I was taking one of my strolls through the huerto at the edge of the city, where most of the produce that fed Valencia was once grown, and I took a short cut along the edge of one of the irrigation channels that criss-cross the area. I spotted a sign partially buried under a pile of old hedge clippings that perfectly sums up the state of Valencia for me. Like a street sign for Broadway sticking out of a pile of New York rubble in a post-nuclear attack film, the yellow sign covered in dried mud bearing the emblem of Valencia, and the words Ajuntament de Valencia is almost apocryphal in its significance, given the disastrous state the city is in, both financially and the incestuous, slithering corruption of its politicians that is coming to light.

I was heading in the direction of the City of Arts and Sciences, the building I have the greatest love-hate relationship with in Valencia – more hate than love, admittedly, particularly for the shambolic way the place is run and the vast amounts of money that have been, and continue to be, squandered there. 

I’d read of late that the mosaic of broken tiles that cover the new Opera House were beginning to lift, and there is raging dispute between the Town Hall, Santiago Calatrava, the one-trick pony architect that is – or more correctly, was up till now – the city’s favourite son, and the contractor who constructed the building. In a typically finger-pointing, foot-stamping, petulant show of name calling, each is blaming the other for the fact that the wrong type of adhesive was used and they unfortunately didn’t seem to take into account that metal expands when hot and contracts when cold, so if you use a glue that lacks expansive and contractive properties you’ll end up with a ripple effect in you tile work, not to mention bloody great gaps in the grouting. And guess what’s happened?

What was once a pristine curvature glistening in the noon-day sun, which, I have to admit, even I admired, is now bubbling and lifting to the extent that the surface resembles that of an albino crocodiles. The grouting between the broken tiles has discoloured badly over almost the whole of the building, creating a mucky mottled effect where once the sun reflected off a surface as sparkly white as a Presidential candidate’s teeth. This shows itself most in the joints of the panels, so what originally appeared to be a vast mosaic of tile pieces actually shows to have been laid as a series of one-metre square panels.

Rust stains run from joints, flaking paint patches and dirty water stains decorate the underside of the arched peak that caps the building, and as if showing that the Town Hall has totally given up the ghost as far as this once jewel in the Valencian crown but now more of a white – sorry, dirty grey – elephant, the pool that once mirrored the architectural glory is now so filthy that it reflects nothing more than the waste, overspending, and monstrous self-aggrandising that has plagued the city for decades.

For a building that started out with an estimated budget of 84,3million euros but ended at an almost quadrupled figure of 345.9million, of which around 40million was trousered by Calatrava, we now find out that the only recourse it to strip the whole external surface, remove the degraded glue, and do the job properly this time. Think of the last time you had to remove old Bostik from something and then imagine what a job a couple of million times the size will entail. And you can bet that at the speed ‘justice’ works in Spain – witness the nine years it has taken to almost get the Corrupt Cowboy of Castellon, Carlos Fabra, to anywhere within spitting distance of the courts – and you can virtually guarantee than the tiles will have shed themselves from the building before anyone parks their arse in front of a judge to make a decision. And on one thing you can be sure, neither Dickhead Calatrava, Bolloxhead the Builder, or the dinero-pocketing corrupt bastards at the Town Hall who awarded the contract will part with one centimo. It will be paid for out of the public purse, in other words, me and thee and everyone else in Valencia with pay it by way of taxes, further depleting the pittance available for schools, medicine and services for the disabled.

And one final bit of nonsense. The City of Arts and Sciences, that symbol of Rita Barbera and her crooked cronies in their bid to make Valencia a city of the future, doesn’t have, and never has had, a Licencia de Actividades, that essential bit of paper that says a building is safe and allowed to be open to the public, the same as required for every bar, restaurant and disco. And do you know why? Because Santiago Calatrava, that high-steppin’ son of the Valencian range, forgot to get a Licencia de Obra, a works license, when he began the work on the project, without which no building can be given the Licencia de Actividades when it’s finished. So now you enter the building at your own risk, and that’s how you get out of it, as well, because he also forgot to add escape routes to the building, and when the error of his ways was pointed out, he hastily bunged on the two stairways you see at either end of the building, but designing them at such a rake that they are illegal and you are is as much danger using them in an emergency as you would be staying in the building itself. That’s why they are permanently roped off.

