Ronda

Posted on June 9, 2014 by yachtlyra

There is only one train a day to Ronda and we were up early to make sure to be on it. The journey itself is a treat. At first you travel through neat orange groves, where the soil is the same colour as the ripening fruit. Further away are conical hills, covered in scrub and dotted with white painted houses with pantile roofs. Climbing higher the glossy green of the orange trees give way to looser, silver rows of olive plantations. Then the train goes into a tunnel, a long one. Emerging with a roar, the blistering light shines on sheer rock precipices. A green river rushes tortuously far below and directly opposite are narrow walkways for hikers. From the train the cranky nature of these footpaths and the perilous state of the rusted metal supporting them is all too apparent. I just hoped the track beneath us had a less hazardous structure as we hurtled into the darkness of a second tunnel. After a sequence of strobe lit glimpses of the soaring rugged beauty we emerged to a high plain, where olive groves, planted in tan soil undulated with wheat fields, the grain already ripe and buff, streaked occasionally with a graze of poppies. In the distance were further sharp peaks. I must make prints based on this landscape the colours alone are an inspiration.

Eventually we arrived at Ronda, where we had come to see the old town and the breathtakingly high bridge across to it. There were no signs to point the way from the station, so we followed our fellow travelers and were soon jostling shoulders with hoards of shoppers in a modern looking town, with a much flatter geography than seemed likely from our research. Eventually we zigzagged our way to the tourist information office, which was situated near the edge of the precipice we had expected to find. We had not prepared for the scale. Photographs of the bridge show the narrow chasm it fords, but the town is on the edge of a plateau, with sheer rock faces dropping to reveal a daunting panorama of the plain below and distant mountains. A girl played the harp in a bandstand at the centre of a fan of viewing platforms and we joined the other tourists taking photographs, which cannot hope to convey the spectacle. We strung along with our fellow tourists meandering round the parapet towards the bridge. The New Bridge, to denote it from the older much less ambitious one, set away from the ravine, plunges narrow and deep, a Victoria Falls of a bridge. On postcards it has three archways, all are narrow, with the central wider one supported by a smaller arch low down, currently filled in. The top of the bridge is utterly innocuous, the retaining wall reassuringly ordinary and traffic rumbles across along with pedestrians. Look over the edge and you plunge giddily down smooth stone face, the lines of the arches seeming to converge. Once across we were able to see the other equally vertiginous face before the river turns a corner, so that the old town stands isolated on a soaring pillar of stone.

Stepping away from the bridge we wandered into the old town map in hand. Once off the main street it was remarkably peaceful there. We searched along the narrow streets and found the hanging gardens, which overlook the bridge. As we approached a peacock within let out an ear piercing call. The girl on the desk explained his mate had wandered off, so every few minutes he called for her. He stood droopily by their food where the dappled shade camouflaged his gorgeous tail feathers. Our visit was punctuated by his unrequited siren call. The garden was small, but lovely with a white garden, where pots of geraniums and daisies surrounded and water lily clogged pool fed by a wall fountain from the rill above, at its centre. Stone steps disappeared into the cliff face on the way to an old mine entrance and the river far below, but we stayed in the garden, so do not know if a wayward peahen was down there hiding.

We headed through the maze of pretty streets, hardly encountering a soul and came out on the opposite town wall, to a shady square with a Spanish guitar player. After another consultation with the map, we wound round the edge of town to a combined palace and museum. We stood by the entry prices behind a woman waiting to buy postcards, to pay for entry. There was only one counter and some Japanese ladies were deciding which souvenirs to buy, wandering back and forth from the till into the small shop. A group of people walked past us and in through the door and the girl serving started up, harried and disturbed by this, but said nothing. We waited a small queue formed behind us. Finally all the ladies were served and the assistant told us entry was free today. Feeling foolish we headed on in. Followed by a small, disgruntled crowd. I found out later some museums are free to EU citizens, so maybe she was dubious about whose who walked in, but usually you still need a ticket and say where you are from, which they make a note of.

The villa part of the palace was lovely. More interesting enclosed courtyards, leading on to garden rooms, fountains, hedges and flowers in geometric simplicity. The museum part was distinctly odd. One minute we were in an upstairs room looking at objects in glass cases, and then we passed through a doorway and into a fibreglass cave, with an arrangement of old bones in one corner, behind glass. Hastily exiting the cave we walked along the corridor to find a caveman mannequin, who had seen better days, sat huddled over some flints, in the room behind him a standing female regarded him stonily, the back wall of her room appeared to be a thatched roundhouse. Gamely we ducked under the thatch, to find it gave access to further similar exhibits until we reached a dead end where a couple of figures were busily smelting iron in a corner. It was probably very avant-garde when it was put together, but seems sad and dated. Back we tracked to the present day and out past reception, not tempted by the shop.

On the street it was hot, so the shady square by the convent with tables set under parasols was a welcome place to stop for a late lunch of cold beer and warm tapas. Under the trees opposite a young Johnny Depp sat on a low wall playing classical guitar. Gradually people we had encountered on our travels filtered out from the various corners and we were all held under a spell in the calm.

Finally we had to head off for our train. Back at the bridge all was still hectic with trippers, strange, but wonderful that so few explore the enchantment of the old town. On our way back John had wanted to look at the bullring museum, but on arrival there we could not face it. Outside was tethered a poor horse, dressed in full regalia, wilting in the hot sun, a blackboard in front of it offering rides. We headed back through the shopping center, pretty much closed, but still thronged with people and found our way back to the station with surprisingly little difficulty.

