Getting out and about

Up with the sun, but after a chilly night and a few gusts of wind the air warms quickly to around 15C and even more for a while mid-afternoon. Time to inspect the car and give it a trial run. It has just one locking door. The rest unlock and lock automatically with the drivers door. It's a smallish Dacia Sendero Stepway four seat hatchback with a diesel engine, which is comparatively noisy and not terribly powerful, but it's good enough to get around in. First I drove up to Mijas Pueblo and back down into the centre of Fuengirola to experience demanding hill driving and urban traffic conditions. I felt a lot better for having done that. I put it off yesterday to avoid overstressing my dodgy ankle, but it was fine today.

I returned and reheated yesterday's remaining pasta and sauce with chorizo picante sliced into it. In apple crumble was waiting for me in the freezer, along with a cauliflower cheese bake when I arrived. The cauli can wait until someone comes to join me who does eat cheese. The crumble I microwaved, and made up some custard with oat milk, as my secret chef had kindly included a portion of custard powder to use. That was enjoyable, and I certainly needed a good walk to digest it all. Clare and I talked before she went for her siesta. 

I also had a surprise call from John Duncan. He and I were colleagues together in Birmingham University Chaplaincy work fifty years ago. He decided to respond to my Christmas newsletter by ringing me up on his mobile, delighting in free wi-fi calls! He still plays golf twice a week and still has an active interest in good things. He didn't know I'm in Spain, and was quite surprised when I told him. That made my day!

Having finally completed my Sunday sermon, it was time to try out the chaplaincy house printer, hoping that it would behave for me and not force me to visit the office and print it off there. The last time I had used my laptop with a new printer was Estepona last supper. Windows recognised their Epson with ease and it was still set as the default printer. Within a minute or so of attaching a little Samsung lazer printer (a good choice for longevity sake), the laptop recognised it and all worked perfectly. When I think back over the decades, and recall what a task it used to be downloading and installing printer software, and now the whole process has been radically simplified, and made printing a lot less haphazard for all.

Job done, I went for that much needed walk, taking my time, along the road that runs beneath and beside the Metro, all the way to the terminus in Fuengirola. Nine years ago, I bought my Tarjeta Dorada 40% discount rail card there, I had hoped to do it again, but alas the ticket office is long gone. I need to go to Malaga's Maria Zambrano main station to find a ticket office. The terminus has had a makeover, and is equipped with ticket gates, that allows you to tap and pay for your fare, or use your phone, or a paper ticket from the usual machine. And there's a ticketing app for your phone as well. Just like in London. Ah well, at least I know. It's not a priority to get one for the moment.

While I was down that part of time, I found the only branded Banco Santander ATM in town. You can do everything with your account in their centre there, at an on-line terminal. I wonder if they have real people to talk to as well. One day I must go in office hours and find out. The ATM took my card and greeted me as an English client automatically. It only gave me the option of withdrawing €140, unless I missed something on the screen display. It was a maximum of €200 I could withdraw last time I tried in the summer. I paid £133 for this, but there's no exchange fee but a set rate of €1.05 to the pound, which is less than the current €1.11 rate on the street, but banks can add transaction fees which ends up costing just as much. 

Owain says it's cheaper to tap and pay for everything, as it's on the cumulative spend in a banking cycle that the currency conversion is worked and one's account is charged. It means that we're being charged more for using physical money than digital. Covid drove the change to cashless purchase in Britain. Other EU countries and Scandinavia have been way ahead of us. For better or for worse? We'll see.

I walked back along the beach promenade, visited the little shrine of our Lady of Fatima beside the storm drain that runs down into the sea. It's strange that it's quite close to the large statue of Our Lady Star of the Sea. There must be a story behind these local devotions. I'd walked over eleven kilometres by the time I reached Casa de Esperanza. I haven't walked that far for a good while, and my ankle didn't really complain.

A light supper after a big lunch, then photo uploading, and writing this cloaked in a large counterpane I found upstairs, just about enough to enable me to sit and write without being unbearably cold. And now to early bed to be sure that I'm on my best form when I drive to Calahonda for tomorrow's first service.

Cordoba re-visited

Yesterday's highlight was a bus trip to Estacion Ferrocarril Maria Zambrano, to obtain a tarjeta dorada 40% OAP discount fare card for Clare and to book tickets for today's outing to Cordoba. We made sure to get to bed early last night to be sure of enough sleep before an early start for a day trip to Cordoba. A number three bus from outside the apartment just after eight took us directly to the station, so we were half an hour early for the high speed stopping train journey of 158km, taking just 65 minutes.

We walked from the station down to the Old Town to visit first the Mezquita/Catedral, which I first visited two years ago. This time, the ticket office and entrance queues were much shorter, although the entrance price has done up from €8 to €10. We spent an hour in there, walking right around the vast interior four times before leaving to hunt for a coffee and slice of Millehoja pastel. 

The day had started quite chilly in Cordoba, but the temperate rose in the afternoon to a pleasant 29C, warmer than Malaga in fact. We wandered around the streets in the vicinity of the Mezquita in search of the Jewish quarter. Sadly, the historic mediaeval synagogue is closed for repairs at the moment, but the Sephardi Jewish house across the narrow street from it, was still open to visitors. But first, where to have lunch in this barrio, with such a choice of cuisine available?

