Hasta luego, Espana

Sunday 14th of February. Seems so long ago to be writing about it now. Wet and turning light. Cold. Up at 5.30 am. Exciting. Dark. Showered and hair wash. Dress, finish packing. Large freshly squeezed orange and a weak cup of tea. Will be good to drink strong Yorkshire tea again. Left the flat at 6.30. Birds singing. Figures wandering home in fancy dress - revellers from the Cadiz festival.
Now here's something to be aware of: My ticket said the train left at 7.13 am (love how precise these times are) It was actually ready to pull away at 7.08. Moral: always be early.

I was in carriage 3, seat 3C. Massive seats, the biggest I've ever been in. Like mini-sofas. The only other people in the carriage were a father and daughter. He was spanish, worked as a pyschologist in Durham, his daughter (english mother) lives in Canterbury. Sarah was fifteen and had been staying with spanish relatives and attending the english school in Cordoba. He had been in England since he was twenty-nine years old. She hadn't been to Durham. What's the point? He loved Durham. We chatted the whole way, asking what I needed to know about Andalusians for my book, about the area.
We arrived in Malaga at 8.30am. Had a coffee at the bar in the shopping centre as I had when I arrived.
Has the trip been worthwhile? Yes. I've learnt so much. About Spain, the spanish, the Estevez family, about sherry, about Cordoba and Jerez. I like the people and the place very much indeed. I want to come back. I want to learn spanish, travel more. Travel is so breathtakingly good. I feel taller, more in me, more questions to ask, more experiences to embrace. The mind and spirit have grown a little bit more. X

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.

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.

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.

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?

Days

I can't concentrate whatsoever this morning. Can't write about Tessa today. I need to give her all my attention, as you do listening to a friend who needs you to listen, but I can't listen to her today. There are too many other voices in my head, actually they're not in my head, they feel as if they're in every part of my body.
Not today, Tessa.

So, when you can't write and this isn't about can't be bothered, it's really will mess up if write, then what to do? There's always something that can be done. I've found a family member, Jose Estevez living in London, aged fifteen in 1876. I could lose myself delving into that world, but not today either. Today I don't want to lose myself, I want to find myself. And some would say finding yourself is sorting out where you've come from, what your past means, who you are. Not today. Today I want to look forward. I'm going to Spain in just over a week's time. That's reality and I'm going to prepare for it today. The practical stuff. And by tonight, I will know that I am prepared. And tonight, at the Juba rehearsal I'm going to dance so hard I won't be able to think about past or future, only now. And then there is tomorrow.