Three days in the heart of Portugal

Three days in the heart of Portugal 28-30 October

Fling a shawl around your shoulders and you can face the world! At our exhilarating fado evening , the two women singers used their shawls to dramatic effect- such bravado and confidence. we took the plaintive melodies with us as we drove north, via the wild and windy Atlantic coast, to inland Tomar.

This is the home of the Knights Templar, that short lived but very efficient army of soldiers who fought in the crusades, then became Portugal's first bankers. Their years of success lasted about 3 centuries then in about 1570 the last of the leaders of the Knights templar was burnt at the stake. Their memorial is the 'new'design of the Christian cross, with curvy ends, and a plethora of magnificent buildings. we visited the UNESCO World heritage Site of the Convento de Cristo, rich with ornamentation and evidence of the lavish lifestyle.

Very close by is the town of Fatima, place of a visitation by the virgin Mary to three young children in 1917 Whether or not the story is externally verifiable, the town is a thriving centre of devotion. Millions come each year, especially on 13 of June and October, and there are hundreds of hotels and cafes, streets of shops selling statues, rosaries, vestments and items of devotion. I was very impressd with the atmosphere of silence and respect. even though it is not my style of religion at all. A vast white square bigger thaan St Peters Rome, stands in front of a basilica. We arrived as mass was being said in German at a modern outdoor chapel. It was great to be able to join in the ancient ritual, knowing the liturgy even it is in a foreign language.

Another religious experience was in the tiny town of Batalha (battle) which is clustered around the most beautiful example of perpendicular Gothic I have seen ( and I have now seen nearly enough to last the rest of my life) A simple, unadroened creamy interior, with narrow windows decorated with fruits and leaves, not the gaudy relgious scenes usually found. In a side chape were the stone statues of King Jao and Queen Phillipa (who had come to Portugal from England), lying side by side, hands joined together. a simple story of love across eight centuries.

Underground we toured the largest caving system in Portugal, brilliantly lit like an early technicolour movie, all dripping water, lurid pools and the threat of large white spiders. Our guide consoled uss with the local honey liquor at the end!.

Today we began the dy at our now favourite cafe in Tomar, cafe Paraiso (Paradise) and ended t inanother paradise. We discovered the flooded valley of the Zazere, deep coves of blue water, tiny white and schist villages clutching vertical hillsides, and holiday beaches now deserted for the winter. Our guide book advised a restaurant in Fernandes so we wound down the hill, squeezing past lines of cottages and rumbling down the cobblestones. The restaurant was so close to the precipice I had to get out, and later needed to guide the car back up the hill.

We looked out over the water, sampling three different kinds of local fish, grilled with herbs , and served with the local green bok choy- like vegetable, tossed in olive oil, all washed down with a little too much delicious white sangria. The restaurant was also called Cafe Paraiso (Paradise) and it felt like that too.

the view was pretty clost to paradise too.

This area is full of tiny villages, enchanting cafes, old historic town centres, castles on hill tops, rivers, vast mountain scenery, but also schools, children, people going about their lives. very real, very fascinating. Three days has not been enough.

