Belief

A little quotation from a great human to get us started. A few great words to keep in your locker, which might explain his constant repetition of “I am the greatest” and the fact that he went on to prove it.

“It's the repetition of affirmations that leads to belief. And once that belief becomes a deep conviction, things begin to happen".

Muhammad Ali

 

As is so often the case in Spanish, there are several ways to express “belief”:

 

La creencia – Alex defiende la creencia que todos merecen una segunda oportunidad.

Alex defends the belief that everyone deserves a second chance.

 

La fe – Después de que su hija sobrevivió al cancer, su fe en Dios se fortaleció.

After his daughter survived cancer, his belief in God was strengthened.

 

La confianza – La confianza de Mariana en la fidelidad de su esposo era firme.

Mariana’s belief in her husband’s faith was unwavering.

 

Before we really get started (and for the avoidance of any doubt) let me be very clear on pointy hats. Over the course of this post, there will be pictures of (and words about) people in long robes, wearing tall, pointed hats with covered faces.

 

These people are in no way connected to the Ku Klux Klan, and this clothing pre-dates them by several hundred years.

 

No. No they're not.

The capirote (hat of conical form) along with face-covering hood and long robes are worn by members of the brotherhoods (Hermandades or Cofradias in Spanish) who are representative of penitents during Easter observances in Spain and some Hispanic countries.

The historical use of the capirote dates back to the Inquisition, starting around the 12^th century. It was appropriated to some degree in the early 20^th century by the Ku Klux Klan for reasons best known to themselves.

 

More capirotes and Cofradias later, but I’m happy that we’re now clear on this.

 

With the Valencia rental property in great demand, we have tenants there through to mid-July, at which point we’ll get a few Valencian summer weeks in. This was a perfect opportunity to experience a different Easter. Malaga’s Semana Santa is a major Spanish “Fiesta of National Interest” and attracts crowds in their thousands.

 

The train from the Airport to Malaga Centro Alameda, the easy walk to our hotel one block away from Alameda Principal, and a quick dash out to eat. On this Martes Santo, the Easter observances were well underway. As we ate, we could sense the excitement around us. Our food was served unusually briskly, and there was an urgency to everything, anticipation all around.

 

We were very close to Alameda Principal, and we didn’t need to move far to see that Semana Santa was well underway. Alameda Principal was lined with wooden folding chairs in rows, behind barriers draped in crimson cloth. Further down, closer to the end of Calle Marqués de Larios and along to the Marriott Malaga Palacio, grandstands had been built. This was one if the main sections of the processional route for Semana Santa.

 

It was about now that my ignorance of the scale of Easter in Malaga began to become apparent.

 

As well as the rows of chairs and grandstands, there were thousands of people, although not the masses we were to see later in the week. All the buildings along the route had crimson cloth with various symbols draped on balconies, even on the new swish hotels facing the bottom of Marqués de Larios, and his statue in the middle of the wide avenue. And this was only one street, one small part of the processional route.

 

Stalls had been brought in and/or built along the wide pavement of Alameda Principal. They were busily selling everything kids wanted. Mostly things that their parents didn’t want them to have, but bought for them anyway. Sugary things, fatty things, noisy things.

And Balloon Guy. Balloon Guy sold helium balloons in shapes beyond the imagination, but appealing directly to the most insistent of bouncy, pleading children. Bob Esponja, of course, but also Peppa Pig, Hello Kitty, Spider man, Tweety Pie, Mickey and Minnie, your unicorns, your ponies, your cute baby cows, your lions and your tigers and your motorbikes… and everything else you could imagine in helium balloon form.

 

Balloon Guy was to become our touchstone in the days to come. If Balloon Guy appeared, something was going to happen. If Balloon Guy started to move, something was going to happen soon. If Balloon Guy wasn’t around, have a cold beer and wait until he was.

Our first trono of very many.

The crowd rose to applaud the last elaborate trono of this particular procession, carried aloft by a couple of hundred people straining under the enormous weight. Powered only by their belief, you might imagine. The marching band followed, a little girl blew a kiss to Santa Maria, and we went in search of more.

Around midnight, we sheltered from a heavy shower under a barely adequate bar canopy in Plaza Carbón, and a full Easter procession hove into view from Calle Granada. Penitents, tronos, marching bands… all right in front of us in the commercial heart of Malaga. The tronos passed by a couple of feet away, the strain showing on the bearers’ faces as they reached the end of a very long procession, much of it in heavy rain.

 

The juxtaposition between the neon commerciality of Plaza Carbón at street level, and the ancient rituals of Catholicism was stark, but we were lucky to witness this up close.

I began to realise that Semana Santa de Malaga took over all of this city, for all of the week. Quite literally.

 

Miercoles Santo arrived with the glorious sunshine that would now remain for the rest of our visit. On our daily walk to Muelle Uno, we started to see how much of la calima had landed on Malaga, and what an operation it would be to clear it up.

 

In this year’s March storms, even more of the Sahara than usual had been drawn up into the atmosphere and deposited on Andalucía. It was in the streets, on the signs, windows, trees and benches. The impressive Pergola that weaves above the walkway as you meander along the first part of Muelle Uno represents a serious cleaning challenge if the sand is going to be removed. The buildings that tower over the shops and restaurants of the quayside further round have their own heavy dusting of sand.

 

Muelle Uno, and its mooring/marina area in front of the shops and restaurants in particular, is undergoing some redevelopment… chasing the superyacht market, judging by the billboards. Another thing that will bring significant change to Malaga… the city of change.