It’s sad to think thank the once glorious Opera House will become as filthy and indicative of Valencia’s image as the old sign I saw sticking out the pile of rubbish.

Semana Santa is the biggest national fiesta in Spain, with parades that feature solemnity and gaudiness in equal measure.                                  

The most glamorous are held in Andalucia, in Malaga and Seville especially, although aficionados of these things claim that the true Semana Santa, in other words the more sombre celebrations, are held in the towns of Castille, such as Zagora, which has documentary evidence of Holy Week celebrations going back as far as 1179, (although equal rights didn’t get a look in for over 800 years, until the Hermandad de las Siete Palabras became the first cofradía to permit women dressed in the traditional flowing robes and pointed hoods to march in the parades) and Valladolid, which is only second to Zamora in age and the beauty of its floats.

Holy Week is officially from Palm Sunday (Domingo de Ramos) to Easter Sunday (Domingo de Resurreccion), and while the UK celebrates Good Friday, in Spain you have Lunes Santo, Martes Santo, (Holy Monday, Holy Tuesday), and the same throughout the week, so every day is Good and Holy.

Whether in village or city, Semana Santa has basically the same format; extravagant parades of biblical scenes carried around on platforms (tronos – thrones) by extravagantly costumed supporters – quite literally in the case of those who actually carry these monumental effigies.

While the whole thrust of Semana Santa is of religious intent, it’s wonderful to know that there is at least one secular procession, the Entierro de San Genarín, the “Burial of Saint Genarín”. In 1929 on Holy Thursday night, a poor alcoholic called Genaro Blanco was run over by the first rubbish truck in León. The procession consists of a march through the city bearing a bottle of orujo, the tongue-numbing liquor made from grape skins, at the head of the procession. At the spot by the city walls where poor Genaro met his end, cheese, a bottle of orujo and two oranges are left in commemoration. A more economical memoriam than gilded statues or ornately embroidered capes.

Direct Line Holidays has the full story, with details of celebrations from around Spain.

Seeing ghosts has never been a major preoccupation for me, but if ever I find myself frightened of phantoms I know exactly where to go – to the Spice Souk in Marrakech, where Ahmed will create a secret blend of dried chameleon, iguana foot, sea urchin, hedgehog and fish bones. I’ll grind them, throw them in fire and breathe in the cleansing fumes.

Dried chameleon and hedgehog may be some of the more obscure ingredients on offer at the Berber pharmacies, but for whatever ails you they will have something to swallow, breathe, rub on or wash in. Too much stress and not sleeping? An infusion of nutmeg flower. Trouble with migraine or sinus? A few tiny black nejillia seeds wrapped in a cloth and inhaled after a quick rub on your palm will blow your head off, make your eyes water and instantly clear your head. It’s also great for snoring.

Ahmed spots a shaving cut on my face and gives me a piece of alawn stone to rub on to aid quick healing. With a side-long glance he tells me that it also ‘creates new virgins’, a topic I prefer not to pursue. Continuing with the theme he suggests that should I ever need help in the ‘men’s department’ he’ll mix me a concoction of Moroccan ginseng tea with just a smidgen of Spanish fly, a tiny insect so toxic that they are sold in the most miniscule quantities imaginable, but even so, Ahmed assures me, ‘all the night gymnastic, by morning’s man’s dead’.

A visit to a Berber pharmacy is as much ceremony as shopping. With a grin they will offer you a glass of ‘Berber Whisky’ – mint tea – while they discuss what ails you, let you sample a little of this, smell a soupcon of that, before mixing your potion, overcharging you and then try to sell you something else. But it’s all part of the game.

When I first visited Ahmed almost ten years ago I bought three small blocks of concentrated ambergris, jasmine flower and musk, which still perfume my home and never seem to fade or reduce in size. But after setting fire to a piece of gourd and inhaling the smoke to try and cure a headache, the stench was so bad that I decided that perhaps modern-day pharmacy does have something to offer – and swallowed a paracetemol instead.

