El Día de la Madre y la Fiesta con Las Tunas

Following a whirlwind 3-day week at school (I’d taken Monday off to fly back from Portugal), I was pleasantly surprised to find myself on my way to Madrid on Thursday afternoon to meet my mum, who was coming to stay for a long weekend. Just in time for her arrival, the grey and miserable weather of the last few days had suddenly taken a turn for the better, and Cuenca was once again doused in gorgeous sunshine.

Mum in front of the Puerta de Toledo in
Madrid 

Having met her in Atocha, the main train station in Madrid, we caught the metro to a nearby hotel which we’d booked to stay in for one night before returning to Cuenca. Chatting away animatedly and helping Mum with her case, I was almost oblivious to the hustle and bustle of rush hour in Madrid which was going on around me. As a result, I wasn’t as vigilant of my belongings as I usually am, and when we stepped off the train I had a moment of panic when I realised my bag felt lighter than usual. Frantically, I scrabbled around for my purse, only to realise almost immediately that it was gone, along with my sunglasses. An expert pickpocket had clearly relieved me of them, having seen that I wasn’t paying attention to my bag and taken advantage of the situation. Although it was ultimately my own fault, and something that I know happens all too often on metro systems in capital cities, I was still a bit rattled that someone had so quickly and deftly swiped my personal items without me even realising.

Still, I had to see the funny – and heavily ironic – side; just hours earlier, I had had the luck to find €55 lying on the steps outside my school. Although I reported my find to reception in case anybody came forward to claim the money, I was already thinking ahead to how I could spend my loot, and had stowed it away in my purse for later. The subsequent robbery of my purse, along with the €55, can only be seen as karma, I suppose.

Anyway, after swiftly cancelling my cards, I took Mum to a favourite Indian restaurant of mine in Madrid, Tandoori Station. It was a balmy evening so we sat outside and enjoyed one of the most delicious three-course tasting menus I’ve ever eaten. Although I’d had it before, it’s not something I could ever get bored of!

Mum watching the sunset over Cuenca

The next day, we caught the AVE back to Cuenca. It was another beautiful day, so that evening I took Mum up to the top of the old town to watch the sunset from the cliffs overlooking Cuenca. Afterwards, we met up with Jaclyn and Corinna for some traditional Spanish food and drinks (I was keen for Mum to try my favourite tipple, tinto de verano, and the Cuenca speciality morteruelo, which is like a warm game paté). As she enjoyed the tinto de verano – a drink similar to sangria, but better! – so much, we decided to take her to a bar which is famed for making the original and best tinto de veranos. They are lovingly prepared by the owner of the bar, who recognises us every time we come in and is very proud of his drinks, boasting that he’s been making them for 33 years and that they’re the best tinto de veranos you’ll find anywhere.

Me and Mum sipping on our giant
tinto de veranos

While we were sipping on them, in marched a group of traditional Spanish musicians, clad in matching velvet breeches, tights, sashes and capes adorned with colourful badges, and brandishing guitars and maracas. Jaclyn, having seen them before, was able to tell us that they were one of Spain’s many university bands, collectively called Las Tunas. Each city has several groups of them; in Cuenca alone, there are 10 groups, and each group can contain around 20 or more people, almost always men. As we were all a bit tipsy, Jaclyn asked them if they would play a song for us. Very obligingly, about 8 of them assembled on the floor of the bar while we all traipsed upstairs to watch them from the balcony above, Romeo and Juliet style.

Las Tunas serenading us from
below, while we watched from the
upstairs balcony!

Mum showing she can party like
the rest of 'em!

They serenaded us with a typical Spanish song, by which we were all delighted and cheered raucously. Seemingly pleased by the reception they were getting from their small audience, they proceeded to play another song, then another, then another... until eventually they all came upstairs to join us. More and more of them kept arriving until in the end the six of us (me, Mum, Jaclyn, Corinna, Natira and Natira’s friend Jen) were all wedged into a corner surrounded by a group of jolly Spanish musicians, playing their songs with infectious enthusiasm and passion – just for us! We had taken up the whole of the upstairs of the bar (luckily the typical Spanish laid-back mentality meant that the bar staff didn’t seem to mind, which we were worried they might when customers couldn’t get to the toilets because our newfound friends were blocking the way!) by this point, and as tinto de verano flowed, the atmosphere only got better and better. What started off as a hopeful request for them to play us one song turned into a full-blown private concert which lasted for over two hours and saw us all merrily laughing, clapping, cheering, singing and even dancing with our new idols.

