The Last Supper

Up to the main shopping area, across the main square with our proud horseman, down towards the Roman Ruins and The Church of St. Peter's for a delicious, delicious, I think my favourite meal of plate after plate of fluffily fried prawns and glasses of light reflecting fino. Perfect mix. Prawns piping hot, fino icily cold. Prawns served with a dish of mayonnaise. I don't like fried food but this was perfectly cooked. The place was down a side street on the left after the main square, called La Garda? Guida? There's a tiny bar at the front, go through a doorway at the back on the right into a tiny two room restaurant, like a greasy spoon. All sorts of people, students, middle age, old age. All mixing and talking. Can't remember how may plates of prawns we ordered, but we had three finos each. Thirty euros. Fab. And brillinat waiters as is the norm here. Black trousers, white shirt, black jumper. Not young.
The tables had a little bell to press on the wall that rang at a box by the bar, so the waiters knew who needed attention. Service was swift and efficient. Piping and wires open to see on the ceiling and walls. Looks like it needs rewiring. Brilliantly run.
And stroll back through the old town in the dark.
Good night Cordoba. Thank you X

Final images of Jerez

Juxtaposition again of the police raiding a church.

Leaving Jerez

One of my 'building' ideas for the children's television series, "Bob the Builder" when I was writing for it, was to have to rebuild a chimney as a bush/large plant was growing out of the mortar between bricks. I was told that doesn't happen. Have a look at Jerez Cathedral.

I love European cities that are not 'hung up' as British cities seem to be that buildings have to be freshly painted, cracks filled, replastered, perfect to be habitable or even usuable. I love the mix, beautifully dressed people, all ages, coming out of decrepit looking buildings, doorways, staircases. Jerez is certainly not what we'd describe as well looked after, but it is so, so charming and people look happy. And the place is beautiful and worn and uncared for and draws you in. I'd go back, purply pink buses, who cares? Bleak as the sky was today, empty as the streets were, it showed it had life and charm that would erupt in the warmer weather.
Final look on the station.

Close ups

Click on the photo of the two Pied Pipers and you'll see the rats.
And I've laughed at how I've written about the people of Jerez being taller and more lean than the Cordobans and the picture of the Jerezian man and the little girl show two people not so tall and lean. Not sure Jerezian is a real word, but then my English tutor at University always commented how I had the habit of coining words. Don't want to let him down now.

Jerez residents.

Jerezians

The people of Jerez were all welcoming and helpful, from the station bar, to the taxi driver, Mr. Garcia at the Bodega and cafe owners. And they all seemed to share a fun, lively, really enjoying life sense of humour.
They seemed leaner and taller than the Cordobans. And there was also a mexican feel element to some and to the city.
Bit bonkers too. In the cafe where, starving after the sherry tasting, we ate. Very expensive, think we were ripped off and it wasn't brilliant, but as I said, starving. The little boy of the owners, probably about three years old, kept wandering in and out, shaking his head madly, until he, still wandering in and out, started staggering.
And people in costumes, maybe a spill over from the festival in Cadiz and this little girl wasn't allowed to go, but still wanted to dress up, or maybe she always dresses up.
There was a wild west feel to the place and maybe the people needed humour to go with it. Or maybe it was the wind off the Atlantic and the smell of alcohol soaked oak and the definite feel of carnival and festival and any excuse to dress up and have fun.
We passed a group of men, musicians dressed, all dressed, as the Pied Piper of Hamlyn with white rats hanging from their outfits and a back street spill out from a bar with balloons and loud revellry. And all in the late afternoon grey of an otherwise deserted city.

Gallery of Contemporary Art

Over a 1000 works of art including 100 Picasso prints of the famous "Suite Vollard." A collection of Grandfather clocks (80), tapestries, walking sticks, antique bureaux, furniture...

Jose Estevez believed in mixing the old and the new. I think I've told you this, but hey, that was so long ago, you won't mind a snippet of repetition. Old and new in the making of the sherry, old and new in the mix of art and old furniture and with the horses, old and new traditions.

