Category Archives: History

Rocking to Gibraltar

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Gibraltar is one of those quaint appendages that persist, jutting out from a murky past into the modern age. The UnionJack flies over it, denoting British ownership. Travel squibs proclaim red phone boxes, fish and chips and Bobbys on the beat as an abiding signature of the place. Only partly true. It is a British Overseas Territory. British, but weirdly so. Red, white and blue, but bathed in sunshine, a babel of Spanish and foreign patois, with monkees thrown in.

The Rock of Gibraltar is one of the Pillars of Hercules, the mythological portal to the Mediterranean Ocean, an implied northern tower anchoring an imagined bridge between Europe and Africa. It rises sheer from the sea to an impressive fourteen hundred feet with a land area of under three square miles and a twelve km coast. The population of thirty four thousand, the same as my hometown, Bray, is a mixture of British, Spanish, Portoguese, Maltese Italian and Jewish. English and Spanish are spoken, the local dialect Llanito being similar to Andalusian.

In the early eight century, Tariq Ibn Zayid began the Muslim conquest of Iberia by landing here, bestowing his name on the peninsula, Jabal Tariq. His army of Berbers and Arabs advanced over two thirds of Iberia, defeating the Visigoths and delivering Iberia to Islamic Rule for five hundred years. Juan Alonso de Guzman regained Spannish control in 1462 towards the end of the Reconquista. An Anglo Dutch fleet captured Gibraltar during the War of the Spanish Succession, and at the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, it was granted to the British crown. The Spanish have tried to reclaim it, most determinedly in the Great Siege during the American War of Independence, but the British held on. Well, they lost America, but you win some … It has been of considerable strategic value especially during the Napoleonic Wars and the Second World War.

La Linea de la Concepcion is on the Spanish frontier. A somewhat neglected sprawl. The bockety approach roads give some hint of the absence of territorial certainty hereabouts. We park here on the seafront, a short walk to the isthmus leading out to Gibraltar. Passing through Spanish and British border control with little ado, the visitor must first cross the airport runway at right angles to the isthmus. A photo opportunity straddling the runway’s central line is thought to verify the line between two jurisdictions; though of course both feet are on British ground. The modern outskirts are highrise and busy with traffic. Entrance to the Old City is discrete, through a narrow laneway and unimposing gateway.

We come into a lively square, the Lord Nelson pub at one end. Premises on Casemate’s Square proclaim an archetypal Britishness, beer and fish n chips abound. We stop for this, of course, and the battered cod and chips are very good indeed. The Main Street unrolls from the far corner though we miss it the first time and end up on Line Wall Road, a blank thoroughfare which as the name suggests runs atop the defensive walls. Irishtown runs parallel to the Main Street. The narrow pedestrianised street was once an area of disrepute, and it now houses the Central Police Station. Its Irishness probably derives from an Irish Regiment stationed here in the nineteenth century.

The old town of Gibraltar was largely constructed following the Great Siege. Givanni Boschetti, an Italian architect, arrived in 1783 and is responsible for much of the reconstructed city’s style, combining British and Mediterranean aspects. Visually it looks typically Mediterranean, a collage of souvenir and craftshops, high street outlets, with plenty of gelaterias , cafes and bars crowding the pavements.

We stop for ice cream in the shadow of the Catholic Cathedral of Santa Maria La Coronada. This was originally built in 1462. Also predating the British takeover, the Southport Gates, formerly the Africa Gate, is a three arched gateway built into the Charles V Wall, defending the southern end of the old town. John Mackintosh Square nearby has the Parliament House and City Hall. King’s Chapel and the Convent is now the Governor’s Residence. It was originally home to Franciscan Friars. The British Governor set up house in 1728, the building remodelled a century later.

We continue past the Courthouse, an old Spanish villa set back and fronted by an exuberant garden. It’s not far to the Cable Car that takes you to the top of the Rock. Admission can be either return journey or include a pass to the nature reserve occupying much of the uplands and a number of tourist attractions up there. We opt for the return as we don’t have enough time to devote to an extensive exploration. Ticket queue and wait occupies a half hour or so and the trip takes five minutes. At the top is a modernist cafe with stunning views from its terraces. Africa floats beyond, the other Pillar of Hercules almost within touching distance across the strait. A stunning panorama includes the city below, Gibraltar’s peak nearby and mainland Spain stretching off to Algeciras in the distance. Gulls and cormorants swirl above, and then there are the monkeys. 

The Rock’s colony of two hundred and fifty Barbary Macaques, are the only wild monkeys in Europe. Brought over from Africa by the Moors, they abide five centuries on. Well used to gawking tourists, they pose helpfully for shots, and the chance of food. They may not just wait for it either. As I posed for a photo before a seemingly disinterested simian, the chancer snuck up and grabbed at my backpack to the great consternation, or amusement more like, of onlookers. I won the tussle, persuading the rogue to desist. Note, visitors are supposed to wear their backpacks to the front. Note too, these are wild animals, though used to tourists they may become agitated where too many get too close. Stretching and yawning, impressive yawns by the way, are a caution. In case of confrontation, try speaking Simian. The phrase Aieeeee!, which means just about everything in their language, usually works, and comes naturally in such situations I can assure you.

Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees and people say we monkey around

But we’re too busy singing to put anybody down

… We’re just tryin’ to be friendly, come and watch us sing and play

We’re the young generation, and we’ve got something to say

Written by Bobby Hart and Tommy Boyce, this was the theme to the mid sixties tv series featuring what was originally a fictional band the Monkees. It featured on their eponymous debut album. Micky Dolenz sang vocals, but the other Monkees, Davy Jones, Mike Nesmth and Peter Tork didn’t feature. The foursome eventually wrestled control of their own material but when the series was cancelled ater two seasons their star began to wane. Perhaps. For people of my vintage they too abide. Our introduction to rock and roll, an original garage band in fact. Here’s to Monkeeing around!

London Memories -2

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City of Drama

Leaving London back in ’73, we made our winding way back to Holyhead via Stratford on Avon, hometown of the Bard, William Shakespeare. He was born there in 1564 and the town has become a mecca for Bardolators. Stratford is suitably picturesque, packed with tourists and Tudor style buildings. From our ad hoc camp by the river our trio wondered if we could swim across the Avon and bunk into the rere of the theatre for a show. A Midsummer’s Nights Dream, most likely. We visited Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, a sizeable thatched timber-framed building with a museum. Anne Hathaway was twenty six and with child when she married eighteen year old Will. Daughter Susanna was born six months later, and another year on Anne gave birth to twins Judith and Hamnet.

In his early twenties, Shakespeare moved to London and became part of the theatre scene. He acted and wrote with a group called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and in 1599 they established their hq at the Globe Theatre in Southwark. The first Globe burned down in 1613 during a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry VIII. A pyrotechnic flourish misfired, and sparks ignited the thatched roof. There were no injuries, other than a man whose breeches caught fire which helpful spectators extinguished with their tankards of ale. A rare occasion of a punter being obliged to buy a round for the people who had just drenched his crotch with beer. The theatre was rebuilt but the flame of drama was extinguished during the Civil War period from 1642. The Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell. were against the brazen licentiousness of the world of theatre. The Globe was ultimately demolished. Although the Restoration saw the return of theatre, staging had changed to a more refined, and subdued form, indoors and viewed through the Proscenium Arch. Actresses, forbidden in Tudor and Jacobean days, were now allowed. Shaskespeare’s popularity was reignited and his plays revived. 

The modern version, Shakespeare’s Globe, was built in 1997, the culmination of a long campaign by Sam Wanamaker, American born actor and director for film and stage. It is located just over two hundred metres from where the original stood, and is a very realistic rendition of how the outdoor Elizabethan theatre would have looked. Daily tours explain its setting and heritage, and what you might have experienced back in the day; theatre in the round, outdoors with a rumbuxtious audience drawn from the broad social spectrum of city life. More rock gig or football crowd than the genteel theatre of today, with plenty of two way rapport; but there was poetry and message in the medium too. Drinking, smoking and heckling were not so much tolerated as encouraged. It was a daytime thing, and not well thought of by the great and the good. Though, of course, many from that sector did attend, and indeed sponsor the enterprise.