Buying a Moroccan carpet can be a time consuming experience, but most people fall into one of two groups. Which group do you belong to?        

The first style is to carefully mull. Will the colour clash with the furnishings in the living room? Will it get too much wear in the hall? Is that orangey one better value than the greeny one?

The second is to simply have the smiling vendor throw half a dozen down on the floor, take off your shoes and squish your toes in the pile to see which feels good.

I like the second way.

And don’t think the salesman is taking the mickey when he grins and says, ‘You only pay for the front, the back is free,’ because in the High Atlas Mountains, where some of the looser pile carpets come from, the shaggy side is for winter warmth while the smoother reverse is for summer wear. And speaking of wear, some rugs actually are worn as a winter wrap or used as bed covers.

In Morocco, every carpet tells a story – quite literally, although you may not be able to decipher its meaning. Each tribe has its own repertoire of imagery which differs by village and region, but there’s no such thing as a pattern or design. Every weave and weft is learned at the feet of a mother and grandmother – and a carpet weaver is always a woman.

The designs tell of grand ceremonies and minor happenings in the village, but the essence of a carpet is the story of the weaver, the rhythm of her daily life. Her trials and tribulations, her small joys and larger happinesses are woven into her carpet, as a painter puts his emotions on canvas by the subtlety of his brush.

Wander Marrakech’s higgledy-piggledy souks and you will find carpets everywhere; piled, rolled, unfolded and folded, spread on floors or cascading from hooks and balconies, casually thrown or elegantly presented like a perfect pearl in a Bond Street jewellers. Technicolor existed in the shades and subtleties of colour in Moroccan carpets long before the idea hit the silver screen. Subtle or screamingly outrageous – they’re all there.

But buying a carpet is a serious business, a special moment to be savoured, accompanied by mint tea sweetened with cardiac-arrest levels of sugar. ‘There is no need to rush, madam.’ ‘No hurry, no worry.’ ‘This price is special only to you so please don’t tell your friends.’ ‘If only I could to give you a better price, sir, but anything less and my children won’t eat today.’ ‘Do you have a credit card?’

The idea of growing our own food occurs to most of us at some time or another, but sometimes the pleasure of a tiny plot to cultivate is enough.

In these times of austerity plenty of people are thinking about having their own little parcela, a patch of land to grow a few veg to supplement the drop in income that’s be affecting almost everyone. Unfortunately, most of them don’t realise just how back-breaking it can be to prepare and look after a patch of land, how long it takes before you actually pick anything to eat, or just how much land you actually need to put the five portions of veg on your daily plate that medical opinion seems to think we need. But for city folk it isn’t necessarily for the fresh food – in fact it rarely is. As much as anything it’s the chance to get the fingers dirty once or twice a week and feel the warmth of the sun on your back.

I was chatting with my delightful friend Araceli about this very thing earlier in the week, and she surprised me by saying that last June she had started working a small plot of land in the huerta just outside the city. A self-confessed chica del asfalto (a confirmed city dweller), she didn’t know a bean from a broccoli if it didn’t come off a stall in Ruzafa market, but on a hot summer’s day she accepted an invitation from her pal Irene to take a ride out for the afternoon, spend a couple of hour’s working on Irene’s small allotment, and then nip down to the beach for a beer. She was hooked, and before she left the gardens had booked her own little plot.

So, six months later, I accepted Araceli’s invitation to do the same, and this morning found us pedalling along the cycle lane through the fields of spring onions around Alboraya to tend her plot and, hopefully pick her first crop. 

Now, when I say ‘plot’ and ‘crop’ don’t get carried away with thinking that this is some horticultural endeavour that will find Aranceli handing out fresh veg to all her friends. Her ‘plot’ is eight square meters of tilled earth, and her ‘crop’ was two pods full of runner beans. But neither let us forget the significance of her plot and crop. The former she treats with a pleasure and veneration that would be the envy of any vineyard that strives to attain the heady heights of a grand cru; the latter, the vegetables that were almost the literal first ‘fruits’ of six months work and the first ever that she had grown from tiny seedlings, cultivated in land that she had cleared, fed (with organic feed, of course), and nurtured.