We settled for nearby Casa Mazal, specialising in Sephardi dishes. It's set in a quiet courtyard off the street, and offered an unusual range of kosher recipes, using nuts and dried fruit, couscous, fish, meat or vegetarian. We weren't disappointed, rather delighted with our chance discovery.

The Casa Sepharad is a showcase of Jewish culture and history. Sephardi were the original Spanish Jews  from ancient times with their own hybrid language, like Yiddish among the Ashkenazi Jews. Persecution from early on led to them settling all around the Mediterreanean, but in Spain under Arab rule they flourished and played a key part in intellectual life, especially in the origins of Renaissance thought in Spain.

The museum explains all this with engaging clarity, and also tells the stories of the part played by Muslims in protecting Jews from nazi persecution in the 20th century. I found this place during my previous visit to Cordoba, but had no time to do justice to what it presented. I was very glad to have been able to keep this particular promise to myself.

We walked the streets some more, crossed the first century Roman bridge over the rio Guadalquivir to see the Old Town from a different perspective, then slowly headed back towards the train station for the journey home, as tiredness set in from so much walking. By half past eight we were back at the apartment again, having supper and thinking about early bed-time yet again. So glad to have had the opportunity to share with Clare this remarkable unique city, once the capital of El Andalus, and now a World Heritage Site magnet for global tourism. You can see my photos here.

  

A welcome, not without travel hassles

I spent Monday getting ready for Clare to arrive, with an evening paseo to the port and back. Before bed, in case I forgot, I sent a message to Kath and Anto, to congratulate them on their 25th wedding anniversary which is tomorrow. How quickly these amazing years have passed.

Since Clare's Vueling flight from Cardiff was scheduled at 12.45, but is often early, I left much earlier than necessary, walking first to Maria Zambrano station, renew my Tarjeta Dorada train discount card. Just as well I had plenty of time in hand, as I was directed to take a ticket and wait. I took one for 'ticket to use on the day', as I intended to claim a discount on the trip to the airport. When I arrived at the desk to be dealt with 20 minutes later, I was told I had the wrong ticket, and should have taken a queuing ticket for 'advance bookings', and had to queue all over again, half an hour this time. 

Queue ticket numbers were separate numerical streams. I noticed that, depending on how busy each queue was, and how many counter clerks were on duty at the time, clerks would swap from one ticket stream to another, indicating there was no technical difference between a book on the day counter and one for advance booking. I'd received no explanation about where and how a Tarjeta Dorada should be purchased. There was no information displayed to say which queuing stream an applicant should join.

The Tarjeta Dorada, duly purchased, delivered a discount fate to get me to the airport, and I got there just at the right time to meet Clare. It wouldn't, however, deliver a discount fare for the return journey. The reason for this, I guess / I hope, is that registration took immediate effect on the computer network node at the station where it was issued. Updating data to thousands of other network nodes that serve the entire RENFE transportation system would take longer, perhaps the rest of the day. If this is the case, all that's needed would be a notification at point of sale to say 'this discount card will take effect from .... hrs, today or tomorrow. Good enough reason to inform those hunting for a Tarjeta Dorada to queue only for future tickets. 

But I still resent the way I was dealt with by an uncompromising counter clerk, who could so easily have understood and dealt with my traveller's lack of know-how, without giving me grief. In the end, discourtesy is not dependent upon the language used.

We took the train back to the terminus at the top end of the Alameda, then caught the 11 bus which stops outside the apartment. After unpacking, lunch and a siesta, we went to Playa La Malagueta for Clare to take her first swim. I don't think she really believed me how near the beach is to where we are staying, busy roads notwithstanding. After supper we walked into the port and watched the sun set over the harbour. How lovely to have my best beloved to share the experience of this special place with me at last.

   

A difficult home journey

I was up early, running a load of washing, taking out the rubbish, cleaning the kitchen, as soon as I'd had breakfast and prepared a picnic to take with me. At eleven, Peter and Charlotte came around for the handover of house keys, and then take me to the station for the Barcelona train. It's an enjoyable journey as the line runs close to the sea along several sections. There was a delay of fifteen minutes at Salou, but I had plenty of time in hand to get the airport train. I'd quite forgotten, arriving at Terminal Two, that no Vueling flights leave from there. The company have an information booth but it was closed and flight indicator panels displayed no evidence of the airline's existence. 

I began to wonder if they'd gone bust and I'd not picked up on the news. I tried Googling on my Blackberry, but it was on strike, refusing to connect to a network, because the roaming contract extension expired yesterday night, so I sailed close to panicking. I asked a man with an official badge, and realised I'd forgotten about Terminal One being the base for Vueling flights. I quickly took the shuttle bus for the ten minute ride, and found a four hundred metre queue of people checking bags in at a row of twenty Vueling desks. Thankfully I still had time in hand before check-in was meant to start for the Cardiff flight. I showed my ticket to the queue manager and was allowed to join it. With almost all of the check-in desks running, the queue moved quickly. As I moved, it built up behind me again. Going through security was even quicker, and then I had a full two hours to wait for the flight to be called.