Best of all, book seats for a performance. On a family trip in 2010, we booked seats for Henry IV, Part 1. This features the notorious Falstaff, chief amongst the company of the young dissolute Hal, future king, here depicted as dedicated to life on the raz. Young Will perhaps drawing on  memories of his own misspent twentysomething back in the eighties. My son, Davin, was dubious of the joys of an afternoon of Shakespearean theatre. I impressed upon him that the following day, Saturday, we would go to Stamord Bridge to watch Chelsea trounce West Brom by six goals with Didier Drogba scoring a hat-trick; an astonishingly accurate prediction as it turned out. He got fully immersed in the experience. Most cheerful he was relaxing in the bar. afterwards, as he thought, less so on being informed that was merely the intermisssion.

London’s modern theatre district flourishes on the other side of the river. The West End denotes the main commercial centre of London. It stretches north of the river up to Regent Street to the west of the ancient walled city. The areas of Soho and Covent Garden are central to London nightlife, with Leicester Square and Picadilly Circus its focal points.

Leicester Square is the place to go for tickets for silver screen or show. Myself and M got tickets here for the fun dance show Top Hat ten years ago, front row seats which were quite startling. Cinema remains a a draw for us even though films are not so frequently banned in Ireland as before. Myself and M visited back in the mid seventies on our way to Greece, and took in an afternoon showing of the Life of Brian. Monty Python’s satire on zealotry and mass hysteria was set at the time of Christ and caused a muttering of modern zealots to chant: Down with that sort of thing! Still, we emerged into the afternoon sunlight happily singing always look on the bright side of life.

West End, of course, is synonymous with theatre. Alongside New York’s Broadway it is the main theatre zone of the English speaking world. There are about forty venues showing musicals, classic and modern theatre. Other, non commercial theatres, including the Globe, Covent Garden Opera House and the Old Vic feature classic repertoire and the work of contemporary and acclaimed modern playwrights.

The longest running show in West End history is The Mousetrap. Written by Agatha Christie it was first performed in 1952 and is now approaching thirty thousand performances. A whodonit with a twist, it’s a typical scenario for the author. Born Agatha Miller in 1890, by her death in 1976 she had published sixty six novels and over a dozen collections of short stories. Her most famous creation is the fastidious Belgian sleuth Hercule Poirot. The Mousetrap was originally a radio play called Three Blind Mice, and then a short story. The title had to be changed for the stage as another play called Three Blind Mice had been produced in the thirties by Emile Littler. The name the Mousetrap was taken from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, it being Prince Hamlet’s smartarse reply to Polonius concerning the title of the play at court. Hamlet had hijacked the play to let off his own grenade. “The play’s the thing wherein to catch the conscience of the King,” he mused.

On a family visit in the Noughties we took in a performance at St Martin’s Theatre which has hosted the play since 1974. We four at home often enjoyed an elaborate murder mystery on the telly. Theatre, by its nature, brings you into the box itself. You are sharing atoms with these people. The famous twist is a major subversion of the mystery genre. I have often wondered since if anyone has ever thought of suspecting Poirot for causing the puzzles he so brilliantly solves. After all, he is a common thread throughout so many killings. The play was just the thing, so, to be followed by convivial food and drink.

St. Martin’s is on West Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue and close to the Seven Dials. This is an intersection of seven straight streets, giving the small plaza an incongruous centrality in the great scheme of things. From here, you can go anywhere. Eateries abound, though we took the quaint decision to go for a fish and chips nearby. Well, it was my fiftieth birthday, and the One and One is my favourite food. Why not have it here at the centre of Chipperdom? There was a bench outside and we watched the world go by. Nearby, Shaftesbury Avenue seethes with life. Across the street Soho embraces the divine vices. Musicians strum and dancers strut, and wining, dining and dancing pleasures galore stretch into the wee small hours. In all the darkness and joy, what better time to join the vamps and werewolves of London.

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand

Walking through the streets of SoHo in the rain

He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook’s

Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein

Ah-hoo, werewolves of London

Ah-hoo

Ah-hoo, werewolves of London

Ah-hoo

Werewolves of London was written by Warren Zevon, Waddy Wachtel and Leroy Marinell. It is included on Zevon’s third album, Excitable Boy, from 1978 and was its lead single. Fleetwood Mac provide the rhythm section, in case you wonder why it’s so good. Phil Everly suggested the idea to Zevon having seen the 1930s film Werewolf of London. Lee Ho Fook’s was London’s best known Chinese Restaurant, located on Gerrard Street in Chinatown, at the south end of Soho. The name itself suggests the sort of ribaldry that chimes with the suggestive comedy of the song’s lyrics. The restaurant closed in 2008. Zevon died in 2003, but the music lives on.

London Memories

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Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

London is my most visited foreign city, a favourite place of mine for over fifty years. I haven’t posted much on it; only an account of a trip up the Thames to Greenwich that I can think of. So, time to put that right. Here’s the first in a compendium of memories of this great city.

The first I saw of London was in the summer of 1973. I was only seventeen and with a couple of friends crowded into a Renault 6 set off on an epic voyage to the neighbouring island. There was a Rock festival at London’s Alexandra Palace, with Ten Years After and Wishbone Ash headlining. Ten Years After were one of my favourites in those days. The late sixties and early seventies gave us Rory Gallagher, Thin Lizzy, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and many more. Dublin was not a major stop on the global concert circus. Other than Ireland’s own, Taste, Lizzy and Horslips, it was slim pickings, though the Doors and Zep did play Dublin’s National Stadium around that time. So, when Ally Pally came up it was the perfect option to tap into the Rock zeitgeist.

The car ferry left from Dun Laoghaire, a four hour crossing to Holyhead in Wales. From there it was a long drive to London, meandering through Wales before passing by Birmingham. We overnighted near Leicester. Looking for a bite to eat, we asked a passing Bobby, as you do, for his recommendations. It was an amusing scene. My two friends were six four, and the policeman might just have equalled minimum height requirements. He recommended a nearby Indian, alien to lads from Dublin, but establishing a lifelong favourite. Who needs halucinatory drugs when you can have a mindbending vindaloo. My companions notable altitude caused panic beyond the forces of law and order. Indeed, febrile hippies, amongst whom we parked overnight, imagined the long arm of the law had found them in the hazy light of morning. Tom and Vin wore their hair short, whereas my flowing locks and mustachios helped ease the situation somewhat. Or maybe I was just the undercover guy.

Another time, another place. Three Men in a Car, me with my boys, Oran and Davin, US 2007.

We parked at Potter’s Bar on London’s outskirts, and then stayed with Vin’s cousin Evelyn near Ealing. Our explorations of the great city were limited. We took a jaunt into the centre to pose in Picadilly Circus and swan around Leicester Square. It was decided to take in a film, ideally something along the lines of those banned back home. We got into the x-rated Heavy Traffic. The American film was a mixture of animation and live action, centering on a cartoonist, name of Michael Corleone, navigating the dingier side of New York. As much scabrous and surreal as salacious, it was, I suppose, a hazy premonition for the graphic artist within me. And it was unlikely such a film would ever go on general release in Ireland. Of course, Heavy Trafic is best followed with a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.

Picadilly, some years later.

We also took a saunter along Ealing Broadway. Ealing is famous for its film studios, the oldest in the world. Home to the Ealing comedies, natch, while the surrounding area has featured in scenes from Doctor Who and Monty Python. Ealing was something of an Alma Mater to Rock Music too. The Ealing Club had been a jazz venue until Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated played the basement in 1962, The band included drummer Charlie Watts, Brian Jones and pianist Ian Stewart with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards amongst the audience. Thus the Rolling Stones were gathered. In January 63 they played their first gig with the classic line up including Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts. The Who, Mannred Mann, Eric Burdon and Rod Stewart were also amongst the club’s alumnii. It was a short, but impressive, solar flare; the club closing in 1966.

Alexandra Palace lies further north, about five miles out of town near Muswell Hill. Alexandra Palace was conceived by architect and designer Owen Jones, who planned a Crystal Palace style glass building. It was built instead to the design of John Johnson and Alfred Meeson. From inception in 1873 it has been a people’s palace, built to provide leisure and entertainment for the great unwashed. And there would have been few that weekend more unwashed than ourselves. You could almost hear us hum. Fortunately, our stay in Ealing gave us a chance to clean up.

