Gertsamtkunstwerk

Some more holiday photos

I am slowly editing my holiday photos in my preferred unrandom-unsequential way.

Difficult to explain. These houses are built over-looking what appears to be a dried-up river bed. I assume it's long term dried up from my cursory examination of the ground. The houses seem to cling precariously to a crumbling cliff, with many cracks and much evidence of subsidence. Villajoyosa.

We didn't much like Alicante, although we enjoyed the castle and the panoramic views it afforded. Editing this photo inspired me to ask the question, on Twitter and Facebook:

Do any of you own yachts. Or dinghys. Or launches. Or any sea-going vessels?

People offered answers of 'lilo' 'blow up boat', 'score to HMS Pinafore' and 'that reminds me, I must check my lottery'. Oh, god, they're wits these people. One person did offer a father who has a yacht that he's pouring money into (tr. 'my inheritance').

The thing is, often when I go on holiday, away for a weekend, or just out for a day trip, I see lots and lots of boats. Many are working boats: for fishing, ferrying goods or people, dredging etc. Many more are commercial pleasure boats, for excursions, or for hire by the week.

But that doesn't go anyway to explain why there are so many sea-going boats that are apparently privately owned - and, by definition, not actually at sea. I recognise that there is a whole section of society outside my direct experience who are very seriously rich. But they are only a tiny number, and surely can't possibly own all the leisure boats in the world. I suppose the celebs who generally fall out of nightclubs, or the greedy city sharks who are ever-present at their desks could own some of them; their desire for ostentatious status symbols would explain why so many are tied up in docks.

But there are just too many boats around for that to be an explanation. I reckon there must be large numbers of people who are keen on sailing and have bought a boat -  a modest sized thing, with a small cabin, capable of being crewed by one or two people.

They don't have to be seriously rich, just comfortable/prosperous. I just don't know (hardly anyone) like this. I think of a friend-of-a-friend, a solicitor with no dependants, a modest flat, no car, no 'lifestyle' expenses. She had a yacht, and most summer weekends she took to sea, gradually sailing round the coast of Britain. I can understand that. But she is the only person of my enormous social 'circle' that I know who actually owns a yacht.

And another thing: I have just noticed that one building in that picture appears to have solar panels. It's only when it's pointed out starkly in that way that you suddenly realise that none of the others do. I have read that Spain generates a far greater proportion of power from the wind than Britain does, even though Britain is better situated to do so. So it's surprising that they aren't using more of what comes more naturally, the sun.

Some holiday photos

Lifeguards' chairs

When the lifeguards were on duty they built a tent city out of umbrellas and stayed inside, possibly smoking ganja.

Boatyard

Benidorm station café

The holiday

It wasn't exactly the most exciting holiday ever. Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed it, but what is there to say when your objective of going away was achieved?

We didn't go and seek out high culture; we wanted to relax, Jimmy because he works too bloody hard, and me because I tire easily if I do the sightseeing too full on.

We swam in the sea almost every day, we had several good and a couple of very good meals, we had sex a few times, and we got out and about a bit. We never did get up in the mountains, and we forgot to go to the chocolate museum-factory. In fact, we didn't go to any museums, unless you count Alicante castle. For some inexplicable reason we didn't go out on any boats. Also, other than to change trams, we avoided Benidorm.

We actually stayed in Villajoyosa a laid-back town a few miles south of Benidorm. It wasn't exactly full of ritzy nightclubs, and, in some ways, coming to the end of the summer season, it was a bit dull. But that's the way we liked it.

We rented a flat a few metres from the beach, and spent most of the time just chilling. We never felt crowded on the beach - there was an absence of thud-thud music from public places; when two men (father and son, probably) started playing tableless ping-pong in front of us, I scared them off by laughing (FTW!).

There weren't really any water sports disturbing us - a few kitesurfers from time to time, and once a flotilla of jet-skis passed by. No aerobics on the beach, an almost complete absence of out-of-control kids, and nobody who wanted to impose themselves on us or use us to abate their loneliness.

We're currently thinking of returning next year, and exploring a bit more of the Costa Blanca. Jimmy's talking about going for three weeks and hiring a car for one week, to explore the mountains. I would like to see more of Calpe, and I suppose we ought to go to Benidorm at least once, if only to people-watch.

We did venture into Alicante, but although we enjoyed the castle, I don't think we will return there, other than for the airport or railway station. I have never found a place so badly sign-posted; considering its prosperity is built largely on tourism (including second homes) it isn't particularly tourist-friendly, and certainly not pedestrian-friendly. Ultimately, it's a historic town which has been ruined by intensive development, and it's a shame.

La Vila is different. The old town is the most attractive, somewhat reminiscent of Balamory. There is considerable sprawl beyond the old town, and that isn't much to look at. But where we were was charming - notwithstanding the roadworks! - and the beach is lovely. It's sandy - artificial we were told - and clean (dogs are not allowed, although that rule isn't entirely observed), and we loved swimming in the sea. Sometimes it was calm, but on other days there were rollers just big enough to be fun to jump in.

I took about 500 photos - some of them will be quickly rejected. I'm in no great hurry to edit them, but will do so over the weeks, and post one every day (or so - I do have quite a busy events diary for October, in addition to work, of course).

Back home!

So, we returned in the not so early hours of Sunday morning. I do wish the usually tortuous journey back home doesn't put such a downer on the preceding days of holiday. My sister declared on Facebook that she is never getting on a plane with me (actually, she wrote 'palne' but that's because she's one of those pepole without a spellcheque in there broser).We have never actually caught a flight together.

I've been tying to think of stuff that has gone wrong on my not-very-frequent journeys by plane. If it goes wrong, it's usually on the return leg - assuming I don't miss the flight entirely.

Let me think, I didn't ever fly until I was 21. so here goes:

• 1989: New York to Manchester - smooth and on-time

• 1991: Isle of Man to Heathrow Bournemouth - delayed by the 'wrong type of snow' that also stopped trains working; drunken passenger refused to board, refused, initially, to identify luggage, leading to possibility of all other passengers also disembarking to identify our luggage

• 1992: Rome to Manchester - smooth and on time

• 1993: Pisa to Gatwick - delayed by snow; drunken passenger refused to board; refused, initially, to identify luggage, leading to possibility of all other passengers also disembarking to identify our luggage

• 1995: Corfu to Gatwick, slight delay but no problems

• 1995: Isle of Man to Heathrow, twice - no problems

• 1996: Edinburgh to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Amsterdam (as you would be...)

