Away All Boats!

Posted on May 22, 2016 by cathyharnett

The weather is due to close in, so we were up early to be sure of making the next leg to Roses, even though it is only a short hop. All was still as we left the pontoon at quarter to seven and made our way out of the harbour. Our course wound round the headland and then turned northwest to the top of a large bay to where Roses lies protected behind a hook of land. We were just about to pass a large group of rocks to port, when we were engulfed in the fishing fleet, whose catch we had so admired yesterday. Fishing boats of all shapes and sizes fanned out behind us, thrashing along as though their livelihoods depended on getting there first. Most passed us to starboard, but one confidently cut between the rocks and us. We were soon wallowing in their massive wakes. At the rocks we turned to port and they had carried on forward, so we hoped that would be our only encounter of the day with them, as threading through a fleet that is fishing is a fraught business. Luckily this turned out to be the case and we had an uneventful motor. At one point the visibility looked a bit murky and John turned the radar on, but that soon burned off. At ten forty five I was fastening lines and fenders, while John idled outside the harbour. Once inside they had us wait by the fuel pontoon and the two marineras arrived in a small van and showed us straight to our berth. The parking went like clockwork, twice now we have arrived and tied up in calm weather. John took me ashore for a slap up lunch, prawn and bacon salad followed by monkfish casserole at Sodmar, a lobster restaurant overlooking the marina. As we were finishing our coffees the wind came up right on cue. We walked back round to Lyra and found her being driven worryingly close to the pontoon. John fastened extra ropes on to stop her slewing sideways and we hung extra fenders on the stern.

That evening after the wind had dropped we loosened the stern lines and pulled forward to tighten up on the lazy lines at the bow. I then reversed back as John retied the stern lines, so the passerelle (posh gangplank) reached to shore again. We are now strung pitch tight between shore and harbour bottom, ready to withstand all blows. We had a ramble through the town. The long sea front skirting the top of the bay, with hotel developments in a ribbon along the beach did not seem as interesting as the streets of shops leading up behind. The prettiest part is the hillside behind the marina, leading up to the old fort. Here lots of little houses and apartment blocks dot the slope between the lush trees. Tomorrow the weather here is due to be good, but it is forecast to be very windy where we plan to go, so we are staying put. We have decided to visit the Fort.

 

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Men in Black

Posted on May 22, 2016 by cathyharnett

On John’s schedule our next port of call was due to be Blanes, but we decided to make up some lost time by putting in a longer stretch to Palamos. We set off just before eight and all was calm and fine, but still fleece and long trouser weather. What little wind there was sat right on the nose, so we motored along making progress.

P1160630 At around eleven the wind had veered to the East and was up to force three, so we put out the sails. It is the first time the main has been out this season and it was a relief to have it unfurl easily and a pleasure to see it fill and set. Even so there was not enough wind to make much headway just under sail, so we left the engine ticking along to keep us going at seven knots. Mid day heralded a rise in temperature as passed the popular Costa Brava resorts.

There we were sat under the shade of the spray hood, pootling along nicely on autopilot. Next moment a huge launch loomed up in our wake, as high as Lyra, dark blue and menacing. At the rear a group of big men in black sat looking at us through their sunglasses. John climbed back behind our wheel, smiled and waved to them. They grinned and waved back, pulled up alongside and then spun round and thrust back to shore as fast as they had come. Aduanas was written in capital letters along its side, customs officers, not pirates then. We must not have the look of drug smugglers, thankfully. I would not care to be boarded. They had come out from our destination and we were soon tied up to the pontoon in the pretty marina at Palamos.

It was just after three and most things were closed for a bank holiday, but luckily the taverna at the end of our pontoon was still serving. We sat in the shade, John with an impressively ice beer glass and myself with a white wine. All around us people were sat chatting amongst the debris of long lunches. Wine bottles in chillers, the melted remains of massive G&T’s and tiny shot glasses signaled some very relaxing lunches. A group of people in a motley assortment of fancy dress were feeding the jukebox and selecting a stream of eighties pop hits. They were very laid-back, leaning against the building sharing a cigarette listening to Pulp. It was so good to have moved on and for everything to have gone so smoothly we felt pretty mellow ourselves and ordered a couple of the massive G&T’s as Eddie Grant asked Joanna for hope. By the time they were reduced to meltwater the chords of Mamma Mia were starting and the girls were beginning to dance. The music morphed into Spanish covers and we meandered back to the boat for tea.P1160639

