After a bit of marketing at the Brié market (leaflets on the Pommart bread stand) I was chez Berry for a chocolate cake I won't see twice in a lifetime:
Katrina - you revealed what a fine voice you have! Thank you so much for a lovely day.
.JPG)
24 September 2013
Happy Birthday to me
It started wonkily, in post-holiday, not-wanting-to-be-here, what-is-the-point-of-it-all gloom. And Katrina had a very sad birthday girl on her hands when she met me at the Tour Maline for lunch (by chance I had no Berlitz lessons). But a perfect September day in good company transformed the day.
After a bit of marketing at the Brié market (leaflets on the Pommart bread stand) I was chez Berry for a chocolate cake I won't see twice in a lifetime:
Katrina - you revealed what a fine voice you have! Thank you so much for a lovely day.
.JPG)
After a bit of marketing at the Brié market (leaflets on the Pommart bread stand) I was chez Berry for a chocolate cake I won't see twice in a lifetime:
Katrina - you revealed what a fine voice you have! Thank you so much for a lovely day.
15 years and how many steps?
Our
last day before beginning the return trip was our wedding anniversary. Since walking is our shared passion numero uno, what more appropriate way to celebrate than a walk from
Montesiñho. As you might expect in this neck of the woods, the flagship village, officially billed (if you could detect the ultra discrete road sign) as “renovated”, was nothing
extraordinary. But a pleasant place, nonetheless. In the economically devastated area, it stood out from everything else we'd seen because most of the houses were not in ruins, people seemed to care about maintaining their property, and there was a modicum of tourist infrastructure: a couple of cafés and a B & B. The
“locals” often seemed to be returned émigrés who spoke better French than Spanish, comforted by the prospect of a French pension. Their granite-built homes resembled the Galician style,
with balconies supported by granite pillars.
It was when we saw the lines of windmills that we realised we were virtually on the Portuguese–Spanish border (windmills characteristic of Spanish, rather than Portuguese, investment).
In França our casa rural was run by a German–Portuguese
couple. They were away at the time so we never met them and the liaison was performed by their charming neighbour.
The house was cute, its extreme smallness acceptable as the Indian summer allowed us to take full advantage of the outdoor surrounds.
After our walk we sat naked in the secluded “garden” drinking Protos Ribera Duero 2011. My cute husband is apparently fluent in Portuguese as well as English, Spanish, German and French...
Driving back to Spain the following day the recent motorway stopped at the border. Somewhere funds have been found for this and the brash new housing developments around the city. What is going on in Portugal? A mystery.
Then a couple of days with Juan's family in Salamanca. And, too soon, it's all over.
22 September 2013
over the border to França – and a day of surprises
The morning we left San Pedro our questions about Antonio senior’s story were answered. The casa project had been devised with two friends 10 years ago, one of whom was an architect – hence the high design values. Antonio moved from Madrid (where his wife still works in an infant school) for the usual reasons –wanting a lifestyle change. But unforeseen costs during the renovation pushed the project over budget and the resulting bank loan (which he has had to extend) means the gritty prospect of entering retirement with an unresolved debt. This, and health concerns that might lead to Antonio junior inheriting a debt in a milieu that he has not chosen (he has been helping out but his heart is not there), have forced Antonio senior to put the business on the market. Aiee. Yet again the Juan-and-Rebecca casa-rural project flickers. Aren’t we the ideal profiled couple? Language skills, appreciation of the area, aware of unexploited potential (improved meals, bike hire etc) But Juan is wisely not giving it air time. We embrace Antonio warmly and drive on.
França looks a short distance over the border, driving via Puebla de Sanabria through Portugal’s northern border. But the endless zigzag mountain road makes the journey quite long enough. The village is a comedown after lovely San Pedro: a raggle-taggle mix of old and decaying houses, no shop or infrastructure of any kind. Surrounded by densely forested hills our lack of maps is a barrier to exploring on foot. We are driven by necessity to continue on to Bragança.
The reason for coming to this area was to sample Montesiñho National Park, the main tourist attraction. So how is it that there is no info at the tourist office; the directions we were then given to the park office were wrong; a policeman subsequently gave us fantasy directions; the building – when we found it – was so badly signed that we wandered around it in vain; and the relevant office was unmanned? It all speaks volumes about the value put on the park and/or the budget available. But we pilfer a pile of leaflets which are a basis for a walk the following day.
