Gibraltar and its Spanish environs are fortunate enough to be located in the part of Europe that is closest to Africa. The ferry trip can take as little as thirty five minutes, depending on where you leave from and go to, which means that taking a day trip to another continent is very easy indeed. Feeling a little nervous about exploring the wonders of Morocco independently in a short space of time, we booked ourselves on a guided tour.
We left on a ferry from the port of Algeciras, which turned out to be just like any other port in the world except that one of the cafes sold enormous jars of honey in Pooh-bear sized portions. The catamaran crossing was thankfully uneventful, though we were very prepared for any possible events. Since the safety video gave all the necessary instructions in five languages (accompanied by the very best in eurotastic dance music) and the crossing was short, it played for most of the trip. We picked up our coach and tour guide on the other side in Ceuta, a little perfect Spanish town and a resolutely Spanish place stuck onto the end of Africa... much as Gibraltar is a resolutely British place stuck onto the end of Spain, I suppose. Then the exciting part – crossing the land border between Spain and Morocco and finally leaving Europe. Except that it wasn't very exciting at all. They didn't stamp our passports, because we were only there on a day trip. They did, however, take our temperatures to see if we had Swine Flu or not. Which was nice. Declared medically sound, we sped off to sample the wonders of Tetuoan and Tangiers.
The terrain around the Moroccan coast was quite different to Spain. Cedar trees punctuated the horizon and flat roofed, whitewashed houses sat back from the sandy roadside. Steep mountainsides and blue, cloudless skies rose from blue rivers and lakes. Everywhere the Moroccan flag waved, be it in town squares, at roundabouts or road junctions or just seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huge, red and green and contrasting with its surroundings, standing out for miles around. This was a country in the grip of a surge in pride and confidence. Construction projects abounded, from the fresh tarmac underneath our wheels to the huge new sparkling edifices of bus and train stations and the new port being built in Tangiers. In the Medina in Tetouan we found a contrasting view of old Morocco. A maze of tiny streets winding up a steep hill was home to all manner of tradesmen, even some selling parts of taps and old remote controls that must have belonged to long-deceased electrical appliances. As we walked through the gateway into the Medina we were hit with the strong smell of pepper and spices. Each successive stall we passed and alleyway we walked down had its own distinctive odour. Meat, leather, perfume, cat – all could be smelled in great intensity in the North African heat. As we passed by a street corner Mosque we heard the Muslim call to prayer and our transition to a place far from home was complete.
Tangiers was much bigger than Tetouan, being a major port city. There was a distinct French flavour to it and amidst the heavy traffic we saw so many “Salons de Thé” that we could almost have been in the Galeries Vivienne in Paris. We didn't have much time to explore Tangiers and we are quite keen to go back and see more of it on our own. Frankly by the time we had reached Tangiers we had grown out of being in a guided tour group. It quickly became clear when we arrived in Tetouan that the primary objective of our guide was to get us to spend money. From the carpet shops of the Medina to the authentic lunch with cous cous and Moroccan music, it was all one huge attempt to extract as much cash from us on a grand scale. Somehow we resisted the temptations of rugs, lamps, teapots and other Moroccan bits that many friends of our guide were very insistent that we buy. We did get a taste of local culture, but it was marred somewhat by regular attempted assaults on our wallets.
It was a bit of a relief, really, to arrive back in Spain and set foot in our apartment again to unpack our few, carefully chosen and prudent purchases. As we opened the rucksack we were pleased to find that our tea glasses and camels had safely survived the journey. Then, from out of the corner of the rucksack, behind the now empty water bottle and camera case, there emerged a Morrison's garlic baguette. It had clearly not been kept chilled, as the packaging advised. It had also clearly not come from the Moroccan souk. The fiancé had popped to the shops on the way home from work on his bike the previous evening, as he did most evenings in fact. Somehow all of the shopping had not been unpacked. Our African odyssey had been undertaken with a small buttery companion. The bag had been x-rayed by Spanish customs officers on the way back and you would assume that such a thing might have aroused suspicion, but it appears not. I suppose people don't usually hide drugs or guns in garlic baguettes... despite their convenient size and shape for the purpose. Suffice to say we didn't eat the baguette. Compared to the average garlicky accompaniment, though, it lead a very exciting and well travelled life. We suspect that some of those pungent odours in the Medina may actually have been emanating from us as the baguette quietly warmed itself up in the African sunshine. Yum. It must be nearly dinner time...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tarifa
This is a picture of the fiance, relaxing at a chiringuito in Tarifa. As you can see, the life of a Ruby on Rails consultant is all work and no play :-)
Tarifa has beautiful beaches, but it is a strange place. Surfing is popular, as is kite surfing. I assume kite surfing is like normal surfing but with a kite somehow attached to something, giving a little bit of extra oomph. Anyway, the sand round there is golden, the sea is blue and the beach is full of beautiful people wearing not very much. In the town there are many leathery skinned old surf dudes, bejewelled with leathery beaded necklaces and leathery bracelets. The cobbles under foot echo with the light tap of flip-flops and people have that far away look of the perpetual dreamer in their eyes. Truly this is the last refuge of a generation of people who read Paolo Coelho's “The Alchemist” and thought that they too could find enlightenment by going to Tarifa, meeting an old guy and catching the ferry to Morocco and back. The problem being, of course, that “The Alchemist” wasn't really based on a true story and now they're stuck in Tarifa with nothing to do but look dazed, give surfing lessons and hand out flyers for bizarre nightclubs located down tiny alleys with even tinier doorways.
At around one in the morning a group of the beloved's colleagues and I rolled out of a restaurant and started to negotiate the buzzing backstreets of the port in an attempt to start heading back round the coast for home. In a small square, not too far from the ferry terminal, there was a tiny shop with a tempting window display. In between all of the shops selling surfing paraphernalia and tourist tat there was a perfect little patisserie in the French style. A small, smart, non-leathery lady was selling cakes and tarts in the early hours, portioned out with great care into little containers and handed over to late night revellers with dainty serviettes. The chocolate gateaux was divine.
Tarifa has beautiful beaches, but it is a strange place. Surfing is popular, as is kite surfing. I assume kite surfing is like normal surfing but with a kite somehow attached to something, giving a little bit of extra oomph. Anyway, the sand round there is golden, the sea is blue and the beach is full of beautiful people wearing not very much. In the town there are many leathery skinned old surf dudes, bejewelled with leathery beaded necklaces and leathery bracelets. The cobbles under foot echo with the light tap of flip-flops and people have that far away look of the perpetual dreamer in their eyes. Truly this is the last refuge of a generation of people who read Paolo Coelho's “The Alchemist” and thought that they too could find enlightenment by going to Tarifa, meeting an old guy and catching the ferry to Morocco and back. The problem being, of course, that “The Alchemist” wasn't really based on a true story and now they're stuck in Tarifa with nothing to do but look dazed, give surfing lessons and hand out flyers for bizarre nightclubs located down tiny alleys with even tinier doorways.
