Tuscany Retrospective: Chianti

For the second of our two back-to-back walking tours in Tuscany, we were off to the Chianti wine region. Our first tour leader, Ben, drove us back to Pisa airport, along with our companions that were flying out, to meet our second tour leader, Adrienne, who was at the airport meeting her coming week’s crowd. Adrienne merged us with her flying customers and drove us 90 minutes south to our hotel at Castellina in Chianti, the Salivolpi, which a couple of us couldn’t resist calling the Saliva-pol.

P1030191 Chianti hillsAs we left the autostrada and drove into the Chianti region itself, we were at last greeted by scenery that matched our mental image of Tuscany. Here were the more rounded, vine-covered hills with stark lines of columnar cypress trees, though the hills were more serious than we had expected, I think. The steeply sloping vineyards reminded me somewhat of those in the Beaujolais region of France.

This was Francine’s birthday week and we kicked it off with an unsettling glitch making for disturbed campers. The main problem was the room we were initially given at the Saliva-pol Salivolpi. Our room was right by reception with its unobscured bedroom window opening out directly onto the crunchy gravel car park and the equally crunchy pedestrian route leading to the the hotel’s main entrance. The bathroom window was little better but was, at least, obscured glass. Particularly with the room lights on, this was like living in a noisy fish bowl. Fortunately, the hotel staff jumped though hoops to juggle bookings and move us to another room. My advice would be to reject room #15 at the Saliva-pol Salivolpi.

A contributing difficulty to our unsettled demeanour, which probably wouldn’t affect everyone, was that we had just acclimatized to one set of companions in the best holiday accommodation we’d ever experienced, and had changed both with no intervening gap. I don’t think we’d choose to do two separate tours back-to-back again. A gap would make it feel like a new trip rather than a (dis)continuation.

_MG_6922 picnic preparationHaving said that, once the room was sorted out, our new companions were also great and once people got to know each other, we settled into having a very good time. The walking in Chianti was generally shorter and less strenuous than the mountains of the Garfagnana but, with the aforementioned higher-than-expected hills, they still got the heart pumping. Picking ripe figs off the trees beside our trails proved to be a popular source of entertainment. Naturally, as we were approaching harvest, a few of Chianti’s Sangiovese grapes were sampled along the way, too. Francine’s significant birthday lunch was a picnic in a Chianti vineyard, prepared by Adrienne and washed down by a Chianti classico that I’d carted along in my rucksack especially for the occasion. 😉

Between walks, this was a more varied week than the first with a considerable emphasis on culture, including, of course, the local vino of which the Italians are justly proud. Since we were now in a town, we reverted to Explore!’s normal format of no meals included. Instead, evenings were spent in restaurants where it was naturally de rigueur to sample bottles of Chianti classico. Happily, with the exception of one, these Italian restaurants did a lot better than those we experienced the previous week.

_MG_6824_MG_6949Other aspects of our Italian culture introduction were day trips to nearby Siena and Florence. I’m not a great city fan, being crowded places full of ladies that find passing a shop impossible, and offering such diversions as theatres and art galleries both of which fail to interest me. Fortunately, a couple of other males on the trip were of a similar mind and we distracted each other with the occasional beer to maintain sanity. Of the two, I found Sienna visually more appealing. The most notable thing to me about Florence was the apparently undeveloped water front of the river Arno flowing through it. Curious, I thought. Along with a couple of my male pals, I tried the Boboli gardens which consisted of grass, trees, paths and a couple of completely sterile-looking ponds, though I did find a dragonfly in residence on one of them. Given the complete lack of vegetation, I was very surprised.

P1030220 San Gimignano skylineThere was one other spot of town culture that I had to endure, although, with San Gimignano being the mid-point of a decent walk, that visit had its saving graces. San Gimignano’s old culture was for the town’s merchants to build tall towers. Building a taller tower was the way the rich of San Gimignano said “up yours” to their not-quite-so-rich neighbours.

