Redbeard Travels

Middlesbrough? Only if you must

2012-05-19T15:07:00.000+01:00

What words do you live by which define your travel style? Cheap and cheerful, or five stars all the way? Any which way but loose? If it's not Boeing, you're not going? For us, it's 'better bring the Good Beer Guide' because if a pub is not recommended by the Campaign for Real Ale, then we're not likely to darken the hostelry's doors.

So we were flummoxed as to why our reliable Good Beer Guide had no listings for Middlesbrough. Not a jot, which for a city of about 140,000 people was worrisome. The original idea behind our camping trip (before the flat pillows, rain, claustrophobia and fatigue forced us to spend four nights in a B and B) was that a room booked at the Middlesbrough Travelodge would be a luxurious treat after several days of sleeping under canvas. Realising there wasn't a decent pub in town put a damper on things.

First impressions however were surprisingly positive. After a leisurely journey away from Whitby and through the Yorkshire moors, our train pulled into town past a massive Anish Kapoor sculpture and a multi-coloured metallic building. Middlesbrough at first glance felt cutting edge.

Then we stepped out of the station and into the empty streets. The shopping district was a ghost town, as if a bomb had been dropped. There were at least a few signs of life at the Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art (MIMA), another new addition to the city skyline.

The building was sleek and striking, with wonderfully lit galleries for rubbish contemporary art. We traipsed through an entire floor of ugly jewellery, then sped through several enormous rooms of...nothing, really. Maybe five photos and a video playing in a darkened room, nothing to stir the soul or leave any lasting impression. On the top floor an outdoor platform opened out onto a miniature version of Manchester's town hall, hemmed in by an ugly tower block.

It's a shame, because at one point Middlesbrough was clearly a beautiful and thriving city with relatively recent beginnings which mean the heart of town is laid out in a tidy grid, a rarity for England. It is a product of the Industrial Revolution, when Quaker industrialists in 1829 started to transform a hamlet of four farmhouses into a port and rail hub for the transport of coal, then later a centre for iron and steel production. In its heyday the city was called 'Ironopolis'. Sydney's iconic Harbour Bridge has MADE IN MIDDLESBROUGH stamped into its girders.

There is still street after street of fine Victorian architecture, but much of it appeared vacant.

In Manchester these buildings would be reclaimed as flats, offices, restaurants and shops.

It is a vicious circle. Without local residents, few developers are going to take the risk and transform old buildings into space for living, working or leisure. But without decent housing and jobs, you can't attract people to live in a particular area, so the cycle of decay continues.

Middlesbrough still has some relics of its Ironopolis days and could make a decent stab at attracting visitors interested in its industrial heritage. For instance, its famous transporter bridge still trundles cars and passengers across the River Tees. At the time this was a busy shipping route and a bridge would have interrupted navigation, so engineers in 1911 built a set of steel towers 225 feet in the air so a gondola can be pulled across the river, carrying up to 200 people and 9 cars each way.

The waiting room for foot passengers on the Middlesbrough bank of the river is an interpretive centre. There are plans to replace the gondola and to install lifts inside at least one of the towers so tourists can admire the views from the top. We would have made the trip ourselves, but I didn't have enough cash for a return trip and didn't fancy a swim.

Not far from the transporter bridge is the assemblage of buildings and sculpture ('Tememos') that caught our eye when we arrived in town. The combination of contemporary architecture, open water and a football stadium (but little else) reminded me of Salford Quays in Manchester, back when it was cleared ground and not a cluster of museums, TV studios, shops and flats.

So maybe in another 10 or 15 years this will be a thriving destination. The college is enormous and very impressive, I first assumed it was a research laboratory or other high-tech facility, but instead it's where the local teens train to be hairdressers and call centre operatives.

A sign pointing to 'the old town' led us past a half boarded-up council estate and up to the completely-boarded up former town hall.

This is where Prime Minister Gladstone in 1846 hailed Middlesbrough as 'an infant Hercules.'

Back in the centre of town and the shops had all shut by half 5. In Manchester this is when the streets become their busiest, as office workers stream out for an evening of shopping, drinking, eating and the theatre. We had to settle for a microwave meal and indifferent pint at the local Wetherspoons and spent the rest of our evening in our airless hotel room, sprawled on our saggy mattress flipping between the two channels on the telly. Middlesbrough? Only if you must!

One last entry and that will be the end of our Yorkshire trip, so click back soon to for a look around sunny York and a behind-the-scenes tour of the Minster!

America's dustpan?

2012-05-16T22:35:00.006+01:00

A depressing feature in today's New York Times about Treece, Kansas and Picher, Oklahoma: two towns about to be wiped off the map because of an environmental calamity. A century after decades of rampant mining first began in the area, the residents have been bought out, the town hall boarded up and the water tower sold at auction for scrap metal. A church sold at auction for $50, its pews destined to become firewood.

One irritating aspect of the article is that despite the local people expressing their affection for their hometown and their deep regret for having to move, all their articulate words are nearly lost amid patronising descriptions of their K-mart clothes, their physical features picked over for any defects. It seems as far as the writer is concerned, these are rubes and rednecks.

The writer also trots out the usual tired descriptions of Kansas being flat and featureless. He says it's literally flat as a pancake, citing 'researchers' who compared the state's topography to something off IHOP's breakfast menu. I was reminded of the surveyors who determined in 1918 that the geographical centre of the lower 48 was located near Lebanon, Kansas after balancing a cardboard cutout map of the US atop a tack.

I was also perturbed to hear an area 60 miles east of where I had grown up be described as a 'dustbowl' and a 'dustpan'? Really? A desert like the Bonneville Flats? I beg to differ. The area sees 40 inches of rain a year (more than many parts of England) and Treece is less than 10 miles from the western fringes of the Ozark mountain plateau. Had the writer not driven the same road from Kansas City as I have many a time, one that goes through thick forests, past numerous lakes and verdant wildlife refuges, not to mention the lovely Victorian town of Fort Scott?

So here is some proof that Kansas is not as flat, featureless, dry or despondent as the big city journalists like to portray.