Palamos is lovely, a proper seaside town. When we went into the marina office to pay, the girl behind the desk said we were in luck as Tuesday was market day. At the market in town stalls would sell fresh fruit and veg and then all along both sides of the main street would be stalls selling anything and everything. I should watch my pocketbook, but it would not be as busy as in the summer months. Then tonight at six thirty the fishing boats would open another market and sell their catch. She showed us on a map and we set off with a rucksack, but no pocket book. There were some really nice shops on the way. An art shop full of familiar smells, several bakers and a couple of really nice delis. We were just beginning to doubt ourselves when we found the market, thronged with shoppers picking amongst the produce with great focus. We bought oranges, peaches, courgettes and a giant red pepper. It was all amazingly cheap. Then we carried on down the street and there were indeed all manner of stalls, plants and shoes and dauntingly large ladies underwear sat cheek by jowl with jewelry and sarongs. One towel shop had a disturbing photograph of the Barcelona team, looking much less than attractive. I could not decide quite what was wrong with it until John commented that the image must have been taken off a beer bottle. The hustle and bustle soon became too much for John, so we retraced our steps and bought bread and cheeses and headed back with our spoils for lunch.

That evening we set out for the fish market. It took a bit of finding, as it was not where we had originally thought. We wandered the docks and spotted the customs launch tied up, looking much less threatening than when it rears up behind your boat. Eventually we found the fish market. An old dockside building with tables of glittering, bright-eyed fish and seafood ranged on ice. Old ladies with large shopping baskets wandered around, looking like they meant business. At the back of the room a doorway lead through to a wet dock, which they were hosing down. I am afraid I was not brave enough to try to buy anything, but it was the best display of fresh fish I have ever seen. Afterwards we walked along the shore and sat in front of a seafood bar to watch the sun go down over a glass of wine.

 

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Sagrada Familia

Posted on May 22, 2016 by cathyharnett

Before we had set off for Girona John had finally managed to book us tickets to see the Sagrada Familia. We had a window of entry between eleven thirty and eleven forty five, with the chance of going up the Passion Tower at twelve thirty.

We made sure to arrive early, had a wander round the outside and then sat in the shadow of the Cathedral for a coffee.

You have to keep your wits about you, as everyone there is so busy looking up it is easy to crash into folk. No doubt this makes it a paradise for pickpockets and we are very conscious how light fingered they can be after the demonstration by our magician friend. Every quarter hour a long line erupts out of nowhere and a group is let through the bag check and into the maw of the entrance.

It is some fifteen years since we last visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s last masterpiece, still being built. At that stage the interior was a complete building site, dark and strewn with stone lintels and bags of cement. It was impossible to venture far, a wonky sign read No Entry Temple Under Construction. Tape and plastic barriers were everywhere to stop people wandering into what looked like a bombsite. Parts of it may very well have been a bombsite, as the interior and Gaudi’s workshops had been wrecked in the Spanish Civil War. We had been allowed to go part way up one of the towers to look across at some of the stonework of the roof before heading to the crypt and a display of models.

They have come a long way in fifteen years. The interior now soars higher than any Cathedral I have visited. The pillars are elegant and end in complex stylized flowers. There is a vast open span. Jesus on the cross hangs at one end under an odd umbrella of lanterns. Above the door opposite a brooding Darth Vadar figure looks down on the proceedings. As you look more closely you notice the galleries, shells of stone fronted by a ribbon of clear glass, which undulate along the walls to either side. Higher still the view from the gods must be dizzying. But the wonderful part is the light. In the corridor by the entrance beams of blue and green light pour in from the stained glass illuminating the arched roof with a flowing aurora. On the opposite wall the windows hold red and yellow glass and I thought the light probably bathed that area in the evening, but no as we crossed the floor and drew closer to those windows, we passed into the sunset glow painting the archways there and looking back the blues and greens had faded away in the vastness. The movement of the sun is mapped as all round the walls ovals of white light slide along the columns from high clear windows, too slow for the naked eye to notice, but shown in video footage on screens. At noon the bells chimed and the whole place reverberated with the strokes, which climbed the octave in groups of four. Glass windows near the floor looked down into the basement a long way below. It looked like the nave of a very plain church down there and red, electric candles flickered on a stand.

