The road to León - where the wild thyme grows and the economy shrinks

Wednesday morning we head off towards Leon, vowing to take a light lunch, stopping at a supermarket on the outskirts of Zamora for a spot of picnic shopping and to fill up the car with milk(see earlier posts). Armed with a loaf of bread, a piece of award-wining Zamora cheese (as seen on the menu at Los Gatos), a tin of anchovies, a couple of tomatoes, olive oil, salt, pepper and a bottle of wine, we are planning to stay clear of the motorway and find a picnic spot near some water which appears to be abundant on the map.

We head off the road in the direction of the Embalse de Ricobayo but don't seem to be able to get anywhere near it - our luck has failed. We do come across the exraordinary sight of an abandoned urban development: neatly laid out roads and tar-mac driveways, all leading to barren plots, overgrown with the wild dreams and withered hopes of a lakeside idyll - the lake having shrunk to a now-distant pond. According to our Tom Tom we have driven across several fields before we reach a small village - clearly a local village for local people... There is one bar, but it's closed, and about as much life as Wood Street on a Monday night. Probably just as well, given (a) our earlier promise to restrain ourselves today and (b) the hostile looks of the local lurking lads - not well travelled, and perhaps not well travelled for several generations.

Heading out of the village again we find a clearing by the road, if only there was a litle shade it would be the perfect picnic spot. Our thirst has been tickled by the sight of a closed bar, so we decide to make do with the raised boot of the car and a couple of towels for shade. Our lunch is superb. Take the above listed ingredients, add a little wild thyme, eat. We've said it before, but we'll say it again - simple is, undeniably, best.

We reach León in the late afternoon and find our good luck restored with the hotel. Firstly, the grandly named Luis de León is bang opposite El Corte Ingles - the John Lewis of Spain - which has a 50% off sale. (Shareen has missed a bit of shopping and the food hall is always worth a serious browse.) Secondly, we are awarded an upgrade to an "executive room" - bigger and more comfortable and with a "pillow menu" no less! When we booked this the day before, we had had a discussion about whether we should pay the extra €30 for a better room as we were going to stay 2 nights and wanted to unpack and settle in a bit, but had decided to spend the difference on dinner instead... Ha! So now we could have our cake and eat it (or any pillows from the menu) and all for €60.

León's magnificent cathedral (above) is currently being restored and we spent a fascinating half hour watching as some skilled and brave stone masons/antique restoration experts carefully removed a statue from a plinth on the front of the building, wrapped it up and took it away for repair.

That evening, we are on the search for a small bar we visited (several times) two years ago, when we passed through León on the Camino de Santiago, the old pilgrim route which runs through the town on its trail from the south of France to the cathedral city of Santiago de Compostela. León is not only at the crossing point of this roue and the Ruta del Plata, which we have been following south to north, it is also at the centre of the universe of embutidos. The bar we were looking for made its own cecina - cured beef - as well as a range of rich and dark cured sausages and salamis of other kinds. After our deliberately light lunch we felt ready for a litle meaty snack... sadly when we eventually found what we thought might have been the place we remembered, it was closed.

León was, in fact, the first place where we had really been struck by how hard the global recession has hit Spain. We found many bars and restaurants closed, and not just for the holidays, and those that were open quieter than usual. Although Spain's banks have remained strong (historically very tight regulation resulting in them having been required to maintain far higher reserves than many other countries,) the country is now bracing itself for up to 20% unemployment by next year - much of this due to a dramatic drop in tourism. We read in our Rough Guide that, although the population of Spain is only around 46 million, (including almost 1 million ex-pat Brits) they welcome over 60 million visitors a year from all over the world. Maybe some of us are guilty of thinking of Spain as a slightly backward country with an overdeveloped holiday coastline, but, other than Columbus sailing the ocean blue, our standard UK history lessons didn't teach us a lot about the heyday of Iberian imperialism, when the conquistadores of Spain and Portugal between them dominated both sides of the Atlantic, parts of India and the far east as well. (As an Irishwoman, imperialism is bread and butter to Shareen...) Anyway, the fatal combination of the weak pound (buys about 30% less in euros than a year ago) and rising unemployment abroad, has hit the tourist industry hard and is expected to hit even harder. So if our story hasn't tempted you so far - perhaps this will encourage you to do your bit for Spain and pay it a visit this year!