What about Whitby? 12

2012-05-13T18:56:00.000+01:00

Just a short post to point you towards an album of photos with the last of the Whitby photos on my Facebook page.

I'm giving away a free print for every 50 fans, so hurry on over and 'like' my Facebook page to be in with a chance!

Click back next time, when I'll be moving on to Middlesbrough.

What about Whitby? 11

2012-05-12T19:51:00.002+01:00

In Yorkshire you will often see references to 'Whitby jet', but it's not an aeroplane that you'll see at the airport. Instead, jet is a semi-precious stone found here in abundance which has been mined for thousands of years. The Romans thought Whitby jet had magical powers and Pliny the Elder said it could be used to drive off snakes.

Whitby jet's popularity most recently peaked in Victorian times when the newly-widowed Queen Victoria began wearing black jewellery made from it in mourning. Decades later and we still say something is 'jet-black' when it is especially dark, the blackest black possible.

Even on a jet-black night there are ample possibilities for taking photos, made all the more fun if you take a creative approach and avoid attempting to achieve pin-sharp results. As I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of 'intentional movement photography' where little or no effort is made trying to hold the camera stock-still.

Another climb up the 199 Steps from the harbour and to the graveyard, where St Mary's Church was bathed in a floodlight. It was still early evening and a couple of children were amusing themselves by making enormous shadows on the side of the clock tower. 'That was like the most fun...ever,' one of them announced after their parents were finally able to tear them away.

Naturally, I had to have a go myself!

Even at night the churchyard and steps were quite busy, mainly because there is a YHA hostel in the grounds of Whitby Abbey. Here are some hostellers staggering back uphill, the bright lights of Whitby behind him.

And here's the landmark lamppost lighting the stairs, looking more like a flaming torch.

For such a vast structure, the ruins of Whitby Abbey are concealed behind a high wall, all the better for English Heritage. I had to climb onto a rubbish bin which was a bit slick from the salty sea air and hold the camera fairly still during a 10-second or so exposure for this image of the floodlit abbey.

Whitby has only a modest funfair and seaside promenade with the usual amusement arcades, but at night they light up the waters of the harbour.

I thought this light trail looked like a running man. Running from what??

Walking along the cobbles...

...and more opportunities to move the camera during long exposures to catch the limited available light and produce impressionistic images.

After several days of stalking around town on my photo walks, I thought I had covered every inch of Whitby. This particular night while on my own I decided to take a shortcut to the B&B which sits on the cliffs opposite the abbey. Instead of taking the switchback road up to the top, I chose a street at random and began climbing the series of stairs and alleys running between the houses on the hillside. At each bend I kept climbing up, leaving behind the chippies and holiday flats. After turning one corner, the street light disappeared behind me, the ivy crowded overhead and the path became noticeably more narrow. I had to step carefully as the steps were thick with leaves and litter.

At one landing the path levelled off, going past the black windows of an empty cottage. Here the path ended, right at the door of what was clearly an abandoned cottage...with a wide-open door. In the half light after sunset all I could see inside were piles of bags, the ones used by builders to haul around sand and rubble. I was certain these particular bags though contained body parts, so I turned around sharpish. Only a couple minutes later I was back to civilisation, behind the tat shops, only a few feet off the seafront yet who knows how close to my DOOM?!

An unexpected shock ending to an otherwise lovely holiday in a beautiful place. That wraps up Whitby, but I'll be back with some more photos to share before moving on to a quick look at Middlesbrough and York.

What about Whitby? 10

2012-04-17T00:28:00.002+01:00

For all the fuss made over sunsets and the 'golden hours' when the sun is low in the sky and producing abundant raking light, there are plenty of photo opportunities after sunset. A 'blue hour' often follows between sunset and dusk, topped off by the occasional 'indigo flash' when (right before turning black) the sky is at its deepest blue. And then of course there is the challenge of taking photos in darkness, when light is at its most scarce.

When faced with difficult lighting conditions, most photographers put all their effort into producing pin-sharp images. This requires sturdy tripods, remote control shutter release mechanisms or at the very least the camera's timer delay to minimise any movement during long exposures.

One evening in Whitby after sunset I climbed the 199 steps towards the abbey ruins and passed another photographer who was packing away his tripod, content with making what could very well have been the world's one-millionth sunset shot taken that day alone. Yes, every sunset is different, but there are endless possibilities for taking photos in very low (or even non-existent) light, with no special equipment at all.

There are fancy names for this type of image making, like kinetic photography or intentional camera movement photography. Me, I just call it fun.

Why not try one of these techniques yourself next time? For instance, if you're using a zoom lens, you could try twisting the zoom ring during an exposure, which makes the image look as though it is radiating from a central point.

Be sure to try both zooming in and out during exposures as the effects are slightly different.

Another thing I often do in low light conditions (and which attracts plenty of odd looks) is to twist the camera quickly while the shutter is open for a swirly effect.

That, or moving the camera from one side to the next.

Or jerk the camera downward. This turned the streetlamp and railings along the 199 Steps into jagged spikes.

I'm not able to rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time, but sometimes I twist the camera AND adjust the zoom at the same time.

All of these photos were taken in the half hour or so after sunset, if not later, but the long exposures make some of the photos seem as bright as day.

So what if my fellow photographer who had already packed his tripod had made it to the pub by now? Wait until you see the photos taken well after dark, when Whitby is at its spookiest!

What about Whitby? 9

2012-04-16T18:52:00.000+01:00

Whitby is one of the few places in Britain where the sun rises and sets at sea, doubling the opportunity for lots of lovely low light landscape shots.

Unfortunately, I'm not a fan of early starts: Dracula is a morning person compared to me. So instead, here are some of my sunsets!

Playing with the 'soft focus' setting.

Lots of gulls swooping about.

I've used a version of this as the cover for my Whitby book of souvenir photos.

You can just make out the steeple of the church in Lythe.

I was upset by the number of airplane contrails this particular evening, but the lighthouse made an excellent silhouette.

Rule number one of sunset shots: always take a look behind you!

Again with the contrails!

Again with a quick look over my shoulder!

And again with the soft focus!