At around one in the morning a group of the beloved's colleagues and I rolled out of a restaurant and started to negotiate the buzzing backstreets of the port in an attempt to start heading back round the coast for home. In a small square, not too far from the ferry terminal, there was a tiny shop with a tempting window display. In between all of the shops selling surfing paraphernalia and tourist tat there was a perfect little patisserie in the French style. A small, smart, non-leathery lady was selling cakes and tarts in the early hours, portioned out with great care into little containers and handed over to late night revellers with dainty serviettes. The chocolate gateaux was divine.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Mad Dogs and Englishmen...
... really do go out in the mid-day sun, or so it seems on the Costa Del Sol.
The apartment of my husband-to-be is situated in a holiday complex. The recession meant that he was able to get a very good deal on renting here for a longer term, but most of the other apartments are either empty or being let out on nightly rates to mainly Spanish holidaymakers. There are a handful of German and French people about, but generally very few English. The contrasts between our fellow countrymen and their European neighbours is most pronounced around the pool. It's not unusual for the Spanish to go for a bit of a swim around breakfast time. I sit on the balcony with my cup of tea and hear the sound of morning europop floating up to me, punctuated by the odd splash and bursts of Spanish language merriment that I don't quite understand. It's all long gone by lunchtime. When the heat of the day is reaching its pinnacle, that's when the Brits turn up. They're brash and they're loud and they like to complain about the heat, but it doesn't stop them from having a good time. When the apartment shutters are drawn down everywhere else and the siesta hour falls upon the quiet Spanish hillside, they're swimming, diving and shouting for Britain.
The other day a family turned up and had a long, very loud lunchtime poolside discussion about the possible local availability of cheesestrings. Lounging in the shade, feet up and absorbed in a George Eliot novel, I indulged my snobbish side and reflected on just how far away my mind was from a place where cheesestrings are a delicacy. I'm taking advantage of the relaxed Spanish attitude to life and trying not to be too much of a typical Englishwoman abroad. Naturally there are some patterns of behaviour to which I have succumbed, of course. I have underestimated the strength of the Southern Spanish sun and burnt my forehead, shoulders and prominent nose lobster red. I have also begun to use the bidet in the bathroom as a convenient place to wash my feet and swimming costume after a trip to the beach, rather than using it for the purpose for which it was intended. Overall, though, I try and speak Spanish when absolutely necessary, rather than shouting in English to try and be understood, and I make attempts to assimilate culturally, such as watching “Los Simpsons” and “Bob Esponja” on the television. Sometimes I even (briefly) go topless on the beach.
The thing about the beach is that you can sometimes spot a group of English people from a mile away. Consider, if you will, leopards. In the wild their spots act as camouflage to prevent predators seeing them across the plains. Now consider leopard print fabric and in particular that staple garment of the Englishwoman of a certain age on holiday: the leopard print sarong. Marketed as a handy means of covering up undesirable body areas when in warmer climes, it's amazing how a camouflaging pattern becomes quite the opposite when in the wrong hands. The Englishman of a certain age who forms the other half of this matching pair fares little better. It seems as if he bought swimming garments when he was a teenager and kept them all his life, the result being that a very small Speedo is going into battle with a very large belly on the Spanish sand. The belly has the upper hand and the swimwear is attempting to launch a rearguard action, but is sadly on the verge of retreat. Then there are the younger generation, folks who find that work, etiquette and the plain monotony of life conspire to keep them quiet for fifty weeks of the year, so much so that in the remaining two weeks when they are on holiday they must compensate by shouting and bellowing as much as possible. It's as if each person has a noise quota which must be fulfilled.
I know I'm being dreadfully snobby, and probably bitter because I'm too old for youthful nuisances. I'm sure that the Spanish people on the beach all snigger to themselves when my white, flabby English bits emerge into the light of day for the first time in many years, too. I'm trying to move through Spain quietly, though, adopting more of a Latin air. If I glide serenely through the heat and make sure I steer clear of sarongs, or indeed cheesestrings, they may not point and laugh at me too much. Maybe I can be an Englishwoman abroad, but incognito.
The apartment of my husband-to-be is situated in a holiday complex. The recession meant that he was able to get a very good deal on renting here for a longer term, but most of the other apartments are either empty or being let out on nightly rates to mainly Spanish holidaymakers. There are a handful of German and French people about, but generally very few English. The contrasts between our fellow countrymen and their European neighbours is most pronounced around the pool. It's not unusual for the Spanish to go for a bit of a swim around breakfast time. I sit on the balcony with my cup of tea and hear the sound of morning europop floating up to me, punctuated by the odd splash and bursts of Spanish language merriment that I don't quite understand. It's all long gone by lunchtime. When the heat of the day is reaching its pinnacle, that's when the Brits turn up. They're brash and they're loud and they like to complain about the heat, but it doesn't stop them from having a good time. When the apartment shutters are drawn down everywhere else and the siesta hour falls upon the quiet Spanish hillside, they're swimming, diving and shouting for Britain.
The other day a family turned up and had a long, very loud lunchtime poolside discussion about the possible local availability of cheesestrings. Lounging in the shade, feet up and absorbed in a George Eliot novel, I indulged my snobbish side and reflected on just how far away my mind was from a place where cheesestrings are a delicacy. I'm taking advantage of the relaxed Spanish attitude to life and trying not to be too much of a typical Englishwoman abroad. Naturally there are some patterns of behaviour to which I have succumbed, of course. I have underestimated the strength of the Southern Spanish sun and burnt my forehead, shoulders and prominent nose lobster red. I have also begun to use the bidet in the bathroom as a convenient place to wash my feet and swimming costume after a trip to the beach, rather than using it for the purpose for which it was intended. Overall, though, I try and speak Spanish when absolutely necessary, rather than shouting in English to try and be understood, and I make attempts to assimilate culturally, such as watching “Los Simpsons” and “Bob Esponja” on the television. Sometimes I even (briefly) go topless on the beach.
