“…and the sun starts to set in Granada.”

With thanks to Bing Crosby

On our way to Cordoba we break the journey with a coffee and a walk around the small defensive town of Carmona. As we walk the cobbled streets, which are fortunately dotted with small arrows labelled “ruta turista”, the Spanish sun finally joins us on holiday and we shed the layers of clothing we’ve been wearing since arriving in Barcelona.

The town is built on a ridge overlooking the central plain of Andalusia to the south and is the centre for the dry plains’ production of olive oil, grain and wine. There’s the Alcazar, (although as pedantic Spanish scholars will remind me, Al Cazar means ‘the castle’, so in writing ‘the Alcazar’ I am writing the the castle. But there’s a wodge of other churches amd public buildings to satisfy our walk.

We head on to Cordoba, which is when things turn ugly.

We are staying on the main square and have been given the address of a parking building a block from the hotel. When trying to book on-line (as recommended), which we couldn’t do until we had the car licence plate, we find the facility is full. We decide to cruise past to try our luck.

Cruise past.

The sat nav, which is pre-rogrammed with the address leads us into the maze that is the old town. The streets narrow to the point where there are no footpaths and at one point I am bumping the tyres of the rented Renault off both gutters. All the time, the malevolent sat nav is intoning: “turn right, turn left, bear left, bear left and turn right, turn right, turn right”. The streets get narrower. And narrower. We drive through pedestrian streets with no other cars. “Turn left, prepare to turn right, turn right, turn left”. I am convinced we have passed the same group of people sipping Sangria in a café at least twice. Possibly three times. My heart rate is increasing and according to my trusty navigator doing her best to wrangle the sat nav, we have been “nearly there” at least twice. But we get no closer. There is nowhere to stop and think a thought, let alone assess the situation. After at least 30 minutes I mumble something like ‘Gaaaah!’ (the sound my young, diminutive female boss makes when I displease her) and think FFS, this is far too hard, and manage to get out of this viper’s nest of tiny lanes and alleys and back onto the main road.

Google Maps locates a public parking building not too far away and in ten minutes we are there and have parked the car. We flag down a passing cabbie who delivers us to our hotel in ten minutes for ten euro – money well spent. Our new parking building has a daily rate of less than half the cost of the one near the hotel and when we leave two mornings later, we find we can tow our suitcases back to it in eight minutes.

We explore Cordova, quickly granting it ‘favourite city’ status. It’s eminently walkable – and the sun is shining. Everywhere, women are dressed in traditional Flamenco gear as they head off to the fiesta. We have a late lunch – our lunches are getting later and later, with 4pm not being unusual, and that evening we attend a prebooked Flamenco performance. We are seated in the front row, where the sweat from the performers flies past our heads. The performance comes with a drink and my teetotaller wife is enjoying a sangria. We are pleased to observe that the dancers are of a mature age and shaped accordingly.

Before bed, we stand on our little balcony overlooking the Plaza de las Tendillas. I feel like we might be in a scene from Evita. I am picturing myself as Evita, wearing Madonna’s white dress and banging out ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ to the adoring masses in the square. The moment passes, and we retire.

The hotel from the square

and at night from our room

Next day we have a 3.30hr walking tour of the city and our guide, Gloria is punctal and informative. Perhaps too informative as she appears to want to do a complete download of every factoid she has about Cordoba. But unlike Pablo and Laura, with whom you could laugh and perhaps even flirt, Gloria is a cold fish.

The guides generally love Maggie. She knows the difference between Copernicus and Guernica. She knows that Isabella the 2^nd’s daughter became Catherine of Aragon and married Henry 8^th. She knows history and she knows stuff. Me, I can barely work out when the 13^th Century actually was.

Gloria leaves us, after revealing she is actually Italian not Spanish, at the jewel in crown of Cordoba, the Mezquita-Cathedral. This cathedral was once the second biggest mosque in the world and the outdoor courtyard where the Muslim faithful would once have performed their cleansing rituals is now an extensive courtyard of orange trees. In many ways, the interior looks far more like a mosque than a cathedral. In its earlier incarnation, the Great Mosque of Córdoba is one of the oldest structures still standing from the time Muslims ruled Al-Andalus (Muslim Iberia including most of Spain, Portugal, and a small section of Southern France) in the late 8th century.

Next day, the once-malevolent sat-nav is better behaved and guides us smoothly to Granada where we are staying in the Hospes Palacio de los Patos. As I’ve mentioned before, the company who plans these little jaunts, Spain Trails, use their considerable buying power to book us into a quality of hotel we would never book on our own. My dear friend Mary’s phrase, “Far too grand for the likes of us”, comes to mind as we check into the deluxe room in the renovated 19^th Century palace. Built originally as a suburban villa for an important business family of Granada, it was located on the outskirts of the city by the orchards in the valley. Today, it’s about as close to the city centre as you can get. But whole herds of white marble have been slaughtered to furnish our room.

At breakfast Maggie remarks wistfully, “I had no idea the Spanish were so fond of pastries”. Before retuning to the breakfast buffet for a second look. A third look in the window of a local shop demonstrates her point.

We walk through the charming town and happen upon the Cathedral that occupies a whole block and is a great example of gothic architecture but with a touch of renaissance and a sprinkling of baroque. The church is huge as it was commissioned when Granada was the capital of an territory that had only recently been recaptured from the Moors. We pay our entry fee and the interior is no less spectacular, but the Royal Chapel dating from 15^th Century, (200 years before the cathedral), which lies within the cathedral, belongs to a different order and is not accessible, though inside lies the remains of the catholic monarchs. 

We walk up the hill to the Arab quarter to take a couple of pictures of Alhambra which we will visit the next day.

Alhambra is the most famous monument in Granada and is a series of palaces, built in the 13^th and 14^th Centuries. The Palace of Charles V dates from the 16^th Century, is renaissance in style and represents the victory of Christianity over Islam. But the flavours, texture and feel of Alhambra is distinctly Muslim.

Did I mention that ever since arriving in Seville, the city streets are lined with orange trees. Seville, Cordoba, Granada – all lined with orange trees. The scent in spring must be outstanding. The oranges are bitter and are either harvested by the city for marmalade or discarded due to the polution depending on who you believe.

One thing that has absolutely staggered me is the splendour of the architecture generally, and of the cathedrals and churches specifically. As one of the guides explained, back in the day, the church controlled everything and every action – import, export, manufacturing – the church clipped the ticket. The church has old money, and it shows.

Today we have left Granada behind us and we’re on the road to Valencia where we expect to find more oranges. As we drive the 6 hours along the excellent road system it’s rare to pass any land which is not cultivated. We pass hectares of greenhouses with grapes growing under cover. Dry areas are planted in olives and as we descend from the high plains toward Valencia, the orange trees become apparent with the orchards stretching to the horizon.

We are halfway through the vacation with only 10 days left in Spain. To date, our pockets remain unpicked, our car tyres unspiked, and as yet, no one has thrown their baby at us. But there’s plenty of time yet.