Salamanca - better on a Tuesday

Our second day in Salamanca was more fruitful than the first. Exploring a different part of the city, we had a few nibbles in a Portuguese bar (very close to the Portuguese border here) - excellent bacalao con nata (a mini fish pie) and a salt cod fritter the name of which we failed to write down. Further down the street we spotted the Meson de Cochinillo - well too tempting! This was a place of extremes - incredibly tender delicious freshly roasted cochinillo (piglet) in little chunks. A media racion (half portion, half of which we'd eaten before we remembered to take a picture) was more than we could eat between us, even though we were unable to stomach the patatas alioli (re-christened by us patatas al espumante de afeitar - potatoes thickly layered with shaving foam, which although somewhat puzzling in flavour made a very effective insulator - the congealed white foam peeling back perfectly to reveal the fried patatas ,still warm, long after we had finished the pork.) Somehow our vow to lay off the meat for a bit didn't hold out...

After porking out for lunch we needed a bit of a siesta, but ventured out later with a desire for something light with a modern twist. Some research on TripAdvisor turned up Vinodiario. Just one review by a local but close enough to the hotel to take a punt so off we went.

Set in a quiet plaza with tables outside, interesting modern décor inside and clearly a haunt of younger academics it looked promising. The menu was full of interesting sounding bits and pieces. We opted for some Cantabrian Anchovies and some more Bacaloa Ahumado, both of which came on a base of artisanal bread with a slick of grated fresh tomato, and a curious sounding “Hot Dog Iberico con ketchup de frutas rojas”, which turned out to be a “quartet” of deliciously meaty sausages with a strawberry, raspberry and (we suspect) white balsamic vinegar "ketchup" - deliciously interesting - watch out - we will be experimenting! We rounded off with a tabla de quesos which was disappointingly international with interlopers from France, Germany and Holland, but then I suppose even the Spanish fancy a change sometimes.

Salamanca - City of Dreams

Salamanca is the Cambridge of Spain. Majestic university buildings dominate the old part of town, and have done since the twelfth century, apart from a short period when the Spanish Inquisition unexpectedly reduced student numbers by torturing the lecturers (don't tell the DES) and banning maths and medicine because they were anti-christian. Not until the inroduction of the National Curriculum was this level of interference with freedom of academics seen again.

Today there are more than 100,000 students at the university, many of them from outside Spain, and the proliferation of quality low-cost food outlets should of course be a response to such an a sizeable and discriminating market... nevertheless Burger King and Macdonalds have established a foothold, (where is the Inquisition when you need it?) although they are not allowed in the Plaza Mayor - a magnificent and well preserved cloistered square, and strictly the preserve of high-cost low quality Spanish food outlets. Unfortunately, the main university building, where we could have seen the ancient lecture rooms where many original scientific and mathematical theories were first debated before being accepted throughout the world, was closed for re-furbishment. Once more our attempts to absorb a bit of culture and wisdom are thwarted and we are forced instead to find a bar...

Right by our hotel (a good choice if I may say so, the Catalonia Salamanca Plaza, just behind the Plaza Mayor but not facing onto it) is a small bar La Dehesa - translation: a pigless oak forest. Not a pigless bar however, nor a fishless, eggless one either. Tortilla not bad (contains potatoes although a little more olive oil wouldn't have hurt) but the silver medal goes to the "tapa de bacalao ahumado con queso filadelfia" - a triumph of cross-cultural gastronomy. A thick layer of smoked cod (think of smoked salmon that's white and tastes of cod) smothers a thin scrape of cream cheese. I may be wrong about this, but I think the term "filadelfia" is used in Spain to refer to cream cheese of the type in general. In tapas bars it is often used to effect when spread on bread under an oily topping (smoked fish or anchovies, for example) - it prevents the oil soaking into the bread, which would leave the topping dry. Anyway the point is the topping is the important part and the smoked cod was delicious - definitely the new smoked salmon.

Our first evening in Salamanca was not a great success. In an effort to avoid both low quality and high prices, we wander down a street - San Pablo - where our Rough Guide has identified a number of bars and restaurants as worth visiting. We're in the habit of using the guide not for its specific recommendations but to identify the general drinking/eating areas in a city. Bars and restaurants in most towns and cities do tend to cluster together - there's an old maxim that the best place to open a restaurant is next to a good restaurant - a phenomenon that's recognised almost everywhere, except Swindon. However in Salamanca this tactic failed - most of the places on the street were either closed for the holidays (a risk in July or August) or not worth the detour off the pavement. We tried 3, all pretty dire, but the most shameful being a trendy modern place called MOMO - listed, no less, in La Guia Michelin 2009, with a decent (but not cheap) list of wines by the glass, but with such a shocking-looking display of stale, curling tapas of the neither tasty nor ornamental variety, that we could only assume that the tapas they put out the day the Michelin Man called went down such a storm that they had decided to leave them there for the rest of the year. Nevertheless a small glass and a little more bacalao ahumada in La Dehesa finished the night in style.