The thing about the beach is that you can sometimes spot a group of English people from a mile away. Consider, if you will, leopards. In the wild their spots act as camouflage to prevent predators seeing them across the plains. Now consider leopard print fabric and in particular that staple garment of the Englishwoman of a certain age on holiday: the leopard print sarong. Marketed as a handy means of covering up undesirable body areas when in warmer climes, it's amazing how a camouflaging pattern becomes quite the opposite when in the wrong hands. The Englishman of a certain age who forms the other half of this matching pair fares little better. It seems as if he bought swimming garments when he was a teenager and kept them all his life, the result being that a very small Speedo is going into battle with a very large belly on the Spanish sand. The belly has the upper hand and the swimwear is attempting to launch a rearguard action, but is sadly on the verge of retreat. Then there are the younger generation, folks who find that work, etiquette and the plain monotony of life conspire to keep them quiet for fifty weeks of the year, so much so that in the remaining two weeks when they are on holiday they must compensate by shouting and bellowing as much as possible. It's as if each person has a noise quota which must be fulfilled.
I know I'm being dreadfully snobby, and probably bitter because I'm too old for youthful nuisances. I'm sure that the Spanish people on the beach all snigger to themselves when my white, flabby English bits emerge into the light of day for the first time in many years, too. I'm trying to move through Spain quietly, though, adopting more of a Latin air. If I glide serenely through the heat and make sure I steer clear of sarongs, or indeed cheesestrings, they may not point and laugh at me too much. Maybe I can be an Englishwoman abroad, but incognito.
Loving the Rock
I really feel as if I shouldn't like Gibraltar, but I do. It's kind of wrong, but I feel curiously at home there. My other half has a theory that I like it because it's a bit like Britain in the 70s, so I'm anticipating the point when the 80s finally hit and I can enjoy the hair, clothes and music all over again. He may be right, but it isn't surprising that I enjoy visiting the rock. The road signs in English start it all off when you cross the border. You could be anywhere in the U.K. Well, you are in the U.K., technically, and you can speak English freely and be understood, which feels like a cooling and soothing balm applied to the brain for those whose Spanish is as deficient as mine. The runway helps, too. After crossing the border you have to cross an active airport runway to get into the main town, which feels about as eccentrically English as you could possibly get.
In so many ways the rock is geared up to be an English playground in the sun. Tax free alcohol, abundant casinos, a marina full of extremely expensive looking yachts and pretty much guaranteed warm, sunny weather. What's not to like? Add to this the presence of a giant Morrison's, who have big signs enticing you to buy “the taste of home”, and you start to see why so many people cling with gusto to this little piece of the U.K jutting out from the southern end of Spain. Morrison's means I can have scones with butter and sip an Orange Ovaltine Options drink on our balcony in Santa Margarita, watching the blue sea and African mountains in the distance. Morrison's means I can still procure Quorn to eat in a land where they don't seem to understand vegetarianism. I'm a big fan of the Morrison's. In the heat of a Gibraltar afternoon there's a sense of unreality when you step into a generic English supermarket that could be anywhere, heading for the Quorn aisle.
Leave aside the modern convenience of meat substitutes and there's that aforementioned 70s vibe. It's there subtly in the architecture, though most of the tower blocks and offices sport a liberal use of concrete that gives away their 50s origin. It's more present in the host of small shops along main street, especially independent electrical retailers, named after people rather than big retail chains. Yes, there is a Marks and Spencer, but it hasn't had a makeover for some time and it looks traditional and old, like the St. Michael era shops of my childhood. Visiting museums and tourist attractions confronts you with signs and boards of printed information rather than interactive, whizzy computerised exhibits. A trip up to the top of the rock reveals a healthy and very un-twenty first century disregard for health and safety. There seem to be perilous staircases, tiny clifftop paths and abandoned bits of military building everywhere, few of them fenced of and all of them looking very inviting to anyone with a reckless streak. Actually one of the things that I liked most about the Rock itself was the sense of physical cold war structures and the mindset that went with them decaying all around. Faded “M.O.D. - Keep Out” signs and hefty security gates with big padlocks now swinging open, nobody guarding them and no secrets for them to protect any more. No more spies, only monkeys.
It would be very easy to surrender to this other world, removed from the everyday realities of bad English weather, unreliable public transport and the general petty woe of living in a place that isn't shiny, sunny and fun. I feel the temptation acutely because I'm here on holiday, so I'm in that fantasy fun and frolic-ful mindset from the start. The jolly retirees who were sat at the next table to us at lunch on the waterfront on Sunday were probably feeling the same way, lingering over their cocktails and forgetting the way the damp weather used to make their rheumatism flare up. Even if you're working on the rock, as my other half is, you slip into a routine where the bizarre, absurd and even the indulgent become normal. He gets up, he cycles into the U.K., he works, sometimes a monkey scampers by the window, he cycles back home to Spain and we go off to the beach for a quick dip in the Mediterranean before dinner. The hypnotic weather and the ever present sandy shoreline all too easily take a hold of you. Living a stones throw away from a thriving colony of barbary apes stops you taking anything too seriously and the knowledge that you live in a place of strategic military significance, even though the presence of the armed forces is currently dwindling, gives you a sense of security. Those bunkers are still deep within the Rock – the troops could be back in the blink of an eye. It's all good.
What, then, could be dangerous about liking Gibraltar too much? To confine oneself to this part of Europe because it allows you to relish in the comfort of the familiar is to abandon oneself to the attractiveness of escapism – to enter your fantasy land where the sun always shines and life is very easy. It might blind me to the pleasures of Spain, of which there are many. I could easily become short-sighted and cower in the Rock's familiar shadow rather than realising I am actually abroad and there is another culture out there waiting to be explored. Also, I am on holiday. I get to see Gibraltar in all its high season, pleasure palace glory. It's easy for me to forget that there is a world of daily reality underneath the shiny exterior, a world where problems exist and boredom takes hold in just the same ways as at home. Even if there are monkeys. A place so small and so resolutely separate from the Spain that lives beside it has its own attendant troubles, too. After a while I can see how the Rock might get a bit stifling. It is small and it is so very English. It has limits. So I'll appreciate Gibraltar as a linguistic haven, a place to have fun and drink reasonably priced gin and tonic and I'll not let the sun go to my head. I'll keep my feet on the ground and not get too carried away with heady holiday pleasures, or with getting lost on tracks up the Rock and pretending I'm a Russian spy on a mission. And if Gibraltar ever does enter the 80s, I might consider a permanent move.
In so many ways the rock is geared up to be an English playground in the sun. Tax free alcohol, abundant casinos, a marina full of extremely expensive looking yachts and pretty much guaranteed warm, sunny weather. What's not to like? Add to this the presence of a giant Morrison's, who have big signs enticing you to buy “the taste of home”, and you start to see why so many people cling with gusto to this little piece of the U.K jutting out from the southern end of Spain. Morrison's means I can have scones with butter and sip an Orange Ovaltine Options drink on our balcony in Santa Margarita, watching the blue sea and African mountains in the distance. Morrison's means I can still procure Quorn to eat in a land where they don't seem to understand vegetarianism. I'm a big fan of the Morrison's. In the heat of a Gibraltar afternoon there's a sense of unreality when you step into a generic English supermarket that could be anywhere, heading for the Quorn aisle.