We went down into the secular part of the basement. There were all the models and sketches I so enjoyed last time we visited. I particularly like the hoards of tiny leather bags suspended on networks of string used to show where the columns should be built to support the weight of the roof. In some cases mirrors are used to show how the network inverts to give the patterns of the Cathedral ceiling. I imagine all the cats-cradles Gaudi wove and rejected in the process. There are also drawings on which Gaudi has scribed cross sections in ellipse shapes. The models on display are reconstructions of those destroyed when Gaudi’s workshop below the Cathedral was vandalized during the attacks on it during the Civil War, but now the Cathedral itself is rising from the rubble of that destruction.

It was time for us to rise too, up into the Passion Tower. Luckily there is a very modern lift and a polite attendant to take us up in it. It is a one-way journey and took hardly any time at all. The attendant ushered us out, indicating the route to follow for the views and the steps back down. We were able to look across at the bobbley tops of some of the smaller towers and down at the crowds far far below us. The tops have been faced with ceramic fruits since our last visit, which lends an odd Carmen Miranda touch to the building. I prefer the way the dark tentacles of the spires used to grasp the sky and hope there are not plans afoot to clothe the whole structure and turn it into a Disney castle. We shuffled along behind a gilded Christ figure looking down at the street below. John was not happy with the views down and after taking photographs we headed for the stairway down.

At first the sone steps wound round the lift shaft, comfortably wide enough for one person, nice and even with solid walls on both sides. At intervals there were slit windows, to let in the light and allow you to gauge your progress. We were now level with the tops of the baubled towers. We came to a halt behind a queue of people and stood awhile. Then a woman in front of John said “ Right I’m ready now!” and we moved forward. We then realised why she had hesitated for the stairs became a narrow spiral, the center of which twisted round an open void. The gap was not wide enough to merit safety measures, but enough to turn the stomach. We kept to the wall, held onto the rail and just kept on going. Eventually we emerged into the body of the Cathedral and the murmur of the crowds. On the floor there the passion is drawn out in mosaic and the cloister contains modern materials and techniques, which seem entirely in keeping. I wonder what Gaudi would have got up to with a laser cutter and modern glass.

Back out on the street we ventured down into the Metro and managed to buy tickets from the machine and find the right line for the Place de Catalonia, where we wandered through the fountains and balloon sellers and onto the Ramblas. We walked down one side of the boulevard, which carries a faint whiff of drains. It would have been more pleasant to walk under the crossing branches of the plane trees in the central pedestrian area with its florist stalls, but for the marauding mob of a British stag party parading down it waving a blow up doll. John managed to find the turn in to the large square with restaurant umbrellas flanking the ochre buildings and luckily the mob passed it by.

We found a table overlooking the fountain and watched the tumblers and violin players over lunch. We both had the menu of the day, enjoyed wonderful gazpacho, of dark cherries with slivers of goats cheese and then shared an indifferent cod and asparagus paella, but the coffee was good and the atmosphere lovely.

 

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Flower Festival

Posted on May 17, 2016 by cathyharnett

Our hotel here is very smart. Everything is brown, tan and minimalist except for the display in reception. Right in the center of the space pastel coloured paper lanterns, metal birdcages and dried flowers hang over a rectangle of artificial grass around which swathes of straw have been draped. The straw keeps catching in case wheels and being dragged around the carpet. John and I stood looking at it as we waited for the girl on the desk to finish talking on the phone.

IMG_2485We asked for a map of the town. “A street map or one of the Flower Show?” she asked. We opted for both. By a happy accident we have arrived in Girona at the time of its’ annual flower festival. Buildings throughout the city put on displays of art and flowers. Most of them are in the old town, some outside buildings, others in gardens or courtyards, some take place indoors. Whether in public or private spaces all are completely free to visit. We had no idea it was on and may well have missed it had we visited the city when we had sailed nearer to it. First we set heading for the river. On our way we passed a crocodile of tiny schoolchildren, the first of many such parties we were to see chattering excitedly.

Our first flower display was hung from a bridge designed by the famous Eiffel. The bridge had all his hallmark metalwork, but crossed the river flat as a plank, so was possibly an early work. Hanging from it were flowers and streamers of hay, which in truth was a bit messy and from a distance looked like Spanish moss. As we threaded up away from the water the street was hung with kitsch plastic umbrellas and mobiles made from bamboo canes and coloured tissue paper. I speculated the flowers were the work of local schools, who were being brought round to view each other’s efforts.

