Vespa & Sidecar

 It's been years since I've ridden a Lambretta, let alone seen one here in Seville. Vespas, however abound - but there aren't many like this blue one about. Just the suitcase on the luggage rack is worth a picture.

 From the age of the owner, it looks like he's had the combo from new. If you can zoom in on the number plate of the granddaddy, you'll see that it begins SE (province of Seville) followed by 6 digits. Looking at the "great grandson" Vespa next to it, we can see that it has four digits and 3 letters - in 2000 Spain started to register vehicles with 4 numbers and 3 letters, starting with 1111 AAA and progressing numerically and alphabetically. This was because by then the big provinces were running out of combinations and also because identifying the province of origin encouraged thefts from cars from other provinces or just bloody-minded vandalism. When I bought my last car from Barcelona with a "B" registration, I immediately re-registered it to avoid such annoyances.

In this second photo, it looks like its rider doesn't seem to be very happy! I can't imagine why not, riding such an impressive, pretty machine - a machine which was drawing admiring glances from all who saw it (look at the rider of the modern Vespa). Perhaps he'd rather have a Lambretta!

When Art Comes to Town

What is the difference between art and draughtsmanship? Easy. The feeling that you get when confronted by an image. Draughtsmanship impresses by its efficacy. Art calls to us by its essence.

How many times have we been to an exhibition of amateur - or professional - artists and have been left cold? I do not want to get enmired in the merits or otherwise of abstract or piles-of-bricks "art" where what the aritst's intention is more important than the actual sheep in formaldehyde / unmade bed that we see before us.

Art, of whatever type, exudes humanity, wit, emotion. It calls to our inner being.

Imagine, then, my immense delight when one of my favourite artists (see Starcat 1) gave me four works - four self-portraits - for Christmas. I have decided to share them with you, even though my photography is not exactly the best.

I hope you enjoy them and that they serve as a gateway to the happiness of your own New Year.

Abroad

The journey starts

Almost there

Home again

    

Little Boy Quique - a repeat

Please watch and enjoy. Is there any better way to pass a few idle moments? I think not.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WKNYXZvTBo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tl6sp6Bz44s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q_XboC66g0

Tony's Inn

Or La Posada de Antonio.

Early morning in La Posada
 de Antonio.

Occasionally we are fortunate enough to find a true jewel among the daily dross we all have to wade through. And La Posada de Antonio is a true gem. This recently-opened bar near where I live is a return to proper Spanish hostelry. It purveys reasonably-priced high-quality food that hearkens back to how all bars where until about 10 years ago. Also, like the traditional barrio, or neighbourhood bar, it is a long, narrow affair where clients soon become rather familiar with each other at peak times.

In recent years the food in many Spanish bars has become bland and predictable - the freezer, microwave and cheese-paring (literal and figurative) have begun to rule supreme. Furthermore, there has been a certain loss of pride in the product among the owners and  employees. Quite a few bars have MacDonaldised - they have become mere sellers of food and drink; they have turned into what I could only term as single-outlet franchises where those behind the counter sell in a rather soulless manner and those in front consume undemandingly in time to the rhythmic ping of the microwave and the backbeat beep of the touch-screen cash register.

Looking towards the kitchen ('scuse
fingers -mine, bottom left!)

La Posada de Antonio bucks this trend; its chips are home-made and the food fresh and freshly prepared by a cook who takes pride in his work. The only ping is the cook's bell informing the waiter that there's a fresh tapa ready for serving. This means that not only is the hot food fresh, but it also arrives hot at the table or counter - something not to be relied on in all bars, especially if the waiter is busy chatting to his mate about football.

On Sundays the special of the day alternates between paella and a bean stew that surpasses description. On weekdays the long list of tapas offers a bewildering choice. I will try to give you an idea of my favourite - the superserranito. This is a large roll with a grilled pork fillet on a fresh, fluffy omelette and topped with a generous slice of cured ham, tomato slices and a fried green pepper - all of this served with the aforementioned chips and with a portion of ali-oli sauce. The price?  €3.00!