Leave aside the modern convenience of meat substitutes and there's that aforementioned 70s vibe. It's there subtly in the architecture, though most of the tower blocks and offices sport a liberal use of concrete that gives away their 50s origin. It's more present in the host of small shops along main street, especially independent electrical retailers, named after people rather than big retail chains. Yes, there is a Marks and Spencer, but it hasn't had a makeover for some time and it looks traditional and old, like the St. Michael era shops of my childhood. Visiting museums and tourist attractions confronts you with signs and boards of printed information rather than interactive, whizzy computerised exhibits. A trip up to the top of the rock reveals a healthy and very un-twenty first century disregard for health and safety. There seem to be perilous staircases, tiny clifftop paths and abandoned bits of military building everywhere, few of them fenced of and all of them looking very inviting to anyone with a reckless streak. Actually one of the things that I liked most about the Rock itself was the sense of physical cold war structures and the mindset that went with them decaying all around. Faded “M.O.D. - Keep Out” signs and hefty security gates with big padlocks now swinging open, nobody guarding them and no secrets for them to protect any more. No more spies, only monkeys.
It would be very easy to surrender to this other world, removed from the everyday realities of bad English weather, unreliable public transport and the general petty woe of living in a place that isn't shiny, sunny and fun. I feel the temptation acutely because I'm here on holiday, so I'm in that fantasy fun and frolic-ful mindset from the start. The jolly retirees who were sat at the next table to us at lunch on the waterfront on Sunday were probably feeling the same way, lingering over their cocktails and forgetting the way the damp weather used to make their rheumatism flare up. Even if you're working on the rock, as my other half is, you slip into a routine where the bizarre, absurd and even the indulgent become normal. He gets up, he cycles into the U.K., he works, sometimes a monkey scampers by the window, he cycles back home to Spain and we go off to the beach for a quick dip in the Mediterranean before dinner. The hypnotic weather and the ever present sandy shoreline all too easily take a hold of you. Living a stones throw away from a thriving colony of barbary apes stops you taking anything too seriously and the knowledge that you live in a place of strategic military significance, even though the presence of the armed forces is currently dwindling, gives you a sense of security. Those bunkers are still deep within the Rock – the troops could be back in the blink of an eye. It's all good.
What, then, could be dangerous about liking Gibraltar too much? To confine oneself to this part of Europe because it allows you to relish in the comfort of the familiar is to abandon oneself to the attractiveness of escapism – to enter your fantasy land where the sun always shines and life is very easy. It might blind me to the pleasures of Spain, of which there are many. I could easily become short-sighted and cower in the Rock's familiar shadow rather than realising I am actually abroad and there is another culture out there waiting to be explored. Also, I am on holiday. I get to see Gibraltar in all its high season, pleasure palace glory. It's easy for me to forget that there is a world of daily reality underneath the shiny exterior, a world where problems exist and boredom takes hold in just the same ways as at home. Even if there are monkeys. A place so small and so resolutely separate from the Spain that lives beside it has its own attendant troubles, too. After a while I can see how the Rock might get a bit stifling. It is small and it is so very English. It has limits. So I'll appreciate Gibraltar as a linguistic haven, a place to have fun and drink reasonably priced gin and tonic and I'll not let the sun go to my head. I'll keep my feet on the ground and not get too carried away with heady holiday pleasures, or with getting lost on tracks up the Rock and pretending I'm a Russian spy on a mission. And if Gibraltar ever does enter the 80s, I might consider a permanent move.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
The Train to Spain - Part Three
The metro system in Madrid was pretty easy to negotiate and we speedily crossed the city from Chamartin station to Atocha station. The announcements on the metro appeared to consist of a man and a lady performing a comedy double act, except instead of jokes they told you which other metro lines you could change onto at each stop. It was all done in a very chirpy tone, though. I'm sure that goes down well in the rush hour. Luckily it was Sunday and our fellow passengers were few.
If you're catching a train out into the wilds of Spain from Madrid, Atocha seems to be the place to do it from. It's a big station and well equipped with the usual stuff: restaurants, shops, large garden, aquatic curiosities. Yes, really. We went to dump our bags in the left luggage lockers and stumbled upon a hot house garden full of palms and misty humidity. It proved to be a relaxing place to sit when the heat of the day got too much and we'd seen all we wanted to see of the city outside. There was even a large pool of filled with fish and terrapins, who basked on rocks and posed for photographs like seasoned professionals working the tourist trade of weary travellers. We came to the conclusion that every station should have a few terrapins. Terrapins aside, Atocha also benefits from being well located for sightseeing and a quick walk from the station concourse gets you to many of Madrid's top attractions, including the Prado and Reina Sofia museums. We plumped for a quick tour of the city's botanical gardens, which had a particularly fine grove of olive trees and some very large insects. I never knew there were so many types of olives... apparently there are more types than just black, green and stuffed with pimentos, so there you go. It was good to commune with nature after such a long journey; far better than sitting squished in an aeroplane seat for hours waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off and the obese guy next to you to wake up so that you can stretch your legs, I imagine! A slow saunter through the park with an ice lolly, a cheese sandwich snack at a kerbside cafe and it was time to hit the tracks again.
A Spanish colleague of my beloved's had recommended paying extra for “Preferente” instead of “Turistico” class on the long distance trains in Spain. As far as we could make out this wasn't the super-swish, ultimate best first class, but it was better than standard. It was certainly well worth paying a bit extra for. Stepping onto the AVE train from the heat of a midday city platform the air conditioning immediately contributed to the feeling of luxury. The seats were spacious and clearly hadn't seen as much action as those on the Elipsos sleeper. They were adjustable, with welcome little footrests to soothe tired lower limbs. There were televisions up above that showed a film throughout the two and a half hour trip. We were given free, Spanish railway branded headphones that plugged into our seats if we wanted to listen to the audio track for this, but the scenery held my interest far more than “Bride Wars” did, I'm glad to say. Well, the scenery and the laser display board at the front of the carriage that kept flashing up how fast we were going and what the temperature was outside. 34 degrees celsius, 290 kilometres per hour, racing through the mountains. Amazing stuff. Outside we passed terrain that grew increasingly rocky and mountainous, here and there littered with half finished apartment blocks, their skeletal frames standing as poignant gravestones for the booming economic age now long gone. Inside we were constantly bombarded with consumables by friendly stewardesses. There were free drinks, including alcoholic options, moist towellettes and a three course lunch served at our seats. Sadly there was no choice for this and the main course was an extremely meaty combination of chicken pieces in sauce, accompanied by ravioli filled with meat of indeterminate origin. As a vegetarian I didn't partake of this, but I ate the starter, bread roll and dessert, and the husband-to-be revelled in the delights of eating lunch for two. We both decided that this was how train travel should be. The standard British commute will always fall short from this point on. We were clearly meant to travel this way. Some people just aren't cut out for standard class. All too soon we were pulling into Malaga station and we had to reluctantly leave our reclining seats in the land of milk, honey and moist towellettes.