It may be that the smoked cod accounts for Shareen's dream that night, who knows, but interpret this if you dare... She actually woke up giggling uncontrollably, tears of mirth running down her face as she described the dream thus:

"We took Florence and Patrick back to university, where they were sharing the same house with a bunch of others. Phil immediately set to fixing all the equipment in the kitchen which was broken, and I to cleaning it. I went upstairs to find that Florence had unpacked all her belongings and made her room her own - just like when she was about 5, with her printed duvet cover and teddies etc all laid out. Her bottom sheet was torn in shreds however, so I decided I would just pop to Tesco's to buy her a new one. Phil wanted the car to go and buy some electrical parts to fix something, so one of the other students in the house said I could borrow hers. She explained that, in order to save money, the car had been adapted so it would run on milk, and she gave me a tiny little jug of milk to put in it.

Unfortunately the car was parked behind a barrier, now closed, but this was no problem to me, I just got out and lifted the car over the barrier. However, in the process I inadvertently spilled the jug of milk, much to the amusement of the three large dogs who were watching me. (Normally I am terrified of large dogs - these were a St. Bernard, a Great Dane and one of those other huge horse/wolf cross-breeds, but I wasn't frightened of them at all.) They were just quiely tut-tutting amongst themselves about how I'd spilt the milk, and now the car wouldn't go anywhere.

Undaunted, I went and knocked on the door of a nearby university building, which was opened by a smartly uniformed female naval officer, from whom I requested the loan of a cup of milk. With a dismissive gesture, she referred me to a bearded Captain at the other end of the room (the room was full of them all sitting round a big table having a meeting) indicating that lending cups of milk was his job. He went to get said milk, and meanwhile one of the other officers decided I should be questioned while I waited. "I bet you can't answer this," he roared, laughing and nudging his fellow admirals, "Which motorway runs through Nottingham?" Confidently and without hesitation I replied "the M6," which response he judged to be accurate, declaring that I was not so stupid as I looked. At this point, my younger sister Nuala appeared, not with a cup of milk, but a cup of soup. "The captain thought you'd prefer this," she announced, "it's so cold outside." "But," I whined in ungrateful protest, "my car doesn't run on soup, it runs on milk..." at which point the absurdity of my position became clear enough to wake me up.

Pigs!

It would be putting it mildly to say that between Las Mestas and Salamanca the road climbs steeply round hairpin bends with precipitous drops of several hundred metres... one of the most frightening things is that the authorities found it necessary to put "no overtaking" signs every few hundred metres - suggesting, as it does, that some Spanish truck driver might decide to come hurtling towards you and push you over the edge! Phil sneered with disdain at my protestations to drive more slowly, but the smile was on the other side of his face when we reached the top and he looked round to see the trembling puddle of sweat and tears that occupied his passenger seat. Fortunately, the descent is a more gentle coast downhill (obviously) - from my geography lessons I remember this geographical formation to be called an escarpment - if anyone is reading this I am sure they will correct me if I'm wrong, especially if it's one of my sisters.

North into Castilla y León, the hills once more give way to the flat plains of the dehesa - oak trees stretching out as far as the eye can see, and at any other time of year (except this week apparently,) bustling with porcine activity of the Iberian kind...

It is possible that Shareen, exhausted after the long climb, may have shut her eyes for a moment or two when suddenly a cry of "PIGS!" wakes up the entire province of Salamanca, who have just settled down for their siesta, and most of the northern half of Extramadura to boot. Screeching to a halt, the VW Polo is reversed at breakneck speed back up the SA205, (or an un-marked minor road, depending on wheher you go by the Michelin map or the road signs,) although thankfully not up the hill again, to reveal, miraculously, a small whitewashed stone pen where snuffle happily no less than several of the famed black Iberian pigs, and what's more, a few little cochinillos besides.

Look - pigs!