Instead of People’s Palace, it was named for Alexandra of Denmark,the Princess of Wales, and future Queen from 1901 to 1910. Her husband, Albert Edward, would become Edward VII. Speaking of; there’s a fair few streets named after him in my hometown, Bray: King Edward Road, Albert Walk amongst them. English tenor, John Sims Reeves sang to a crowd of a hundred thousand at the opening on 24th May 1873. Sixteen days later it all burnt down. it was rebuilt and reopened on Mayday 1875. The Palace became home to the first decades of television. BBC’s television service broadcast from there between1935 and 1955, with a break for the war. It burned down again in 1980, but phoenix like, rose from the ashes once more. And yes, Wishbone Ash did play Phoenix at their gig. 

The London Music Festival of August 1973 was an annual event and we had a two day ticket. The complex was alive with freaks and hairies like myself, and my two bodyguards. Fumble were playing some ear shattering rock and roll in the bar, while everywhere a strangely Catholic tang of incense hung in the air. I was sufficiently exalted to welcome my heroes to the stage on the second night.

Barclay James Harvest were supporting and very good they were too. But my pulse was racing for the arrival of guitar hero Alvin Lee and his band. Ten Years After came from Nottingham. Alvin Lee, born Graham Barnes in 1944, with Leo Lyons on base, were known for a while as Ivan Jay and the Jaybirds. The name Ten Years After came in 1966, referring to Elvis Presley’s breakthrough year. They were renowned as a live band, their set from Woodstock, playing I’m Going Home, was a highlight of the film. And evermore. I had all the band’s albums. My favourite was A Space in Time from 1971, more complex and introspective than their other albums. It includes one of their few commercial hits, I’d Love to Change the World.

Everywhere is freaks and hairies

Dykes and fairies, tell me, where is sanity?

Tax the rich, feed the poor

‘Til there are no rich no more.

I’d love to change the world

But I don’t know what to do

So I’ll leave it up to you

The lyrics are probably not authorial, Lee and his fanbase would have identiied as ‘freaks and hairies’. The fast paced verse mimics the sloganeering of public discourse, the laid back chorus is more personal, and if anything, rejects the notion of rock star as the go-to person to free the world from its state of chassis. 

Marcus Bonfanti at Ronnie Scott’s, 2010.

Another time, London circa 2010, we booked a table at Ronnie Scott’s for a blues night. Ronnie Scott’s, the famed Jazz and Blues venue was founded in a Soho basement in 1959 by Scott and Pete King, both saxaphonists. In 1965 it moved to its current larger premises on Frith Street, Soho. Scott died in 1996 but the soul plays on. Jimi Hendrix’s last gig was here in 1970, so what better place for Pilgrimage. Yes, another Wishbone Ash reference.

The party comprised myself and M, with our younger son Davin, a budding rock guitarist himself, and the same age I had been on my first London visit. With suitable flourish I led us across the road, past the queue and through the doors to the sacred sanctum of Jazz and Blues. Amongst the players that night was Marcus Bonfanti, a fine guitarist. Myself and Davin went to the desk at the break and bought his cd. What Good Am I to You. After Alvin Lee died in 2013, Bonfanti joined a new line up of Ten Years After.

Galway by Train

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At Heuston Station I flash my ticket for the guard. Where to? Galway, I say. Ceannt? Ah, there’s no call for that now.

The journey from Dublin to Galway takes about two and a half hours. Passing through the midlands via Athlone, we cross the Shannon into the West, heading on to Galway by way of Ballinasloe and Athenry. Galway Ceannt is under renovation. Trains are operating normally, but otherwise it is a building site. I have a pint at O’Connell’s on Eyre Square, from where it’s just a ten minute walk to my BnB on College Road.

Galway was founded by Norman adventurer Richard de Burgh in the early thirteenth century. It is known as the City of the Tribes. The Tribes in question were not the Wilde Irishe, but Norman merchant families who rose to prominence from the thirteenth century on. Blake, French, Browne, Bodkin, Deane, Font, Joyce, Lynch, Martin, Morris and Skerrit are Norman French in origin. D’Arcy, though it looks French, was an affected spelling of an Irish clan, O Dorchaidhe, dressed up as posh. Kirwan were another tribe of Gaelic ancestry. Their power waned after Cromwell took the city in the seventeenth century; from whence the term tribes was applied, disparagingly, at first.

I learned all of this at the Galway City museum, by the Spanish Arch on the quayside. It’s an excellent museum outlining the colourful history of the city, its people and its many idiosyncrasies. It is flooded with light, and upstairs there are panoramic views across the city and bay. A large Galway Hooker dominates the central atrium, and is a constant reminder that you are in a city floating on water. There’s an account of the Claddagh, a history of the Claddagh Ring and a section on the Independence and Civil War era.

Entrance is free. In the lobby is the Padraic O Conaire statue. This originally stood, or sat, in Eyre Square. Decapitated at the Millennium, it is stored here for safekeeping. A bronze replica now presides over the square. An author and journalist, O Conaire wrote mostly in Irish. He was a figure in the Gaelic League in London before the Great War and then back in Ireland. He was only forty six when he died in 1928, although somehow the statue always seems of an older man to me. His story, M’asal Beag Dubh, concerns a chancer looking for big bucks for his shiftless donkey. It inspired an ornate hoax by Irish journalist Declan Varley. In satirising the soccer transfer market he created Masal Bugduv, a Moldovan prodigy who attracted outrageous bids from top premiership clubs. One imagines the mythical youth telling the bidders, it will take a few dollars more to shift Masal Bugduv.

The award winning building was designed by OPW architects, Ciaran O’Connor and Ger Harvey. It’s a bright, three story L-shaped building, forming an attractive, varied plaza with the Arch and Comerford House. Comerford House, a late eighteenth century residence, housed the original city museum from 1976 until the new building thirty years later. The Spanish Arch itself is notoriously underwhelming. There are two arches; the outer one closed, the inner being the Spanish Arch itself. Overall, this is an extension of the city walls built along the old fish market in 1584. The quayside was then extended to form the Long Walk, and the arches were added to give access from the city to the new quays. Originally Eyre’s Arch, it was later named the Spanish Arch to  note the extensive contact between Galway and Spain in medieval times.

A couple of town castles of the period remain in the city centre. At the foot of Quay Street, Blake’s Castle looks out on the Corrib. Built in 1470 it is a typical medieval tower house. For a time it was used as the city jail, later a grainstore, and then a coffee house. The Blakes descended from Richard Caddell, Sheriff of Galway in 1300. His nickname, Negar, for his dark complexion, was Black in English, from which the Blake name derives.

Lynch’s Castle, further on, is another fine remnant of medieval Galway. A four storey Gothic tower from the late fifteenth century, its facade is adorned with ornate stone carvings. It is now a bank. Lynch’s window is nearby, outside St Nicholas Collegiate Church. And thereby hangs a tale, if you pardon the pun. The window commemorates James Lynch Fitzstephen, Galway mayor in 1493. One version has it that Walter his son admitted to killing a Spanish merchant called Gomez in a dispute over the favours of a girl. Failing to find a hangman willing to carry out the sentence, the Mayor carried it out himself from the upstairs window of his own residence. Three and a half centuries later, the window was installed here as a memorial to stern justice showing neither fear nor favour. The word Lynch since became synonymous with ad hoc hanging, though this doesn’t quite tally with the story. 

The church dates back to 1320 and is dedicated to St Nicholas of Myra, the patron saint of seafarers. Christopher Columbus is said to have attended mass here in 1477. Whether or no he also called into the Quays Bar, I always do. It traces its history back to the 13th century when it was a banqueting hall. Upstair is the Music Hall, dominated by a raised stage with a piped organ backdrop. On a seat outside sits a bronze statue known as the Galway Girl. The young woman wears traditional Irish garb so is not the same girl of the famed song. Or songs.

I took a stroll down the old Long Walk

Of the day I-ay-I-ay

I met a little girl and we stopped to talk

On a grand soft day I-ay

Written by American Country Rock musician, Steve Earle, the version by Mundy (Edmond Enright) and Sharon Shannon in 2006 became one of the best selling singles of all time in Ireland. In fact, the Galway Girl is Joyce Redmond, from Howth in Dublin, who plays bodhran on Earle’s original version on his 2000 album, Transcendental Blues.

And I ask you friends, whats a fella to do?

Because her hair was black and her eyes were blue

And I knew right then, I’d be takin a whirl

Down the Salthill Prom with a Galway Girl.