There’s a quintessential Italian delicacy that we have thus far completely ignored: gelato [ice cream]. Wandering back from one restaurant in Castellina in Chianti, we came across an ice cream parlour (why does ice cream come from parlours?) open into the late evening. Casual investigation was fatal – the dark chocolate fondant looked irresistible, and so it proved to be. This was the most luxuriously decadent ice cream we had ever tasted. Rumours of other particularly fine ice creams available in Siena led to an on-going experiment, purely scientific, you understand. We just had to sample ice creams on our travels and decide which was the best. Our vote was unanimous, the ice creams from the late night parlour at Castellina in Chianti got our vote. Of course, we had to have another before leaving Chianti to verify our decision. 😉

P1030255 Francine picnic

Happy birthday Francine!

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Posted in 2013 Italy

Tuscany Retrospective: The Garfagnana

An Italian “gn” is like a Spanish “ñ” [enya]; so, this is pronounced “Garfanyana”.

Francine likes to be somewhere special for her birthday. That was particularly true this year, it being a special birthday. Enough said! After a little effort searching, Francine found something that appealed, a combination of two 1-week walking trips, both organized by Explore! and both in Tuscany, which Explore! confirmed we could do back-to-back. We are almost completely unfamiliar with Italy, having had but one prior brush with the Venice area some 25 years ago.

Week #1 of our re-introduction to Italy was Explore!’s Trails of Hidden Tuscany trip in a lesser known area of Tuscany called the Garfagnana. We flew from Gatwick and into Pisa, a town that is (in)famous for one thing and one thing only, a major Italian architectural cock-up. Well, maybe the architecture was good but the engineering was wrong. That would fit the typical Italian pattern of good design ruined by crappy build quality. No, we didn’t catch a glimpse of the leaning tower from the plane on the way in.

P1030099 Devils BridgeWe met our tour leader at Pisa airport and were driven to our accommodation for the week, a superb agriturismo [converted farmhouse] at La Villa. En route we passed the Devil’s Bridge – every country seems to have at least one Devil’s Bridge – where we chomped our first Italian sandwich while it began thrashing with rain. I opted for the ham sandwich, in preference to the mortadella sausage sandwich, and that’s exactly what I got, bread and ham; there was no lubrication whatsoever. This was a pattern that was repeated. It was tasty, though, and I added my own lubrication in the form of beer. 🙂

_MG_6421Because we were largely out in the middle of nowhere at La Villa, in a break from Explore!’s normal format, four evening meals, together with packed lunches for our walking days, were included and supplied by the utterly delightful couple, Amadeo and Rosa, who ran the agriturismo. Lunches were ample and consisted of two sandwiches of, you guessed it, decent bread containing ham or mortadella and … nothing else. Italian sandwiches seem to be minimalist [a.k.a. dry] in that they comprise bread, a meaty filling, and nothing else. Some of our number on the trip were having a hard time with dry sandwiches made of real bread that required chewing. Following representation, on subsequent days, sliced tomatoes, freshly picked from the agriturismo’s garden, magically moistened things up a bit. Much better.

Our included evening meals even came complete with wine in reasonably copious quantity. Amadeo was a man after my own heart and clearly enjoyed a drink. He also liked to force a shot or two of home-made grappa upon his unsuspecting guests as a digestivo. What a man! Grappa, it must be said, varies tremendously from the very good to something more akin to lighter fuel. I think we had both available. 😀 Other booze, including wines and beers, was available at other times via an honesty bar – mark off what you take and settle up and the end of the week. Great system, great hosts.

_MG_6555Prior to departure, we had a preconceived image of Tuscany, a mental image which, I suspect, had been created by the work of various landscape photographers. The Garfagnana did not match our mental image. Whereas we were expecting a rolling countryside featuring meadows and columnar cypress trees, what we got was seriously craggy mountains and woodland. As usual with seriously craggy mountains, there were frequently some seriously grey clouds either above them or, occasionally, at their feet. The constantly changing early morning mist/cloud formations billowing up from the valley were really quite intriguing. The main intrigue was in trying to figure out what the coming day might hold. Fortunately, our days walking up to the higher peeks – we hit a little over 2000m – were dry and largely bright with nothing worse than atmospheric cloud cover. We enjoyed the mountain walks tremendously.