The next courtyard put paid to that notion. A lattice of white twine hung down three storeys with big white daisy heads suspended in test tubes at eye level and flower covered post cards littering the floor below. We continued up and around through displays ranging from the artful to the plain odd. Rather than go into detail I will put up lots of photographs, (when the signal is strong), which if you click on will play as a slide show.

The city itself is beautiful and the backdrop of snow peaked mountains stunning.

My favourite display was a swathe of flowers climbing some steps at the University. The University displays were themed on Shakespeare’s four hundredth anniversary and the carpet up the steps represented a flowery mead with quotes mentioning particular plants in English. We sat under some trees in a courtyard at the foot of the steps and had coffee. As we descended the hill to visit the Arab quarter we joined a throng. Suddenly the streets were full of people, mostly older than us, but all determined to see the displays, forming long queues and taking no prisoners. The coach trips had arrived on the scene and the schoolchildren were being gathered up and shepherded away, probably for their own safety. John and I decided to leave the hubbub behind and headed back to the other side of the river, took in a few quieter displays and then found a table for lunch ahead of the rush. It was two in the afternoon, but the rush comes later here. We had the set menu of the day a goat’s cheese salad with strawberries followed by pulled lamb and mashed potatoes and a creamy thing with raspberries.

Too tired to face further sight seeing we headed back to the hotel, which was just as well as the heavens opened and the rain sheeted down. I expect the streets cleared pretty quickly and at least it would keep the flowers fresh for the following day.

We travelled back to Barcelona by bus and saw a bit more of the landscape. John kept an eye open for the chemical plant he used to visit outside Girona, but a lot more industry had built up since then and nothing looked familiar to him.

 

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Mega Train

Posted on May 17, 2016 by cathyharnett

In a bid to escape the gloom we are off to visit Girona. It is about a hundred and forty kilometers from here, but John did a bit of research and found the fast train covers this distance in just over half an hour and only costs sixteen Euros. We could make it a day trip, but we are stir crazy and so are going to stay over in a hotel. I have everything crossed that there will be a bath. The train station was more like an airport. We had to go through security and then sit around in a “lounge” waiting for our train to be called. We then passed through another ticket control before boarding. When we reached the platform the train was huge, eighteen coaches, each one double decked. Our seats were in the coach nearest the engine on the lower deck, which felt like travelling on a normal train. It must be great to be up on the upper deck. Mind you the views through the windows were dolorous, most of the landscape mere shadows in the banks of fog. Everywhere was very green, but dank and miserable and it carried on like that for all hundred and forty kilometers. When we arrived in Girona the weather was still grey and cold. We trundled our bag to the hotel and the heavens opened. It rained steadily all evening, so we ate in the hotel bar, which was very good. We both still had boat motion, but joy of joys our room had a bath.

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Catching Up With the Mending and Sunday Lunch

Posted on May 13, 2016 by cathyharnett

The wind has arrived and we are back sleeping in the front. It has dried the decks, so John pulled out the cockpit cover to provide us with a dry awning before the rains come back tomorrow. Unfortunately another of its’ seams had come apart. This happens because the thread holding it together perishes in the sunlight long before the canvass and the stitching just fragments away. So far we have managed several running repairs using the holes left behind by the vanished threads. It is usually a two-person job with one of us poking the sail makers needle in one direction and the other passing it back through the next hole forming a reasonably even running stitch. This takes ages, causes arguments and is rough on the finger ends. For the present repair we employed John’s latest present from my brother Dave, a sewing awl. It looks like a screwdriver into which different large needles can be fixed. The needle threads near its’ sharp end and the awl handle houses a spool of waxed thread. The action is a bit like pegging a rug, but involves passing the free end of the cotton through each thrust to form a lockstitch. Ingenious. It worked like a dream and transformed the job into a one person task. A one woman task in this case. As we put the cover up John spotted another strip of fabric that will soon need mending, so I am sure he will want to have a go next. After all it is his present and a most excellent one too. Now the boat is now both warmer and quieter and the cockpit will stay nice and dry.

