La Sierra de Aracena

Goodbye Cadiz, hello campo...

Problema pequeña

My camera is broken :(

No pics until I fix it / figure out how to get all the old ones off.

Lunch over looking Africa

Tarifa... The Southern most point of mainland Europe, where two continents stretch out to one another, finger tips almost within touching distance. Arabic and Iberian culture fuse with one another after years of fruitful cross pollination.

Climbing through the winding streets through the old town, the languid, easy going nature of this city becomes apparent. For years it was a fiercely faught-over gateway to neighbouring civilisations, now it's one of the biggest attractions on the the Costa De Luz; A welcoming pit stop for travellers heading South into Africa, and a haven for the wind and kite surfers of the world, all searching for the perfect rip.

The most traditional of Andaluz cafes spill out into the streets and plazas, complete with all the Arabic hallmarks of palms, fountains, and blue and white mosaic tiles. Meanwhile 'alternative' culture nestles in comfortably besides, all ecotherapies, vegan pizzas, piercings, tattoos and dreadlocks.

At the highest point of the town stands the Mirador Del Estrecho. A single tower standing proudly to attention, presenting a Spanish flag across the water to Tangier, Morroco and the remainder of the world that lies beyond.

Sheltering to one side of the courtyard that surrounds the lookout, I lay my lunch out on the bench beside me. It's a modest assortment, but nonetheless, one I don't think I'll ever tire of: Fresh bread, ripe tomatoes bought from an old lady at a street stall, and a sweet, juicy orange bearing the paper wrapper branding of Naranjos Sastre de Sevilla. I stare out to sea for minutes on end between each mouthful, and the next time I look at my watch, almost an has passed before me. It's amazing how enthralling a dark band across the horizon can be...

Below lies the Playa de Los Lances where the the world's second largest ocean is funnelled into a bottle neck at the Straights of Gibraltar, there are five kilometres of windswept shore that is constantly pounded with the full force of nature's elements. After stashing my bag beneath an as yet unopened beach bar on the sand dunes, I head off to the water, spending the remainder of the afternoon body boarding in the frothy white waters of the Atlantic.

When I return, the owner is at the bar, adding a lick of paint to the exterior before the season gets underway on the first weekend in June. With shades wrapped across his eyes, and long hair blowing in the wind, he tells me how he spends four months here, four months at his other chiringuito in Uruguay, and the remainder of the year with friends in his native Madrid. I wonder if life could be any more perfect.

After drying off in the evening sun, I head back to the old town, plonking myself at the first table I see on the terraces of palm tree-lined Paseo de la Alamedas. I order my current favourite dish, calamari a la plancha, and sit sipping a beer, eating olives, and dunking chunks of bread into a saucer full of olive oil that's so piquant it makes my tongue tingle. Not even the warblings of the billowing-voiced American on the next table can spoil my sense of contentment, as he recalls his time serving in The US Army, as if the whole of Tarifa were his audience.

I finish my meal as the sun finishes it's long, slow kiss with the ocean, far away on the horizon. Leaning back on my chair, I look to the south, as the last of the highlights drop from from the cliffs of Africa's northern shores. The light dims over the Costa De Luz. A whole continent begins to fade into the dark, evening sky. And then, it is gone.

Little creatures, big in Andalusia

Caracoles, or snails, are somewhat ubiquitous in Andalusia. Any cerveceria or tapas bar worth it's salt will advertise their availability on a black board outside, with the inscription "Hay caracoles", or just as often, simple with a crude drawing of snail, complete with cartoon-esque eyes at the ends of the antenna.

After a game of football last night (students versus locals), we ate them as a snack in the bar opposite the football field, skewering the little fleshy lump and levering them at of the shell. Nice as they were, next time I might be tempted to stick to a banana and a Lucozade.

Cadiz

Spanish school beside the seaside...

Los Toros

Thirty one degrees in la calle,

Paseo de Cristobal Colón.

Heat fuels the sense of expectancy,

The afternoon has come.

The whole world is heading in one direction,

To see. To be. To be seen.

Today they stroll with a purpose,

Working man and bourgeoisie.

Sol o Sombre? Alto o abajo?

Keep the glare out of your eyes.

Here, the spectacular awaits us,

History in reprise.

Out of the tunnel and into the Plaza,

Tradition to cherish and hold.

A vision of this fair country,

In shades of claret and gold.

It's time: Horns blow, the show begins,

Every sight and every sound.

A microcosm of pain and pleasure,

Contained within the round.

Six bulls unleashed; noble beasts,

Beautiful. Powerful. Pure.

Six matadors and their muletas,

Red cloaks, daggers and swords.

Shadows stretch to touching distance.

Face to face and eye to eye.

Sequins and tassels will draw attention,

But fear they cannot hide.

Instinct guiding every act,

Predator, pray; Role reversal.

Events may twist and turn before us,

The results are always mortal.

The blade is drawn, fate is set,

The result given before it begins.

Noble beast versus the people's coward,

In a game it can never win.

Las Terrazas

You're never far from the many Spanish traditions in Sevilla... Particularly at tapas bar Las Terrazas, where a little slice of almost every aspect of Andaluz life sits present and correct, perched on a corner in the Barrio Santa Cruz. Faded old photos of long-passed family members. Trinkets, contraptions and gizmos from bye-gone times. A depiction of a nameless Señora, dressed for flamenco, a tear of passion in her eye. The head of el torro protudes proudly from the wall, staring at the enviable selection of embutidos hanging across the room. A trio of 'retired' carving knives displayed like memorials to the many hundreds of legs of jamón they've cut in their vidas laborales...