P1030138-sizedA word on walking/trekking. Our party of 14 (plus the leader) suffered two fortuitously relatively minor injuries due, IMHO, to personal equipment. Injury #1 befell a lady who slipped descending a steep muddy slope folding her leg beneath her as she sat unceremoniously down: she wrenched her knee/ankle. Though she had been equipped with trekking poles, she wasn’t using them; they were strapped to her rucksack being purely decorative. Injury #2 happened when another, very sporty lady, walking in rather lightweight trainers/walking shoes, accidentally drop-kicked a sizeable boulder bruising/breaking (she couldn’t decide which) her toe. Stout walking boots would have prevented that type of injury. Using appropriate walking gear is the trekking equivalent of a motorcyclist donning leathers, even if it is summer, for protection. Should you be unfortunate enough to skid along the tarmac, it’s the cow skin rather than the motorcyclist’s own skin that gets abraded. Enough said.

P1030155 Cinque TerraOne day took us out of the mountains and on a very different kind of walk along a section of the Cinque Terre, a UNESCO World Heritage landscape of the Tuscan Riviera. Getting to the walk involved dealing with three Italian trains for a couple of hours. Section #1 of the walk itself was essentially a cobbled pedestrian motorway comprised largely of high steps unsuitable for anyone shorter than 6ft/1.85m. The general pedestrian traffic on said motorway consisted of the usual assortment of beach brigade bods clad in inappropriate footwear (see above). I actually spotted one guy in cheap rubber toe-post flip-flops carrying his young child on his back in a ruck-sack papoose device. I dreaded to think what might have happened to his rugrat had he slipped/tripped and fallen. Our walking boots and trekking poles certainly looked overkill compared to the surrounding fashion but the poles certainly helped those shorter than 6ft/1.85m down the tall steps. The intended section #2 of the walk had been closed, literally just before we got there, due to a landslide. We were not unhappy to call an early halt. We hopped on a crowded boat instead before dealing with another three trains over another couple of hours to return to sanity. I suppose the coast is quite pretty but we didn’t enjoy this particular interlude. It was far too much effort for far too little gain. The Cinque Terre seems to be the draw that gets many people to sign up for this trip, though, so it’s included. Give me the peace, solitude and majesty of the mountain landscapes any day. It was a relief to return to them the following day.

Italian food has a high reputation. Certainly, the home cooking of the agriturismo was excellent, though some might have called it basic, perhaps. When it came to our few brushes with restaurants, I formed a somewhat more qualified opinion; whilst each individual course may have been very tasty food, as a diet the Italian mixture sucked. For example, in one fixed price/fixed menu restaurant, we were presented with a fairly typical cold meat antipasto course, followed by a risotto course, a gnocchi course, and no less than two pasta courses. Were there any real vegetables in evidence? No. I know we were on a walking holiday but this was carbo-blasting of the highest order. To cap it all, on our day off in Lucca, I was presented with the worst pizza I’ve ever had, though admittedly I chose badly in selecting the seafood pizza. What’s the point serving half a dozen mussels in their shells on a pizza, pray tell? They need to be removed from the pizza to eat them. The twice-cooked, heads-on prawns needed similar treatment and were now predictably overcooked, too. Pathetic! Lesson learned: keep pizzas simple.

So, all in all a slightly surprising but mostly enjoyable week in a delightful location and in the company of the finest hosts I’ve ever experienced, despite the lack of any roughage in the restaurant food.

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Spanish Correction

I’m a good one for this: when I’m fortunate enough to bump into a new dragonfly species, I concentrate most framing and focusing whilst tending glibly to assume that any similar looking dragonfly in my viewfinder is another one of those new suspects. I’m now back from Spain after three days of arduous driving and going through my shots for some well-deserved R&R.

J01_3726 Epaulet SkimmerEarly in our trip, as reported in Brand New Friend, courtesy of eagle-eyed Francine, I bumped into my first ever Epaulet Skimmer (Orthetrum chrysostigma). Here, again, is that first Epaulet Skimmer.