Having a great time with our new friends!

All in all, it was an unforgettable night, and when we finally stumbled out of the bar at around 2 o’clock in the morning our faces were aching from the big grins which had been plastered to them all night. I was especially impressed by Mum’s willingness to party with the rest of us – I think she enjoyed herself more than anyone! 

The next day, with slightly sore heads, Mum and I decided to go for a long walk. Partly intentionally but partly by chance, we found ourselves on the steep upward path leading to the statue of Jesus which straddles a mountaintop and keeps watch over Cuenca. I’d always wanted to walk up there, but had never had the opportunity. Although it was a long, hot and humid trek, it was worth it for the views when we were up there. Who knew that Cuenca could look even more beautiful from a birds-eye perspective?!

Mum having a well-deserved rest after
our climb up to see Jesus

The rest of the weekend was equally wonderful, except from the rainy weather on Sunday, which happened to be Mothers’ Day. We ate at several different restaurants, visited several museums, I showed Mum some of my favourite haunts and all in all, I think it’s safe to say that we well and truly ‘did’ Cuenca.

Mum left on Tuesday, the sun still blazing in the sky and the weather generally doing its best impression of summer. Four days on, and it’s been the same every day, if not hotter. Yesterday, I went to Madrid for a day of shopping with Jaclyn, which involved a fair bit of travelling for a just a few hours in Madrid, but was lovely nonetheless.

I know I keep saying it, but time is flying by at an alarming speed. We’re almost halfway through April now and in just five days I’ll be on my way back to England for the first time since Christmas, to see my cousin Daniel and Erin get married. I can’t wait, but as excited as I am about everything that’s still to come, I’m sad in equal measures that I only have just over 7 weeks left until I leave Spain for good. The end really is in sight...

¡Hasta luego! 

Mi Viaje Romántico a Oporto...

The following Thursday, the day before I was due to fly to Porto, I came down with a vicious stomach bug. I’m not really sure where it came from, but I started feeling queasy on Wednesday and by Thursday morning I found myself rushing to and from the toilet with alarming urgency. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say I wasn’t vomiting...

After a frightening dizzy spell where I was convinced I was going to faint, couldn’t see anything but stars and had a ringing sound in my ears, I phoned Elena to tell her I wouldn’t be coming to school. Instead, I retreated back to my bed and spent the whole day drifting in and out of sleep, drinking litres and litres of water to combat my severe dehydration and feeling thoroughly lousy.

On Friday morning, feeling only slightly better, I decided to bite the bullet and go to Portugal anyway. Hoping it wasn’t the wrong decision, I embarked on the long journey to Porto – the meeting place of my dear parents – to begin what I like to think of as a romantic pursuit of my roots (or at least re-tracing my parents’ steps).

Krista, me, Ashly and Mary on the Porto pub-crawl

When I arrived, I still felt fairly dreadful but it was a relief to find the hostel where Mary, Krista and Ashly were awaiting me and ‘freshen up’ (as Americans – with whom I’m spending an increasing amount of time – would say!) after my long journey. That evening, we cooked a cheap and tasty vegetable stir-fry (which was unfortunately rejected almost instantly by my delicate stomach) in the hostel’s kitchen and decided to go on an arranged pub-crawl to acquaint ourselves with Porto’s nightlife. As the cost of the pub-crawl was €12 – with several free drinks included at each bar along the way – I declined to pay on the basis that my body would almost definitely punish me, and instead tagged along as a teetotaller. As usual, we met some really interesting people (including a merry, overexcited Liverpudlian girl who practically jumped up and down on the spot and enveloped me in a bear hug as soon as she found out she was in the presence of a fellow Scouser).

A good night was had by all, but as time crept on and everybody around me slipped further and further away from sobriety, I decided to call it a night before the party reached its final stop which was a nightclub. I slept well, but my stomach still wasn’t itself.