• 1999: Geneva to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Geneva and Amsterdam, plus non-appearance of ladder at Gatwick, and frozen points on Gatwick inter-terminal shuttle

• 1999: Buffalo/Niagara to Boston via Portland - plane cancelled due to burst tire, transferred to direct flight run by rival company but only because nice man sprinted the length of airport after USA National flight computer based in Tampa crashed

• 1999: New York to Heathrow via Frankfurt - delayed three hours due to fault; 'complimetary' sandwich contained meat, only had three Deutschmark and refused to get any more out because a) overdraft maxed out; and b) Deutschmark due to be abolished

• 2000: Glasgow to Gatwick - no problem

• 2001: Manchester to Gatwick - no problem

• 2001: Jersey to Gatwick no problem

• 2002: Havana to Gatwick, turbulence over Cornwall meant no coffee was served for breakfast, stale breakfast made me nauseous

• 2002: Almeria to Gatwick, baggage reclaim delayed by two hours

• 2002: Glasgow to Gatwick, no problem flying, but taxi from Victoria to Pimlico cost £15 at which point Taxi driver suggested I got Tube due to totally stationery traffic on every bridge over Thames

• 2002: Belfast to Gatwick no problem

• 2003: Cairo to Sharm el Sheikh - very scary looking man with gun pacing up and down plane

• 2003: Sharm el Sheikh to Gatwick, no problem

• 2004: Dublin to Gatwick - turbulence over Irish Sea (although not as turbulent as for the Dublin-Manchester flight that my sister and nephew got)

• 2005: Taba to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Amsterdam (probably)

• 2005: Dublin to Gatwick - not a problem

• 2005: Barcelona to Gatwick - take-off made very scary by a seat that automatically reclined...

• 2005: Berlin to Stansted - check-in desk opened very late, so we got drunk while everyone else stood in a queue! (wasn't a problem!)

• 2006: Goa to Gatwick - the plane journey from hell (part one) with one passenger so ill as to need constant supervision and one under arrest in handcuffs; emergency landing was averted because the options were Tehran or Baghdad (allegedly). One meal down

• 2006: Manchester to Heathrow - not a problem

• 2006: Crete to Gatwick - not a problem

• 2007: Sharm el Sheikh to Gatwick Manchester - the definitive plane journey from hell

• 2007: New York to Heathrow - excellent flight, except for Mr Grumpy complaining that I woke him up every time I had to get past him to go to the loo. (And they had forgotten to pack any economy class veggie meals so I had to make do with a first-class one!)

• 2008: Madrid to London City - dream flight

• 2008: Barcelona to Heathrow, good flight, made better by Jimmy being on a later flight! Slightly delayed boarding/take-off but made good time in the air
  

• 2008: Valencia to Gatwick - a delay which may only have been an hour but seemed a lot longer

• 2009: Alicante to Gatwick - dramatic aborted take-off which was well scary at the time, but was probably quite an everyday procedure.

Although I have probably omitted a couple of journeys, you can see I'm not exactly a frequent flyer, so I'm afraid I don't get to feeling very guilty about my contribution to Global Warming.

It may seem that there is an 'incident' every time I fly, but that isn't actually true. One of my sister's friends went on holiday with a vet friend; there was a call for a doctor, which the vet felt obliged to respond to - someone with a collapsed lung after diving.

My ex-hairdresser went on honeymoon to Cuba and was about to take off from Havana when the plane next to them was hijacked, so they had to disembark and go to a hotel for the duration, where she got bitten by a mosquito and ended up in hospital with blood poisoning and had to complete the journey in a wheelchair.

Someone who worked with my father got hijacked. Not once, but twice. I suppose when you've been hijacked once, the second time, you can be quite blasé, treat it like a walk in the park.

Holiday weather

There was a positive aspect to missing our flight on Monday and arriving on holiday five hours later. We had planned to arrive, have a coffee, unpack, and wander round town, picking up a few supplies, before showering and changing for dinner. Instead we arrived in a town which had endured a five hour electric storm and heavy rain, only the second time it had rained since June. Some of the seafront restaurants had closed for the evening, their al fresco dining made uncomfortable or even unsafe. So we just grabbed some wine and pasta and commented on how muddy it was.

The main promenade is being dug up and relaid here. Reportedly, it was supposed to happen during the winter, and although it paused in August, it continued through the summer.

This is, of course, not good for the sea-front pavement cafés, especially in a recession. They have had to shut completely on certain days, and the dust, noise and lack of vehicular access/parking has made them less attractive to customers - although, frankly, I find the intermittent noise of roadworks preferable to the constant roar of traffic that blights so many sitting-and-eating areas. And the dust of sand and cement, especially so close to the beach, is less unpleasant than petrol/diesel fumes. But we have been deliberately avoiding bars/cafés when the digger or cement mixer is working directly outside.

There was a bit of excitement yesterday when some men came to drill holes n the newly laid paving stones. It turns out they have 'lost' the gas pipes which were laid just before the slabs. They couldn't find them; they might have to dig the slabs up again!

We are on a cul de sac just off the beach road, could hardly be nearer to the beach. That's nice: it means we can go for a swim without worrying about carrying valuables to the beach, without having to change out of swim wear on the beach. Although it does mean that for the first time in several years, and, indeed, probably ever, I have taken to walking through construction sites in a bikini. What is very sad is that the construction workers don't seem to notice.

On Tuesday the beach was very deserted; yesterday it got a lot busier, but the weather turned and those of a more wussy temperament scurried off. We decided to play 'last off the beach'. We nearly didn't make it, because a couple a few yards from us decided to play tennis to keep warm. We eventually outlasted them, and we got inside just as the rain came down. The rain brought a few kids out onto the beach, and I actually saw someone walk past in a Sou' Wester!

Today was hot and calm when we went to swim. After brunch, we went for a walk along the coast, out of the centre of town, round a headland or two to rockier, quieter beaches. It did feel windy; we assumed that it was because they were exposed, but when we returned to the central beach, no one but three teenage lads were in the sea (the red flag for danger was flying) and few were in the sea.

Still, the forecast is set to be clear, sunny, hot and dry!