The heart of Bragança is the citadel, which is fed by grand, steeply inclining terraces of houses. In another era it might have been the "Bath" of NE Portugal. Now it is a mixture of renovated buildings and devastating decay. Amid innumerable cats basking in the sun and occasional food shops selling fruit and veg for an impossibly low 50c per kg are museums housing collections of photos (Georges Dussaud's wonderful collection of 1980s Trans Monte farming communities ) and art.
Up at the citadel Juan’s day is made by finding a souvenir shop selling chestnut baskets. One more for the collection.
Later in the day we look for a place to have supper, wondering if there is sufficient demand in Bragança to guarantee a decent meal. Remembering Coimbra a few years back we raise our gaze to the first floor, which seems to be where most restaurants are located. We look at a menu as a passing local tells us that the restaurant is good value. Juan starts to protest at the smell of boiled cabbage. But I have an intuition about the place and we venture up the stairs, mildly bothered by the threadbare carpet. At the top we are confused by two signs to the restaurant, one taking us through an ornate antechamber with antique tables loaded with books and plants. We are greeted by a courteous waitress – though “waitress” seems the wrong word for someone so regal. Entering the dining room is like walking through a C S Lewis wardrobe. One dining area leads to the next, with a door onto a first-floor terraced garden.
We settle in a corner and contemplate our options. The wine menu is beyond weird: bottles varying from 8€ to 192€, presented on pages that look as though a dog has got the better of them. It is becoming clear that the décor is out of sync with the cuisine, and what we see on the menu will not be what we get. After much hesitation we order… the die is cast… My melon and port is ginormous – a full half sphere; Juan’s chicken soup just about edible after he has chased the waitress for some salt. I fare better for the main course (partridge) but am baffled by the doll-sized portions of cold salad surrounding the bird. The wine, however, is a pleasant surprise – cheap and cheerful and delicious. As is the chocolate cake which (taking no chances, now) we share.
As we eat we are pleased to see that this isn’t another Portuguese disaster story – the place is filling up with couples a little older than us. I watch their underwhelmed expressions at the arrival of dishes that don’t quite conform to expectation. The whole experience is like a dream – the opulent surroundings, a sense of faded glory and keeping up appearances. As we leave, the passer-by who had tipped the balance in our choice of restaurant reappears as a second member of the waiting team. He catches sight of Juan’s basket and is enchanted. He asks us to wait a moment and goes off in search of something. Returning, he suggests that what it needs is a bottle of wine. And promptly places one there. We skip out of the building, delighted by the surreal evening – an early celebration of our 15th wedding anniversary.
França looks a short distance over the border, driving via Puebla de Sanabria through Portugal’s northern border. But the endless zigzag mountain road makes the journey quite long enough. The village is a comedown after lovely San Pedro: a raggle-taggle mix of old and decaying houses, no shop or infrastructure of any kind. Surrounded by densely forested hills our lack of maps is a barrier to exploring on foot. We are driven by necessity to continue on to Bragança.
The reason for coming to this area was to sample Montesiñho National Park, the main tourist attraction. So how is it that there is no info at the tourist office; the directions we were then given to the park office were wrong; a policeman subsequently gave us fantasy directions; the building – when we found it – was so badly signed that we wandered around it in vain; and the relevant office was unmanned? It all speaks volumes about the value put on the park and/or the budget available. But we pilfer a pile of leaflets which are a basis for a walk the following day.
The heart of Bragança is the citadel, which is fed by grand, steeply inclining terraces of houses. In another era it might have been the "Bath" of NE Portugal. Now it is a mixture of renovated buildings and devastating decay. Amid innumerable cats basking in the sun and occasional food shops selling fruit and veg for an impossibly low 50c per kg are museums housing collections of photos (Georges Dussaud's wonderful collection of 1980s Trans Monte farming communities ) and art.
 |
| Occasional renovations suggest all is not lost |
 |
| an abandoned shop |
Later in the day we look for a place to have supper, wondering if there is sufficient demand in Bragança to guarantee a decent meal. Remembering Coimbra a few years back we raise our gaze to the first floor, which seems to be where most restaurants are located. We look at a menu as a passing local tells us that the restaurant is good value. Juan starts to protest at the smell of boiled cabbage. But I have an intuition about the place and we venture up the stairs, mildly bothered by the threadbare carpet. At the top we are confused by two signs to the restaurant, one taking us through an ornate antechamber with antique tables loaded with books and plants. We are greeted by a courteous waitress – though “waitress” seems the wrong word for someone so regal. Entering the dining room is like walking through a C S Lewis wardrobe. One dining area leads to the next, with a door onto a first-floor terraced garden.