Loved a painting, a red circle and two girls looking at each other. They could have been the same person looking at a different aspect of herself. Very striking. And a massive canvas on the large balcony area that was layered and layered and used collage.

And back downstairs, and because we were only four, Mr. Garcia took us into a side room and brought over bottles of sherries to sample. He said we could have try as much and many as we wanted. He brought over a bowl of olives so it didn't go to our heads having empty stomachs. And he told me about the Estevez family. And then the shop. As I was travelling with only hand luggage on the plane, I couldn't buy a bottle bigger than 10ml, so bought a pack of five and decided we'd have our own sherry tasting back home. Had to chuck out some of my toiletries and the packaging to put them in my designated plastic bag for customs, but they fitted. Just. And the bottles were plastic, so no worries there. Cost 15 Euros and 15 Euros for the tour. Definitely worth it. I'd recommend the private tour rather than a main one. Same price, but we had a fantastic time. And Mr. Garcia took his time. So, so glad I went.

And now. To head into Jerez de la Frontera. The town.

Writers' group

Had to leave the Writers' Group early on Tuesday in order to throw up.

Middle of the Night

It's two forty four am. I can't sleep because I keep coughing. That dry tickly, won't go away, going to keep coming back type of coughs and the more you cough the more it tickles. And hurts. Ow, ow, ow. I've had three big cups of honey and lemon. Funny, they seem to help more than the medicine. I like the cup. Big, white, comes with a saucer, but I've left it downstairs in the cupboard. I know I'll be tired and grumpy tomorrow but right now, with everyone else sleeping, it's sort of special being awake. I'm not heading out into the cold, I can stay in my pyjamas, I can go back to bed if I want to, I can go and make another cup of honey and lemon. It's great. Would be great if I could just sleep and not wake anyone else. And stop coughing. It's the Writers' Group tomorrow. I really enjoyed last week, I usually enjoy it. Afterwards, we discussed Tim Burton and Alice in Wonderland and Tim Burton and Batman and Tim Burton and Ed Wood and all the other films.
Someone thinks he's a one trick pony, another that he reinvented Batman, another that his films always look stunning. And then we moved on to Lord of the Rings, and then Stephen King and his characterisation and believability in how his characters react to the situations they are in. I don't know his books well enough for that. I know his short story, The Body makes an excelling film in Stand by Me.
What's going to happen if I go back to bed? You can tell how my mind's working. Not really. Will I be able not to cough? No, coughing now. Ow. Will it subside? When? I should be getting better. Why am I not? I eat lots of fruit.
If I hadn't just been to Spain, I'd say I need a holiday. Maybe that's it, having travelled fairly recently, I'm being told to saddle up the horse again and head for the sunset, somewhere warm, somewhere beautiful, somewhere good for the soul and my health. A warm mediterranean sea would be healing, lots of clean salt to drink to disinfect and heal my throat. Have to say, the sea off Formentera is delicious. Really feels healing. Quite salty, but very good. Not that I'm an expert. I haven't drunk the sea anywhere else but here. And I just happened to open my mouth that one time and in it went and I thought, "Now this is good for me." I want to go back, but first, Mallorca and Menorca. To walk on sun bleached boardwalks, flip the white sand, swim in the aquamarine water. And do it all again and again. And then, in the evening eat steak and salad and a glass or two of red wine. And sleep. And melon. Lots of strong tasting melon. And eggs and coffee in the morning. Ah. I need a holiday.

Tools of the Trade

Inside the Art Gallery and Tasting Area

Feel lousy today. Have one of those really annoying, tickly coughs and a rasping sore throat topped off with a head numbing cold. Ache too. And working at the computer is doing my shoulders in, so going to work in long hand downstairs today. I was sorting Leaving Coty, plot wise yesterday downstairs and remembered how much easier it is to do that with the pages in front of you, not on the screen. So, see how it goes, but that is the plan.
So, no written blog today, just a couple of pictures of the Art Gallery and the main tasting area. We sat in a cosy little room off to the side as there were only four of us, plus Signor Garcia. Everything about the tour was great. Anyway, more on that when my head clears. Sorry to whinge.

