When
my daughter and I climbed up to the town's church, it was shrouded in
cloud and its belltower was nowhere to be seen. However, after I'd
struggled up the 107 narrow and almost perpendicular stairs to said
bell tower, with the aid only of a vertical cord (not even a rope), I
was thrilled to be able to see . . . . nothing but four bells. So, I
compensated for this by swinging the clanger of one of these until it
pealed. I wondered whether this would upset anyone so was a bit
concerned to see a police car outside the church as I exited it. But
they'd only come up from the town to have a quick smoke.
One
of the plaques in the church advised that the font had been broken by
French troops in 1810, as a prelude to their looting of the place.
Not for the first time, I wondered why Napoleon's name is revered in
France when Hitler's isn't in Germany. Perhaps some French reader
could explain this to me. Possibly he was nice to cats. Which is
always cause for suspicion to me.
Needless
to say, the church - up in a little pueblo - had plenty of treasures,
including works of Roldan and Durer. Which really should be sold to
some museum or gallery and the proceeds distributed to the world's
poor. But it ain't going to happen.
It
wasn't a good day for me and water. When I stopped for petrol and a
pee, the young lady told me, when giving me the key, there was no
water in the toilet and then gave me instructions on how to unlock
the door. Since these didn't work, I concluded the key was to the
ladies' and made my way to a nearby tree. Halfway there, I realised I
was walking through a patch of deep mud. Which did wonders for my
shoes. Then, when checking into my hotel in Valdepenas en route for
Madrid, the receptionist told me the café was closed for lack of
water and that I would need to go to a place across the street for
breakfast. Finally - and perhaps not unconnectedly - when I turned on
the tap in
my room, the water came out orange. Ah, the joys of travelling in
Spain.
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