Sojourning in Southern Spain
When Strabo, the Greek geographer, visited the Iberian Peninsula sometime between 64 BC and AD 24, he compared the shape of the country to that of a bull’s skin stretched out under the sun — a reference that was in no doubt a nod to Spain’s stifling climate and longstanding obsession with bull-related activities.
Spain, much like the rest of Europe, has endured many rulers and many nicknames over many hundreds of years but somehow one name managed to stick – España. The origin of the name Hispania (later España) is much disputed but many believe it to have come from the Phoenician word meaning ‘land of the rabbits’. So, macho Spaniards, it appears that Spain is not named after the virile bull after all, but the rapidly breeding bunny.
Europe according to Strabo
Approximately 7 BC (note how amazingly accurate the shape of Italy is)
When one thinks of modern Spain, one pictures not a land filled with roaming rabbits, but a land known for its feisty and flirty flamenco, acres of orange orchards, bullfighting and tapas. Why do these clichés of Spain all hail from the south? Because, for a long time after Columbus discovered the Americas, the port of Seville was the heart of trans-oceanic trade. The men coming in to dock went back to their countries, telling tales of what they thought were typical Spanish experiences — and so the cliché spread. Nowadays, we all know that touristic campaigns are born from clichés.
As we walk through Seville in the early evening warmth, it's impossible to escape the all-pervasive sickly-sweet scent of orange blossoms. (I almost named this blog post Sneezing in Seville, which would have been hilariously apt.) In a way, the orange trees that line the streets of Seville are as much a symbol of the city’s rich Moorish past, as its beautiful architecture and masterfully irrigated gardens. The orange is thought to have been introduced and cultivated in the 12th century by the Moors, who would have come into contact with the typically Indian fruit through trade.
These notoriously bitter oranges aren’t juicy and sweet like their Valencian peers, but the perfect ingredient for British marmalade. It is rumoured that Queen Elizabeth II herself favours the bitter oranges grown inside the courtyard of Cathedral Sevilla. Completely unsubstantiated, of course, but I like to imagine the Queen importing the very best.
It is now, as we make our second pass through Spain, that we really come to appreciate the logic behind the well-loved Spanish siesta. Hemingway is famous for saying: There is no night life in Spain. They stay up late but they get up late. That is not night life. That is delaying the day. A convincing argument, sure, but as a traveller, it’s so nice not to be expected to function at full-capacity in the heat of the day, when temperatures soar into the high 30s and 40s. Much better to have a nap and resume touristing, with a vengeance, sometime after 8 o’clock.
Despite the devilish heat – or because of it – we spend one balmy and memorable Sevillian morning pacing the lavish courtyards of Real Alcazar, admiring the impressive Moorish architecture and luxuriating in the palace gardens. Real Alcazar is a garden-lovers paradise, filled with exotic specimens from all over the world. Seated in the cool oasis of irrigated greenery, eating our cheese sandwiches and sipping on agua con gas, it’s easy to forget that we are right in the heart of Seville. Ducks doze in the dappled sunlight. Peacocks strut by, looking regal and splendid. Pigeons coo. Fountains burble. The Moorish castles of Andalusia are some of the most beautifully-considered in the world, with gardens designed to not only bring pleasure but also supply fruit and vegetables to the palace residents. Alhambra, in Granada, is no exception. One can spend hours and hours wandering through Realife, without tiring of the view.
We spend our afternoons basking in the shade, watching the soccer, garnering the energy to pace the streets, in search of evening entertainment, around dusk. On one such excursion, we stumble on a Flamenco show that is about to commence. We file into the warm room (inwardly gasping) where, for two hours, we are treated to a stomping, strumming, stamping spectacle, replete with Spanish guitar, singing, solo performances and a saucy (and sweaty) duo act. We’re warm just watching the dancers stomp and tap around the stage, performing their numbers in long-sleeved dresses — and extravagant scarves.