Terminal One has a vast roof and glass outer walls giving views of the airport in each direction, and this encloses half a dozen boarding areas, misleadingly called 'gates'. Each 'gate' has a score of actual boarding access points. In the middle of this is huge shopping mall. Straight after security, there's passport control, then you're led down an escalator into the shopping mall. You walk through this to get to 'gates' A B and C, but D and E gate signage is less frequent and more obscure. I had to walk around the entire mall and re-check, before realising access to D and E 'gates' was obtained by going back up the escalator and walking to a separate corridor a kilometre long, containing fifteen boarding access points in a row. The terminal was designed with high passenger capacity in mind, and although it's clearly busy with summer traffic, while I was waiting it seemed quite empty most of the time. 

The flight left on time and arrived five minutes early. Once we crossed the Pyrenees there was cloud all the way, unbroken until the plane was on its landing run. Aberthaw power station as the first thing visible in an hour and half of flying. It had been raining hard for two hours, Ashley reported, when he rang me in  baggage reclaim. My case arrived soaking wet, suggesting that no protective cover had been used on the short journey from plane to conveyor belt. Thankfully, I had rainwear tucked away in my rucksack, where its sole purpose to date has been as a cushion to protect my laptop.

On the airport shuttle was a Spanish family, coming for a short holiday in Cardiff, trying to decipher their computer generated itinerary. I plucked up my courage and spoke to them in Spanish. I too had trouble with their itinerary, which suggested they take a bus from outside the Philharmonic (now closed) to get to the Travelodge at the Friary in Greyfriars Road, fine except that the itinerary didn't say "Take any bus", but mentioned only the fact that this was the T4 bus stop - destination Newtown, and not about the appear on the bus indicator board any time before tomorrow. I took them to the stop once we'd been dropped off in Custom House Street, and the next bus heading for the Kingsway was fifteen minutes away, and the weary kids were beginning to complain, so I proposed a taxi, took them around to the station, explained to a driver what they wanted, and then made my way back to Westgate Street, where I didn't have to wait long for a 64. Needless to say, given the puddle strewn pavements, my case was very wet by the time I reached home, and dampness was penetrating clothes, though fortunately not any of my books. What a welcome back to Wet Wales!

        

Tortosa - Festa del Renaixement

Yesterday morning, Paul came around for a couple of hours, to discuss how to approach his next study subject in Lay Reader training correspondence course, which is the Holy Spirit. When I read the list questions for assignment options , I admit that I found it challenging. It's several years since I had to look through any course material of this kind. 

The course aims remain much the same, even when the context changes. The variety of learners and their background changes too. Each generation of scholars and teachers poses questions to answer in ways that they hope will arouse interest and get learners to respond productively, but there's no guarantee any new set of questions generated will be understood by all students all of the time as the background of each person differs. It's part of the adventure of education for scholars, tutors and teachers alike. The perennial challenge is to discover the relationship between the subject matter and one's own experience.

Today, I took the train to Tortosa to meet Jenny, the Lay Reader who was licensed last month after completing her five years on the same course. It was good to have a catch-up session, but the other aim of meeting was for her to show me around large parts of Tortosa's old town that I'd not seen on my two previous visits, all set up and decorated for the city's annual 'Festa del Renaixement' - which is Catalan for Renaissance Festival.

Many if not most of the people out in the streets were dressed in sixteen century style costumes, and the narrow streets were crammed with stalls selling food, craft items, clothes, toys, jewellery. There were mediaeval games, a falconry display and rides for children and exhibitions. There were groups of school children all dressed up, accompanied by fife and drums, an amazing brass ensemble playing ancient looking instruments, as well as dressed up as entertainers. There were a few daytime concerts, but many more arranged for the evenings - outdoors and in churches. Like any old city, Tortosa has its share or redundant churches and convents, thankfully, well looked after and adapted now for other social and cultural purposes. It must be marvellous to spend the entire weekend here taking part.

Jenny and I parted company at lunchtime. I then re-visited the Cathedral before it closed for siesta.

One thing that has changed since I was last here concerns the Cathedral precinct. Its eighteenth west front is approached through a narrow street with four and five storey houses either side. Now a 50 metre rank of houses in front of the facade has been demolished, to reveal a view of the riu Ebre. I bet there was controversy about this, as the houses are side to be eight hundred years old. I can well believe there have been houses there for that long, but the ones demolished may not have been more than a few centuries old, and were pretty scruffy, as I recall. Demolition has given way to archaeological investigation of the housing site, and the findings are bound to be of interest. The plan is to create a garden in this open space created, and this will uplift the area enormously. 

After the Cathedral visit I had a lunch of Papas Pobres and cereveza at one of the many street restaurants nearby. A train still on the internet timetable at three I found wasn't running, so I had a four hour wait for the next. I walked the length of the stalls in the old town streets a second time, also the former Jewish quarter, the best part of a mile's worth of street stalls. I also explored a large park near the station with a palmeria. It contained a large old building, which may at one time have been a place of storage, but is now transformed into a showcase for a collection of large papiermache figures, gigantes, used in festive processions. 

