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.