We settle in a corner and contemplate our options. The wine menu is beyond weird: bottles varying from 8€ to 192€, presented on pages that look as though a dog has got the better of them. It is becoming clear that the décor is out of sync with the cuisine, and what we see on the menu will not be what we get. After much hesitation we order… the die is cast… My melon and port is ginormous – a full half sphere; Juan’s chicken soup just about edible after he has chased the waitress for some salt. I fare better for the main course (partridge) but am baffled by the doll-sized portions of cold salad surrounding the bird. The wine, however, is a pleasant surprise – cheap and cheerful and delicious. As is the chocolate cake which (taking no chances, now) we share.
As we eat we are pleased to see that this isn’t another Portuguese disaster story – the place is filling up with couples a little older than us. I watch their underwhelmed expressions at the arrival of dishes that don’t quite conform to expectation. The whole experience is like a dream – the opulent surroundings, a sense of faded glory and keeping up appearances. As we leave, the passer-by who had tipped the balance in our choice of restaurant reappears as a second member of the waiting team. He catches sight of Juan’s basket and is enchanted. He asks us to wait a moment and goes off in search of something. Returning, he suggests that what it needs is a bottle of wine. And promptly places one there. We skip out of the building, delighted by the surreal evening – an early celebration of our 15th wedding anniversary.
wolves, a casa rural to die for and the best lake ever
Juan chose well – San Pedro de las Herrerias is full of charm, but in no way manicured. From our bedroom I watched a beady-eyed old woman, dressed in the obligatory head-to-foot black, patrolling the streets, keeping them clear of windfall apples and anything else that could destroy their perfection.
The casa rural run by Antonios senior and junior is a stylishly converted building. If anything was lacking in the cuisine (variations of fried meat followed by shop-bought dairy puddings) it was more than compensated for by their warm welcome, generous loan of equipment and provision of information.
We knew that we would need luck to see the wolves and Juan dedicated himself to each of the dawn and dusk opportunities. (I lazily chose sleep rather than the early shift and missed some lovely views.)
In mid September the timing and temperatures were not uncomfortable. It was just a question of standing for two or three hours, in company with a dozen or so fellow enthusiasts; a battery of Opticron, Zeiss and Swarovski lenses lining the forestry track overlooking the rolling plane. Even the police were interested, arriving with guns on their hips and binnies in their hands. Good allies to have; as ever the presence of the wolves isn't tolerated by all, and they are not protected in this area.
After three days the rocks, bushes and trees became intimately familiar as we scoured with binoculars and telescopes. The shifting shadows and light beautiful to watch, the act of slowing down therapeutic. But, despite our many pairs of eyes, no wolves showed themselves.
One day we drove to Puebla de Sanabria:
... and from there to the village of San Martin de la Castañeda. At a village restaurant Juan was served the biggest pork chop he had ever seen – it must have been close to a kg. Our explosion of shocked laughter turned heads in the restaurants. Clearly, the gastronomic revolution Phil had talked about has yet to reach far flung Zamora.
Another day we stopped at Villardeciervos, stocking up on fruit to complement our 100% animal protein diet. The options at the spit-and-sawdust bar where we stopped for a coffee were moro (pig face), callos (tripe) and oreja (ear). Luckily we weren't relying on the place for lunch!
Strolling around, an elderly woman was perplexed when I snapped at her chick peas drying in the sun. España profunda…
Perhaps the highlight of this part of the holiday was following Antonio junior’s recommendation and discovering a lake just 5km from the casa. We had it entirely to ourselves. To skinny dip was pure heaven for me; seeing what might have been a wolf track did the same for Juan.
The casa rural run by Antonios senior and junior is a stylishly converted building. If anything was lacking in the cuisine (variations of fried meat followed by shop-bought dairy puddings) it was more than compensated for by their warm welcome, generous loan of equipment and provision of information.
We knew that we would need luck to see the wolves and Juan dedicated himself to each of the dawn and dusk opportunities. (I lazily chose sleep rather than the early shift and missed some lovely views.)