Outside

Horses

Cold walk to the stables. Looking out over the valley there is another Estevez owned range of buildings, vineyards, I think Mr. Garcia says. The lowlands, marshlands where they would go and fish stretched to the sea and the salt wind off the Atlantic blew through the warehouses affecting the temperatures. All part of the sherry process and taste. It doesn't rain enough any more. So, rail lines were built going right into the warehouses to take the sherry to the nearest port, Cadiz.

We walk past paddocks with the black Andalusian horses, some lying down. Very odd.

A scrawny dog runs to greet us and immediately squirms on its back wanting its belly tickled. It's a Jack Russell, all white with a black head. Looks very strange. These dogs are part of the set up as seen in the painting earlier.

Mr. Garcia tells me a bit more about the family as we look at the black shiny, bitey horses (watch out if you stroke their nuzzles) and a couple of fouls. Training is tough. Their names are sherries. I think I remember that right. Why didn't I write that down? I'm not a horsey person, perhaps that's why.

We see the carriages and saddles, bridles, plumage, pom pom straps for show. The nasty looking training bits which are still used. Cups and awards. This is not a hobby, it is another side to the business here.

So, what does Mr. Garcia tell me about the Estevezs? He is becoming more forthcoming as we go on. Maybe he was unsure what I wanted to know. Did he think I was an undercover journalist looking for dirt?
He tells that the Grandfather took over in the 1980's. He owned the first petrol station in Jerez and made money from that. But then other petrol stations opened and it just wasn't as lucrative anymore. He began to work for Domeq and after a while wanted his own sherry bodega. He sold the petrol stations and bought this Bodega and vineyard.
He had a very strong vision of what he wanted. He did things correctly. If he needed a piece of furniture for a specific position, he bought it and often adapted it to suit the space.
It's cold. We head for the Tasting area.

Incidentally

Just read this on Bookbrunch:
A quote by the writer, Muriel Spark (The Prime of Miss. Jean Brodie and many more novels) in 1999 to Janice Galloway:

"I used to be sold the idea that what I was writing was some little cult and people wouldn't buy the things. Publishers used to go on that way until I just got rid of them."

Has anything changed?

The Estevez Bodega

Sherry

Through a rear door and into the vast open space, with grass and a fountain, trees and a bronze horse, old equipment and massive warehouses for crushing the grapes, ageing, "Soleras and Criaderas" and bottling. Here is the Bodega de Lola named in honour of the flamenco dancer and singer Lola Flores who was born in Jerez and is where Tio Mateo, the only practically histamine free fino wine is produced and aged.
The bottling plant is one of the most up to date in Jerez. The sherries and brandies are aged in thousands of 100 year old barrels in a cool, dim light with harmonious music playing for them to age calmly and peacefully...
These warehouses are huge and the barrels go on and on. You can't take photographs in here.
The air is cool and the air is pungent with sherry. There is the sound of birds. The light is dim. There is a crucifix with Christ over the door. It smells as though this place, or process has been going on for a long, long time. It makes you think of heat in the late afternoon, of alcohol soaked wood, of musk, sweetness without being sickly, rich, dark liquid catching the light. A table being laid for a meal that will be eaten much later on, whent he temperature dips and the sun is going down. Fruit. Bread. Glassware. The air is thick with the aroma of Jerez's finest.

And then the bottling conveyor belt, viewed from a balcony and more dark, dark warehouses with aged barrels aging the sherry and brandy.
Mr. Garcia knows his stuff and will answer any question. He takes his time, going into every detail, even though I hardly understand a word, it doesn't seem to matter. I'm here. I can smell it, almost taste it (which I will later.) Is this enough?

