With five episodes so far in our tour of Andalusia, a couple of destinations remain. In April I will be going to Seville and Cadiz and I look forward to giving my account of those two fascinating cities. Seville is the capital and largest city in the region and dates back over two thousand years. Cadiz is more ancient still; one of the oldest towns in Europe. I will be travelling by plane, bus and train. Meanwhile, we will be taking a break in our hideaway in Elviria, Marbella. A break, for me, means doing nothing much at all.
We’re going on a holiday now
Gonna take a villa, a small chalet
Costa del Magnifico
Yeah, the cost of living is so low
Scribbling is allowed, in whatever form I decide to record worthwhile memories. Some painting or prose, or both, will emerge. This acrylic is a moment captured last Spring in Elviria, just a few kilometres east of Marbella. That rippling blue rectangle is a familiar motif in Hockney’s Californian paintings and sum up that mood of ecstatic indolence at the heart of swimming pool culture. To be sure. There are a couple of musical equivalents; though less than one might suppose. Kate and Anna McGarrigle’s rendition of Loudon Wainwright’s The Singing Song is one and Nightswimming by REM another, if not quite the right time of day. Closest is Dire Straits, with Mark Knopfler’s Twisting by the Pool. A rare fun rocker from the bluesy Geordies, it is a retro take on the Spanish holiday boom for sun starved Britons in the early sixties. The song doesn’t appear on any of the band’s studio albums, and first surfaced as a single 1983. It was a firm favourite as an encore, as I witnessed at Stadium gig in Dublin the early eighties.
Yeah (yeah), gonna be so neat
Dance (dance) to the Euro beat
Yeah (yeah), gonna be so cool
Twisting by the (twisting by the)
Twisting by the (twisting by the)
By the pool (twisting by the pool)
So, while I hope to be pumping ink with my biro, or painting my next masterpiece for over the mantelpiece; more than anything else I will be
Twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool) twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool)
We’re twisting, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool
Twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool) twisting by the pool (twisting by the pool)
We’re twisting, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool, twisting by the pool
From Marbella, the town of Ronda is sixty kilometres inland, and uphill. Head west along the AP7 and there’s an early turn off after fifteen kilometres. We shimmy up an endless sequence of hairpins along the A397 towards Ronda. Dense oak and pine woodland clings to perilous cliffs rising to our right, to our left the sylvan border thins now and then to reveal the hot blue of the Mediterranean.
The further we rise, the more the view out to sea broadens. Gibraltar points its finger towards Africa and with each death defying swerve I glimpse, or think I glimpse, both Pillars of Hercules and the far shores of another continent. There are a few observation points where you can stop and take in the view, although it’s hard to pull yourself away from the excitement of this James Bond slalom, battling slow and fast cars amidst the buzz of suicidal motorbikers.
The mountains we climb are the Sierra de las Nieves, the snow mountains, which rise to almost two thousand metres. Out of the forest we reach a parched white karst landscape, harsh and romantic as an arthouse Western, its technicolor bleached with age. The plateau tilts downhill and we fall slowly to the valley of the Guadalevin River. Over the millenia this has carved out the spectacular El Tajo canyon. Atop the twin towers of the canyon, is that most preposterous city in the sky: Ronda. The city of Ronda has a popuation of thirty five thousand people. The Moors were established here by the early eight century, ushering in an Islamic era that would last seven hundred years. Ronda fell to the Catholic monarchs in 1485, seven years before the fall of Grenada, the Moors last stronghold. Although Islam was subject to a determined purge, Moorish influence remains in the architecture and the complex weave of Andalusian cultural fabric
We find ad hoc parking near a shaded square beneath the ancient walled city. The Puerta de Almocabar is the southern entrance gate and dates back to the thirteenth century. The arched gateway is flanked by stern round towers and passing through you get that frisson of stepping back in time. Farther uphill, the Castillo del Laurel, first established in Roman times, was redeveloped by the Moors, and condemned to ruin by various invaders, Joseph Bonaparte especially, earthquakes and the Spanish Civil War.
A little further on to the left lies Plaza Duquesa de Parcent which marks the spot of the old Roman forum. The imposing Iglesia de Santa Maria la Mayor and the attractive three story facade of the Town Hall dominate the square which is shaded by trees. We stop for food and refreshment at Cafe Mondragon on the corner. The restaurant is named for the Palace Mondragon nearby. The original palace was built in the early thirteenth century, and taken over by the Nasrid dynasty of Grenada who were the last Moslem rulers before the Reconquest. Such Moorish influence as remains is largely confined to the gardens. The water garden resembles the Alhambra’s in miniature. After Ferdinand and Isabella, the palace itself was given a Renaissance makeover and houses a museum.
The lower part of the Old Town is pleasantly quaint and quiet. The crowds build as we near the bridge. The Bridge is the signature spectacle of Ronda, connecting the Old Town with the new town, Mercadillo, meaning the little market. Why the residents wanted to expand their town across the vertiginous canyon of El Tajo is a mystery. Perhaps they anticipated Science Fiction and figured they would create the perfect backdrop for film fantasies. There were other bridges spanning the Guadalevin, though much lower down the chasm. The Roman Bridge which was actually built by the Moors, is the oldest and lowest bridge. The Puente Viejo, or Old Bridge, dates from the early seventeenth century.
Towards the mid eighteenth century the Puente Nuevo was proposed. The first attempt lasted less than a decade before collapsing into the abyss and taking fifty unfortunate souls with it. It fell to architect Jose Martin de Aldehuela to design one that would last. Built between 1759 and 1793, it spans the seventy metre gap with three arches and rises a hundred metres above the valley floor. There is a chamber above the central arch which came into use as a prison. There are fearsome tales of prisoners being thrown to their deaths through the small window during the Civil War, and this has become embedded in legend. More happily, the place subsequently became a tavern and now houses a small museum dedicated to the bridge’s history.
There are viewing platforms on each side and many bars and eateries embedded into the top of the cliffs. The Mirador de Aldehuela is a viewpoint to the southeast side, in the Old Town. Adjacent, the small Placa de los Viajeros Romanticos is well named, and illustrated with a panoramic tiled mural. If you are a romantic traveller, surely you will find yourself here.
Crossing the bridge can’t but give you the illusion of being poised on a tightrope above eternity. On the north side there’s the solid, bustling centre of a more modern town. Mercadillo, as the name suggests, is the commercial centre of Ronda. To our left is the Plaza de Toros, one of the most iconic bullrings in Spain. It is amongst the oldest bullrings, built in stone in 1784 and designed by the same architect as the Puente Nuevo, Aldehuela. The ring itself is the largest, although the arena itself is small with only five thousand seats. These are all covered within the two level colonaded stand. The development of bullfighting from ritualised slaughter to cultural artform happened here. The Romero family were the leading bullfighting dynasty of the time. It was grandson, Pedro Romero, who perfected the use of the cape and sword, and the modern dramatic tableau was established.