 

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Malaga

Posted on June 7, 2014 by yachtlyra

There are a number of places to visit inland from Benalmadena. The launch point for these trips is Malaga, which itself had a number of attractions, so on our first full day we took a taxi to the centre of town.

Billboard The cathedral bell tower was visible above the shops and we headed there, stopping for a coffee on our way. The cathedral is built on the style of those that have twin towers above a central grand entrance. This cathedral only had the one, so looked to have an arm up waving. There was a reason, but it now escapes me. Inside was most of the usual cast of characters looking particularly harrowed in paintings and sculpture with some a couple of vicious Franciscans exacting retribution left and right. There was also a very odd painting of Mary washing the feet of Jesus, with unnecessary glimpses of exposed flesh and odd goings on in the background. Outside there was access to a smaller separate chapel, with an intimate holy aura and a small garden with hedging and a fountain. In the corner a man played classical guitar.

We turned to see the Picasso Museum and went in to a plain, but beautifully designed building, with a hushed atmosphere conveying a different sort of reverence. The rooms were set round an enclosed courtyard, full of potted bushes. A door of dark wood on either side of opposite corners led into the galleries. It was easy to become bewildered, especially on the upper storey. There was a complete range of Picasso’s work; painting, sculpture, pottery all dominated by a tiny monochrome projection of the man himself drawing with white paint on glass. No question what it was all about. The work was not exhibited chronologically and I found the themes hard to fathom. Most fascinating was a sketchbook displayed in a glass case, but its pages turned on an adjacent screen. There is always a feeling of being taken into the magician’s confidence in a sketchbook. I also rather liked an early portrait of a young woman with one eye saucily come hither and the other staring straight out, blank with boredom, but she was not available on a postcard. We watched a showing of a Martin Scorsese film, linking the Cubist works of Picasso and Braque with early motion pictures. Scorsese held the view that the innovation of film and it’s ability to capture time as well as space challenged and inspired the two artists. I found this riveting, especially thinking about Einstein coming up with his first Relativity theory at the same time. We emerged to find ourselves blinking up at the fort, with a Roman amphitheatre at its feet. It was well past lunchtime, even for Spanish, so we sat outside under red parasols and surveyed our next port of call.

The fort was a mere 2.20 Euros, so we were completely amazed by the extent and beauty of it. Climbing up the initial cobbled slopes we looked up at lush shrubbery and the magenta brilliance of bougainvilleas and across at views over the city. Then we came to battlements enclosing a flat piece of garden, with a fountain fed by symmetrical rills. Following the water higher we uncovered a network with further fountains and cisterns linked by the narrow line of gently running water. We passed through Moorish archways, threading in and out enclosed spaces until we were on the highest ramparts. Malaga with its busy port spread out on three sides, on the fourth more Aladdin archways gave onto two higher courtyards, flanked by symmetrical rooms. The first had matching fountains, just bubbling in shallow saucers and the second a large rectangular pool of green water. There was a further walk out along the walls at a lower level, but it looked dusty and less enticing than what we had seen, so we headed down. The exit turnstile cast a pool of shade in which a white cat lay sleeping, undisturbed by our passing through.

We headed back to the station and were able to sort out the train times to our other hoped for ports of call and to find our way back on a local train.

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To Marbella and Beyond

Posted on June 2, 2014 by yachtlyra

We set out from Estapona into a glassy calm sea and a clear, blue sky. Off to starboard was Gibraltar, ghostly in the sun, from here it looks like an island, but then so does Africa. Behind us the big brown mountains towered, every line and crevice clearly etched by the slanting morning sunlight. We turned to starboard and set off on our course, a little sooner than we planned, to avoid a fishing boat, turning in a wide circle ahead and sat back to enjoy the ride. We had expected to have to motor, so changed our planned destination of Fuengirala to Benalmadena, as that took us a bit further on our way given we knew we would make eight knots in a straight line under engine. Motoring is less fun than sailing and the noise monotonous, but in the absence of lobster pots there is little to do. I had a snooze, doped by the seasickness tablets. So far the Costa del Sol had been much more attractive than we had expected with the dramatic mountains plunging down to the sea. When I woke the white Sierra Blanca mountains awesome, but the high rise littered their feet along the shoreline. From our distance they looked like so many circuit micro chips stood on end in clusters. We were passing Marbella, but the buildings continued in a ribbon along the coast. As we neared our destination the wind picked picked up annoyingly, so we had to moor in a force six again. The harbour here is massive, but we are squeezed into a narrow slit between two tall motor cruisers. John did really well steering into this one. We have come exploring. It is a little bit grotesque so far.

The Marina is all part of a resort complex built around a lagoon. The style gives a nod to Moorish architecture and a wink to Gaudi. The buildings look to be molded from the swirling mounds of ice cream they sell here, in suitable colours of pistachio and vanilla. Three story apartment blocks mushroom on four islands, surrounded by similar structures on the surrounding land holding restaurants and bars. Luckily these are all on the opposite side of the islands to the part of the harbour we are in. The islands are linked by a series of Venetian style bridges, lit by muti-bracketed streetlamps. The look may improve with a bit of age to add contour and plants to conceal. There is a theme park feel. It would hardly be surprising to turn a corner and run into Ja Ja Binks chatting to a couple of Jedi and see Empire white storm troupers policing the walkways. As it is, a promenade along the seemingly narrow walkway past the restaurants is to run the gauntlet of a series of folk, whose job it is to hook in customers. During daylight hours the opposite side, along the waters edge, is riven with hawkers trying to take you on a boat trip or sell you a hat or bib with a name embroidered on it as you watch. Through the permanent operators weave black youths with arms full of watches, sunglasses and baseball caps and big smiles, it all very quickly becomes very wearing. We did expect such a modern development to be served by wifi with excellent bandwidth, but so far the experience has been of an intermittent weak signal in a bar vamping house music. The signal did not even stretch as far as the terrace.