The Estevez family

My Great Grandfather, Jose Estevez y Diaz, born Jerez de la Frontera, died at Twyford Abbey, West Twyford, England in 1922, aged seventy six. He was A Wine Shipper. His father was Manuel Estevez Y Calderon, who was a farmer. He married Ann Villademorous, nee Loughlin in 1876. He was 23, she was 20, a widow and daughter of William Henry Loughlin, a master mariner. They were living in the district of Liverpool at the time of the marriage, in Upper Hope Place. This is the woman who hated children and loved her spanish in-laws. She is the mother in Meeting Coty and we see her in Leaving Coty happy in Jerez. As you would be!

Grupo Estevez

The Bodegas Real Tesoro y Valdespino isn't the one my branch of the Estevez family were associated with in the 1800's. I'm beginning to wonder if they actually owned a Bodega, they were certainly wine growers and they came to England setting up the sherry importing business in London and then New York. It was called the Estevez Corporation. Apparently, the name Estevez is more common in Northern Spain and less so in the south. The guide, Signor Garcia (he said his name was really common and I have Garcias in our family tree) spoke spanish and english and said he'd give me any information on the Estevez family that he could. He was great. And funny. He introduced me to the other couple on the privately arranged tour as having come to claim my family fortune. Ha ha. Joker. It relaxed me though so I enjoyed the tour very much.
I'd had to book it by email in advance. On Saturdays, you have to book for a private tour, and say if you want just the sherry part or that plus the stables and art gallery. I booked for the lot! It should have taken an hour and a half approximately but we were there nearly four hours. The other couple, a man, italian, with brilliant spanish and a spanish woman asked loads of questions and were really nice. And then Mr. Garcia kept explaining things to me in english. It was very relaxed and cost the same as a normal tour where there would be many more people. Fifteen euros. And we paid at the end.

So, after Mr. Man's joke, we looked at the clocks and antiques and paintings. I snapped a few photos too, which didn't seem to be a problem. This was in the Main Courtyard, an Andalusian courtyard and then in another room with many family photographs.

So, why not the same Bodega, if it existed, as being my family's? Well, Jose Estevez only bought this Bodega in the 1980's. He died five years ago and four of his seven children work in the business. Incidentally, the name 'Ramon' is important in the family and the children all have this name. Sylvia Ramona is a modern artist living in London. I'll find more information on her. All the rest live in Spain.

Jose was interested in the mix of old and new and this is what makes the Bodega unique. He mixes old and new throughout, in art and antiques (grandfather clocks and Picasso prints and other contemporary artists) in the mix of old traditions and new techniques in the making of the sherry and with the horse training.
That's for starters. More to follow.

Bodegas Real Teroso Y Valdespino - owned by the Grupo Estevez

Jerez de la Frontera

Left Cordoba and the returning revellers from Cadiz at 8.53 and arrived in Jerez at 10.44. A little under two hours.
The train station, like all train stations here, was clean and easy. Tiles decorate the station cafe, the staff are friendly and people are having a joke.

It's not raining. Hooray. I hoped it wouldn't rain. The town seems quiet, slightly run down. There are bodegas, near the station. It doesn't have the colonial atmosphere I thought it would have. It isn't the affluent town I expected. Cordoba definitely seems more up market, but then, this is the area nearest the station and as we all know, they are not usually in the best part of town. However, Cordoba's was on the main thoroughfare and was an impressive lead in to the city.
But this is Jerez. I suppose most of the residents have gone to Cadiz for the festival. It is Saturday. There are stalls selling fruit and vegetables and bits and bobs on the side streets near the square. Up out of the station and right, past a large bodega.
Strolled back to the station for a taxi to the Bodegas Real Tesoro y Valdespino on the edge of town. It is owned by the Grupo Estevez. Keep calm. Excited and nervous. The taxi driver loves his city.
It is a bleak day. We pass the Gonzalez Byass Bodega and are dropped off at the main entrance of the one I have come to see. The guard in the kiosk says to go inside. We do. There is no-one there. We are inside. It is not what I expected. There is no sound. We are trusted alone here? With these beautiful antiques. The rug is folded up around the base of the central gleaming wood table. Palms and pictures and clocks and ornaments and chairs and doors. One opens. A man appears holding out his hand in greeting. He has been told an Estevez has come to visit...