The two statues at the entrance plaza are dedicated to a more recent bullfighting dynasty: Cayetano and his son Antonio Ordonez. Cayetano initiated the Feria Goyesca which takes place in the first week in September in honour of the Romeros. Participants wear costumes of the Romero era as painted by Francisco Goya (1746 – 1828). Born in 1904, Cayetano achieved supersar status with his performances in the 1920s. He met Ernest Hemingway at the famous St Fermin festival in Pamplona. Hemingway, then a journalist, had developed a fascination with bullfighting which was woven into his writing. The Sun Also Rises, his first novel, achieved instant fame when published in 1926. It followed a group of protagonists drawn from Hemingway’s own Paris based coterie, and dubbed the Lost Generation. Their pilgrimage takes them to Pamplona and the notorious Running of the Bulls, in which Hemingway participated. The matador in the Sun Also Rises was named Romero for Pedro Romero. A model for the character was Cayetano Ordonez. By the time he had finished the book, fully smitten with Spain and its culture, Hemingway also became a Catholic. When you think of it, if you want to form identity with a matador, it is a logical progression to take the faith.
While Hemingway’s enthusiasm for bullfighting was infectious, and would surface again in the non fiction Death in the Afternoon, the custom has its detractors. Along with Hemingway, its macho stance has fallen into disfavour; though bullfighting was more open to female participants than most sports. In Childhoods End, a novel by Arthur C Clarke, bullfighting becomes a focus for the struggle between rational progress and romantic tradition. An alien invasion, ostensibly benign, is resisted in one aspect by the Spaniards who defy the dictat to prohibit bullfighting. The aliens transfer the bull’s pain to the spectator thus quelling the protest. Mind, the vicarious enjoyment of pain, or the catharsis provided by the spectacle, is a distinct pull for the bullfighting aficionado. I went with my family to a bullfight in Barcelona about twenty years ago. It was a hair raising experience. Feral, ancient, swaying from mundane to macabre and including some shards of unbelievable drama, you emerge with a less dim understanding of what it means to be alive.
Hemingway, meanwhile, looms large in this city in other respects. A hotel is named for him just south of the Bridge. In chapter ten of For Whom the Bell Tolls, Hemingway outlines a Republican warcrime against Franco’s Nationalists in 1936, wherein leading falangist sympathisers were thrown from the bridge of a fictionalised town. It is said this mirrorred actual events in Ronda, though Hemingway claimed he fabricated them. The book was published in 1940 and is seen as his finest work. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman starred in the subsequent Hollywood film which was released in 1943. It also provided the first full length film soundtrack record.
We walked to Marbella along the beach one morning. It’s about 6 miles from Elviria, and I was feeling the heat near the end. Still Spring, but climbing into the mid twenties by mid-day. Approaching the city outskirts there are a number of rugby pitches, and we are in the city proper when we reach Playa de Venus adjacent to the port. Puerto Deportiva with its modern green lighthouse lies beyond. On more sedentary days, there are regular busses along the coastal highway, the A7, for a more leisurely trip into town. It takes under half an hour.
Marbella has long been a resort for the quality. Meaning well to do, and sometimes more quantity (of cash) than quality. The resort was an early example of Costa Del Sol tourism, established just after the Second world war. The city population today numbers 140,000 people, though that can treble during the holiday season. North western Europeans, including a lot of British and Irish, swarm for the guaranteed heat and sunshine. A long, long time ago it was popular with southern visitors of a different sort. The Moors colonised Iberia from the eight century, the name Al Andalus was then applied to the whole Iberian peninsula. Andalusia persists in the name of the Moors last redoubt.The Moors established a citadel here in Marbella, the Alcazaba, fragments of which survive, and a Mosque.
There are two parts to Marbella. The bustling well serviced seafront where we arrived after our walk is the modern resort. The Old Town, a little farther inland, is a warren of lanes and quaint squares sloping ever upwards. After the conquest of the Catholic Monarchs in the late fifteenth century there was significant development in this walled, medieval town. The Plaza de los Naranjes was built as the centrepiece of the Old Town. It remains a picturesque antique square with some fine public buildings. The town hall was built in 1568 and the Mayor’s House nearby. At the south west corner is the Chapel of Santiago from the fifteenth century; the oldest building in the city. It predates the square, which explains why it is set at an odd angle to it.
The square itself is regular, tree shaded and ringed with restaurants and bars. Nearby is another ancient church. The Church of Santa Maria de la Encarnacion is a Baroque building of the seventeenth century, built over the existing mosque. Painted white and with an imposing bell tower it stands out as the old city’s grandest church.
Heading further uphill the streets tunnel back to their medieval origins. The Castillo de Marbella, the remains of the Moorish Castle, lies to the north east of the square. From here, following the line of the walls back down to the modern commercial centre, we come to Plaza de la Iglesia with its statue of Saint Bernabe, the town’s patron saint. His festival is on the 11th June, ushering in a week of dancing and carousing in the Spanish way. Festivities are rarely remote from Marbella at any time though this, we hear, is particularly wild. Our ambitions for earthly delights are not particularly Bacchanalian today and we make do with an easygoing hour or two in Plaza Manuel Cantos, where the Irishman Pub and Luigi’s Italian Restaurant provide sufficient for our drinking and dining pleasure. Other soirees might include El Balcon de la Virgen and Patio Marbella in the labyrinth of the old town.
Between the Old Town and the modern seafront, Ensanche Historico, the Historic Extension, is laid out to ease transition between the two. Across the busy thoroughfare of Paseo de Alameda, Alameda Park is an elegant formal park, richly planted and decorated in colourful tiles. All of this radiating out from a historic fountain. It’s a glorious place to hang out, the setting luminous under the shade of palm trees.
Beyond the park, The Avenida del Mar, as its name suggests, forms a wide esplanade sloping down to the seafront. It is lined with sculptures by Salvador Dali and others. Eduard Soriano is a notable other, his Monument to the Freedom of Expression overlooks the seafront promenade. This shows two figures at an open window surrounded by apt quotations, including the sculptor’s: Freedom does not die, it is born and sleeps daily.
Dali’s ten bronze sculptures were cast in Verona and acquired in 1998. They feature a range of hallucinogenic imagery as one would expect from such a major Surrealist. Some are drawn from Classical mythology including figures of the god Mercury and of Greek hero Perseus beheading Medusa. There are metamorphoses of nature with Man on a Dolphin and Cosmic Elephant, and inevitably Dali’s wife and muse, Gala, who is depicted leaning out a window.
Dali has no specific connection with Marbella. He hailed from Catalonia, born in 1904 in Figueras, near the French border. As for Andalusia, he was in his younger years very friendly with Federico Garcia Lorca, one of Spain’s leading poets. Then there is the film, Un Chien Andalou. Lorca, whose advances were rejected by Dali, interpreted the film’s title as a swipe at him and became further alienated from the Surrealist movement.