I've seen figures of this kind in Sta Pola and Vinaros. They seem to date back to the eighteenth century, although not in this case. These figures were made in 1996, part of the cultural investment in the renaissance festival. They represent a Catalan renaissance writer Cristofor Despuig, his wife and family, plus a couple of Moors. There's even a local mythical monster the size of a small car called a Cucafera. It looks like a cross between giant beetle an armadillo and a crocodile. There were also a couple of gigantes in a fine gothic redundant convent church I visited, re-purposed as a concert venue and archive centre. I wonder how many other figures are stored elsewhere?

I got back to the station in good time. It's quite close to the centre of town. There was no display of information indicating at which of the six platforms the train was expected to arrive. None of those waiting seemed know. Two trains stood waiting at outer platforms, neither had destination boards. It was only when the train conductor and the drive arrived, just five minutes before departure, that it became evident we weren't waiting for a train from the main line to arrive and collect us (Tortosa is at the end of a branch line), but our train started right there. Generally, rail information systems in Spain work well. Was Tortosa's switched off or broken, I wonder? As this was the last train of the day to travel to Vinaros, I was relieved to find out, as I was tired after a day of walking around and trying to keep cool, taking refuge in churches when I could.

On the way back from the train station, I stopped at a supermarket to buy something for supper, and made it back just as the Archers started.

  

Train across Spain

After a refreshing relaxed nights sleep and breakfast, I left Hotel Don Paco at eight, and strolled over Maria Zambrano station, with half an hour to spare. Promptly at twenty to nine the AVE pulled out of the station and headed for Cordoba at speeds approaching 300kmh. It's a comfortable quiet ride,and after a while the speed is hardly noticeable. More amazing is the beauty of the summer countryside in the bright clear morning light, richer with colours than the last time I made this trip eighteen months ago in early November.

This time there was nobody checking passengers against tickets on board the AVE, which made me wonder about cut-backs. When we arrived at Cordoba however, there was a passenger steward waiting to escort across the station bridge those changing trains to the platform where the TALGO Mediterraneo to Barcelona was due to arrive. The AVE from Malaga linked to another from Sevilla, for its departure while we were going up the escalator to change platforms, making a long goodbye to Cordoba as it left, as well as faster train to Barcelona in half the time our would take.

Minutes after it left, the TALGO arrived already more than half full with holiday-makers, on their family discount tickets, going north to the Costa Dorada. There were groups of teenagers, amusing themselves, parents and grannies, striving to keep little ones amused over the seven and a half hours I was on board. It's such a lovely way to see Spain and Spanish people in their element.

Paul collected me from Benicarlo station and took me home for a splended welcome meal, prepared by Beryl. Their computer programmer son Duncan was there as well, about the same age as Owain, so I enjoyed conversing with him, as well as Mum and Dad. Paul then took me to the Vicarage, updating me on the way, and left me to sort myself out, and first get the house cool, as it was like a sauna, having been closed up for a few days. All was spic and span, and there was food in the fridge to tide me over until I can get to the shops. Great to be back again.

 

Malaga outing, and the man on the bus

I took the coach into Malaga this morning to go and book by train for Friday. I could have booked on the internet, but with euros to spare, it was a good excuse for an outing to the city. The return fare was €8.18. Bus travel in Spain is cheap and pretty punctual. The main bus station is opposite Maria Zambrano station, and the booking hall a short walk a way. I was pleased with myself for being able to buy my ticket entirely in Spanish.

Not far from the station is the barrio Mercado del Carmen, and I found my way there for a visit to the wonderful market bar, which does an impressive range of fresh cooked fish tapas. There were cockles on the counter, alive and moving. That's how fresh they were. I chose a racion of baby merluza to have with a glass of Alhambra beer, and they were cooked while I drank. So fresh, hot and crispy with the lightest of coatings of olive oil and flour. This alone was worth the journey.

I walked around for an hour or so, along the road next to the harbour, as far as the Alameda, then did a brief inspection of El Corte Ingles technology department, always a favourite, then return to the station to take the metro out to the airport, to see if I could change my flight bookings face to face, rather than struggle with finding out how to on-line. Again I was successful doing it all in Spanish. All I have to do now is acquire a new boarding pass on line. I hope it's worked!

I had to queue for ages to change my open ticket to catch the five o'clock coach back to Nerja. At one of the two places at the counter a young woman was arguing loudly and aggressively with the booking clerk. So much so I wondered when the long arm of the law would turn up. The coach on which I was booked was destined for Almeria, another 250km from Malaga, and it had come from Algeceiras, down west beyond Gibraltar.

I sat next to a man of my age destined for Almuñécar. He asked if I was German, and when I said British he laughed and chanted "Shall I stay or shall I go?", saying how crazy he thought the brexit vote had been, dividing the country like that. I could only agree and say that 48% of us didn't vote Leave. Well, if the man on the bus thinks that, what are the politicians and bankers of Europe thinking? I would like Mr Cameron to have been in my set instead of peddling ridiculous optimism in front of a divided House of Commons consuming itself with in-fighting.