 

Back into town with lunch in mind, we caught another procesión moving slowly through Plaza Felix Sáenz, and up Calle Nueva. Again, that juxtaposition between the modern commercial world and ancient ritual, with Starbucks impossible to ignore as the Cofradia bore the immense weight of the tronos through the square and up the narrow streets, past Natura and Sfera, Primor and Tienda Orange.

Out in the early evening, we had that realisation again that this week was such a major event for the city, and drew such crowds that you could very easily be trapped in one small part of town. Several processions, and their accompanying crowds surrounded us, and we gave in and settled with cañas in Plaza de las Flores, watching processions on TV that were moving slowly by 50 metres away, inaccessible through the crowds.

 

As the coverage flipped between that evening’s processions, some tronos and processions were shown emerging from their various Brotherhood Houses. I could recognise where these were in some cases, and began to realise that I’d seen all these buildings before, walked past them scores of times, and not realised until now what the significance of these buildings was.

 

These Cofradias are Christian associations of laypeople, some with roots and history dating back to the Middle Ages. Each has it’s own set of rules and activities based around the beliefs of the Catholic Church, and they often provide for the needy and vulnerable. They have names referencing particular aspects of Catholic icons and events.

The brotherhood House of
Cofradia Sagrada Cena.

These associations exist also in Valencia, more commonly known as Hermandades, and they take a similar role in Semana Santa there, although it is largely celebrated in the Cabañal district rather than encompassing the whole city as it does in Malaga.

It is a great experience for the emotions and senses, but there is an austerity about Semana Santa in Malaga, particularly before Easter Sunday comes around. It demands to be taken seriously. Jueves Santo, however, delivered something with a more celebratory tone.

Moving around the city centre after breakfast, we followed crowds who clearly had an event to watch. That urgency again, that buzz of anticipation. The streets around Mercado Atarazanas were lined 5-deep, but we found a good place to wait (what we were waiting for still TBC) at the end of the closed Plaza Arriola, and Balloon Guy appeared.

 

Poorly informed as I was, I vaguely recollected information about the Procesión de Los Legionarios. I knew little more than it was due to happen today, but I began to see signs that this that we were waiting for. A chap walked past up with odd little figures in military uniform on a plinth, which he appeared to be trying (with very little success) to sell. One of the aforementioned “stalls that sell crap” took a last-minute delivery of some military-style children’s hats that they might flog to parents under pressure.

 

As Balloon Guy made his way past us, a lady from the Policia Local de Malaga crossed the street and grabbed me gently by the elbow. My firmly held belief that I hadn’t done anything wrong (recently) was underlined, as she gently moved me out of the way and collared two teens with skateboards behind us. It became clear that they had done something wrong recently.

 

There was a sudden, excited commotion from down Calle Atarazanas beyond the market. In contrast with the slow-moving weight and austerity of the Easter processions populated by the Cofradias, this one came at you fast. Khaki-clad Legionarios strutted down the street at pace. Guns, trumpets, drums, white gloves, sweat and stretched sinews… heads thrust forward in determination.

The rifle-wielding section stopped in front of us and twirled their guns into the air, slapped their thighs, and pressed on. The bugles and drums followed, and as quickly as they had arrived, their ranks passed, and they were followed by the crowd, anticipating more of this, perhaps enjoying the change of tone after so much austerity.

 

We didn’t follow, but what we had seen was quite a spectacle. It wasn’t The Changing of the Guard or Trooping the Colour. It was an unpolished but passionate display of vibrancy and emotion, noise and irresistible velocity. I was so pleased that we’d seen it.

 

Viernes Santo was approaching. The Thursday processions had become more austere, more emotional and more intense. And went on through the night.

 

Viernes Santo duly dawned. Beautiful sunshine again, getting warmer still. We spent time in the quieter parts of town, knowing that there would be enormous crowds that evening, with emotion and intensity added to the mix. A few slow hours with sun and shade, cold beers and food. We even enjoyed a little sea and sand at La Malagueta.

 

Trying to move through town in the early evening once again, we found all our routes blocked even more comprehensively than before. Every street leading to everywhere had a procession, the huge crowds limiting access to only a few crossing points managed by the Policia Local. Despite this, we made it past the cathedral, slowly up Calle Cister, turned onto the wide walkway of Calle Alcazabilla… and into a crowd big enough to block the entire neighbourhood.

 

With the (very optimistic) intention of making our way through to Plaza Merced, we joined a few other pilgrims squeezing their way through the crowds, through branches and shrubs, against the fence bordering Teatro Romano. Until it was no longer an option, and we couldn’t go any further.

 

Once again absorbed as ingredients into the crowd, we turned our attention to what everyone was waiting for. There are 2 Brotherhood Houses alongside each other here: Hermandad de los Estudiantes and Casa Hermandad del Sepulcro. Enormous doors were opened, and every one of the 2 buildings’ windows and balconies was packed with members about to witness the main event of Viernes Santo.

 

There were hundreds of capirotes worn by candle-bearing penitents. The bearers of 4 huge candles stood in the cavernous doorway, and after a long wait, these candles were lowered to be lit, then raised again. A drumbeat began, and the first trono began to emerge from the hangar-like space.

 

Such was it’s size, and such was the huge number of bearers, that the throne had to turn right to make clearance from the doorway before it slowly pivoted and turned left to proceed up the Calle Alcazabilla walkway, wide as it is.

