Ciudad del Sol

When I arrive in Madrid on April 29th - yes, I'm on the move again - there is nothing ciudad del sol about it. Bleary-eyed after an overnight coach journey from Toulouse, I trudge under a steady drizzle, single-mindedly bent on locating my hotel, have a shower and a nap. All in that order. I have to come to terms with the fact that I can't anymore just not sleep and be functioning the next day. In the metro at the Estacion del sur, it's a job for my blurry head to put together a sentence in Spanish but I manage to ask for 'una tarjeta para diez viajes, por favor', a cheaper option.  'Si!' and tap tap tap goes the helpful staff on those baffling ticket vending machines, so fast that I don't even have the time to locate my purse. Muchas muchas gracias! A far cry from struggling to extract a ticket in Paris from machines that are in my native tongue. No helpful, efficient staff there that I have ever seen.

Blablabus has a brand new and comfy fleet of coaches with competitively cheap prices but I wouldn't recommend any wait at all, long or short, at Toulouse coach station. It is the grottiest of the grottiest in that generally grotty type of establishment. Dingy-smelling draughts, unidentifiable foul splatters, accumulated litter, broken seats... I am now utterly convinced that cities do not care to make travelling on a budget a pleasant episode.

It was Idoia's idea to meet up in Madrid, a novel experience for us. I generally see her in San Sebastian, her home town and I believe she's visited me in almost every place and country I stayed since our first encounter at the same hospital in Switzerland, where I was starting work as a nurse and her as a budding psychiatrist. A lot was shared over the years and she's the best godmother to my daughter. Friends are the family we choose, as important as the one we inherit.

Now there are two things in Spain that do not exist quite so well anywhere else I know. La siesta and la fiesta. It does sound cliché but it's true. And it rhymes beautifully. Anyway, I have never been in this country without witnessing a celebration of some sort, bands, fanfares, drums, dance, fireworks, bam bam bam bam, you name it, it's all out and making a lot of noise. Spaniards might disagree with me but I feel the fun is laced with gravitas. Partying is an intense, absolute, pursuit, an existential necessity, the ultimate remedy against the angst of life. It all requires quite a bit of stamina and that is where la siesta comes in handy.

So, Idoia and I get into a holiday routine, wandering through a different central barrio (district) mornings and evenings with a blissful interruption at the hotel, kicking sandals off weary feet and getting into our nighties - yes, we mean it - and into our little beds.. .and slumber off the hottest part of the day, as la ciudad del sol has soon reverted to its balmy nature. It is a 4 day weekend in Madrid and we need some staying power. Monday 1st of May is labour day and we do contemplate for a while attending the traditional demonstrations but eventually decide on the botanical garden though Idoia has pangs of guilt for not joining the happy crowds walking past us, banners at the ready. And, to prove the point I was making above,  May 2nd is a local holiday, la fiesta de la Comunidad de Madrid that celebrates the uprising of the city against the French troops on that very date of 1808. And off bam bam bam bam we go and it's all very exciting and what a way to end our stay.

I love to be surprised and I am here without any preconceived ideas, another way to say I have done no research at all whatsoever before this trip. Idoia's childhood friends, Ana and Eva, true Madrilenas, have taken upon themselves to make our days in their beautiful city the best ever. I have to be careful not to voice too many wishes as they will go to great lengths to make them happen. Ana acts as our 'guia' (guide) and such a wonderful one that we tease her she spends all night studying, so extensive is her knowledge of her beloved city. Both her and Idoia are quite relieved to hear I just wish to walk the little streets, feel the air, smell the scents, soak in the atmosphere, absorb the energy, a more pleasant pursuit than compulsive, box-ticking tourism. 

We see less of Eva who lives outside the city but she's there on my first (bleary-eyed) evening for an introduction to the Madrid's music scene she knows so well. And so should she as she's a pianist and a composer, the recipient of the Goya prize for the music of the film 'La buena Estrella'. She'd never mention it herself so I have to do it for her. 

So we end up in 'Clamores', a jazz and soul cellar, calle de Albuquerque in the Chamberi district. By then, I feel almost ill with fatigue and unable to string a sentence together in Spanish but never mind ! The Haitian rhythms of Leyla McCalla are so complex and powerful, I have to get up and dance. 

