belonged, in old days, to a namesake confident of king James VI in the XVI century: a mean spirited character that sent his wife to die in a desert island for being insolent to him, and who, according to legend, hid a hoard of treasure (never found) within his property. The barman (huge guy, even broader than myself, looks like Hugo, from LOST tv series) tells me there is gig tonight, acoustic. Sounds cool. I decide trying yet another pub before the concert. Two doors up the street is Whistle Binkies, another popular live music featuring pub. Today, as all Tuesdays, is night for new bands. I have a pint while listening to SleazyCumEasyGo (yep, I swear that was the name of the band). Not very bad as music players go, but the actual songs, somewhere between punk and metal, do not impress me much, so I return to the previous pub. The Scots Bar within Nicole Edwards is small and comfy, and on the tiny stage Jaimie (a real beauty with a great voice) and Acoustic David (a likable uncouth dude with a great ability to alternate rock and pop classics, adding a few good laughs and not taking himself very seriously) are getting ready. Until 3 in the morning I enjoy the music, take care of 7 or 8 pints and, all in all, I manage to have a great time. Back to the hostel I somehow make it to the top bed of the bunk and fall asleep in seconds.

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The Skyline of Madrid: a sculpture museum

I remember, as a child, how my mother would tell me off for not looking at the ground when I was walking and running around. As much as I appreciate (now) her caring for my welfare, it is a piece of advice that I always found very hard to heed. I have been a curious spirit all my life: the kind of boy whose gaze wanders about, absorbing all things around, looking for all new kinds of wonders (and ending up more often than not with skinned knees and dirty clothing after tripping in this or that crack in the pavement). Still that urge and restlessness tends to wear off as years go by and it wasn’t until past my teenage, when life put me up on top of a double-decker sight seeing bus for the first time, in my native city, that I reencountered the pleasure of wandering around looking up high. When you are in Madrid, there are many things that you do not want to miss, and the ceiling of this city is one of them.
The trend started around the XIX century, while American cities started their efforts to build their skyscrapers higher and higher, banks and insurance companies in Madrid hired baroque style sculptors in a race to make their home quarters the most evoking and beautiful landmarks of the not so high skyline of the city. And so Madrid became a monumental city, safe under the watch of mythic heroes and figures. Phoenixes, champions, roman aurigas, kings and princes, temples and magical creatures crowned the buildings; some of them have been relocated, to be best admired, in more accessible places, while others have been replaced with replicas in lighter materials, favouring the welfare of the constructions, the originals now in museums, but there are still quite a few to recreate your senses in.
You will find many of them in the axis Puerta de Alcalá – Plaza de España, spanned by the Gran Vía: stand by the famous Puerta de Alcalá and walk down towards Cibeles square keeping your gaze levelled towards Gran Via an Alcalá streets, on the other side of Cibeles; in the confluence of these you will find Metropolis building, formerly home quarters to the insurance company La Unión y El Fenix. Nowadays a Winged Victory crowns the building, taking the place of the Phoenix which left the building along said company (and can be seen in a couple of other buildings in Madrid that belong, or did, to the insurance holding, like the Gran Melia Fenix hotel, by Columbus’ square, or the Union y el Fenix building further up the Paseo de la Castellana, where it is crossed by a bridge, part of Eduardo Dato street, or the Madrid-Paris, also in Gran Via). The appeal and ornamental richness of the piece remain, howevever, intact. A little way up on the left hand side a Roman auriga, lifted above its chart for better view from the ground, looks ready to ride, soaring the skies of the city, on top of the Hispanic-American Bank. On a lower height he is watched by a worthy female counterpart: Palas Atenea, or Minerva, classic interpretation of the goddess of Knowledge and Arts, symbol of the Society of Arts, whose building protects, vigilant. As you walk along Gran Via or Alcalá in that same direction you fill find more examples in roofs and façades: temples (Callao square), Chariatides, gargoyles (dog faced, halfway through the first strand of Gran Via street a portal on the right hand side as you go up)…leaving Gran Via and Alcalá there are fantastic pieces above other buildings like the Ministry of Agriculture, in front of Atocha Train Station, or by the northwestern exit/entrance to the city, Moncloa, the Triumphal Arch, or, returning to Cibeles square, the angels holding the shield in Linares palace, or the allegories that sit high perched where this entry started in la Puerta de Alcala.
These were a few examples, I do not pretend to make an exhaustive list of items; I will be happy if I can just bring out from you that necessity of looking up high, and explore, that I am sure you too had in your days. Done? Good, then drop by my city, and take a stroll around, you will not regret it. Oh, don’t worry about skinned knees and sore shins: we have chemist and pharmacies aplenty, and you can find (or bring along) you tender caring one to tell you off and kiss the pain good bye.