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Sunday Market

Posted on June 1, 2014 by yachtlyra

We woke to blue skies. At the end of the marina a market was spread along the walkway in front of the restaurants.

Market Stalls

Shoe shops, leather goods, sparkly jewellery and ladies clothing in a variety of man made fabrics lined up to receive a stream of bargain hunters. The cafes were doing a roaring trade and it was standing room only in the jazz bar. We wandered along one side and down the other and then spotted more of it across the roundabout. I was tempted to buy some tiny brightly painted pots, and then we retired into one of the restaurants to watch proceedings over a coffee. John’s phone graphics showed more thunder and lightning to come and we watched as a stall holder with a Dustin Hoffman look set tenting his emporium of ladies tops with plastic sheeting, as his glamorous assistant valiantly sold on.

Anxious to go to the supermarket before the weather broke we paid and emerged to see black clouds piling up over the mountains. Our rush round the supermarket was somewhat thwarted by the mammoth queue to pay, but finally we headed back to Lyra and just made it over the gangplank as the first large spots began to fall. We unloaded our goods as the rain fell and thunder sighed in the distance. When all was quiet John poked his head out and all trace of the market and its’ custom had vanished.

We have now come down to the much quieter jazz bar and I am busy publishing like mad, but the bandwidth will still not support pictures.

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Estepona

Posted on June 1, 2014 by yachtlyra

Estepona is a lovely spot. On arrival, we had been pleasantly surprised by the pretty marina front, with its blue and white paintwork and peaceful atmosphere.Marina Building Escapona From the range of attractive restaurants we chose an Italian on the upper level and ate watching the sun set over the now calm sea. The wind had completely died and later, from below in the darkness came the strains of accordion music. Today we walked into town, which, once past the fish dock, was a pleasant stroll along a palm fringed promenade looking over a narrow sandy beach. Small oases of palms and the like had been planted at intervals in the beach around open air showers. Opposite the sands were gardens; vivid with short sunflowers and spectacular pink gingers, with benches looking out to sea. We struck off into the old town, heading towards a prominent bell tower.

The old town is a wonder of stage managed prettiness on an epic scale. The mainly white houses have black wrought iron balconies, painted shutters and pantile roofs of terracotta. All along the walls range pots of geraniums, usually bright blue pots and red geraniums, though one street sported all green pots and another brick red ones and occasionally plants with pink or white flowers had snuck in, but the general effect was of rampant colour coordination. The old streets wind up from a shaded square with a large fountain to the church with its’ bell tower. We looked inside, the church was immaculate and looked to be decorated for a wedding, with sprays of flowers on a palm leaf at the end of every other pew.

Then, joy of joys, we came across a haberdashers. On the wall opposite the door were orderly rows of spooled ribbons, laces and braids behind a glass counter holding close packed plastic tubes, the end of each sporting a sample of the buttons within. Next to the counter were floor to ceiling shelves, filled library style with bolts of patchwork fabrics in ditzy patterns, arranged so toning shades pressed together temptingly. After peering through both door and window I ventured in. Beside the fabrics were stands with spools of thread in a myriad shades, in the corner a door to the back, but the wonders continued along the back wall, with a smaller counter leading up to the window, between which and the entrance was another bookcase full of fabric, I had not anticipated. As I browsed oblivious, John amused himself by watching a young couple at the counter have a silent, highly gesticulated argument each time the lady serving them disappeared into the back, stopping abruptly on her return. As they were paying John handed me the wallet and went to wait outside. Apparently their argument exploded into full force once they emerged into the street, but not able to follow the rapid Spanish, he was none the wiser as to the cause. Inside the shop a feminine peace descended and, with the help of another prospective customer, I managed to buy some quarters of fabric and matching thread. I feel I was most restrained in the circumstances.

We strolled back into the main street in time to see a parade of horses ridden by men in traditional Don costumes. I snapped away at a scene straight out of a Jack Vetriani print, except in the midst rode a young horsewoman. They headed off to the main market at the side of the ruined tower, so mobbed by a coach party we had decided against going in. Instead we wasted another air conditioned half hour waiting our turn in yet another Orange shop, there were still no data simms to be had. We heading back to the square for lunch. Although it was one o’clock nobody was eating yet, so we started with a drink. We sat in the shade outside a bar, so we could tell which establishment our waiter came from and use the toilet. As it turned out the whole of the centre of the square and our particular corner belonged to just one bar with one waiter, who was a model of efficiency. He used the hedges as a stand for his tray and seemed to pull menus from a stash behind them on demand. Every full tray he brought out held drinks for at least three tables and he managed to serve the correct order to each. A lesser mortal would have been run off his feet, but this man merely looked to be concentrating hard, dispensing pleasantries as an afterthought on his way to the next job. As we sat parties of noisy older people drinking coffee gave way to lunching families with small children, who were quieter, but more given to chasing the pigeons. After lunch we wandered back along the promenade to read and catch up with the writing, if not the posting, of the blog.

