Thoughts from Galicia: 28.8.17

Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable.

- Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain. 

If you've arrived here because of an interest in Galicia or Pontevedra, see my web page here.

Tour Notes

Yesterday I 'did' 3 of Pastrana's offerings:-

• The Convent of Carmen, and its Museum of St Teresa of Avila
• The Ducal Palace
• The Collegiate Church.

The first of these ain't worth visiting unless you're truly Catholic AND a big fan of paintings of St Teresa of Ávila, always portrayed with arms outstretched and enraptured face turned up to the heavens. She had regular visions, it's said. For which she'd be locked up today, of course. Anyway, the 'museum' is really nothing but a gallery of such stuff, which really palls after the first two. At the latest. Very boring for this lapsed Catholic. Or, I imagine, for anyone with a sense of the aesthetic. But only €2.

The Ducal Palace - also only €2 - is stupendous, having been relatively recently restored by its now-owners, the University of Alcala de Henares. And the woman giving the tour did a great job of sounding enthusiastic about something she must discoursed on many times. The place has certainly changed since it was featured in H V Morton's 1957 book, A Stranger in Spain.

The Collegiate Chapel tour – given yesterday by a garrulous bishop – was also religiously tedious/tediously religious until we finally go to the reason for handing over €10 each – the astonishing (Portuguese!) tapestries depicting the siege of Tangiers city back in the 15th century. But thereafter it was back to the boredom of the Treasury and the coffins of dignitaries below the altar of the church. So, like the curate's egg, good in parts. And the exit door back through the church was locked, blocking my escape from the tedium! Here's a few bits of the 4 huge tapestries, all of which are in sparkling condition after more 500 years. Each square metre took a year, said our guide, and each of the tapestries is 11m x 4m. So I'm guessing more than one (Flemish) weaver was involved.

The Portuguese King:-

The king's standard. I think Morton described this as akin to an umbrella, surrounded by tears for the recently departed wife of the king:

Some priests involved in the victory celebrations. The face of the chap centre-left must surely have been of a real person:-

The only woman portrayed, presumably the wife of the surrendering head honcho of the defeated Moors:-

En passant, the large house on the site of the synagogue in the old Jewish quarter was once owned by a lady with the title Doña de la Cerda. The Lady of the Pig. Cerda turns out to be common local surname. One can only guess why.

his morning – the delights of Buitrago de Lozoya . . . .

Life in Spain:-

Banking Treatment Here and There: After my wallet was stolen on Friday night, my UK bank – First Direct - could not have been easier to deal with, nor more helpful early Saturday morning. They tried hard to find a way to get cash to me but fell foul of my previously reported lack of ID acceptable in Spain. They also said new cards would be sent to me immediately. In contrast, my dealings with my Spanish bank were a calvario, and it took me 9 hours to get my credit and debit cards cancelled. This was essentially because of a misleading recorded message which ended with the statement that the bank's customer service people only worked 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. I was eventually advised by my 'personal adviser' to ignore the initial instructions and to wait for later advice on what to do in the event of stolen cards. Problems also arose because my VISA debit card was only 'national' and not 'international'. Which was news to me. The final straw – so far – was to be told that I need to send a copy of the police report - quite possibly by certified post – to the bank, or it would charge me €15 for new cards. The difference in customer service attitudes could not be more stark. But anyway . . .

Here's a foto of the door into the bar where I'd like to take a coffee right now, at 8.30. But no one is yet up and about in this rural place outside Buitrago. And the door is locked. Or, rather, it's secured by a piece of string tied to a chair inside the bar.

The gate from the garden in which I'm sitting - among the detritus of last night's dinners - is also locked. So, in the event of a fire, no one could get out of the place without scaling the spear-tipped railings on either side of the gate. Hmm.

My thanks to all those who've expressed sympathy for the loss of my wallet and for the bureaucratic nightmare I have ahead of me. And, of course, to Alfie Mittington for displaying his uncanny knack of seeing typos that my brain has missed in editing my drafts. What on earth would I do without him and his bizarre sense of humour.

But now I hear noises from the bar. So, it's time to go.

P: S. Wifi problem in the hotel prevented publication of this post at 8.30 and beyond. And the café which provided refuge from a heavy downpour in Buitrago didn't have wifi. Nor even a newspaper. . . The rigours of modern travel.