Somehow, whilst touring New Zealand in November last year, I managed to strain one side of my jaw. I suspect that a gaping yawn might have been the cause. Since a knackered jaw hinge made eating, an activity of which I am rather too fond, a painful exercise, I initially resorted to daily doses of Ibuprofen. Their advertised anti-inflammatory effect didn’t seem to be making things as comfortable as I’d have liked, so I added the pain killing action of Paracetamol. The combination did make things a little better.

Off to Spain and still on my drugs combination, though twice a day rather than the permitted four times a day, I rediscovered walking in the mountains, an enjoyable activity for winter time when my insect friends are not around to provide my entertainment. In the space of two weeks I thoroughly enjoyed six walks of varying grades with a couple of different walking groups. I even invested in some new Spanish walking boots.

Though at the time I suffered absolutely no ill effects whatsoever, it seems my right knee may have suffered something of a delayed reaction. Whilst visiting friends in Peñíscola, where we walked but not up and down mountains, my knee began by grumbling and ended up approaching painful, the knee cap seeming to click into place rather alarmingly on occasion. It seems a little puffy compared to its neighbour, so I now suspect an outbreak of Housemaids Knee. P’raps I’d done too much, too fast?

Bless the Spanish. On a visit to Valencia, we toured farmacias purchasing supplies of Paracetamol tablets – my imported supplies were running low – but not those wimpy 500mg jobs, oh no, these were 1g tablets and about the size of horse pills. At least I had only one to swallow, albeit twice the size.

Ignoring the available walks completely was getting tedious so today I took my drugs and went for a kill or cure approach, accompanying our Monday walking group on a walk from Parcent to Murla, where we ascended the mountain behind to see the cross. Part of the climb turned out to be just that, a hands-required scramble. My knee did seem to warm up a bit as the drugs worked their way around my alcohol blood stream. Oddly, perhaps, my knee seemed better going uphill than downhill, and we made it to the top. [This is Pete, our companion, rendered by Samsung’s usually crappy phone cameras, master of all he surveys.]

Here, whilst catching my breath, I was pleased to be briefly entertained by three new season Swallowtail butterflies which had made the same uphill journey with much less effort than that required by we humans. Wildlife really does put us to shame, even our crème de la crème Olympians. This so-called hill-topping behaviour is a mating strategy amongst some insects, so they’ve clearly got energy left after the journey. [I hadn’t lugged my camera up the mountain so here’s a picture from last year on an easier mountain aided by a more cooperative knee.]

We have now discovered that those delightful Spanish farmacias sell Ibuprofen is larger doses, too. As well as single tablets of 400mg, you can get 600mg jobs, which is like a UK dose and a half. For now, I’ll stick to the 400mg dose and see how much adverse reaction I suffer.

Kill or cure? At least with double-dose single pills, I won’t rattle quite as much.

A week or so ago, we were browsing through a friend’s Spanish recipe book. [Barrafina, since you ask.] As I flicked through, on almost every other page I found myself thinking, “oh, that looks worth trying”. This is an unusually high hit rate for any cookery book where I am concerned. We borrowed said book and I noted a few recipes to try during our current cool spell.

The first recipe I thought I‘d try featured Merluza [Hake] served on a bed of peas and broad beans, sweated with onion, then simmered in chicken stock before being minted. The Spanish are inordinately fond of Hake and I’m beginning to understand why; it may be a member of the generally rather dull Cod family but it actually has flavour and a very delicate, soft flesh. The Spanish are also very fond of their habas [broad beans], so this had “Spain” written all over it.

Only when I began assembling my ingredients did I realize that this vegetable mixture was coincidentally very similar to a fish accompaniment that I developed myself, also featuring peas with broad beans and mint, though I add diced cucumber with baby courgettes and use spring onions, instead. I don’t use stock but just sweat the veggies in butter. Very similar, though.

I had trouble with one ingredient, which was really just a garnish on top of the Hake. I’d never heard of it before: cecina, which is pronounced th-e-theen-a and not ch-e-cheen-a, as I did mentally. I think the trouble was that it had been described as cured beef, somewhat like the Italian Bresaola, so I’d mentally turned it into an Italian ingredient. Anyway, I scoured the shops looking for some cecina.

