Europe > Spain > Madrid > Madrid > Articles > A Sip of Southern Spain

The windmills of Don Quixote turn slowly against the backdrop of a blue, cloud-free sky as we drive through a flat, thirsty landscape en route from Madrid to Seville. The only clue that we’re in Spain is the series of giant 8m metal bulls which occur at intervals along the roadside. They were erected nearly twenty years ago as part of an advertising campaign for Osborne brandy; there was a public outcry when Osborne started to dismantle them and they remain like Spanish exclamation marks along all the roads we travelled in Andalucia.

Spain is a fascinating patchwork of ancient and modern culture. The towns we drove through seemed bland and colourless so it was like stepping into a time warp when we reached the medieval fortress town of Toledo with its mix of Christian cathedrals, Moorish mosques and Roman aqueducts. We felt as if we were in the Middle Ages as we walked the narrow winding streets that I now associate with Spain. Narrow, not because of an ancient transport system, but because narrowness in Spain is linked to shade, a prized commodity in a country when the temperatures in summer are oppressive. Some of the streets are hung with swathes of shade cloth, embroidered with ancient emblems. Parking is in as short supply as shade. We managed to steer our car into a hugely inaccessible parking lot – and had to hand over the keys to some attendant employed to shuffle the cars around, parked in rows one behind the other. Fortunately he didn’t drive off into a Spanish sunset with all our possessions in the boot.

The other cities we visited also reflected the ancient cultures which have vied for the riches of Spain. The Mezquita in Cordoba is a Moorish mosque of huge dimensions with a dazzling panorama of architectural styles - Gothic, Roman. Byzantine, Syrian and Persian – all of them have left their imprint. I remember arcs of blue and red; opulence; an ambience of light and shade. The city boasts one of the few synagogues in Spain. The pages of history are waiting to be read in Cordoba – and Granada is equally charming. We marvelled at the palaces and gardens of the giant Alambra, nestled below the peaks of Sierra Nevada. We felt as if we were back in Istanbul as we bargained with the street vendors for their colourful merchandise – leather goods, ceramics, flamenco frills and fans. Fans aren’t just a tourist trap in Spain – even the local women can’t survive the lunchtime heat without one. We drank scented tea behind beaded curtains in an Arabic tea house – and Granada offers free tapas when you buy a drink.

I would never exclude Seville from a Spanish itinerary. Positioned on the only navigable river in Spain, it’s a gracious city, its streets lined with orange trees and a sky-line which features the spires and minarets of ancient buildings – the Cathedral; the Giralda; Torre de Oro; Reales Alcazares – the royal palace. We explored the narrow streets for hours, peering into hidden secret courtyards, lush with greenery and trailing pots, ablaze with flowering plants.

Our visit coincided with the feria – colourful spring festivals which have evolved from agricultural fairs like the one I remember from a childhood in Harare. There are no longer any cattle on display in the Spanish version – the feria grounds are lined with bright casetas – little houses where the locals have an annual party for their friends and clients. It’s alive with colour, noise and music – a fun fair, balloon lined streets, carriages drawn by horses all decked out for spring with flowered bridles. The women look even better than the horses – from grandmas to toddlers in their push-chairs, they all wear traditional flamenco dresses – full-length, tightly fitting dresses, flared at the hem with frills in a rainbow of colours and polka dots, their hair pinned up with combs or flowers – and all age groups are still there at midnight when the guitars start to pick out sensual flamenco rhythms that have the women on the floor in minutes. Dancing seems as genetic to the Spanish as it is to the black people of Africa – everyone can do it. It wasn’t the same for me when I tried on a flamenco dress and made some optimistic gestures with my hands. The family made an instant group decision not to take me out in public.

We quickly developed an addiction to the laid-back, late-night Spanish life-style. Somehow, it seemed perfectly normal for two pensioners to set out for supper after 10.00pm - the streets of Spain seem more crowded after midnight than they do in the mid-day rush at home. We’d stroll down to the inevitable central square, stopping en route at pavement cafes that caught our fancy - vivacious, crowded venues - the new smoking regulations have obviously not yet reached the south of Spain. We’d sip a beer or vino tinto and have a taste of tapas ; tortilla de patatas- a slice of traditional Spanish potato omelette; prawn-topped portions of paella – moist, colourful, delicious; albondigas – meatballs in a tangy salsa sauce; calamares; jamon iberico – huge legs of cured ham suspended from every restaurant wall; robo de toro – oxtail is a family favourite.