Clinging on

Roof tops, The Church of St. Peter and the Artisans' Courtyard.

Not quite over.

I've just read the title I gave to the lost post and feel suddenly saddened by it. It's been an amazing week in many different ways and looking back on it as opposed to when I was experiencing it, if feels suddenly sad that it is over and in the past. It's distanced now, gone and I wonder if I will actually go back. Must be my mood today, feel lousy as can feel the first stages of a cold coming on and my head is fuzzy. Get a bit weepy as well when I'm ill, so this probably isn't the best time to be writing an uplifting travel blog on Cordoba and Jerez. And I should be writing about Jerez today, but I don't want that to be anything but capturing how I felt on that exact day, that Saturday, 13th of February, setting out early, before other Cordobans were up, passing strange figures dressed as cockerals and archbishops and clowns as they returned home from the train station and the first night of the festival in Cadiz. It's all the off-kilter moments that make travel, or I suppose any event special. It's who you talk to, an exchange, the sight of a figure silhouetted against the sky, of a cloud, of sun on water, of someone you don't know smiling and saying hello. Early dawn and fancy dress figures. A cold station platform and the smell of fresh coffee. Dusk and clearing away pavement tables. A man smoking a big fat cigar and looking content with the world. Of two women who speak different languages and understanding each other. These things make life and travel exciting. I'm going to stop. Today is not the day to say goodbye to Cordoba.

Cordoba coming to an end

Friday afternoon in a cold Cordoba

Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon) born in Cordoba in 1135 and died in Egypt in 1204. He was a great Jewish scholar, philosopher and physician. At the age of twenty three he fled with his family to Fez to escape religious persecution by the fanatical Almohads in al-Andalus.
I kept seeing his tempting figure trying to find the synagogue in Calle Judios. Eventually found it today, opposite the back entrance to the Courtyard of the Artisans, hidden behind a statue, through a small courtyard. It is tiny and empty. Except for a large group of Japanese tourists today. It is the only synagogue left in Cordoba. Tall and square and empty but for the inscriptions and motifs on the walls.
Apart from finding this building, I have half hunted all week for gifts to take home for my daughters. I've looked at so much jewellry, been tempted by beautiful hair combs, but very expensive. And would they wear them? The people in the shops have been very helpful and kind. The only person who I felt was slightly too helpful shall we say, was in the Courtyard of the Artisans just by the synagogue. There is a great deal of filigree around, very pretty, but we have some and it can go green if not worn regularly. Today, the right gift appeared. It was in a leather goods shop and I would definitely recommend leather as a gift. Two little bags, one dark, one light, long handles, pockets. Perfect. And the shop owner, after wrapping them, stuck little labels on them so that I called write their names and so know which was which. There was a massive old cash register on the desk. Very pleasant shopping.
Fourteen euros each.
Lunch in the little cafe in the square by the archeological museum. The tables and chairs were all piled up as it was cold. Inside, empty, but for the barman and one customer watching a bonkers show on the wall mounted television. Obviously hilarious, but lost on me. Had a slice of thick omelette and a fino. So delicious.
And the cold potato omelette, bit heavy. Like cake.

A breezy, chilly day growing colder. I would recommend gloves and a scarf. I had a scarf, but didn't think I'd need gloves. Of course, it's unusually cold this year in Cordoba, but I could have done with a pair.
I feel I belong here, winding streets, children being picked up from school, often by their fathers, grandparents, mothers, different times of day for things to happen than in England, an easy mix of young and old, new and ancient, smooth and crumbling. Crumbling doesn't mean, 'knock it down' here, it means, live in it, it's a home and the streets aren't precious, drive down them, pedestrains, get out of the way. No street too narrow, not a four wheel drive in sight. Now, in a city, doesn't that make your heart sing? Cordoba seems to have got it right. Oh, did I mention it has a communist council? I'm sure I have.