In Spain, there are more packs of thinly sliced meat products than than you can shake an Iberico black-hoofed pig at. There are countless jamons of one quality or another,almost as many sausage derivatives including, of course, Chorizo but also salami-like concoctions, and many more besides. During all my shop scourings, what I couldn’t see was a word resembling cecina on any packet. Not to be deterred, I grabbed some jamon as a substitute and proceeded. How bad could it be? [It wasn’t at all bad and the hake was excellent.]

Yesterday we were out at a friend’s birthday bash in a restaurant so we knew we’d want only something light in the evening. I grabbed some olive and anchovy banderillas, a selection of smoked fish, some cheese and a packet of thinly shaved ham-like meat. The packaging was less than informative but the contents looked different and interesting. I can’t show you, it’s all gone. 😀

Anyway the meat was a packet too far last night but we’ve just enjoyed it for today’s lunch. It seemed vaguely smoked but I suspect it was simply cured. After we’d scoffed it all, we turned over the container and there on the reverse …

So why couldn’t they write that important stuff, what the packet actually contained, on the front, pray tell?

I’ll know next time, though I’ll do the minted veggies my way if I do it again. 😉

Yes, it’s been snowing this morning in the Jalón valley. You see, Spain DOES have winter.

Nothing has settled on the valley floor but the surrounding mountains have been dusted with icing sugar.

We are booked in for the annual Almond Blossom walk Next Wednesday, 7th February, and the almond trees have begun blooming. You can just see a faint pink blush in some of the valley orchards. Lets hope the blossom survives its wintry experience.

This morning we wandered downhill into Jalón to see how our new house insurance policy was progressing. It turned out that it was progressing quite nicely and was ready for collection and, mas importante, for payment. Now, if our existing policy has actually been cancelled, all will be well, but that’s another story.

Since our route would take us past our mail buzon [box], Francine decided to check it. Unexpectedly, she found a letter, addressed to her rather than me or us, from our bank relating to our joint Spanish bank account. The bank must have been on the ball, I thought, because the letter was in English, so we had little trouble understanding the mystifying message. The message was less welcome. It was from a business manager and claimed that the bank did not have the required documentation relating to Francine’s tax status and business income. If we did not supply the required documentation – a tax form 062 was mentioned – online services, deposits and withdrawals, would be suspended from 12th February. Curious; we know our legal eagles submit yearly non-resident tax information. Maybe the bank didn’t get them but why Francine and not me?

After completing our insurance visit, we set off for the bank in search of explanation. As is usual, there was a queue; three people were waiting for two tellers, both of whom were currently occupied. One was occupied with a man in a red sweater. No transaction with a teller in Spain seems swift so we decided to go and have a coffee in the hope that the bank would quieten down a bit.

It didn’t. Now four people were waiting. Señor Jersey Rojo was still with his teller and very attractive she was, too. There was nothing for it, we joined the queue.

I was bemused by the transaction that Señor Jersey Rojo was engaged in with Señora Atractivo. There seemed to be lengthy periods of inactivity, with very occasional taps by Señora Atractivo on her keyboard whilst staring intently at her monitor. Every now and then, Señor Jersey Rojo would pick up a stylus and scribble something approaching a signature on a touch pad. A printer would sometimes chunter into operation.

This continued for 30 minutes, during which time the remaining teller slowly whittled down the queue until we were on. Francine presented her letter and explained that we were mystified. Our teller consulted his monitor, then he consulted Señora Atractivo who left Señor Jersey Rojo for a few moments so she could stare at our teller’s monitor.

“Oh, that’s just a standard letter”, explained Señora Atractivo. “We have everything”, added our teller and proceeded to tear up Francine’s letter. Francine and I stared at each other in disbelief.

“But does La Caixa [the bank] know you have everything and why send the letter in the first place?” Smiles and a hint of a shrug. Now letterless, we left the bank.

Señor Jersey Rojo was still sitting there.