Lorca may simply have been paranoid, though the title does intrigue. It is taken from the Spanish saying: an Andalusian dog howls – someone has died. The idea sprang from an exchange of dreams with filmmaker Luis Bunuel and the two collaborated on the 1929 silent film which was directed by Bunuel and co-written with Dali. It ran to just sixteen minutes. The notorious opening scene begins with the reassuring caption, once upon a time, but quickly becomes ominous. A man sharpens his razor while a thin cloud bisects the moon, He restrains a seated young woman and brings the razor to her staring eye. Provocative, repulsive and outrageous, the film went down well which was something a disappointment to its writers who were prepared for a riot. It echoes forever through avant garde film. David Lynch would be a good example. Think Blue Velvet for one, and many’s the rock video.
Marbella promenade stretches from the port for a further seven kilometres to Puerto Banus in the west. Puerto Banus marina, with its luxury yachts is an upmarket nightspot and includes, amongst other delights, O’Grady’s Irish Pub. There are plenty of opportunities for refreshment at this end of the boardwalk, and plenty of time, which seems to grow profusely in the sunshine of Andalusia. That day we took a bus back to base camp. We were helped by a lovely Norwegian couple who come here every year. And why not. Folk from frozen fjords and rain dirty valleys need some time to gaze at the actual heavens.
To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap,
A time to kill, a time to heal,
A time to laugh, a time to weep.
This version by the Byrds, from 1965, surfaces whenever joy is required. Pete Seeger wrote it in 1959, setting the words from the Book of Ecclesiastes to a major chord sequence. Those words from the Bible are attributed to King Solomon of the 10th century BC. Very old school. Seeger supplied the “turn, turn, turn” and the Byrds took it to No 1 with their characteristic jangling guitars and sublime vocal harmony.
At times we stay in the villa of a friend on the outskirts of Marbella. It is just a short drive from Malaga airport, all going well. The use of satnav is recommended on Spanish roads, otherwise you, like us, will get lost. It looked the height of simplicity to get from airport to front porch, but born as I was to have adventure, it took me over two hours. The A7 highway was my intended route, not to be confused with the AP 7 which runs beside it, the two often intertwining. Confuse is exactly what I did, but first I took the random decision on our first visit to make a quick flythrough of the famous, or infamous, resorts on the southern extremes of Malaga.
The Costa del Sol is well named and stretches from Nerja, just east of Malaga, to La Linea near Gibraltar. A prosperous commercial and industrial area in the 19th century, it declined in the early twentieth and after World War 2 turned to attracting visitors as a way to halt the economic decline. Where the coast was once a string of fishing villages, it is now mostly urbanised and has grown to be Spain’s most frequented tourist location with around seventeen million overnight stay.
Torremolinos golf course marked the beginning of the boom way back in 1928, The development of Malaga as resort town followed. The Spanish Civil War intervened, with World War two kicking off just as it ended, but by the fifties the fame of the region spread for its climate and facilities. Marbella, a village of 900 people, saw the establishment of the El Rodeo resort and Marbella Club hotel, and attracted film stars and the rich and famous. Mass tourism exploded in the sixties and seventies leading to overdevelopment, often submerginfg the culture which was a major part of the attraction in the first place.
Torremolinos, Benalmadena and Fuengerola are packed together. once a poor fishing village, is now a town of seventy thousand people just 8miles from Malaga. It has the largest concentration of golf courses in Spain. Fore! I am sure there are more. The climate makes this one of the most enjoyable places to play, if Golf could be considered a pleasure, or a good walk spoiled.
The resorts were developed without much concern for aesthetic or social planning and became a notorious highrise jungle. While the serious tourist demurred, many more voted with their boarding pass. A cocktail of sun, sea and sex with two weeks determined indolence offered an antidote to the humdrum of work slaves from the temperate zone.
The urban landscape ultimately reflects its own purpose; a modern, commercial open holiday camp. Which is fine if you like that sort of thing. M and I were more of the island hopping hippy type, back in the day; though our once ad hoc holiday season is a bit more planned now. Spain, of course, accommodates much more than the cartoon holidaymaker. We’ve oft visited over the years, mostly Barcelona, also Madrid and Malaga, and the kaleidoscope of culture and moods that is Andalusia.
Driving through the tourist hub from Torremolinos to Fuengerola is a sample of the sun soaked brochures we’ve perused. We gained a startling glimpse of the giant black Bull on its mound, which adorns my travel book of Spain. This is the famous advertisement for Osborne Brandy. The concept was conceived by Manolo Prieto in an advertising campaign in the 1950s for Osborne. The giant metal bull silhouette bore the Osborne brand and appeared at roadsides throughout the country. Some are 40 feet high and there are almost a hundred all over Spain, though not in Catalonia.
Roadside advertising was progressively curtailed over the next few decades and eventually banned altogether, but campaigners fought to keep their bull. In Andalusia, the authorities ruled that they were part of the cultural and artistic heritage of the nation in 1997 and remained, minus the branding, though Osborne still pays for their upkeep. Some controversy remains, especially amongst opponents of bullfighting; hence the exception of Catalonia.
Osborne, you might know, goes hand in hand with Harrison, so it was a sight dear to our eyes to see the bull standing proud. Thomas Osborne, mind, had no direct connection with our kin. They came to Wicklow in the seventeenth century I think, and were stonemasons. Thomas was an Englishman who arrived in Cadiz in 1772 and exported sherry to begin with The brandy came some time later.
We figured that after Fuengirola we would be nearing our destination. Unfortunately, coming off the seafont there was a fork in the road and the sign offered Marbella in either direction. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Wrong choice, I’m afraid. We found ourseves headed back towards Malaga, then taking an exit, we wound up on the AP 7, which is a toll road, and ended up in Canada. Canada, in this case is a shopping centre in Haute Marbella. The town centre was downhill from there but by this stage our satnav was even more confused than us and would stop at nothing to get us back to Canada again. Eventually we found the coastal branch of the A7 after a chaotic tour of Marbella centre, including rapidly reversing before an oncoming tram. Our destination, Elviria, was just five miles out of town.
Fuengirola is in fact the last rail stop along this stretch of coast. The commuter line to Malaga has three trains an hour, the journey taking forty five minutes. It stops at the airport which takes thirty minutes. From Malaga, there’s a railway connection to Algeciras (past Gibraltar) via Ronda, and connections also to Seville and on to Cadiz.
The coastal highway, meanwhile, leaves Malaga city environs behind and rounds the corner to follow the coastline to Marbella. La Cala de Mijas is the first stop. This is a small settlement of five thousand people which maintains much of the feeling of the whitewashed Andalusian fishing village. There were four towers defending it from Berber invaders, one of which forms the centrepiece of its attractive seafront. Dating from the sixteenth century it is one of the oldest on the coast and has a museum within. There are sensitive modern developments along the coast, lowrise and white, a tiny, winding old town, a wide commercial plaza just off the highway, a long promenade and a twice weekly market.