Noche de San Juan on the move

Voting day in the UK's EU referendum, but not a concern for us as we voted postally before we left. We've heard of people here having problems with getting their postal votes mailed back to the UK, because some Spanish post office workers do not recognise or know about the international Freepost convention and signage, as it's in English and French, not in their official postal language. I don't know how true or widespread this is, but its a complication no voter wants.

I had a meeting at the Balcon Hotel with a couple whose wedding I'm due to bless next Wednesday in Frigiliana. Then, after lunch I drove Clare to Malaga airport for her flight back to Cardiff. There were huge queues at the baggage check-in. Not just because of summer holidaymakers, however. There are several Vueling outbound flights within an hour or so of each other, notably one to Amsterdam. The conjunction happens when these two cohorts of passengers are boarding early morning flights as well, as I recall from previous experience.

I left Clare in the queue and went over to the RENFE station to find out if I could purchase a new Tarjeta Dorada train discount card there. No luck. Purchase of this kind are only possible at Maria Zambrano Station in the city, or Torremolinos, or Fuengirola. Knowing how easily I could achieve this in Fuengirola, I went back to check-in, said goodbye to Clare and drove west, to a town that is still familiar and fresh in my memory, from having spent the best part of eight months there the year before last. Mission accomplished I tried to book at ticket for my long distance journey in eight days time. Not possible except at the main station, or on-line. Ah well, another trip into Malaga, this time by bus in coming days I think.

Rather than go straight back home, I drove on to La Cala de Mijas, and visited Peter and Linda in their lovely Casa Madreselva house. Linda was in the pool, doing her physio exercises, following last years joint replacement op. It was great to meet up with them again and catch up. It's a year since I was last there for their joint 145th birthday celebration.

I got home in time for the start of the referendum count, but then at half past eleven headed down to Burriana beach for the Noche de San Juan festivities, there being nothing to glue me to the telly until the results began to flow. It'll be a long night for all the pundits and politicos.

Day of the Dead

I took Clare to the station to get a train to Felixstowe this morning in readiness for her brother's funeral on Wednesday. I had funeral this morning, so couldn't take her or travel with her. It was in the big chapel at Thornhill crem. Neither I nor my chauffeur remembered this so we went to the wrong entrance, where I met Phil, one of my former students, as he was greeting mourners after a service. He spends a lot of time here, as he is assigned several funerals every week. I haven't heard from him since we met April, before I last went to Spain. I missed his priestly ordination because of being away, and wondered if he was mad at me because of that. It wasn't the time to chat, however. Matters of death and life and being in ministry sucked us apart. An occupational hazard.

After lunch I took the bus to go to the office, meet Ashley and review the job recruitment process we've put in place. I went prepared with my kit to walk over from the office to Adamsdown to celebrate the All Souls' Day Requiem Mass at St German's, with the name of brother in law Eddie to add to the long list this year, and glad of this opportunity. I didn't dare take the car to cross town early evening, with such a high risk of traffic gridlock in several directions. I was lucky to get a bus from Westgate Street very soon after reaching there following my walk across the town centre on a very damp dark night, thinking about the ten hour train journey to Vinaros I made this time last year, and how much I'd love to repeat it. Spain is great for train journeys and at bargain prices compared to the UK.

    

Home run

Up at six before dawn, to finish packing and cleaning, then Michael arrived to take me to the station as I was finishing breakfast. The 07.10 Regional stopping train was in Vinaros station, lit up and open for business before we got to the platform, as it starts from here, and makes the diversion to Tortosa before heading north to Barcelona. It was an hour later when we were in the vicinity of L'Hospitalet that dawn broke over the sea. By this time the train was filling up with people on their way to Tarragona or even Barcelona, presumably for Christmas shopping. In fact, it was packed for the last hour of the three the early stopping train takes, landing one at Baracelona Sants just after ten. 

I had time for a coffee before taking the shuttle train to the airport, followed by the fifteen minute walk from the station to Terminal C where the EasyJet flights depart from. There must have been 200 people queuing to drop off bags, and it took forty minutes as only two thirds of the check-in desks were staffed. By way of contrast, security clearance took just five minutes, leaving me three quarters of a hour before boarding commenced. We arrived at Bristol ten minutes early and the shuttle bus to Temple Meads was soon transporting us to the station. 

At this point, effortless timely progress slowed somewhat. I just missed the four o'clock train to Cardiff. I got on the 16.24 train, but then we were all ordered off the train, when its cancellation was announced, and had to wait another half an hour for the next. It was 17.50 be the time I reached Cardiff, to be greeted by Rachel, who came to pick me up by car and take me home, an hour later than normal timetabling would predict. Trains in Spain may be fewer and often fuller, but given the distances they cover, they run fairly well on time. Given the opportunity EasyJet will get you there early. As for First Great Western, and their horrible noisy smelly trains, that's another story altogether.

It's great to be home again, except the first job always has to be updating computers neglected during my absence.

     

By train from Fuengirola to Vinaros

Out of bed at six this morning, and buying my Cercania ticket at five to seven. The one minute past seven train didn't arrive - it's the Todos Santos bank holiday, and that means a Sunday timetable. The twenty past seven took me to Malaga Maria Zambrano station just after eight, with lots of time to check in for the AVE train to Cordoba, the second leg of my journey. Once we were under way, a steward came through checking people were seated where they should be. Because of the way the indicator at the train door switches alternately from showing the carriage number from left to right, travellers can get confused and take their seats in the wrong place. It didn't stop there. The steward's printout sheet told him I was bound for Vinaros, and he asked me to confirm this.