We had planned to walk back into town for the evening, but clouds were building over the mountains and the forecast was for rain, so in the event we stayed by the marina. For a change we went to the Indian restaurant and enjoyed our respective curries with okra, and nan bread. As it happened the rain came after we were in bed. It poured, evoking caravan holidays as the rain drummed on the cabin ceiling. John opened the blind and, on the skylight we saw glittering drops, in the flashes of lightning, before rolling thunder drowned out the sound of rain.

 

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Into the Med

Posted on June 1, 2014 by yachtlyra

We woke early and motored across to the arrivals pontoon to pay, rather than walking all the way round. As we approached it dawned on us that at half tide it was going to be a bit of a hitch up from the deck of Lyra to the concrete pontoon. John did the honours, vaulting up onto the concrete and wrangling Lyra into position. Self consciously, as one is after such a display, he headed off into the office. The staff there doesn’t seem to look out of the massive plate glass windows in front of them. The girl asked what his boat was. John gestured to Lyra tied up outside, told her the name and which berth we had occupied. She picked up the walkie-talkie to ask the marinera to read our electricity meter and after speaking to him gazed up at John in alarm, “But your boat is not there Sir”. John resisted the temptation to tease her and explained his boat was the one tied to the jetty outside.

After that we set off round the corner into Gibraltar, where the diesel is duty free and so astonishingly cheap. Of course there was a queue, or rather a huge motor yacht was filling up and a second sailing boat in the middle of what was left of the space, so we had to wait adrift in the middle of a nest of super-yachts. John did a fantastic job of keeping the boat still in the windy conditions, while the man in the smaller sailing yacht clambered onto the quay and disappeared into the office to pay. Back outside he jumped back down and they set about springing off from their stern line, conscious of wanting to miss the massive yacht in front of them. Half way through the marinera decided they had done enough and cast them off, gesturing us to approach. He was most complimentary about Lyra and was very helpfully walked us back when we came to leave. Then we were back out into first the bay and then the straights.

Bye Bye Atlantic

It was much quieter than when we had arrived. Ahead of us a yacht was going out under sail. Sometimes people do this to have right of way over other craft. From our vantage point on the Rock the day before, we had ascertained that collision regulations were largely abandoned and a might is right pragmatism adopted instead, so kept on under engine till we had cleared the melee. The forecast had promised us a nice beam reach all the way to Estepona, but in the event the wind was dead astern, so we just pulled out the foresail. This gave us between five or six knots and, as we had all day, we sat back and enjoyed it. Soon we had sailed past the lighthouse and the modern white mosque at its side and were looking at the other side of the Rock. The realisation dawned that we were actually in the Mediterranean and had completed a major part of our sail to Greece.

We pootled along sunbathing for a couple of hours, with not a lobster pot to be seen this side of Gib, then the sail began to flap lazily as the wind dropped. John wound it in and we proceeded under engine, much less peaceful, but twice as quick. Half an hour outside Estepona the wind came up and was blowing force six, whipping up lots of chop in the little harbour as we came in and again had to wait another yacht to move, this time on the arrivals pontoon. When we did come to tie up the wind made life awkward, but the marinera was magnificent, leaping around catlike, making one rope do the work of four. I think there must be organized marinera contests for the man who can secure the biggest boat with a single length of rope, every marinera we come across is reluctant to use two lines where one will do. This one, though, was a star; not only helping us come in, but also casting us back off and then supervising oPasserelleur first stern to mooring. He left us wedged in tight between two other yachts held by a drum tight lazy line. Although our helper sprang ashore with no effort, John and I unveiled the passerelle, a posh gangplank, which had been waiting in the front locker all last year. Then we were off and down to the nearby jazz bar for a cold beverage or two and to marvel at the drink carrying capacity of the waiter there.

 

 

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Monkey Business

Posted on June 1, 2014 by yachtlyra

To the Apes Day One

God must have Gibraltar down as a piece of Blighty, either that or he is smiting us and this takes the form of dank misery rather than thunder and lightning fireworks.

Gibraltar

We woke, feeling cold, to grey skies and drizzle, which soon turned to persistent rain.. The Rock huddled miserably in a duvet of low cloud. It seemed a poor day to go visit some soggy monkeys, so we stayed below decks and read for a bit. At the first break in the weather we set off once more to buy time online. Solving a problem with the chart-plotter network had gobbled up our whole months 2 GB capacity. We headed off into La Linea in our waterproofs without much enthusiasm for the task. It again proved fruitless and we were both rendered rather soggy, when the rain came back not long after we had set off. We bought some things in the local supermarket and headed back, stopping for lunch at the marina restaurant.

This is housed in a prefabricated building in the middle of the car park, with an extensive fabric awning, which rattles as the wind blows through it. The décor is simple, with white plastic garden furniture inside and out. Inside the awning is furnished with two big television screens on which, at night, the likes of Shakira and J- Lo undulate sulkily. It seems to be a favoured haunt of the guarda on their way to interrupt people crossing the border. The service is friendly but extremely intermittent. That it was the main recommendation for restaurants in the area on the Spanish side underlines the relative poverty of this side of the border, which is a pity given the stunning location. This is the most disadvantaged part of Spain we have seen, though we’ve only explored on foot and further on might be quite different. Along the side of the marina a lot of building work is underway, which might point the way to a better future, as the marina must bring in plenty of money, most of which currently heads off into Gibraltar. Slowly.