A boardwalk extends along the beach heading west stretching almost the 6 kilometres to Cabopino. This is a small resort around a pleasant harbour where we stopped for lunch on a coastal walk. There’s a large private resort hotel, while bars, souvenir stalls and eateries colonise the beach. Farther on the nudist beach is marked by a large stone erection, but we pretended not to notice. Torre Ladrones, the thieves tower, is a much visited landmark. At fifteen metres tall it is the highest tower along this stretch of coast. It was built during Moorish rule up to the late fifteenth century. Artola Beach is backed by dunes which have been designated an environmental reserve, making it a rare stretch of beach not developed as accommodation.
It is a farther six kilometres to our own base in Elviria. There are plenty of good beach bars and eateries along here, and a lovely view of the curving coast down to Marbella; backed by high mountains, Gibraltar shimmering off the coast in the far distance.
So, it’s time to step off the humdrum, relax and enjoy our cocktail by the pool. One theme song suggests itself. Massiel singing El Amor. Though it’s hardly relaxing, what with the veins on her forehead snapping like high tension wires in a gale as she reaches, um, crescendo. It chimes with the mood, though.
El amor es un rayo de luz indirecta
Una gota de paz, una fe que despierta
Un zumbido en el aire, un punto en la niebla
Un perfil, una sombra, una pausa, una espera
El amor es un suave, rumor que se acerca
Un timbre a lo lejos, una brisa ligera
Una voz en la calma, un aroma de menta
Un después, un quizá, una vez, una meta
Massiel, Maris de los Angeles Santamaria Espinosa, is a well known Spanish singer. She covers a broad range in her repertoire, from popular to Brecht/Weil, and protest songs which annoyed Franco and Pinochet. She sang the winning song for Spain, La La La in Eurovision 1968, after the original singer Joan Serrat withdrew when not allowed to sing in Catalan. Congratulations!
When I took up the guitar in my early teens, it was to flamenco that I turned. I was thinking a lot about the paintings of Salvador Dali in those days and I also became immersed in Spanish history. The Alhambra was a particular fascination, a red castle ringed by snow capped peaks, above the city of Granada. So, some fifty years later, I at last made my pilgrimage. An early Easter was approaching and a blanket of snow lay over Dublin. The plane was a while on the tarmac as workers chipped ice off the wings. At least we were off to sunny Spain.
There was a bleak sun on Malaga when I landed, but it was cold and the sidewalk bars huddled behind plastic awnings with heaters ablaze. It’s a two hour bus ride up to Granada, but I had an overnight and aimed to get a taste of Malaga in a day. Relaxing over a wine, I noticed that crowds of people were heading towards the city centre and figured there was something on. It being Holy Week, a procession by one of the Brotherhoods passes each day. I quickly succumbed to its hypnotic magnetism. Solemn music accompanies towering floats, or tronos, one of the Christ and the other, typically more exuberant, is of the Virgin.
Each weighs several tons and are carried, very slowly, by members of the Brotherhood from their parish church through the city centre, past the Cathedral and on to the Plaza before Teatro Cervantes. Which is where to relax as the solemn spell wanes.
The Teatro Cervantes was built in 1870 and named for Miguel de Cervantes. Cervantes is well commemorated throughout Andalusia. His writing pervades the entire Spanish consciousness. As is Shakespeare to English, he is central to Spanish. Don Quixote is regarded as the first novel in the modern sense, and has become, after the Bible, the most translated book in the world. We all know its eponymous hero, hopeless and heroic, forever tilting agaist the hostility of life. Cervantes came to embody his own maxim, that the pen is the language of the soul
My own pilgrimage took me to Malaga Bus Station to the west of the city early the next morning. Granada, just over ninety miles distant, is a two hour bus journey through coastal mountains, the snow capped Sierra Nevada ultimately embracing the city as we reach our destination. Granada’s Bus Station is a good bit out of town and I took a taxi to the centre and my hotel.
Granada, a place of dreams, where the Lord put the seed of music in my soul. (Andres Segovia)
The fabulous castle overlooking it all, the Alhambra, was the last fortress the Moors. Alhambra signifies the Red Castle, from the blood toned colour of its stone. The Moors built their first fortress in the ninth century but the existing complex dates to 1333 when Yusuf I was Sultan of Granada. In 1492 the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, defeated the Emirate of Granada. 1492 was also the year when Italian explorer Christopher Columbus came here to receive the support of the Monarchs in his ambition to sail to the New World. This is when the Western World was born. An early history of Columbus was written by Washington Irving, American author and ambassador to Spain. He, in tur, rediscovered the Alhambra for the modern world. His Tales of the Alhambra was published in 1842. In 2009, on the 150th anniversary of his death, a bronze statue was erected on the wooded approach to the citadel.
I entered through Puerta de la Justicia under its Moorish horseshoe arch. From the ramparts there’s a great view over Granada framed by the Sierra Nevada. When the Moor last looked out from here, the Alhambra was entirely a construct of the Islamic culture of northern Africa. Within a couple of decades a more European style spread. The Palace of Carlos V was built by order of the Emperor in 1527 in the Renaissance style. The entrance patio is a startling homage to Classicism, with its two story colonnade forming an entrancing circle.
The Nazaries is the showpiece of the Alhambra, a magnificent palace for the Kings. A separate ticket is required for visitors, and well worth it. Guide books caution to come prepared for the heat, but my visit coincided wih a severe cold snap. Four degrees and falling I was frozen blue in the long entrance queue. The Nazaries unfolds on entering, a stone flower opening into more spaces than anticipated from the outside. There are three palaces within the complex. First, the public area dealing with justice and administration. Then the Camares Palace which was the royal residence. Finally, the Palace of the Lions, where the harem was located. A magnificent centrepiece is the Court of the Lions with its sculptured lions forming a circle within delicately rendered cloisters.
For a short break, I took a table in the tiny tearoom of the American Hotel. A Tuna Sandwich and two hot Americanos got me back to room temperature. A friend had recommended a visit to the terrace at the Parador Hotel but it was not a patio day and the interior had that lowrise furniture peculiar to hotels and inimicable to relaxation.
The Alcazaba is the fortress at the business end of the Alhambra, its towers giving majestic views over Granada. It is the oldest part of the complex, dating to the thirteenth century. From there, I made my way down towards the entrance through beautiful gardens. The first blooms were appearing but had not quite come to life. Across a ravine there’s a stiff climb to the Generalife, the Gardens of the Architect. These beautiful gardens surmounted by an elegant villa provided a retreat for the Royal Household from the travails of the Alhambra and give glorious views of the Alhambra.
On exit, I put into the first available bar. Below the walls there was shelter and sufficient warmth from the sun to allow me enjoy a beer and tapas al fresco. Heading downhill past the northern walls alongside a rapid stream, I emerged onto the banks of the Darro river following it back towards Plaza Nueva in the city centre.
Overlooking the Darro is the Albaicin, dating back to the 13th century and rich in Moorish heritage. The streets meander past high walled villas with white washed walls, towering palms and pines. Quiet and weird; at times I felt I had strayed into a Dali painting. Stranger still, it darkened off to the west and a sudden storm came upon us. Snow fell in curtains across the backdrop of the Alhambra.