Paris photos

At one point I was in a good rhythm of uploading them about one an hour (whilst I was at the PC), then I got distracted.

But now I have my full set of photos I took in Paris. I suspect that 117 photos for a long weekend is slightly OTT. On the other hand, it's unlikely I shall return to Paris for sightseeing (maybe for a performance, possibly to overnight and go to Versailles), so I am glad I took so many.

Although I say it myself, I am pretty pleased with the set overall. I am so pleased that I finally got round to shooting in raw and to using an editing programme that is more sophisticated than the previous excellent but entry-level one I have used for about 7 years.

I got a good mix of the predictable tourist sites - Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame - and a whole load of others I like to think of as being my personal interpretation of what I saw. Many of these are not especially about Paris, but are a commentary on what I saw when moving around a random city.

And, of course, naked statues...

Full set

Paris Day 2

Day 1 is here

The main purpose of the Friday, for me, at any rate, was to go to Cyrano de Bergerac at the Theatre du Chatelet. I was not going to let anything stand in the way.

After a lie-in and a leisurely breakfast on one of the back streets not far from the hotel, we walked down to the Theatre. I wanted to know exactly where it was. I know it probably sounds silly, but it would be my worse nightmare to think that something is somewhere only to find it isn't, and having arrived 'there' in good time, to then have to find it isn't and thus arriving late. And as Jimmy was coming to meet me at the end, he also wanted to know where it was!

It was further away from our hotel than I had imagined from the map, so that was good to find out. Indeed, walking down the Rue de Rivoli it seemed like we were walking miles. We were able to find the theatre and note that there were sizeable cafés either side, so that was good, too. Then we walked back along the river.

At first we walked along the pavement up above, and then actually along the banks of the river. I suppose it's not the most efficient way of sightseeing but hey-ho. It's enjoyable, especially as we seemed to find a pretty deserted spot, not having to dodge and weave around stoppers and ditherers on the pavement.

We then got ourself onto a riverboat that goes up and down the Seine in a sort of loop, stopping at various sights so that people can get off should they wish. It's a relaxed way to move about, a great way of preventing Gert from "Overdoing It", and it's a pretty effective to get at least a glimpse of some of the landmarks of this great city.

We decided to get off at St Germaine for a late lunch /early dinner. According to the Lonely Planet, there were several recommended restaurants in the area.

I figured that every area that has several listed will also have several more worth trying. We did try for a listed fish restaurant but, because it was mid-afternoon, it was closed.

So we tried one round the corner. I certainly can't complain about it. Service was excellent, friendly and well-timed, but the food was a bit meh.

As I say, no reason for complaint, but my main course, a seafood couscous, was just sauce dolloped on top of the couscous. The ingredients were fine, reasonably fresh and correctly cooked, but it was just boring after a bit. Jimmy felt similarly about his; I forget what it was now, some piece of meat with a choice of fries or salad.

We got back on the boat and completed the loop, sitting on the boat basking in the hot sunshine. I took the opportunity to take several standard tourist-style photos as well as couple more that I suspect that many - by no means all - people don't spot.

We strolled back to the hotel, no doubt stopping en route for more refreshment. 

I spent quite some time getting ready, looking forward to Cyrano de Bergerac. I decided that I was not going to go to the Stage Door beforehand. It isn't necessary and it just complicates the logistics for the evening.

I decided to dress up; well, obviously I decided earlier in the week, in order to pack. I rarely get dressed up in London, often because I am going out straight from work, or because I'm sitting in the cheap seats, or because I'm travelling by bus or Tube, so realistically have to carry a change of shoes with me.

I am always slightly anxious when I go, or arrive, somewhere unfamiliar, but I wasn't too bad this time, certainly no physical anxiety attacks. I decided to indulge in getting a taxi down the road, which was a far more relaxed way to arrive than if I had walked or gone by Metro. To be honest, I really should have got a bus, but I didn't!

I have already written about the performance of Cyrano de Bergerac, and waiting afterwards at the Stage Door. After the "Stage Door" was over, Mandy and I joined Jimmy who had been sitting in a café on the Place du Chatelet for over an hour - he had walked down to meet me; we were each doing what we wanted to do, and weren't far apart - I know people think he spends his whole time waiting in bars near Stage Doors, but it just kind of works. He had come out to meet me, and he had no interest in waiting doing nothing for ages.

As we were sitting there a whole load of people came skating along the Quai. When I say 'a whole load', I mean hundreds, far more than I could count. They took quite some time to pass. I don't know if it was actually several minutes, but if I had realised it was such a long column of skaters, I would have had time to take my camera out of my bag, turn it on, change the settings, point and shoot. But I didn't!

At the time, I thought 'ooh, how very Parisian', but funnily enough, this Wednesday, I was standing outside the Abbey on Abbey Orchard Street having a smoke break with my erstwhile colleague when a similar, if shorter, line of skaters passed by along Victoria Street. I don't know whether it was Tube Strike-thing, or a regular Wednesday thing. My colleague said she'd like to do that, but she'd be scared of falling over. I suggested it's probably wise to practice first. But you know, the more I think about it, the more attractive it seems!

The bar we were in was closing, so it was time to head back. Mandy was staying not very far from us, so I suggested that we got a taxi back together. But she and Jimmy both over-ruled me, Jimmy pointing out that he had brought me a change of shoes, so I had no choice but to walk back. Which wasn't too bad, really. Except for when the skirt of my dress was caught in a breeze and flew up round my waist.

I wouldn't even remark on this but it happened on three separate occasions in Paris with three different skirts, which is quite something considering how rarely I wear skirts. The second occurred a few days later when I was photographing yet another naked statue and, without thinking, stood over some grille in the street, creating a genuine Marilyn Monroe moment, much to the amusement of Jimmy, and of several elderly ladies who were passing at the time. The third occurred when I returned the following Sunday and was killing time on the Pont au Change.

I am gradually adding to the photo-album

A weekend in Paris, Part 1

The main raison d'etre of going was for me to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the Théâtre du Châtelet . Well, let's be honest, to see Plácido Domingo, who happened to be in Cyrano de Bergerac.

(I booked the tickets a very long time ago and booked one for the Friday night, so that it could incorporate a weekend. I also booked one for the Sunday matinee a week later so I could do it as a day trip. It wasn't only a week or so before I left that it dawned on me that there was another performance on the Monday, while we were still in Paris, which I hadn't booked, because I had assumed that we would want to be heading back by Monday).