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Betharram Grottoes: best to see in Lourdes

If, like myself, you are not a religious person (much the opposite in my case), the world famous pilgrimage spot of Lourdes, lying by the Pyrinées in the South of France will most likely, tend to dissapoint you. It does have some rural charm, as many other villages in this area, but the incense reeking little town of Lourdes does not have much to impress me: most of the area around the sanctuary is occupied by either homes for the sick and para-clinic church compounds or lots of shops selling religious merchandising and paraphernalia, where the best seller items are plastic bottles to carry water from the Holy Spring (if that is your cup of tea), often shaped like the Virgin Mary or other catholic icons, at the amazing price of 6 dollars for a 25 cc. (empty) flask! Having said this, if you have to go to Lourdes by any particular reason, including faith, or are passing by on your way somewhere else, there is, close by, an attraction which I do encourage you all to pay a visit to: the Betharram Grottos. This place is beautiful, instructive, cool and fun.
I went to this place in my very first trip as courier guide: my bus driver convinced me to offer it as an optional trip to the party. Now, optional trips are cool for a guide because , unless already negotiated otherwise within our poor wages by the agency, it means a little more income, and that is always welcome, but from my very first job in the business I adopted a very strict personal policy: I do not sell an excursion that I do not like (or know for sure that people usually enjoy, even if it is not my taste) just to make money; thus I was worried then, not ever having been to the grottos and not knowing what to expect. Boy, they loved every minute of it, and so did I!
Bettharram Grottos, discovered and first explored at the beginning of the 19th century, were opened to the public in 1903, after local artist and photographer Leon Ross spent several years adapting an itinerary for the public. The route, about 4 kms long with a 50 meters height difference trough five different levels in the heart of the mountain, is concrete floored most of the way with enough illumination to walk safely without loosing its charm, and has audio explanations in 10 languages. First level (only) can be accessed in wheelchair, at a reduced entrance fee. Most of the itinerary you will be walking (some steep stairs in the way, most down, a few up, in general a manageable walk for all ages even up to 60-70 if you are in a reasonable shape) but in the last 2 km you will do a short trip in a boat over a subterraneous lake and finally take a very picturesque funride-like train (watch your head in this, rock walls are close and the ride speedy!). Along the trip you will learn how the subterranous river, some 5 billion years ago, carved this wonderful scenery below the mountains, how the earth and rocks are alive and active in their own languid, painstaking slow own ways, and how the magical forms of stalactites, rock columns and stalacmites develop and grow through a process spanning millions of human lives.
The Grottos are found 15 km from Lourdes on the way to the bigger town of Pau (closest airport in this region), through a small touristy road. You can get there from Pau or Lourdes by car, by way of taking a pretty long walk, or by bike (I did some searching in the internet for the article but found no bus line that stopped anywhere near). If taking one of the latter options, bear in mind that the last 600 m to the entrance of the caves is a very steep rural road up the mountain. If, on the contrary, you go by car, it is important to know that you will exit the caves in a different side of the mountain and will have to walk back to it if you left it right by the entrance. Oddly enough, in spite of its natural magnificence and importance, the attraction is little known worldwide and hardly advertised, and the tending facilities are somewhat rustic and antique, which I guess adds to its charm.

More:

http://www.betharram.com/

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Gaztelugatxe: the Chapel of the Sea