On our recent trip into Valencia by train [Valencian Markets], Francine had been impressed by the soft quality of the light on that particular morning over the rice paddies of the Parque Natural Albufera as we rattled by. So, we made a mental note to try a scouting trip for potential landscape line-ups in the future. After our visit to Peñíscola [pronounced Pen-yis-cola] and its neighbouring towns, we would be passing by Valencia on our way back south so we took the opportunity to clamber off the autovia for a gander.

[BTW, if I seem to have changed the word for motorway, an autopista is a toll motorway whereas an autovia is a toll-free motorway.]

There is a network of small roads surrounding a large lake shown on the maps though we soon discovered that, whilst some are roads as we know them, others are no more than dirt tracks. This is where I could’ve done with a Dacia Duster [I’m just looking for an excuse], a car that I could afford not to give a monkey’s about and in which we could happily bounce around off-piste in Spain. However, we are armed with a proper car that I do give a monkey’s about so bouncing off-piste with gay abandon was a less than appealing prospect. Discretion being the better part of valour, we parked a couple of times and wandered.

There was much farming activity. I was first taken by the odd appearance of the tractors being driven about by what I presumed were a couple of rice farmers. The rear wheels consisted of a broad metal framework only, with no tyres whatsoever. These seemed to be designed to mush up the sopping wet soil in which rice likes to grow. Steering, using wheels that did have tyres, looked like quite an art – the front wheels looked as if they acting more like rudders than wheels. Loitering about near the tractors, clearly on the lookout for disturbed food items, were more Egrets than you could shake a bag of bomba paella rice at.

As Francine was wandering, she disturbed a dragonfly which regrettably flew off before I could be summoned to see it. It would have been a Common Darter (Sympetrum striolatum), sin duda [without doubt].

We had arrived at the Albufera shortly after midday so conditions were not great for landscape photography, which tends to require moody lighting. However, it was a scouting trip so we both clicked at a hut that looked worthy enough to give the general idea. Here’s Francine’s shot so you can see what this rather unusual landscape looks like.

It’s about an hour’s drive from Casa Libelule back up to the Albufera. It remains to be seen whether we can drag ourselves up there early enough … or, indeed, whether Francine still considers it a worthwhile exercise.

We wait with bated breath.

[A more difficult pronunciation topic. Spanish Bs and Vs suffer from an identity crisis. They get mixed up. The pronunciation of Vinarós lies somewhere between Vin-a-ross and Bin-a-ross. The lead letter is a sort of soft B, made without the lips quite coming together. Tricky! Anyway …]

About 20kms up the coast from Peñíscola lies Vinarós. Today we piled into our car with our hosts and headed up for a squint. We bailed out in a handy-dandy car park and took to Shank’s Pony so we could wander along the promenade.

Shank’s Pony had trouble making it past the Ale-Hop shop. I should explain for the uninitiated that Ale-Hop is a chain of “gifts and gadgets” shops [I’d call it simply “tat”] fronted by a life-sized black and white cow on wheels. “Why a cow?”, I hear you ask. Well, I honestly don’t know; it beats the cowpat out of me. Those regarding shopping as an Olympic sport are irresistibly drawn to Ale-Hop shops, though. While the ladies indulged in a lengthy browse and bought a belt with expanding pockets that looked at least half-way useful, we guys stayed outside and looked for an irresistible tapas bar to delay Shanks’ Pony once again..

We found one and enjoyed a relaxing break sharing four tapas at the relaxing price of 90¢ each, once the ladies had taken their leave of the black and white cow.

Tapas craving sated, we finished our promenade along the promenade before heading further into town. Imagine our surprise when, rounding a corner near the church, we were faced with a life-sized statue looking uncomfortably like a White Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. This particular effigy seemed to be stabbing himself in the right hip with a metal rod whilst leading a child, a child who was depicted looking up at him adoringly. Yikes! What’s all this? What’s the Ku Klux Klan doing in Spain? I must say that a damn good prolonged stabbing in the side with something sharp and pointy would be a perfectly good way to treat any member of the KKK. I couldn’t quite see them being as masochistic as they sadistic, though. We needed to do some research, clearly.

With some relief, back at Researchville, I discovered that the resemblance to the KKK appears to be superficial. In Spain, that distinctive pointed hood, the thing that really shouted KKK, is called a capirote and was worn by Catholic penitents, originally flagellants, who flogged themselves to do penance. I imagine, then, that this sharp, pointy stick is to do with self-inflicted pain for penance, too. Isn’t God a wonderful creation?