Jimmy had never been to Paris before and I had been for a few hours only, changing trains on the way back from Geneva. So it was an opportunity to "see" the city. I don't suppose many people approve of our way of doing tourism. But it's our way. I had had it in mind to go Versailles, but considering the heat and it being the height of tourist season etc, I don't regret it. I'm sure an opportunity will arise at some future point.

I am not somebody who spurns and disdains tourism. I think it's pretentious to say that you can somehow get to know a city in a visit of a few days or even a few weeks. Even if I were to move there to live and work, I'd only know the city of a prosperous ex-pat. So I make no apology for whistle-stop tours of the city.

I know that when you're doing a city there are certain things you're supposed to do, like go in the Louvre or climb the Eiffel Tower. We didn't. I actually get very little pleasure from Art Galleries, seeing little point (for me) of staring at pictures. I prefer either live entertainment or experiencing a place, a space and its sensations.

So, we arrived early on the Thursday afternoon. Train travel is such less stress than flight. The Victoria Line strike was the only hitch. If we had been travelling outside the rush hour we could have used the Northern Line, or overland trains from Loughborough Junction or Tulse Hill, but I was a bit anxious about the level of displacement from the Victoria Line, and he didn't want to get a bus in the rush hour. So we got a minicab instead.

It was nice not having to hang around for too long at St Pancras, and nice that the train departed at exactly the time it was supposed to. It was also good not to experience changes in one's body as a result of altitude, nor have to wait for ages at baggage reclaim. Also nice to end up in the centre of the city.

We stayed at the Normandy Hotel having carefully read the reviews on Trip Advisor. It wasn't four star, and we didn't pay four star prices. It was incredibly close to the Louvre. Yes, there was peeling paintwork, noticeably on the outside of the room doors and the windows.

It was clean and it was roomy. The staff were not rude (staff generally aren't, except to rude customers). I thought it had belle époque charm. It wasn't noisy, at all. The air conditioning wasn't great, and one of the windows wouldn't open because of paint, but it was considerably cheaper than any other hotel I could find in the First Arondissement.

It was within walking distance of the Châtelet , although I caught a cab to the performance because of my shoes (which I changed for the walk back!). I would definitely stay there if I was going to the Garnier. We didn't go for the €20 breakfast but there was no need considering the nearby facilities.

A quick unpack and out. We had an overpriced not very exciting lunch of sorts before walking through the Louvre courtyard, down to the river and into the Tuileries. It seemed very hot and neither of us had brought our sunglasses, which made the white gravel very difficult to deal with. But it was fun to sit and people watch in the park.

I also took the opportunity to photograph a few naked statues, not realising quite how many I would encounter in the next few days. It's not that I'm obsessed by naked statues or that it's an erotic thing or whatever, but Jimmy doesn't think I missed a single one in Paris.

Later in the evening we went out to eat. We took inspiration from the Lonely Planet Guide and ended up at Le Grand Colbert, a former workers' canteen. The booked warned us not to expect gastronomic miracles.

Nevertheless, I was rather taken aback by the food. For what it was , it was fine. Reasonably good quality, apparently fresh ingredients, warm and friendly service and decent portions. But I was surprised by the absence of imagination, and the lack of finesse in serving. I had white asparagus for starter, and can't remember my main course - it was fish, I think, with a choice of veg or chips. I abandoned my apple sorbet as being too much, too green and too bitter, and its accompanying calvados was rough.

 We went to a nearby bar and chatted for a while with the woman behind the bar. Although originally from South Korea, she is French, but studying English at University (although, because the Universities are on strike, she hasn't been to classes for months).

She instructed me to read Anthony Burgess's translation of Cyrano de Bergerac and also told us to walk up to the Garnier and see it lit up at night - her room mate is a ballet freak. She also advised us to have a look round inside during the daytime, which we never got round to doing (but Mo had told us the same thing when we met her at the Classical Brits, and a colleague had said some years ago it's worth seeing, so I really am a rubbish sight-seeing organiser!).

We finished the evening taking advantage of the warmth and the chairs and tables outside café/bars and the wine (actually no cheaper than in England).

I am adding photos to my Paris album on a slow drip-feed basis.

Guess where I am, in the rain.

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Photo update

I have now finished uploading my photos from Valencia, both the touristy ones and those from the curtain call of Iphigénie. All I can say is that they are what they are.

Having thought aloud in a previous post about whether to buy a DSLR camera, I have decided not. I currently own a Canon G3 which I bought nearly six years ago. Canon have updated the series several times since and I was nearly tempted to get a G10, which has more advanced technology that the G3. I have decided instead to learn actually how to  use the camera I have. This includes finding out about functions such as Exposure Compensation, ND filter and manual focus, and also understanding more about what techniques to use in what conditions, and shooting more in RAW format. I am disappointed in the quality of the photos from Iphigénie, especially if compared to Tamerlano. Some of that is down to the fact that for Tamerlano I was in the second row, centre, and for Iphigénie I wasn't, and that the set for Tamerlano was brightly lit and Iphigénie's wasn't,but a large part of it is down to my inability to get the max from my camera.

I have also discovered that models such as the G9 or G10 have a fixed screen, whereas the G3 has a screen that can be unfolded from the camera and rotated to face backwards or forwards or any angle in between. That is such a brilliant feature, and I don't really understand why it was discontinued.

Weird and wonderful Valencia

I was looking at the Google Map of Valencia and suddenly decided that I would have a look at the satellite view of the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, which is quite weird in itself

In the process of doing so, I found this

How did we ever manage to look at the world before Google Maps Satellites Images? How did we ever cope with the internet before Google?

Composition: so near, and yet, so very far

Another object lesson on the need to concentrate more when taking a snapshot.

I was so lucky with the light. This was about a half an hour after it had gone dark. But look at that sky! A sky to die for.

I actually did take care in the camera settings. Shutter speed of 1/15; with f2.5. That speed is quite slow, and not being the sort to carry a tripod around on the off-chance, I knew I had to improvise. I strolled round the square using various street furniture. Best was when I could actually rest the camera on a wall or somesuch. Failing that, just getting a lamp post  to brace myself against would just about do it.