When Araceli carefully opened her first pod – although not carefully enough, sadly – the first bean popped out and fell on the ground. Had it been mine, after all that hard work to grow it, I’d have picked it up, wiped it on my jumper and ate it, but Araceli is made of more elegant stuff than me, so she left it there. Irene and I were offered a sampling, and I’ve got to say that my bean was very tasty; sweet and firm and a pleasing yellowish-green. 

I think it might be a while before Araceli gets enough beans together to make a small salad, but her lettuce is well on the way, and the chap with the plot next door still has a couple of a curious local variety of winter tomatoes left which he might be persuaded to share, so it may not be that long after all.

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Mopeds have been the scourge of Marrakech’s Medina for a number of years, but now traders in the tiny alleyways have had enough.

As much as I love the Medina, walking around it has been getting worse these last few years. It’s not so much the crowds, that’s part and parcel of a busy shopping area, and the occasional donkey traffic-jam is just everyday life in action – it’s the only way you can get heavy things through the narrow streets, just as the hand-carts serve a very important role in keeping the shops and riads stocked up. 

The main problem now is the amount of moped and motor scooters that race far too quickly through what has, for over a thousand years been no more than a pedestrian area – long before we even thought of pedestrianisation.

The traders at the Derb Dabachi, one of the main entrances to the souk, have got fed up of the noise, pollution, danger and stress of the mopeds and scooters that cause havoc in the area and have hung signs forbidding anyone to enter riding a bike or moped – and it’s working! The signs invite riders to become pedestrians and walk alongside their transport until they leave the area. Let’s hope other traders take the idea up and the Medina can once again become a ‘motor-free zone’.

When I read about this, it brought to mind an article I’d written on the same theme last year.

Mowed down by a moped in the Medina

When you are wandering through the souks, you spend half your time dodging mopeds. At least the mule carts and bikes travel at a sedate pace, but the mopeds are pretty nippy and it can give you a moment’s nervousness to be staring the rider in the eyes at a distance and speed that makes you wonder which one of you is going to come off worse in the inevitable collision. Fortunately they usually nip past without doing any physical or emotional damage – but that’s not to say it never happens. 

Nine years ago, on my first visit to Marrakech, I’d just walked away from Jmaa el Fna and the handlebar of a moped brushed my side. It was summer, and I was wearing a lightweight shirt, and as I felt the handlebar touch me I turned into it to avoid anything serious happening. The rider was full of apologies, but I just patted him on the back, said something to the effect, “It’s okay, no harm done,” and he smiled and rode off. I turned to continue my walk, and felt a light breeze around my midriff, where the handlebar had torn my shirt right across the middle, leaving my stomach exposed. I hadn’t felt a thing or, in all the hubbub, heard anything either. I was more amused than anything else that I’d actually patted the chap on the back and parted with smiles, and here I was exposing my paunch for all of Marrakech to see.

And today, when an actual collision between man and moped did occur, I still walked away with a semblance of a smile. 

I was ambling my way back to the riad I was staying at in the Sidi ben Slimane area, not taking a great deal of notice of anything, when I heard a moped rev up. I looked up, and about two metres away I saw a small boy on a moped careering towards me, and it was obvious by the panic in his eyes that he’d only learned how to go forward, he hadn’t quite got the hang of braking and steering yet. 

If it had been a scene in an Indiana Jones film, where the hero was walking through the souk and an evil assassin was attempting to run him down, although it would probably have been a Harley Davidson in that case, and not just a tiny 50cc Yamaha, Harrison Ford would have dived out of the way at the last second, probably doing a roll through piles of antiques lamps and collapsing the tent poles that supported the awning to the shop. Me, I’m no Indiana Jones, I’m neither quick witted enough or know how to do forward rolls to end a neatly executed dive, so I just stood there and watched the panic stricken ten year-old hurtle towards me. (Although to say ‘hurtle’ is probably gilding the lily a bit.) I made a half-hearted attempt to get out of the way but he hit my leg with the front wheel, which was probably the bit of steering assistance that turned him to the right out of any other harm’s way.