Now compare the soft focus effect above to the much warmer automatic 'sunset' setting below.

Just about managed to disguise the contrail in this one. Some lovely clouds that evening.

Click back next time for photos I took after the sun went down.

What about Whitby? 8

2012-04-12T20:17:00.001+01:00

Runswick Bay turned out to be the surprise highlight of our Yorkshire trip, a crescent-shaped bay fringed by golden sand with an old fishing village at one end and cliffs pockmarked by caves at the other.

The road coming down the steep hill funnelled all traffic into a couple of car parks, leaving the village itself traffic-free.

Instead of having streets, the village is a maze of steps, narrow paths and dead-ends.

I noticed most of the paving stones are outlined in paint

and many of the houses have white-washed sun terraces for gardens, which reminded me of Greek island villages.

That, and the fact that the houses are stacked one upon another up the side of the incline, so each has its own sea view.

Practically all the houses are holiday lets and there were an awful lot of electric wires, cheap PVC windows and satellite dishes that intruded on what otherwise felt like a time warp back to olden times. It only took about 15 minutes to explore most of the village, save for the uppermost reaches.

Back on the seafront and there is a pub plus a couple of cafes and shops, otherwise there is little to keep visitors occupied aside from the glorious stretch of sand, the walking opportunities, the boating, that splendid sea view, the abundant fresh air..actually, a week here would make for a relaxing holiday, so we made a promise to come again to linger longer on another trip.

For now though we kept walking, along the sandy beach, past the 'hobgoblin' caverns and to a cleft in the cliffs where a brook had carved through the shelves of shale and out to sea.

This was our path back up to the top of the cliff via a series of steps that took us up the hillside and into a beautiful glade filled with blossoms and butterflies.

Each time we stopped to catch our breaths the views over the bay seemed to get better and better.

Atop the cliffs was a jumble of farm houses and an old railway station for a stop called Kettleness, long since abandoned.

Back roads took us away from the seaside through fields of bright yellow flowers

through lovely lush countryside and into the village of Lythe.

The pub here was shut, so we carried on to the town's church which sits on a prominent position above the sea with views of Whitby on the horizon.

The body of church was largely rebuilt in 1911.

As the builders dismantled the ancient church walls, they found an abundance of stones carved by Vikings, including a massive stone coffin which serves as a rather morbid flower display.

The church has an excellent series of interpretive panels about the discovery of more than three dozen carved stones, all about 1000 years old. The Edwardians piled the stones in the churchyard and it was only recently that the stones have been cleaned and the best specimens brought indoors for display in the church.

One of the stones cleaned in 2007 revealed a figure that the locals have called 'The Gingerbread Man' who appears to be torn between vicious animals.

I dubbed him 'Mr Bill.'

A short walk downhill from Lythe and we reached yet another lovely village, Sandsend.

From here it was probably only another two miles to Whitby, but by now the sun was low in the sky and the wind blowing off the sea was strong. Instead of facing the cold wind, we waited a couple minutes and caught the next bus into Whitby in time for the sunset. And you know how I get twitchy around sunsets...!

A rough idea of our 7-mile one-way route is here and a plethora of sunset shots are on the way soon.

What about Whitby? 7

2012-04-11T23:48:00.000+01:00

Another day in Whitby, another day for a walk! After clocking up the miles to Robin Hood's Bay and back, we felt entitled to cheating a bit and saved our bloody stumps by taking the bus a half hour up the road for the start of our next ramble along the seaside.

Staithes is yet another old fishing village along the Yorkshire coastline, but in an even more spectacular setting than Whitby or Robin Hood's Bay. Much of the town is huddled into a ravine, hiding behind cliffs from the sea.

And for good reason too, as storms over the years have washed away a number of buildings on the seafront.

Staithes has suffered a lot over the years and not just because of Mother Nature. Its fishing industry has dwindled a great deal (although the harbour has more boats than Robin Hoods Bay). Its days as an artists colony are long gone as well. We passed several empty shopfronts, a derelict pub and only a few other sightseers. Many houses appeared to be holiday homes, which also take their toll on what little life remains in town.

Having said that, there were a handful of pubs, cafes and art galleries which seemed to be doing decent trade that day.

Unlike Robin Hood's Bay, Staithes is much more accessible by car and has a larger harbour which can accommodate beachcombers and fishing boats alike.

The only thing which detained us was a half pint at The Royal George, which had a varied menu that looked quite good, although it was too early for lunch and the whole place was in need of a clean.

Elsewhere in town is a small museum in a former chapel. Among its exhibits you can learn about the young Captain Cook, who was an apprentice here in a shop that has long since fallen victim to a particularly fierce storm.

Behind the seawall and away from the harbour we found the trail leading up out of town and onto the clifftops.

Only a mile to the north at Boulby are the highest sea cliffs in England...crowned by the chimneys of a mining operation that produces half the country's potash. So instead we headed a mile south to Port Mulgrave.

Passers-by might expect another charming fishing village, but in fact this was only ever a tiny harbour used for shipping out the iron ore mined from the cliffs surrounding it.

Its sea wall was dismantled during WWII in case any Germans wanted to sneak into the disused harbour and launch an invasion. These days it is home to a collection of fishermen's huts and plays hosts to fossil hunters.

Only an hour's walk further along the edge of the sea cliffs and we arrived at the top of Runswick Bay. Like the other fishing villages in the area, there is a new town atop the cliffs and an old town next to the harbour.

We had a pub in mind in the new town, but they had no ale on offer so we crossed the road where a woman had set up some tables and chairs in her front garden.

We had sandwiches, salad, coleslaw, crisps, tea and scones for about £12 which was a bit dear considering the size of the portions, but in a lovely setting with a friendly hostess. From here it was literally straight down to the bay.

Click back next time for a look around the charming old town, the brilliant beach and more countryside rambling on our way back to Whitby!

What about Whitby? 6

2012-04-10T21:56:00.000+01:00

What better way to work off those pies and pints than a 12-mile hike? Whitby is surrounded by prime walking country: with non-stop sunshine and 70 degrees the entire week of our stay there was no excuse to sit indoors. With a few hours to spare, there's no better excursion than to Robin Hood's Bay, the next town along the coast south from Whitby.