Malaga train station was an appropriate extension of the wonders of the AVE train, with its bright, clean and modern look. Across the road, Malaga bus station was pretty much the opposite. We found confusion, queues and many lobster-like English speakers in all their holidaying splendour. When we eventually found the bus to La Linea it was quite a contrast to our previous means of travel. There were no lovely ladies to attend to our every whim. There was a gruff, balding, harassed looking Spanish driver and a pervading sense of damp. Unable to escape the moist odour and unwilling to move about too much in our seats lest we should sense a certain wetness about them too, we embarked upon a mini-odyssey around the Costa del Sol. Instead of waiting for the direct bus, we mistakenly boarded the one that left first. As such we passed through Torremolinos, Marbella and many other places that have replaced the likes of Margate and Brighton as the haunt of the average British family on vacation, before we arrived at our destination. There was some kind of fiesta in La Linea and the streets were lined with merry Spaniards when we showed up. Tired and intimidated, we waited fearfully at the taxi rank for our final carriage to Santa Margarita and the swinging bachelor pad of the man who will soon be my husband.
Finally setting foot in the apartment, I realised that there's as much pleasure in arriving as there is in travelling. That said, I wouldn't have travelled any other way. Taking the train to Spain meant that I saw much more of the country and experienced far more than I would have done if I'd have flown. It also meant far less stress for me, despite the challenges of the last leg of the trip by bus and all its attendant unpleasantness. It felt like a good thing to do together and when we arrived there was a certain sense of achievement. I suppose it's all to do with the long understood pleasure we humans gain from taking the road less travelled, the rocky path instead of the smooth one and the challenge instead of the easy option. Talking it over now that we've been here a few days, we both agree that we'd do the trip again. In fact we've been tentatively discussing where else we can go by rail in the future, which is as resounding a vote for train travel as you're ever likely to get. We made the trip to be together and now we have the ultimate prize – we are together again, and what's more, we got to share something pretty cool in the process of making that happen. Bring a little love back into your life... travel by train.
If you're catching a train out into the wilds of Spain from Madrid, Atocha seems to be the place to do it from. It's a big station and well equipped with the usual stuff: restaurants, shops, large garden, aquatic curiosities. Yes, really. We went to dump our bags in the left luggage lockers and stumbled upon a hot house garden full of palms and misty humidity. It proved to be a relaxing place to sit when the heat of the day got too much and we'd seen all we wanted to see of the city outside. There was even a large pool of filled with fish and terrapins, who basked on rocks and posed for photographs like seasoned professionals working the tourist trade of weary travellers. We came to the conclusion that every station should have a few terrapins. Terrapins aside, Atocha also benefits from being well located for sightseeing and a quick walk from the station concourse gets you to many of Madrid's top attractions, including the Prado and Reina Sofia museums. We plumped for a quick tour of the city's botanical gardens, which had a particularly fine grove of olive trees and some very large insects. I never knew there were so many types of olives... apparently there are more types than just black, green and stuffed with pimentos, so there you go. It was good to commune with nature after such a long journey; far better than sitting squished in an aeroplane seat for hours waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off and the obese guy next to you to wake up so that you can stretch your legs, I imagine! A slow saunter through the park with an ice lolly, a cheese sandwich snack at a kerbside cafe and it was time to hit the tracks again.
A Spanish colleague of my beloved's had recommended paying extra for “Preferente” instead of “Turistico” class on the long distance trains in Spain. As far as we could make out this wasn't the super-swish, ultimate best first class, but it was better than standard. It was certainly well worth paying a bit extra for. Stepping onto the AVE train from the heat of a midday city platform the air conditioning immediately contributed to the feeling of luxury. The seats were spacious and clearly hadn't seen as much action as those on the Elipsos sleeper. They were adjustable, with welcome little footrests to soothe tired lower limbs. There were televisions up above that showed a film throughout the two and a half hour trip. We were given free, Spanish railway branded headphones that plugged into our seats if we wanted to listen to the audio track for this, but the scenery held my interest far more than “Bride Wars” did, I'm glad to say. Well, the scenery and the laser display board at the front of the carriage that kept flashing up how fast we were going and what the temperature was outside. 34 degrees celsius, 290 kilometres per hour, racing through the mountains. Amazing stuff. Outside we passed terrain that grew increasingly rocky and mountainous, here and there littered with half finished apartment blocks, their skeletal frames standing as poignant gravestones for the booming economic age now long gone. Inside we were constantly bombarded with consumables by friendly stewardesses. There were free drinks, including alcoholic options, moist towellettes and a three course lunch served at our seats. Sadly there was no choice for this and the main course was an extremely meaty combination of chicken pieces in sauce, accompanied by ravioli filled with meat of indeterminate origin. As a vegetarian I didn't partake of this, but I ate the starter, bread roll and dessert, and the husband-to-be revelled in the delights of eating lunch for two. We both decided that this was how train travel should be. The standard British commute will always fall short from this point on. We were clearly meant to travel this way. Some people just aren't cut out for standard class. All too soon we were pulling into Malaga station and we had to reluctantly leave our reclining seats in the land of milk, honey and moist towellettes.
Malaga train station was an appropriate extension of the wonders of the AVE train, with its bright, clean and modern look. Across the road, Malaga bus station was pretty much the opposite. We found confusion, queues and many lobster-like English speakers in all their holidaying splendour. When we eventually found the bus to La Linea it was quite a contrast to our previous means of travel. There were no lovely ladies to attend to our every whim. There was a gruff, balding, harassed looking Spanish driver and a pervading sense of damp. Unable to escape the moist odour and unwilling to move about too much in our seats lest we should sense a certain wetness about them too, we embarked upon a mini-odyssey around the Costa del Sol. Instead of waiting for the direct bus, we mistakenly boarded the one that left first. As such we passed through Torremolinos, Marbella and many other places that have replaced the likes of Margate and Brighton as the haunt of the average British family on vacation, before we arrived at our destination. There was some kind of fiesta in La Linea and the streets were lined with merry Spaniards when we showed up. Tired and intimidated, we waited fearfully at the taxi rank for our final carriage to Santa Margarita and the swinging bachelor pad of the man who will soon be my husband.