16 October Monkeys, Big Guns and the British- a day in Gibraltar

Monkeys , big guns and the British - a day trip to Gibraltar.
We saw The Rock from the motorway, sticking up like a giant shark fin, as we drove valiantly towards it. Peter at the guest house advised us to park the car in Spain and walk over the border, but the promise of half price tax free petrol was irresistible. We joined a 20 minute queue, flashed our passports and crossed over from Spain into British territory . We emerged from the underground car park into British Home Stores, with all price tags in pounds. English pubs were advertising steak and kidney pies, fish and chips and nice cups of tea, and English bobbies strolled the crowded high street wearing their traditional high black helmets.
Gibraltar is a little England, complete with English holiday makers and a few gowned and veiled African women, and men in smart suits rushing from bank to business. Such a contrast to the more exotic and less ordered Spanish markets. Our tour guide was a native born Gibraltarian, speaking both English and Spanish, looking like a Spaniard but being British.
It is a real mix of people-A Church of England clergy man hailed as we dithered outside the museum, a South African builder gave up his table for us at the Irish pub, then brought his Kiwi mate over to meet us. The mate comes from Taranaki, works as a carpenter in Gibraltar earning up to 2000pounds a week, but he lives in Spain with his wife and child. We read that the average wage is 300 pounds a week-a very profitable arrangement for him.
What to do in Gibraltar apart from buy a pair of lighter jeans and some sandals as it is so much hotter than I expected? The museum told the story of Gibraltar in an informative video, chronicling the separation of the continents, the discovery of’ ‘Gibraltar woman’ just before the more famous discovery of Neanderthal man, the arrival of Vandals, Visigoths, the Moors, the Christians and finally, with the Battle of Trafalgar, the indomitable British.
Another stranger arrival was the Barbary ape, 300 of which now occupy the higher parts of the Rock, the massive steep outcrop which marks the end of Europe, and was one of the mythological Pillars of Hercules. These cute little monkeys live in three distinct family packs and lurk hopefully at the tourist stop off points, always ready for a handout and a photo opportunity. Our guide had a big stick ready to beat off overfriendly adults, as he encouraged us to feed a baby.
Local legend says when the monkeys go, the English will leave the Rock.’ no sign of that happening, as recent elections recorded a vote of 12138 to 44 in favour of British rule.
The cave where ‘Gibraltar woman’ was found , is actually a spiralling labyrinth of chambers, with graceful stalagtites reaching down to tall stalagmites, as beautifully etched as the alabaster columns I had seen at Cordoba. Each chamber was subtly lit with red or blue, the effect was of ethereal lightness, even though we were walking in the centre of ancient and very solid rock. One massive chamber is used as a concert venue, with steps and platforms and technical areas.
Further up the rock were more chambers, for soldiers looking out over the Mediterranean, with 6 cannons at the ready. These lookouts date from the Siege of Gibraltar, in 1779-83.A heavy military history, right up to the present.
Good to visit, good to leave, in a long hot queue back through border control, back to Spain, even if it is to a British owned holiday flat in an ’urbanizacion’ on the Costa del Sol, Spain’s Sunshine Coast.
Note 1 Do leave your car in Spain, walk over the border and take the local bus
2. Do take a minibus tour rather than the cable car, as the walk down is hot and strenuous.
3.Do expect to pay twice as much for food which is definitely only half as good as that in Spain

7 October Quiet spaces in Hong Kong

Quiet Spaces in Hong Kong
Amongst the astonishing torrents of people and traffic, the migraine level of neon lights and the war-zone barrage of noise, it is possible to find spaces of peace and stillness, and all for free.
Our first morning saw us wandering down the streets near the hotel, watching Kowloon wake up. An unassuming wire fence opened up a tiny park, brick paved, with greenery and trees. Even so early there were people doing tai chi, exercises, meditation, and just sitting. We found other quiet spots, by accident, as we did my very favourite thing in a new city- just moseying along seeing what there is to see. Steps from the footpath led us up to a temple, complete with mandatory old woman selling incense, and old men sitting outside in the open space. There was a marble chess board waiting for players, and beautifully raked open areas. Outside the fence there was a constant flow of people, old young, male, female, school children. Hardly any other fair skinned people like us- even most of the tourists we encountered were from Malaysia, Singapore, India and China.
A short walk from the hotel down the Kowloon peninsula towards the ferries is the Kowloon park, a foliage dense botanical delight, with paved walkways, lakes with flamingos, tortoises, swans and joyful singing birds, as well as swimming pools, sports grounds and sculpture courts. An unexpected visit to the museum showed us the French contribution to Hong Kong life- orphanages, social services and most surprising a flowering of Art Deco architecture.
Our final act before flying out was a walk back down towards the now familiar Ladies Market, in search of batteries and a mouse for my computer. We passed the park again, and simply went and sat, like all the others there, beyond the relentless flow of pedestrians and the deafening, grinding traffic.
I loved the oases we found, for the physical relief, and for the mental detachment, even if it was only for a short time. Ironic to be in Hong Kong, looking for peace, but it is there.

17 october BAndits, white villages, and the beginnings of bull fightng

Bandits, white villages, and the beginnings of bull fighting.- a day in Ronda, Andalucia