I was trying to get the light dancing off the fountain, maybe get a sense of individual streams or even drops of water. I also had my eyes on the varied skyline: the wedding cake building, the rococo dome and the structure that probably isn't a cable car tower, but could be. The palm trees add an exotic flavour, and although I have mostly cropped them out, the Christmas decorations were an extra element.

I timed it perfectly, watching the traffic lights to catch a pause in passing traffic. I regretted the presence of parked cars, but knew that as I was aiming high, they would not intrude too much. So, I actually gave some thought to this cityscape of the Plaza de Ayuntamiento, Valencia, especially of how to combine the various eye-catching elements.

And I forgot one thing. Or failed to notice. I think the the auto-correct function of brain processes it out, like cars, to some extent.

So ladies and gentleman, this is how I ended up taking a photo of a telegraph poll and angle-poise light.

How not to take a photo

I took this in Valencia, about three quarters of an hour before sunset. I benefited from the extraordinary blue sky - I am not sure I have previously had the pleasure of such gorgeous light, ever.

At that time of day, and so close to Solstice, it was inevitable I was going to get shadows. If I were a very keen photographer and this was local to me, I would choose my time carefully, both the time of day and the time of year. Obviously, this isn't practical for a tourist snap.

I think I can see what I was trying to do, at least subconsciously,  and indeed, looking through the internet, it is clear that I was hardly being original in the (attempted) framing of the shot. I didn't even think of it, but obviously my eye was drawn through the gateway and to the building on the other side of the road - a church I think. With a bit more care in positioning and focus, this could have been a memorable photo of the church, using the towers as an unusual frame, surrounded by that gorgeous blue sky.

The advantages of digital photography are instant review and attrition rate. I could have taken 10 or 50 or 100 attempts at this photograph until it was as good as I could make it. It seems that I didn't even bother to review, another drawback of tourist snapshots, because I wasn't just there to take photos, I was also guided tour of a two-person walk around historic Valencia.

The other problem is one of technology: the way a tall building appears to be leaning away from me, highlighting how short I am in comparison. That isn't remediable except with a wide-angle lens. I have a liking for leaning-away buildings, probably other people don't. but I think what really comes over is the flatness of the scene. I should have used a narrower aperture than 3.2. I think I got the speed right for the light.

I am thinking of taking the plunge to an SLR, although the thought of doing so is a bit daunting. I know from observation of other people that one cannot survive on an SLR alone. I suppose I would then supplement it with a small basic compact, but wouldn't want to ditch my Canon G3 because it really is an excellent versatile point-and-shoot. Add the ubiquitous phone-camera, which is no good for anything but instant photos for purely documentary purposes in good light, and I would end up with four cameras, which would be a bit silly!

I am also thinking of doing a photography course, maybe, but I'm not sure what I want to learn. I don't think I want to do a course in editing, because I much prefer verisimilitude. For example, a lot of people would edit out the car that's visible through the gateway, but I feel uncomfortable doing so. In this case it wouldn't be unethical, but in many cases it would be giving a dishonest  impression. I suppose I want to learn more about actually taking photos, but how does one know if a course is any good? I don't suppose they come cheap.

Our trip to Valencia, the touristy bit

By which I mean, the purpose of going to Valencia was to see Iphigénie en Tauride. But, if you're going to arrive on a Friday afternoon and leave on Tuesday morning, it would probably be a bit silly to do nothing else...

I deliberately booked a hotel that seemed to be near the opera house, or the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia as it's properly known. If I was going again to the opera house, I would book a hotel in the city centre.

I booked into Confortel Aqua 3, but we were upgraded at no extra cost to the Aqua 4 (the numbers denote the number of stars). I wouldn't hesitate to recommend the hotel in itself, particularly and especially if you have a car. I really couldn't fault it. Modern, clean, everything and more we paid for, and good value for money. Reading the various hotel criticism websites beforehand, there appeared to be three criticisms. One is that it isn't handy for the city or the beach. Two, that the bathroom doors are see-through glass, which is a bit weird privacy-wise for people room sharing with friends. And three, the perennial 'the staff had an attitude problem'. The first two I would agree with. The third, well, funny how one tends to find staff that mirror oneself, innit?

It's above a shopping centre which didn't seem to be the most happening shopping centre. Even on the Saturday, it was eerily quiet. Handy place to get a coffee and a few odds and ends, but not much else, really. But there is a taxi rank outside, upon which we depended.

The hotel was a reasonably short drive from the airport, which is small, compact and easy to navigate. We had a glorious Westerly view as the sun set over the City of Arts and Sciences. Jimmy decided he wanted to lay down for a couple of hours. After which we set off to walk to the area which the guidebook indicated included many restaurants. We walked and walked and walked. And then we walked some more. Eventually we came up alongside a building which I guessed (correctly) was the opera house although you would never have known if walking casually by.

Then we walked some more, before doing some more walking, and some more walking, before walking around the area which the guidebook said contained restaurants. I thought I had been clever buying the Lonely Planet 'Best of Valencia', the only Valencia guide in Waterstones. And indeed, for the large part I was clever. But its one major failing was its maps. If you go away for a long weekend, you don't want a big thick guidebook but you do want clear maps that mark every street significant enough to contain restaurants. You also want one that is a little more up-to-date than 2005 when staying near and visiting the City of Arts and Sciences.

Finally, we found a restaurant that was recommended in the book, Cinquante Cinq, which is I suppose typical of any Scottish restaurant in Valencia. It didn't actually look that prepossessing from outside.

Alasdair welcomed us, and explained that he had a large party arriving, but as long as we didn't mind ordering straight away, we would then be welcome to linger all night. He talked us through the menu and we ordered. I actually cannot remember now what I ordered, which is a shame. I think the starter  was served in a crab sauce, and I suspect that I had fish for the main course. For pudding I had a fruit soup which was conceptually very novel. It was an excellent meal, washed down with two very decent and delightfully affordable (even after the poor sterling-Euro exchange rate we suffered) reds as recommended by Alasdair. The large party did arrive. I had been fearing that they would be as  lively and raucous as any large parties I had been part of in restaurants leading up to Christmas, but my fears were unjustified. I would really strongly recommend this restaurant. One thing to say, though, and I didn't notice it at the time, just began to feel it twenty four hours later when I realised a pattern was emerging. The dishes didn't seem very heavy on vegetables, and although I didn't pore over the menu, I didn't really notice much opportunity for ordering veg. Alasdair was very attentive when needed but also knew when to leave us alone.