The hotel Regio where we're staying is nothing to write home about but it's clean and situated on a quiet street. Its main attraction is to be minutes away from the Plaza Puerta del sol, the very hub of the city and of the country too, actually, as it is there that the official 12 midnight bongs are struck on December 31st and where the 'kilometro cero'  is located, the point from which kilometer distances are numbered in the Spanish road network. In France, it is in front of the cathedral Notre-Dame in Paris, another symbolic centre. It's a sun beaten, vast expanse, lined with elegant buildings and filled with tourists taking pictures of the sights - and so did I - and of the statue of 'El oso y el madrono', the bear and the strawberry tree, the heraldic symbols of Madrid. 

The strawberry tree is common around the Mediterranean and Madrilenes make a sweet and potent liquor from its fruit. The bar Los Madronos  on the plaza del Angel, 11 serves it in little biscuit and chocolate shot glasses and I can declare here that it is delicious and indeed potent. As for the bears, they haven't been around for a few centuries, poor things.

In a city of more than 3 million inhabitants, it is possible to lose oneself in the little streets of the centre and believe one is in a village. In all barrios we explored, there would be little squares, tables outside, drinks being shared, tapas being eaten, laughter, children playing and that Spanish hoarse, husky buzz of conversation that sounds to me like a mountain stream hurtling pebbles in its rushing waters.  

The Malasana district, north of Gran via, was named after a young seamstress who was killed by the troops of Napoleon (him again). This barrio was the cradle of the cultural movement 'la movida' that exploded after the death of Franco and has quite a bohemian feel and beautifully tiled old shop fronts, some of them now closed. Here, like everywhere else, Covid hasn't been kind to trade. The next morning, I see a long line of people queuing at a soup kitchen.

On our way to the 'barrio de las letras' and its literary quotes inlaid in the road surface, we pass, on the Plaza de Santa Ana, the oldest tablao flamenco - from the word tablado, meaning floorboards. Every country has to have its blues and Spain's is flamenco, a fierce and fiery way to kick pain and trouble away. Anyway, it is early in the morning and there is no sign of life behind the beautifully painted walls. I'm rooted in place, in wonderment and longing and a young lady at the door, raven hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, invites us to visit the empty rooms, the stage... and I can hear the ghost rhythms of thumping feet. 

I had a mental picture of Madrid in my head and I'm surprised at how recent this capital city feels to me but maybe I'm just getting too familiar with my medieval surroundings in France. We walk past where the house of Cervantes used to stand. The house was timbered and it burned, like it happened to other buildings of that time and to most of the Plaza Mayor whose reconstruction was finished in stern, sober grandeur in the middle of the 19th century. Though I know Cervantes, whose Don Quijote I never quite managed to finish, I had never heard of its competitor, Lope de la Vega, a prolific playwright of the 'siglo de oro', the Spanish golden age, a period of flourishing in arts (El Greco, Velasquez) and literature that coincided with the political rise of the Spanish Empire. There you go, that was a very concise Wikipedia moment.

 In that district, I was particularly charmed by the Ateneo cientifico y literario and its library, created in the early 19th century where even the dust motes are infused with decades of knowledge.

La Plaza Mayor... Does Idoia have a twin?

My favourite barrio is Lavapies and next time I visit the capital, it's a district where I would love to stay.  It used to be the Jewish quarter before they were expelled in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella and its name comes from the ritual of washing (lava) your feet (pies) before prayer, tough opinions vary about this. We access Lavapies from the Plaza Mayor, through an ancient massive stone gate and stop for a drink at the oldest bar in the city, the taberna Antonio Sanchez, calle Meson de Paredes. It is all dark wood, leather, black and white photos, a bull's head planted above dark ochre walls, oak barrels and a waiter who does his best to appear surly but it's all an act, Idoia says.  

Lavapies is the most ancient, most diverse and cheapest district in the centre and there we can feel the pulse of everyday life, devoid of any tourist hype. Boys play football on the street, old African men with traditional garb from Senegal and Mali sit on their doorsteps, long tree-lined avenues shelter a succession of restaurants and bars and echo with quiet conversations. As we're trying to find a place to eat outside, we happen on a collective garden on calle Doctor Fourquet, 27, a haven and meeting place for the local community. 

We end up in La canibal, calle Argumosa, 28, specialised in 'vinos naturales y cervezas artisanas' and enjoy the most delicious pulpo a la galega and a dish of artichokes to die for. 

