Category Archives: Travel

Madrid

Posted on by
Reply

The Irish Celts are supposed to have come from Spain, the Milesians setting out from that land of the dead to the fabled isle of destiny in the western ocean. It would not be the last time a great voyage of discovery initiated in Iberia. It is in a state of constant change, sending voyagers outwards, receiving the insanely talented too. Columbus, the Italian, sought out Spain to back his ambitions. El Greco found acceptance for his otherworldly paintings here. There were the Conquistadors, the doomed Armada of  King Philip, poets, artists, and the ubiquitous Spanish student.

Madrid is central to this country, this fulcrum between Europe and Africa, stepping stone to the new world. The joining of the thrones of Aragon and Castille under Isabella and Philip brought Spain into being and the King chose Madrid as the capital for its central location. What had been little more than a small town on a bleak plateau became the capital city of the greatest empire of the early modern world. The city is built in overlaid layers, medieval lanes merge into grand boulevards, spacious squares are hidden amongst warrens of tiny streets, there are regular, elegant streetscapes in the European mode and sudden eruptions of art deco highrises in the American style. The stroller is rewarded with interesting shops and intimate taverns and the city plan is sufficiently confusing to make walking a pleasant adventure.

In terms of fine art Madrid ranks with the best. The Museo del Prado at the edge of is the most famous with an enormous collection of art from Spain and its colonies. The exuberance and hot colours of Spanish art are immediately addictive as is the passionate, baroque take on faith. The Cretan immigrant, El Greco, most captures the heart. Sinuous figures wave upwards like flames flickering in adoration. A more cautionary take on life is embodied in the work of Hieronymous Bosch, it is also more fantastical than one would think possible. My fevered teenage brain had been captured in a pocket-sized book on El Bosco, how great it is to stand before the original triptych of the Garden of Earthly Delights.  Goya also spanned the worlds of horror and sumptuous wealth, his truth and disturbing vision reaching deep into the soul. To simply enumerate the other artists would fill this article and the Prado could sustain a whole week’s visit, but there is more too see.

The Centro de Arte Reina Sofia is the place to see modern art. The collection includes Dali, Juan Gris and Miro. Picasso’s Guernica is understandably a powerful magnet; passionate, rough hewn, it appears incomplete, as if it were an emergent apparition about to engulf us. He is otherwise not my favourite, I must say, but this is the real thing. That other Catalan, Salvador Dali, moves us in a different way, the landscape of madness that he depicts is within us, his stunning technique inspiring awe and making the impossible certain.

The Museo Thyssen Bornemisza is a private collection bringing both strands together. Eclectic and extensive it spans five hundred years of Western art, ricochets amongst cubism and surrealism, explores Russian graphics and dazzles with the American Hyperrealists. So, here I stand in a gallery in Spain looking in through the reflections in the window of a New York diner conjured up by Richard Estes.

There are other theatres of art. At the Santiago Bernabeu stadium we bear witness to the stoic resistance of  Real Madrid to the wizardry of Barcelona FC. One hundred thousand passionate Spaniards are packed to the rafters, a sea of banners waving to the beat of drums, chants and songs. The great masters of the game, Messi and Ronaldo supply a goal apiece, honours are shared, the war goes on.

At night La Latina is the place to go. Narrow winding streets are packed with revellers, there are ornate bars and fragrant restaurants. We searched for Flamenco but found the blues instead at a hopping little club on the Calle de los Huertas. There are other delights to dip into. Deli food and wine are an excellent start to the evening at the lively Mercado de San Miguel. The Plaza Mayor is a signature for the city, but everywhere you emerge into magical plazas – Sol, Angel and Santa Anna thronged with diners, buskers, performers and hustlers. Art Deco architecture draws the eye upwards in delight. The Circulo de Bellas Artes is a particular gem – a slice of 1930’s New York containing a cultural foundation with a beautiful café. On our last morning we enjoy the ambience and watch the bustle of Gran Via  and Calle de Alcala pass by.

Our Easter vacation started with the sombre gaiety of Holy Week. Processions redolent of medieval intensity mark the days, the bond of spirituality runs deep. Religion, art, sport and society are entwined. This is the land of Death but so full of life. You can be seduced  to look at reflections in the glass of a shop window and pass through into a hyper-realist vision and see the possibilities of the whole world.