In Ed Sheeran’s song, from his 2017 album +, the Galway Girl is met in Dublin where she plays a fiddle on Grafton Street. Sheeran before his fame had busked the streets of Galway. Across the street is another famed pub, Tigh Neachtain’s, with its traditional interior and terrace seating to front and side. The junction forms a small plaza for a succession of buskers to entertain. Good busking is a notable feature of Galway’s Latin Quarter and the area is thronged with a happy promenade of local and visitor from morning till night.

The fast flowing Corrib marks the edge of the medieval city. It pours down from Lough Corrib, just 6K inland. Besides the powerful main channel, there are other branches winding through the west of the city. Crossing the Wolfe Tone Bridge, the Claddagh and Salthill are off to your left. Further upstream there’s a tangle of riverside walks leading to the open surrounds of the Cathedral and University.

Galway Cathedral, or Our Lady Assumed into Heaven and St Nicholas as it’s officially known, was designed by John J. Robinson. Work began in 1958 and it was completed in 1965. Grimly imposing, the massive structure of limestone blocks attempts to evoke a more ancient age. Its central dome, rising to 145 feet, is its most attractive feature. Within, the bare blocks make for a Stygian atmosphere, encouraging prayers of escape. There is a Marian shrine to the side, and I light a candle there.

Galway University, across from the Cathedral, was founded in 1845. Its original, signature building, the Quadrangle, is a replica of Christ Church College, Oxford in the Tudor Gothic style. The campus expanded in the seventies, with a modern complex designed by Scott Tallon Walker and is growing still. It now has twenty thousand students, almost a quarter of the city’s population. Entering the campus there’s a cluster of building’s from Galway’s industrial past including a disused distillery. A branch of the Corrib here has moorings for river craft and there’s a lively bar along the bank.

The cloisters are strangely deserted but then the rain is falling and this is something of an island in time. The student population is a vibrant force in the pervasive exuberance of Galway. Also, Irish culture is more pronounced here than in other cities, we are way out West, after all. But, while careful to cultivate and preserve the ancient, even invent it, Galway is also modern and receptive; a true melting pot of cultural heritage, ideas and expression. The perfect place to find your tribe, or form a new one.

Trip to Tipperary

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It’s a long way to Tipperary, they say, but the roads are good. We left Bray late morning, arranging to hook up with our travelling companions in Cahir. The simplest route from Bray is to take the M50 through south Dublin, turn southwest along the M7 then veer on to the M8 down to Cahir. It’s a distance of two hundred kilometres which Google reckons can be done in two hours. But what’s the rush? 

We’re staying near Bansha, on the N24 along the railway line heading for Tipperary town and Limerick beyond. Bansha is familiar to us from olden days and the area is always worth visiting for its heritage and wonderful scenery. We booked three days in Aherlow Cottage, a three bedroom self catering accommodation adjacent to a farm. All mod cons, and many older ones, with a traditional hearth and a private garden flanked by trees and a river.

Bansha itself is a pleasant village. Nellie’s Bar on Main Street is the place to go, packed when we arrive on a Sunday when crowds gathered to watch the football. Hurling is more the sport of choice about here. Tipperary are the third most successful team in the country, with twenty eight titles, behind Kilkenny and Cork though, like everyone else, trailing in Limerick’s wake right now. Tipp were last All Ireland hurling champions in 2019. Throughout the week the pub’s quiet; plenty of space and time to dwell over a pint or two, and study the photographs and clippings on the wall of the bar.

The Glen of Aherlow has a number of marked trails amidst a panorama of wonderful scenery. To the south the Galty Mountains rear into a blue sky and Slievenamuck shelter the valley to the north. The Galty Mountains rise to over three thousand feet and are the highest inland range in Ireland with Galtymore the highest peak outside of Kerry. Slievenamuck means mountain of the pig in Gaelic, referring to a notorious wild boar who once haunted the slopes. He’s long gone and, if you’ll pardon the pun, the place is just as interesting in his absence. The Slievenamuck range features loop walks of varying degrees of difficulty.

We took the trail from the statue of Christ the King heading uphill through Bansha Woods with fabulous panoramic views across the county rewarding us at the summit. Tipperary town is visible in the middle distance. We make downhill through rushing streams and forest paths. It’s well marked and you won’t go astray. There’s a picnic area near the statue where you can enjoy the scenery in a more leisurely fashion

The main town hereabouts is Cahir on the River Suir. The town has a population of three and a half thousand people. Most of it is built on the south bank of the river, centered on a main square. Such squares are a feature of Protestant plantations in Elizabethan and Jacobean Ireland. Quakers established themselves in Ireland in the mid seventeenth century. Cahir and Clonmel became their main centres in south Tipperary where they were prominent in milling and other businesses. Cahir and Clonmel were the first towns in Ireland to be linked by Charles Bianconi’s coach service in 1815. Up till then, the journey could take six hours or more by river. With the coach it could be done in two hours, though Google might claim even less. Charles Bianconi was born in Italy, near Lake Como, in 1786, and moved to Ireland when he was sixteen, fleeing Napoleon’s invasion. He worked in Dublin as an engraver before moving to Clonmel where he set up his transport business. 

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The most spectacular feature of Cahir is its castle. Cahir Castle is built on a small island in the river. It was first built in the mid twelfth century by the King of Thomond (North Munster) Conor O’Brien. This dynasty was established by Brian Boru, of Battle of Clontarf fame. This was the original stone fort, An Cathair, which gave the town its name. The Butlers of Ormond (East Munster) took over when in1375 James Butler was granted the castle estate as reward for his loyalty to Edward III. Munster, Ireland’s southern province, was then divided into three earldoms Ormond, Thomond and Desmond (South Munster). The new Castle had formidable walls rising sheer from the river, with a towering central keep all guarded by an array of sturdy towers. It was considered impregnable but in the three day siege of 1599 during the Nine Years War the Castle was taken by Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex.and his ally Christopher St Lawrence, Lord Howth. This is the same Howth who, as a boy was kidnapped by pirate queen Grace O’Malley. Eventually released, he grew up to become a renowned warrior, albeit with anger management issues.

Since the death of the last Lord Cahir in the 1960s, the Castle has been the property of the Irish State. Entrance is €5 and there are guided tours. It is free to walk the Inch Field public park which embraces the castle on three sides. In modern times the Castle is much in demand for period productions in the film and tv business. Famous films are noted on a plaque outside. Amongst the roll call are John Boorman’s Excalibur from 1981, TV drama The Tudors and most recently The Last Duel in 2020. The Last Duel was directed by Ridley Scott and based on a nonfiction work by Eric Jager. Matt Damon is producer, co-writer and took the main lead of Jean de Carrouges fighter of the last Judicial Duel in France in the fourteenth century. Filming was delayed with the outbreak of covid and Damon found himself marooned in Dalkey, south of Dublin. The bould Matt didn’t mind, going for swims and coffee and hobnobbing with the locals. What’s not to like about being marooned in Dalkey, rubbing shoulders with Bono, Enya and Van Morrison? 

A 2 km riverside walk will take you to the Swiss Cottage. This early nineteenth century ornamental cottage is attributed to John Nash, the Regency architect who also designed the Cahir Parish church in 1817. Thatched and deliberately asymmetrical, it is a fabulous mimicry of what it was assumed an Alpine cottage might be. Such follies were for entertaining guests, who dressed, or even undressed, in rustic gear to let it all hang out, as it were. Downstairs there’s a music room to one side and beyond the central staircase the Dufour Room, named for its startling French Dufour wallpaper. This original wallpaper makes a fantastical backdrop, depicting a pleasure ground surrounding the Bosphorus. There’s an excellent guided tour to bring you around the interior which costs just €5, €4 seniors. Here we learned, amongst other things, Richard Butler’s own story which is itself outrageously romantic. He was an obscure teenager with only distant family connections until an unlikely string of aristocratic deaths meant the Cahir lordship became his inheritance. Grasping relatives abducted him to the continent but the plot was foiled by Arabella Jefferys. She rescued Richard and brought him to her home at Blarney Castle in County Cork, where he came of age and married her daughter, Emily in 1793. It was this happy loving couple that commissioned the Swiss Cottage.

Say you don’t need no diamond rings

And I’ll be satisfied

Tell me that you want the kind of things

That money just can’t buy

I don’t care too much for money

Money can’t buy me love

Ow!

Can’t Buy Me Love is a Lennon McCartney song from the Beatles album, A Hard Day’s Night in 1964. McCartney wrote the song in Paris and later mused if the ’t might be omitted. 