Myth, superstition and fantasy are basic ingredients deeply embedded in human nature. Some places have an equally evoking and intimidating atmosphere that bring out and excite that old connection, which dwells within us all, with the popular lore of old times when life was harsher and answers fewer. Much of this lore is related to the ocean, a horizon too vast to be tackled or spanned by most simple, mortal souls (including mine), and so many of these wonderful sceneries occur in the confluence of land and sea, be it in battling, tender, or confusing union; it is in such spots where one can let go of logic, science and the constraints of modern life and thankfully yield to feelings and memories of many years and people before us, that seem suddenly much more appropriate to describe and handle these wondrous visions. San Juan de Gaztelugatxe takes me back to classic myths of angry gods beneath the waves, to old sailors rhymes, legends of pirates, corsairs and freebooters, and tales of loves lost to the sea in dark stormy nights, maidens looking far into the ocean for the ones that will not return to land.
A medieval small bridge spans the few yards between mainland and the crag which stands amid this cliff surrounded shallow inlet in the north coast of Spain, part of the Basque Country. The waves have been working the cliffy coast for millions of years, eroding and biting at the limestone flesh to carve, peel and sculpt, resulting in a wild, rough landscape and slowly extracting from the coast this tiny island of rock, decorating it with arches and tunnels. Only recently, just a thousand years ago, man has crested the rock with a small construction of his own design. On top of the boulder stands a small chapel dating from the X century and advocated to John the Baptist, who, legend has it, spanned in just four steps the four miles that lay between this place and the nearby located town of Bermeo to found the chapel. According to history we owe its origin to the Templars, although the details that made the chapel a temple of this order, like the orientation to the rising sun and part of its design, have been lost in later reconstructions. One thing that has not been lost is it connection with the sea and its people. Sailors have always prayed and trusted their fortunes to Saint John in this region, and the interior of the church is profusely decorated with scale ships and paintings of wreckages and ships in disastrous sea storms, brought either to thank miraculous escapes from this circumstances or to ask the saint to spare them from such destiny in forecoming voyages into the sea. Apart from this the chapel itself is a humble building as a sailor’s church must be. Many pilgrims have come to Saint John in times past, and many locals still do often, specially in holy dates, and there are many narrow trails around the densely forested coast leading to this place. They all end at the beginning of the 237 steps that climb the steep rock up to the chapel, where you can toll the bell three times for good luck. Small boats would sail round each side of the rock before going into sea, and bigger ships would face it from further offshore and steer pointing once port and once steerboard of the crag, as a horse rearing to its master, to call upon themselves protection from St John. I have heard from the locals that there is, in a cove underwater beneath the island, a sculpture of the Virgin Mary to which local divers (water sports are very popular in the area, including international competitions like the World Billabong Pro surf championship) bring small presents and tributes.
The view from the top of the stairs is awesome, covering several miles of savage cliffs, including Matxitxako Cape, the northernmost point of the country, just a mile to the east, and, just a hundred yards in that direction, the rock of Akatz, only a bit smaller that the one you stand on top of; the cliffs of Akatz are much steeper, and the rock is only trod upon by passing sea birds, in flocks that some days cover all its surface. There is a small shelter just by the chapel, featuring a fireplace and even somewhat primitive toilet facilities, so you can cook and even spend the night there.
From Bilbao (one of the five biggest cities of Spain, home to the Guggenheim Museum and accessible by international and domestic flights, as well as national rail) you can get to nearby Bermeo by train or bus. From Bermeo you can get to San Juan by bike or walking (about 4 miles). If you have a car you can reach San Juan from Bilbao in 45 minutes if you don’t get lost, which you should not if you have a decent roads map or a good GPS. One final important consideration: the road runs along the coast on top of the cliffs, but the rock is at the bottom; you have to pay attention and you will find a small wiewpoint from which a narrow not very well cared for road descends the last mile to the medieval bridge. If you are walking, that means you have a steep mile to walk down before you tackle the stairs and then you will have to walk it back up. There are a few fountains on the way with signs that say the water is not good for drinking (signs are in Basque), not because it is necessarily contaminated but because it is not chlorated. I have had a few small gulps of it and had no problems, but it is up to you to take the risk, you must know how strong your stomach and defences are.

More:
Gaztekugatxe Chapel in Wikipedia
Basque Country Rail
Bizkaia Region Buses

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The Green Spain: Galicia

International tourism business in Spain started flourishing in the sixties and seventies decade of the 20th century, mainly featuring beach and sunny locations and (at the time) very cheap prices in an economy that fell way behind the rest of the western world. Thus most topics and known images of the country outside of our borders spring from or are related to the areas that offer these particular experiences: the eastern rim with the Catalonian Costa Brava or Valencia (Paella, if eaten everywhere in Spain, is a Valencian traditional dish) to quote just two, and Andalucía in the south coast, with the Costa del Sol of Málaga province as most popular attraction. Most of these areas are, if enjoyably sunny, also dry and arid looking in general to the visiting and local eye. And I get the feeling that such is the impression most tourists, would be and returning alike, have from Spain. They are mistaken. For Spain is also humid, green and deeply forested , as you will confirm if you go and stride for a while along the north coast and westernmost areas. Even Andalucía turns greenish as you cross to its western counties, encountering the Coto de Doñana, second biggest marshes region in the whole of Europe, or the mountain range of Grazalema, which is the rainiest spot of the country. As for the north it is all a green lively scenery that turns even more lush as you go from east to west until you reach Galicia in the northwest corner of the peninsula: the wild celtic lung of our barbarian heritage.
Galicia is the perfect communion of land and sea, with a fisherman’s soul but inextricably attached to its hills, low mountains and forests. It has a body of stone into which the Atlantic Ocean and the Cantabric Sea have carved firths and lagoons: the rías. This word’s origin is very illustrative; you see, ría is the female of the word for river (río) representing the sea penetrating and inseminating the land, in opposition to inland waters releasing into the big blue. You will find the Rías Bajas (Low Inlets) in the south west of the region, close to the Portuguese border, and the Rías Altas (High Inlets) in the north rim of Galicia.

