Things in their place.

Thank goodness the chess tournament has started. I thought I’d never get the chess player off the computer. I’ve barely got my hands on the keyboard for more than a few minutes for days. Anyway, here we are finally at Sanxenxo. The playing has begun. All down there in the depths is tension and the clicking of chess clocks. 

Me, I’ve been in the pool. I was in the pool in the cloudy, overcast weather so, naturally, since I came out, showered and got myself sorted the sky has cleared and the sun has come out properly. Almost time to go and sit on the terraza with a little clara, I think. 

That’s the sun back in its place. 
 
Here are few more things out of place. 

On Thursday I accompanied Phil down into Vigo centre for a pre-chess tournament haircut. In the barber’s we came across this:- Una urraca – a (baby) magpie. 

The barbers found it in the road about three weeks ago, all scrawny and at death’s door. They never expected it to live but drop fed it I don’t know what kind of stuff and it survived. So on Thursday they installed it on its perch in the barber’s shop. They just need three more so they can teach them to be a barber shop quartet. 

Then yesterday, Friday, we set off for Sanxenxo: train to Pontevedra and bus from there to Sanxenxo. Not a bad journey but with a few oddities on the way. On the train the public address system, both visual and audio, went haywire. 

This was a stopping train, calling at every possible little station along the way. We had called at Redondela and Redondela-Picota when the p.a. system informed us that the next station would be Redondela. Strange! Had the train started to go backwards without our noticing it? After that it told us we were approaching Arcade but it looked a lot like Pontevedra to me. And indeed it WAS Pontevedra. 

Heaven help any poor soul who didn’t know the line and was relying on the p.a. system. The RENFE employee checking tickets didn’t seem to notice any of this and just marched up and down the train without saying anything. I wonder if you could sue RENFE if you missed your station because they told you the wrong station was coming up. 

Fortunately we are seasoned travellers, on that line anyway, and hopped off the train and hurried over to the nearby bus station to catch the bus to Sanxenxo. Only five minutes wait, as well. Such organisation! 

As the bus toiled its way through Pontevedra – it takes about twenty minutes to get from the bus station to the bridge which takes you across the river into Poio and you could probably walk it in half the time – I noticed one of those temperature signs outside a chemist’s shop. 40° was what it said. Now, I know the sun had come out but that was a bit of an exaggeration. 14° at the most. 

When we finally crossed the bridge over to Poio I spotted our friend Colin standing on the corner bending someone’s ear about something or other. At least he was where he should be! No time to bang on the window and wave so I sent him a quick text instead. 

  And eventually we reached our destination. What’s more the sun was shining and the sky was blue. 

I even managed a dip in the pool in the late afternoon, early evening. 
 
This morning I was up bright and early and out for a run down the promenade. 

On my way I was accosted by one of the local loonies, a rather dishevelled-looking chap who tried to engage me in conversation. It went like this: 

Rather dishevelled-looking chap: Hola 
Me: a vague wave, trying to imply, “I have no idea who you are”. 
Rather dishevelled-looking chap: Do you spik Inglish? 
Me: Yes. 
Rather dishevelled-looking chap: Do you are Elisabet? 
Me: No. 
Rather dishevelled-looking chap: Do you know Segovia? 
Me: No. Creo que usted se equivoca. No soy Elisabeth y no conozco Segovia. 
Rather dishevelled-looking chap: Ya nos volveremos a ver. 

 That last bit meant we’ll see each other again. Not if I see you first, thought I. I did see him again as I ran back but fortunately he didn’t see me. Maybe I need a new running route. 

But for now, I hear a clara calling me.

Smoke gets in your eyes.

When the smoking ban in Spain was reinforced so that bars and restaurants could no longer have a smoking room inside the establishment, many places simply enclosed their terrazas and made these the smoking areas instead. This solution is fine so long as customers don’t object to walking through a fog to get into the smoke-free interior. AND so long as the adjoining door is kept closed!!! 

As you might have guessed, in the last few days I have been to a number of establishments where the door separating the addicts from those of us seeking a slightly healthier lifestyle has been left open. Sometimes it’s carelessness. Sometimes it’s so that a smoker can get his/her fix but also continue a conversation with a friend who prefers to stay inside, usually a conversation shared with everyone else in the place as it goes on at top volume. In one place, it’s the owner who goes and stands just barely outside the door so that she can have a cigarette while keeping an eye on her domain. Now, I don’t mind getting up and closing the odd door but I’m not tackling that particular dragon. She might stop giving me free food with my beer. But the gradual drift of smoke into the allegedly smoke-free zone is rather annoying. 