We caught a taxi back to our hotel, really pleased that, eventually, we had hit on a really good restaurant but a bit disappointed at how quiet it was around and about. We didn't really see any bars that looked as if they wanted to be noticed, and although we figured there were probably places open in the shopping centre, we decided to call it a night.

I had the bright idea on the Saturday morning that we would stroll along to the opera house and pick up my tickets, so there would be no last minute panic. Jimmy reckoned we should walk diagonally across and it wouldn't take us long to get there. After all, the opera house seemed so near from our hotel, yup, that photo was taken from outside our hotel. After yomping for twenty minutes across part-building site part-future landscaped garden, I said "Tonight, considering I am wearing my nice new silk dress from Monsoon should I walk in these old and scruffy but comfortable brown boots or should I wear my gorgeous blue suede shoes and get a taxi?" 'Get a taxi' was Jimmy's response. A bit more yomping eventually led us to a sign post for the Palau de les Arts, saying it was 10 mins away. I could barely control my excitement at this point...

We were probably about ten minutes away but everything seemed roped- off and we were shooed away by Security. Eventually,  we found ourselves at the front of the house ...which was roped-off. I could see the ticket office. I was able even finally to confirm I was at the right place. But it was no-go. As most of the place remained roped-off before, during and after performances, I could only conclude that the concrete is already developing faults and they're scared stiff that if someone touches it, it might fall down.

We walked on in the direction we had been the previous night and after twenty minutes of not passing any food places, and feeling that the streets were eerily deserted, we eventually found a place that looked promising. Can't remember its name, don't need to. It was nicely decorated, well, nice, if bullfighting's your thing. We ordered some food and ate it. It was all right, I suppose, but we remembered how slightly miffed we had become in Madrid as every restaurant and Tapas Bar seemed to serve the same old same old uninspired dishes. We got a taxi back to near our hotel and wandered round the almost deserted shopping centre, before going for a lie-down in the hotel.

Jimmy met me from the opera house in the evening, and, as I instructed, he had brought my comfortable flat blue canvas shoes. We walked slowly back to the shopping centre and found a Tapas bar. I was well over-dressed, not that I cared. We had several glasses of wine, and some barely edible salt with food added, and found out that Barcelona had beaten Real Madrid live on the TV. I then returned to the hotel room and blogged about what a horrible city it was.

Sunday saw decisions being made. Well, after an incredibly long lazy lie-in in our very comfortable and extraordinarily quiet hotel room. We agreed, we are not going to get anywhere in this godforsaken dump unless we accept it's taxis everywhere. I flicked through the guidebook and decided it would be best to head to round the cathedral. We agreed it was bound to be horrible but let's make the best of a bad job, the guidebook has a walking tour, even if it's really awful at least we will be walking around, and although it's cold (like, wear hat and gloves cold!), it is gloriously sunny. 

As we drove into the city centre we started saying,  hey, this isn't bad. This is nice, this is like Barcelona, only, like, nicer. This is a beautiful city. We spent the remainder of the afternoon sort of following the Lonely Planet walking tour. I completely failed to follow its directions, but we did just about most of it, even if some of it was backwards and out of order. I took about forty photos, some of which are going to look pretty damn good when I finish editing the collection and post it here. 

 As darkness fell we decided it was time to eat. At any rate, it was time for our stomachs to eat, even if it was far too early for Spaniards to contemplate such a thing. We did try a Basque restaurant on the Calle de San Vicente Martir , which looked nice but wasn't open for dinner until a couple of hours later. 

So we carried on strolling, and got rather distracted by photographing fountains. First a big one in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, then a little one in a side-street off it. I was feeling quite chuffed with that photo, which looked passable even on the tiny screen on my camera. Jimmy pointed out a restaurant close by - so close by you can see one of its umbrellas reflected. We agreed it looked alright. It was open, they were willing to serve us. And, you know, it deserves a blog entry all of its own.

I came away with that feeling that it was the best meal I had ever had in my entire life. Of course, objectively, it probably wasn't.

But you know, when you've just had a really nice meal, you are not in the mood for looking back and making comparisons with meals long gone. The trouble is, I can't remember its name. I asked for - and received - a business card. Obviously, somewhere there is a receipt. I can't find them. Unless someone can drop its name here, I will have to wait at least a fortnight until the credit card bill arrives. It's next to this fountain (of the Three Graces? Muses?) in a small square to the (roughly) south east of the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, opposite the Banco di Sancto Spirito (how we laughed at that one, wonder if your money's safe there...). The thing is, it was a really nice restaurant. I took several photos, this is just one of the olives and tomatoes, served to accompany the bread (which in itself was noteworthy).

More anon...

Iphigenie Acts III and IV

Plácido sounded completely gorgeous in  the second half. Overall, I have to say he wasn't at his not inconsiderable best. In Act II in particular, which is so pivotal, he was disappointing compared to how I heard him in New York. But he really did sound gorgeous in Acts III and IV and overall he was fabulous in terms of acting, stage presence, running a dagger across his throat, rolling on the floor, ascending to and descending from an altar, being in chains and flaunting his chest hair.

I have to say that the audience is the worst I have ever encountered in an opera house. Two fat ugly fur-wearing cows sat behind me decided that every time Plácido started singing, they would discuss this. One decided to unwrap a cough sweet, rattle her jewelry and provide a running commentary simultaneously. And to think that some beautiful animal had to die to make her look so ugly. Then there was the mobile phone going off,the constant coughing, the frequent conversations all around. In a shit opera house in a shit city where the food is so crap I'm actually pining for vegetables. Actually we're going into the old city tomorrow, which might be slightly better than this godforsaken dump that resembles Bournemouth on a bad day. A very badly designed opera house that may well look funky from the outside but is seriously rubbish inside. Considering it opened in 2005 you'd have thought they might have provided more than 8 cubicles in the women's loos serving the entire Platea (stalls), and it was pointed out to me that the lift only holds 6 people. It's generally very unaccessible (in terms of people with disabilities moving about and getting there if you don't have a car - it very clearly doesn't welcome people from out of town), the acoustics are crap, the refreshment offer is a joke,  the audience is made up of ostentatious peasants in fur coats. It's like sticking an international opera house in Derby or somewhere. I seriously wouldn't recommend going there unless you are really desperate to hear a particular singer

But the performance was excellent. I was really really knocked out by the orchestra, head and shoulders above the New York one a year ago, and the performers were, well, Violeta Urmana and Ismael Jordi did not erase memories of Susan Graham and Paul Groves whom I had the privilege to hear in two different productions with very different musical interpretations last year. As I say Plácido was not at his best, although there was one bit in where I just reacted physically to his gorgeous voice and was so glad I was there. He seemed to be a bit subdued, a bit phlegmy at times, as if he's succumbed to the coughing  that is clearly in pandemic mode round here.