For several moments we toyed with the idea of rustling one of these cochinillos and buying one of those instant barbecues from the next garage, but sadly the discussion then moved on to whether we might just borrow one for a photo-opportunity in the dehesa (where it should have been) or whether it would be easier to photoshop it in later. We decide Florence can do the trick photography stuff, so here you are, Flo - put these two pictures together and see if you can come up with something better than this:

Mission accomplished, we head straight for Salamanca and lunch.

Cáceres, goats and into the mountains...

Sunday begins with a quick stroll around the churches of Trujillo, where Phil climbs the tower for a bird's eye view, while Shareen rejects a spectoral invitation to join the flock (of the Virgin, not the storks.)

Inspired, we hit the road for Cáceres, home of the eponymous Marquis (Sainsbury's, Tescos, and every restaurant between - he makes a lot of wine.) It also has an almost completely walled town at its centre making it another historical place worth a visit - just remember always to take in the Plazas Mayores in these towns from a standing position and move off them before you sit down for a drink or a meal, unless you are feeling particularly like paying more for less.

Cacares does have Atrio - a two Michelin starred restaurant, whose website we consult to see if there are any special offers (as there are currently in many top end dining places which have suffered much from the recession. A handy tip if you're going out to eat, especially at lunchtime in London. This is not a bad thing as it may be the only opportunity many people will get to try extraordinary food at slightly more ordinary prices.) Anyway, Atrio's website tells us nothing, except, after a lengthy musical intro (don't they annoy you?) that the last award the restaurant won was for its web design - pretty good going for a resaurant website that doesn't have its menu or any other useful information on it. Our distrust of M Michelin is growing by the day.

But all by ourselves, we come across La Tahona - a smart looking joint in the modern style but with an interesting looking menu of both tapas and raciones. We decide that, since we are almost out of Extramadura and still haven't seen any pigs, we'd better make pigs of ourselves, and head inside, where in fact we make silly billies of ourselves by sharing a quarter of a cabrito. Accompanied by waxy potatoes gently stewed in olive oil and a little ensalada, this goatlet has been roasted in a clay pot in a wood oven (horno de leña) and is, frankly, delicious.

In an effort to get off the beaten track and have a change of scene, we have booked a hotel in the mountains for Sunday night. The Sierra de Peña de Francia is in the Parque Nacional de las Batuecas, a walking and hunting area south west of Salamanca, our next destination. The Hospederia de las Hurdes in Las Mestas, just on the edge of Extramadura, is part of a small Extramaduran chain of private hotels specialising in converting old buildings for hotel use (convents etc) like a poor man's Parador. The hotel (pictured right) had just opened that week for the summer and we were one of about 3 or 4 rooms occupied, as far as we could tell. Miles from anywhere, we had to eat in the hotel - another three course menu being the only thing on offer. Hotel restaurant - not bad, not great, not recommended. But the setting of the hotel was well worth the journey, as was the terrifying drive North to Salamanca in the morning (Shareen terrified, Phil driving) but more of that next time...

Trujillo "the most atractive town in Extramadura"

... according to the Rough Guide, and we found no reason to disagree with this. East of Cacares, we decided to stay the night here, following the advice of both Javiers, one who suggested a place to eat, the other who said "the food is bad but the storks are worth seeing.!" Having eaten a 3 course lunch in Arange, we feel happy to risk it.

Through our usual last minute booking method (see earlier post) we have found the most exquisite little hotel in a sixteenth century stone building with a courtyard restaurant. The Posada Dos Orillas (Inn of Two Owls) is just above the enormous Plaza Major and although it has only two stars (probably because it has no lift) it has all modern comforts and charm besides. We receive a very warm welcome and indulge in a chilled glass of wine in the courtyard before a shower and a siesta.

It's a balmy Saturday evening and the Plaza Mayor is not only huge, but packed with Spanish families out for the evening -weekenders from further south, or even Madrid, quite possibly, as the new motorways have made access much easier. We've been away almost a week, and Merida is, so far, the only place we've seen another English speaking tourist (and they were Americans.)

We stroll around a few bars, not very hungry, watching the nightlife. After a while we decide against anything major on the gastronomic front but go for a media racion of Torta del Casar - a local soft cheese a bit like a very gooey camembert in style, but much more tasty and very creamy. It arrives fridge-cold but in minutes is running all over the plate. Yum yum. The croquetas (an addiction of Shareen's) are disappointing, but a timely reminder that greed comes before a bad plate of food...