The five Rías Bajas (South to North they comprise the inlets of Vigo, Pontevedra, Arousa, Muros I Noia and Corcubión, all named after the main villages located at their innermost points) present a curious microclimate, pretty mild compared to the rest of Galicia, with as many days of sun per year as the Costa Brava, and quite a few small but nice blue flagged beaches, including the beaches of the Cíes Islands (recently acclaimed by Conde Nast Magazine, if memory serves, as being among the 10 most beautiful in the planet) in front of the entrance to Vigo Inlet, and the beach of La Lanzada, a bit north from there, in the outer side of the Ría de Arousa, very close to the village of El Grove, both still wild. Western orientation provides for the most spectacular sunsets, too. The cultural patrimony of this area includes treasures of architecture and sculpture, mainly of Gothic and Romanesque style and dating, almost everywhere you go, and you should visit and see, to name but a few, the old quarter of the city of Pontevedra, monasteries like San Juan de Poio or San Ero de Armenteira, and captivating old towns like Cambados or Padrón, and the tiny fishermen village of Combarro, one of the most charming places you can find in Galicia and even Spain in general. The Isla de la Toja is also a balneary center of first order in the country, with few but magnificent spas.
A few miles into the coast, and halfway from Rias Bajas to the north end of Galicia you will find Santiago de Compostela, capital of the region and resting place of Spain’s patron saint, St James (Santiago in Spanish). There is a saying in Galicia that might give you a slight idea of the stone engraved beauty of this city: “In Santiago, rain is art”; for in the rainiest city of the country, every falling drop outlines an utterly fascinating compound of medieval dating constructions crowned by St James’ cathedral, standing in the Obradoiro square, one of the most beautiful settings of this kind you will find in the planet.

The north coast of Galicia starts in the west corner with a stretch of wild rocky cliffs and rocks beaten by the sea, known as Costa da Morte (Coast of Death-because of the hundreds of ship wreckages that have taken place in its dangerous waters) that after about 110 miles leads to A Coruña, first of the Rias Altas (west to east, A Coruña, Betanzos, Ares, Ferrol, Cedeira, Ortigueira, Barquero, Vivero, Foz ad Ribadeo). The city of A Coruña, founded, legend says, by Heracles himself after defeating a dragon, is the most modern and cosmopolite of Galicia, mixing modernity, romanticism and pragmatism. Gothic churches share the city with Baroque civil constructions, Modernist and Futurist buildings, medieval castles, French renaissance gardens and a 60 m roman lighthouse dating from the II century. All this surrounded by the promenade along the seafront, one of the longest and most beautiful in Europe, crossing two excellent beaches , the Museum of Man, the Castle of San Anton and the roman lighthouse (Torre de Hércules or Heracles’ Tower, symbol of the city). Although the climate is much rainier and misty and the waters of the Cantabric Sea (mixing the Atlantic with the British Channell’s that come from the North Sea) are pretty colder than the Mediterranean’s or the Atlantic’s you can find wonderful beaches along the Rias Altas, including the spectacular Playa de las Catedrales (beach of the Cathedrals) small in its strands but fascinating in the forms of the cliffs that can be seen and explored during the low tide. In this area you can also find the Cabo del Mundo (World’s cap), with the highest cliffs in western Europe (more than 600 m) except for the Nordic fjords. The cultural patrimony and the stone jewels also abound, featuring monasteries like San Andres de Teixido, second most important pilgrimage in the region after St James or villages like Betanzos.

There are too many charming places in Galicia and as usual the entry is stretching too long. Many of the locations I have quoted will hopefully star a more comprehensive article some of these days. I do not want to finish, though, without suggesting one more location, this time inland: the city of Lugo, in time capital of the roman province of Gallaecia. Patrimony of Humanity like Santiago, it keeps the best preserved roman walls compound of the world (and many other things, but just this is enough to justify the visit).

Final considerations: thanks to heavens above, tourism in Galicia is not a massive thing like it is in other parts of Spain. Urban “development” goes on, but luckily at a slower pace. Tourism is a big source of income in this area which is economically poor compared with others in Spain, but it has evolved through person to person recommendations with the locals realising potential business and setting up small family hotels, instead of huge industrial investments. You can also find big hotels, mainly in the big cities and around Rias Bajas, but that is not the rule. Let’s keep it that way.

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