These days, the capirote is part of the costume of several brotherhoods and is worn during Easter observances, or Semana Santa as it is in the Catalan language of this part of Spain. Children, apparently, were allowed to wear a capirote only after their first holy communion when they could enter the brotherhood. Maybe that’s what’s going on with el niño above?

Perhaps the KKK usurped the capirote because of its use by brotherhoods?

Getting away from the spooky costumes, the church in Vinarós displayed a couple of unusual features, too. Firstly, the main entrance was sided by heavy, dark, twisting columns. [‘Ello, dark and twisted – are we back to the KKK again?] I don’t recall seeing anything like these spiralling black columns before. I didn’t find them particularly attractive, more threatening. Still, I suppose if you’re heading into church with a spear in your side, looking threatening might be appropriate.

Further round the church on the outside, the rear wall I think, was covered in what looked like a fresco. I’m used to frescos on inside walls but I’m sure I’ve not seen one on an external surface before.

Live and learn.

[Pronounced Pen-yis-colla, by the way.]

A gota fría was forecast for the Jalón area this weekend. A gota fría is literally a “cold drop”, a particular meteorological phenomenon in which a low pressure area becomes disconnected from its normal mother lode, the jet stream, and floats around causing unpleasantness independently. The cold drop [in temperature] is accompanied by heavy rain. We experienced a gota fría in December 2016 when our river ended up in torrent [see Gota Fría].

We had been planning a weekend trip to visit friends in Peñíscola, ~250kms further north. In Peñíscola rain was also forecast but perhaps not to the extent expected in Jalón. After some debate between us, we decided to continue with our weekend trip, not only because it might be lighter rain up at Peñíscola but also because, if the weather was going to be pants, why not have some old friends to natter to instead of staring at our own walls? It’s a 3-hour drive, including comfort break; we arrived shortly before 13:00 on Friday.

I refer to Peñíscola as El Cid country. That’s because the Castillo de Peñíscola was one of the [four] castles used in the 1961 film, El Cid. This is the castle towards the end of the film where a dead El Cid, a.k.a. Don Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar [El Cid is much easier], a.k.a. Charlton Heston, having been mortally wounded in battle, dies but is then strapped back on his horse to ride down a ramp and scare the crap out of the Moorish foe on the beach. This, of course, was a couple of years after Charlton Heston had scared the crap out of the Romans in 1959 as Judah Ben-Hur. The inimitable Charlton Heston would later be resurrected and go on to be scared the crap out of himself by a lot of very hairy actors on The Planet of the Apes in 1968. What a guy.

Anyway, all that crap is delightful CHB – Classic Hollywood Bollocks. The Castillo de Peñíscola was supposed to represent Valéncia, which doesn’t even seem to have a castle. The Castillo de Peñíscola was actually used by the Knights Templar but let’s not get into any Holy Grail crap. Here’s a crappy phone camera shot of Peñíscola castle taken around dawn from our bedroom in our hosts’ pad, so it’ll give an idea of their views, too, which are not crap. 😉

This MAY be the ramp down which the dead Charlton Heston was sent to scare the Moors on the beach, but I’ve seen the film only once and it was a long, long time ago, so don’t quote me. Whatever, it is the gateway into the old town.

I am pretty sure that this, playa norte, is the beach where the Moors were scared crapless by Charlton, apparently risen from the dead. [Well, he had to rise again to blast off to Planet of the Apes, didn’t he?]

On the other side of the peninsula, the old town is sided by playa sur and by a fishing harbour housing boats which wouldn’t have suited even a Hollywood depiction of the closing years of the 11th century at all, but it makes a reasonable postcard view in the 21st.

We did enjoy a lunch within the walls of the old town in a self-styled Tex-Mex restaurant where, as we have recently learned from the excellent Mr. Rick Stein, they serve Carne con Chile and NOT Chile con Carne, the latter being a Texanization [and we all know how mad the Texans are]. Although, this being a Tex-Mex rather than a Mexican restaurant … well?

