Just to keep the nature blog up to date, after a pleasantly lazy lunch with a couple of our neighbours, we returned to find our first Southern Scarce Swallowtail (Iphiclides feisthamelii) of the new season flitting about the Red Valerian behind Casa Libélule. My initial excitement was slightly dampened when I saw that it was missing one of its tails, but it’s a striking creature and always nice to see. My guess is that this damage is probably the result of a bird strike.

Early specimens have a better chance of being in good nick. Sadly not this one. It looks better in profile, though.

The first day of our last week dawned with an attractively blue sky so we had no qualms joining Helen for one of her Monday walks up into the mountains.

I say no qualms but I have been suffering from a gripe in my right knee ever since we visited Peñíscola, which I suspect was a result of my having attacked mountain walking with a little too much gusto/enthusiasm earlier on in our trip – too much, too fast, perhaps. However, with a little more moderation, some of which was enforced, it has settled a bit and I’m avoiding the painkiller/anti-inflammatory combo. It seems better going uphill but aches a little on the way back down.

Today’s trek was up and down Alt del Ample, one of the mountains on the southern side of Jalón. We met behind the fuel station and headed a short distance up the road to the Sierra de Bernia, a road with which we’re very familiar, for our start point. We began by walking more or less level for some distance before eventually getting onto the incline which proved to be a steady, pretty constant gradient to the top. Enjoyable.

Here’s the view from the top back down into the Jalón valley. The mountain in the distance on the left is the Montgo, towering over Jávea/Xàbia and Dénia. We were surprised that conditions were clear enough for our eyes to see two of the Balearic Islands on the horizon, not that they were visible to my phone camera. 😉

It was an 8km route and a very pleasant way to start our last week of this trip. We’ll miss our Monday morning walking buddies when back at home. And the weather, of course.

Having been taunted by fresh Swallowtail butterflies when we walked up to the cross above Murla recently, today being sunny, we attacked the hill and cross behind Senija, which is a more gentle climb that I can manage with a camera slung over my shoulder on a monopod. This hill is usual a good place stalk butterflies and particularly the two resident species of Swallowtail. I was hopeful.

We had a friend with us and it would also serve as a leg-loosener if we managed to attack a more serious walk with our Monday walking group tomorrow. The three of us set off.

Part way up Francine spotted a couple of emerging, underdeveloped orchids. They gave us a good excuse, if one were needed, to dally and catch a breath. She clicked away for the record. A little further up another one was spotted.

Gaining the rocky summit running along to the cross itself, things looked disappointingly quiet on the butterfly front. There were, though, the usual Wall Browns (Lasiommata megera) and I did manage to snag the topside of a Blue, which I’d need my reference book to decide upon. Though the markings look rather paler than usual, I’m pretty confident that this is a Long-tailed Blue (Lampides boeticus). What I should have done was try to get the underside as well which would have put it beyond doubt. [The underside is what one usually gets.]

A coupe of Swallowtails (Papilio machaon) did then zoom by. They flitted and occasionally settled but always at some distance from where I was standing. frustrating little chaps. Then they seemed to disappear. Then they reappeared but again, only briefly and most uncooperatively. They disappeared again. I wandered and found one flitting about a different patch of ground, where it seemed to settle reasonably predictably. I worked myself into the correct position for the light and waited, finally snagging a couple of shots.

It’s very early in their flight season and I’m sure they will soon become more plentiful. The nice thing about catching specimens early is that they are likely to be pristine, as yet unworn, with a full complement of two tails that have not yet been damaged. This is one such specimen. [BTW, this picture looks as if it’s been colour-popped but it hasn’t, the bush really was that nondescript grey colour.]

It was worth carrying the camera.

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.