Ashly, Mary, me and Hugh
outside the Taylor's wine cellar which
overlooks the city and river

The next day, Hugh arrived from England and we moved to a different hotel, which described itself as 4* and was supposedly part of the Best Western chain. However, when we stepped inside we felt as though we’d been transported back to another era. The retro fixtures and fittings, loud carpets, worn looking wooden furniture and largely brown colour-scheme were all telltale signs that the hotel had not been renovated since its opening back in the early eighties, when it was probably considered the height of modernity and sophistication. After getting over the initial shock and disbelief (which included a lot of laughing as we discovered more and more retro touches in our room, including old-fashioned light switches and positively Jurassic radio dials built in to the bedside tables) we concluded the dated interior of the hotel was a casualty of Portugal’s declining economy.

In fact, as beautiful as the city was, we noticed the lack of tourists – and lack of people in general – everywhere we went, and couldn’t help thinking that it must be a sign of the times. When we went on a boat cruise on the River Douro, the tour guides casually told us the speaker system was broken and proceeded to do the rounds of the boat, shouting out odd facts in several different languages, about various landmarks we were passing.

The Ribeira, as seen from the boat cruise

Nevertheless, we greatly enjoyed the cheapness of everything , especially the food – though sadly I couldn’t take full advantage of that due to my unsettled stomach. 

On Saturday, we rejoined Mary, Krista and Ashly for some free port wine-tasting at one of Porto’s most renowned wine cellars, Taylor’s. It was in a beautiful setting, overlooking the city and the River Douro, with perfectly manicured gardens, wisteria-framed archways and an impressively grand interior, complete with polished wooden floors, beams and big armchairs. Despite being convinced my taste buds weren’t mature enough to appreciate such things, I was actually pleasantly surprised by the sweet taste of the wines and how the flavours varied so much.

A man of leisure: Hugh enjoying his free
port sample in the
luxurious interior of Taylor's

The next morning, the other girls went home, leaving Hugh and me to enjoy another day of exploring the city (in the torrential rain, of course). Having enjoyed Taylor’s so much the day before, we returned – somewhat sheepishly, as the woman who’d served us our free samples the previous day inevitably recognised us – for some more tasting and a guided tour of the wine cellars to learn about the long and careful process of making port wines.

Me on the impressive staircase inside
Lello & Irmao

The Hogwarts-esque interior of
Lello & Irmao

We also visited a charming bookshop called Lello & Irmao, which has become a tourist attraction since its interior was said to have inspired JK Rowling’s vision of Hogwarts in the Harry Potter books. Although not a Potter fan myself, I could see why Rowling found the place inspirational. With its stained glass ceiling, grand staircase and dark wood panelling, it certainly did give me the feeling that I was somewhere more surreal and magical than the ordinary world.

The River Douro by night 

To see out our last night in Portugal in style, we went to a lovely restaurant in the Ribeira area of Porto, overlooking the river. Undeterred by the chilliness and rain, we decided to dine alfresco. Under the shelter of the restaurant’s strategically-placed awnings and umbrellas, and with the warmth of a nearby patio heater, it was the perfect setting for a romantic dinner and a lovely way to round off the weekend.

İHasta luego! 

Las Fallas de Valencia

After yet another period of prolonged blog-negligence, I’ve decided to take a new approach. As my posts are normally of epic proportions, for a change I will update you in three bite-size chunks; one for each weekend I have failed to write about.  A good idea in theory, but let’s see how the ‘bite-size’ part fares...

So, cast your minds back to the 18^th of March. Spring was imminent – longer days, blossoming trees and promising but brief bursts of sunshine – but still not quite delivering the goods.  After a depressing spell of almost non-stop heavy rain in Cuenca, I was worried that our trip to Valencia for the famous ‘Las Fallas’ festival (which would involve us sleeping under the stars with only a flimsy tent for shelter) would be, quite literally, a washout.

Luckily for Jaclyn, Krista and I, however, when we arrived in Valencia the sun was beating down and temperatures were upwards of 25 degrees. If that weren’t enough to put us in the mood to party, we were met from the station at Pucol (a small seaside town about 13 miles north of Valencia itself) by our campsite reps, who immediately whipped out 3 crisp, cold beers for us to sip on during the short drive to the campsite. Despite my usual aversion to beer, I gratefully took a few gulps – after all, it was free!