Leitrim – Lakes and Literature

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Myself and M took a couple of days in Leitrim in the middle of June. We booked into the Riversdale B&B just outside Ballinamore. It’s a lovely old house along the Shannon Erne Waterway with moorings for watercraft where there’s a boatyard for barge building and repairs. The property is on a farm with horses gambolling in the nearby fields.There’s a heated swimming pool, a gym, table tennis and a grand piano offering us a diverse range of pursuits. The drive took us about two and a half hours from Bray, with coffee and a snack in Edgeworthstown. We followed the main road as far as Dromod, turning off for Mohill and Fenagh, which is more direct than the backroad route proposed by Google.

In terms of population, Leitrim is Ireland’s smallest county with a population of thirty five thousand people. In pre famine times there were a hundred and fifty thousand people and a thriving mining industry. Ore mining continued from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, with coal mining to the fore in the nineteenth century. The Arigna Mines across Lough Ree in County Roscommon are now a visitor centre. The last mine there closed in 1990. The population had dwindled to a mere twenty five thousand in the 1990s. So things are picking up.

A main attraction for us was the Ballinamore Walkway and Cycling trail, a four and a half kilometre walk to the town, taking about an hour. It’s mostly flat, being along a canal, and is an extremely pleasant route through woodland and farm. Near Ballinamore there’s a weir and lock with an attractive expanse of placid water in the shade of the trees. We come into the town through a small parkland circling the mooring spot for river craft, framed by its multi-arched stone bridge and quayside.

Ballinamore lies on the Yellow River, its main street rising up from the bridge. On the other side there’s a fine modern theatre, The Island, which as the name says occupies an island on the Shannon Erne waterway. The theatre hosts dramatic and musical events. Along Main Street, Smyth’s Pub, Siopa Ol as Gaeilge, is a traditional old pub serving good food and drink; and a lot of it. With friendly service and a relaxed atmosphere, it made for the perfect oasis at the midpoint of our walks along the waterway. 

The Shannon Erne waterway connects the Irish and Northern Irish canal and river network. The Shannon thereby becomes part of a navigable network through the midlands and connecting Dublin with Lough Erne and Enniskillen in Northern Ireland. It was built in 1840 but fell into disuse after the coming of the railway and the automobile. The railway once ran through here connecting the Dublin Sligo line to Ulster. It operated from the 1880s to 1959, when much of Ireland’s secondary rail network was decommissioned. The canal, however, came back and the restored waterway reopened in 1994.

It’s a short drive from here to Enniskillen in Northern Ireland. Enniskillen is situated between Lough Enrne Upper and Lower and is located on an island. Enniskillen Castle stands on the Lough shore. It was built in the early fifteenth century by the local chieftains, the Maguires, but fell into English hands at the start of the seventeenth century with the occupation and plantation of Ulster. There is substantial free parking on the edge of town and it’s a short walk up to the main street marked by the spires of the main denomination churches. 

The Catholic St Michael’s dates from the 1870s and is built in the Gothic Revival style. It is preparing for mass, and the huge organ blasts into life as we enter, which is very exhilarating. Right across the street, the Protestant (CofI) church is smaller and looks older. St Macartin’s Cathedral is on the site of the first Protestant church built here in 1627. The current building dates from 1842. The main street follows the line of Chruch Street, High Street and Town Hall Street.the Town Hall crowns the island’s highest point. It was built in the 1880s replacing its dilapidated predecessor. The six storey copper domed tower forms a distinct landmark. The Clinton building marks the end of town, built overlooking the site of the Remembrance Day bombing by the IRA which killed twelve people in November 1987. The bombing further alienated the IRA and is often seen as a watershed of the Troules with democratic processes coming to the fore.

There are plenty of bars, cafes and eateries on or off the main street including William Blakes, Crowe’s Nest and Granny Annie’s. We eat at the Firehouse, which is as warm as the name implies and friendly. They serve us from the lunch menu too, although we were late.

Next door to Riversdale, is the Glenview Folk Museum. This was founded at the start of the century and is run by the Kennedy family. It houses a wonderful collection of social and cultural paraphernalia. We popped over in the morning and ran into Brian Kennedy who gave us a personal tour with a few other couples. The collection is grouped around such community focal points as the pub, the general store, transport and farming life. I can actually remember some of these ancient displays, forgotten brands quaint production methods emerging from my X files. For younger viewers it must be mind bogglingly weird. Brian is an affable host, rich in anecdote and with all the enthusiasm you would expect from someone who has so loveingly and skillully prepared these displays. 

A section is devoted to writer John McGahern. Born near Ballinamore in 1934, by the end of the century he was seen as one of Ireland’s greatest living authors. But, as Brian points out, it had not always been so. McGahern became a primary school teacher, teaching at Clontarf in Dublin. When his second novel The Dark was banned, he was fired from his post by Archbishop McQuaid. For writers, being banned was something of a badge of honour, Brian O’Nolan complainerd that his career suffered due to the ignominy of never being banned. For Mcahern though, censorship of his book meant that he lost his job. He actually was cancelled. He returned to Leitrim, buying a farm near Fenagh. His last two books Amongst Women and That They May Face the Rising Sun(2002) secured his reputation at home and abroad. He died in 2006.

Brian Kennedy dwells on his marginalisation as a literary figure. A poster on display includes the usual suspects Joyce, Beckett, Yeats and Behan, though not McGahern. As with much artistic pursuits such perspectives change with time, and I imagine most literary fans would include McGahern on their own Rock Dreams poster.

We pass through Carrick on Shannon on our drive home. Carrick is Leitrim’s county town, with a population of 4,700 people. It is one of the fastest growing towns in the country, developng a thriving tourist industry based on the amenity of the River Shannon. There is a palpable buzz about the town during the summer. We stop for a coffee at a colourful pavement cafe, VDA. Down the street we notice a fine gable end mural of the county’s literary heritage. Painted by artist Nik Purdy in 2020 it includes such writers as Susan Mitchel, Canon Slator, Nora Murray, M.J.McManus and, of course, John McGahern.

Andalusia – 10. Cadiz to Marbella by Bus

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Our recent tour of western Andalusia took us from Seville to Cadiz by train, and we then got a bus from Cadiz to Marbella. This was a three and a half hour journey with a number of stops on the way. There are usually two or three busses per day and it cost €56 for the two of us. We booked for the two o’clock departure giving us a relaxed final morning in Cadiz. We had breakfast in Cathedral Square and strolled around a bit, visiting the Church of Santiago across from the Cathedral. This was a Jesuit church built in 1563 but destroyed by English and Dutch invaders at the end of that century. Rebuilt in the Baroque style it eatures exuberant interior decoration with ornate baroque altarpeices from the seventeenth century populated by lifelike clothed statuary. We dallied on the main square before picking up our bags and one last cup of coffee for the road, near the statue of the Pearl of Cadiz. 

Your sister sees the future like your mama and yourself

You’ve never learned to read or write, there’s no books upon your shelf

And your pleasure knows no limits, your voice is like a meadow lark

But your heart is like an ocean, mysterious and dark

One more cup of coffee for the road

One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go

To the valley below

One More Cup of Coffee is from Dylan’s 1976 album Desire, also featuring Emmylou Harris on vocals. There is a strong Gypsy inluence in the narrative, and Dylan’s vocal style borrows from traditional Jewish singing. Meanwhile the Valley Below is common to all travellers who find themselves moving on.

The bus station is beside the rail station so it was a short walk. The weather is wet and cool, a bit like home. The bus heads on through the modern extension to the city of Cadiz, then along the connecting isthmus to the mainland. This part of the city is built up with medium rise hotels lining a long sequence of beaches such as Playa de la Santa Maria and Playa de la Victoria. Farther on is a grubby industrial area. The urbanisation extends to Chiclana de la Frontera famous for La Barrossa beach. It has a population of 80,000 and is also on the railway line connecting to Cadiz, Jerez, Sevilla and Madrid. After that there’s Conil de la Frontera a traditional white town of about twenty thousand people. This too is famous for its beaches and is a popular destination for Spanish holidaymakers.

Then we head towards Tarifa on the Costa de la Luz. Spain’s southernmost point is a magnet for windsurfers. It is very windy owing to the Venturi effect which funnels the wind passing through the Strait of Gibraltar separating Spain from Africa. Algeciras is next. With a population of 120,000 it is one of the largest ports in Europe. It is also a ferry port for Tangier and other North Arican ports, and the Canaries too.