When we arrived at Cordoba there was another steward waiting on the platform for those who were changing from the AVE bound for Barcelona direct at high speed, to the TALGO Mediterraneo train, taking the slower route over the high plains down to Valencia, and then along the coast, stopping at Vinaros just after half past five on its way to Tortosa, Tarragona and finally Barcelona, my route to the airport when I leave for home. It was a wonderful journey through remarkable countryside, rolling plains full of olive trees, vineyards in autumnal dress, pine forests, stark grey mountains, such a variety of differently coloured soils, reminiscent of unfamiliar named colours in a childhood paint box. Seven and a half hours travelling from Cordoba to Vinaros. Such a pleasure.

Churchwarden Paul met me at the station, and took me to his home near Peniscola, where his wife Beryl gave me my first square meal of the day - shepherds pie followed by apple pie and custard. It went down very well. We reached the chaplain's house just after eight, familiar from my first long locum here two years ago, which I blogged under the title 'Spanish Sojourn', perhaps thinking I'd never return. Here I am having so far spent half of this year in Spain, with another seven weeks of duties before returning for Christmas. What a privilege at my time of life!

Travel in mind

I went into Malaga today, to book tickets at the main train station Malaga Maria Zambrano for the journey to Vinaros when my work here is finihed. The Cercania line to Malaga from Fuengirola connects with the main station, now embedded in a huge modern shopping mall, so you emerge from an underground platform into a very busy posh retail centre. The station's name honours a woman highly esteemed as a Spanish essayist and philosopher, exiled from the country by the civil war until nine years after the death of Franco, when she was eighty years old. She was born in Velez Malaga 30km up the coast from the city. I wonder what Maria Zambrano would have made of this honour?

Early on November 3rd, I'll be taking the AVE fast train to Cordoba, change there for the Barcelona train that goes north east back down to the coast at Valencia, then on up the coast to Vinaros. An eight hour journey, arriving at tea time. I was delighted to pay just under fifty euros for my one way ticket, and to make the booking without needing to speak English. 

From the station I walked through the streets towards the old town centre and discovered a municipal market, dedicated to the Virgen del Carmen, patron saint of fishermen. The modern market building contained a majority of fish stalls, and this was reflected in the remarkable cafeteria, where there were two cold storage units on the counter, of the type normally containing prepared tapas dishes. These however, contained different species of fish ready to cook, sixteen containers, with several bowls containing prepared tapas and salads on top. In the corner was a hot plate, also several deep fry pans containing olive oil, two men cooking and two women serving. I ordered an Alhambra beer, one of the Malaga brews, and a meso racione of tuna fish, which was served up with pieces of white and brown bread, hot from the deep fryer, garnished with basil, a whole side plate full of pieces, right to the edge. So simple, so exquisite a taste!

After I'd wandered the streets and taken more photographs of things that caught my eye, I returned to get the Cercania train from Maria Zambrano, rather than the nearer terminus station at the top of the Alameda, as I'd made up my mind to have a day trip to Cordoba, camera in hand, of course, this coming Saturday. A seat on the AVE fast train ida y vuelta, cost me just under fifty euros. Affordable adventure!

When I got back, I had a call from Clare reporting a visit to her eye specialist. Her glaucoma condition now requires and eye operation which needs to be fitted in before shoulder surgery, and she's been given an appointment for day surgery on 2nd December, which means I'll have to fly back home for the inside of the week to see her through the day surgery and early after care. Vueling, by then will have stopped operating flights to Cardiff, so it's back to EasyJet to and from Bristol with train journeys at either end to Barcelona to take the flight. Fortunately, Rachel can come over from Arizona early for her Christmas visit, and is delighted to have the opportunity to look after her mum for a change when I've returned to complete my Costa Azahar spell of locum duty.

It's not often I get to book two train journeys and two flights in the same day! More Malaga photos here.

Keeping busy

Clare's last day yesterday was quiet and uneventful. The usual swim, lunch at La Salina, our nearest restaurant down the road from here, siesta, walk along the beach and promenade to Torreblanca, and tea/coffee and cake at Granier, before turning in early, her Vueling flight departure being at seven fifteen in the morning.

We were both out of bed by four thirty and on the road to the airport by five under the light of an almost full moon. She was checked in and on her way through security by ten past five. As it was still dark when I got back, I went to bed again and slept until nine. At ten I had a text message to say she'd landed in Wales, and by eleven she was at home in Cardiff again. So easy, so convenient, apart from the early start.

I thought it was about time I booked my home leave flight for October, a month from now. That will also involve an early start. Unfortunately the first train arrives in the airport just as the flight begins to board, allowing no time to pass through security and walk to the departure gate so that rules out the best option. I'm contemplating going to the airport on a late train and camping out, as in some ways a disturbed night's sleep is no worse than having to waken from a deep sleep to get going, and it would save someone having to get up early to ferry me. Such is the cost of airport parking, I wouldn't contemplate taking the car and leaving it there for five days. If only the flight left an hour later!