Plaza Nueva merges into the Plaza de Santa Ana and on into the modern city centre. I had planned on a flamenco evening in Sacromonte, but the weather closed off that particular avenue of pleasure. I did spend much of my second day in Sacromonte, a bleached enclave clinging to the steep hill at the edge of Grenada, This was originally home to the gypsy, or Gitanos population, and is rich in the heritage of guitar and Flamenco. There are tiny taverns and homespun museums, and a feeling of being remote from the big city.
At night I’d spend some time in Hannigan’s Irish Bar, not far from the Cathedral of the Incarnation. Hannigan’s does not do the complementary tapas that are a feature of local establishments. It’s a wonderful custom, but there is a time to stop eating and sit in splendid isolation over a drink and contemplate the sound and stories that permeate the city. Hannigan’s seemed to share my fondness for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, whose music, to me, carries some echo of the spirit of the Andalusian guitar.
Fly away on my zephyr
I feel it more than ever
And in this perfect weather
We’ll find a place together
from the 2002 album By the Way, a favourite of mine, and yes, I remember in Granada smiling at the mention of perfect weather; but in a strange way it was. In sunshine or snow, the magic of the Alhambra endures. The winding way to the citadel begins near the Fontana del Toro on the Plaza de Santa Ana. It is said that a drink from its waters has magical qualities. Drink once and you will return forever. I hope to, some day. Meanwhile, Christmas is around the corner and this is likely to be my last post for the year. Happy Christmas to yous all!
Andalusia is the southernmost region of Spain, with its capital at Seville. It is the hottest place in Europe with summer temperatures in the forties and low rainfall. The more moderate climate along the coast, still hot and sunny, has been a magnet for tourists for decades. Coming, like many, from the cool, damp, grey green island I call home, it is always a shock to find a place where warm sunshine and blue skies are the norm. Costa del Sol is well named, stretching for about a hundred miles from Nerja in the east, via Malaga and Marbella to La Linea near Gibraltar in the west. Home to one and a half million people, millions more visit for its resorts, sunshine beach holidays made-to-measure, cheap beer and nightlife, There is much more than that, of course. Spain reveals itself to those willing to look.
Andalusia seems an ideal region for a self-drive tour, or there’s a comprehensive public transport network with bus and train linking the main cities. Malaga, Seville, Cordoba, Granada and Cadiz are rich repositories of Classical, Moorish and Renaissance heritage. It is the home of Flamenco, originally the music of the Gypsies, the theme for dancing at the crossroads of civilisation. Bullfighting is deeply embedded in the culture also, much of its tradition developed in this region, and its popularity endures here more than elsewhere.
There are more than eight million inhabitants, making it Spain’s most populous region. Andalusia is derived from the Arabic, Al Andalus. This applied to the Moorish territories of Iberia between 700 and 1492. The name may hark back to the Vandals who invaded Iberia and North Africa in the 5th century. The Vandals originated in Poland and are today remembered for their sacking of Rome and the origin of the word vandalism as the arbitrary defacement of culture and art. They faded from view in the sixth century with the expansion of the Byzantine empire under Justinian and assimilation amongst the peoples of Iberia and North Africa
Africa looms large, culturally, historically and geographically. It is closest to Andalusia where the narrow entrance to the Mediterranean forms the Strait of Gibraltar. At its narrowest point the gap separating the continents is a mere thirteen kilometres wide between Point Marroqui in Spain near Tarifa and Point Cires in Morocco. A nexus for shipping, for exploration, trade, migration and invasion, the gap is guarded by the Pillars of Hercules, a name stretching back to the myths of antiquit. Physically, these are the Rock of Gibraltar, a British territory, and across the Strait either Monte Hacho or Jebel Musa (Mount Moses). Both of these lie near the city of Ceuta. a small Spanish territory in Morocco. Regular ferries sail there from Algecerias, just across the bay from Gibraltar; a huge port and the southernmost city of continental Europe.
For most, Malaga airport is the usual gateway to the region. My first visit was aboard a cruise ship bound for the Atlantic, first to Morocco and on to the Canaries and Madeira. Our first stop was Malaga; the sort of thing one says when about to step off the edge of the world before passing through the Pillars of Hercules sixty miles to the east. It has been an important port for two millennia or more. Phoenician traders from Africa were the first to set up shop here and Malaga remained within the sphere of Carthage until the Romans established dominion in the third century BC. The Muslim Caliphate established its fortress here after the fall of the Roman empire. The Emirate of Granada arrogated power over the region in the thirteenth century. Most stubborn of the Moors, they resisted the Christian Reconquest until 1487.
Overlooking the port, the hill of Gibralfar rises to the north.. An ancient ruined casle crowns the summit. Lower down, the citadel of Alcazaba, was built in the eleventh century within the walls of the Moorish city. Alcazaba is superbly maintained and we rise through a maze of alleyways a thousand years old, gardens and fountains emerging regularly. Gurgling water, sheltering trees and the scent of flowers mellow the near African harshness of the climate in high summer. It’s a good climb to the top, with spectacular views from the walls over the city and coast.
View from the Alcazaba
Below, the old Roman amphitheatre, dating from the first century BC, nestles on the landward side. Radiating out from this, the medieval town still preserves its chaotic street pattern. Perfect for the stroller who doesn’t mind getting lost, you certainly won’t go hungry or thirsty with a full range of daytime and eaving eateries and watering holes. We stroll down Calle Marques de Larios, a pedestrianised street with gleaming surface, lined with elegant boutiques and shoe shops. From the seafront it cuts through the heart of the medieval area. Just off this street, Calle Strachan leads to the Cathedral de la Incarnacion. Construction began in the sixteenth century on the site of the city Mosque. A grand though haphazard project, it exhibits a variety of styles, going through Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque. The completed tower soars to three hundred feet, but the project ran out of funds in the nineteenth century. The second entrance tower was left incomplete, gaining the church the nickname, La Manquita, the one-armed lady.
Near the Cathedral is the old Jewish Quarter. In the Calle San Agustin you’ll find the Buenavista Palace, a sixteenth century building which is now home to the Picasso Museum. It’s located only two hundred metres from the Plaza de la Merked where Picasso was born in 1881 and holds over two hundred works donated by members of Picasso’s family.
Pablo Ruiz Picasso was a radical innovator in the determinedly Avante Garde Fine Art of the twentieth century. As a young painter, his Blue Period and Rose period showed his realist skills, where colour and mood combine. He made a radical departure to develop the fragmented technique of cubism, with French painter Georges Braque and fellow Spaniard Juan Gris. Impossibly prolific, sometimes to the point of self caricature, true genius and the profound are evident in probably his best known work Guernica. This emerged from the the bombing of the Basque town by German and Italian airforce during the Spanish Civil War. Picasso did not want the work shown in Spain during Franco’s dictatorship, and it was kept for over four decades at the MoMA in New York. A century after Picasso’s birth, Spain was restored to a democracy, and the painting returned, first to the Prado and since 1991 at the Reina Sofia, also in Madrid. Although first displayed behind bullet proof glass, it has since had no extra protection than any other painting. I took this photo of my son, Davin, in front of the unprotected painting in 2010.