So here, true to Javier's word, is a stork:

Mérida – heart of Roman Spain

We’re almost at the horizontal fold on the Michelin map, and it’s about here that the Roman influences on Spain become more apparent than the Moorish ones. There is a virtually complete amphitheatre, temple and impressive aquaduct, as well as numerous other smaller evidence of the former Roman capital.

But the town is also well promoted as a tourist site, so well that the bars selling overpriced drinks and sandwiches and the souvenir shops selling overpriced tat, have taken over. There’s a handy little train that leaves from the gate to the amphitheatre which for €3 will take you on a 45 minute tour of all the important sites with a running commentary complete with background Roman music (they found a CD under one of the mosaic floors, at least I think that’s what he said, the commentary is all in very fast Spanish.) Train tour highly recommended, catching your hip on sharp hook as you board, not.

Antonio recommended Mérida. Thanks, Antonio.

Lake swimming at Alange gives us a healthy appetite!

From Almendralejo we set off across the countryside, trying to avoid the major roads, realising that our 2009 Michelin map of Spain and Portugal is just not good enough and that the Spanish road system is undergoing such rapid changes that our TomTom, even with its newly updated maps can’t keep up. Every little village seems to have sprouted a by-pass, but the budget must have been exhausted before they got around to the sign posts!

More olives, more vines, but we are off in search of water. A lake at Alange, where the Romans built baths, sounds just the spot. Water means mud and everyone knows pigs love mud. “Water ahead!” shouts Phil as we round a bend to see a “yoof” diving off a viaduct some 150 feet to the water below – but look just a stream! He must be dead… Aha! Coils of elastic rope reveal the madness of bungie jumpers – flying yoof but no flying pigs! But the sun is shining and the road empty and the sleepy rolling plains of olives and vines, that stretch as far as the eye can see, welcome us anyway.

Around noon we reach Alange, a small town with a disproportionate number of hotels because of its swimming lake. There is a shop that sells everything, from lidded olive pots which we have been looking for, to tins of fish, and a pharmacy that sells anti-histamine cream.

The lakeside road and hotels are now, however, less lakeside than lake view, the water level having receded at least a couple of hundred metres below. A forlorn jetty lies marooned on the sand, its floating days over. But take heart – there is water still, and the drop in level has left hundreds of yards of sandy “beach” over which we drive our car down to the water’s edge.




At this stupid time of day there is one other family on the beach (they must be the mad dogs.) The sun is over the yard arm and it’s time for a Manzanilla for courage. The swimming is lovely. The water is clean as a whistle and warm, very little weed, a few fish and so clear. The best kind of swimming there is, we conclude. Even hours later we will still be able to feel the effect of the soft water on our skin. But right now, that fateful combination of shopping and exercise has given us an appetite!

We had spotted an interesting looking bar-restaurant as we drove into the town earlier and decide to investigate its lunch possibilities. It’s coming up to 3.00 and Shareen is developing a mild anxiety neurosis about sleepy towns closing up early, after our experience in Zafra the day before. However behind the immaculate paintwork of the Meson Restaurante Trinidad all proves well, when, not only are we served two beers with a tapa of delicious shreds of pork and onions, but we also spot that the comedor with its menu del dia is open from 13.30 –16.30 daily! A traditional Menu Extrameño is recited by the bar man, from which we choose Huevos Rellenos and Ensaladilla Russa, followed by Chuletas de Cordero and Chuleton de Cerdo, both of which come with chips, naturally, but nice ones which soak up the meat juices from the excellent, if huge and well salted, lamb and pork chops. We were determined to refuse el postre but the temptation to sample the arroz con leche and flan, (both casero -home made - and they really were) proved too great. The menu, by the way, very sensibly included a bottle of local wine (a DO Guadiana joven, very passable) and went for a total of €12 each. You could do a lot worse than spend a week in Alange, but sadly we must move on, as the Roman ruins of Mérida are calling us.

Extramadura - land of the lost pigs...

Time to leave Andalucia and the South behind - time to slow down on the fish or we'll come home with gills (or more likely tentacles.) Friday morning we head north from Sevilla towards Almendralejo where we have a restaurant recommendation. On the way we stop in Zafra for a light refreshment -some cool beers and a couple of tapas for lunch. The sleepy little town with two adjoining mediaeval sqaures has all gone back to sleep by 3.00 pm.