In the Spanish Civil War, a group of fascists was clubbed and flailed as they were forced to run the gauntlet between two rows of townspeople in the plaza on top of a cliff above the river. At the end of the line, the victims, dead or alive, were thrown over the cliff.
Today, 70 years later, we stood in that plaza, and walked alongside that cliff, looking hundreds of metres down to the bottom of the gorge, below the ’New Bridge’ (finished in 1793)
It is a beautiful sight, tall arches, across the narrow wooded El Tajo gorge, joining the two parts of the town of Ronda. There are cottages half way down and winding pathways, leading out to the fertile fields of the high mountain alley. But I find it impossible to see only the charm and not read the sad and brutal history underneath.
In the car coming down the mountain, we listened to the CD which Rosemary bought at the Bandit museum. The Habanera from ‘Carmen’ filled the little Peugeot. The gullies and ravines and barren peaks around us were the setting for the original story- we could just imagine a bandit behind every rock. Disaffected and outlawed men across the ages have found refuge in this massive range of mountains, the Serrania de Ronda, and made their living robbing travellers, and smuggling contraband. Even today the area is known for its lawlessness, and illegal drug and contraband smuggling from Africa to Europe.
This part of Andalucía s famous for the white towns clinging to the hilltops and tucked into valleys. All very picturesque, but mimicked in less attractive way by the strip developments of holiday homes and multi storey apartment complexes all along the coast, and encroaching up the hillsides accompanied by golf courses. The official name is ‘urbanizaciones- huge complexes of mostly holiday homes, with bars on every window, locks on every door and gateway. There are no little shops or bars, no attempt to create a community, so no heart. Now that the recession is affecting the building trade, many sit unfinished, gaping holes and ugly piles of rock devaluing the otherwise dramtic and magnificent Mediterranean landscape..
What about the bull fighting? It al began in Ronda with a grandfather, father and son each adding to the deadly dance between man and bull, and even starting a College of Bullfighting. We stood beside the oldest bull ring in Spain, but not even a history of 220 years was enough to entice me in.
Beautiful gardens, hypnotic views, fabulous buildings, charming courtyards and doorways and window boxes, dramatic winding roads, and a heavy hearted history- a mix of a day.

22 October Over the border without a bump Seville to evora

Across the border to Portugal without a bump or a passport check, but taking the slow road.
From Spain to Portugal is a seamless seque- no toll gate, no armed soldiers, nothing. All I noticed was a clock on the motorway which seemed to be an hour behind. Our hotel in Evora confirmed my suspicion- Portugal is an hour behind Spain. This must be very difficult for the people who live in Portugal because it is cheaper, and work in Spain. And how do the residents of Rio de Onor cope, as the border passes right through the centre of town?
We were glad of the extra hour as the trip had taken us through tiny white villages and towns, and along smooth country roads, instead of the fast motorways? Why? Because we were using a GPS for the first time, and had not altered the program from ‘scenic pedestrian’ to fast motorway over 120kph’. We stopped for lunch in a village off the beaten track, and re-read the instructions. From then on our GPS now named Maria led us patiently back to the motorway and speedily up to the ancient Roman walls of Evora, in Portugal.
Evora is a world heritage site- apart from its beauty as a hill town, it has intact examples of every kind of architecture, from Roman walls and temples, to Moslem houses and mosques, built over and around by Christians using Norman, Gothic, Renaissance, baroque, and Manueline styles. A perfect city wall surrounds the town of 14000 inhabitants. Huge gateways hide gardens, courtyards and the swimming pool of the rich, much needed in summers of 40 degrees plus.
Right now in late October it is 23 degrees, the sun making the whitewashed and marble and stone buildings gleam with a golden autumn light. The University students walk around in long black gowns, a remnant from the Jesuit days, little children clatter up the cobbled streets to school, and the elderly congregate in the village square, the Placa de Gironimo, to read the publicly displayed death lists and eat chestnuts freshly grilled by local growers.
We took a historical tour this morning, through the longest cathedral in Portugal, complete with 15th century organ built from Brazilian wood, soon after Christopher Columbus visited Brazil, and brought back news of its gold and treasures. Our beautiful local guide showed us such a complexity of history and domination of Romans by Moslems, Moslems and Jews by Christians, that I became quite dizzy.
I retreated to our 16th century hotel, where the semi tiled walls are half a metre thick, and the ceilings are of arched brick, and lay down for a bit.
After nearly 3 weeks on the road, I intend to adopt the local custom of a siesta in the afternoons, and not try to see absolutely everything, even though it is all so fascinating. We went out to dinner last night, intending to listen to fado singing, but the heat and the travel caught up with us, and we staggered home up the cobble streets at 9.30pm, as the locals were just going out to dinner!.