 

The crowd hushed. Whatever your beliefs, this was emotional. Darkness had fallen around us as we had waited. This was the central moment, the darkest hour. The tomb was passing before us. Such was its weight that the bell sounded to call for rest for the bearers even before it had moved past the building.

As with most of these processions, the second trono depicted Santa Maria, and was more elaborate, more celebratory, full of candles and gently swaying grace.

 

All of this is brought to you by belief. I’m sure that across the spectrum of the hundreds of spectators (and even across the Cofradia) there will be varying degrees of belief. But without belief, none of this would be happening. There would be none of this passion, this beauty, this effort, this commitment. There would be no cathedral around the corner, no Alcazaba behind us, no Mezquita de Cordoba, no Alcazar de Sevilla, no Alhambra de Granada, no Notre Dame de Paris, no Pantheon, no Parthenon.

 

Believe what you like. But without belief, the world would not be a better place.

 

After Santa Maria’s trono had passed, we moved back towards the cathedral, sure of being able to move through the city more easily now. Not the case. Deciding to fall back on Plaza Merced for an “any port in a storm” dinner, we were forced into a roundabout route, once again avoiding crowds and more processions.

 

Finally coming up to another packed area as Calle Alamos turns towards Teatro Cervantes, we fell in behind a young family with a large buggy, as it’s not our first rodeo. Papa pushed the buggy through the crowd with righteous determination, and Mama spat venomous abuse at anyone who got in their way. All of this was more than enough help for us to reach Calle Madre de Dios and Plaza Merced.

 

Saturday was procession-free. A breather for the Cofradias, and a chance to have an unplanned, crowd-free day in the city, at Muelle Uno, at a nice Portugese café on Calle Beatas, only a few metres from the Picasso Museum, but mostly hidden from the tourist tide.

Domingo de Resurrección was very quickly upon us. After breakfast on Plaza de La Marina, we wandered idly up Calle Marqués de Larios, along the procession route. We knew there was only one procession today, the celebratory Easter Sunday procession lasting around 4hrs, but hadn’t really made a plan of where to watch it. Reaching Plaza de la Constitución, it became clear that it was here and now.

 

We found a place in the crowd outside Stradivarius, opposite Camper (that commercial/ritual juxtaposition again!). Cameras were set up for broadcasts, and the shape of the crowds roughly demonstrated the processional route to come. It was a good morning to stand in this smart city square, with an air of joy and release in the air. Balloon Guy plied his trade up the street. 

 

With the sound of bells from around Calle Santa Lucia, many capirotes moved into view, followed by the first trono and the marching band. All of the Cofradias seemed to be represented in this singular mass procession, wax from their candles dripping on the streets and onto the wax balls collected by children in a competition for the bragging rights that go with the largest.

Parents and friends took advantage of the many pauses in the procession to press drinks and sweets into the hands of the Nazarenos. They had been at this for a week, after all. Children came forward again to collect more wax. The first trono passed us. On a day of ceremony, triumph and celebration, the strain on the faces of the bearers reflected a long week of effort.

 

It’s here that the contrast with a Valencian Domingo de Resurrección parade was clearest. Along Calle Reina in Valencia on Easter Sunday, the parade is a joyous, flower-throwing, dancing, kissing, embracing celebration of the climax to the festival, and of the summer to come. Very Valencian, a delightful, emotional carnival.

 

Here, in the very heart of the Malaga, the austerity and formality was still there, but there was a sense of triumph. A sense of victory, a sense of dark days having been overcome, conquered by togetherness, common purpose and belief.

The morning sun glorified the tronos as they passed around Plaza de la Constitución, and past the grandstands towards the top of Calle Marqués de Larios for the last time.

The nazarenos, the bands, and the dignitaries marched proudly past, some outwardly emotional, some perhaps offering up a little prayer for the speedy arrival of the end of the parade route.

 

As the last drummers passed, and the last waft of incense drifted away, we moved past the Catherdal and towards Muelle Uno once again for drinks and lunch. In the small outdoor auditorium in Parque de Malaga, a church group (the more guitar/smiley sort) finished a song and began chanting “Christo Vive!!” in enthusiastic fashion.

 

Sunday lunch on Muelle Uno was a typically sunny, busy, noisy, pleasurable affair. Excellent food delivered by friendly faces overlooking the developing quayside getting ready for the superyachts. If the bid for this part of the market succeeds, this will change Muelle Uno once again. Will the new sleek crowd want “100 Montaditos” or “Dunkin’ Donuts”? One feels they’ll demand a more exclusive offering: more change for the city of change.

We enjoyed the weather on our last couple of days. Doing a little more idle wandering, we walked up Calle Victoria, away from town, and made our acquaintance with Barrio La Victoria. A lovely neighbourhood feel, very different to centro. More local shops, small churches, play areas and independent cafés and restaurants. The noise of kids back in the school playgrounds. At the end of Calle Aqua we climbed the steps and found ourselves at the north-western foot of the hill where Castillo Gibralfaro sits, green with sunshine and pines.

 

A great beach lunch put us in mind of lazy days spent at a chiringuito only a few miles down the coast on several happy holidays. We saw the comings and goings at Muelle Uno, enormous cruise ships moving out from the quayside at La Pergola only to be dwarfed by the giants berthed beyond La Farola.