The coastal walk is easy to follow (just keep the sea on your left!) and not that strenuous, with little change in elevation along the way. You might wonder if you've taken a wrong turn when you enter a large holiday park not long out of the shadows of Whitby Abbey, but follow the signs through the caravans and soon it's nothing but sea, surf and grassy clifftops for the five miles or so to Robin Hood's Bay.

The walk takes two hours and, to be honest, it's a bit dull in parts. What little access to the sea involves so many steps down that you'd have to be rather fit and have plenty of time to spare in order to take a detour down to the shore. Keeping to the clifftop path, there's only a lighthouse

and a shipwreck along the way to break the monotony,

but depending on the time of year there's an abundance of wildflowers,

plus the views of the awesome abbey ruins.

It's all worth the effort when arriving in Robin Hood's Bay, a small town with a tiny fishing harbour squeezed into a fissure at the bottom of steep cliffs.

As a fishing port it once rivalled Whitby hundreds of years ago.

Its remote location also made it a favourite bolthole for smugglers, who were said to use a series of tunnels linking the towns' houses to evade tax officials and offload gin, silk, tea and other booty into wagons waiting atop the cliffs.

These days the clifftops are crowded with Victorian villas converted into B&Bs, but the older town down below is a delightful warren of ancient stone cottages.

The labyrinth of passages which helped the smuggling operation in days gone by succeeds in keeping the lower town largely free of traffic.

There is hardly room to turn around a car at the bottom of town in front of the tiny harbour. That day it was the best spot in town to sit down with an ice cream or fish or chips,

but the harbour is also the end of the famous Coast to Coast Walk, where hikers who have crossed the spine of the country from St Bees Head in Cumbria come to dip their boots into the North Sea.

Aside from a few pubs and shops there is not much to occupy your time in the town, but it's well worth wandering around the narrow lanes as you'll never know what you mind find, such as this whale's jawbone.

Climbing to the top of town, we found the Victoria Hotel, the lawns of which offered a lovely panorama over the town and out to sea. They served up delicious sandwiches, salad, cakes and tea which were a bargain at £13 for the pair of us, with wonderful views to boot.

We took a different route back to Whitby, following the 'cinder track' which is all that is left of the old railway that once ran through here. This was even more flat and level route than the clifftop walk, with high banks or hedges along much of the way which served as a windbreak. Ideal on a wet and windy day, but this prevented us from enjoying the views on this sunny afternoon. One of the old stations along the way rents out bicycles and there's a large church just off the path,

but the main highlight for us was reaching the old railway viaduct which crosses the river above Whitby. We arrived right as a tour boat from town was turning around in the river below.

Back in town after crossing the railway viaduct, it was time to celebrate completing our 12-mile roundtrip with a pint at The Station, but we took it easy because we had more walking planned for the next day. Click back again!

What about Whitby? 5

2012-04-08T22:30:00.001+01:00

You won’t go hungry in Whitby. Whether it’s the freshest possible fish and chips, high-class bistro dining or a nightcap at one of the many pubs, there are drinking and eating options to satisfy any hour of the day and every budget. Not to mention sweet shops, pie shops and ice cream stalls…but whatever you do, don’t eat the cheese!

Time for a quick history lesson. The shale in the local seaside cliffs used to be mined for its alum, an important compound which fixes dye to wool and leather. As part of the process, ammonia was needed, one of the best (and most readily available) sources of ammonia being...human urine. Back in the days before modern plumbing, this was supplied via barrels of wee imported from London. Enterprising Yorkshiremen then filled the empty vats with cheese and sent back them to the capital.

Thankfully, there is no chance of finding any stinky cheese on the menus of the town’s chippies. Whitby takes its fish and chips business seriously, with the windows of each establishment along the quayside proudly displaying their reviews and which competitions they have won, such as Young Fish Frier of the Year.

The Magpie Café bills itself as world-famous after being promoted by the likes of TV chef Rick Stein. There seems to be a constant queue of people at both its street counter and sit-down restaurant, though the churlish would point out the crowds are more than likely left standing on the pavement because of their small dining room. They dished us up a lovely box of cod, chips and mushy peas at their streetside counter, but the portion was so large that half the chips went to the hungry gulls swooping around our heads.

Personally, we preferred the seaside fare from The Quayside where we sat in its spacious dining room overlooking the harbour. Although the pieces of cod and haddock were smaller than the Magpie’s, the batter was far lighter and crispier. The chips were smaller as well, but not at all greasy. Proper Heinz ketchup, wedges of lemon and fresh-made tartare sauce were all nice touches you don’t often get from standard chippies, which put the Quayside in a class of its own.

Away from the chippies lining the harbour, there are plenty more eateries on offer, including the retro-inspired Humble Pie. Ducking through the door of this 16thC timber-framed building, the small dining room with low wooden beams is crowded with 1940s furniture, Bakelite radios and vintage advertising. In keeping with their post-war décor is a menu of rations-era savoury pies and sweets brought out on tin plates. Pie fillings include hommity (a Romany-inspired assortment of root veg), steak and stout, haggis and neeps (turnips), lamb with rosemary plus corned beef.

Fortunately the portions aren’t limited by rationing: each pie comes with abundant mashed potato, garden peas and gravy. Recipes for desserts like jam roly poly, pear crumble and treacle tart are taken straight from the pages of 1940s cookbooks. Everything right down to the pastry is made on the premises using local ingredients and on top of that the staff were genuinely friendly, freely offering gravy top ups and encouraging patrons to nip down the street for ale to go with their pies.

A proper pie does call for a proper pint, but this proved to be Whitby’s weakness. The miles we spent walking each day left us too weary for an extended pub crawl, so we didn’t have much energy in the evenings for exploring the local pubs. Most of those we came across were only average (The Duke of York and The Station, for example).