A labyrinth of streets, dotted with galleries and bars leads down to the River. The Guadalmedina, literally the Town River, is typical of Spain’s urban rivers, forming a disappointing concrete esplanade. At Siesta time crowds gather in the Atarazanes, the nineteenth century Central Market, queuing at stalls selling beer and tapas. We return through modern thoroughfares to the seafront. A lovely linear park, lined with towering palm trees, makes something of an oasis in the afternoon sun. Back at the Marina, the restaurants and bars are thronged. We squeezed into one, which is a self service. A welcome draft beer is just what the body needed. The afternoon is simmering, the crowds ebbing. We watch the sea flowing, as we soon must, towards the Pillars of Hercules, the wild Atlantic waiting beyond.
I would return, of course, and explore other parts and aspects of the city. Malaga, as a good city should, rewards many visits. And there’s so much more in the fascinating region that is Andalusia. That is something of an ongoing project for me. Over the next few weeks I will write about visits to Granada, Marbella, Ronda, and other sketches of Spain, experienced and anticipated.
Last October we took a week away in Elviria, near Marbella in Spain. I haven’t posted since returning, but there is work in the pipeline. I am penning a series on Andalusia, the region in Spain that includes a few places I have been, Malaga, Grenada, Marbella and Ronda, and a few places I haven’t; Seville and Cadiz, yet. Meanwhile, I am wintering at home, as usual. This particular work is set close to home. The original photo was taken by a backseat passenger and focusses on the receding view of Bray as we head north on the N11 towards the M50. Being a rearview, we can’t see where we’re going but have an ever-shrinking view of where we’ve been. A bit like life, I supose.
To which end I spend my days
within the poetry of motorways
In this acrylic it’s late Autumn and near the end of a rainy evening. You may just about make out a flyover in the distance and beyond that the Small Sugarloaf, or Giltspur, is consumed in the glare of the setting sun. The banner across the top of the rear window advertises Mooney’s car dealership on the Long Mile Road in Walkinstown. Shades of my youth lie there. My old school Drimnagh Castle was on the Long Mile and a whole vortex of memories is carried on the winds thereabouts.
Where ghost musicians haunt roads and lanes
with harps that once and old refrains,
I recall that I used to go on the hop some afternoons and head out along the Long Mile towards the Naas Road. One companion then was Gerry Ryan. There was one occasion where we got as far as the Red Cow Inn (a small bar then, in the early seventies) slaked our thirst with a pint and headed back home. Gerry was a nippy winger and went on to play soccer for Bohemians over in Phibsboro. He would graduate to the top division of English soccer with Brighton and Hove Albion and of course was capped as an Irish international. He stayed in Brighton after retirement and ran a pub, the Witch Inn in Sussex. Gerry suffered poor health in recent years and returned home to D12. He died in October at the age of 68.
There are other shades there also, and I’ve written of them in other ways. A poem of my old hometown might fit within some blues refrain for our theme song. I’ve included a few quotes here. It’s called the Girl from Fox and Geese.
From Cork Kent, the train to Limerick takes about an hour and twenty minutes. You change at Limerick Junction with a couple of minutes changeover to a feeder train. Limerick Colbert is on the south eastern rim of the city. It’s about a ten minute walk into the city centre along Parnell Street, or a block over via the more salubrious Catherine Street, as I did.
Limerick’s population is over ninety thousand, making it the third largest city in the country. The original settlement was on King’s Island, north of the present city centre. The Vikings settled here in the ninth century, marking the western extent of their Irish invasion. The Vikings were subjugated by the leading local Gaelic clan, the Dalcassians of County Clare, in 943. The Dalcassians would subsequently come under the leadership of Brian Boru, whose campaigns in the late tenth and early eleventh century signalled the waning of Danish power in Ireland. The Limerick Vikings were enlisted by Brian in his struggle against Leinster Gaels and Dublin Danes. After the Battle of Clontarf Danish power withered outside of Dublin before being completely obliterated by the Normans.
The Normans were keen to establish a power base here. King John’s Castle is one of the many established by that King in Ireland. Dublin was another, Trim and Carlingford also. Begun in 1200, it was completed a dozen years later and is today one of the best preserved Norman castles you’ll see. It is Limerick’s most renowned landmark. The modern reception area makes for an odd introduction to the traditional Norman style castle of a large courtyard surrounded by curtain walls. The massive gate house and three corner towers remain. The eastern wall is missing, occupied by the modernist visitor centre. This offers interactive exhibitions, while the courtyard is haunted by garrolous actors. Visitors can try their hand at ancient pursuits such as archery and fencing, but no, there’s no chance of actually killing anything. Weirdly, there was once a small modern housing estate within the walls until the end of the last century. What a strange address to have. Despite eight hundred years of often violent history, including the violence of unsympathetic urban planning, the castle is in a high state of repair.
Katy Daly’s is situated across from the Castle entrance, on the Parade, an ancient historic street. A tavern in the old style, it’s ideal for a refreshing pint, or a meal, after the exertions of a castle visit. With sunshine spread over its front of house terrace, I had a pleasant time, accosted in the most friendly fashion by a couple of locals. Daly’s lays claim to being the oldest pub in Limerick. A pub, the Red Lion is recorded here in 1600, while the license can be traced back to the Halpin family in 1789. It takes its name from Prohibition era moonshiner, Katie Daly, born in California of Tipperary immigrants in 1872. Her father Bill was killed in a shootout with Wyatt Earp and his recipe for Poitin would endure thanks to his enterprising daughter. By the Prohibition Era, Katie operated out of Chicago were she fell foul of Al Capone, but escaped to the relative safety of San Francisco. However her enterprise came to the attention of the FBI and ended with her incarceration in Alcatraz, the island prison in the Bay. The only female prisoner there, she died before her fifteen year stretch was out.
King’s Island is Limerick’s fortified core. It is formed by the branching of the River Shannon. The main river delineates its western shore. The eastern branch is referred to as the Abbey River; the two meeting again farther south near the city centre. The walled city of Limerick grew in the shadow of the castle. After the Norman invasion this was referred to as Englishtown. Irishtown grew across the Abbey River in what’s now called the Old Quarter. The medieval city axis was along Nicholas Street, and the area drew comparison with medieval European cities such as Rouen and was greatly renowned for its beauty and prosperity.