We returned to Lyra and I was able to catch up on the blog. Now the rain has stopped and John is cleaning the boat in a howling wind. The wind has come whistling through here each afternoon so far, so we intend to get an early start when we leave.

To the Apes Day Two

When I was a very small child I was grasped by a monkey at Bellevue Zoo. I am not sure whether I remember the incident, or have heard the story from such a young age that it plays in my head as a partly out of body experience. I am between my parents in front of the monkey cage feeding two monkeys with banana through the mesh. At the side of us are smaller monkeys watching enviously, but their cage netting is too fine for them to be included. Mum is breaking the banana into pieces and handing them for me to pass on to the monkeys, first to one, then the other.” One for you, one for you, one for….”but the bigger monkey thinks otherwise, reaches through the mesh and takes hold of my hand. In the same instant Mum grabs the monkey’s wrist and, though staggered by the chill of it, holds on and Dad slices into both of them with a karate chop, which leaves Mum’s fingers tingling and the monkey backing into a corner rubbing its’ poorly wrist. Largely unperturbed I say “Naughty Jo Jo” ready to pass the banana piece to its rightful recipient, who has not budged, when a panicked lady appears, stopping all the fun. She takes us inside somewhere so Mum can sit down. She tells us the monkeys we had been feeding are vicious and bite, they need the stronger bigger mesh to keep them in, the finer stuff holding the littler monkeys is to protect them from us humans. A sign might have been a good idea. There are plenty of signs around Gibraltar making it clear that feeding the apes is both ill advised and illegal. Here the monkeys wander round freely in packs, so must be well able to fend for themselves. Today we set out to visit them. Neither of us felt keen, but neither did we want to chicken out, so we went on an authorized tour.

Our guide was Gibraltar born, bred and proud of it; he put me in mind of Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen. He took us, an English family and a group from Belgium in a mini bus for the tour. We would recommend it. First we drove round the other side of the island round past the lighthouse and mosque at the far end and then up to the Pillars of Hercules viewpoint. There we could see the length of the Straights laid out below us. There was Africa, close as the Isle of Wight looks from Lymington.

View Across the Straits Down in the bay the big ships we had rubbed shoulders with a few days ago moved like tiny toys across a deep blue backdrop. We took photographs of one another at the rail. Then we were all back in the bus and up even more steeply to St Michael’s cave.

This was an underground wonderland of stone waterfalls, pillars of rock Gaudi would be inspired by, washed by coloured light and classical music. The colours veered on the vivid side and, despite the wonderful acoustics, I longed to experience the cavern in silence, but with a constant dribble of people walking through, that would never have happened. As we exited there were stairs to deeper caves, to be explored separately with a guide with an underground lake. Very tempting. Out we walked and back to regroup at the gift shop and then on to the Apes.

The Barbary Apes are actually macaque monkeys, brought in as pets from Africa, probably by the Moors, and adopted by the British army. They are wild animals, living in troupes, but are clearly accustomed to interacting with humans. Seeing them was like no monkey experience I have had before, more like having the dolphin follow the boat, with an element of danger attached. Our guide took us to a troop he knew, telling us to ignore any other monkeys we might come across when out of the bus at the attractions. Friendly or not he was careful to only open the van doors one at a time, as he said they were lightning thieves if they could get in one door and out another. Once we were all outside the van, he slapped its’ side and a big male loped across and sat on the bonnet. The guide stroked him and pinched his cheeks, before asking if the young boy in the party would like to hold him. Bravely he stepped forward, made a cradle with his arms as instructed, and the monkey just climbed on to him and sat to have his picture taken. He was happy to sit, but reluctant to face the camera, because his attention was focused on some workmen drilling noisily on the other side of the road. As the dominant male, he was obviously keeping an eye on his territory. After the youth a woman from the Belgian party held him, then the boy’s sister, who had him on her shoulders, as our guide thought he would be too heavy for her to hold. As it was she looked swamped by monkey and a bit uncertain about it. After that the macaque jumped off to investigate how the drilling work was progressing. Our guide took us to the other side of the road, ostensibly to show us the view. As he was talking a littler monkey came up and the young girl was able to cradle him for a picture. Then the big guy came running over and the guide said to the little monkey “ Go on then, he’s coming”, but the youngster was already scarpering. The big monkey had another photo-shoot with the boy and the other Belgian lady. I’m afraid I chickened out. He seemed very gentle, but smelled awful. After everyone who wanted to had held him, the guide wanted the monkey to show us his teeth, but he kept them under wraps. I have seen their teeth and think this was showmanship on the part of the guide, to put the shivers up the ladies who had just been holding the monkey. After that we climbed back into the bus a door at a time. As we drove off the smaller male rode on the bonnet for a while. Our guide had his window down and tried to persuade the monkey to ride on the sill, but he would not. I think the presence of the workmen probably distracted them from some of their usual games and party pieces. As we drove off we passed a square of concrete strewn with oranges and other food for the macaques. They are obviously well catered for.

 

Our next stop was the tunnels, made by the British during the Siege of Gibraltar and used to fire canon down at the French and Spanish in the Napoleonic war. The view from outside showed us the Atlantic on one side, the Mediterranean on the other and the stunted runway filling the gap between them. We wandered down the tunnels to the strains of Gay Gordons, played jauntily on recorded fife and drum. Replica canon had been placed in most of the firing positions, parting rope curtains, designed to catch sparks and stop them coming back to ignite the waiting gunpowder. The view down the sheer limestone face from these canon holes was dizzying. Apparently an insurance company logo used to boast that it was solid as the Rock of Gibraltar as our guide said, we now knew the Rock was riddled with holes. The excavated stone is used to reclaim land from the sea, that was how the runway was built in World War II.