It wasn’t until our last night in Whitby that we found a pub that was a cut above the rest: The Black Horse, designated by Tetleys as a Heritage Tavern which means the historic interior has been preserved by the brewery. The helpful staff described each of the guest ales on offer (the Wharfbrook was nice, but Spring Fever was delicious even though only 3.4% ABV). We had a selection of high-class salty nibbles such as salami with salsa, olives, slices of ciabatta and (despite my own misgivings) the cheese board. What’s that, another pint? Go on, we had walked many miles that day!

Speaking of which, click back next time and hear about some of the wonderful walking on offer around the lovely landscapes in the area.

What about Whitby? 4

2012-03-27T00:05:00.003+01:00

Some 120 years ago while standing in the churchyard on this wind-blown clifftop, Bram Stoker gazed down to the wreck of a Russian ship on the rocks below his perch. Surrounded by crumbling gravestones, Stoker imagined what might have caused the wreck. He envisioned an empty ship, abandoned by her crew, blown ashore in a fierce gale. The local townsfolk only find boxes of earth for cargo on board. Some recall seeing an enormous dog leaping from the wreckage.

And so Count Dracula arrives in Whitby, making his home here in one of the graves next to St Mary's Church.

Despite only existing in the pages of a Victorian novel, people still come decades later to explore one of Britain's most atmospheric churchyards. It's such a popular place of pilgrimage for Goths that signs are posted which forbid people posing next to the graves for photos, which seems a bit mean.

St Mary's church looks a bit forlorn, appearing rather stumpy compared to the ruined abbey next door and a bit lost amid all the headstones (many sailors and fishermen have been lost in the rough seas, judging by the anchors carved into their grave markers).

It turns out to be rather charming and sweet inside, at least when the sun is shining and the white woodwork is illuminated.

Almost all available space is taken up by boxed-in pews, some of which were reserved for prominent families who had small coal stoves installed to keep off the chill.

The church tower dates back to 1110 (the oldest parts of British churches tend to be these rounded arches),

but most of the interior is Georgian, hence the plain walls, whitewashed woodwork and near absence of stained glass.

There are still plenty of features to seek out, like the ear trumpets affixed to the back of the pulpit so the deaf wife of one of the vicars could listen to the sermons. It's these fluted pipes running up the back.

Back outside and the cheery motto on the sundial advises that 'Our days pass like a shadow.'

Which to me sounds like an invitation for a pint of beer if there ever was! Next time let's see where to eat and drink in town. Click back soon.

What about Whitby? 3

2012-03-23T18:46:00.000Z

Those early Christians sure knew their real estate.

Almost anywhere you wander in Whitby, the ancient remains of the abbey lurk on the horizon. It features in many of my photos from visit.

Having said that, in this particular photo the ruins are nowhere to be seen (that's the clock tower of St Mary's church peeking over). That's because from Whitby harbour you need to tackle the famous 199 steps nearly straight up the cliff face.

A clever way for the monks to keep out the riff-raff, I suppose!

Actually, the original abbey was home to both monks and nuns in the Anglo-Saxon tradition when it was established in the year 657.

For a religious outpost in a windswept clifftop position, the abbey features prominently in the history books. In the year 664 (when the paint would have been still wet) the abbey hosted the Synod of Whitby, when major differences between Celtic and Roman Christianity were ironed out, including how to determine the date for Easter.

Around the same time, the abbey's cowherd is said to have awoken from a dream with this song formed complete in his head:-

"Now we must praise the author of the heavenly realm, the might of the creator, and his purpose, the work of the father of glory: as he, who is the eternal God, is the author of all miracles; who first created the heavens as highest roof for the children men, then the earth, almighty guardian of the human race."

It would not find itself in the Top 40, and no other works of his survive, but the cowherd Caedmon is the oldest English poet whose name remains known to this day.

Vikings destroyed the abbey in the 800s and the site was left abandoned for two centuries, until after the Norman conquest. The Benedictines established a monastery in the 1220s and lived here until Henry VIII split from the Catholic church and dissolved the monasteries in 1540.

The years since have taken their toll. Local masons carted off much of the stone, the roof collapsed in a storm and Germans battlecruisers shelled what was left in 1914. Nowadays the ruins are preserved by English Heritage who have built a visitors centre next door behind the facade of Cholmley House, itself originally built using stone plundered from the abbey ruins.

Before taking those 199 steps back down into town, let's have a look in the church next door and see if we can find Dracula's grave, so click back again soon.

Plenty more photos of the abbey in this Facebook album.

What about Whitby? 2

2012-02-28T23:50:00.004Z

On that particular day, crowds were gathering under grey skies two hundred and fifty miles away to the south of us in London, hoping to catch a glimpse of Britain's balding prince as he married his paper plates heiress.

Meanwhile in Whitby, it seemed people were more interested in enjoying the sunshine and sea breezes instead of gawping at the antics of the 'wisteria sisters' (highly decorative, terribly fragrant, with a ferocious ability to climb as one newspaper put it).

We spotted one barbecue in action and our hostess at the B&B was ensconced in front of the telly when we buzzed, but there was a decided lack of spontaneous celebration in the streets.

Having said that, some kids had scratched tributes into the sand on the beach.

At the time, details of the honeymoon plans after the royal nuptials were still top secret and we wondered if maybe they would do austerity Britain proud by having a 'stay-cation'? Despite what the sign in the window said, there seemed to be an empty room downstairs here at the Captains Lodge...

but we weren't holding our breath.

Treat yourself to a little luxury...

2012-02-27T23:24:00.000Z

Quite a few of my photographs are featured on The Parlour, a website which I designed for some lovely ladies here in Lancashire who can't wait to knit you something!

What about Whitby?

2012-02-27T23:10:00.001Z

If Mother Nature and a deflated cushion had not intervened, the plan for day two of our Yorkshire camping adventure was for us to pitch our tent in a field on a dairy farm (and taking a shower in a cow shed - needless to say, the tent has long since been sold on eBay).

After one night under canvas we arrived at Whitby on the bus from Scarborough and headed straight into the tourist office to take advantage of their bed booking service. During the short bus ride up the coast, the clouds had burnt off, the breeze died down and the spring sunshine felt surprisingly warm.