Of course, it’s not just here in Spain. In the UK it’s become a regular thing to have to run the gauntlet of a band of hardy smokers just outside the door to a pub. A case of hold your breath and run! 

Sitting in one of these partially contaminated venues yesterday, I was reading the British papers online. Despite the G8 summit going on, this is a bit of a “slow news” time. Consequently we’ve been treated to stories about David Cameron going “wild swimming”. Perhaps trying to emulate President Putin’s early morning swims in preparation for his day’s politicking, DC has been swimming in an Irish lough/lake early in the morning before the conference. Maybe he’s trying to impress us with his derring-do. This may be so but I’m not sure that Prime Ministers are supposed to set us such examples. Aren’t lakes quite dangerous places to swim in? Does swimming in the sea count as “wild” swimming as well? No idea. I’ve not even made it into the pool yet this summer. 

Another story I spotted was the sad tale of Nigella Lawson, celebrity cook, exponent of the art of sexy cooking and generally regarded as a happy rich person, in a restaurant where her rich husband was seen trying to throttle her. He maintains that this was just play-fighting. Really? I’ve never been much of a believer in that kind of play; I tend to think it leads on to the real thing. Nigella has been quiet about it and the rich husband has “accepted” the police caution he was given, in order to avoid complicated explanations if the case had to go to court or so he says. Again I say, really? There have been some outraged comments along the lines of “how can this happen to the Nigella Lawsons of this world?” just as if domestic violence was the preserve of the less financially fortunate. I don’t think it’s any respecter of status! 

Anyway, having read a few things I decided to change papers and took a look at the Telegraph, clicked on an article and had a little message pop up. Apparently we have looked at the allocated number of free articles available to us this month on the Telegraph. If we want to read more than headlines online we need to subscribe. 

Well, goodness me! Right wing stinginess! 

Back to the Guardian for me!

Getting to Galicia.

This morning when I looked out of the window at about 8.30, there was a cruise ship down in the port, one of those huge ones that overshadow the A Laxe shopping centre and even the horrible hotel that normally dominates that area. No room for anything else to moor next to the Estación Marítima. The boat must have arrived early. Some arrive at 8.00 am. I imagine sleepy holiday-makers wandering into a city not yet awake. 

It’s just as well they didn’t come yesterday; between rain and cloud they wouldn’t have seen much. On reflection first thing in the morning it wasn’t bad but it was starting to drizzle when I walked down into town to the hairdresser’s, by the time I walked back it was worse and it just got steadily heavier as the day went on. 

Today, however, the rain seemed to have gone and so the boat people will have seen the city at its best, or maybe its second best as the cloud has come over again as the day has progressed. The floating hotel set off again under grey skies at about 5.30 this afternoon. 

You need the kind of blue sky and baking sunshine that we remember from our very first visit here in order to really see the place at its best. And I don’t suppose any of them have had time to get out to the Islas Cíes, not unless they did their homework before coming and knew where to catch the ferry boat. Mind you, maybe they had had enough of boats by the time they got here. You never know. 

By all accounts, the islands should have more visitors than ever this summer. I’ve read that Ryanair is using the Islas Cíes as part of their advertising campaign to promote their flights from Stansted to Santiago de Compostela not, as might logically be expected, Vigo, but thereby hangs another tale. 

In one respect it’s perhaps appropriate that an airline that expects its passengers to pick up all rubbish before they leave the plane should make use of islands that won’t let you leave any rubbish behind as part of their publicity. Of course, in Ryanair’s case it’s all in the interests of a “quick turnaround” at each airport, while in the case of the Islas Cíes it’s for ecological reasons. 

Once again I notice that flights direct from the UK to Galicia still favour those who live close to London. We northern types have to use our ingenuity to get here. 

Of course, it may just be that signing Ryanair up to fly to Santiago is part of the supposed plot to do down Vigo’s Peinador airport. According to a leaflet thrust into our hands at the weekend, the Xunta de Galicia and President Feijóo are working together through direct or indirect financial aid to help develop Santiago’s airport, at the expense of Vigo’s, of course. And this despite the fact the Vigo is the biggest city in Galicia, or maybe because of that: a case of sour grapes, as the regional capital, Santiago, doesn’t like to appear smaller and less important. 

Even the flights between Vigo and Madrid are now using smaller and less efficient planes, apparently, leading to fewer passengers going through Peinador. The leaflet explains that this is COMPETENCIA DESLEAL, in other words, Peinador cannot compete on an equal footing with the other Galician airports. Why does it have to compete? Have they not heard of co-operation? Working together to get more flights here and fewer into Oporto? 