We are into Extramadura now and our eyes are open for pigs. "Extrema - dura" means "extremely hard" - referring, we thought, to the very tough conditions here - extremely hot in summer and exremely cold in winter. It's pretty warm - around 35 - but not as hot as the city thanks to the breezes and the rising height of the terrain, which is a surprising mixture of apparently fertile land growing vines and olives, interspersed with rocky outcrops. We see a lot of large healthy looking horned brown cattle, plenty of sheep and a few goats, but not a pig in sight! Nor, for that matter, much in the way of an oak tree, under which the beasts should be happily shovelling up those acorns...

No pigs, and no almond trees either, despite the name "Almendralejo" (place of almonds.) We do see a large jamon processing plant and several canning factories, so there must be some activity - it's just hidden form the road. Ah - the road. Very much a feature of Almendralejo and its hotels and restaurants. The A66 motorway, which has taken over the "Ruta de Plata" walking route, has also taken over Almendralejo, it seems. Just by-passing the town, (by-passing our hotel by about 50 metres, in fact) it seems to have transformed what may once have been a flourishing stopover, into a sort of wild west ghost town, strung along the deserted former road. In order to solve this problem, the local authorities, with a flourish of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" appear to have decided to compete with the motorway by digging up the entire town to create a dual carriageway right through it. These obras have now come to a standstill - too hot perhaps or run out of money? But the sad result is concrete chaos.

Our hotel, having lost much or all of the stopover business on which I guess it depended, decided to open its doors to the locals in the form of a "Club Desportivo" - the pool and what's left of the hotel grounds (some stolen for the motorway, apparently) are full of the local "yoof", as is the hotel dining room, mentioned in the Michelin guide book, but obviously not checked out since it most of it was turned over to a cafeteria to serve said yoof. Tut tut, M. Michelin...

Our dinner at El Paraiso is also threatened by transport as the front courtyard of the restaurant, on which the managment have continued, in their wisdom, to deploy their best tables and linen and glassware, is now a mere 20 metres or so from the roaring juggernauts on their way from Sevilla to Swindon via Caceres and all points north. Never mind, this distraction pales into insignificance upon the arrival of Julio himself (for surely it must be none other than he) complete with keyboard, microphone and electric guitar - truly a one-man orchestra, and versatile at that. We are treated to a medley of well known Spanish hits, deploying all twenty of the above instruments and at least 2 different rhythms, hits such as "Sobreviviro" and "Senorita en Rojo" (work it out yourelves.) It was all I could do to restrain Phil from volunteering to sing "Hi ho Silver Lining" in honour of the Ruta de Plata.

But the food - the food is always the thing (at least it is with us.) We decide to go for meat meat meat after all the fish fish fish. A plate of "surtido de Ibericos" (shared, thank God) reveals why there are no pigs to be seen - all the pigs in Extramadra are on our plate. We have enough thickly sliced and cured meat here to make sandwiches for the International Brigade for a month. The volume is daunting. The flavours powerful. Good country stuff, but we are weak city folk and cannot do it justice. I have ordered a Chuleta de Buey (a rib steak, literally "beef cutlet") and I know it's not going to be small. Phil has gone for the Paleta de Cabrita con Tomillo (shoulder of kid, roast with thyme.) The steak is wonderful meat -thick, juicy and perfectly cooked on a smokey wood fire with a lot of salt. Very powerful flavours again. The kid meat is just wonderful. Fresh wild thyme and salt are the only additions and the only necessary ones. It's soft, juicy, tender and tasty and falls off the bone. There is very little "goatiness" about it - the flavour is very sweet, much like lechal (milk-fed lamb), and not much bigger. I'm afraid I ate most of it and Phil ate most of the steak, but i wasn't the first time I had got his goat.... (arf, arf.) We'd almost forgoten about Julio by the time we left.

Sevilla - the hottest city in Spain

We hear the weather is warm this week in England - ha! Not as warm as here - 41 degrees in Sevilla, and not much less at night. Thank god for those windmills making us feel less guilty about the air conditioning.

If you need to understand why the Spanish have a reputation for sometimes moving a little slowly, try Sevilla in July or August. It's impossible to take big steps or to move your feet in front of each other faster than a snail. Anyway, why?

This is a city developed by the Arabs who occupied Spain for 700 years. Side by side with the Jewish inhabitants and later the Christians, the architecture is unique blend of arabic and baroque - you can see pictures all over the internet, no need for us to add ours.