Later on and acting on information that I might find Black Pennants (Selysiothemis nigra) in residence, we set off for the Aula Natura de la Marjal de Gandia. We had no luck with the Black Pennants but we did see several more examples of what I assumed to be more Epaulet Skimmers, though I was also thinking that they looked a little different. I think I tended to put this down to age – theirs, I mean, not mine. 😀

How wrong can could I have been? Back at home and with more time to compare features with my reference books, I’m now convinced that these were my second brand new species of the trip. The Gandia suspects did look a little waisted from the rear angle but the colour is all wrong, much more slate grey, and there’s no sign of any “epaulet”, even given that these are frequently hidden by dropped wings.

J01_3835 Long Skimmer J01_3837 Long Skimmer J01_3839 Long Skimmer J01_3846 Long Skimmer

Even though the distribution map in Dijkstra/Lewington has us out of range, that’s old information and the DragonflyPix website shows the whole Iberian peninsula as being in range. These characters are the so-called Long Skimmer (Orthetrum trinacria). They are much more slate-gray in colour, the eyes are bluer and the frons yellower. The swollen S2 tends to make the abdomen look a bit pinched but it’s really quite uniformly skinny and a v. dark colour in the mature male. The pterostigmas are huge, too. One of the pictures is what I think is a maturing male showing the underlying abdominal pattern resembling the female’s as shown in Dijkstra/Lewington.

I’d better go back and correct my original incorrect post. 😯

Posted in 2013 France and Spain

Last Leg Home

Yesterday, I forgot to mention that Sally Satnav had recovered from her little Pyrenean malfunction; she had lost satellites overnight, having been turned off, and re-acquired satellites again yesterday morning. All the way to Chartres, she was plotting our little car where it should be, on the road.

With 900 miles/1440 kms of our journey behind us, today’s third leg of our journey should be a little simpler. It’s a mere 215 miles/350 kms from Chartres to Calais, then 130 miles/210 kms home from Dover, following the 90-minute ferry crossing. As is our habit with Chartres, we set off in the rain at 8:00 AM.

Not knowing much about journeys of this length, I had originally booked a ferry at ~6:30 PM. Chartres to Calais, though, is a breeze, especially in light Sunday morning traffic, and we rolled into the ferry port at 12:30 PM having been diverted around Rouen due to a major river bridge being closed and having stopped at the last French service area for our final slightly cheaper fill-up of diesel.

“We’re a little early for our ferry”, announced Francine, grinning.

“So I see”, replied the P&O check-in clerk. “That’s OK, I can get you on the next sailing at 1:35 PM. That’ll be £60.” [I’ve rounded up from £59.something.]

It’s just about worth £60 not to hang around Calais for four hours with home in tantalising sight, so we went for it and joined the line waiting to board.

I thought Italians were supposed to have style but apparently it’s not a universal trait. Waiting alongside us in the boarding lines was an Italian chap wearing a blue-ish jumper, green-ish checked shorts and white plimsoll-like shoes with knee-length black socks. Sartorially elegant, he certainly wasn’t. In a stroke of archetypical genius, though, perhaps trying to distract us from his choice in clothing, he was playing Italian opera music from his car stereo. Inspector Morse meets Mr. Muppet.

The crossing went smoothly, as did our journey home through the Dartford tunnel and round the M25, minus anything worse than a speed limit through miles of road works which, apparently, are continuing until 2015. Yikes! We arrived home at 4:30 PM.

The Spanish summer weather was all that I’d hoped: wall to wall sunshine. Temperatures had been high (for us), 30+°C/86+°F, every day and without too much in the way of humidity. I found it very pleasant and soon fell into the “expect tomorrow to be fine” frame of mind. One day, sitting on the naya with Chris, I asked if he’d ever had a bad summer during their 10 years in Spain. He considered this for a while and replied, “more humid ones”. I laughed.

Spain cannot manage the wildlife interest of the south of France, it’s a much more arid, desiccated country. There really is a dramatically stark change as you cross the meteorological dividing line of the Pyrenean mountain chain. Spain does, however, have what seems to be a guaranteed summer.