Next task was to set about preparing my part in the funeral service being planned for this Thursday. Sid Wright, the man who died at 93, was a well known musician and entertainer, who'd been a band leader in London's West End clubs for forty years, starting during the blitz. Retiring here at sixty he went on to have second career pioneering the development of musical entertainment for British expats. He was a founder member of Fuengirola's English language Little Theatre, and one time St Andrew's church organist, who'd helped raise funds to establish the chaplaincy. Accommodating the family's wishes meant first reading through fascinating biographical material and press cuttings of some of his interviews, and tailoring my usual contribution to fit the occasion.

Once that was completed, there was an article to draft for the next edition of the Diocesan prize winning Chaplaincy magazine 'Outreach', ahead of next week's production deadline. It kept me busy for most of the day. It was only when I woke up from my siesta wondering where Clare was, thinking she was downstairs, that I realised I'm here now on my own. For several weeks in the Spring we were the first occupants of the house, and this has been a repeat. I shall miss her, no doubt, and it'll take longer than usual to get used to being here without her. Just as well I have plenty do to at the moment.

As I sat down outside in the shade to enjoy an afternoon cuppa, I heard light aircraft and helicopters busy in the area. There was a column of smoke rising on the western outskirts of the town. What at first I thought was an unusual film cloud clinging to the face of the Sierra de Mijas above and behind was smoke from a fire. This was confirmed when the helicopter appeared trailing a large bucket of water to dump at the site. After a hot summer, everything is tinder dry and the Protection Civil teams have to be vigilant to prevent brush fires getting out of control close to the suburbs. The column of smoke transformed into a column of steam, but long after the mountain looked clear again, the smell of wood smoke hung, not unpleasant on the evening air.

Around the urbanizacion in which this house is set, there are still acres of empty building land which await development. Since we've been here, on several occasions small teams of men have been out with strimmers cutting down and removing all dry brushwood in the vicinity. How tidy, I thought then. Now I realise how safety conscious people have to be in a crowded, arid urban area.
  

Maundy Thursday reunion

Eighteen of us celebrated the Eucharist of the Last Supper at six this evening, then I went to catch the train to Malaga. I was surprised at the increased number of people waiting on the platform and the queues at the one remaining working ticket machine. As a result I missed one train, and by the time the next one arrived the platform was again full. After a couple of stops the train was so packed it was was almost impossible to take on additional passengers unless someone got off with a destination some way before Malaga Centro.

Coming out of the station subway at the other end the increased density of the crowd on the streets was immediately noticeable, people were compelled to move slowly in every direction and did so with good humour. Being an hour later, there was less good light to take photographs, and only occasionally was I able to get a good line of sight to the processions from the street, where the crowd was ten deep, as opposed to three deep on previous occasions. 

In an effort to catch up with the trona of Jesus carrying his own cross in Lario, one the main fashion retail high street destinations, I took a long detour through side streets thronged with slow moving pedestrians and flanked by evening diners sitting outside the abundance of restaurants and bars which characterise the area. Every street was just as crowded.

Mission accomplished, I turned around and made my way back to Alameda Principal and started heading for the RENFE station, realising that I'd need to be careful about the timing of the return journey, as Owain's flight was due in around eleven, and he'd need picking up. The plan for me to rendezvous with him at the airport and return by train had to be abandoned, once I got some idea of the crowds of people travelling to and from town.

The first snag I encountered was a huge crowd at a standstill because of a passing procession. I attempted a detour by following the line of the procession, which had entered the district from a river bridge lower down. As I got to the river bank the procession was still passing. There was a platoon of soldiers accompanying the procession as a guard of honour, and they were juggling with their rifles in formation as they marched. It seemed an odd spectacle, but one which was greeted with appreciative applause from the crowd. 

Earlier I'd heard a regiment of soldierly voices singing a hymn of devotion to Mary as they marched with their trono of the Virgin, their dress uniformed officers up front. I was told that it's only since the time of General Franco that the church permitted military units to join the procession. 

The second via Crucis trono of the evening crosses the bridge.

I descended steps to the walkway above the dry river bed, passed under the procession crossing the bridge and ascended on the right side to get to the station entrance a short distance away. I was dismayed to see a hundred metre queue of people waiting to be admitted to the escalator by a security guard. I struck me as a sensible move even though I worried about being there a long time and having my departure delayed, but it was only a matter of minutes before we were moving. The platform was expertly packed by security guards directing people traffic. I had missed the ten to ten train I was aiming at, but another pulled in at five past, and took five minutes to pack in all the passengers, like boquerones in a tin.

I stood for the first half of the journey, packed in with scores of others, including several small children being taken home at a sensible time to bed, and a mild mannered labrador. The atmosphere was genial and patient, without a hint of tension, complaint or grumpiness. Spanish people like being close together in large numbers in a way Northern Europeans are less comfortable with. It's one of the things I like about being here, even if it means having to go slower from time to time.

I reached home at five past eleven. Kath and I were quickly on our way to the airport, arriving just as Owain came out of the arrivals gate, so by quarter to midnight were were all together at home, tucking in to a late supper snack and a bottle of wine to celebrate. The photos I took of the evening can be seen here.