Leaving Algeciras we pass Gibraltar, the high Rock suspended in the clouds. Gibraltar was captured by an Anglo Dutch fleet during the War of the Spannish Succession, it was granted to Britain in 1713 at the Treaty of Utrecht. Besides the British, Gibraltar is occupied by monkees. These are Barbary macaques, numbering about three hundred and the only European wild monkees, not counting ourselves. The scenic coastal mountains rear out of the gloom, scratching some welcome blue swathes in the sky. Estepona is the last stop before Marbella.

The way it is long but the end is near

Already the fiesta has begun

The face of God will appear

With his serpent eyes of obsidian

Marbella bus station is outside the city centre. We had originally booked a hotel, but cancelled and opted to head straight for the villa. The taxi from the station cost €20 and deposited us in Elviria central. The sun made a welcome appearance and after shopping we had pizzas and pints outdoor on the square. We did make a trip into Marbella the next day taking the local bus and spending a leisurely few hours walking up the coast towards Puerto Banus, where the rich folk go. We returned to eat at Canuto in Marbella with good local tapas. We walked the six miles home along the beach in hot sunshine and high waves. At last we reached our favourite stop in Elviria. The Lido Bar along the beach has become our sunset bar, the perfect place to relax over a few drinks, or a bight to eat. We fade into the spectacular coastal scenery looking out over the Mediterranean, Africa beckoning just beyond the lip of the horizon.

No llores, mi querida

Dios nos vigila

Soon the horse will take us to Durango

Agarrame, mi vida

Soon the desert will be gone

Soon you will be dancing the fandango

Romance in Durango is also on Dylan’s album Desire.

Andalusia – 9. Cadiz by Train

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We take the train from Seville to Cadiz. There’s a train every hour or so and the hundred kilometre journey takes an hour and a half. Santa Justa Station is an ugly carbuncle on unkempt wasteland on the edge of the city. But once inside it is clean and functional and there are plenty of seats on the main concourse with cafes and eateries. We travel along the eastern Guadalquivir valley heading south through Sherry country. The fortified wine takes its name from Jerez de la Frontera, close to our destination. Further on, we enter the swamplands on the Bay of Cadiz and standing proud in the sea, the city of that name. 

There’s a Spanish Train that runs between

Guadalquivir and old Seville

at dead of night the whistle blows

and people fear she’s running still

Spanish Train and Other Stories, Chris De Burgh’s 2nd album from 1975.

Cadiz occupies a small peninsula jutting into the Bay. Initially it consisted of two islands but over the years they have joined and connect to the mainland via bridges and an isthmus. The spectacular La Pepa Bridge looms over the port. It is the longest cable stayed bridge in Spain at five kilometres. It was named as the Constitution of 1812 Bridge, planned for completion on the bicentenary of the launch of Spain’s first constitution in Cadiz. This briefly established a democracy which was crushed by the monarchy two years later. As for the bridge, the economic crisis added another three years before completion in 2015.

Cadiz is often touted as Europe’s oldest city. As with Seville, Hercules is claimed as the mythical founder, his name also used for the Pillars of Hercules guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean  farther East. More historically, three thousand years ago the Phoenicians set up shop here. They came from Tyre, in modern Lebanon, and named the settlement Agadir, derived from their word for wall, signifying a stronghold. Agadir is also the name of a Moroccan city, although the Spanish port’s name has mutated to Cadiz over the years.

Carthaginians and Romans followed. The Roman city of Gades was established on the southern island. Remnants of its ancient theatre survive and there is an excellent visitor centre showing a visual reconstruction, with ancient artefacts and a fascinating historical narrative. The Theatre was founded by Lucius Cornelius Balbus in the first century BC and only rediscovered in 1990. It is the largest known outside Pompeii and housed up to ten thousand spectators. Entrance is free for EU residents. It is close to the Plaza de la Catedral, via the Arco de la Rosa, one of the ancient gates of the city.

Cadiz fell under Muslim control between 711 and 1262 when the Reconquista confined the Moors to the Nasrid Kingdom of Granada. The fall of Granada in 1492 coincided with Columbus’s adenture in America, and the Conquistadors who followed established a lucrative transatlantic trade for the Spanish crown. Cadiz thrived during the eighteenth century as Spain’s designated transatlantic port.

The train terminates at the port, adjacent to the city centre. Our hotel, Convento Santo Domingo, is only a hundred yards or so from the station entrance. Convento Domingo is a seventeenth century Dominican convent. It is a sight worth seeing itself, a priveledge for hotel guests. Inside, cloisters surround a tiled plaza, with an eerie soundtrack of Gregorian chanting monks adding to the atmosphere.

Then the door was open and the wind appeared

The candles blew and then disappeared

The curtains flew and then he appeared

Saying don’t be afraid

The singing monks, and some wine, suggest the song of the Blue Oyster Cult: Don’t Fear the Reaper. Written by Donald Roeser, it’s on their 1976 album Agents of Fortune.

Music persists outside the convent where we encounter a statue to La Perla de Cadiz. Antonia Gilabert Vargas was a Gitana flamenco singer. Born in Cadiz in 1924 she became famous throughout Spain for her voice of power and softness. She died in 1975. A club on the nearby seafront trades under her name

A few hundred yards further on through the Barrio we find Puertas de Tierra, a monument built in the eighteenth century along a remnant of the sea defenses which repulsed Napoleon in the Peninsular War of the early nineteenth century. Today it marks the border between the Old Town and Puerta Tierra, the modern city resort sprawling along the isthmus.

The weather is sunny but with a bracing sea breeze making it cooler than Seville. A couple of narrow, straight streets run lengthwise, Calle San Francisco and Sacramento being the main ones, with winding medieval lanes connecting. Many junctions broaden into small plazas, allowing people to congregate in comfort within the dense maze of streets. A roadway circles the Old Town, and broad footpaths and several sizeable green parks make for an easy escape from urban claustrophobia.

A short esplanade divides the port from the main square. Plaza San Juan de Dios is fringed with palm trees, bars and restaurants and focussed on the Old Town Hall, a fine Neo-Classical building from 1799. Taking Calle San Francisco we browse the shops all the way up to the Plaza San Francisco. We enjoy ice cream cones from a perch beside the hatch, where we can watch the world go by and youngsters playing ball against the walls of the church. 

The next square up is the Plaza de Mina with the Museum of Cadiz. This includes an art gallery with works by Rubens and Murillo. Unfortunately the gallery was closed, something too frequently the case these days. Recent visits to Porto, Budapest and Edinburgh suffered from such partial or total closures. The Museum itself has a good display showing Cadiz’s history, with Roman statues and other archeological exhibits back to the Phoenicians.

A woman on the train advised us to seek out the Taverna Casa Manteca for lunch. We arrived in the evening when it is closed but chose instead a nearby taverna. The woman serving gave us a tour of the dishes on display so we could choose by a combination of pointing and miming. A bit like a game of charades, but without a definite resolution. I wondered what Pulpo was. Our host translated by flailing her arms while saying pulpo repeatedly. We decided against, but were given it anyway. It is Octopus, by the way, although sufficiently buried in its preparation and sauces as to give no hint of waving tentacles. It’s fine, shellfish are out for me but I can eat fish or squid. We liked it, and the generous mixed salad to accompany it. 

We returned the following day to Casa Manteca, which means the House of Butter. It opened in 1953 and is dense with atmosphere, history and the aroma of good food. For Siesta it is thronged with people enjoying tapas and drinks. We try hake, and tortilla, which promptly arrives. The staff, though very busy, are good. Something of an old style pub atmosphere pervades. Wood pannelling throughout, the walls covered with flamenco and bullfighting photos and mementos.

Nearby, the Playa de la Caleta, the city’s famous beach forms an arc between two fortified promintories. The longest terminates in Castillo San Sebastian, where the Phoenicians established their base three thousand years ago. The modern castle was built in 1700. Still a small island, it connected to the mainland by a stone causeway in 1860. A metal lighthouse was built in 1906, and soars to over forty metres. Unfortunately, the Castle and compound is closed to the public for renovations. The causeway is a recommended spot to view the sunset. It was cloudy when we arrived, but none the less scenic for that.