 

The barriers were coming down, the grandstands were being dismantled, and the stacks of wooden chairs were being loaded onto trucks as our visit ended. The traffic was back, and our last breakfast on Plaza de la Marina had a familiar background of ebb and flow, noise and normality.

I’d been educated over that visit. Semana Santa takes this fine city over for a week, and its scale is astonishing. The effort and commitment to make it all happen is immense. The nazarenos and Cofradias and the tronos and the Legionarios turn their attention to other things for another year or so, but there will always be belief.

 

Summer holidays in Valencia to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tenemos mucho que celebrar

We have much to celebrate

Easter 2019 was the last time we had seen the Valencia apartment. The last time we had enjoyed one of our tastes of Valencian life. Then a long-term rental landed, then a pandemic landed. Then more tenants… until there was eventually a chance to visit as 2021 drew to a close.

After much debate around Covid, testing, travel restrictions, the state of Manchester Airport, Spanish Covid measures, etc, we decided late in the day that we were going to take our December 31st flights and get back there. We felt how important it was to celebrate how lucky we are to have this home. A place in this great city.

A visit lasting from December 31st-January 10th takes in 2 great celebrations: Nochvieja (New Year’s Eve, “out with the old, in with the new” and all of that) and the big celebration of Los Tres Reyes Magos on January 6th.

If there are celebrations to be had, then Valencia is the place to have them. In doing some very brief research, I uncovered various versions of the generally accepted reputations (N.B. not necessarily my views or experiences) of the inhabitants of the 17 Spanish regions. Some of the more well known might be:

Andalucia: funny, a bit lazy, talk a lot.
Cataluña: Want independence* and don’t want to spend any money, ever.
Aragón: Brutish, shout a lot, stubborn.
Asturias: Nationalists, drink a lot.

Every region has it’s own reputation, and to avoid perpetuating regional stereotypes any further, I won’t list any more. 

As for Valencians, I have seen them described as the nice version of Catalans, but this seems a little churlish. More famously, Valencians are known to be funny, proud people who just love to party. Shit, do they know how to celebrate. You only have to hear stories from the huge March Fallas festival to know that a sleepless week of drinking and seemingly lethal pyrotechnics is well within their remit.

The climax of Nochevieja would normally be a large crowd in Plaza Ayuntamiento cheering incredible fireworks and chomping down on 12 grapes (one for each chime) and plenty of cava, to see in the New Year. Sadly, the Ministerio de Sanidad had no choice but to order the closure of Plaza Ayuntamiento to prevent large crowds.

Nonetheless, our dinner that evening was a delight. In the height of the Covid crisis, I had made a modest financial contribution to help a favourite restaurant have much-needed income when closed due to the restrictions. As well as genuinely wanting to help, I’ll admit to a selfish motivation in wanting to see this special place open on our next visit. Mercifully, so it was. The owner showed his gratitude, making our evening special. The amazing Italian/Spanish food hadn’t faltered, and his welcome and warmth made it a celebration. The restaurant had been able reopen, and he and his staff still had jobs. His excellent wine was not the only thing that gave a warm feeling inside.

(We returned a week later. The welcome was the same, the food still amazing. The limoncillo was repeatedly pressed into our welcoming hands with increased enthusiasm).

Without the Plaza Ayuntamiento to go to, we made it home in time to see the Nochevieja fireworks from the balcony. The roof may have been better, but it was occupied by our neighbour and his extended family. We had already had some contact with this likeable vecino and his little dog on earlier visits, and as he has just become El Presidente of the Communidad de Propietarios, we let him have the roof.

The "barrio"

In typical style, spectacular fireworks continued for over an hour, and some long into the night. An apartment opposite partied until after 6am. You should celebrate when you’re young and you have a guitar. 

This appears to be an appropriate time to take stock of the things we
have to celebrate so far, for there are already many to be grateful for:

• Welcome and respectful tenants
• Being lucky enough to travel at short notice, despite everything
• Our home in Valencia
• Valencia itself
• The hope and optimism of a New Year
• Valencians
• Warm and friendly hosts and their excellent food and wine
• Affable and influential neighbours
• Fireworks done properly

We set about re-acquainting ourselves with the apartment. We explored it once again, and looked closely to see how it had changed, how it had been used. We set about re-acquainting ourselves with Valencia also. Felt like it was OK to get a bit touristy. Shopped a bit. 

We loved the now pedestrianised Plaza Ayuntamiento. We’ve always loved this huge square with the Town Hall and the incredible Edificio de Correos building, but without traffic, it’s so much better. The winter light treated the architecture with a more delicate reverence than the summer glare. We also loved the reassuring permanence of El Corte Inglés around the corner**.

Having had quite a high occupancy during the many months since our last visit, the apartment certainly showed it had been lived in, but not in a bad away. 

We found things left behind that linked us to our tenants and their stories: A travel card for Bucharest used as a bookmark. Mail for a Spanish doctor. Left-behind notes made in web publishing seminars, with Portugese names and references. I like the diverse nature and nationalities of our tenants. Now that we have had news of a new tenant for mid-January until mid-February, this our list of Nations, in chronological order:

Spain
UK
Malta
Ireland (we think)
Romania
Brazil (but with acquired Spanish citizenship?)
The Netherlands

For me, this is something to celebrate. I love that diversity. I love that in our tiny part of a country like Spain, a modest place can welcome diverse nationalities and backgrounds, different occupations and lifestyles, different people in different situations, with different needs, wants and ambitions.