Oh, the joys of local politics!! 

 Anyway, the leaflet invites us to go along to Puerta del Sol (or perhaps I should really say Porta do Sol, as the leaflet is in gallego) tomorrow at 8.30 in the evening and add our voices to theirs: 

grita con nós en defensa do aeroporto, en defensa de VIGO!!!

Out and about again.

Walking up to the Castro in the sunshine yesterday we went past a cafe where people were sitting out on the terraza. At one end a woman was nursing a drink. On the table in front of her was a plate of tapas. Seagulls were hovering around the area, on the scrounge as usual. Suddenly two of them dive-bombed the table, intent on stealing the food that the woman was clearly not eating. To get at the table they practically had to go into the covered terraza, something I’ve often seen pigeons do but rarely seagulls. It was rather frightening for us as simple passers-by so what it was like for the poor woman sitting at the table must have been even greater. These are huge birds with very fearsome beaks. If one of those lands on a cafe table it almost fills it. Aggressive seagull season!!! 

 A little further on and in more peaceful mode we saw the crazy horses at the top of Gran Vía. They’ve been turned into supporters of Celta de Vigo, no doubt celebrating the local teams continued presence in the first division. Celta has managed to stay up by the skin of its teeth, unlike poor Deportivo La Coruña, relegated this year. 

 Up at the Castro everything was looking very green ... and rather crowded. I think there was at least one coach party visiting. 

The old gents who usually play cards on top of the hedges had migrated to a more shady spot and were actually sitting down to play. Old age and sunshine finally getting to them perhaps! 

I’ve just read in the newspapers online about an accident in Liverpool. Since the Albert Docks were touristified it has been possible to do tours of the city in what they call Yellow Duckmarines. The tour finishes with a “splashdown” into the dock. Yesterday one of them sank and the passengers had to be rescued from the water, successfully, I hasten to add. 

Now, I’ve seen these vehicles around the Albert Dock area. They look just like the WWII amphibious vessels that we used to see on Southport beach in my childhood, small landing vessels that my father always told us were “ducks”. If they are the selfsame vehicles, it’s no wonder one of them sank yesterday. 

Apparently it’s not the first time either. In March the fleet of four “ducks” was ordered out of the water after one of them sank, without passengers on that occasion. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip had a ride in one during the royal visit to Liverpool as part of the Jubilee Tour. 

 Just think: Prince Charles might have been king by now if they had travelled in the faulty vehicle.

We’re back!

On Thursday we flew from Liverpool to Oporto and considered ourselves lucky to have had a problem-free flight. Problems with air traffic controllers in France left people stranded all over the place apparently. But we made it - just too late, of course, for the last bus to Vigo and so we stayed overnight in Oporto. Off the plane, straight onto a metro to Trindade Station in the centre of Oporto and a quick walk to the hotel we usually stay at whenever we arrive too late to go straight on to Vigo: the Residencial Vera Cruz, just off Avenida Aliados. 

We were planning to have a quick drink so we went out for a stroll around but instead of going into a local bar we ended up back at the hotel where they have just opened up a rooftop bar, open until midnight. On balance, this was a mistake, despite the beautiful view down onto Aliados by night. Two small beers each, the size of the average caña, cost us a total of €16. Hotel prices, I suppose! 

 There were some interesting mistranslations in the lift and around the hotel. Among other things, the lift advised “passengers and load to stand back from the access”. In the room was a notice informing us that the “Management do not accept any responsibility for the values witch are not handed in to reception”. The French was not much better. So it goes. On the other hand, I heard the receptionist switch confidently from Portuguese to Spanish to French to English according to the language in which he was addressed by guests. Impressive!!! 

Friday morning saw us tucking into a nice breakfast of fresh bread rolls before catching the AUTNA bus outside the posh McDonalds on Aliados. A rather grey morning in Oporto improved as we got closer to Vigo and by the time we got here the sky was blue and the sun was shining nicely. 

By then it was late lunchtime so we dumped the suitcases and headed down town for lunch and then a bit of a walkabout and an extra coffee while we waited for the Vodafone shop to open. We wanted to recharge our mobile internet dongle. Last time we did this we were told that we had accumulated credit and could add it this time round. For a month’s internet use you pay €19. They then add VAT (another little scam to make you think you are paying less than is really the case) and finally round it up so that you pay €25. Over the various times that we have recharged the dongle we had accumulated around €10. I have no idea how this works but we have now got our “savings” back! 
 
During our walkabout, we admired the improved/restored galerías at the edge of the old quarter of Vigo. 