When I turned around he’d managed to stop, and was on that point where he could well have burst into tears. Behind me I heard a man shouting at the lad, but as he didn’t look at me it could well have been that he was pretty brassed off because the nipper had ridden the moped in the first place. I turned around, just as an old woman joined in the tirade. When I looked at the boy again he was even closer to tears, so I just waved my arms around a bit in a huffy sort of way and walked off.

But I did have a bit of moped malarkey earlier in the day. I’d gone to do an interview with a delightful young chap who is the only hand-made football maker in Morocco – more of that another day – but stupidly, I’d left my recorder in the riad, on the other side of the Medina. By one of those delightful quirks of serendipity, he lived about three streets from the riad, and offered to take me there on his moped. It was great, and I got a chance to see life from the other side of the handlebars.

We dodged and weaved through the crowded narrow alleyways, and there were times I thought my kneecaps were getting just that bit close to the walls. As we left the tighter alleys of the souk he took some of the wider streets, in deference to it being my first ride on the back of a moped, with a rear seat which clearly wasn’t built for someone my size. It was great fun, although I think I’d stick to a bike if I’m piloting something through the souks myself in the future.

This post was first seen on the Villa Dinari web site

In Spain, Sunday is still the day when families get together, take a stroll, have lunch. Fortunately, the beach is the ideal place.       

It was a morning akin to high summer in England, clear blue skies, just a shade whiter than they will be in summer, but not disturbed by a single cloud. It’s on days like this that I treat myself to a ride through the huerta, Valencia’s market gardens and allotments, to the beach at Alboraya, to the North of the city.

Usually the beach is a narrow stretch of almost empty sand, most beach babes preferring Malvarrosa, where they can park and drag their tables, chairs, bags and baskets and spread out under big, brightly coloured parasols. Here at Alboraya, the beach is mainly used by fishermen, who balance their rods on poles planted in the sand and pass the time lounging in picnic chairs.

For a few weeks during winter the beach loses its tailored look when storms bring seaweed ashore and drop it as a barrier between sand and sea. This year has been relatively devoid of bad weather, but this hasn’t stopped the Med dropping its detritus on Valencia’s beaches, part of its seven year cleansing cycle.

In some ways, even though the beach isn’t exactly beautiful to look at, winter is a good time to go, especially on a day like today, because there is almost no-one else around. I sit on a rock warmed by the sun and simply watch the coming and going of the sea, the sailboats in the distance drifting across the horizon, and the squawking seagulls ducking and diving. 

But to be honest, sea, boats and seagulls can only keep me entertained for so long, so I make my way home, as usual, by the prom that runs for two kilometres along the beach at Malvarrosa to the Port, and which normally provides plenty of entertainment as I watch the Spanish enjoying their Sunday at the beach.

Just as I’m leaving Alboraya along a dirt track that runs parallel with the beach, I see a chap taking advantage of the day. I may have gone to the lengths of taking my jacket off to feel the warmth of the sun as I sat on my rock, (I’m a martyr to bronchitis and only divest if it’s steaming hot), but he’s gone the whole hog and is down to his black swimming trunks. He simply stands, staring out to sea, occasionally scratching his chest, lost to the world. 

Just before you drop onto the prom at the top end of Malvarrosa there are a couple of restaurants which are always busy on Sundays, their tables spilling out onto their terrace (ie the pavement in front of their premises). Things are no different today, and diners had the additional pleasure of being serenaded by a solo electric guitarist, his backing group coming from an iPod connected to a small amplifier on a trolley. Unusually, he was pretty good, and as I pass I realise that he is playing a mellowed-out version of I ain’t got nobody, which could equally have referred to his backing group as to his situation in life. 

I stop to listen for a while, but know it’s time to move on when he segues into My Way (En Mi Manera in Spanish), the only song banned on BBC’s longest established radio show, Desert Island Discs. Just as I climb onto my bike a young man on a mono-cycle casually rides by me, watching what’s going on on the beach. “Now, you don’t see that on Calle Colon,” I think.