We drove down into town past the old fort tower and finished our tour at the far end of the High Street. We headed off back to Ocean Village and had a nice lunch in one of the bars there. On our walk back to the boat we ran into Nick and Judith, who we had met in ……and had a chat. They had had a miserable crossing. They had sailed closer to shore than us and been caught in some overfalls, a sailing term for rough sea caused by waves interfering as they cross each other at the end of points. They had encountered standing waves three feet high. I’m glad we took the long way round. They are staying in Gib for the weekend, but I think we will be moving on to take advantage of a lull in the weather tomorrow.

 

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Black Gold

Posted on May 29, 2014 by yachtlyra

Marmite that is, not Texas tea.

Although the magic of the black jar allows for infinite scrapings our supply was coming perilously close to exhaustion. Things had reached such a pass, we had resorted to eating healthy fruit and yogurt breakfasts to eke out our store. We had great confidence in being able to provision in Gibraltar and set off for the border with our backpack. The traffic jam heading in was winding and horrific, but on foot we passed swiftly through border control, virtually ignored by the officials. Once through there was a queue of mini buses offering tours and a rash of London buses ferrying people into town. True to our quest we ignored these temptations and went forth on foot. We had to wait at a sort of level crossing barrier for an aeroplane to land, before being allowed through to walk across the runway. Waiting for the plane to landLooking left we could see one end of the runway with nothing beyond it, looking right there seemed an infinite stretch of concrete, but we knew this ended in the sea less distant than the harbour wall. It must look frighteningly short from the air. The day before I had watched a plane climb at a fifty degree angle, as it had took off. On we marched and soon came to a pleasant square of fish and chip shops and sat at an open air café to drink coffee and make a recce . Opposite us I spotted a Tourist Information Office, for which we then made haste.

The girl inside gave us a map, showed us where we were on it and circled the attractions. We asked her to recommend a restaurant, not English, and she marked the spot of two tapas bars, one of which apparently had a beer pump on each table, which made the Captain’s eyes sparkle. We did not mention our quest for the black stuff in case it put paid to the urbane impression we were affecting. Furnished with our map we set off down the Main Street, which had the atmosphere of an English high street some years ago, before the advent of Starbucks and Subway. There were lots of little shops among the long standing big names, mostly jewellers and shops selling cameras. The place is a melting pot, cafes offering “Full English” next to tapas bars, hanging baskets nestling under palm trees. I half expected to see a Woolworths. We paid tribute at the shrine of St. Michael, and were blessed by shorts and a T-shirt in return for our offerings. Then came lunch at the tapas bar without beer taps, too focused were we for such indulgences. There we charmed the proprietor with our determined use of Spanish. This was just as well, for she scorned the use of English from German folk, who shortly arrived at the next table, shrugging at them in a manner to suggest “Even these poor specimens, (us), know the word for bread”. My Duo Lingo-ing had finally paid off. Even the Captain was impressed; he had thought I was speaking French till that point. By the end of our meal she was teaching us specialist vocabulary.

Refreshed we set off again. Finally we spotted a small supermarket and stole inside, but there was only Bovril to be had. Disappointed we threw ourselves into the exploration of the nearby museum, which boasted a display of Moorish baths. We watched a film about the history of Gibraltar, which those north of the border here might take issue with in places, before touring the exhibits. These were an eclectic and somewhat shabby mix of stuffed animals and old model guns. The Moorish baths were an excavation in the cellars of the museum, with arched ceilings punctuated by eight pointed stars. The text said the stars had originally been designed as skylights and there were photographs showing daylight shining through them. The images could always have been photo-shopped, but I fear the stars were filled in modern times, probably when a museum was ploncked on top of them. We ventured upstairs and into a room filled with a whale like model of the Rock, sat in a big glass case and walls lined with black and white photographs of Gibraltar in the early part of last century. The model brought home the strong resemblance between the Rock and the isolated mountain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The notes from the film played in my head for the rest of the day. Bong, bong, bing, bong Bonng, I give you the earworm for free. By this time we were almost overcome by the pervading smell of damp and beat a hasty retreat.

Mustering our resolve we set off along the old battlements, where the guns now point at the modern high rise and car parks built on reclaimed land. We shadowed some school children in smart white T-shirts into a park of pink apartment blocks and continued through landscaped gardens to a metal gate. Through the gate we could see Nirvana, otherwise known as Morrisons. The gate was locked. We puzzled over this cunning challenge, pressing and twiddling a plastic knob in the wall. “Try pulling it” suggested the Captain. It came off in my hand. I was guiltily trying to shove it back in, when a friendly native woman with a pass key came by and kindly let us out. Down the street we charged and into the hallowed halls, where we were instantly transported back home. For not only did the shop look the same, the stock also seemed identical to that back home, though why anyone would choose to buy a watery English cucumber rather than a crisp Spanish one is beyond me. Up and down the aisles we ranged, till among the condiments my leader spotted Bovril and despaired. I remained undeterred, knowing the cunning ways of Supermarkets with yeast based products I asked an assistant. Aisle 10, we narrowed in on our quarry and there it was opposite Home Baking, hiding amongst the jams, not just one size, but a range of jars. We put one the size of the planet into our basket. To allay suspicion we added a few sundries – lettuce, natural yoghurt and, daringly, cheddar cheese and swiftly moved through the tills and back out the door.