Finally, how the hell does one correctly spell chili/chile/chilli? I’ve seen ‘em all and find it mightily confusing. I originally discounted chile as just the country, albeit with a capital, but it seems to be the Spanish spelling of the fiery vegetable, too. If so, I’m up for it. Answers on a postcard to …

Flexible folks are the Costa Blanca Mountain Walkers. This Wednesday there was originally no moderately graded walk, just a red run and two black runs. Two blacks, indeed. Francine says two blacks is quite usual. Clearly we need more training. We have done a red but we’re still getting back into it after a couple of injuries, so not just yet. Anyway, the call went out and nice chap called Barry agreed to lead a late addition blue run starting in Lliber, which is a quaint village in our valley.

The details posted were to start in Lliber, then make a circuit round to Senija via the so-called Hidden Valley, and from there to return to Lliber. It would be 13kms with 375m of ascent and take 4½hrs. Irresistible! Well, it was likely to be one of the bars in the middle of Lliber at the end that would probably prove irresistible.

Just to try something different and because I seem to have found a GPS tracker app that works, here’s the route – go clockwise starting in Lliber on the left.

The walk was very enjoyable, too, though. As it cut back towards Senija, the route joined a section of a route with which we are very familiar, the walk up to the cross above Senija. We use that as a limbering up walk when we have just arrived in Spain and need to get our legs moving again.

The almond blossom is just beginning to burst on a few trees but we’re not into anything spectacular yet. Here’s a shot showing an almond tree and a very attractive dry stone wall, the point of which we could not determine. Jalón is central in the distance.

There is a traditional almond blossom walk in the Jalón Valley in a couple of weeks. We’re booked in. Let’s hope the heavy rain forecast for next week doesn’t ruin it.

The walk details proved accurate and, just as I thought, the bar in Lliber was irresistible.

Yes, yet another walk with the Costa Blanca Mountain Walkers. This walk was advertised as the Barranco de Turrubanes Circuit, another blue grade walk of 10 kms with 350m of ascent, starting from Vall d’Ebo, which is itself quite high at 400m. However, the intended walk, when recced, proved to be impossible – a fence had been erected across an indispensible path. So, our fearless leaders swiftly came up with an alternative route of similar length starting from the same village.

A week ago we’d been on another walk with the CBMW folks and had driven through Vall d’Ebo to get to that start point. On that occasion, as we passed through Vall d’Ebo the temperature had dropped to 3°C. today was no different; descending into Vall d’Ebo once again the car bonged its less than welcome warning of 3°C. My legs, clad in crop-length walking trousers, felt decidedly underdressed.

The new walk began in a rather tedious manner, that is to say, mostly on a concrete road winding its way up the side of the first hill. Personally, I would rather be on rough rocky terrain than hard, even but unrelenting concrete. After some descending, though, we eventually struck off across a vegetated footpath which would lead us up routes consisting largely of my favoured rocks before descending a similarly rocky track back down to our start point.

Two years ago, these hillsides had been devastated by an horrendous forest fire, caused by a careless old farmer who almost lost his life for his troubles. Back then, I’d seen the blackened skeletons of trees left behind shortly after our arrival. One effect of the fire was to reveal a footpath that was hitherto unknown to the walking group. Now the hillsides and mother nature are recovering nicely but the regrowth is making some sections of the newly discovered track difficult to negotiate. Negotiate it we did but some of the going was quite hard work. It was worth it, though, given these views. This is looking over Pego to the Mediterranean beyond.

I’ve been trialling a few different GPS route trackers. The one I switched on today claimed that our walk  had covered 5.8mls/9.33kms. A more comprehensive piece of kit being used by another walker added the total ascent figure of 420m. It was a most invigorating walk but, because of the tough terrain, these were the longest 9.33kms that I’ve ever walked. Very enjoyable, though.

Naturally, this effort required refreshment. Vall d’Ebo itself seemed almost dead until, that is, we opened the door to a local bar and found almost all of the 286 [2012 figures] inhabitants therein. So that’s where you all are. With a 1ltr bottle of Amstel costing a mere 3€ I could understand why.

Oh, Francine and I shared the bottle – I was driving. 😉