Limerick suffered badly in the wars of the 17th century. There were at least four Sieges of Limerick. In the Cromwellian invasion the city was eventually starved into surrender. Fifty years later In 1690 there were further sieges as Jacobites, retreating after the Battle of the Boyne, held out against the Williamites. The Jacobites inflicted a heavy defeat on William’s forces, but were forced to surrender the following year. Patrick Sarsfield, commander of Limerick’s defenders, signed the Treaty of Limerick in 1691. He lead his forces – nineteen thousand troops and about a thousand women and children, into exile in what has become known as the Flight of the Wild Geese. The Treaty Stone stands on the western side of Thomond Bridge, the ancient bridge connecting the Kings Island to the west bank and on to Thomond Park, Munster’s Rugby stadium.
St Mary’s Cathedral, just south of the castle, is the oldest building in Limerick. Dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, it was founded in 1168 by Donal Mor O’Brien, the last King of Munster, and built on the Viking Thingmote, or Parliament. Donal died in 1194 and his tomb lies within the cathedral. The Romanesque building has been much added to over the years with Gothic and Victorian embellishments but retains its stern and ancient air. Its distinctive square tower with turretted corners is from the fourteenth century and soars above the western entrance.
Vestiges of the Walls of Limerick, appear along busy Island Street, though Nicholas Street is more evocative of the ancient city. Left untouched by the modern development in the eighteenth century, the old city was gradually abandoned, and few buildings remain. Near the confluence of the Abbey and Shannon, just below the Cathedral gates, is the end of English Town. George’s Quay hugs the river bank, and here you’ll find the Locke Bar at the Bridge. The original pub site dates back three hundred years. There’s traditional music sessions and dancing every night. The lounge area is large, flooded with the late afternoon light. Outside, there’s a wide beer garden on the tree lined river banks. The garden often features summer barbecues, and good food fare is available throughout, including seafood, burgers and Irish Stew.
Across the river Irish Town, or the Old Quarter, occupies the south bank to your left. On the right is a pleasant riverside parkland, with the Hunt Museum prominent on the streetfront. The Hunt Museum was originally the Custom House, designed by Italian Davis Ducart. It’s a limestone Palladian building from 1765, three stories tall. The museum features the collection of John and Gertrude Hunt, housed in the current building since 1997. The Hunts collected collected art from neolithic Ireland to ancient Egypt, medieval Christian artefacts from Ireland and Europe. There’s also dresses by Sybil Connolly and work by Picasso, Renoir and Jack B Yeats. The Horse Outside art installation are fibreglass sculptures from 2010, painted by children and inspired by the Rubberbandits hit. They are the local comedy hip hop duo of Mr Chrome and Blindboy Boatclub.
A century after the Treaty, Limerick moved south. Landowner, Edmund Sexton Pery commissioned Irish engineer Christopher Colles to design a new town in 1769. Newtown Pery is an outstanding example of Georgian city planning. Being built on one owners lands allowed for a regular grid system making for an architecturally unified, elegant streetscapes which is very modern, and most unusual in Ireland.
Building came to an abrupt end after the Famine. The expanding city finally ebbed to the shores of Pery Square to the south. Originally intended as a Grand square in the mode of Dublin’s Merrion Square, you can judge the intent along the northern side. The People’s Park is a wonderful green oasis within its embrace. Limerick Art Gallery is at the northern corner quite near the train station. Wonderful landscapes of the nineteenth century comprise the bulk of the collection, with some contemporary work and visiting exhibits. Nearby, you will also find the urban oasis of Baker Place with St Saviour’s Dominican Church church and the picturesque Tait’s Clock Tower.
Back to the commercial city centre, William Street aligns with the major Shannon crossing. In 1835 a new bridge called Wellesley Bridge spanned the river. The five arched bridge incorporated an artificial island, home to a club house for the Rowing Club. It was renamed for Patrick Sarsfield in 1882. At right angles is O’Connell Street, originally George’s Street, which is the principal street of the modern city. Along William Street you’ll find a traditional table service fish and chipper, Enzo’s. Enzo Rocca arrived from Italy fifty years ago and set up shop in Newcastle West with his brother Franco in the Golden Grill chipper. The city restaurant he established in 1984 was a seafood restaurant to begin with. Enzo’s has become a much loved institution in Limerick, a time capsule for a halcyon age, with a battered cod and chips to adore. Sadly Enzo passed away on the first of September at the age of seventy seven
The grid of Newtown Pery merges into the narrow winding streets of the Old Quarter, where I am staying at the eponymous hotel. It’s an interesting warren of streets, merging with cafe society where the city centre shoppers spill over, spent from a hard day at the retail coalface. Nancy Blake’s on Denmark Street is an intimate old style pub with a beer terrace out the back. There’s a late bar and live music five nights a week. I spend some time here on my last night, in the balm of neon and cobblestones, with appropriately classic rock tracks seeping out of the sound system.
It’s a pity I haven’t given myself more time. A day is seldom enough for a city, and certainly not here. Thanks to Niamh Mulville for her itinerary which informed my visit. There are some visits that I did not make. A mecca for rock tourists, Dolan’s Pub in the docklands area is where the Cranberries started on their path to world domination. Their second album No Need to Argue (1994) was a huge iternational hit. The lead single off that , Zombie became a signature number. Writer Dolores O’Riordan was born in Ballybricken, about ten miles south of Limerick in 1971, and died in 2018. I have quoted the song before and recently it has been given a rousing rendition by the supporters of the Irish Rugby team at the World Cup. The Munster contingent are responsible for this and the reasons are obvious. Thomond Park, out past the Treaty Stone is their own particular Mecca and so local heroes the Cranberries might be expected to provide the occasional theme song. All provinces have joined in and of course all of us back home will be wishing the furious wind will fill their sails and bring victory to the men in green. Truly, they are fighting.
Dublin to Cork is two and a half hours by rail. There’s a train every hour on the hour leaving from Dublin Heuston. The train barrels through the south midlands to Limerick Junction before veering due south through Cork, Ireland’s largest county and on to the Republic’s second city, Cork. The train arrives at Cork Kent station to the north east of the city on the Glanmire Road. It’s a short walk from there to my accommodation at Isaacs Hotel on McCurtain Street.
McCurtain Street is being ripped up at the moment but there’s plenty of restaurants, cafes and bars on this busy thoroughfare. Following the main road takes you down to the River Lee, and the city centre lies on the low lying island formed by the division of the river. The division in the River Lee happens well west of the city, past the University campus. The northern branch is the major; wide and relatively straight. The southern branch is narrower and windier, giving a quirky, intimate and scenic aspect to the city.
Union Quay takes you past the City Hall and the College of Music. On the opposite bank there’s the Cork studios of national broadcaster, RTE. A few doors up the distinctive ornate Neo Gothic spire of the Holy Trinity Church soars above Father Mathew Quay. Begun in the 1830s, it was not completed until the 1890s, construction having been delayed by the Famine. The design was chosen by competition, the winner being English architect John Pain, who also designed Blackrock Castle and the Courthouse on Washington Street. The interior includes three windows by Harry Clarke, and the window behind the High Altar is dedicated to Daniel O’Connell,
The spire and facade were the last element completed, and were somewhat scaled down from Pain’s original plans. Still very impressive though, facade and spire combining in a unified statement, the entire structure tapering to its peak while the use of flying buttresses and cast iron supports give the building the lightness of lace, as an observer put it: more air than stone. The church belongs to the Capuchins, an order of Fransiscan friars, and is also dedicated to the memory of Father Matthew who commissioned the church, and otherwise devoted himself to helping the poor, becoming also a notorious campaigner against the demon drink.