Now to escape with our stash. We wound expertly through the streets, steering by the Rock. We hurried across the runway only to come to a grinding halt. The traffic in and out was now moving freely, but the queue of pedestrians had reached Disneyland proportions, and we feared there would be no entertainment as we stood in line. With lightning reflexes and an uncompromising expression the Skipper steered me into a group of workmen and middle-aged ladies gathered to one side. As the line of others snaked away from us we were allowed through, expecting to be unmasked and turned back at every moment. Our passports held good amongst the identity cards and we made it to the bag check. Fortune favoured the brave; our contraband was stashed deep beneath yogurt and lettuce. The official gave my leader a pitying look, and shook his head that a man could sink so low as to consider such foods, before letting us through. We emerged, blinking, into the sunlight and made good our escape with the pot of treasure. The shape of breakfasts to come.

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Time Passes

Posted on May 27, 2014 by yachtlyra

Saturday was spent doing chores and stocking up with provisions. That evening was the Champions League final, between Real and Athletico Madrid. I expected to be spending it in a bar full of Spanish men, but the skipper turned television engineer on me. Alan and Sheila had included a small flat screen TV when we bought Lyra and it has been on board, lying face down in a cupboard ever since. I had more or less forgotten it existed. Anyway in a remarkably short time John had tuned it in and channel one carried the football. The Spanish commentary was reasonably easy to follow, mainly comprising familiar names and drawn out exclamations of GOOOOOOOAL, though it carried all the excitability of radio broadcasts. We cheered for Real, in spite of Ronaldo, on the strength of their flair and so had a very satisfying evening in front of the telly.

Sunday we were up early and waiting for reception to open to hand in our pass keys and get our deposit back. Then we cast off bound for Barbate. The weather was set to be fair, but the wind slight and awkwardly on our stern quarter. The sea was still lumpy, but I was fortified by Stugeron and able to keep at my post. Once out at sea we tried sailing and it was very pleasant, but our pinking shear track showed we were making little forward progress, so we motor sailed – basically sailing with the engine on, thereby going much faster and in this case allowing for a better course. As we neared Cabo Trafalga, site of Nelson’s last stand, John spotted what we think were dolphin in our wake. At first I struggled to see what he meant and then I saw them, more than thirty big dark commas just below the surface, strung out in a line. It was like a scene from Dr Who. They never broke surface, not so much as a fin, and there were no blow spouts to suggest whales. In truth they seemed small for whales, but big and shy for dolphin. We saw them as shadows in the rise of the wave behind us for a while, then they moved off to our starboard side and then were gone. They may have been tuna, there are tuna nets outside Barbate, marked on the chart, but were not shoaling like fish. Later on we did see dolphin break cover and play in the bow wave, the first of this season. They were both big and black, but I am not sure they were our mystery creatures.

2014 Dolphin number 1

It was exciting to see dolphins again though and naturally I took more photos. As we neared our destination John pointed out a faint shadow on the horizon – Africa.

P1080471

We managed to miss the tuna nets and arrived in Barbate at five, to be told to pick our spot. Lyra on a huge pontoonThe marina was pretty empty, but had the longest pontoons we have come across, with cleats so widespread we struggled with the lengths of rope involved. It is a big marina with lovely flowering bushes, gorse and oleander, planted all around, but is nonetheless a concrete ghost town, the haunt of skinny cats. We wandered round the perimeter and found abandoned buildings, but no other people. Then we encountered another English couple walking the other way each lugging a large plastic container full of diesel. It turns out they are on a similar route, so we may well keep meeting up, but then again maybe not, as we are all in a constant state of flux. They were heading off to Gibraltar straight away next morning and after thinking about it and looking at the dearth of activity around, we decided to do the same.Insect Hotel

The pilot book advises setting off from Barbate at low water Gibraltar, to make most use of the tide flowing into the Med. In our case this meant setting off at quite a civilized eight am. Nonetheless we both struggled to come round, still tired from the previous days sail. It was well worth it though, one of those early mornings when the air seems new and the low light sets everything aglow, which somehow seem even better on the water. Our weather forecast was for increasing wind on our stern, so we motored, keen to arrive before the wind came up too strongly through the straights. On the way we passed a stand of modern windmills, eerie in their languid, unsyncopated rotations.

Windfarm At first our progress was opposed by a strong tide, but Lyra has a powerful engine and we still made over six knots. Africa loomed ever closer. We could see the white high rise of Tangiers catching the morning light like chalk cliffs and the serrated mountains to the left of it culminating in a giant massif. The sea was slight, but choppy, the surface laced with foam. Radio traffic was busy, with both amusing and alarming messages in English and a certain number of messages we could not understand. Rounding the corner we could see the big ships moving along the shipping lanes, which we kept well clear of.

We passed the lighthouse at Tarifa , which looked a pretty spot and caught our first sight of the crocodile snout of Gibraltar, nosing out from the next headland. At this point we picked up the tide and rushed along at over eight knots, the chill wind, still following us, coming up stronger and whistling through the rigging.

GibraltarWe turned early into the harbour to minimize the amount of side on motion we had to take from the choppy sea.

