streakingtheblue: Barcelona and onward by Cathe

For the last while, which may be weeks or months, depending on the slippage and consistency of time and how its experienced – or retained – I have had my dad nestled in close to me. Its not a morbid thing. He got a decent life as he lived to 84.

Modernista door, Barelona

We visited the Museo de Miro today. Miro lived till 90, from 1893 to 1983, which seemed a refinement in numbers amongst all the other facts that made up or stepped his life output in chronological seams. Doodling that became fluid, descriptive, symbolic, balletic. Experimentation and the perpetual, relentless effort to pursue and create. Materials that aroused curiosity and eagerness – where was the trepidation? Just get on and do. Sholto had an audio guide which he diligently and absorbedly listened to until the 132 minute was reached and he was lurched into boredom.

Rare Saintly Children in La Sagrada Familia

The visiting exhibition was of English artists from WW2 to the 60’s – people like Barbara Hepworth, Ben Nicholson, Henry Moore, Lucien Freud, Francis Bacon. It was a good selection of works, though my attention was stolen by a group of Barcelonian women on a private tour – all post 60, all swathed in fur coats, expensive baubles and artfully styled volume heightened hair. A dozen individuals clustered in a tight pack. Furs in Ocelot, Leopard, Siberian fox and all to the knee or mid calf, like 50’s movie stars. Sort of like looking at a moving Annie Leibovitz cover for Vanity Fair. A few of them stepped over the floor line demarcating the too close to the artwork barrier setting off the alarm but the guard stoically resisted the temptation to offer a caution.

Gaudi Modernista style

Barcelona is really a gracious city. The modernist buildings and streets of the 1800s are the grace we move through. It enhances the people too, or perhaps they are in empatico with this gracious architecture. I soak up the details: a man in a wool bottle green coat, brown trilby hat smoking a pipe, reading a book, legs crossed, completely absorbed. Two women smoking thin cigarettes, sangria bottle, outdoor table, faces turned to the sun. Turning a corner unexpectedly to stop suddenly at the beauty of a Gaudi apartment building glinting in the evening light. Tapas bars and restaurants with legs of ham hung from the ceiling somehow looking inviting when they should be repellent in their withered creepy skins.

The coolness of January unfortunately gave us all a bout of the winter flu, and our forays into the streets became shorter with each passing day. Our favourite haunt was a local bakery café which we had to visit several times in order to work through the selection of pastries.

Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, Valencia

After a week enjoying the sights we cut a 2 month deal on a hire car for the rest of our mainland stint. Two nights were spent in Valencia, and we visited the sci fi buildings of the Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of Arts and Sciences), which show what Darling Harbour could have been like if our town planners had a bit more chutzpah. Can they lift their game with Bangaroo? It seems not. From here we spent a forgettable night in one of the huge number of forgettable Spanish med holiday resort towns. Hundreds of Kilometres of Gold Coast basically. Time to head inland.

Parc Natural Sierra de Grazalema

Skirting the Sierra Nevada we came to a great little mountain village in the Parc Natural Sierra de Grazalema. We decided to stay 3 nights so we could do some hiking. There’s something about a great bushwalk that puts all of us in great spirits. All the walks require permits and a finite number are available each day, so it being the weekend, we were lucky to secure two lengthy hikes. The first hike took us along a gorge famous for some rare griffon vultures but as it was on a long boring road we quickly worked out a more adventurous path would be to duck onto a goat track and orienteer our own way. Steve reveled in taking bearings from his hand held GPS, Finbar relished in applying these coordinates to the map, Sholto was our hunter mage and I found the track down once we realized we were lost. Just kidding – we were just slightly left of the mark. Our last and longest hike took us through the pinsapar (woodland) of rare Spanish Fir, over a sierra where snow and ice were fresh, and into the village of Benhamahoma, where our much anticipated long Sunday grazing lunch was sadly lost amongst mountains of chips.