Sunday was another very wet day. The cloud came down so low we lost sight of the tops of the two skyscrapers just beyond the marina. It was cold too. We sat below with cocoa and digestive biscuits and debated turning the heating on. When the wind is in a certain direction the boats have a strange to and fro motion in our part of the marina. Today Lyra would lurch forward with much creaking of ropes and then shuffle back again. It was most wearing. Eventually we had had enough and decided to brave the weather and have lunch in one of the restaurants ashore. This proved a most excellent decision. Sunday lunch out seems to be a big family celebration here in Spain and we became immersed in it.

The restaurant we tried was new to us, La Barca del Salamanca. It is quite large, but we were lucky to get a table. To our left Spanish families were having a fine time, to our right long tables for over a dozen people were set up with glasses and cutlery on white cloths, obviously pre booked. Gradually these filled up too. Everyone was dressed in his or her Sunday best and the older ladies had their hair coifed. One party was celebrating a birthday and strung up balloons and streamers. Beside us a small group sat at the far end of a long table for nearly an hour before the rest of their clan arrived. At which point every one was on their feet hugging and kissing and exchanging presents in plastic carrier bags. When they had all settled down all the ladies had a single red rose and we wondered if they were having a belated mother’s day celebration. All around us the din of conversation was overpowering. Phalanxes of laden waiters strolled out of the kitchen to ply between the tables. Heading the other way to the toilets was quite an adventure. Despite being so busy the waiters were all happy to chat to people and take numerous family photographs on mobile phones. No one was rushed over their meal, but as soon as they stood to leave the table cloths were whisked away and the tables split into smaller units and reset, ready to go again.

There was even a children’s entertainer, Mag Lini, moving from table to table doing magic tricks. It was as though we were guests at a rather exuberant wedding. The magician came to us with a wallet that burst into flame as he opened it and them proceeded to do a trick that involved migrating large silver coins from one hand to the other. At one point he pressed the coins into John’s hand, holding his fist closed and proceeding to extract one into his own free hand. As John counted the remaining coins in his palm the magician grinned at me and dangled John’s wristwatch behind his head, gesturing for me to keep shtum. Then he carried out a couple of other coin tricks, which John smiled politely about before offering him his watch back to John’s obvious amazement. It gave us both pause for thought.

To eat we shared a rather large salad and then had roast pork with boiled potatoes, the pork had the most amazing crackling. We were too full for desert, but were given the usual almond cake squares after our coffees, with a whole bottle of dayglow grappa to help ourselves to. We drank the two glasses already poured and dunked our cake. Feeling very full John asked for the bill. It came with another plateful of cake. I think that was a mistake caused by all the furor in the kitchen, but our waiter just grinned and put his finger to his lips. We could eat no more and had to leave it untouched and wobble back to Lyra, with the place still humming behind us.

 

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Rain, Rain Go Away

Posted on May 13, 2016 by cathyharnett

We are probably going to be here much longer than we planned. It is raining. Storms are forecast, with a drop in the wind on Saturday, but then there will be persistent rain, which probably means poor visibility. Our last experience of sailing in the rain was pretty grim, so we have extended our stay. Between showers we took our washing to the laundry and sat on a bench basking in the warmth from the dryers to read as the darks and lights spun around. The machines seemed expensive, but included powder and conditioner and took 50 cent coins, which John accumulates. Given the weather we availed ourselves of a tumble dryer. The clothes came out beautifully laundered and smooth and the rain held off till we were back on board with our bags.

IMG_2478

 