In the main French holiday season, the journey was arduous and I’d think more than twice before doing it at this time of year again. At quieter times of year, it should be noticeably easier. We were, however, going to join Chris for his early August birthday, and to witness a fiesta, hence the timing. Maybe a Ferry to northern Spain (Bilbao or Santander) would be an interesting and more relaxing option for any similar future trip.

Quite an experience.

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Lessons Learned

At least, I think so.

Today being day 2 our planned 3-day journey home, we set off from Foix at 8:00 AM, our destination for today being Chartres, 440mls/700kms north.

400 miles of our journey today would be on autoroutes which, early-ish on a Saturday morning, started relatively quietly. We even made it round the potential trouble spot of Toulouse smoothly. However, having begun our holiday on a “black” Saturday [France’s heaviest driving days – extremely difficult driving], we were now heading back north two weeks later along with a whole bunch of people whose holiday had finished and were now driving home. Today may not have been a “black” day but it was a “red” day [France’s second heaviest driving days – very difficult driving].

Toll roads may seem expensive to those of us with very few in our home territory but the tolls do help to keep the traffic down and, out of season, make for blissfully easy driving. They do have a problem, though, in the form of les gares de payage [toll booths].

The start of a toll section begins with a toll booth where you take a ticket; this is usually no problem – drive up, ticket emerges, grab it, barrier raises, proceed. Problems begin at the end of a toll section where the payment booths are situated. Paying takes a little longer, especially for the home team who seem dead set against using anything as simple/swift as a credit card. Oh no, the French generally insist on paying cash which takes a lot longer. This process causes tailbacks even in normal traffic. In heavy traffic it causes long tailbacks. This has become exacerbated by automation/modernization which takes about twice as long as the old hand-your-ticket-and-payment-over-to-a-warm-body approach. At our first major toll booth, there were about 12 lanes operating, all with queues of 20+ vehicles waiting to pay. Each payment takes ~30secs minimum even if Francois Frenchman gets everything right, which he normally doesn’t. You can do the maths.

Having said that the taking of a ticket at the start of a toll section is usually no problem there are exceptions. At Vierzon, we ran into a very big exception. Electronic boards warned of  a bouchon [blockage] at the gare de payage. The 2-lane autoroute fans out into ~8 lanes to take a ticket. Those 8-ish lanes then funnel back into 2 lanes immediately after the toll booths. A this very point, a new autoroute spurs off. 90% of the traffic seemed to want to take the rightmost lane to change autoroute. Consequently, 8 lanes were trying to funnel into one. With the French approach to merging, you can imagine the chaos. We did get to Chartres but about an hour later than we had anticipated.

Apart from lesson #1, not going to France during the French holiday season, lesson #2 should be, if you insist on going during holiday season, travel during the weekdays with all the trucks as opposed to at weekends with all the outbound/inbound holiday makers.

I haven’t put that theory to the test and I’m not likely to. It wouldn’t, after all, have cured our Bordeaux problem when heading south, but it sounds good.

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Posted in 2013 France and Spain

When Technology Fails

Today was day 1 of our 1200mls/1900kms journey back home. Our first target was a motel in Foix ~460mls/740kms away. We forced Chris, Yvonne and Scamp out of bed at 6:30AM and hit the road at 7:00AM. Chris, very sensibly, returned to bed. 😀

For much of our journey, we were on the Mediterranean autovia heading north towards Barcelona before leaving the coast and heading inland towards Andorra. Sally Satnav was unstressed and tracked us well, guiding us around the mess of busy roads that circle Barcelona. She guided us masterfully towards Andorra and, even more masterfully, made us just miss Andorra [Andorra sucks!] taking us directly into France at Puigcerda.

After crossing into Sally’s home country – she speaks to us in French – we continued to climb to the col of Puymorens. Sally wanted us to stop climbing and go through the tunnel but the tunnel doesn’t open until 15th November, being apparently a winter-only tunnel but Garmin clearly doesn’t know that.