A hefty fine , corks, and hefty monoliths - Evora to Lisbon
25 October
Our GPS Maria guided us on to a road which we thought avoided the tolls, and would give us a scenic route. Great drive west through fields and fields of olives and cork trees, with distant views of white hilltop towns and castle walls on the horizons.
As we neared Lisbon, the toll booth approached- the unsmiling officer asked for our ticket. We pleaded ignorance and foreignness- no messing with him, $70 cash please. Later I read in the guide book, that it is “strictly forbidden” to drive a toll road without a ticket. We will not do it again. Paying a $3-5 toll is a much better idea. It was bread and jam for lunch today, not our usual menu del dia, about $16-20 each.
Hefty monoliths were on our itinerary as we negotiated the narrow twisting streets of the Jewish quarter of beautiful, enchanting Evora. The colours of yellow, blue and white sat so well with the old stone buildings, and echoed the azure sky, (‘blue’is azul in Portuguese)and golden leaves of the autumnal plane trees.
Along the country road towards Guadalupe we saw our first cork trees- gnarled and twisty like olives, but with a big difference. The bark is stripped off every ten years, to make products of cork. Each tree has a bare reddish trunk, and a bold white number to tell its date of harvest. In the shops we had seen not only mats, decorated corks, and toys, but also exquisite handbags, and hats of fine soft cork sheets, spoons and cooler bags- insulated lunch boxes. Corks are a major industry. It is now easy to understand the resistance to screw caps for wine bottles.
The Portugese version of Stonehenge is easily accessed up a smooth dirt track through a private estate of cork trees with goats resting in their shade, their bells chiming peacefully. About 100 human height stones in a rough circle on a hillside, calm, mysterious, keeping their astral and religious secrets. A little group of itinerant artists and jewellers had set up camp for the tourist trade and Rosemary bought a silvery rhodium bracelet from Italian Carlotta, and I bought a red stone and silver necklace. My first souvenir.
On the way down the track we deviated up to a huge stone phallus, which apparently is in line with the other standing stones at certain times of the year. Always the questions are how did these people manage to convey massively heavy rocks across such distances, and why was it so important to do so? The answers are only speculation.
Anyway we conveyed ourselves very comfortably, if expensively, in our Peugeot to the main square of Lisbon, Placa Dom Pedro iv, to meet up with Luciano, who guided us through yet more winding lanes, to our apartment in the Russio district.
Key words monoliths, toll roads, cork

Trying to be a good blogger

Trying to be a good blogger means taking the time to sit and write. I have learned that today when the excitement of all the new places, the effect of the heat, and the continual moving on, caught up with me. I took to me bed (in a 16th century palace) while Danielle and Rosemary drank coffee and explored Evora, our first town in Portugal. My resolution is to now catch up and send off a few blogs, and even attach some photos, if we can find a cyber cafe which allows me to plug in my flash drive.


In the meantime the sun is shining across Placa de Giralda, the tables are full of people having a cool drink, I shall go and join my mates, and relish just being here.

A stamp of the foot- a day in Seville

A stamp of the foot, a toss of the head- Seville
From the steep hills of the sierra, we drove across the flat red plains to Seville. I had been looking forward to the wide avenues lined with orange trees, and was not disappointed. Even though it was raining. Danielle and I took the bus to the centro urbano. A French couple from the hotel were also headed for the Cathedral and they escorted us through the narrow streets of the Juderia, the old Jewish quarter- narrow, winding lanes, with tall apartment blocks dating from 14th century. So full of character and history as in all the Spanish cities, the Jews were evicted just before Christopher Columbus set off for America in 1492.
We kept glimpsing the cathedral between the buildings, but did not grasp ts immensity till we stood in the massive interior. The biggest gothic church in Europe, embellished with dozens of ornate renaissance and baroque side chapels. Such an overload of detail in the carving, oil paintings and gold . How the simplicity of the Christian faith could have developed into this display of wealth and power! All on the site of a Moslem mosque, to emphasise the triumph of the new catholic regime.
The original Moslem tower is still intact so we walked up 37 floors, to look over the calm ochre and reds of Seville, the horizon punctuated with spires and towers.
Stamping feet, snapping fingers and tossing heads, with passionate guitar playing, and a deep gutteral wailing= our evening of Flamenco was so much more than I expected. We were shown different types of flamenco, which had its roots in the dances and songs of the dispossessed, and is performed with an intense anguish . Three young women each danced, wearing brilliantly coloured dresses with long frilled trains. These they kicked back, as they stamped and licked their feet in complex rhythms, which were answered by guitars and loud contrapuntal handclapping. Two men also danced, wearing dinner jackets, which they swung and held, like bull fighters. Again the clicking and stamping and tapping, not unlike river dance, the fiery head tossing, leaping and swirling.
We had seats a metre from the stage, and we watched and clapped and gasped, while sipping Sangria and nibbling tapas- paella, meat balls, cheese, hams, potato salad, bread, finishing with fruity ice-cream.
The flamenco evenings at Al Arenal are held nightly, designed for tourists and great value and atmosphere. Afterwards we wandered the cobblestone streets, misty with rain. At 10pm people were walking, drinking and eating in cafes, riding bikes, wheeling babies, laughing and talking. We took photos of the floodlight ancient buildings and felt very sad to be leaving Andalucía.