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In Search of Gaudi

Posted on May 11, 2016 by cathyharnett

Lara had been with us on our last visit to Barcelona, when we flew home from here two years ago. She had been keen to see some of Gaudi’s building works and we had toured the first important house he had designed, Palau Guell. This was interesting, but starker than the patterns and organic wonders of his later work. Clever though, it reminded me of the little Honk Kong flat on U-tube, with the visual effects used to make a narrow town house seem like an estate. Instead of closed corridors balconies over a central hall had been used to make the hall seem wider than it was and the same trick had been used on the upper storey windows to steal space from the street. My favorite trick was having a pair of huge doors on one wall of this hall, which opened out to reveal an altar, Jesus on the cross, the whole works, to turn the hall into a family chapel. God in a cupboard. Lara, John and I had climbed through the house listening to our audio guides until we came out onto the roof’s curving surfaces. The tall mosaic clad chimney pots turned out not to be by Gaudi, but by a number of contemporary artists paying homage to the man. No wonder I had always been surprised by how modern the ceramic work looked in photographs. Apparently Gaudi had never finished them off for whatever reason. We had then decided to seek out the genuine article and headed off to Parc Guell. We took the metro and then walked up several steep sets of steps into the park, which Lara complained about and we suffered in silence. The entrance to the park was through the woods, some way through the woods to the main entrance. John and I enjoyed the meandering route, but Lara was less than enthused. The woods were shady and opened to spectacular views of the city. Even so it was increasingly hot work and we were glad to buy water from some enterprising hawkers of small icy bottles for a Euro. Eventually we arrived into the top of Gaudi’s fantasy cloisters ranged in tiers on the hillside. On my one previous visit this had been my favorite bit of the park. Musicians were taking advantage of both the crowds and the acoustics. In one alcove a lone Spanish guitarist was filling the air with strains of Rodrigo, while far enough away not to interfere with him a jazz trio were busking. As we reached the main park entrance we came upon a long queue for tickets into the part of the park with the Hobbit houses and the mosaic features. This had just been open to wander into on our previous trip ten or so years ago. After joining the line we found out the tickets on sale were for entry in more than two hours time. At this point we settled for peering through the gates and decided to walk back to the Cathedral, the Sagrada Familia, which still has the builders in. This had again turned out to be further than John thought. We slogged down the hot streets back into town to try the Cathedral only to be thwarted by the same issue. This time the queue was even longer and the tickets were being sold for the evening, when it would have been in darkness. In spite of her disappointment and being hot and tired of walking Lara had come up with a back up plan thanks to Trip Adviser and found us a marvelous Tapas bar near to the Cathedral for a late lunch.

This trip we decided to learn from our previous mistake and take an early taxi ride straight to the Parc Guell entrance, buy our tickets and explore the woods till the time for them came round. On our way we passed by the already mobbed Cathedral, around which everyone was looking up, up, up. The park entrance was also already buzzing, but the ticket queue was reassuringly short. Then we realized the only tickets for that day were to go in at seven thirty pm. We asked about the following day and there were tickets at eight am and one ticket for one o’clock. Foiled again. If you plan to visit Barcelona do book tickets on line well in advance. John tried to book for the Cathedral, but the website was too overloaded with images for the signal strength. Once more we peered through the gates at the bright tiles of the whimsical entrance and then explored the woods, with their boulder pergolas, which I still feel is the best part. Just as well really. This time we were treated a flamenco performance by a group of lean young men, the dancer with waist length hair flailing as he span, the others making a loud rhythmic clapping accompaniment with energetic shouts. Stumped for where to go next we had a coffee in a nearby garden and John found another Gaudi building with his phone. Mindful of the long walk down we picked up one of the stream of taxis bringing folk to the park, showed the driver John’s phone and we were off to Cassa Battlo.

Cassa Battlo is the building with the balconies that look like masks and the roof tiled like a dragon. I had always wanted to see it and it turned out to have been the last house Gaudi built. There was the usual queue, but luckily this time the tickets were for immediate consumption. There was a fast track line for those who had booked online, which caused a bit of a muddle around the entrance, capably managed by a girl, whose job I would not want to have. The demand was such that John and I joined steady procession through the house informed by an audio tour on individual headphones. That said it was quite a peaceful experience and we took as long as we wished over the various rooms. There was a mesmerizing quality about the place, a feeling of being underwater in a Jules Verne fantasy. And of a space completely controlled by one person’s will. Natural daylight was filtered down the center of the building by tiles in graded shades of blue, progressed from dark to light, so that the lower storeys received brighter reflected light. The main staircase wound up this tunnel of blue round a lift shaft with walls of dimpled glass. The outer windows grew smaller the higher up the building, again to control the light levels. Organic shaped inner windows, framed in molded oak let light through from one space to another. The doors were similarly formed, the tops glazed with a pattern of circles, which changed colour as one passed through and looked back at the luster from the reverse. The main reception room could be divided by half glazed doors which each folded elegantly in three to reveal layers of woodwork. The room had floor length windows with gorgeously curved wooden frames, which could be raised to gain access to the exotic balconies by strings of metal levers. Organic shapes abounded as walls blended into ceilings on which a subtle fretwork pattern spread. The only right angles in sight were those of the stair treads.