I had made a valiant effort to master Spanish before our departure but my lessons proved to be a total waste of money. I could understand some written Spanish which wasn’t very helpful as all the menus are also written in English – but a Spanish conversation proved totally beyond me. I hadn’t a clue what anyone was saying and couldn’t master a single spontaneous sentence. When taken to meet the parents of my son’s senorita, I thought I’d play it safe and confine my opening remark to the weather – but somehow ‘I’m very hot” turned into “I’m very horny’ - unfortunately, you only get one chance to make a good first impression…

I can hardly bear to watch a kill in a natural environment like a game-reserve so I couldn’t face a bull-fight – but the bull-ring in Seville is fascinating, even if you miss the main attraction. Again, shade is the major factor, determining the price of seats. I didn’t expect to see a well equipped hospital ward attached to the complex – or the gold-encrusted chapel. You get some insight into bull-fighting if you read the local papers. Fights aren’t listed under sport – they’re advertised as theatre. It must be like watching a Shakespearean tragedy – you know there won’t be a happy ending. One column compared the ritual to ballet – man confronting beast – he’d been to FA cup finals and rugby internationals but claimed nothing could prepare you for the excitement of the bull-ring. Our visit coincided with the retirement fight of El Ingles – Frank Evans, the most successful British matador to ever ply his skills on the Spanish circuit. I was almost tempted…

Thanks to our bilingual son, we were able to catch a glimpse of Spain that we’d never have seen if we’d been confined to our time share which was on a golf estate on the Costa del Sol. It was a wonderful timeshare, with sparkling pools and palms and luxury Spanish villas – but all the guests were English. The pub at the resort was packed with poms singing American Pie and quaffing pints of Guinness. The golf course was lush and green – but as you can only play in spikes with green fees of 63 euros, we decided to confine our golf course activities to walking.

Instead, we ventured out of the cities and drove up mountain passes to tiny white-washed villages clinging precariously to the hillsides. - Zahara , Grazalema and Rondo each have their individual charm. We navigated a winding, picturesque mountain road to the steep-streeted village of Bubion where we spent two nights in a charming cottage with cool terracotta tiles and a view that took your breath away. We came across a French woman weaving throws and wall hangings on an ancient loom – she told us that the population is surprisingly cosmopolitan for somewhere so remote – you can’t get further from the madding crowd than Bubion. Southern Spain has always been a destination of choice for those eager to exchange the grey damp skies of England for a region which boasts 300 days of sunshine a year – Britons own foreign property valued at 23 billion pounds and the most popular choice of venue is Spain – nearly 70 000 have homes there. The local papers are full of adverts from investment bankers dishing out advice to expats on issues ranging from the implications of the newly implemented EU Tax Directive to techniques enabling them to avoid Spanish Inheritance Tax, Capital Gains Tax and Wealth Tax.

Spain’s a socialist country with customs as varied as its architecture. Some are modern and progressive – when the newly married Spanish prince announced his wife’s pregnancy, the government immediately declared its intention to pass a sex equality law amending the constitution to give princesses equal rights to succession. They employ a private company to run after hours extension programmes in schools and civic centres for the street children of Seville. The Spanish birth rate is negative and young couples are offered tax incentives to have more children – and there are incentives for first time home buyers and also to lure home young Spaniards who’ve emigrated. But jobs are at a premium in southern Spain and most young people still live with their parents and even those who don’t, come home for meals almost on a daily basis. Young people who opt for careers such as teaching or nursing can be given jobs for life by the government – a strange concept in a world where job-hopping is the norm. It was strange to watch my son put the gas tank into the street outside his house– to indicate that you want it refilled, you tie a red ribbon onto the handle; it seemed incongruous in a city abuzz with modern conveniences.

We were in Spain for only three weeks but it was easy to see how it could work its way into your bloodstream. I’m afraid my son and his gorgeous senorita will not be booking flights back home in the near future.

Articles

• More from Barbara Erasmus