Today I enjoyed toast with olive oil and cured ham - real cured ham, not the vacuum packed plastic stuff peddled by so many bars in Seville today - and two cafés cortados. A café cortado is a small strong coffee with a mere splash of hot milk. When I ask for it in GB, I ask for an espresso and then I dobble the merest hint of milk into it. Such coffee, if well-made, has body and strength but is not nasty and bitter. Needless to say the coffee was perfect. I left the bar with my inner man sighing contentedly.

"The smokers' tent"

All of this can be enjoyed in the bar itself or outside in what I term the smokers' tent. Make a rule and someone will bend it. Publicans Europe-wide have cottoned onto these shelters where smokers can smoke "outside" while still being sheltered from the elements. In this picture you might just be able to make out a gas heater lurking in the depths of the tent. It is also a blessing for their fellow non-smoking mates as the smoke does not hang heavy in the air.

The first week that it opened there was nobody in there. Now there's nobody in the other nearby bars.

¡¡¡Olé La Posada de Antonio!!!

Carpet Slippers

My present (foam rubber soled) slippers with designer
fraying & natty PJs.

Whilst talking bollocks with M on the boat, we had a serious in-depth conversation on the merits of different carpet slippers (preferably tartan with foam soles - better grip & insulation)  & dressing gowns (stripey & with a cowl). Is middle age creeping up on me? Is Ole Rockin' Chair gonna get me sometime soon? Will I start farting involuntarily every time I cough??? PANIC!!!

Turn off Your Mind, Relax and Float Downstream II

Handbag, iceberg detector or little doggie?
A valued crewmember whatever her function.

For Wikpedia's history of the canal and a map of the route we took, click here

The first day saw us chug out of Nantwich Basin Chester-bound on a crisp morning, with Islay, the ship's dog, keeping a lookout for icebergs. She was taking no chances, hence the life-jacket! On some parts, of the canal that morning we actually did do some ice-breaking. A fascinating experience, watching 1/4-in ice break under the bow. Down below it really did sound impressive as the sheets ground past the sides and under the bottom. Up top, the sight was magnificent as we watched quite large sheets of the stuff being pushed aside and being broken with a pinging noise, not unlike that of thick fencing wire being cut. 

Horse and water power  initially drove the
Industrial Revolution

Not long after, we saw another animal - this powerful wooden statue of a horse by John Merrill. An impressive piece of sculpture, it is a tribute to the stalwart horses that towed the original narrow boats on their journeys across the English countryside,  supplying raw materials for England's nascent Industrial Revolution. In fact, the horse is also a tribute to the quality of the canal building itself as it is built of wood salvaged from old lock gates.

The work demands your full attention and is even more dramatic as it surprises you, encountering it shortly after passing under a bridge if you are travelling from Nantwich. Although narrow boating is not exactly high-speed bow-wave-riding stuff (in fact such things are illegal: were such speeds possible, the resulting wake would erode the banks.), it is hard work and demands constant concentration by the tillerman. 

The bridge had been there for 2 centuries. Luckily, it was
still there after my passing!

 My only contact with water and boats up to this point had been that of enjoying the bracing experience of an infinite number of rides on the Mersey Ferry Boats, but never had I been asked to steer one. I was therefore surprised to find out how lumpy water really is. This is the turbulence set up by the propeller and you know when you've hit the sweet spot, in steering terms, when the water ceases to be lumpy. This only lasts for seconds, however, before another correction is called for and the whole "change, return, correct"  (OK, the song says success, but you get the idea) business begins again, frightening ducks and shipmates alike.

This constant work means that there is always one person on the footplate(?) and usually another to keep him/her company and to enjoy the sights. Others, however, may decide to stay below snuggled up next to a coal-burning stove, reading and watching the world slide by the window.