Homeward bound

When I got up this morning, the temperature in Fuengirola was much the same as that in Cardiff, but sunnier. Having packed and cleaned the apartment, I drove to St Andrew's where I met Ian and handed over all my keys and the chaplain's mobile phone. He took me for a parting glass  to a restaurant above the covered market, a short walk from the church. Above the restaurant, I discovered is the local public library and above that several rooms for community use. It's an impressively useful piece of municipal social architecture, and apparently, well used. As Ian lives a few stops up the railway line to Malaga via the airport, we travelled together and chatted about the way of life in these parts which both of us appreciate so much.

My tarjeta dorada railcard gave me a discount fare of €1.55 for a forty minute journey. I'd over-anticipated the time I'd need to check in and go through security by an hour, and had to wait half an hour for the bag drop counter to open. By the time I was air-side I had two hours to wait, which passed by quickly enough, nosing around the shops, and walking the considerable distance to the Vueling departure zone. Flying past the snow capped Pyrenees lit by late afternoon sun was a pleasant experience. The couple occupying the seats next to me were returning from a three month spell of mission supporting the Ark evangelical church in Fuengirola. Through the good offices of a friend they were introduced to the mission among Andalusian gypsies which has seen significant growth in Pentecostal churches serving gypsies in Spain, a group that has become alienated from Catholic tradition. So, the conversation on my return trip was just as interesting as that on the outward journey.

We arrived in the dark at five thirty and I was soon on the airport shuttle bus to Cardiff, and quickly on to a sixty-one, reaching home in time for the Archers, and a welcome home supper with Clare. And now, a month's mail to read!
   

Malaga walkabout

As today was free of assignments I thought it was time for an excursion to Malaga. I parked the car at the church and caught the eleven forty RENFE train. As I was picked up by car on arrival, I hadn't realised that the route passes through the airport - how convenient for comings and goings! The train stops at Almeida, just a short walk down the main thoroughfare from the historic part of town and all the main public buildings. 

My first port of call was the Cathedral, a huge building crammed tightly into an area of tall buildings, though none as tall as the Cathedral itself. There was an ancient church on this site which had been replaced by a very grand mosque. After the reconquista in 1475, the building was re-adapted for use as a church, then added to in the sixteenth century. One one of its twin towers was ever completed, due to lack of funds, but the base of the second one goes up to roof level.

The Malaguenos nickname the building 'La Manquita' - the one-armed one. The ceiling of the nave is an extraordinary construction - rows of circular fan vaulted domes, a touch of islamic architectural brilliance I guess.

From the Cathedral I made the steep climb to the tenth century Castello Gibralfaro, perched on a wooded promontory 13 metres above the city, offering wonderful views in every direction. With the Cathedral and its extraordinary roof standing out in the heart of the town.

The Phoenicians first made a settlement with a lighthouse here, then the Caliph of Cordova built the castle in the tenth century. A fortified palace, the Alcazaba was built by the Caliph of Granada at the bottom of the hill in the fourteenth century with a perimeter wall enclosed them both.

From the battlements I could hear the sounds of a heavy metal rock band somewhere far below. When I descended, after scores of photos and a refreshing beer, I tracked the noise to a park opposite the fine Ajuntamento building, sitting at the bottom of the hill. The band was playing to a tiny audience on a open air stage opposite one of the University buildings. There seemed to be some sort of festive event to do with a youth campaign of some sorts, hard to figure out exactly, but it might have something to do with the voting age with a strap-line that translates 'We are coming of age'. Walking on down the same long avenue, out of earshot of the band, I spotted two boys and a girl on a park bench, one was playing a guitar, and another beating out rhythms on a cajon and singing, the girl was enjoying being serenaded. It's a city proud of its culture of festivity both secular and sacred.

Quite near the RENFE station was a huge El Corte Ingles department store with another smaller 'Home and Household' store across the road. Outside the main building, an artificial hill to run sledges down is being prepared, alongside an old fashioned carousel ride for the coming festive season. Nearby, is the town centre's covered Atarazanas market. It looks as if it is a re-build, but the style is traditional Moorish

In this area, criss-crossed by several main roads, there are several distinctive churches, each belonging to the barrio it relates to, each needing to be where it is to have easy access to a main road. This is one of them.

What makes them so noticeable is imposing ancillary buildings attached to each one, as tall if not taller than the church. These look like dwellings several storeys high and each has an annexe with a large portal 5-6 metres tall built into it. External inscriptions indicate that each is the home base of a cofrida - the confraternity which takes charge of a particular wagon bearing a  tableau of the passion, or statues of the saints, taken in procession during Holy Week and other times. 

The cofridas are known for their rivalries as much as their zeal and devotion to duty. In all the places where I've seen cofrida buildings, they stand out in their environment as edifices of status in which much money and commitment has been invested. Being here for Holy Week next year is going to be very interesting indeed.

By the time I got on my return train I was quite tired, having walked for four hours. I was grateful to have done so on a cool and cloudy day and not in the forty degree heat of Andalusian summer.

You can see all the photos I took here