Approaching the col, Sally really started to throw a wobbly. It took me sometime to realize what was wrong as she repeatedly muttered, “calcule encore” [recalculating]. Carefully sneaking glances at Sally’s map display in between negotiating the various hairpin bends up into the high Pyrenees, I realized that Sally wasn’t plotting our position accurately. She was drawing the little car representing us about 100ft/30mtrs right/east of where we actually were. The effect of this inaccuracy on a straight/slightly bendy mountain road was to make her think we were “off piste” on the mountain side. Well done, car – good job it’s an occasional 4×4. Sally tends to go silent in such situations, knowing not what to do about our apparently adventurous driving. However, the effect of such an inaccuracy on a descending series of hairpin bends is rather more dramatic; now our apparent position was making it look as though we were driving back up the section of road that we had just descended. In this situation Sally thought she knew what to do to correct our mistake and kept “recalculating” accordingly. Every time we turned another hairpin bend, Sally thought we were going back up the previous section and told us where to get off. Bother, or words to that effect!

BTW, driving off piste immediately made us notice the sudden change to a hillside covered in wild flowers on the French side, as compared to the much more barren landscape of the considerably more arid Spanish side of the Pyrenees. To continue …

I can only imagine that Sally was having trouble with satellite positioning, though what trouble I don’t know. Maybe there were reflections in the mountain pass or perhaps she’d just lost one of the all-important satellites. I’d never seen the like before, this malfunction was something completely new. We re-booted Sally – when in doubt, reboot – in the hope that she’d re-acquire satellites and get an accurate fix but to no avail. Our little ghost car was still 100ft/30mtrs east of where we actually were. Once the hairpins straightened out and we simply descended a relatively straight road, Sally went silent again. Eventually  we went through a village and our little ghost car began crossing village backstreets 100ft/30mtrs away from the main road. Sally suddenly burst back into life, repeatedly “recalculated” accordingly until there were not further village roads for our ghost to be on and we returned to driving off piste up the hillside. Sally was worse than useless, her directions had become actively confusing – we turned her off and resorted to old-fashioned methods of manual navigation.

Fortunately, I have an excellent Navigation Officer in the form of Francine. Francine can read a map and doesn’t even have to turn it upside down to go south. Francine took over and got us to the outskirts of our destination, Foix.

I had just said, “at least my Navigation Officer doesn’t break down like Sally Satnav does”, as an intended compliment, when, approaching a roundabout, Francine muttered, “turn right” as she clearly indicated left.

Against all odds, with technological failure of Sally Satnav and a frazzled Navigation Officer’s brain, we made it to our motel.

Sheesh!

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Posted in 2013 France and Spain

Aula Natura de la Marjal de Gandia

As a self-confessed dragonfly obsessive, this was the main target of this trip to Spain. I had made e-contact with a specialist to find out where I might find dragonflies near our Jalon location and he came up with this, “which is supposedly good for Black Pennants”. Black Pennants (Selysiothemis nigra) cannot be seen in many places so I was naturally hooked.

With no other early morning engagements, we set off for Gandia. The journey was easier and shorter than I’d imagined. Moreover, there was an all but unused parking area just outside the entrance to the reserve. We parked and wandered in past a mechanical digger.

J01_3832 Scarlet DarterAs we wandered down the entrance track, the digger passed us. We soon found a water channel and our first suspects, a Blue-tailed Damselfly (Ischnura elegans) and a Scarlet Darter (Cocothemis erythraea).

J01_3830 Emperor DragonflyContinuing I scared up a resting Emperor Dragonfly which resettled for a photo opportunity.

Our next distraction was the digger which was excavating weed and an invasive Crayfish species from the drainage channel. We paused ntil the digger operator paused and beckoned us through. Our shoes got v. muddy from the material left on the path but at least they were managing the environment. Good for them!

J01_3840 Epaulet SkimmerJ01_3843 Violet DropwingWe walked around a very well constructed boardwalk meandering through the reserve and found a few more species including the delightful, though common, in its range, Violet Dropwing (Trithemis annulata) and our new friend the Epaulet Skimmer (Orhthetrum chrysostigma) but no sign of out target species, the Black Pennant. Their season is weakly defined so maybe they’d finished for this year?

I returned somewhat disappointed but not unhappy ‘cos the Epaulet Skimmer was already more than I’d expected.