The colour and decoration ceased in the attic levels, with walls were the colour of bone, but a series of parabolic arches separated rooms along each corridor in a rhythmic display of structure. Along the large room across the attic front the plastered arches were modeled on the structure of a ribcage to further enhance the feeling of being now inside a giant beast. We came out onto the roof and beheld the tiled back beast, surely a sea serpent. The chimney pots had been tiled by Gaudi and were much more subtle in effect with pastel tiles covering them in stylized flowers, said to have been inspired by Monet’s water lilies. The chimney pots had been grouped to allow a flat roof around the central skylight, forming a garden in the sky. We had only seen one stove in the building, so the numbers of chimneys suggest much that is not open to the public.

As we descended to the inevitable gift shop John wondered how anyone could furnish such a space. The man who molds balustrades and doorknobs on the interior contours of his own hand and designs a font to denote the separate chamber doors does not leave such things up to the taste of his client. The entrance to the shop held a display of Gaudi chairs. Sparse elegant wooden structures, molded to the human form for comfort without the need for messy upholstery. Replicas from an approved source can be ordered from the shop for a mere one and a half thousand Euros. Here are the chairs and other bits of detail, note the wavy skirting and some of the cellular painting on the walls.

All in all Cassa Battlo would be my choice of the ultimate Gaudi experience and I would recommend booking online for an early slot. When we told Lara of our days frustrations she could not believe we had not learned this from our previous visit, but I am rather glad we did not, as we would probably then not have had time for this masterpiece.

 

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Puerto Olympica

Posted on May 11, 2016 by cathyharnett

No chance of losing any weight on the short trip between Sitges and Barcelona. We set off around nine thirty and arrived well before Spanish lunchtime. This time the wind waited until we arrived and were trying to dock before it rose from a negligible force two to an aggravating force four. When we set off the wind was too slight to make putting the sails up worthwhile, though John was frustrated to spot that a yacht making a passage close to shore had enough wind to sail. When we came to go round the busy shipping lanes into the port I felt glad we had stayed well out. The first part of our course had taken us closer in and we had to keep a sharp look out for lobster pots.

At one point a rather romantic looking tower appeared in the early mist, then we rounded a headland and a chemical plant hove into view. The tower was revealed as one of a pair of silos housed on a headland away from the main plant, so probably holding nasty stuff. As we passed the structure merged into one industrial whole. As we progressed we watched a constant stream of aircraft lifted off from the Barcelona and eventually passed under the flight path at which point there were enough boats plying in and out to keep us on our toes. John had booked into Puerto Olympica, a marina built for the fabulous Olympic Games of 1992, the era when John was travelling here. Emma and Katie both had T-shirts he brought back sporting the little Olympic logo. In those days there was no Lara to buy one for, though she inevitably ended up wearing them both of them as she progressed up in size. The instructions on entering the marina were to tie up to the fuel pontoon, so this time there was a marinera on hand to help us. He was one of the very laid back ones, which always leave me wondering whether they are superbly competent or just not too concerned about crunching your boat. This one coped very well with my rope throwing, which seemed to have gone all to pot. He helped us get onto the quay. Pushed us off when we came to head to our berth and was round at it waiting for us by the time we had reversed over there, which was an impressive bit shifting on his part. The berth itself was rather a tight one, but John managed it well, albeit with a bit of muttering to himself and we are very snug in between a tall motor launch and a lower orange sailing boat.

After adjusting our fenders and lines we headed to the string of bars and restaurants along the marina side. An attractive young woman with a menu tempted the Captain outside the first place asking if he would like to try something different, (it was a French restaurant). But the force for beer was strong in him and he passed on. We did lunch out at a Galician restaurant further along that was doing a roaring trade, reasoning that this would be our main meal. We could eat tea on board at a reasonable time and be up early enough to see the sights. For lunch we shared bread and a platter of mixed fried things, squid, sardines and padron peppers, which was down as a starter. It must be designed for sharing by at least four people, after we had finished neither of us could manage desert, so ordered our usual café solos. After them our waiter brought out complimentary squares of almond cake with shots of dark liqueur he called Galician Coca-Cola. And it was the rose liqueur we had sampled all those months ago in San Vicente. It brought back happy memories of the lady there with her tame seagull, Growler.

