The
city of Ferrol is given short shrift by the Rough
Guide.
Their section on it consists of How
to Get There
and Where
to Stay.
Nothing else. My good friend Martin Lambert, who writes the
comprehensive Galicia Guide,
gives the place longer shrift, but not much. Which I think is a
little unfair. Perhaps more than a little.
Firstly,
Ferrol has some delightful buildings in the newer barrios
of the city. OK, it's true they may be bookended by buildings whose
architects deserve to be garrotted but this shouldn't detract from
the appeal of the those which merit attention.
Ferrol also has an old quarter but more on this tomorrow, when I've seen it.
Anyway
. . . After last night's late/early retirement to bed, we didn't
really get going on a guided tour of the city until 3pm today. The
first stop was a place – El
Puerto Chico
– down near the port buildings. This is run by the lovely Montse
and her husband Pedro, both of whom really can sing. As can Alberto,
whom we'd met up with last night and who was there with his aunt and
cousin. I know they can all sing because, after she'd served us
plates of cod cheeks and jibia,
a type of squid new to me, Montse set up the karaoke and got us
started with a superb rendition of a local favourite. After which,
things rather took off, with even yours truly giving a rendition of
the Beatles' Yesterday.
Fortunately one that was heavily masked by Alberto's infinitely
better accompaniment.
A
few hours after arriving, we left El
Puerto Chico
for a tour of the stunning beaches and seascapes of Doniños further
along the headland, where the surfing may well be among the best in
Spain. Though not necessarily in November.
Next
was refreshment in one of the odd constructions which line the
pavement outside the bars in the port area. These are roughly 7 by 3 metres, have three glass sides and one plastic side and are there to accommodate the smokers who aren't allowed to light up
inside the bars themselves. Technically – Richard and I agreed –
they must be illegal as they're as enclosed as any normal bar. Which
is where, we thought, the plastic side comes in; for this can be
rolled up to open the construction to the elements and thus render it
'external'. I think I've commented on similar law-defying stratagems in
Pontevedra.
Then
to the bar Irlanda,
notable for the frequency, size and quality of its tapas.
By which I mean the free stuff that comes with your drink, not the
dishes you pay for.
Finally, to the Cafelito de Gloria,
a place which plays great music and which is presided over by the
delightful eponymous owner Gloria. Who has a passion for opera and
Maria Callas. Which is how we came to be singing/humming along to
several renditions of the hair-raising Slaves
Chorus(Va, Pensiero)
from Joe Green's Nabucco.
Followed by a stupendous rendition of a beautiful arrangement of the
old spiritual Nobody
Knows the Trouble I See, by
a local choir who'd come in for a drink and whom Richard's lovely
partner, Blanca, persuaded to perform for us. A capella.
All
in all, a typically spontaneous Spanish afternoon and evening. Ferrol at its
best.
And
so to bed. Or, rather, to this post.
And
now to bed.
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