Posted in 2013 France and Spain

In Search of Tapas

Following a little pre-trip research, I had a target in mind of a wildlife reserve called the Aula Natura de la Marjal de Gandia. However, today having been kicked off with a spot of  pilates -by Francine rather than by me, you understand – our morning was mostly gone so it was a little late to head for Gandia, which is most of the way to Valencia. So, our fine hosts suggested heading inland, over a twisty, turning mountain road to a place called Val d’Ebo. Here, there was reportedly a river for some critters and a good little restaurant for some lunch. However, Chris warned us to be careful how much food we ended up with: “just got for the tapas without the main course; say solo tapas por favor”, he advised. Right. Off we set.

In fact, it would have been quicker to drive along the autovia to Gandia than over the twisty, turning mountain road to Val d’Ebo. However, we finally arrived and drove into town/village over the river bridge. Did I say river? All we saw was dry, sun-bleached white boulders with no water flowing across them. Not promising for critters. Nonetheless, we parked and began investigating, noting first our proposed lunch venue. Wandering through the village, we ended up down at the river bed where we did find some remaining pools of water that were no longer flowing. They were there, though, and so were a seven species of dragonfly including several additions to our vestigial Spanish list. Here, we added:

  • J01_3809 White FeatherlegJ01_3815 Keeled SkimmerJ01_3816 Goblet-marked DamselflyWhite Featherleg (Platycnemis latipes)
  • Goblet-marked Damselfly (Erythromma lindenii)
  • Keeled Skimmer (Orthetrum coerulescens)

J01_3824 Questionable Skimmertogether with an interesting Skimmer that was either a Southern Skimmer (Orthetrum brunneum) or a Yellow-veined Skimmer (Orthetrum nitidinerve). More research/opinion needed – watch this space.

Satisfied, we returnerd to our lunch venue and ordered, as instructed, “solo tapas, por favor”. A salad arrived, complete with the obligatory bread and allioli [garlic mayonaise]. We began eating. A plate of squid rings and fish balls arrived. Yum! Some pickled anchovies arrived, garnished with anchovy-stuffed olives. Excellent! Albondigas [meatballs] turned up with a few token mushrooms. I’m particularly fond of albondigas. Something whose name I forget but which resembles small meat patties arrived, complete with a few homemade pork sausages. We were full. Pork chuletas [chops] were presented next, garnished with some grilled courgettes/zucchini. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something but we couldn’t move.

We’d washed what we could manage down with a couple of beers and a couple of glasses of rosado [pink wine]. €30 the lot; great value but far too much for a lunch where we are concerned.

We wobbled our way back to the car and drove back over the twisty, turning mountain road to refresh ourselves in the pool … after the food had settled, of course.

Posted in 2013 France and Spain

A Load of Bull

This trip through to Spain in August was inspired by several things. In no particular order, they were:

  1. to experience some proper Spanish summer temperatures;
  2. to see something of the Jalon fiesta (it’s a week long);
  3. to help our host Chris celebrate his birthday.

We’ve been doing #1 since we arrived – the skies have been blue and the daytime temperatures have been consistently hitting >30°C/86°F. When we arrived, even Chris’s swimming pool temperature was up at 34°C/94°F.

Today we took care of both #2 and #3 in one visit to a downtown Jalon restaurant in the company of ~14 other revellers, to sit in the street and destroy a selection of Spanish tapas. Being a celebration, we also destroyed several beers, several bottles of vino and a bottle or so of Soberano [Spanish brandy].

Having visited several times, we are familiar with the look of the Jalon town square over which our chosen restaurant looks. Today, though, the town square looked very different. The central fountain structure was covered in wood/metalwork. The square itself was covered with a layer of sand and all the businesses surrounding the square, including the bank, farmacía [chemist/drugstore] and restaurants/bars were shielded by large iron bars enclosing a walkway with seating areas above. The reason for these fortifications? The Spanish obsession with bulls.