Lisbon

Posted on by
1

From Lisbon the lines radiate around the globe – Africa, South America and Asia – a web of names heavy with history and adventure: Vasco Da Gama, Pedro Alvares Cabral, Magellan. The Tagus estuary is a tongue of the Atlantic, licking the feet of Lisbon’s hills. It laps against the southern flank of the Praca do Comercio which has traditionally been the grande entrance to the city. This huge square was the site of Portugal’s royal palace for four centuries until the revolution of 1910. Framed on three sides three by elegant arcades here we find Lisbon’s oldest cafe, Martinho de Arcada, a favourite with the literati it seems. This is the place to start, so, in cool spring sunshine I relax over a drink and watch the world go by.

The towering triumphal arch on the northern side is the gateway to the city’s commercial hub, the Baixa. The cobbled streets are lined with craft shops, boutiques and cafes, abuzz with musicians and hawkers. A swarthy man sidles up to me selling sunglasses. There’s more besides, hashish he whispers, and whips off his shades to eyeball me earnestly. The best of Moroccan, I am assured. Some time later, I make my excuses and leave.

The filigreed iron tower of Elevador de Santa Justa rises from the regular streets of Baixa. It carries a lift up one hundred feet to the Bairro Alto, giving the walker a welcome break from climbing Lisbon’s steep streets. After the lift, there’s one steep flight of spiral steps leading to a dizzying platform, open to the sky and with a stunning panorama of the city.

The platform floats in tourist photo-heaven and I take the essential shots. A girl stands in my frame, dividing it according to the Golden Mean. Her eyes, obscured behind dark glasses suggest depth, amusement. Still, I can’t be certain; they are shadows, yet a reflection of the life and gaiety of this city. I sense that her iris will glimmer the blue of the globe, that lines of navigation will radiate from the infinite depth of the pupil, like a spider’s web connecting all places and times.

After a beer on the giddy heights of the causeway, I enter the Bairro Alto by the ruined Carmelite church, destroyed in the earthquake of 1755. Human rivers join and divide along winding streets. The famous yellow trams provide a good way of navigating this undulating city, on a rollercoaster ride through swirling streets. I go where they take me, alighting at stops where I can surprise myself and explore. Clinking and clattering through the Bairro Alto, my first voyage deposits me at the Jardim da Estrela, where I take a burger and a glass of wine at a kiosk by the pond. Nearby, the grave of Henry Fielding, eighteenth century English novelist and satirist, came here to die, at the age of forty seven. I’m a bit worried about the burger, to be honest.

Taking a stroll down the grimy thoroughfare of Avenida Infante Santo I arrive at Avenida Da India. This hectic motorway mars much of Lisbon’s coast, forming a barrier between the city and its lifeblood – the riverfront. This is Alcantara, the port area, a bustling, edgy zone, built for passing through. The upper frame of this streetscape is the magnificent Ponte 25 de Abril, modeled on the Golden Gate, stretching across the Tagus like a bridge across the sky.

Further west is Belem, point of departure for Portugal’s great navigators. From the mouth of the Tagus they sailed across the Atlantic and carved a new world. They crowd the carved pedestal of the Monument to the Discoveries: Henry the Navigator, Vasco da Gama, Cabral, the discoverer of Brazil – illuminators of a once darkened globe.

Belem is fronted by a beautiful urban park, overlooked by the Jeronimos Monastery. Dating from 1501 it is the jewel of Portugal’s golden age. Funded through tax on the rich bounty of empire, spices, precious stones and gold, it is a masterpiece of exuberant architecture. The interior of the church of Santa Maria is a serene forest of pillars, drawing the soul upwards in elation. Here we find that most restless of seafarers, Vasco Da Gama who established the sea routes to India and the Orient in the early 16th century.

The Maritime Museum showcases Portuguese shipping through the ages. From ancient barks to the lateen rigged caravels and on to faster, sleeker ships, the story is told in beautifully constructed replicas. 16th Century maps show the world as then known, complementing the world chart at the entrance which encapsulates the awesome scale of the exploration. This is a window to the Portuguese soul, a people with a deep affinity for the sea and a heart hungry for discovery.

I stand at last on the roof of the Tower of Belem, built as a fortress to defend the port in 1515. I can smell the Atlantic here, feel its pull. Buildings ancient and modern crowd the hills and sky to the north. To the east, the great bridge spans the river. Looking south to the Outra Banda, I see the figure of Christ, Cristo Rei, arms outstretched, give His benediction to the city of Lisbon.