"Before our race, nationality, or religion, we are all human beings. Let's celebrate our differences and not fight over them."

Rosie Fellner 

The rastro has moved. Fortunately I had checked this before we set off. The Sunday morning rastro (fascinating flea market/antique sale/place to buy knock-off stuff) is now held on a wide corner plot close to the Cemeterio de Cabañal, having been previously held in the Mestalla football stadium car park. An hour or two (with a mindful hand on your phone and wallet) picking your way around the rastro is a Sunday morning well spent. All the while you resolve to come back and find a use for that huge mirror and those hefty antique ceramics, which will not be there when you return, of course. In any case, you have no practical means of transporting them back to your apartment, it’s just the simple pleasure of browsing.

Then a meander through the Cabañal towards the Marina de Valencia for beers in the sun and paella, como siempre. The Cabañal used to be a characterful, attractive area in a gritty, doggedly authentic kind of a way. This is the old fishing quarter of Valencia where we would only really visit for the Easter parades and a particular favourite restaurant.

But how it’s transforming, now that it’s free from an old threat of ruin prescribed by a previous Town Hall regime. With no loss of character, buildings are restored and cleaned and painted with taste and style. Weaving through the small, quiet streets to Calle Reina, you get a sense of regeneration and a real drive to improve. Coffee and pastries on Calle Reina for half the price of the city centre, and on to the Marina de Valencia, past the visiting circus (gasps of delight from the audience inside) and onto the F1 track towards the Veles Y Vents*** building and the comfortable restaurants & bars beyond.

The Veles y Vents building basks in the sunshine.

Valencia's weather was a world away from the 2nd January we normally shiver through over 2000km to the North. Veles Y Vents shimmered its sparkling whiteness in warm sunshine, now a building very much in use with restaurants and bars in and around it. After sunshine drinks, a long lunch and the sleepy trip home.

And there’s another thing. The long lunch. In the UK, this may now only be the preserve of the privileged few, and we should claim it back. We mused over the latter part of another long lunch later in the visit that this is something that many people could do well to make a habit of. The type/amount/quality of the food and/or drink does not matter. What matters is taking your time. You don’t need to finish lunch to go and write that email right now. You don’t need to go and buy that “vital” thing right now. You don’t need to wash these things up right now. You don’t need to be in a particular place in the next 45 seconds. Take your time. Enjoy the open-endedness of it.

The Spanish have a lovely word: sobremesa. As in: “Los domingos la sobremesa hasta bien entrada la tarde”. “On Sundays table talk was prolonged until late in the afternoon”.

You’ll see sobremesa around the tables in La Pepica on a Sunday afternoon. Large, extended families of 4 generations enjoying each others company and talking (all at the same time) over tables laden with glasses, desert plates and coffee cups. The waiters won’t disturb it or press them to pay the bill… they know it’s important. Let’s do that more often.

Yes, they'll bring gifts if you've
been good. But no parade.

But the build-up to Los Tres Reyes Magos was gathering pace. Traditionally in Valencia (and in much of Europe) the festival of Epiphany on 6th January is celebrated as the day those 3 Wise Men handed over those famous gifts to His Lordship. Now, children in much of Europe are given gifts on this date, and it’s a celebration equivalent to our Christmas.

In Calle Colon and the hallowed halls of El Corte Inglés on the 3rd, 4th and 5th January, it was possible to see children on the very brink of hysteria with excitement at the thought of the gifts that were to come. There was stamping and screaming. There was jumping up and down, in the way excited kids do. There was wailing, and the occasional disturbing growl. It’s rumoured that one child did actually implode with excitement on the up escalator between floors 4 and 5 of one of the countless El Corte Inglés department stores that there are in Valencia, but this story has not been verified.

Suffice to say that Los Tres Reyes Magos has all the familiar trappings of our own Christmas where children are concerned, and everything else besides. The afternoon of the 5th would normally see the Cabalgata de Los Tres Reyes, a parade all the way from port to city centre featuring the 3 Kings throwing sweets to the kids and generally being more than generous. Covid had sadly seen this parade cancelled for 2022, replaced by an event in the bullring so that families could gather to see the 3 superstars who would normally be dispensing their gluten-free delights from floats in the parade.

I failed to see how this was safer, but then I’m not the Ministerio de Sanidad.

Despite this, all the rituals of the celebration went right ahead. You’ll see the Roscon de Reyes in bakeries everywhere, and people queue to pick up their pre-ordered ones on the 5th. This super-sweet, cream-filled cake shaped like a huge bagel is a vital part of the 6th January celebrations. Each will be presented with a golden paper crown on top, and the family will eat this for breakfast.

In a similar way to traditional Christmas pudding, various objects will be baked into this cake, the key ones being a figure depicting the king and a black bean or haba. The lucky one with the King in their slice is “King for the day” and waited on hand and foot. If you get the haba, it’s your job to provide next year’s Roscon… a very important task.

Apartments all around us were full of celebrating families on the evening of the 6th. People with multiple family visits to make flitted through streets to the next relative, carrying gifts and perhaps another Roscon, and this continued into the 7th for those not attracted to the inevitable rebajas. We’d seen enough of El Corte Inglés to resist the sales.