Whitby is one of England's finest seaside towns, so you can imagine on this sunny royal wedding bank holiday weekend it was bursting at the seams. The woman at the tourist info counter said the town was nearly full and it took a couple of phone calls before finding a spare room. Would we mind paying £30 per person per night for a firm bed, hot water, cooked breakfast and a Teasmade? At this stage of our camping trip we would have sold a kidney to share a pillow that didn't require a foot pump and patching-up kit, so ten minutes later we were making ourselves at home in the top floor en-suite at the 4-star Captains Lodge B&B. Sorry Beacon Farm, maybe in another life!

'Don't open your windows too far,' our hostess warned us. 'Otherwise a gull is likely to fly in.' We cautiously cracked the window open a smidgen and admired the view of the church tower across the street. We were in the Georgian 'new town' section of town on the west bank, within stumbling distance of pubs and eateries.

Back downhill and on the quayside, it wasn't long before we had our hands around a steaming box of breaded fish, mushy peas and thick-cut chips doused in vinegar from the world-famous Magpie Cafe. The portions were so huge that we fed the last of our chips to the gulls flying past, who were nimble enough to catch the chips in mid-air. Better to feed them now before they came pecking at our window later!

Unlike Scarborough, which felt tired and rundown, Whitby was busy and prosperous. For a fishing port and seaside resort of about 13,000 people there is plenty to see and enjoy. The town straddles the River Esk where it meets the North Sea. Moored along the riverbanks (or 'quayside') are dozens of fishing boats, pleasure craft and sightseeing vessels all overlooked by ample pubs, cafes, yacht clubs plus seaside amusements like a funfair and concert hall. In its heyday Whitby was known for its whalers and shipbuilders: this is where local lad Captain Cook's HMS Endeavour was built.

The river is lined by steep cliffs, with most of the town on the west bank, including the half-built Royal Crescent when the town became a popular spa resort for Georgians wanting to 'take the waters' from the local medicinal springs. Atop the east bank is a church, behind which stand the magnificent ruins of Whitby Abbey. This part of town was famously described by Bram Stoker as being the spot where Count Dracula arrived in England, which is why Whitby is a place of pilgrimage for the Goth community.

We were booked for four nights at our B&B in Whitby which meant we were perfectly situated for exploring everything the town had to offer as well as striking out for some coastal walks. Click back soon, I took plenty of photos!

Gluttons for punishment 2

2012-02-23T22:56:00.000Z

Eye mask? Check. Earplugs? Check and...(fumble around in the dark)...check. Wadded-up sweaty T-shirt for a pillow? Check. With comforts like these, who can resist camping?

I must have passed out in a stupor at some point because I remember dreaming about a downpour, only to awake to find the inside of tent dripping with condensation. The flocked inflatable mattress was much more comfortable than sleeping mats, if a bit chilly, but the inflatable pillows were a complete flop. Come morning and Christian was delirious with exhaustion: "I officially hate camping. We'll stay in a hostel. Bunk beds, socks on the radiator, boil-in-the-bag rice. I don't give a shit."

And so after packing up the tent and our gear in a drizzle, then walking the mile or so back into downtown Scarborough, we treated ourselves to a hot breakfast and pot of tea while sitting on chairs that had more than three legs and didn't fold in half. We had passed a couple of camping shops that were open, so I made Christian a proposition: we could either call into a camping supply store and buy ourselves new pillows, or we could enquire in Whitby about staying in a B&B. Christian latched onto my suggestion like a drowning man clutches at straw.

First though, we had time for a look around Scarborough. It was overcast and drizzly,

enlivened slightly by bits of bunting in anticipation for the royal wedding that day.

The church was shut, so we headed up to the castle which proved more impressive from below than when stood inside. The long curtain walls enclosed a largely featureless grassy space atop the headland. The keep was a ruined shell. Fair enough, it is nearly 1000 years old and was pounded heavily by what was then the country's largest cannon during the English Civil War in 1645.

Although the views were good, we felt the full brunt of the strong wind blowing off the North Sea.

It felt more like winter than the middle of spring and the thought of hot running water, fluffy blankets and a flush toilet spurred us down to the bus station for the trip up the coast to Whitby.

Gluttons for punishment

2012-02-21T22:14:00.000Z

Some people may call me a cheap bastard, but I prefer to think of myself as a 'resourceful red-headed stepchild.' Despite the sleepless night on our first camping expedition, pitching up the tent where we did had much to recommend it: fresh air, lovely countryside on our doorstep, a pub down the road and all the apples we could scrump.

Best of all, it was CHEAP: we paid less than £10 for the privilege of fitfully napping under the stars in a sheep pasture.

So over the weeks that followed we set about figuring out how to make our next trip more comfortable, mainly by buying an inflatable mattress and pillows, plus extra earplugs. Such luxuries! We picked the long weekend of the latest Royal Wedding to spend five nights under canvas in Yorkshire.

We booked one night near Scarborough and for the rest of the weekend reserved our place at a dairy farm, one that made its own ice cream and was next door to a pub, within walking distance of Whitby.

We must have looked quite the sight trundling out of Scarborough train station, laden down with our gear and waiting for the Busy Badger Shopper Hopper-type minibus to take us out to the suburbs. We squeezed in amongst the wailing toddlers and doddering pensioners for the trip to the edge of town until I spotted our bus stop (thank you, Google Streetview!). From here it was not far to walk past some allotments and uphill through the woods to the campsite.

Jacobs Mount campsite is fairly large and caters mainly for touring caravans (RVs), with a small grassy corner for us campers. It was a bit of struggle securing the tarps and ties because of the stiff breeze, with about half our stakes bending in the rocky soil. I had visions of our tent taking flight in the night. Footpump at the ready, we inflated our luxurious flocked air mattress and pillows. Straightaway I noticed one of the pillows (new out of the box) would not keep inflated, but I kept quiet.

Time to start the holiday! We trailed back downhill and into town. Scarborough has been a popular sea resort since Victorian times and many of its villas have been converted into B&Bs, cafes and pubs. We called in at two of these basement bars, The Valley and Cellars Bar.The first was a bit dark, dusty and cluttered but cozy, with a fantastic selection of about a half-dozen real ales on tap and shelves groaning with about 100 Continental bottled beers. We both had the delicious 'Hophead' from the Dark Star brewery which had a citrus zing, hoppy depth and smooth finish.