As we're on the topics of restaurants, Idoia and I manage to find on our own lonesome - Ana is having a break in her guia job - the very best restaurant in the centre, La taverna de la Elisa, on calle de Santa Maria, 42, that serves typical Castillan food. We happen on it by chance after meandering through the botanical garden, among the roses in full bloom, along alleys of olive trees and ancient bonsais. 

Because we like to live dangerously, Idoia orders tripes (callos) and I order snails (caracoles) in a spicy tomato sauce. Unlike me, Idoia hasn't been traumatised by tripes in her childhood and I might not have been if I had tasted tripes like this. The service is friendly and hyper, a nervous, speedy ballet, most entertaining to observe. These guys work hard. For sure, if I order a dessert, their blood pressure will rocket. But the appeal of a creamy rice pudding with a crisp caramel topping is irresistible. Congratulations to the chef I declare in Spanish. 'Si si', the waiter replies, 'we know!' and off he runs. This inspiring discovery should earn us a badge of honorary Madrilenas, Ana jokes when we see her next.

Still, it is her who recommends a restaurant close to our hotel, La ciudad de Tui, named after a small Galician harbour. It is cheap and cheerful and a good start to the day with freshly pressed orange juice, fragrant coffee, croissants or tostadas, all served with brisk friendliness. 

So far, we've resisted museums but on the day of la fiesta de la comunidad de Madrid, keen to escape the general excitement, we head to the Sorolla museum. 

Why had I never heard of him? His paintings are filled with movement and light. I can feel the sea breeze on my skin, splash with those little girls in the shallows, smell the fresh fish brought by sailing boats on the shore of the Mediterranean. He moved to Madrid at the end of the 19th century and the museum is situated in the high ceilinged airy rooms of his house. We find respite from the heat of the day sitting by the fountain in his garden. It is an utter delight and my favourite, most enthralling moment in Madrid.

Our trip is coming to an end. We return to the hub, la plaza de la Puerta del sol where local Spanish musics and dances are performed and more, on the big stage, from South America. Crowds throng the place, sing along and dance. At dusk, we oooh and aaaah at fireworks bursting over the buildings and walk along the streets in the balmy night towards the Palacio Real, the official residence of the king of Spain.

There is one last thing! I can't leave Madrid without Churros and hot chocolate and that's what we do while waiting for the car taking us to San Sebastian. In case you were wondering, it's not a private chauffeur but Blablacar. 

The sea awaits!! The heat is so intense for early May that we jump into our bathing suits as soon as we've dropped our luggage at Idoia's flat and off we run to the beach. Bye bye Madrid, its life effervescent and  friendship shared, the most precious gift.

'And now good-morrow to our waking souls'

 

That first line was about the awakening of love. In this instance, sorry John Donne, I'm applying it to new-found openness, which does a power of good to one's soul too.

The world is shyly on the move again, friends unexpectedly popping out of the woodwork - what a gift! - and me nipping hither and thither by car-pooling, train, plane and my antediluvian Renault Clio. 

This blog, which seems to have morphed into a yearly newsletter, is a tribute to reaching out, to togetherness. It celebrates love, friendship, solidarity. After the - hopefully over - Covid years, it has to be relished. 

Phil, my long-distance partner who can only stay so long far from the sea - he lives on his yacht in Brittany - opened the year. A mild and sunny February saw us driving through the Gorges du Tarn, one of the many limestone canyons slashing through the south edges of the Massif Central, the volcanic mountain chain that dominates the centre of France. Villages impossibly clutched the cliffside above the rushing river, full with winter rains under a narrow band of sky high above, a jaw-dropping discovery for both.

We were on our way to stay with Sophie and Jean-Michel near Montpellier. It was already spring there, trees in bloom and hardly a nip in the air. Sophie and I did our nurse training together in the eighties and we suffered then (and have suffered since) of irrepressible mirth every time we're together. Much joy around the table, many bottles of local wines opened, Phil dizzy with all that French spoken to him without filter, a hike to the pont du Gard - the 2000 year old Roman Aqueduct - a drive through the Camargue.

Bless their big hearts. 

In April, I saw my orchard fulfil its destiny in not just providing me with fruit but sheltering friends in camper vans. Ian, whom I had met years ago in Plakias youth hostel, Crete, was on his way back from Spain and Portugal where he had wintered away from Cologne. Because he follows my blog - I am flattered.  Not many do, it's too wordy -  he knew where I was. Life stories shared over aperitifs in the garden, hikes, more limestone cliffs and troglodyte villages. Bless his kindness. The sky was improbably blue over the house.