So, perhaps a second reflection on things we have to celebrate, for the list is growing:

• The global village
• The simple joy of browsing
• Regeneration and renewal
• The benefits of exploring away from tourist central
• The Mediterranean climate
• Paella****
• The long lunch
• The innocent excitement of children
• Gift-giving
• Cake for breakfast
• Families

Our final weekend hove into view, and we enjoyed the Friday-night dinner with added limoncillo mentioned earlier, and another sunny visit to La Marina de Valencia and Las Arenas. Many Valencians were squeezing out the last drops of the midwinter celebration that they will have first thrown themselves into back in late December, but it will be back to work on Monday at the same time as we would be heading back to the UK.

Las Fallas soon folks. Then Easter. Much partying to be enjoyed, real soon.

As well as the revellers, we observed the restaurant owners and workers. The cooks, the taxi drivers, the workers on the tranvia and metrovalencia, the shop workers, the mechanics, the cleaners, the street sellers, the worshippers in the Cathedral. The old people in the streets, perhaps looking a little scared. They’ve been getting on with it, wearing masks everywhere the whole time without complaint. Checking Covid passports at every bar and restaurant door without complaint. Complying with changes to Covid measures and adapting without complaint.

What we saw in them was enormous resilience.

Everyone has been through a lot since this thing came along so many months ago and uprooted everything for us all. You often hear that phrase: “everyone’s been through a lot”, but it’s never been more true. Above and beyond the cosy things in my little lists above, what we need to celebrate is the incredible resilience and power that people demonstrate when living through adversity, through sacrifice, through the threat of joblessness, homelessness, illness, bereavement, bankruptcy.

It would be foolish to speculate when (or if) “normal” might return. It isn’t foolish to celebrate us, ourselves, humans, and what we can achieve under tremendous pressure.

Yes, we get a lot of things wrong, but let’s celebrate what we can achieve.
 

“Every day is a good day. There is something to learn, care and celebrate.”

Amit Ray

Vox not enjoying
whole-hearted support
in the Barrio del Carmen.

We’ll be back soon. Easter perhaps. Long summer holiday perhaps. Both perhaps. Hard to know, with the way things are.



* I have no wish to belittle things like the struggle for Catalan independence in such a flippant manner. I’m just falling back on regional reputations to make a point about Valencians.

** There is something so irresistible about El Corte Inglés that something illegal must be going on. A British associate of ours in Valencia once described it as “a bit like John Lewis”, but this is a woefully inadequate description. There is so much more to it. We are powerless to resist, as are thousands of others.

*** We were very happy to see this building in use. Built for the Americas Cup, it had seemed to have become a white elephant, much-bemoaned by some tax-paying Valencians as a huge waste of their money. It now has several restaurants, bars and event spaces within. And some life and vibrancy. What a relief.

**** Can of Worms alert:
The Valencians who care (and that’s almost all of them) will tell you that you can’t get real paella anywhere else. The peerless Valencian paella has chicken, rabbit and vegetables in it. And snails if you really want. The one you might get on the Costa del Sol, that turmeric-yellow thing with mussels and prawn-heads sticking out of it, is not paella. On top of all that, Jamie Oliver may also want to stick chorizo in it, bless him. A phrase has been invented to describe non-paella paellas: Arroz con cosas. Literally “Rice with Things”. There is arguably a place for this, but it isn’t Valencia. 

 

GETTING AROUND!

“Oh the places you’ll go”
Dr. Seuss 

 

In giving the book of the same name to our Granddaughter at Christmas 2020, I imagined all the places she would go in the life that stretches before her like a long series of amazing opportunities.

Elaborate central Palma architecture.

It reminded me to think of travel as a privilege, especially following so many months of restricted movement. It’s clear that restrictions imposed on travel have not been the most drastic consequences of the Covid pandemic, but travel is hugely important to us humans.

A further easing of Covid travel restrictions for early October 2021 prompted us to start getting around again. With tenants in the Valencia apartment (and despite the desperate need to return there) we re-booked a trip originally intended for Easter 2020 to Palma de Mallorca.

Following the required form-filling and insane queuing at our least favourite north-western airport, we landed in Palma late on a Sunday evening. Taxi to hotel (more on taxis later) and straight out to enjoy the rest of the evening. All on foot for now, round the marina to Café Canblanc, then up the hill to Plaça del Pont* and a first visit to La Chica de Santa Catalina on a busy corner of the square which is essentially an unfathomable road junction. It may be inadequately called “bustling” on certain TV shows about buying a home in warmer climes.

What followed was a first walk back from this hub to our hotel, situated just into the El Terreno district as you pass through Son Armadams. It was on this walk of a little under 1.5km where my first impressions of the area (from the earlier taxi I had decided that it was characterless and grubby) began to be corrected.

Where travel broadens the mind (or so they** say) a lack of travel clearly has the opposite effect.

Very cute casitas in El Terreno

To describe the area as eclectic would be inadequate. The hotel was set back in a quiet suburban area away from the lively Avenida Joan Miro, and the initial impression from the balcony was that we would be looking at ugly concrete apartment blocks for a few nights. A further opening of one’s eyes (and mind) revealed humble but charming casitas and elegant townhouses fighting a very game battle with the concrete blocks, of which our no-frills but very friendly hotel was also constructed.

 

To first venture out in daylight (I’d love to say sunshine, but our first morning brought heavy thundery showers) revealed secrets behind the apartment blocks… quite palatial city homes behind high walls and fences. Beautifully styled buildings with Moorish touches and pointed turrets alongside generous roof terraces. Lush, shady gardens and cool patios.