South Parish occupies the steep river banks, and like Shandon on the north bank, was an early suburb of the ancient walled city. The streets hereabouts go back a long way, with many colourful names. Whether Father Matthew had anything to do with Sober Lane, I can’t say, but it boasts one of Cork’s best beer gardens and an ironically named bar on Sullivan’s Quay. Uphill, we passSt Finbarr’s South, which dates from 1766 and is the oldest Catholic Church in the city. Sculptor John Hogan contributed the sculpture of the Dead Christ on the High Altar in 1832, carved from the same white marble from the Carrara Quarry used by Michelangelo. Farther up, the Red Abbey is one of Cork’s oldest structures, an early fourteenth century Augustinian abbey. The friars persisted, even after the Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1541, for another century until the Catholic Rebellion of 1641. Only the church tower remains,
Nano Nagle Place is situated further up on Douglas Street. Born in 1718 Honora Nagle was from a well to do Catholic family in Penal days. The Catholic population then was poor and uneducated, something which Nagle determined to address. Her Uncle Joseph mantained a Protestant front to safeguard the family’s fortune. This allowed for Honora’s education in in Paris. While there she noticed the contrast between her life of privelege and the misery endured by the city’s poor. This she compared to the plight of her own Catholic community back home. She returned to Ireland and established seven schools, for boys and girls, the first in the ghetto where she grew up on Cove Street. She also established a convent for the Ursuline Sisters, a French order of nuns. Being enclosed kept them remote from the community, so Nagle went on to found her own, outgoing order. The convent she founded in 1771 forms the nucleus for Nano Nagle Place, with a museum, bookshop, gardens and her tomb. The award winning museum gives a lively, animated tour through Nagle’s life and work and also illustrates the parallel development of Cork city in the eighteenth century.
Fionnbarra’s Bar farther down Douglas Street, is a good place to slake your thirst with an eccentric beer garden out back. Brightly painted statuary serves to further tilt the axis of reality off the vertical, although a few pints of the brew would contribute to such effects also.
I take the Nano Nagle footbridge across the river on to Grand Parade. Triskel Arts Centre is within the old walled city of Cork. A fragment of these walls remain in the Bishop Lucy Park next door, on the west side of Grand Parade. There’s a short but very useful account of ancient Cork and its early viking origins. Christchurch is a restored eighteenth century church once the main Church of Ireland place of worship in the city. It dates back to the eleventh century when a Hiberno Norse church was built on this site, this becoming a focal point for the developing city. You can view the ancient crypt beneath the current structure. Today the building is an intrinsic part of the Triskel and features regular music, arthouse cinema and literary events. There are regular exhibitions. My visit coincided with Then I Laid the Floor, featuring the work of three artists. The exhibition references a house built by relatives of Sao Paolo based Irish artist James Concagh, providing an interesting if vague visual narrative. Contributory work is provided by Brian Maguire whose art from all corners of the globe is consistently samey and shouldn’t detain you too long.
Farther along we reach the Cornmarket and the North branch of the river appears. The Shandon Footbridge takes us across the river and the climb up Widderling’s Lane leads to the heart of Shandon. This working class area has its own unique inner city feel. I had my eyes set on a Middle Eastern restaurant in the shadow of the bell tower of St Anne’s and sitting outside on a warm evening in the labyrinth of backstreets certainly had a Mediterranean feel to it. The restaurant even supplied a hookah pipe to an adjoining table to enhance the ambience. Unfortunately, my order resembled dessicated goat dipped in vinegar and I didn’t stay long. I resolved on a pint to wash away the lingering taste and hurried back to Son of a Bun, a good American Hamburger restaurant on McCurtain Street with which I’m familiar.
On the way I noticed one of Cork’s best loved bars. Sin É, Irish for that’s it. This is a busy spot with regular traditional and ballad music. The packed interior is a gem, and upstairs there’s a more reflective spot with candlelit tables where I grab a window seat. And thereby hangs a tale. The candles are not yet lit, and though on my ownio, I decide to light up for a little atmosphere. This attracted a tourist, German I think, who asked for a light for his own unlit candle. I obliged. Thus the light was spread troughout the world. I spent a happy half hour writing in my notebook and a few more moments reflection before heading off down the city centre. I got as far as the Oliver Plunkett, on the eponymous street, where outdoor seating allows for relaxed people watching. Looking for the notebook again, I find that it’s gone. It can only be back in Sin E, so I must return. The place is truly hopping, and I am none too optimistic approaching the upstairs table now occupied by a young woman. She has stowed my notebook on an adjacent shelf. It is a small thing of no great value, but I am delighted to be reunited with it again. Downstairs, I decide to celebrate with a pint. In an alcove, I take out a fistful of change and begin to count out the money required. Suddenly, the German tourist from before is at my shoulder. I will buy you a pint, he says, for earlier you gave me fire. Don’t you just love it. I had to laugh. I wasn’t sort of money, but had typically accumulated a lot of shrapnel and wanted to lighten the load. What goes around comes around. I see out the evening with pints and pleasant company. That’s Cork for ye; Sin É.
This has been a wet summer, even by Irish standards. It is a constant perspective here to view life through rain streaked glass; huddled in a cafe shopfront, looking out the kitchen window, scenery rushing through the windscreen of a car. I’ve painted Connemara driving through the rain and more recently, a sodden rush hour from the upstairs front seat of a bus on Amiens Street. The latter I took from a friend’s photo (thanks Paula Nolan!) but this one is all me own work. Taken through the windscreen of our car parked on Florence Road, Bray, looking up towards Main Street and the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. We are dropping in to Florence Furniture and Antiques in the left foreground. A good antiques shop is a treasure chest of the past, and more. An alternative universe where it is possible to imagine each artefact a living thing, a receptacle for history and craft, and love, and much, much more; hopeful, awaiting its future in another setting. The stories they could tell. The building was previously an art shop, and a printworks before that.
Across the street is Hayes Butchers Shop, a long established family business and friendly with it. Stories and gossip are exchanged here in the old fashioned way. It’s where I get all the beef; if you catch my drift. The Church was established in 1843, funded by subscription including generous donations from Bray’s sizeable Protestant community. It was remodelled in the 1890s by WH Byrne who, around the same time, was supervising the reconstruction of Dublin City Markets on Sth Great George’s Street to the magnificent building we see today. The Holy Redeemer, however, looks very different now to the nineteenth century structure. The mid sixties saw the facade altered to a modernist gabled front with a new plain, soaring bell tower. Surprisingly, you will find the nineteenth century interior remains. The old within the new.
xxharrison 