Literally two doors down we found Cellars Bar, a far more grander affair with exposed brickwork and a marble fireplace. Despite being much more spacious, it was almost impossible to escape the enormous TV tuned into a sports match. It was dead quiet inside (aside from the TV). We didn't recognise the beers on offer but they were happy for us to have a taste first. A beer called 'Dickens' from Mauldons brewery tasted like the runoff from a bucket of rusty nails, so we both had Cameron's 'Strong Arm' which was not much better.

It was still early evening with plenty of light in the sky as we carried on down to the seafront. It was clear to see the appeal of the seaside for the Victorians who, in the absence of the internet, TV or even radio could entertain themselves for a whole day merely by sitting on a bench and watching other holidaymakers in their crinolines passing to and fro. It was a lovely spot for staring out to sea, especially as the setting sun lit up the sprawling ruins of the castle above the harbour.

Scarborough is far more genteel than its Lancashire equivalent, Blackpool, but still suffers from having too many empty shop fronts, tacky amusements and dubious nightspots.

We strolled the seafront and found the 1950s milk bar,

but like most everything it was closed, so we headed back to The Cellars for some food. It was marginally busier when we arrived. A band was setting up and their groupies were gathering. We both had the lasagna: insipid pasta in a bland tomato sauce topped with sweet, watery cheese. At least the potato wedges and salad were nice enough. Frankly, we were grateful for any sustenance whatsoever to fortify us for the night ahead.

Torch in hand, we headed back uphill and into the woods. Would our tent still be there? Would we find our earplugs?? Who would have to sleep on the half-inflated pillow??? Click back soon to find out!

Witch way from here? 2

2012-02-14T00:23:00.000Z

By now it was late afternoon and the light was mellowing. The sky was still clear, a breeze tickled the leaves of the oak tree and swallows swooped about. We had camped near a tiny brook and a tree on the other side was breaking down with apples.

A couple of kids splashed around in the stream, picked some apples, chased the hens, played ball and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Despite this, I willed them on, hoping they would overexert themselves, collapse in heap come nightfall and sleep in until at least 6 or 7 the next morning.

As for us, it was time for the Calf’s Head pub, about a mile back down the road in Worston. A wedding party was in full force and we had to give our names to the chap on the door to wait for a free table in the dining room. This gave us time to walk around their extensive gardens which had a tremendous view of Pendle Hill lit by the setting sun

and a family of ducks paddling in a stream out back (mother duck had about ten ducklings in tow).

The pub had four real ales on tap (Black Sheep, Jennings, Brains and Moorhouses at the time) and the wine list touted a dozen English varieties. The food on offer was classic pub grub: meat pies, burgers, lasagne, etc. They had sold out of the turkey, leek & stilton pie so I had steak & mushroom pie instead while Christian had the lamb shoulder. Both came with peas, carrot mash and steamed new potatoes. We struggled to finish our huge portions. It was delicious and we certainly got our money’s worth, well recommended!

By now it was completely dark outside, although we managed to pick out the outline of Pendle Hill against the orange glow of the towns behind it. We fired up our £1 torch and followed its dim beam down the back roads, dodging fresh cow pats and keeping an eye out for any deranged ghosts of Pendle witches.

This is when the dreadful realisation kicked in, that this was it: this square bit of stretched nylon in a field was to be our home for the night.

It took some acrobatic manoeuvrings in order to get into our sleeping bags. My pair of earplugs which I had carefully set atop my pillow had disappeared and no amount of LED light from the wind-up lantern could pick them out. The pillow turned out to be as substantial as a ball of lint. The sleeping mat provided all the comfort of corrugated cardboard. I must have passed out from sheer exhaustion at some point, because I remember being wakened by a gale whipping through the trees. Sheep bleated, dogs barked and before we knew it, dawn broke.

The toddlers in the tent across the way were up with the larks, stomping about and whining like a right pair of candy-asses. About half 7 and the sun hit our canvas so we had to get up or else be steamed alive, thanks to all the condensation dripping off the nylon. Dew dripped off the tent ceiling and down our necks as we performed more gymnastics in order to get dressed. We unfolded our spoons and ate our muesli.

Time for a morning constitutional, which turned out to be a 5-mile stroll. This time we went over the lower slopes of Worsaw Hill to the village of Chatburn,

crossed fields to a fairytale packhorse bridge,

returned to Downham and followed back roads to the campsite.

By now it was warm, sunny, but hazy. We dried off the tent, packed up, managed to fold everything back into our rucksacks and loaded everything up onto our backs. It was then a 3-mile walk through cow pastures and across the highway into Clitheroe where we caught the train home with seconds to spare. A rough idea of that morning's 8 miles of walking is here.

Maybe we were delirious from the fresh air, maybe it was the delicious crumble we made from the apples we’d nicked, but despite the sleepless night we decided to give camping another go. Click back soon for our Yorkshire adventure!

Witch way from here?

2012-02-14T00:08:00.000Z

Trapped on a hillside in the pitch blackness, the wind whistling through the trees, surrounded by wild animals, with nothing between us and the vermin but two layers of fabric: yes, we had gone CAMPING!

A few weeks before we had been in a shop and noticed a sale on tents and sleeping bags ahead of the music festival season. We crawled into the tent they had set up on the floor, checked it for ventilation and ran our fingers over the waterproof seams. Maybe it was the factory-fresh fumes from the new nylon, but we decided to give it a go.

Of course you need more than a tent and a sleeping bag. It turns out you also need folding chairs, a wind-up lantern, sleeping mats, backpacks, compasses, collapsible cutlery, pillows and plenty else besides. We found ourselves trying on waterproof fleeces and debating the merits of plastic vs metal tent pegs. Word got out amongst our friends, so there was no turning back, especially when one offered to give us a lift to the campsite.