Hot tea, bacon butties, friendship and the English
countryside. The stuff of dreams. 

But what, I ask you, could possibly be better than drinking scalding tea, eating fragrant bacon butties and talking bollocks with your mate as the beautiful English countryside drifts almost silently by?

So onwards we sailed towards our mooring for the night at the towpath next to the rather originally named  Cheshire Cat pub in Christleton. 

All images (c) He Who Talks Bollocks

Starving in Portugal

Some of you might have read my post Pensión Laguna in which I mention the effects of the economic crisis in Spain.

If I thought things were bad here in Spain, a recent trip to GB via Portugal (see the post below) opened my eyes to just how bad it is in Portugal.

While waiting for the check-in desks to open in Faro airport, my daughter and I spent quite a lot of time observing the comings and goings of our fellow passengers and noted that there was a relatively well-dressed man doing the rounds of the cafés on the concourse, approaching a table after the customers had left it. Quickly it became obvious that he was looking for food.

Fortunately, we had some sandwiches to give him before we went to the departure lounge.

When we returned after a glorious week of boating in England, we had a lot of time to kill before getting the bus back to Spain. During our wait we managed to give away all six of the Cornish pasties I had brought from GB to stick-thin people asking for food. I do not know whether these people had a drug problem, but past experience has taught me that addicts ask for money "for food" not food itself. They get somewhat disgruntled if they receive food.

These people, however, were genuinely hungry.

And this is just the tip of the iceberg of the suffering that is all too common in the EU. In Greece families are giving their children up for adoption in the hope that they will be fed and clothed adequately.

Where is this all going to end?

Turn off Your Mind, Relax and Float Downstream

Having been gently chided for being too ranty on recent posts - something with which I wholeheartedly agree, what better way to start the de-rantification with a week on the Shropshire Union Canal?

No doubt Beatlemaniacs will have seen the allusion to Tomorrow Never Knows, probably the most technically revolutionary song of the 60's and the farewell remark of one of my most gifted students at the end of the last class before my holiday.

But first, the context: as readers of my musings will have detected, work at the moment is rather stressful, so last week I took a week off and made the above trip at the invitation of my cousin (A) and her husband (M).

Luckily, my timetable and the fact that there were two national bank holidays in Spain (BTW, one of the bank holidays is Dec. 8th - the date of Lennon's murder) made it possible for me to go without too much disruption to students and my colleague who graciously subbed for me on one of the working days.

A rather dramatic view of Nantwich Marina with café, 

chandler's and  junk shop (junk as in tat, not the 

Chinese boat!)

So, off we flew from Faro to Bristol, where we overnighted at A&M's house before some early motoring up to Natwich Marina where their narrow boat is moored.

I had often seen adverts for canal holidays and thought that they must be fun. And, of course, who hasn't fantasised about living on a houseboat?

Well, the good boat W. was to be our home for the next seven days and after loading her up with supplies, we chugged out of the marina at a stately 2mph on our 60ft. narrowboat, bound for rollicking adventures? No. Bound for a relaxing week on a form of transport that dog walkers on the towpath can overtake without breaking into a sweat. What a joy to do something that is excitement-lite and where time and the scenery slide by so slowly that you have plenty of time to take it all in. An example: 20th-century transport gives the observer time to say to their companion "Look at that badger over there?" but the companion hardly ever has time to look before it is past, replying "What badger?"

The Bollock-Talker's theory of relativity:
 "The time gained by fast transport is equally proportional to the sensations and observations lost thereby, due to the velocity at which the vehicle is travelling".

On this journey, for example, I even had time to call my daughter, J., up from below to observe squirrels etc. on the banks as we glided past.

To end this first instalment a relatively unknown song,  by Pink Floyd, which I feel captures the lazy contentment of life on slow moving water, even if it does describe a summer's day.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tisjsgsgtZU
The next instalment will, I feel, be a bit on the technical side. But not overly so.