Finally setting foot in the apartment, I realised that there's as much pleasure in arriving as there is in travelling. That said, I wouldn't have travelled any other way. Taking the train to Spain meant that I saw much more of the country and experienced far more than I would have done if I'd have flown. It also meant far less stress for me, despite the challenges of the last leg of the trip by bus and all its attendant unpleasantness. It felt like a good thing to do together and when we arrived there was a certain sense of achievement. I suppose it's all to do with the long understood pleasure we humans gain from taking the road less travelled, the rocky path instead of the smooth one and the challenge instead of the easy option. Talking it over now that we've been here a few days, we both agree that we'd do the trip again. In fact we've been tentatively discussing where else we can go by rail in the future, which is as resounding a vote for train travel as you're ever likely to get. We made the trip to be together and now we have the ultimate prize – we are together again, and what's more, we got to share something pretty cool in the process of making that happen. Bring a little love back into your life... travel by train.
Monday, August 03, 2009
The Train to Spain - Part Two
We've been to Paris so many times over the past few years that it has a homely feel to it. I get on the Eurostar at Ashford International without the usual trepidation I feel when I travel, and when I disembark at Gare du Nord I know where I need to go. I know where the metro station is, where to buy a ticket and which lines and stations will get me closest to a decent lunch. The familiar is indeed comforting and thus revelling in it we spent a delightful afternoon in the French capital. The sleeper train to Spain departs from the Gare d'Austerlitz, which happens to be very close to the Rue Mouffetard and all the parts of Paris that we know extremely well. Once we'd had our fill of food and drink in a couple of our favourite cafes and stopped off to do a spot of shopping, we knew we could hang out in the Jardin des Plantes just across the street from the station until it was time to catch our onward train. Getting the mid-morning Eurostar from Ashford left us just enough time to enjoy a taste of Paris and a break from travelling before continuing onward.
Catching the Eurostar involves passing through barriers, checking in and getting your bags x-rayed in the same manner as if you were flying. The Elipsos from France to Spain has a lady standing on the platform who checks that you have a ticket and a disinterested train guard who confirms that you have a passport. That's it. After these briefest of formalities we wandered into the first class compartment that was to be our home for the next 13 hours. The décor was very green, with more than a hint of 70s British Rail about it, and the seats looked rather battered. Many a rotund businessman's behind had squeezed itself into them for the cross-continental jaunt and they had not coped well with the experience. The poor seats were not so tired as to be unable to perform their reclining function, however, and it was great fun to sit down and play with all the buttons to see what they did. There was plenty of room to stretch out and I had no-one sitting in the seat behind me so I could recline fully without guilt, but we'd ended up with two seats across the aisle from each other, rather than together, so any kind of romance or even conversation was a challenge. At this point it's probably best to mention that first class reclining seats are probably not the best option for travelling overnight across Europe by train. A couchette, with the seats that turn into a bed, would have been far better, but we couldn't afford the couchette for two. This train travel lark, whilst wonderful and civilised and all that, is quite expensive. The cheapest option would have been for us to book into a couchette for six, but these are either for male or female travellers. Mixed sex couchette-ing in the cheap seats is not allowed (the commoners must be controlled, presumably). It might have been acceptable for me to travel in the women's dorm and him in the men's back when we were students, but in our thirties I don't think we would have coped. We needed a little more refinement. We needed to be together. So first class seats were our only option.
There must have been about fifteen people in our carriage and it was a wonderful opportunity for people watching. My beloved's neighbour was a young man with dark hair and a floppy fringe who had brought an enormous bag of pastries on board. He scoffed the lot before donning headphones and dropping off into a deep slumber for most of the journey. Opposite him were two large Mexican gentlemen huddled up in coats, one of whom snored extremely loudly but had an incongruous peaceful look on his face while he did it. The other one got up and left on one occasion, only to be replaced by an equally large, elderly Mexican lady who talked constantly at her male companion, who I assumed by the dynamic between them to be her son. I had to look twice when she came in, as I thought she may have been the man returned in drag. It seemed perfectly logical to me that somebody might be a man in Paris but change into a woman for a new life in Spain. I shared my space with a tiny, bird-like, middle aged lady travelling with a large carrier bag. She didn't come all the way to Madrid, but alighted at a station in the middle of nowhere. I don't even think it had a platform, just a sign. There were a lot of places like that. I opened the twee little green curtain by my window, hoping to watch one country turn into another, but mainly it was dark. I still got very little sleep, though, because the train stopped often and I couldn't help but try to see where we were. I counted off a few stations going through France: Orleans, Poitiers, and others, but the actual point at which we crossed the border was lost on me. Next morning my restlessness was rewarded with dawn breaking across the plains, with parched rocks and scant vegetation glowing orange in the emerging light. A trip to the restaurant car for breakfast revealed vast picture windows and the mountainous outskirts of Madrid, me perched on a bar stool and the train perched above vertiginous gullies, slowly wending its way onward between precarious drops.
Breakfast showed that there was a world outside the train again, because for so many long hours our world had been the inside of the train. This had naturally involved adjustment. An adjustment of gait, predominantly, for moving about something that is in itself moving is actually very difficult. The Elipsos has been designed to travel long distances at moderate speeds and I wouldn't say it's been engineered to give a particularly smooth ride. We were in carriage 84, right at the back, and the trip to the restaurant car was a long one. I was buffeted on the way to the buffet and I still have the bruises to prove it. The movement when seated could be very soothing, though, and the husband-to-be commented that it had rocked him off to sleep. There were also the adjustments to routine and having to adapt to doing private things in a public environment. Getting up and going for a wee in the communal bathroom at the end of the carriage almost felt embarrassing, the openness of the coach at first feeling like a stage whenever I got up even though the actual bathroom was obviously behind closed doors. Thankfully the facilities were clean and spacious – so unlike train lavatories in the U.K. ! By the end of the trip I'd cleaned my teeth with the help of a bottle of Evian, had a bit of a wash with the assistance of some wet wipes and was merrily combing my hair, putting plasters on my heels and changing my socks without batting an eyelid. So much had been out of our control on the train. That's part of the beauty of it, in a way – you just sit back and go with the flow, but it's not all peaceful relaxation. The lights unceremoniously went out at around 9.20p.m., with no warning, provoking an odd generalised twilight groping for the reading lamp switches. Now, suddenly we were being placed at the helm of our own lives again. Pulling into Madrid's Chamartin station was a little disorientating, with the train being left behind and normal life resuming; normal life where the ground doesn't move and your personal space is your personal space. Bright sunshine and city life, getting on the metro and making terrible attempts to speak a language you don't really understand, as opposed to the dim light of the train and the embarrassed hush of humans thrown together and trying not to offend each other. Let loose in Madrid, all we had to do was find Atocha station and the train to Malaga.