He was followed by Kate-Marie and Hazel, straight from Australia. We had come across each other in Alice Springs at a Soul motion dance workshop Kate-Marie was running ( See the  blog 'Dances with Flies'). But now, they were roaming around France to find THE place where to settle and were agonising about their choice, pendulum at the ready above maps. They finally elected Burgundy and have, as I write, just signed the contract on their new home in the northern hemisphere. The ladies know how to listen to signs. Bless their sense of adventure.

I still chuckle about how different their vans were. Ian's was functional, just what is needed for a translator working from a moving home. The ladies' had prayer flags and a basket for their little terrier, rescued from the Australian red centre.

Oh, what a joy it is when the wide world converges in my little hub. Shared stories are the stuff of life.

February felt like April, April felt like May, May felt like August and people in the village were looking at the sky with worried frowns, wondering if real rain would ever come. June heat came like a ton of bricks and my sister, Catherine, who always leaves Paris to stay with me on our shared birthday, was hugging the walls for shade like a ghost. She came back for Christmas, enjoying a temperature much more to her taste and took the opportunity to beat me flat in very competitive games of Scrabble. Blessed are devoted sisterhood and love of words.

July came blue and implacable. Alice, Phil's daughter, who lives in Croatia, was keen to walk a stretch of the camino. She tackled the logistics at my home and embarked on a week hike in over 40° heat. Anything else would feel easy after that. Ah but I see! It was just a training for northern bits of the Pacific Crest Trail, with snow still lingering on the summits and some pretty hairy paths, at least for those who, like me, fear heights. She doesn't, bless her intrepid spirit.

Another camino fan, Franzi from Berlin,  turned up in the autumn, a former walking companion. We happened on each other in 2018 while she was on a Berlin-Santiago hike, 5 months on her feet. We fitted again at once into the instant camino connection that ignores small talk. I dropped her in Cahors - a shorter way to go to the end of the earth this time - with promises to meet again in Germany. Bless her good-humoured determination.

As August was looming, I was closing the heavy wooden shutters by 10 am and not opening them until 5pm. By early afternoon, it was 52° on the terrace and the shade gave no respite. The garden was in survival mode, grass like straw crackling underfoot, flowers on strike, birds silent and flies the only stubborn sign of life. Nothing to do but grab a picnic, a cold beer, the lounger, a book and drive down to the river. 

That's when my good friend Idoia came from San Sebastian (Spain) and that's what we just did, as hiking was out of the question. Still, not wishing to become fossilised, we went on an epic canoe trip down the river, on whatever water was left. 

Her big favourite remained the hammock under the ash trees where she felt held like a baby, swaying lazily, a drink by her side. Bless the coziness of old friendship.

You get it. That summer was the summer to end all summers. I flew to England where people were complaining of 30° heat. It was great. 

I was surprised at how absurdly happy I was to be speaking English again and to be again in the midst of that easy-going, slightly chaotic English buzz. Even ordering a soggy cheese sandwich at Stanstead felt wonderful or sorting out with a harassed train employee an alternative to my freshly cancelled cross-country train to Peterborough. It was like wearing again an old favourite coat that had somehow retained the shape of me. It also brought home that I still feel sometimes out of step here in France, a bit...yes, foreign. Still, I found England rather busy. I guess I already got used to empty roads and unspoilt nature. 

I was to spend time with Phil on his boat at Ipswich marina but, before then, I wished to meet my dear long-time-no-see Nottinghamshire friends, the coven, or so we called ourselves, as we always cackled loudly and merrily when we met, fuelled with bubbly and a fond shared history. Sue, Zena, Cherry, Laura, this is to you with love. Cheers! I managed to cram a few more visits with Ann,  who feels like a sister, with Viv - so many good times listening to music and having a go at the wheel in her pottery workshop - and Kindy, the best Shiatsu lady, but alas was not able to see everybody in that neck of the woods that was my life for so long.  

It seems, for those who are in the know, that engineer work - if you want to do it yourself -  is difficult in France. Furthermore, ordering parts from the UK now incurs considerable custom fees (I will not mention the 'B' word). So Phil sailed to Britain, quite an undertaking, put his boat on stilts and got on with rebuilding the engine, using all his contacts for mysterious repairs, or so they appear to me. 