Castillo de Santa Catalina is Cadiz’z oldest fortress, built at the end of the sixteenth century. The small chapel came a century later. Inside the walls we step into another world. The past, for sure, but I also felt the thrill of being in a Salvador Dali townscape: Outskirts of the Paranoiac-Critical Town. Meanwhile, I half expected to see Clint Eastwood step out from a doorway and spark up a cheroot. The Castle was repurposed as a military prison for over two centuries until donated to the City in 1991. Now the buildings house art and cultural exhibitions. We were fortunate that our visit coincided with an exhibition by Fernando Devesa, La Verdad Sea Pintada, comprising stunning views of Cadiz and more intimate interiors. Fernando Devesa Molina is a local painter in his forties.His realist paintings are masterful, not just an exercise in rendering but full of warmth and vision; the truth is clear to see.

The beach centers on the nineteenth century baths. La Palma Spa gives an aura of Fin de Siecle opulence, though they are now a Nautical college. We walk all along the City coast, lined by parks and remnants of the ancient sea walls. Genoves Park is the largest, though we had to climb in over the railings. Nearby, the Murallas de San Carlos is one of the most scenic stretches of the sea fortifications. Alameda Park, known for its vast dragon trees, is a cool oasis of chequerboard tiles and shade. Stepping down from the walls, the Plaza de Espana is dominated by a monument to the 1812 Cadiz Constitution, erected a century later. We are back to the port and just a short walk from Plaza San Juan de Dios.

Calle Sacramento, another long shopping street that cuts through the centre of the Old Town can be reached via Catedral Square and Plaza de las Flores. The Central Market there is thronged with locals enjoying drinks and snacks from its many stalls. Nearby is the Tavira Tower. Built in the mid eighteenth century in a Baroque style, there are maybe a hundred such lookout towers dotting the skyline. Only this one is open to the public and is the highest vantage point in the Old Town at 150 feet. There’s a wonderful panorama from the roof. It was very windy when we visited, which only added to the spectacle. I could have done with guy ropes as I crept across the roof taking photos which I hoped would not be shaky. The Camera Obscura, just below, was far more calm, and the excellent guide gave a good account of the camera. She performed amusing tricks with the people passing through the busy market below and we wondered would we feature in one of her shows later on. 

The Cathedral is Cadiz’s most iconic building, an impressive collage of different styles. It is known as the New Cathedral. The original Old Cathedral, near the Roman Theatre, was burnt down in the Anglo Dutch attack of 1598 and replaced in situ. Prosperity and population growth caused the city to propose a bigger cathedral and work began in the early 1700s. It took over a century to build, with several different architects, so the style shifts from Baroque to Rococo to Neo Classical. Its dome is clad in yellow tiles giving an impression of gold under the bright Andalusian sun.

Catedral Square on its inland side has a variety of bars and eateries. On the corner 100 Montaditos is useful for the budget conscious, with tapas and drink served at the counter. All are well thronged with diners, drinkers, passing tourists and locals, enjoying the wonderful vista, and each other. Cadiz seems to have achieved a reasonable balance between visitors and residents. The city feels lived in, enchanting and relaxed. Very friendly too, we found. 

Andalusia – 8. Seville on Another Day

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The Alcazar is Seville’s fortress and royal palace, established in Moorish times. The fort here dates to the early tenth century. The Moors ruled from the early eight century until 1248 when conquered by Ferdinand III of Castile. Significant reconstruction began and continued through the centuries. Although little of the original palace remains, the original style persists in the many ornate courtyards and the Mudejar architecture. Mudejar means those who remained, referring to Muslims in Spain after the Reconquista. It is a fusion of Christian and Islamic art and architecture, a heady mix of Gothic, early Renaissance and the flowing tracery and distinctive detail of Muslim crafts. After 1492, the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella renovated the palace as their main residence and it is still a royal residence today.

We queued in the morning for early afternoon tickets. Visits are restricted by number and entrance is on the hour. It costs thirteen euro, seven for over 65s. Entrance is through the Puerta del Leon (Gate of the Lion) which leads on to the Patio de la Monteria, the Courtyard of the Hunters who used to meet here before their hunts. The courtyard is dominated by Pedro’s Palace, which forms the focal point of the complex and includes the mighty Hall of the Ambassadors

Don Pedro’s Palace was built in alliance with the Moorish kingdom of Granada in the 1360s Pedro’s ally, Muhammad V, was the Nasrid ruler of Granada and supplied designers and craft workers who had also worked on the Alhambra. The Patio of the Maidens is a particularly fine example of Mudejar architecture. Formal gardens with fountains and pools were a notable feature of Moorish palaces, with greenery and shining water cooling the sunbaked setting, literally and aeshetically. The Gardens are truly an earthly delight, lying between the palace and the city walls. The Grotto gallery gives a great view over the gardens built above a stretch of the Moorish defensive wall in the 16th century. There’s a Garden of the Dance, and a Garden of the Poets alluding to the various arts that settled amidst the shading landscape. Further gardens have been added up to the twentieth century.

Leaving, we follow the palace walls through a charming ramble of ancient streets in this picturesque part of Santa Cruz. Sunburnt but softly rendered in pastels, there are welcoming intimate bars and cafes with the promise of music later on. The route leads on to the Murillo Gardens, named for the artist whose work is such a ubiquitous feature of Seville’s holy places. Bartolome Esteban Murillo was born in Seville in 1617 and became a leading painter of religious imagery. He is also well known for his informal paintings of contemporary street life, featuring a cast of flower girls, fruit sellers and street urchins. His paintings feature in major museums across the globe including the Prado, the Louvre, the Hermitage and the London National Portrait Gallery. He died in Seville in 1682

His park continues parallel to the Avenue Menendez Pelayo and there’s a monument for Columbus halfway along. Meanwhile the ornate carriages of La Feria’s finely clad aficionados trot past. We head for the Parque Maria Luisa, a huge green wedge of the city’s southside on the banks of the Guadalquivir. This was where the Ibero American Exposition of 1929 was held. The main pavillion at Plaza de Espana showcased Spain’s industry and technology. One of Seville’s signature buildings, it was designed by local architect Anibal Gonzales. Arranged in a semi-circle, it forms a fantastical montage of architectural styles facing onto a scenic moat. Here you can take a pleasure trip in a dinky rowing boat.

The arcades are packed with tourists, foreign and local, and a host of buskers and vendors. There’s a wedding party in full La Feria dress around the central fountain. In fact, the Exposition of 29 helped establish the traje de flamenco as a ‘traditional’ garb for the ladies of Spain. A young Flamenco group of musicians and dancers performs on the ground floor gallery at the main entrance. They are modern in style and substance, clad in uniform black, though this is a stylish mufti in the modern mode. The accousitcs are ideal for the percussive clapping and full bodied rhythm of the guitar

Returning through Arenal, we pass the famous Tobacco Factory. Seville was the first European centre for tobacco, the Spaniards spotting its benefits the moment Columbus stepped ashore in the Americas in 1492. The Royal Tobacco Factory is an 18th century building, bringing the various tobacco manufacturers under one roof, and one ruler. Since the 1950s the building has been the seat of the Rector of the University of Seville. Carmen, titular lead of Bizet’s opera, was a cigarrera here. Women were renowned for their skills as cigar rollers, and they replaced the male workforce in 1813. The fiery Carmen was a Gitano who lead the young soldier Don Jose astray, before dumping him for the dashing toreador Escamillo. The opera was first performed in Paris in 1875. Amongst its best known songs are L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, and the Toreador Song.

For early evening, we have booked a Flamenco show in Calle Cuna which runs parallel to Calle Sierpes close to Plaza Del Salvador. Teatro Flamenco Sevilla is an intimate theatre seating about three hundred people. They run several hour long shows daily. Flamenco grew out of the Gitano Barrio of Triana, on the west bank of the Guadalquivir. The folk form is internationally famous, a definitive Spanish culture. The singing is expressive, the guitar rhythms hypnotic, the interpretation of the dancers seductive, the whole making for a sensually charged and dramatic performance, felt as much as it is seen and heard. Traditionally, Flamenco was more of an ad hoc expression, similar to an impromptu Irish Folk session. The first flamenco cabaret bar was opened in Seville in 1842 and known as the Cafe Sin Nobre, No Name Cafe. These days Flamenco is more usually presented as a tablao, or show. Tablao refers to the stage floorboards. On the Boards, as Rory Gallagher would sing.