The top end of the prom is usually quieter than the area around the Port, so it gives me the opportunity to look around more, instead of keeping an eye out for any police that might nick me and fine me for some infraction that, until a couple of years ago they wouldn’t even notice. Fines are now one of the major income streams for the Town Hall, and the Policia Local have been told in no uncertain terms that if they want to be paid they have to issue more fines. Even the police themselves are up in arms, and the three main police associations are screaming that they are now no more than debt collectors instead of the ‘guardians of the peace’ they once were, (and which came as a surprise to many of us to hear). Perhaps it’s the impecuniosity of our local government that is the reason that I don’t see a single policeman anywhere.

Anyway, as I turn the corner onto the prom, (in front of the closed Police station). I see a couple coming toward me, sauntering slowly in the sun, she pushing a pram and he, who has obviously just bought a yo-yo from one of the Senegalese ‘blanket’ salesmen that line the lower reaches of the prom, is trying to get the yellow globes to work their way back up the string. Even if he was the bees-knees as a yo-yo-er in his childhood, he’s obviously way out of practise because no matter what wrist action he uses yo-yo refuses to make the return journey up the string.

It’s obviously the day of Los Reyes Magos, the coming of the Three Kings, and a more important day of gift-giving in Spain than Christmas, because loads of the kids are playing with their new toys; staccato sounds of wheels on pavement as six-year-olds trying to master the intricacies of in-line skates, the buzzing of radio controlled cars whose drivers haven’t quite got the hang of which button to push, and are replicating the driving skills of many of their parents. (Spain has the worst driving record in Europe, beating even the Italians, which surely says something not good.)

I’m totally tickled pink by a young madam of about seven, peacefully promenading with her little white doggy at her side, as sedate as any elegant lady exercising her pet. The dog’s short legs nip back and forth to keep pace with m’lady’s, but what sets me giggling is that the dog’s legs are on wheels, and the pretty purple leash that leads from the small hand of its owner to a bright red collar is the cable that controls it. I can’t help but think how lucky she is that she doesn’t have to carry a plastic bag to pick up the dog shit that was, until a recent law was enacted that forced dog owners to collect their animal’s feces, the bane of pedestrians trying to take a stroll around the city.

I wend my way home, ducking in and out of the streets around the Avenida del Puerto, just in case I come across the driver who was videoed recently sending text messages while he was driving, and find myself crossing the bridge between the Palau de Musica de Reina Sofia, Valencia’s relatively new opera house and concert hall, and the Hemisferic, which form part of the City of Arts and Sciences. As I look at the sun glistening off the tile-work of the buildings and the enormous pools that form part of the complex, I remember how wonderful were the public concerts held there until the whole financial fiasco descended on the city. We didn’t realise at the time that they were the ‘bread and circuses’ of ancient Rome, grand public events put on to hide the skulduggery and corruption that was leeching the city and region of money. Now we have neither the bread nor the circuses, and can only be grateful that the waste and endemic corruption is coming to light, and hope that no more of the current government are indicted than the twenty per cent of councillors who are now under investigation.

You might like to see more photos of Valencia and the beach at

Valencia, City Living

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Valencia’s next big financial black hole

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It pays to have a guru on your side

Table football, foosball, csocso, cadureguel-schulchan, has a world encyclopaedia of ridiculous names, and a equally convoluted rule-book.         

In the best tradition of skulduggery, claim and counterclaim, foosball (or table football) that simple game of bouncing little wooden soccer players back and forth on springy metal bars across something that looks like a mini pool table, has the roots of its conception mired in confusion.

Read the full story at The Smithsonian

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Tres Reyes Magos has always been the top dog in Spanish Christmas celebrations, and the Roscon de Reyes holds a traditional surprise.       

For years I thought it was just because the Spanish like a good party that they dragged their Christmas celebrations out until the night of the 5th January, when they had another round of parades and present giving for Tres Reyes, the coming of the Three Kings. It’s only recently that it clicked that, actually, they got it right. While the rest of us are waiting for Santa to deliver his celebratory gifts for Jesus’ birthday, the little chap in the stable didn’t actually get any until twelve days later, when Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar finally showed up with their gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Read the full story at the Smithsonian Magazine

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