Our message about eating in Seville is, ignore the guides and listen to what we say. Michelin recommends some tapas bars - the ones we checked out highly commercialised, highly priced and highly empty. We have a favourite place - Barra Casa Robles, just up a narrow street to the west of the Cathedral. Here you can eat (for example) fresh fish and shellfish, revueltos de bacalao (scrambled eggs with salt cod), the best creamy and crispy croquetas (apart from ours) we have ever tasted, caldareta de cordero lechal (stew of baby lamb - you must suck the meat from the bones) and yet more puntillitas... several glasses of the house white won't hurt, and the coffee is good too. That was lunch.

Before we take you out for the evening, a siesta. It's worth describing our method for finding hotels while we travel. Internet access is relatively easy in Spain. The hotels mostly have it for free, although some charge (a reason to avoid in our minds) and in the smaller towns we have frequently found free community internet in the Plazas Majores. We take our laptop (more modern young things would have an i-phone) and book one or two days ahead, using http://www.booking.com/. In the summer season, away from the tourist resorts, a four-star business hotel with a swimming pool and all mod cons can be had for a (relative) song... €60 is typical for a double room. Often these places lack character but make up for it in comfort. The occasional night in a small converted house or convent for example, might make up for this. But mostly we would rather find character in the bars, because that's what we're about. In Sevilla, we stayed in the Hotel Fernando III - very comfortable and old fashioned, large rooms, large bathroom, pool etc. Right in the centre a few minutes walk from the cathedral. Just see what's the best match at the time you are looking.

Anyway - an evening in Seville is due. We went out at 10.30 pm. Earlier is too hot. At 10.30 it's still too hot. At 01.00 when you walk home, it's too hot, but many of the bars were busier then than earlier. But be warned - tapas is not an all-night thing, contrary to popular myth. Most stop food about 11 or 12 - check when you arrive. If you're still hungry at midnight, you may well find dinner in a restaurant that didn't open until 10.00 pm.

Having checked out and rejected the recommended places (see above) we ended up in Barbiana (Albareda 11). Serving vinos de Jerez from the barrel (manzanilla, oloroso, amontillado and moscatel) and an extensive list of freshly cooked tapas, as well as the usual salads etc in the chiller on the bar. We had a tortillita de camarones - a crisp fried pancake of tiny tiny shrimps in their shells - and MORE puntillitas. We just can't get enough of these tiny fried squidlets - they're so sweet and soft and crispy and lovely and what's most important, you can't get them at home so you must eat them while you can!

Three guys next to us at the bar were eating these huge bright red prawn things about the size of a banana. "Quiero uno de estos, por favor!" (A very useful phrase.) "Uno carabiñero?" says the barman, "Muy, muy bueno" says the guy beside us, reassuringly. It's not on the menu and we don't ask the price. Along it comes, fresh cooked and too hot to handle, so we have to watch it patiently until it cools down. (Actually Shareen isn't so patient and starts waving it around, dribbling prawny juices everywhere, what a waste...) Oh sweet, sweet flesh! How pink and tender! How, well, prawny actually! Phil squeezes spoonfuls of juice out of its head and we get bread to mop it up with. Worth every last cent of the €18 it cost (yeah, for one prawn...) You couldn't sell these in Swindon, even if you could get them, sadly. But look, we drank 8 glasses of Manzanilla between us and bought two for the kitchen by way of thanks and appreciation, and our total evening out cost us less than dinner for 2 anywhere in the UK would have. And much more fun.

Wednesday - a day at the seaside

We swam in the hotel pool because we knew we were not going to wade through the low tides and fish when we reached Sanlucar de Barrameda, home of Manzanilla sherry and of the people who make it. We met our friends in the business at their 18th century cortijo just outside the town and after a few choice Manzanillas headed for a seaside restaurant at Chipiona, a few km along the beaches from Sanlucar.

This coast has all the fish you could think of. The estuary of the Guadalquivir meets the sea just at the point where the Atlantic funnels into the Mediterranean. You have fish from all three waters here, and plenty of them. Some of the ancient fishing methods are preserved here - the tuna caught in the arab traditional "Almadraba" nets, fish and shellfish caught in "corales" - tidal pools created by making rock lagoons where the fish are caught as the tide goes out - the rocks themselves acting as natural homes for oysters, mussels and other rock-hugging shellfish. Several species are unique to the local waters - gambas de Sanlucar, a small sweet prawn and Moro Negro, a member of the black bream family only caught here. Both sell at high prices in the local restaurants, both delicious. We know.