Oh I do love the big skies of that soft, dreamy Suffolk coast. What delight it was, for Phil and I, to tread the familiar paths to hidden coves along tidal rivers, to have lunch in the sun as the water laps close. 

My feet would find their way on their own, as if I had left yesterday. I even managed to meet up with Mark, my talented guitar teacher who would always show me easy ways through my favourite songs, and with Ann, potter extraordinaire, who used to let me share her studio for tinkering with clay.

In spite of the horror stories we hear in France about the situation in the UK and its succession of baffling prime ministers, I was so happy and relieved to see you were all doing well, my friends from across the channel. Bless your warm welcome and the joys of catching up.

The brightest sunbeam in a year filled with them, the one person who resurfaced after being stuck by Covid restrictions for over 2 years in Hongkong, was my daughter, Gwendoline. Hugging each other in tears at Charles de Gaulle airport, we swore that never again would we spend such a long time without seeing each other. She didn't know my house, my world. We had each other for a good two weeks and what didn't we do....Yes, canoeing down the river again, this time, herons, kingfishers, plenty of old stones, castles, swims, walks, good meals, a trip to Albi and its awesome cathedral, the gouffre de Padirac, wine tasting, chats and, through it all, the complicity of renewed togetherness. 

Then she left again and for a good while I couldn't sing anymore. She now lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband Jason (Here they are below on Lord Howe's island) and yes, it isn't next door, is it, but if there ever was a good country for them, this is it and one where I will love to visit. It's on the map for autumn 2023. Fingers crossed. Flight booked. Bless my lovely daughter, my golden girl.

A grand tour is actually being planned. Carmen and Bobby reached out to me from Bali where I met them in 2019. They'll be getting married in August and I'm so very touched to be invited and celebrate with them. So yes! And it is but a small hop on the plane to Australia from there. I eventually will be able to write a travel blog again!!

I won't talk about the hub... my house and the mountain of improvements that happened here, a new septic tank - very glamorous - the barn floor concreted over, the kitchen refurbished (above), the vine trained, subsidies from the government for 'la transition écologique'  partially financing a wood-pellet boiler, insulation, double-glazing.  I guess the latter isn't improving the national debt but bless, bless, bless! I won't talk about the solidarity of neighbours, ready to lend strong arms and know-how. I won't mention the many impromptu meals shared in the garden, the music sessions with Pierre on the harmonica, pottery and guitar lessons in Figeac. Bless the gentle, friendly people of the Lot.

Yes, celebrating openness is not a luxury : there is no downplaying the influence of a pandemic on one's soul. I can't remember who told me they noticed the French don't kiss so much any more when we greet, but it is true  : distance has made an entrance. Life in a bubble still has faithful aficionados. The shock still lives in the collective psyche. And this is here, in a country with an excellent health system where the pandemic came and went, hopefully for good, in relative comfort for most. 

Still, I'd rather continue to kiss.

So, of course, I caught the damn thing in February 2022 and it is only when I was huffing and puffing behind Laura, up some steep  hillock in the Peak District in August that I realised I had lost some of the stamina to climb, something I never really enjoyed anyway but that I could do if it would get me somewhere. 

There she is, Laura, really to tackle anything.

The following December, it was Phil's turn to succumb to the virus as he was at my home to celebrate the festive season. The consequences took us unawares :  a mad dash to the A&E in Cahors with his blood pressure suddenly to the roof, followed by tablets, an appointment with the cardiologist. all rather a shock for him who never saw a doctor before. How will he be able to maintain his way of life on the boat? 

However, he still managed to prune the trees in the orchard, saw, sand and paint and fit nifty lights in dark corners. His eagle eye spotted all the snags. Bless his generous, loving heart.

And then, a good month after Christmas, a postcard festive weather hit us with 20 cm of snow, and temperatures barely over 0°C for over a week. Snowball fights in the blizzard, feeling like kids again, leaving our prints on the pristine, pure, expanse.

It is only March so, it's not too late to send you all my warmest wishes. May this new year be good to you, may your plans come to fruition, may harmony reign in and around you, may your health and vitality remain strong and may we not forget how privileged we are.

'Ring out the old, ring in the new

Ring happy bells across the snow'