That evening we decided to explore along the seafront promenade. We climbed up the sea wall and John took a photo of the statue of a diving youth, put there for the 1992 Games, then made our way out of the marina. The main road into town was thronged with people and taxis. We headed out along the prom amongst a swarm of joggers, cyclists and pedestrians, weaving in and out of each other at speed. To the landward side was the Hospital del Mar, which John suggested had been built there to cope with the impact injuries. There were no dog walkers out willing to risk their pets in the melee. John suggested we could wreak havoc with our red shopping trolley. On our way back to the boat we stopped off at an Italian restaurant where the waiter said we could just have drinks. The bars were packed with drinkers settling down to watch the Champions League semi final. Inside the restaurant was an impressive wood fired pizza oven and we watched the chef slice up a small pizza and sprinkle it with rocket. Then our waiter came out and it was for us. “Complimentary, to accompany the drinks.” Very yummy it was too, oozing cheese and with touches of ash on the crust. No need to cook on board after all.

 

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Through the Looking Glass at Sitges

Posted on May 10, 2016 by cathyharnett

We had booked to stay two nights to give us a full day to explore the pretty town of Sitges. Early next morning we set out to walk along the coast towards the civic looking buildings. John had few memories of the place, just a notion there was a nudist beech, some craft shops and a promenade where he had watched a mass wine pressing. Our way into town followed the sea wall and at that time of day was the province of dog walkers and joggers. At the far side of the marina we came to what seemed to be a dead end only to discover a set of stairs climbing the hillside into the next bay. We were overtaken on the stairs by a little white, long -haired dog, short of leg, but wide of girth, gamely panting away ahead of his owner. A lady, he stood in the shade waiting for, who stood to pant in turn and chat to another dog owner, another woman with a Labrador, heading downhill. The two dogs sniffed at each other, then hung at the heels of their owners waiting. The little dog made us think of Scamp, though it was shorter, rounder and hairier. We carried on and the first bay was the nudist beach, though most beachgoers were fully dressed in the early morning chill, a few determined nudists paddled up and down the waters edge. The path took us in front of some villas to the next curve of beach, where John remembered watching the wine treading,, something of a raucous affair, where all comers were welcome to doff their sandals off and jump in. Here were some other hardy sun worshipers, mostly with small children wielding buckets and spades. A number of restaurants and bars had tables looking out onto the sea front, but we decided to head off into town out of the breeze before stopping for a coffee. You may call us wimps, but we get plenty of wind at sea.

The streets of the town are narrow enough to cast a chilling shade. We wandered up and down, bought some fruit then some bread and a table came free outside the bread shop so we sat in the sun for cappuccinos and tiny custard pastries. Unable to locate the craft shops we headed for an impressive looking building and wandered along it to a terrace overlooking the sea. A school party was ranged round their teacher, who was taking a photograph of them all through a large mirror window. The building housing the mirror was a museum and art gallery, so we decided to take a look inside. It was surprisingly engaging. The lower floor was a series of rooms painted vivid blue and housing a vast array of plates and tiles and artifacts from tiny Roman glass bottles to framed Edwardian comic strips. All arranged so precisely that the clutter formed a cohesive whole. Everything was gleaming immaculate in the light flooding in from the windows through which the sea glinted. The building gloried in the outlook onto the sea. On higher floors small windows seemed set low to frame a picture of the moving water and further round in the gallery sculptures were set against the backdrop of the water. Originally the building had been a hospital and had been converted into a house and gallery by a wealthy American at the turn of the last century to house his art collection. There was a portrait of him in one of the rooms, but other than that he had taken his collection back to Chicago in the wake of World War One. The present art collection was is of local work spanning several centuries donated to the state, who have done an impressive job of curation. Eventually we reached a gallery at the end of which a large doorway lay open on to an outside terrace. Except that it was fully glazed. We had arrived at the other side of the large exterior mirror and were treated to looking out through one- way glass at people preening and posing inches away on the street.

Once back on the street ourselves, we noticed it had warmed up a lot and we lunched in one of the seafront restaurants looking out at the blue. It was a good value set menu, with a superb starter of chilled melon soup with shreds of Parma ham piled up in the center and threads of raw spring onion. Quite a thick soup too, not sure how they achieved that and kept the fresh taste.P1160231

We had planned to make that our meal for the day and just planned to go out for a drink that evening before an early night, but the smells from one of the glass boxes strung along the marina wall tempted us. We shared a warm goats cheese salad to start and then John had a monkfish and potato stew in a rich shellfish based sauce and I had more monkfish, but with in an almond sauce poured over. Both were excellent and I now have the idea of almond sauce to conjure with. We need to put in some sailing days or I will be a small barrel, like the little white dog.

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