P1080494John was busy giving way to bigger and faster vessels heading for Algercias, dodging behind the huge ships at anchor and trying to spot the harbour entrance. I kept checking details about vessels on the AIS, but had to give up when the screen was full of red flashing targets. As we headed deeper into the bay, the soaring Rock grew more and more impressive. Finally we saw the marina entrance and John circled in the calmer waters of the outer harbour as I put out ropes and fenders.

We had elected to stay at La Linea, just on the Spanish side of the border, as we had been told it was less busy and more secure than marinas on the British side. The reception pontoon was a daunting concrete edifice, with what looked at first like metal girders bolted at intervals along it. These turned out to be hard rubber buffers, but not wishing to risk Lyra’s shiny gel coat we tied up round the corner in front of the offices. Despite being in plain sight of the main office, just round the corner from the fuel pumps no marinera appeared to take our lines. There were marineras about because the receptionist was busy flirting with them over the phone, leaving John hanging around waiting to check in, which did nothing to improve his mood. It also did not help that she treated him like a minor aggravation and failed to provide us with the usual marked up map of the berth we had been allocated. As we cast off to head for it two marineras suddenly appeared, drawn by the roar of our bow thruster, in time to smile, wave and say Hola as we pulled away. It was one of those occasions when I wished to be young, glamorous and able to pull off one of those “don”t you wish you’d come out sooner boys” sort of looks. Needless to say neither of them ventured out to help us come in to the berth. A neighboring yachtsman came over to take the lines, for which I was most grateful. We were securely tied up by the time the wind built up and later we saw the boat of the couple we had spoken to the day before also safely in. In fairness to La Linea it is a generously proportioned, immaculate and very sheltered marina, with an iconic view of the Rock. If you were to build a top hotel, this is where you would wish to site it.

View from the Deck

 

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Jerez

Posted on May 27, 2014 by yachtlyra

On Friday we were still in tourist mode, setting off once again on the train to Seville, but this time only going a few stops down the line to Jerez. We were looking forward to looking round the palace there, which has a camera obscura, there was a stable of Lipizzaner horses and John wanted to visit one of the sherry bodegas. As things turned out we just managed the sherry tour, the afternoon disappearing into a warm sherry glow. It was an excellent tour.

The station building in Jerez is most attractive, but the way into the centre of town was not obvious. We started by following road signs. That did not go so well and we were back on John’s data roaming, to find we had been heading in the opposite direction. The phone brought us out on a large square with fountains, statues and flocks of pigeons. We sat and had a glass of earth shatteringly strong coffee watching a small girl with her grandma feeding the birds. Across the square was the tourist information office, so off we went buzzing with caffeine. A very helpful girl gave us a map and marked it up with places of interest. The horses, the flamenco museum, the three sherry houses, the palace, she said, was shut, all day. Outside we wandered up to the palace to have a look at the exterior. It stands on a rise, the front shaded by a grid of trees. Through the huge gates we could see vans and workmen moving about setting something up. We sat on a bench and looked at the opening times of the other sights. The horses were about to perform their last show and would clash with the English speaking sherry tour, which would start in half an hour. A bit disappointed with how things were panning out we sat on our bench and waited outside Gonzales Byass.

We were amongst the first through the door when it opened and waited in a large reception area where big black and white photographs along the wall showed a variety of celebrities signing sherry casks. People just kept on coming until the room was filled with people chattering in a variety of languages. A girl in a red dress made an announcement in Spanish and a chattering throng shuffled obediently further into the building. Then came an announcement in English from another girl in a red dress with a cut glass English accent. We headed towards her and found there were to be just four of us for the tour, John, a Belgian couple and myself. We had a lovely time of it riding round in a six seater electric buggy driven by our quietly spoken, but very informative tour guide, who turned out to be from Dumfries and Galloway and on her gap year.

Eventually we came to the signed barrels and John spotted one from his hero, with the very special date 1966. There was also a Picasso with an accompanying small sketch of a bull that must be worth a bob or two. Then it was on to the sherry tasting. The sherry warmed it, stimulated and it slightly inebriated. We had ordered tapas to compensate for this and our new Belgian friends quickly ordered some too. They were keen to try some wine they had been drinking in their hotel and insisted on buying a glass for us too. He thought the bottle had been opened a tad too long to be at its best, but it was still good. We readily agreed, at which point he bought the rest of the bottle and we were in for another glass. By this time our guide had to leave us to take on another tour, so we continued with our wine and tapas, exchanging stories and looking at their photos of black pigs on an i-pad (they had toured a pig farm the previous day). Afterwards, we bade each other fond farewells only to meet up two minutes later in the gift shop, where we bought a large and small bottle of sherry and a bottle of their recommended wine and they bought two boxes of said wine. We think they had a car, but hopefully were not planning to drive it. For those wishing to know the wine is Moncloa, which to me sounds like a small Hawaiian island.

In a sherry haze we emerged from Gonzales Byass and wandered down the high street looking to buy lunch to soak up some of the alcohol. Then came a surreal moment when we were accosted by three people each sporting an owl, asking if we wanted photographs with said owls. Wary of being stung for cash, I refused so assertively that I think they thought I was afraid of owls. Next thing we knew John had a glove on his hand and an owl on the glove. I am not sure which of the two looked most fed up with the situation. I felt most sorry for the owl, which looked hot and stressed at being awake and took a photo just to end the affair. At which point the owl people were all smiles, took the owl back and went on their way. Further down the street was a café with tables outside and we had lunch and drank water and coffee. Then we wended our way back to the station, which took no time at all and thence home, where the band played on.

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