A large part of the week-long fiesta is daily sessions of so-called bull running. Since we are not talking about an actual bull fight finishing in blood and gore, I was keen, though a little apprehensive, to witness it. After some food – fear not, our table was in the street at the back side of the restaurant rather in the path of the bulls – a firework was let off signalling the approach of the bull. Francine and I wandered through the restaurant to the front, safely behind the ironwork, for our first taste of a Spanish fiesta.

IMG_1338The bull was let into the ring. It was a truly magnificent looking creature, shining a glorious black. We were later told that they were oiled to improve their appearance. The bulls are bread for fiestas such as this and, of course, for the more blood-thirsty bull fights, and are quite unlike any bulls I’ve ever seen anywhere else. This fabulous creature deserved respect. Naturally, where the Spanish are concerned, respect is precisely what it didn’t get.

The bull was not the only creature in the ring, though it may well have been the most intelligent creature in the ring. Along with the bull, and competing with it vis-a-vis levels of testosterone, were half a dozen young studs. Their job was to taunt the bull unmercifully to enrage it and make it charge, whereupon they would show it a clean pair of heels and flee to safety of several wooden frameworks, either behind or atop them. From their king of the castle positions, they would continue taunting the hapless bull. This all seemed to delight the crowd above and behind the safe ironwork.

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When I say “safe”, all things are relative. One spectator was leaning through the ironwork taking pictures. One problem with staring through the viewfinder of a camera is that one’s attention is focussed and one tends not to see surrounding action ones direct field of view. Such was the case with our snapping spectator. Big though they are, these beautiful bulls are lightening fast. Quite suddenly, the bull snapped its head around and attempted to gore the photographer. The photographer leapt back through the bars, rapidly followed by one of the gleaming bull’s horns. The bull tossed its head. Its horn, doing a quick upper cut, didn’t quite contact the guy’s thigh but it did rip his shorts. I’m ashamed to say I found myself baying for blood – human blood. I’m always on the side of the critters.

I’d had enough and retreated to the safety of our table; a bit like burying my head in the sand, I suppose, pretending the action in the next street wasn’t happening. What began as a vaguely intriguing spectacle descended swiftly into something I regarded as abhorrent.

I really don’t understand how people can treat animals in such a demeaning manner and derive pleasure from it.

Posted in 2013 France and Spain

Brand New Friend

When we were here at Jalon in Spain in early May this year, we spotted a pair of Red-veined Darters (Sympetrum fonscolombii) beside Las Salinas, a lagoon in Calpe on the coast. I was a little surprised because the water is probably salt or, at best, brackish, hence the name. To see whether or not this sighting was an aberration, we returned this morning.

J01_3711 Red=veined Darter imm maleNo, not an aberration. While our hosts were shopping, Francine and I wandered along the edge of Las Salinas where we disturbed Red-veined Darters on a regular basis, finally counting 21 in various states of maturity. This one is an immature male just beginning to turn red. I now see that my dragonfly bible does mentions Red-veined Darters and coastal lagoons in the same sentence.

J01_3704 Greater FlamingoLas Salinas is better known, though, for its Greater Flamingos.

J01_3713 Scarlet DarterIn the afternoon I returned to the local Jalon river to show Francine where I’d been rummaging around yesterday and to use her as my spotter. At one of the fords that had produced nothing the previous day – at least, nothing that I’d seen – Francine saw a blue flash whiz past. We lost sight of it, as is not uncommon. While looking for it though, we did disturb a Scarlet Darter/Broad Scarlet (Crocothemis erythraea).

J01_3723 Epaulet SkimmerOur blue flash returned. I spent about 15 minutes trying to get a decent vantage point to snap it as it spent a similar amount of time avoiding being snapped. Eventually I had to resort to getting my walking shoes very wet wading in the ford to get an angle. My first thought looking through the lens was Southern Darter (Orhetrum brunneum), it was the same colouration, but it didn’t look quite right – too narrow in the abdomen. Back chez Chris and Yvonne consulting  my bible again, I suspect that what we have here is a so-called Epaulet Skimmer (Orthetrum chrysostigma). This is an African species that has made it into southern Spain.

It’s a good job the weather is hot and sunny, my shoes dried by the time we’d walked home.

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Posted in 2013 France and Spain