Down to Avinguda de Joan Miró once again. This busy artery is a main bus route, and alive with traffic running through El Terreno and Son Armadams... the city to the east, and Porto Pi shopping centre and the western resorts in the opposite direction. Along our walking route back to Plaça del Pont, we pass what might be called a “strip”. Petrol station, shops, cafés, gyms, salons, bars, restaurants, massage parlours (some of these may actually be massage parlours, if you understand me), with banks and hotels added as you approached Plaça del Pont once again.

Hotel Artmadams, formerly the much duller
Hotel Armadams (see what they've done there with
the name?) brightening up Aninguda de Joan Miró.

One particular, formerly rather dull hotel on Avinguda de Joan Miró, remembered from a long-ago work trip to Palma, had undergone a spectacular facelift. It’s not possible to imagine a planning authority in the UK allowing for such a fabulous solution, but we thought it was incredible!

To use the word “strip” seems unjust, however. “Strip” suggests to me an unending resort-style line of bars and shops, each with the same things on offer as the next (see under “Fuengirola sea-front”). What stood out on Avinguda de Joan Miró was the variety. The restaurants were Spanish, Columbian, Indian, Chinese, Mexican. Each small café had a different feel to it. The produce in the small fruit and veg shops looked amazing. The shell of a large Mercadona supermarket was undergoing an extensive refurb, and a sign suggested it would be reopening on November 9^th. The amount of site workers in the adjacent café as opposed to the amount on the actual site every time we passed left us a little sceptical about this date. 

 

We moved on into Santa Catalina, perhaps Palma’s equivalent of Ruzafa in Valencia. The place to eat, drink and be seen. Across Parc de Sa Feixina, across the Torrent de Sa Riera and you’re in town. Here, you can choose to pass Es Baluard (and an upside-down church) and weave through the narrow streets leading to Llotja de Palma, and the touristy square next to this fantastic gothic former mercantile exchange building.

The alternative is to bear left, with the inevitable result that you’ll come across El Corte Ingles and the hectic shopping area of Avinguda Jaume III, leading to the pretty but shopper-heavy Passeig del Born. We discovered here that not everyone on Born likes to pay for their shopping, as 3 young women raced out of Zara with armfuls of Autumn casuals, hangers still attached, and crammed into a waiting (and unfeasibly small) getaway vehicle. That gang will need a bigger car as their lives of crime develop.

 

So, methods of GETTING AROUND so far:

 

AEROPLANE:
All good, once you’ve lost an hour (and you’ll never get that back) queuing for security at Manchester Airport. By contrast, Aeorport de Palma is a slick operation, even with additional Covid and Brexit-related checks.

TAXI:
Quick, clean and not expensive. But can lead you to false first impressions as you fly past neighbourhoods that you need to get to know better.

WALKING:
Remains the favoured method, often facilitating correction of the first impressions referenced above, and so much more. There will be a lot more walking.

So we enjoyed a late breakfast on Passeig del Born and discussed shoplifting, and how I wanted to avoid Massimo Dutti (at least for today) on financial grounds, as I intended to pay for my clothes. We discussed how impressively the waitress covered every one of many tables on her own, and how the sun was coming out right on cue. We moved up to the Cathedral area and around the shopping streets, realizing how far the tentacles of this retail maze had reached out from Plaça de Cort. We moved on through the ever-disappointing Plaça Major and up to the Mercat D’Olivar area. Just re-acquainting ourselves with Palma.

Cala Major pretending it's July.

The next day’s weather forecast had “beach” written all over it. Palma’s excellent bus service took us to Cala Major at a cost of 2€ each. Having only previously passed through Cala Major, I hadn’t realised how much the place (at main street level at least) needed a lick of paint, but the beach is lovely, particularly at a quarter of its high-season occupancy.

We settled on the beach feeling that peculiar combination of disbelief and gratitude that comes when you’re from North Yorkshire and get to lie on a warm beach in October. The lovely beach with its welcoming beach bars and nice-looking hotels strongly denied the tatty resort alongside the through road that lay invisibly only metres behind us. Large yachts visited the bay, perhaps a day out from their berth in Palma or Puerto Portals. We over-ordered at lunch, having previously over-ordered for a late breakfast at the same beach place. Standard stuff.

There was more shopping (I did succumb to Massimo Dutti) and there was plenty of eating and drinking. The food in Palma is excellent, with new, creative and ambitious places to be found among the curries, average Italians and chain offerings. Santa Catalina has developed into a district with a fabulous variety of bars and restaurants of all kinds, and there’s real creativity and quality to be found here.

The district of El Terreno lies below a pretty wooded hill, and sitting on top of this green hill is Castell de Bellver. We passed through the gates of the Parc de Bellver close to our hotel, and took the 450 steps up to this magnificent castle at a steady pace on a warm morning, with various perspiring, lycra-clad folk dodging us as they ran up and down. You go up to Castell de Bellver for the views, but you stay for the history. Part of the museum housed in the castle told of La Germania de Mallorca, a tragic revolt against taxes that took place 500 years ago, triggered in part by its earlier equivalent in Valencia.

To cut a long story very short, this insurrection was ultimately unsuccessful, and resulted in many brutal executions. The mutilated bodies of many of the rebels were hung in the streets of Palma as an example of what might become of you if you grumbled about your taxes back in 1523.

The castle is an incredible place. Built in the 14^th Century, it is one of very few circular castles in Europe, and has served many purposes since it was built, from a fortification suffering many sieges, to a home and to a military prison as recently as the civil war.