 And I saw this shoe-mender’s sign which I rather liked. Why is it that cobblers are also key-cutters? This is not just a Spanish thing; it also happens in the UK. 

And finally we took a quick look at the concert programme outside the Centro Cultural NovaCaixaGalicia, fully expecting to find that the concert season was over. Serendipity worked; the final concert was last night! 

We managed to get tickets, contacted my friend Dominique and arranged to meet there. 

 So: a bit of Wagner, followed by something very modern and strange that no-one I spoke to really liked but which was interesting and then Stravinsky’s Firebird. And then a couple or three glasses of wine and some rather expensive snacks down on the alameda to finish the evening off. 

A final stagger home and our summer in Vigo had begun!

Turning the tables.

When we travel around other countries of Europe we are often amused, and occasionally annoyed, by the ridiculously bad translations of menu items from whatever the language of the country happens to be into English. We see it as well in museums and stately homes on explanatory notices. It’s also there in tourist office brochures. Today I have come across the reverse. 

In Uppermill, the biggest of the villages that together make up Saddleworth, a new restaurant opened last August. Its name: Rioja. Its description: Tapas bar. It’s on the main street and has what it refers to as “the secret garden” round the back. 

Now, I’ve never been in so I can’t comment on the food. It gets some good reviews on Trip Advisor but also a few bad ones, although those were mostly about it being a bit cramped. 

Here’s a sample of a good one: 

“Visited Uppermill on a wet Saturday lunchtime and noticed Rioja tapas restaurant. Liked the look of the menu and took my mother in for lunch. Not crowded, but a lovely ambience and a warm welcome from Karen. All the dishes we ordered were excellent, particularly the patatas bravos and the albondigas. Good sized portions - more like raciones than tapas. The aioli was superb! 

 The talented chef is a 22 year-old Englishman who must have spent quite some time in Spain.” 

Someone else described the food as “Best tapas ever”. Somehow I doubt that because I’ve been to San Sebastián where they do have the most excellent tapas. And I’ve had some pretty good ones in Santiago de Compostela. 

However, until I’ve actually sampled their wares it would be churlish of me to comment. Although I do think it’s a brave Englishman who tries to compete with the Spanish in the field of tapas. 

Anyway, this morning as I came to the end of my run I stopped to have a look at the menu. I didn’t get very far before I had to take a snapshot of part of that menu. 

I can just about accept that someone writing a review talks about “patatas bravOS” but I really think that a professionally printed menu should not talk about “calamares fritO”, “frito mixtA” or “GAMAS al ajillo” instead of “gamBas”. No adjective agreement and poor spelling. It wouldn’t have done in my GCSE Spanish classes, I can tell you. 

You can call me picky but the 22 year-old Englishman may be a talented chef but either he didn’t pick up much Spanish grammar while learning to cook or his professional training didn’t include proof-reading the menu before he put it up. Possibly both those things apply. 

Oh dear! It’s a good job I’m off to Galicia soon!

Sudden onset kettle breakdown.

Our kettle yesterday developed a form of kettle dementia. Just as a person can go into a room, go upstairs, go to s specific cupboard and then completely lose track of the purpose of that action, so our kettle forgot its purpose in life. I filled the kettle with water, put the switch to the “on” position and waited. Precisely nothing happened. I checked that everything was switched on. I even gave it another chance. I noted that its little red indicator light had come on but still nothing happened. Two hours previously it had worked fine. Somewhere over the space of those two hours it had forgotten how to boil water. I had to resort to boiling water in a pan on the hob top. 

Working on the principle that taking a gadget apart and putting it back together can help – yes, really, please do not mock, it always worked with my sewing machine – Phil took the kettle to pieces and reassembled it. Still nothing! As our grandson would say: EPIC FAIL!! 

A new kettle was obviously the only solution. So Phil did what he always does in such situations: he went off to research kettle on the internet. This is one of his things. Whatever gadget you need to buy, always do the research to get the best deal. For years we subscribed to Which Magazine and had info about all kinds of equipment and gadgets. Now we have the internet. 

Anyway, research was done. Did you know that you can pay silly money for kettles? We found one on sale for almost £200!!! And these are just the ones you can buy from Tesco. My goodness, for that price I would expect it to put the tea bag in the teapot and pour the tea for me. AND wash the cups up afterwards. 

Now, I appreciate the effort put into this search for the ideal kettle but I live in the world of real kettles. Once there I did that woman thing of seeing what they have in store and then selecting on criteria such as colour, shape and whether it matches the rest of my kitchen. 

Job done!