Sights

An entrance to the old town.

Friday in Cordoba

It's cold, cold, cold today. Later in the afternoon there is a brief snow flurry. This is highly unusual here. Crazy weather.
It's a day of getting jobs done. Jerez de la Frontera tomorrow (I'm getting nervous) so booked the ticket. Trenhotel on the way there, departing 7.28 (love the way these times are worked out) arriving 9.50am. Twenty-four Euros ninety-five. And on the way back, Ave Shuttle, leaving Jerez at 8.53 pm (?) and arriving back in Cordoba at 10.40. Cost Twenty four euros eighty.
This was done in a local travel agent, so booked my return train ticket to Malaga as well for Sunday. I'd looked up the time and price, Trenhotel, leaving 7.18 arriving in Malaga 8.30 am. Twenty euros eighty-five. Now watch this as the bloke booked the ticket, I didn't check it and it turned out he booked me with the massive comfy seats, which was great, but it cost thirty-three euros eighty. Just so you know and don't assume they'll ask you about the seat you want. Anyway, all done and isn't getting your tickets sorted a relief?

Had a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) and this sickly, heavy long sausage thing that's like a doughnut called a choro. The plate arrived with three actually, but I could only eat part of one of them. The coffees were good though. Had two. And the coffee place, it was up in the main shopping pedestrianised area. Called El Guido. Art deco, bar station in the middle, waiters alerted to your every whim. Mid-morning and men talking, standing, sitting, drinking anis and coffee, smoking, dealing, talking. A group talking business, some land deal being made. And amazingly, as a contact lens wearing gal, the cigarette smoke didn't bother my eyes. It didn't get under the lenses and cause havoc. Didn't bother me at all. Nor did the smell. It didn't smell of ash and greyness, but was subtle and aromatic under the coffee beans. Spaniards are ignoring the ban of smoking inside in public places and don't you love them for it? I'm not a smoker and I loved this place. Could have sat there all day, watching people, mainly men, come and go. It seemed to be the business and the friends' meeting place. I seem to be saying this a lot, don't I? "I could have stayed there all day." Maybe I should move here.
The picture at the top is in the Mezzquita. Just liked it.

Cordobans

Old road sweeper smoking a large fat cigar smilingly saying, "Hola."
Well dressed woman in her fifties, raising her sun glasses, stopping and saying, "Hola, que passer?" I said 'Hola' and we both moved on. Maybe she mistook me for someone else.
Finally, a young spanish couple asking me, in spanish, "What's down there?" and pointing down the street. I shrugged, "I'm sorry, I can't help, I'm english." Funny what we say when we have only a few words we know in another language.

The Alcazar Take Two

Lemons looking like grapefruits and oranges hang from the trees in the green of the courtyard and the aroma of citrus fills the air. Water and dappled sunshine. Peace. A hidden pool in a small stone cave, steps, ochre sandy paths, dense conifers, flat-topped, long fountains, pots of lilies, four italians cooing, "Bella, bella," and taking another photograph.
I left behind the slightly eery Royal baths, room after stone room, empty, unsettling to be alone in, underground, feeling that if the rooms continued to lead off one another, you could be lost, wandering around, forgotten, no-one knowing you were there and the lights going out. I didn't linger here. I've put them out of order. I saw them before strolling outside to the citrus filled Moorish Patio and sunshine. I lingered through the trees, stepping over fallen oranges, breathing in the scent of the air. And catching sight of flickering light on water.
And the tall cyprus trees, dark shapes against the blue sky and water, sun-kissed water. I don't want to leave here. It is so peaceful and summery warm sitting by the water soothing jets splashing down.
Light. Light bright and white and blue and green, changing as the sun hits the water and all the time, the deep green towers of solid foliage.
This place is good for the soul.