Overall though, the winner was Christophe Willibard Gluck closely followed by Patrick Fournillier who worked marvels with the stick. And it is a lovely production - Stephen Wadsworth - even though I still think the ballet is a hilarious fusion of Cossack and Morris Dancing.

Oh, and no report from the Stage Door,  because there isn't a stage door, just vehicular access via a tunnel under the road.

Greetings from Valencia

I have decided I am never going to travel again. It is way too stressful. How anybody can seriously say that jet travel makes life easy. I was totally stressed all Wednesday afternoon, resenting that I had booked to see Hoffmann (that dissipated the instant that Rolando stumbled and fell onto stage!). I was so stressed out on Thursday thinking of what I had to do, but didn't start packing until ten pm.

We left the house just after 8.30 am GMT and arrived at our hotel just about 5pm GMT+1. It's a long day,and most of it spent sitting/standing around. As I went from Gate to aeroplane I fell spectacularly arse over tit and managed to jolt my right shoulder*, graze my left knee, bang both hands and sprain all my left toes - I slipped spectacularly on some thawing ice that lingered on the gang-plank. The Easy Jet staff were very sweet; one escorted me to a seat. Then I asked another if I could fill in an accident form. He said "You'll have to do it onli... I'll speak to my superior," then the head of the cabin crew came to take  my name and address, and explained - and I agreed - that the accident happened on BAA property and I should contact EasyJet to forward to BAA; he also said someone else slipped without falling and they made a general announcement to people to take extra care (I had a paid a bit extra for Speedy Boarding; head first, of course, came at no extra cost). I liked the way it was handled, low-key, no defensiveness from them, no need for me to get confrontational, adults conversing with adults. If he had come over all high-and-mighty I would have tossed the rulebook at him, but he didn't and doesn't it make his life and my life so much easier!

Valencia seems a nice enough city. Although very very weird. It's fairly old, and the glimpse we had coming from the airport was a sunbaked southern Spanish city.Then we get to the area we are staying, overlooking the City of Arts and Sciences, which is amazing, spectacular, innovative architecture, quite unlike anything I have ever seen before, just begging to be photographed. I booked a 3 star hotel but we got upgraded at no extra cost to its sister 4 star (so I ain't complaining). The downside is that it is a long walk to where restaurants are and the opera house, although very visible and relatively close, still seems a hike away

* if this had happened pre-shoulder repair op I would have needed an ambulance to cart me off in great pain and I would have been Destination Crawley hospital rather than Valencia

Holiday planning

This is the time of year one's thoughts turn to holidays.

I have grown to accept that I will never get my cycling holiday round Norfolk. Nor my tour on a narrow boat along the canals of England.

Instead, we want sunshine.

We want somewhere maybe 2 or 3 hours, and certainly no more than 5 hours from London. Somewhere it is possible to swim in the sea in late September or even October.

A resort which is geared up for the mature but lively. Lots of good restaurants with lots of variety. Opportunities for excursions, maybe by boat. Bars that stay open late (absolutely not looking for English bars, nor karoake places, nor Thudthud discos). Somewhere it isn't necessary to hire a car.

Perhaps a hotel, or a self-catering complex, which doesn't insist on noise pollution (thudthud music) from dawn to bedtime. Ideally, somewhere that is unsuitable for children, or maybe even adults' only (but not a Swingers' Resort!). Preferably within walking distance of a beach, and with alternative beaches available, off the beaten track.

Somewhere, in the EU, where cigarettes are 3Euro or less a packet.

Any thoughts, from you my dear readers?

Holiday planning

This is the time of year one's thoughts turn to holidays.

I have grown to accept that I will never get my cycling holiday round Norfolk. Nor my tour on a narrow boat along the canals of England.

Instead, we want sunshine.

We want somewhere maybe 2 or 3 hours, and certainly no more than 5 hours from London. Somewhere it is possible to swim in the sea in late September or even October.

A resort which is geared up for the mature but lively. Lots of good restaurants with lots of variety. Opportunities for excursions, maybe by boat. Bars that stay open late (absolutely not looking for English bars, nor karoake places, nor Thudthud discos). Somewhere it isn't necessary to hire a car.

Perhaps a hotel, or a self-catering complex, which doesn't insist on noise pollution (thudthud music) from dawn to bedtime. Ideally, somewhere that is unsuitable for children, or maybe even adults' only (but not a Swingers' Resort!). Preferably within walking distance of a beach, and with alternative beaches available, off the beaten track.

Somewhere, in the EU, where cigarettes are 3Euro or less a packet.

Any thoughts, from you my dear readers?

Eating etc in Barcelona

We stayed in a hotel called Medinaceli, which I found on Hotels.com as recommended by a colleague whose recommendations I respect. Another colleague suggesting trying hotels in the back street of the Barri Gotic but conceded that as I was - originally - going on my own and intending to be wandering around at Silly O'Clock, this was not necessarily advisable.

I would have no hesitation in recommending it. It was exactly as we expected, and no complaints whatsoever. The shower was particularly good, having different jets at different heights to massage the body. It was just off the Passeig de Colom and easy walking distance of Las Ramblas and the Port Vell, walking distance of Barceloneta. It wasn't cheap but at the time of booking it seemed to be more affordable than other hotels in its class.

On arrival we were quite desperate to get some refreshment - Jimmy had refused to eat or drink on the plane, because they charged foreverything (a bit of a surprise because we thought Iberia would have at least given out soft drinks as complimentary). We hadn't banked on it taking so long in the taxi, unfortunately there was an accident en route which caused gridlock and made the journey take an hour and a half. Just one of those things, I suppose. The taxi driver tried to undercharge us a result but we insisted on overpaying (he was just as frustrated as us, but we all kept calm). And we had an excellent and detailed view of the cemetery at Montjuic.