But the views. WOW. My grasp of prose prevents me from adequately describing the views here, and my photos will not do them justice, you have to be there.

Castell de Bellver and the views that you make the climb for.

Having felt like we were a thousand miles from the city up there, we walked back down via the winding road, surrounded by the forest on all sides. The ubiquitous Mediterranean pines were just made to be seen against that incredible blue sky. Below them, olive trees had small fruits and a rowan-like shrub bore red berries all along the roadside. Flowers still brightened the forest floor, defying the season.

Families enjoyed picnics. Dogs and their humans enjoyed the woods. Cyclists gasped their way up the long hill, no doubt in search of the sense of achievement in completing that climb. The tourist bus passed on the way up, and on the way down. Traffic steadily increased, both car and bicycle, as we weaved our way to the bottom, passed through park gates once again, and found ourselves back on Avinguda de Joan Miró.

 

So, methods of GETTING AROUND part 2:

EL AUTOBUS:
Cheap, easy to use and clean. Palma (much like Valencia) appears to have nailed it when it comes to the provision of a user-friendly bus service.

BICYLCLE:
We didn’t fall back on this particular mode of transport on this trip, although I’ve been known to hire a bike on other holidays. Like Beijing, there are 9 million bicycles in Mallorca***. They range from the lovely couple from Berkshire who borrow the “basket on the front” type of bike from the hotel, and pootle around wishing Palma was a bit flatter (like Valencia) right through to full-on racing teams who inexplicably use the cycle path around the marina to ride at frightening speeds. This can be disconcerting for the very adjacent pedestrian who’s just had a long lunch at Café Canblanc.

THE ELECTRIC SCOOTER:

Known as patinetes in Spain, these things are now everywhere, and you need to be on your toes to avoid inadvertently wearing one. I get that these are cheap and convenient, but they’re also fast and silent. It would appear that riders are now obliged to wear hi-vis when riding, but this is zero help when they’re racing up behind you. One step to the left, and it could look like the bloody aftermath of a tax revolt.

WALKING:
Still the best, isn’t it?

Eglesia de Santa Eulàlia by night.

Finding the quieter old town streets east of the Cathedral and Església de Santa Eulàlia, we enjoyed a couple of delightful, genuinely home-made meals and got ourselves lost in the quiet streets again… such a contrast to Passeig del Born and Plaça del Pont.

La playa drew us back in again on the last full day, the weather being irresistible. It’s a long walk to the beach at Can Pere Antoni in flip-flops, so we took a taxi to Anima Beach and ambled the rest of the way past the Palau de Congresos, busy with some travel-related conference or other, before brunch at a beach restaurant that was much too cool for us. They weren’t cool enough to have a functioning coffee machine however. We watched a chap wheel a new one in and drag the old one away, but we could wait until later.

The beach is fabulous. The views across Palma bay are amazing. The port and city, the Cathedral, Castell de Bellver of course, dwarfed by bigger hills from this perspective. Ferries leave at regular intervals for Barcelona, the other Balearic Islands and Valencia. A little stab of longing for Valencia every time a ferry’s horn sounded its departure.

There’s a saying in Valencia that the city “has it’s back to the sea”, meaning that it isn’t traditionally a maritime city, with the old fishing quarter, the Cabañal being separate from the city until relatively recently. Palma looks and feels like the opposite.

The beach at Can Pere Antoni with the city across the water.

From Can Pere Antoni, the city appears to be in danger of tumbling into the wide puerto, leaning towards the sea as it does. Closer to the city, and within it, everything faces the sea, points to it and overlooks it. There are yacht chandlers and maritime supplies stores and many sailing people in town, as well as on the marina. The Cathedral, The Almudaina Palace and Castell de Bellver, along with many other significant sites across the island all take a bow to the sea. Even the pleasantly conceived water park in front of the Cathedral is dedicated to it.

Making our way back to El Terreno on our last evening, we realised how grateful we were to have been able to discover and move through some of the real Palma. We’ve been in and around some of the actual communities of the city that have retained their own identity. They're not a pastiche presented for the benefit of cruise-ship visitors who have 3 hours to "see Palma". They aren’t defined by the location of Starbucks or the golden arches or the inescapable (but quite fun) ALE-HOP.

Our area of Valencia has the same community feeling, and it’s what we like about it. By coincidence, I’d been made aware during our Palma trip of protests in La Saidia against the development of a hotel and the potential gentrification of the area. While progress may be inevitable, I do understand concerns about rising rental costs pricing locals out of the barrio, and of the danger to some small businesses should La Saidia become turisitc, as the protesters fear.

It will be interesting to pick up on this developing situation on our next visit. Depending on our tenant’s plans, we’re hoping to be in Valencia straight after Christmas 2021, and will hopefully hang around for Fiesta Tres Reyes Magos, as yet unseen by us.

We haven’t been in Ciudad de Valencia since Easter 2019. I hope the future holds experiences of Fallas, Semana Santa and Nou d’octubre once again. Long, beachy summers with paella, a stronger link with the barrio and the City, a more solid relationship.

* Plaza del Puente in Castillian Spanish. But out of respect for the official language of Mallorca: Mallorquin (a dialect of Catalan along similar lines to Valenciano) I have quoted place names in that language where I know them. All down to that Jaume I and his Catalan mates, you know.

** I don’t know who “they” are. Does anyone know who “they” are?

*** Statistics are in no way backed up by any form of scientific study in the case of either city. It just feels like 9 million.