Another perfect lunch for four:

Gambas de Sanlucar

Chiperones a la Plancha

Almejas Marinera

Moro Negra a la Plancha (about 2 kilos)

Ensalada de Tomates

2 Bottles of La Gitana Manzanilla

A little bread

To describe this any further would only be repetitive, but suffice to say there is nothing better than sitting within metres of the source of your lunch, with your friends, in the sunshine. And when the food is not just good, but good for you too, how can there be anything more sublime?

This kind of lunch also makes you think about good things. The short drive from Jerez to the coast reveals how much the local authorities have also been thinking about the future. Apart from the route being lined with the vines that produce all the sherry made in the area, it is also a virtual forest of windmills - the new elecricity-producing kind, not the ones that Don Quixote tilted at. These presumably take advantage of the flat estuary land swept by the Atlantic winds. And in between the vines, there is also the appearance of a strange black crop - fields of solar panels on sunflower-like stalks, turning their heads to catch the rays... Across the estuary from Sanlucar and Chipiona is the Parque Nacional de Doñana - an exensive nature reserve and a haven for birdwatchers as well as birds.

And while on the subject of natural things, these friends of ours live a good and natural life. They grow peppers, tomatoes, aubergines, melons, olives and more in their garden, not to mention oranges, lemons, peaches, figs, apricots, apples and pears; they shoot and eat the wild rabbits that threaten their vegetables; they have fish and game of all sorts at their doorstep, and unlimited supplies of Manzanilla to wash it all down with. Que bueno! One day...

Tuesday lunch continued..............

This philosophy suits us well. We would do the same if the same quality and variety of fresh produce was easily available locally in Swindon, without going through countless middlemen and therefore increasing the price beyond what becomes “simple.” That is why such simple treatment works best at the source. Of course we find the best we can locally and try not to spoil it in the cooking.

Arturo’s is an unprepossessing place from the outside – an aluminium door with a small sign on the wall outside leads in to a single room with a small bar to the right and a few fishing and bullfighting pictures adorning the otherwise plain yellow painted walls. There is no pretence at being anything other than a neighbourhood restaurant, there to feed people.

Lunch is available between 1.00 and 5.00pm (evening opening 8.00 to midnight.) We arrived at around 3 and found the 12 or so tables full, with the bar heaving with people waiting or eating. You will gather that lunch is taken late in the South of Spain. Some will have finished their day’s work and be set for a long lunch, followed by a long siesta - others may have more to do – it depends what business you’re in, and how much you have to deal with the rest of Northern Europe. We ordered a beer and were given a number (deli-style) to wait for a table.

About 25 minutes later, we started with a plate of fresh cooked gambas in their shells – probably cooked in seawater that morning on the boat. Soft, sweet and wonderful. This was quickly followed by a the “Fritura Mixta” – pot luck of very lightly battered and very lightly fried fish. We had boquerones, chocos (chunks of cuttlefish), puntillitas, (whole tiny baby squid about the size of the last joint of your little finger) salmonetitos (tiny red mullet), as well as chunks of bacalao and merluza. Accompanied by a salad of chunks of tasty tomatoes, liberally scattered with garlic and good olive oil, this is the perfect lunch, washed down with a half bottle of manzanilla. We could well have stopped there...

But those little puntillitas were so good we wanted more. Then we spotted the two workmen on the table next to us with a plate of Almejas (clams, which came cooked with garlic and finely chopped jamon, their juices slightly thickened with oil. Not to be missed, you’ll agree, and another half bottle required…

It's Tuesday, so it must be Jerez...

I've been thinking about this blog thing and realise there has to be a bit more philosophy and a bit less narrative.

Arturo runs a Freiduria in Jerez and his philosphy is very simple.

1. You get up in the morning and go to the market.

This is what you see: (42 fish stalls all heaped with fresh fish straight out of the sea less than 20km away, some specialising, some with everything they can carry, from Cigales (bloody big langoustines) at €6/kg, to fresh anchovies (€2/kg) to Merluza (hake) at €3/kg.

2. You buy what you like the look of, and some fresh tomatoes (€1 a kilo) and you take it back to your kitchen.

3. You fry it and sell it to people who eat it. You are happy and so are all your many customers, from the guys who empty the bins to the men in suits, and including the few lucky tourists who find their way to your tiny restaurant in a residential area of Jerez.

From this:

to this:

to this:

In less than 12 hours!