There was no shortage of small bars and cafes in the immediate environs of the hotel. For once we got sensible. We wanted water and coffee so just went in the first place we saw, even though it was no smoking and the food menu was not enticing. Then we moved on and ended up at the top of Las Ramblas. We sat down outside the first bar we saw but soon realised that common sense should prevail over immediacy, and as there were only two serving staff and two enormous and loud stag/hen parties from England, we moved on.

Ravenous we came to Casa Joan on Rambla Santa Mónica and had a good and filling meal. I had a fish stew and Jimmy had oxtail. I wouldn't rave about it being the 'best' but it was satisfactory, good value and good service.

Jimmy found an ice cream parlour more or less opposite the Liceu and returned several times.

After an early evening siesta we headed across the Litoral and down the Rambla del Mar for drinks and tapas. It was very plastic and commercial there; our Tapas came to as much as our meal earlier. We then wandered back to the main drag, a bit surprised to see so many places closed at 11, but eventually found a bar where we drank mojitos for a couple of hours.

We didn't get up early on Saturday, and it wasn't long until brunch. This was where we struck lucky. We wandered through the Placa Reial and randomly chose one of the many restaurants there. My 'random' being "it's got linen tablecloths, let's look at the menu". This turned out to be Les quinze nits; a quick google finds it well reviewed. We chose a seat outside, even though the maitre d' warned us that if it rained (possible) we couldn't move to another table. We got there at one and left just after three, and paid €60 for three courses each, a bottle of wine, water, 2 Irish coffees for him and 2 cappuccinos for me. We were amazed to see it fill up quickly and then for a massive queue to develop, snaking back far into the square. Every time we passed it subsequently, the queue was massive.

I started with a goats cheese and walnut salad, followed by a fish stew and finished with a cheesecake with mango chutney. Really excellent food.

On the Sunday we walked out to Barceloneta. Alongside the Maritime Museum and the Passeig de Joan de Borbo, you really are spoilt for choice for places to eat. We did in fact sit down at one place in PdJdB, because rain was threatening, but the most appealing dish was egg and chips, which, I am sure, if I had been in an egg-and-chip mood, it would have been fine. We quickly decided to stick to our original plan. Lonely Planet had recommended several places in a side road off - Carrer de l'Almirall Aixada. We don't stick religiously to guide book recommendations; in this case we spotted a place which turned out to be recommended - Can Ros, where once again we were given excellent food and excellent service. I started with an excellent goats cheese and roasted vegetables, with a bouillabaisse for main, and finished with a fine Crema Catalunya.

From there you can see a pattern emerging. And that in a nutshell is my problem. I think all the meals we had were of high quality; particularly noticeable was the freshness of the ingredients. And when visiting Spain for a long weekend, I have no problem with eating exclusively Spanish (or Catalan) food. Barcelona was not so much a problem as Madrid, where I did get to the point of thinking - oh god, not another restaurant serving the same old same old unvaried. I also recognise that when you visit a place you operate differently than in your own hometown. But I did think that if I was there for a whole week, I would just get bored. Ignorant people knock food in Britain, but when I am going out in London, or even in the local suburbs, (or New York, or Calangute, or even Na'ama Bay, maybe) I first think 'what sort of food do I want'. I did think there is more variety on pokey little Floral Street than on the entire Las Ramblas. Obviously, if you know a city, you know the hidden secrets, the restaurants that appear to be nothing special but have a certain je ne sais quoi. I accept that I limit myself by not eating meat, but I do eat fish, so it's not like I'm a macrobiotic vegan or whatever.

We had an interesting encounter in a bar near the hotel. We had only gone there because the maid was making our room up. Nice quiet backstreet bar, with a customers in twos or threes, quiet without being moribund. Then we were invaded by a group of 14 men from Liverpool. They were loud, but what really pissed me off was their attitude. They had that colonialist attitude of contempt and superiority that they were better than the 'foreigners' behind the bar,because the 'foreigners' were, well,'foreign'. They failed to understand what the barstaff were saying, in English that was better than their own. Everything was done with an underlying aggression. I understand it's a product of their innate lack of confidence, but I have found the world over that my poor verbal language skills are compensated for by smiling and adopting an attitude of mild humility.

The blokes ordered their beers and the staff began to serve them with tapas. One bloke turned to Jimmy, saying 'I'm not eating this rubbish, I'm not paying for it, who do they think they are?' Jimmy explained wearily that it's local custom and culture, why should they be wanting to rip you off. This bloke had engaged Jimmy in conversation by asking where he was from*. Jimmy said London, and because he was wearing a deep blue shirt (not a football shirt, a proper one with collar and buttons) this Scouser went 'Chelsea?'. No, said Jimmy, Crystal Palace, which he has found on numerous occasions to be a great conversation-stopper/aggro-avoider (and true, too). The bloke then went onto say that they had been out on Las Ramblas the night before and had gone with a prostitute who had dipped his pocket, was Jimmy going to be out on Las Ramblas tonight, be careful with those tarts. Jimmy pointed out that 'the wife' was sat next to him.

Like most of the rest of the pre-existing customers, we got out of the bar pronto.

* I have a probbaly irrational dislike of Brits abroad starting a conversation with 'Where are you from'? It strikes me, no doubt unreasonably, as a primitive tribalist marking of territory, a bit like a dog pissing up a tree.

I'm back!

I have just walked in the door having got back from Barcelona. The worst aspects of the holiday were:

The Brits in Barcelona
British people in Barcelona
Behaviour of British People in Barcelona
The fact that it took us an hour and three quarters to go from the airport to the hotel (but only 20 minutes to return)
That after the rain on Sunday afternoon the sun came out so I was on the beach (and paddling in the sea) in my t-shirt and knickers, while my bikini and sun-hat were back in the hotel.
That I ended up feeling embarrassed about being British because pretty much all the loutish and/or rude behaviour I witnessed came from Brits (most of them with an arrogant attitude of superiority)

Er, that's it. The good bits were very very good. We had a good meal on Friday evening, and really truly excellent meals on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes. It did rain from time to time, but mainly when we were indoors. Die Walküre was wonderful (notwithstanding some strange tempi etc from the conductor) and it was fun outside the Opera House afterwards. We took over a hundred photos inside and outside the house. Some of them may appear here in due course!