Catching the Eurostar involves passing through barriers, checking in and getting your bags x-rayed in the same manner as if you were flying. The Elipsos from France to Spain has a lady standing on the platform who checks that you have a ticket and a disinterested train guard who confirms that you have a passport. That's it. After these briefest of formalities we wandered into the first class compartment that was to be our home for the next 13 hours. The décor was very green, with more than a hint of 70s British Rail about it, and the seats looked rather battered. Many a rotund businessman's behind had squeezed itself into them for the cross-continental jaunt and they had not coped well with the experience. The poor seats were not so tired as to be unable to perform their reclining function, however, and it was great fun to sit down and play with all the buttons to see what they did. There was plenty of room to stretch out and I had no-one sitting in the seat behind me so I could recline fully without guilt, but we'd ended up with two seats across the aisle from each other, rather than together, so any kind of romance or even conversation was a challenge. At this point it's probably best to mention that first class reclining seats are probably not the best option for travelling overnight across Europe by train. A couchette, with the seats that turn into a bed, would have been far better, but we couldn't afford the couchette for two. This train travel lark, whilst wonderful and civilised and all that, is quite expensive. The cheapest option would have been for us to book into a couchette for six, but these are either for male or female travellers. Mixed sex couchette-ing in the cheap seats is not allowed (the commoners must be controlled, presumably). It might have been acceptable for me to travel in the women's dorm and him in the men's back when we were students, but in our thirties I don't think we would have coped. We needed a little more refinement. We needed to be together. So first class seats were our only option.
There must have been about fifteen people in our carriage and it was a wonderful opportunity for people watching. My beloved's neighbour was a young man with dark hair and a floppy fringe who had brought an enormous bag of pastries on board. He scoffed the lot before donning headphones and dropping off into a deep slumber for most of the journey. Opposite him were two large Mexican gentlemen huddled up in coats, one of whom snored extremely loudly but had an incongruous peaceful look on his face while he did it. The other one got up and left on one occasion, only to be replaced by an equally large, elderly Mexican lady who talked constantly at her male companion, who I assumed by the dynamic between them to be her son. I had to look twice when she came in, as I thought she may have been the man returned in drag. It seemed perfectly logical to me that somebody might be a man in Paris but change into a woman for a new life in Spain. I shared my space with a tiny, bird-like, middle aged lady travelling with a large carrier bag. She didn't come all the way to Madrid, but alighted at a station in the middle of nowhere. I don't even think it had a platform, just a sign. There were a lot of places like that. I opened the twee little green curtain by my window, hoping to watch one country turn into another, but mainly it was dark. I still got very little sleep, though, because the train stopped often and I couldn't help but try to see where we were. I counted off a few stations going through France: Orleans, Poitiers, and others, but the actual point at which we crossed the border was lost on me. Next morning my restlessness was rewarded with dawn breaking across the plains, with parched rocks and scant vegetation glowing orange in the emerging light. A trip to the restaurant car for breakfast revealed vast picture windows and the mountainous outskirts of Madrid, me perched on a bar stool and the train perched above vertiginous gullies, slowly wending its way onward between precarious drops.
Breakfast showed that there was a world outside the train again, because for so many long hours our world had been the inside of the train. This had naturally involved adjustment. An adjustment of gait, predominantly, for moving about something that is in itself moving is actually very difficult. The Elipsos has been designed to travel long distances at moderate speeds and I wouldn't say it's been engineered to give a particularly smooth ride. We were in carriage 84, right at the back, and the trip to the restaurant car was a long one. I was buffeted on the way to the buffet and I still have the bruises to prove it. The movement when seated could be very soothing, though, and the husband-to-be commented that it had rocked him off to sleep. There were also the adjustments to routine and having to adapt to doing private things in a public environment. Getting up and going for a wee in the communal bathroom at the end of the carriage almost felt embarrassing, the openness of the coach at first feeling like a stage whenever I got up even though the actual bathroom was obviously behind closed doors. Thankfully the facilities were clean and spacious – so unlike train lavatories in the U.K. ! By the end of the trip I'd cleaned my teeth with the help of a bottle of Evian, had a bit of a wash with the assistance of some wet wipes and was merrily combing my hair, putting plasters on my heels and changing my socks without batting an eyelid. So much had been out of our control on the train. That's part of the beauty of it, in a way – you just sit back and go with the flow, but it's not all peaceful relaxation. The lights unceremoniously went out at around 9.20p.m., with no warning, provoking an odd generalised twilight groping for the reading lamp switches. Now, suddenly we were being placed at the helm of our own lives again. Pulling into Madrid's Chamartin station was a little disorientating, with the train being left behind and normal life resuming; normal life where the ground doesn't move and your personal space is your personal space. Bright sunshine and city life, getting on the metro and making terrible attempts to speak a language you don't really understand, as opposed to the dim light of the train and the embarrassed hush of humans thrown together and trying not to offend each other. Let loose in Madrid, all we had to do was find Atocha station and the train to Malaga.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The Train to Spain - Part One
I don't like to fly. There are various reasons for this, some related to my sheer pig-headedness, I must admit, but fear is fear whatever its root and if there is anything that I can do to avoid travelling by plane, I do it. Luckily I'm no international jet-setting businesswoman and I like to holiday pretty close to home. The presence of my beloved in Spain posed an obvious problem. He was a two and a half hour flight away and I wanted to be with him. He had a rather swish apartment that seemed perfect for two but lonely for one. I considered the obvious solution – the wonder of Xanax, the drug of choice for nervous plane passengers the world over, but it just didn't seem right. There was clearly a more appropriate way of dealing with this. I could feel the fear and fly there anyway, or I could take the train to Spain.
For somebody like me taking the train was clearly the best choice. I've always loved trains; not in a geeky, trainspotting, platform stalking, number noting way. It's just the way I've always got where I wanted to go. When I was growing up I lived with my mum, who didn't drive, so we had to use public transport. As long as I can remember I've been chronically car sick, too, so coaches and buses weren't an option. I'm ashamed to say that this affliction still persists into my thirties and with our wedding venue a forty minute drive away from home along winding country roads I'm hastily trying to get over it. Anyway, trains are how I travel. I feel comfortable on the train. I think getting the Eurostar to Paris is easy, so for me it's logical to add another few hours train journey to that and head for Andalusia.