Sunset at the campsite (the pool looks deceptively
clean here!)

Back at the campsite, we realised it really was what it said on the tin: ‘festival camping’. Although one end of the campsite still resembled ‘civilised camping’, with happy families and smug retired couples lounging in matching deck-chairs underneath striped awnings attached to their state-of-the-art caravans (one couple even had a colossal satellite dish hooked up to their mobile pad!), the other end was unmistakably meant for laid-back party types. Around the filthy swimming pool, rows and rows of bog-standard igloo tents were pitched like sardines in a can, with sleeping bags and thin foam sleeping mats which had seen better days piled up in front of them, waiting to be claimed by the hordes of twenty-somethings who would soon be arriving. Krista, Jaclyn and I opted to share one tent – as opposed to one of us having to bunk with a stranger – which was cosy, to say the least. The mosquito net of our tent had a large rip in it, which only added to the general amusement aroused by our luxury accommodation.

The tents, pitched almost comically
close together!

Eager to take advantage of the sun – not to mention the €5 all-you-can-drink beer and sangria – we dumped our bags in our tent and headed out to the campsite’s play area, where a makeshift bar had been set up. Sipping on sangria in the sun and chatting to an Australian backpacker, all the nostalgia and fond memories of being a ‘real traveller’ when I was in South America came flooding back to me and I realised, as I quite frequently do, how much of a buzz I get from being on the move and experiencing new things.

The beach at dusk, with a full moon in
the three-tone sky

Later on, a little bit drowsy from a combination of heat and alcohol, the three of us headed to the beach to watch the sunset. It was breathtaking, and as dusk set in the full moon appeared in all its glory, framed by an almost unrealistic three-tone violet, mauve and pink sky.

One of the fallas

At 9pm, after several more beverages, two coaches rolled up to the campsite to take all us merry-makers into Valencia for the main event. I should probably explain a little bit about Las Fallas at this point: it’s a traditional Valencian festival held every year in March, to commemorate the Valencian Saint Joseph. Each neighbourhood in of the city has its own organised group of people (called a casal faller) who spend all year holding fundraising events and dinners in order to produce an enormous monument (called a falla) which will be burnt at the grand finale of the two-week long festival. The fallas themselves truly are works of art, elaborately constructed out of wood, papier mache and wax, with mind-boggling attention to detail. 

Political satire: 'Mr Geppetto' is actually
Zapatero, Spain's prime minister!

The monuments usually tell a story, and many of them are ‘in-jokes’ understood only by Valencian people, while others are political statements or satirical observations on things like the media or consumerism. The fallas are displayed all around the city for the public to see, and there are prizes for the best ones. Every day and night throughout Las Fallas, the streets are brimming with hundreds of thousands of people. There are huge firework displays and a daily ‘mascleta’, which is a coordinated display of deafening firecrackers, almost unique to Valencia. Falleres and falleras wear traditional Valencian costume and explosions can be heard sporadically all through the day and night. Quite simply, it is a gargantuan celebration of all things related to fire and dynamite!

For five hours, Jaclyn, Krista and I roamed the streets of Valencia, taking in all the sights and sounds and revelling in the genuinely electric atmosphere which the whole city seemed to be awash with. After watching the spectacular fireworks display – the biggest and best of the whole festival, as we were there on the last night – reflected in a window (we couldn’t get close enough to see it for real, thanks to the throngs of people) it was time to call it a night, so we wandered back to our designated pick-up point to wait for the coach to get us at 2am.

Streets lined with dynamite, prepared for the
daily mascleta

Unfortunately, the extremely laid-back Australian, Finnish, Scottish and New Zealandish(?!) organisers didn’t rock up until 3am. Most of them were drunk (thankfully they weren’t driving the coaches themselves!) and wanted to carry on the party back at the campsite, but in our sleep-deprived, irritable state we weren’t in the mood for more partying. We finally got back at 4am and collapsed into our tent for one of the worst night’s sleeps I’ve ever had. It felt like we were sharing our tent with about fifty inebriated Californians, a few Australians and a token Scot (who happened to be one of the staff, though he wasn’t behaving like it). If we hadn’t been so exhausted, we might’ve found it funny. Still, everything is an experience and I can wholeheartedly say the fatigue was worth it!

¡Hasta luego!