In mid September the timing and temperatures were not uncomfortable. It was just a question of standing for two or three hours, in company with a dozen or so fellow enthusiasts; a battery of Opticron, Zeiss and Swarovski lenses lining the forestry track overlooking the rolling plane. Even the police were interested, arriving with guns on their hips and binnies in their hands. Good allies to have; as ever the presence of the wolves isn't tolerated by all, and they are not protected in this area.
After three days the rocks, bushes and trees became intimately familiar as we scoured with binoculars and telescopes. The shifting shadows and light beautiful to watch, the act of slowing down therapeutic. But, despite our many pairs of eyes, no wolves showed themselves.
One day we drove to Puebla de Sanabria:
... and from there to the village of San Martin de la Castañeda. At a village restaurant Juan was served the biggest pork chop he had ever seen – it must have been close to a kg. Our explosion of shocked laughter turned heads in the restaurants. Clearly, the gastronomic revolution Phil had talked about has yet to reach far flung Zamora.
Another day we stopped at Villardeciervos, stocking up on fruit to complement our 100% animal protein diet. The options at the spit-and-sawdust bar where we stopped for a coffee were moro (pig face), callos (tripe) and oreja (ear). Luckily we weren't relying on the place for lunch!
Strolling around, an elderly woman was perplexed when I snapped at her chick peas drying in the sun. España profunda…
Perhaps the highlight of this part of the holiday was following Antonio junior’s recommendation and discovering a lake just 5km from the casa. We had it entirely to ourselves. To skinny dip was pure heaven for me; seeing what might have been a wolf track did the same for Juan.
transhumance is alive and well
After our long drive we enjoyed simply hanging out at the casa rural outside Cepeda la Mora: lounging in the sun and doing a limited foray in the near vicinity (Phil and me), stomping around the environs (Juan).
Juan had chosen Cepeda village because it was referenced in one of his books on village life in a previous age and was suitably “godforsaken” for his tastes. We walked up to the village centre to take a look and have a beer in a lively bar, populated by locals and second-home owners.
As the sun set we drove up above the casa for a typical northern Gredos view:
Walking in this less-than touristy area isn’t easy – we had no maps and much of the rolling, boulder-strewn hills are fenced off. But we spotted a track and invented a walk up a stream that took us into the path of a shepherd based at nearby Navacepeda. He was in no hurry, indicating the hip flask of wine in his satchel that will sustain him through the day. We chewed the cud for some time, watching the dogs working the sheep and learning about how the area has changed in his lifetime – fields of barley replaced by gorse as agriculture becomes less significant.
As the sun set we drove up above the casa for a typical northern Gredos view:
Walking in this less-than touristy area isn’t easy – we had no maps and much of the rolling, boulder-strewn hills are fenced off. But we spotted a track and invented a walk up a stream that took us into the path of a shepherd based at nearby Navacepeda. He was in no hurry, indicating the hip flask of wine in his satchel that will sustain him through the day. We chewed the cud for some time, watching the dogs working the sheep and learning about how the area has changed in his lifetime – fields of barley replaced by gorse as agriculture becomes less significant.
an 11th century chapel in the middle of nowhere: San Baudelio de Berlanga
Our initial destination was Cepeda la Mora (Gredos), to meet with Phil. Only in Spain is it possible to contemplate driving such a huge distance with any degree of ease. But even so, it was a slog (for Juan, doing the brunt of the driving) and we were both glad to break the journey with a bit of cultural tourism.
Despite cultural vandalism in the early 20th century which resulted in frescos being scraped off the chapel walls and taken to private collections in the US, San Baudelio de Berlanga was a jewel. The only visitors, we enjoy it unencumbered.
Berlanga itself is a pleasant little town. We joined another couple who had phoned a local biddy to show them around the church. Her high-pitched drone was a challenge too much for my Spanish and I drifted off on my own. Out of sight I heard her sudden squawk. And sure enough, one of the group – but not Juan! – was being reprimanded for taking a photo. A few minutes later those of us who weren’t hanging on her every word were more or less told to bugger off!
 |
| Moron de Almazan - an unexpected gem lost in the middle of plains of sunflower fields. |
Berlanga itself is a pleasant little town. We joined another couple who had phoned a local biddy to show them around the church. Her high-pitched drone was a challenge too much for my Spanish and I drifted off on my own. Out of sight I heard her sudden squawk. And sure enough, one of the group – but not Juan! – was being reprimanded for taking a photo. A few minutes later those of us who weren’t hanging on her every word were more or less told to bugger off!
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