We had decided some time ago that we were going to be in Europe for just over two weeks in early September. We were coming back to the UK for a wedding but also wanted to spend a week on holiday somewhere (or at least holiday for Mr A. Since I have recently retired for the purposes of gestation I was there as relaxation support). Given the choice of the whole of Western Europe, we chose the area with the strongest Arab and Muslim influence. Obviously, because we don’t have nearly enough of that in the rest of our lives. Our other consideration was that we fly a lot and apart from our carbon footprints being large enough to wipe out whole nations, we are beyond bored of airports and airplanes. So, one week in Andalucia by train was the winner. Except that we couldn’t afford to get the train both ways so Andalucia half by train (hurrah) and half by plane (boo) was booked.
Leaving London on the Eurostar (from the delightful St Pancras station – so well designed! So many bricks! So many overpriced tempting shops!) we were surprised by the size of our seats. They were definitely larger than the last time we’d gone to Paris. Then an elegant French woman offered us newspapers, and a drink, and a menu, which is when we remembered that we’d booked posh train tickets because there were no normal tickets left so that was nice. Arriving in Paris we pottered around some Botanical gardens (Green! Plants! Flowers! People kissing!), ate crepes, admired buildings and looked for bathrooms (major theme of pregnant tourism = frequent need to find a loo).
The sleeper train from Paris to Madrid reminded us a lot of the Aleppo-Istanbul train. Our little compartment was exactly the same (not exactly spacious) only not as clean and had the bonus of an elderly French couple in the adjacent berth playing absurdly loud europop out of some very tinny speakers. A charming Spanish man appeared at the door shortly after pulling out of Paris to ask what time we wanted supper and we were swiftly accommodated in the dining car with crisp white tablecloths, gazpacho soup and sunset over the speeding French countryside.
Arriving in Madrid early morning after not quite as much sleep as I might have hoped, I wheeled out my incredibly rusty Spanish and we found our hotel in an area described as ‘down at heel’ which resembled a homoerotic boudoir (confirmed by magazines of naked men in the loo).
Our room wasn’t yet ready so we walked through Madrid in bright sunshine to the Prado to admire art and realise that Madrid has an extraordinary amount of graffiti. Everywhere. We also remembered that it’s basically compulsory to engage in Public Displays of Affection in Europe. That night we went to a heaving local restaurant where our waitress laughed at our Spanish and practiced her sprinting when Mr A attempted to leave his credit card with her. This was where I realised that my brain can only cope with one language at a time so even if I theoretically know the Spanish words for things I will say sentences half in Arabic and everyone, including myself, will be confused. Except Mr A who will be laughing.
Our next train was from Madrid to Cordoba. Atocha station resembles a greenhouse more than a railway terminal with huge tropical plants being constantly humidified by jets of steam and a pond full of turtles with red and green heads. Luckily we had plenty of time to admire these features as I’d made sure we’d arrived way too early.
Cordoba was on the itinerary because I had visited on a school trip years ago and thought the Mezquita so extraordinary that it was one of the reasons I became an architect. A huge mosque built by the Moors (roughly 8-10th century), it was converted into a Catholic Cathedral and a gothic chapel inserted in to the middle which was, even the King who sanctioned the work at the time had to admit, a mistake.
We were staying in a hotel overlooking the ornate external walls which meant one could nap guilt-free with the cultural highlight in view. Cordoba was where we set in place the two main features of the holiday – daily siestas (primarily as an opportunity for me to try to de-puff my ankles which I seemed to have left somewhere in Madrid) and daily consumption of ham. Or chorizo. Neither of which pregnant women are really meant to have, and perhaps karma punished me by making me leave my handbag with wallet, phone and both our passports on the back of a chair in an alley. When Mr A scampered back to get it, it was still there. Trusty folk these Spaniards.
Also in Cordoba there were men who urinated against buildings when I was trying to take photos of architectural masterpieces, and a museum with the most patronising audioguide ever and a big model of the Mezquita just over the river (in case you can’t be bothered with that bit?) in which Muslim men are praying in shafts of divine light. Mr A spent most of the museum visit frustrated at the Arabic map which had been hung upside down so hindering his translation efforts.
Next stop was Granada where a taxi driver dropped us off at our hotel, except actually our hotel was 10 minutes away up a very steep hill with lots of stairs and winding alleys. Mr A obviously felt a little intimidated by the search with large suitcase and pregnant lady in tow so deposited me and the luggage in a shady square returning with a clear sense of direction, a lot of sweat and a keen porter. Another hotel room with a great view, we immediately bumped in to a friend from University who we hadn’t seen for seven years in a local café, who didn’t notice I was pregnant so must have thought I’d put on A LOT of weight.
Obviously we spent one morning at the Alhambra (huge hilltop complex of forts, Moorish palaces and gardens) which was as stunning as expected. They really knew how to do a ceiling those Moors. And a waterpool. And a spot of wall carving. And a niche. We later met a guy whose only comment was that it was hard to get a feel for the place when there was no furniture in any of the rooms. Just being in one of the most beautiful Arab palaces in the world was enough for us. It was a teensy bit warm (farewell ankles) and we paid an extraordinary amount of money for a very dry cheese sandwich, but somehow we managed to resist the opportunity to dress up as genuine Arabs.
The rest of our days in Granada were spent climbing up hills (I overtook a teenage girl in the prime of life and felt inordinately proud of myself), going to look at churches which were closed at the exact time that we happened to visit, and noticing yet more graffiti. We also watched a man down four cans of extra-strong lager in less than an hour and homeless, drunk men dancing with their dogs which was a little bit like being back in South London.
Our last night was spent in Velez-Malaga which is, predictably, close to Malaga and couldn’t be described as one of the highlights of the Andalucia region. A set meal at a tapas restaurant went on for about twice as long as necessary – it’s hard to enjoy a meal when you have absolutely no idea how many more courses there might be. And one of them was sweet and sour fish which I’m pretty sure doesn’t originate in Southern Spain. Our hotel was run by a British couple and, by being the subject of one of those ‘Our life in the sun’ type documentaries, was full of British guests. We lowered the average age around the plunge pool substantially (once Mr A had been given brand new trunks by the owner of the hotel since he hadn’t thought to bring any on holiday. To Spain. In August) and I think we almost killed off a Northern couple of a certain age when we said we’d got there by train. By train? Bill, did you hear this? They came by train!
And so to Malaga Airport where the insolent British Airways staff totally ignored my carefully prepared Fit to Fly certificate, I had a totally irrational (hormonal) breakdown midflight, and we wondered whether we regretted the situation we’d got ourselves into when the twentieth child started screaming. But even these irritations couldn’t dampen the pleasure of our last child-free holiday for a while where, ilhamdulillah, I hadn’t needed the Spanish for ‘I’m in labour, get me to a hospital’.
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