The Flamenco tradition comes from Tirana where, for many years, the gypsy community of Seville resided just over the river. When you watch Flamenco in motion, you witness a merging of cultures that goes back several centuries. From the expressive hand movements and wrist flicks typical of Northern Indian dance, to the soulful crooning of Morocco and North Africa, and the fast-paced plucking of a Spanish guitar, true Flamenco is an experience not to be missed.
From Seville, we drive to Ronda – the birthplace of bullfighting – where Ernest Hemingway himself spent much of his time, perched eagerly at the sides of the bullring, watching the matadors in action. Although Hemingway is best-known in Spain for his work reporting on the Spanish Civil War, he was also known for his love of the 'magnificence' of bullfighting. Knowing his passion for the sport, it is no surprise that he wrote several books on the subject, including Death in the Afternoon, The Sun Also Rises and Fiesta. To this day, there are plaques throughout Spain stating Hemingway ate here or Hemingway bought a postcard here or Hemingway drank a cup of coffee here. He is much-revered throughout Andalusia, especially.
History aside, the limestone mountains surrounding Ronda are a nature-lovers paradise, perfect for hiking and rock climbing. In training for our hike through Andorra, we tackle a short day hike through Sierra Nevada. On our way up, we are lucky enough to spy a colony of griffon vultures nesting patiently among the rocky crags. With wingspans close to 3m these enormous Old World birds of prey are like nothing we have ever seen before. We can only hope they aren't waiting for us to keel over!
Our last stop in Andalusia is in a small town called Níjar, just beyond the tourist-laden beaches of Marbella and Malaga. The drive from Granada to Níjar, although along the coast, is far from pretty. Instead of crystalline sea views, we are greeted by a shimmering sea of white polythene greenhouses. 'Tent city', as we come to christen it, might be ugly to outsiders but to locals it has brought prosperity to one of the poorest corners of Spain – an area so arid and dry that it is unsuitable for regular farming. The tomato seedlings within these 'tents' are grown completely soil-free – planted in stone-filled plastic bags and drip-fed with the nutrients required, without the risk of pesticide run-off. As far as Spain is concerned, soil-free planting is a positive solution, supplying immigrants from as far off as Mali, Colombia and Ukraine with employment – and the rest of Europe with tomatoes – all year round.
Our accommodation in Níjar can only be described as a Santorini-style rendered cave – because that is what it is – washed in pale lilac paint and set into the rocky mountain behind. The space inside is simple. Our bedroom is sponged in varying shades of blue (to promote a feeling of coolness), our sitting room is decorated with pieces of coral, to continue the oceanesque theme, and the exterior is painted entirely white, to reflect the harsh desert heat. Apart from a short hike to Huebro in the baking heat, we are content to watch the soccer with the locals and spend a few days dipping in the plunge pool on our balcony.
Before we embark on our last drive day through Spain and up to Andorra, we have one last stop – about 40 minutes outside of Valencia – in a small town called Algar de Palancia. With a population of just 480 residents, Algar de Palancia is everything we love about small town Spain, with one central tavern (with a TV for watching soccer), a bakery (that you literally have to find with your nose because it doesn't exist on Google Maps) and a church (to pray for soccer victories). Apart from our South African neighbours, who clearly share our love for peace, quiet and a quality drop of wine, we are the only English speakers around (an excellent excuse to exercise our poor grasp of Spanish).
Despite our proximity to Valencia, we hardly scratch the surface of the city, making do with a short ride through the City of Arts and Sciences to admire the space-age architecture before retreating to our local tavern for a cold beer. Like good tourists, we've cycled through orange orchards, dipped in hot springs and dined on paella, but the heat is taking its toll and we're ready to migrate north to cooler pastures.
With a last Spanish supper of patatas bravas, paella, cerveza and tomato bread, we bid adios to the land of tapas, oranges and sangria, eager to reach the rugged but beautiful summits of the Andorran Pyrenees.