Just think for a minute about what it means to travel by train. Not the hustle and bustle of the morning commute or the general unpleasantness of short journeys in Britain, squished up against your fellow passengers when you haven't even been properly introduced. Think of travelling long distances and watching the scenery unfold outside your window. There's a sense of surrender that goes hand in hand with train travel. Freed from the stresses of driving, letting someone else take control and allowing yourself to enter your own little world. You can work, you can read, you can plug in your iPod and just watch, letting everything just drift by you. It's true that most of this can be done on a plane too, but in the sky all you can see is clouds. Down on the ground the sides of the tracks are rich with viewing possibilities, a constantly changing landscape of other people's spaces and lives to dip into as you glide past. On a plane you are also assaulted with instructions: when this sign lights up you must put on your seat belt; don't smoke in the toilet; put the oxygen mask on now or you'll die. To my mind this doesn't make for a relaxed trip. On trains there is no safety dance and if anything bad happens you're not thirty thousand feet up in the air, which must surely be a plus.
Looking back through history we can see that there was a time when people travelled by train as a matter of course. When they took the grand tour of Europe, they did it by rail. They didn't whizz around at high speed. The journey mattered as much as the destination. I think that travelling by train is an infinitely civilised experience and something to be savoured. It's also something from our past as humans that it makes sense for us to rediscover now. When we're all concerned about our carbon footprints, surely it doesn't make sense for us to burn several tonnes of jet fuel to get somewhere as quickly as we possibly can. Just because flying is convenient, it doesn't make it right or pleasant. It's a mode of travel that we have at our disposal but we shouldn't always think of it as the first and only solution when we need to get somewhere. I'm a definite proponent of original solutions in all areas of life and I see no reason why that shouldn't apply to getting where I want to go.
An article in the Sunday Times travel section confirmed that it was indeed possible to reach the Southern parts of Spain by rail and it seemed like a sign. God bless the wonderful man who maintains the Seat 61 website and wrote about the wonders of that trip! My future husband and I made the decision that we wanted to be together and that since the plane clearly wasn't going to be an instrument in making this happen, we'd take the alternative route and use the train. Since togetherness was the objective and since I was somewhat nervous about undertaking a European rail odyssey alone, he decided to fly back to Britain and then make the journey to Spain with me. It would be an adventure. A final fling for us before we embarked upon the sensible constraints of married life, or perhaps the start of many happy vacations spent riding the rails. Either way, we were determined to go for it. Our journey would unfold thus: Eurostar from Ashford to Paris, lunch and a happy afternoon spent in the city of light, evening Elipsos sleeper train to Madrid, high speed AVE train from Madrid to Malaga, bus from Malaga to La Linea and taxi from La Linea to the apartment in Santa Margarita. A whole weekend of travelling, but so many sights to see and new things to experience. Overall it would be a journey quite different to just sitting back in an aeroplane seat and waiting to land... or in my case gripping the plane seat in terror and willing the aircraft to land as quickly but as safely as possible. It would be proper travelling.
For somebody like me taking the train was clearly the best choice. I've always loved trains; not in a geeky, trainspotting, platform stalking, number noting way. It's just the way I've always got where I wanted to go. When I was growing up I lived with my mum, who didn't drive, so we had to use public transport. As long as I can remember I've been chronically car sick, too, so coaches and buses weren't an option. I'm ashamed to say that this affliction still persists into my thirties and with our wedding venue a forty minute drive away from home along winding country roads I'm hastily trying to get over it. Anyway, trains are how I travel. I feel comfortable on the train. I think getting the Eurostar to Paris is easy, so for me it's logical to add another few hours train journey to that and head for Andalusia.
Just think for a minute about what it means to travel by train. Not the hustle and bustle of the morning commute or the general unpleasantness of short journeys in Britain, squished up against your fellow passengers when you haven't even been properly introduced. Think of travelling long distances and watching the scenery unfold outside your window. There's a sense of surrender that goes hand in hand with train travel. Freed from the stresses of driving, letting someone else take control and allowing yourself to enter your own little world. You can work, you can read, you can plug in your iPod and just watch, letting everything just drift by you. It's true that most of this can be done on a plane too, but in the sky all you can see is clouds. Down on the ground the sides of the tracks are rich with viewing possibilities, a constantly changing landscape of other people's spaces and lives to dip into as you glide past. On a plane you are also assaulted with instructions: when this sign lights up you must put on your seat belt; don't smoke in the toilet; put the oxygen mask on now or you'll die. To my mind this doesn't make for a relaxed trip. On trains there is no safety dance and if anything bad happens you're not thirty thousand feet up in the air, which must surely be a plus.
Looking back through history we can see that there was a time when people travelled by train as a matter of course. When they took the grand tour of Europe, they did it by rail. They didn't whizz around at high speed. The journey mattered as much as the destination. I think that travelling by train is an infinitely civilised experience and something to be savoured. It's also something from our past as humans that it makes sense for us to rediscover now. When we're all concerned about our carbon footprints, surely it doesn't make sense for us to burn several tonnes of jet fuel to get somewhere as quickly as we possibly can. Just because flying is convenient, it doesn't make it right or pleasant. It's a mode of travel that we have at our disposal but we shouldn't always think of it as the first and only solution when we need to get somewhere. I'm a definite proponent of original solutions in all areas of life and I see no reason why that shouldn't apply to getting where I want to go.
An article in the Sunday Times travel section confirmed that it was indeed possible to reach the Southern parts of Spain by rail and it seemed like a sign. God bless the wonderful man who maintains the Seat 61 website and wrote about the wonders of that trip! My future husband and I made the decision that we wanted to be together and that since the plane clearly wasn't going to be an instrument in making this happen, we'd take the alternative route and use the train. Since togetherness was the objective and since I was somewhat nervous about undertaking a European rail odyssey alone, he decided to fly back to Britain and then make the journey to Spain with me. It would be an adventure. A final fling for us before we embarked upon the sensible constraints of married life, or perhaps the start of many happy vacations spent riding the rails. Either way, we were determined to go for it. Our journey would unfold thus: Eurostar from Ashford to Paris, lunch and a happy afternoon spent in the city of light, evening Elipsos sleeper train to Madrid, high speed AVE train from Madrid to Malaga, bus from Malaga to La Linea and taxi from La Linea to the apartment in Santa Margarita. A whole weekend of travelling, but so many sights to see and new things to experience. Overall it would be a journey quite different to just sitting back in an aeroplane seat and waiting to land... or in my case gripping the plane seat in terror and willing the aircraft to land as quickly but as safely as possible. It would be proper travelling.
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