Our performance was at 7.30 and featured five dancers, one male, and a male and female vocalist. The guitarist was the natural leader of the troupe, although leading from the rear. The vocals were visceral. I couldn’t believe how their singing seemed to explode from inside my head. All performers contributed to the stacatto percussion, another startling feature of Flamenco. Talent, spectacle and a genuine passion permeated the performace. On the last few numbers, they and the audience got carried away, with plenty of high good humour, particularly the manic and brilliant guitarist. A great gig.

Afterwards we have a decent tapas at Plaza Alfalfa nearby. Around the corner from our hotel is the curiously named Plaza Cristo de Burgos. We decide to take a look, mindful that tomorrow we take a Spanish Train to Cadiz; but that’s another story. The small park has a statue of the great guitarist. The great guitarist being flamenco guitarist Manuel Serrapi Sanchez and known as Nino Ricardo. He was born in this square in 1904 and became a major influence on flamenco guitar technique. Paco de Lucia hailed him as the Godfather of guitar.

We say goodbye to Seville, from a rooftop bar above the Cathedral. The illuminations shimmer in the warm night air and it feels as if we ride above the city on a magic carpet. It all suggests a shot of Colombian espresso, a square of dark chocolate, the air scented with the smoke of a long Havana. Open a bottle of Osborne Sherry and enjoy the company of Compay Segundo and the sound of Guantanamera.

Yo soy un hombre sincero,

De donde crece la palma.

Y antes de morir yo quiero

Cantar mis versos del alma.

Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera,

Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera.

Guantanamera is a Cuban song from the poem by Jose Marti set to the music of Joseito Fernandez (probably). Look up the version by Compay Segundo with video of the noted guitarist enjoying the benefits of tobacco and drink in his native Havana.

Andalusia – 7. Seville

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Touchdown at midnight in Seville airport. Step into a warm Spring night as taxis cruise conveniently to the kerb. It’s thirty five euro to the city centre, which is a bit steep; but it’s Feria, and you now how festivals eat money. Our city centre hotel is near six hundred euro for three nights, so we’re prepared. Feria is Seville’s biggest festival, where locals let there hair down, or tie it up, a fortnight after the serious religious and cultural devotion of Semana Santa. 

Our accommodation, La Pila De Pata is in the Old Town, Santa Cruz, within walking distance of the city’s main attractions. The room is attractive, with a timber ceiling, old style shutters, and a gigantic fan. There’s a small wrought iron balcony overlooking the narrow street, Calle Aldohinga. There are noisy neighbours across when we arrive, but hey, it’s Feria, and we’re dog tired and sleep easy.

Seville is the capital and largest city in Andalusia. Almost seven hundred thousand people live here on the banks of the mighty Guadalquivir River. Founded by the Romans and ruled by the Moors for five centuries from 700AD, in 1248 Castile conquered the Moors in the Reconquista. NO8DO is the city’s emblem. It is a rebus for No me ha dejado: she (Seville) has not abandoned me. Pronounced No ma dejado, the symbol 8 represents the trio of syllables madeja; a skein of wool. The legend is that King Alfonso X used the phrase thanking the citizens for standing by him against attempts by his son Sancho to usurp the throne. Alfonso ruled from 1252 till his death in 1284.

Seville lies fifty miles inland from the Atlantic and flourished as a river port in the late middle ages, particularly for imports from the New World. Silting of the river and other factors saw it decline in the eighteenth century and maritime power passed to Cadiz on the Atlantic coast further south. Ancient Seville lies largely within Santa Cruz. a warren of streets and lanes spreading north from the central area around the ancient fortress. Here you’ll find a cluster of magnificent buildings including the Alcazar, and the spectacular Cathedral. 

On our first day, we shimmy down from Aldohinga to Plaza Virgen de los Reyes. The Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See is six hundred years old and the largest gothic church in the world. The bell tower of La Giralda soars above. There’s a short queue for entrance, with a generous discount, almost fifty per cent for aul lads like me. Younger folk, like M, pay the full thirteen euro. The Giraldillo, the bronze statue depicting the victory of the Catholic Faith stands here, a replica of the weathervane at the top of the tower. La Giralda was originally the minaret of the Mosque, with Christian symbols added after the Reconquista. The Renaissance belfry and weathervane were added in 1598. The climb to the top is relatively easy, a ramp zig zags upwards at a moderate incline. The views are truly majestic. Even more exciting, the bells broke into full peal causing some to clutch their ears. The bells. The bells!

The Cathedral interior is mind bogglingly cavernous, on a scale that hints at science fiction besides a supreme exhaltation of faith. The crowds are well dispersed around its many treasures. Amongst these are the tomb of Christopher Columbus. He set sail in 1492, forging the route to the New World and making his first landfall on the island of Guanahani which he named San Salvador. Columbus was thus instrumental in the initiation of the lucrative trans Atlantic trade and more. A new world order grew, and such benefits as tobacco, potatoes and turkeys first came to Euope. Gold and silver too; and coffee, jazz and rock n roll. 

Columbus’s remains were interred in the Cathedral in 1513, seven years after his death. They had an appropriately peripatetic existence, being further interred in Hispaniola and Cuba before making their way back to Seville in 1898. The tomb is a catafalque, depicting a casket borne aloft by the Kings of Leon, Castille, Aragon and Navarre. 

The Vision of Saint Anthony by Bartolome Esteban Murillo from 1656 is in the Saint’s chapel nearby. There are eighty chapels within the Cathedral each host to a story, an ambience to absorb and admire. Outside, the Patio de los Naranjos is the courtyard of the original Mosque centered on a fountain. Here, the Muslim devotees would wash before prayer. It is a restful oasis after the sensory overload of the interior.

Back towards the Old Town, we stop in San Francisco Square for lunch. The Ayuntamiento, City Hall, lines the western side. This was built in 1534 and upgraded in the Neo Classical style in 1891. Over a drink we await our tapas, including Tortilla. But while the guide book refers to it as the ubiquitous Spanish Tortilla, we finish our drinks without it arriving. Moving on to Calle Sierpes, the street of the snakes, we get pizza slices for nourishment. Sierpes is a pedestrianised shopping street and perfect for the Spanish Stroll of early evening.

Hey Rosita! Donde vas con mi carro Rosita?

tu sabes que te quiero

pero ti me quitas todo

ya te robasta mi television y mi radio

y ahora quieres llevarse mi carro

no me haga asi, Rosita

ven aqui

ehi, estese aqui al lado Rosita

Spanish Stroll was a hit single in 1977 for Mink Deville, Willy Deville’s band, from their 1976 debut album Cabretta, a jacket of soft leather. Derived from the Spanish word for goat, it is in fact sheep leather. Bass player Ruben Siguenza did the spoken bit.

By early evening we follow the crowds across the San Telmo bridge over the Guadalquivir to Triana. Triana is said to be the cradle of Flamenco being originally the barrio for the Gitano community. Today it is a lively traditional area with riverfront bars giving great views of the city. To the south is Los Remedios, a more modern area which hosts another exuberant expression of tradition. The Feria de Abril is a week long fair held a fortnight after the Semana Santa. The locals don traditional attire and let their hair down, or tie it up, in a spree of drinking and dancing. The fairground is at the top of long, straight Calle de Asuncion.

The throng is going one way in early evening, and we are pushed along to enter through a huge gateway, bringing us into a garden of earthly delights. It is quite overpowering, a feeling the whole world is here, balanced between chaos and the vast underlying structure of community. There are a thousand tents or casetas for drinking, dining and dancing, welcoming a half million visitors per day. The casetas are mostly restricted access, for various clubs, associations and families but some are open to the general public and visitors. There is a horse and carriage parade making a colourful, traditional spectacle and further on is an amusement park known as La Calle del Infierno, or Hell Road. The week coincides with the start of the bullfighting season across the river at Real Maestranza, the twelve thousand seater bullring and one of the most iconic in Spain.

The evening serenity of Old Seville beckons. and we return across the river where the Torre del Oro guards the far bank. The tower dates from Moorish times when it was part of the city’s defensive walls. Built in 1220  the turret was added in 1760. There was once a twin tower across linked by a mighty chain to thwart enemy shipping. We find space at a restaurant on Calle Almirante Lobo, Admiral Wolf as we might say, and enjoy our meal al fresco as the sun sets behind the Tower of Gold. The sun sinks and illuminations blossom over the city. Later, we find the rooftop bar at the Cathedral Hotel to bask in the moon over magical Seville and raise a glass or two.