And so that fateful August weekend we found ourselves on the lower slopes of the reputedly haunted Pendle Hill in the wilds of Lancashire, setting up camp with a few other deluded souls in the back pasture of a remote farm, Angram Green.

Wonder of wonders, the weather was superb and it was the first proper sunny summer weekend we’d had all year. There was not a cloud in the sky. Despite its infamous reputation as a place for witchcraft, Pendle Hill looked green and content for a change, so we embarked on an afternoon ascent.

The sun was bearing down hard as we clambered up the side of a chasm and tackled the slope up to the moortop.

The ‘summit’ was flat and almost featureless except for some cairns and a high-walled stone ring where walkers could take shelter from the wind.

We soon regretted having a full English breakfast that morning as the bacon had left us gasping.

A simple stone marker stood at the highest point of the hilltop, over 1800 feet up, overlooking the towns on the other side while a few clouds dappled the farmland and reservoir below.

The hill fell away below us, the steep escarpment funnelling air straight up the cliff and into our faces with hurricane force. With a parasail, we would easily have been airborne (maybe next time, let’s see if we can survive a night of camping first).

It is here in 1652 that George Fox was inspired to found the Society of Friends (the ‘Quakers’):- “As we travelled, we came near a very great hill, called Pendle Hill, and I was moved of the Lord to go up to the top of it; which I did with difficulty, it was so very steep and high…. From the top of this hill the Lord let me see in what places he had a great people to be gathered.”

We began our descent, negotiating a steep hillside path that curved west towards the village of Downham. Once on level ground it was a lovely walk through grassy fields, along shaded groves and past old farmhouses.

We reached the village post office with seconds to spare before it closed and had enough change between us for a couple of cold lemonades out of their fridge.

We popped into the church next door,

checked the time on the sundial in the cemetery

and walked the length of the village down to the brook that runs along the bottom.

Downham sits on a private estate and is one of England’s best preserved old villages with hardly any trappings of the modern world. There are no road markings, no traffic signs, no pylons, no aerials and no satellite dishes.

Leaving the village behind it was an easy stroll through more fields past the round limestone mound of Worsaw Hill

and into the next village along, Worston. We decided to leave the pub for later in the evening and headed back the campsite. The loop was about 6 miles and you can get an idea of the route here.

No sign of any Pendle witches or Satan worshippers! Not yet.

Madrid one more time 18

2012-02-08T22:58:00.001Z

Well folks, that about wraps up our trip to Madrid. For our final night in the city we called into one last art gallery, had drinks under the stars, revisited our favourite tapas place and found the city still going strong long after midnight.

Coming out of Atocha train station after our Toledo daytrip, we popped into the Caixa Forum, an art collection sponsored by a local bank housed in a eye-catching building. The gallery’s exteriors walls are crowned with a weathered metal skin

and there is a vertical garden growing up the south face. Much of the ground floor has been pared away, leaving the building teetering atop a dark undercroft popular with skateboarders.

The temporary exhibition at the time was about Fellini’s films and instead of paying €2 to stash my camera bag we contented ourselves with a look around the shop and admiring some of the odd architectural features inside, like the main stairwell which was sheathed in sheet metal.

Come nightfall we headed to the rooftop Gaudeamus Café in the lively Lavapies district. The café is owned by the university and was packed with students, so we had to wait about a half hour before being able to sit outdoors on the open-air terrace. By now the sun had set and the air was cool. We didn’t have the best of views because the neighbouring tower blocks meant we had a dusky panorama of TV aerials and satellite dishes. I didn't have my camera on me but found this photo.

It wasn’t far from here down some busy back streets to Los Gatos for tapas. It was a Thursday night, but as far as ‘the cats’ were concerned the weekend was well underway. We were greeted at the door and guided through the lively crowds to the barrel which had a streetlamp poking out the top. We stuffed ourselves on olives, bread and other tasty tidbits before staggering towards our hotel on the city’s main square, Puerta del Sol.

Along the way we had to stop and take a photo when we noticed the time and temperature on a bus stop. Nearly midnight and still 90F!

The heat had driven everyone out into the streets. Puerta del Sol had hundreds of people sat on the cobbles and around its fountains, the air buzzing with their chatter and the splashing water. An army of gypsies and immigrants kept the crowds refreshed, selling cold beers out of plastic carrier bags, while children played games like it was a neighbourhood barbecue party.

Puerta del Sol is officially the centre of Spain; so no wonder that night it felt like the beating heart of Madrid.

Toledo practicalities

2012-02-01T23:51:00.001Z

Return tickets to Toledo on the superfast AVE train from Atocha station in Madrid were €18 at the time, when bought the day before (be prepared to queue). The journey takes 30 minutes. Travellers on the train are required to have a seat and this is a very popular daytrip, so advance booking is recommended.

You might prefer to take a bus instead; this page has suggestions on making the trip.

The train station is a 1-hour walk from the old town (uphill all the way). Ignore the tour coaches waiting outside the station. Follow the bus symbol to the right (don’t cross the road) and catch a scheduled commuter bus from the road going past the station. Timetables are at the bus stop, but most routes head into the old town. At the time, a single bus ticket from the station to the Alcazar cost 95 euro cents.

Toledo is more exposed than Madrid and on a lower elevation; it’s therefore much warmer and usually boiling hot in summer. The religious sites do not allow entry if you have bared shoulders or legs, so dress comfortably but modestly and don’t forget a hat.

At the time, admission to Toledo’s cathedral cost €7, or €10 with an audioguide. The El Greco in Santo Tome, Antigua Sinagoga Santa Maria la Blanca, San Juan de Los Reyes monastery and Jesuit church each charged the same €2.30.

Check yourself beforehand, but the main sights should all be open daily, usually from 10-6.

In addition to the places we visited, tourists might be tempted to visit:-

Alcazar – the immense fortress is a completely modern reconstruction housing an army museum;

House of El Greco – the painter never actually lived in the building and the paintings on display aren’t his best;

Hospital de Tavera – this 16thC hospital and church has a collection of paintings by Titian, Zurbaran, El Greco and Ribera. Regular tours in English take visitors to room that are usually locked away such as the pharmacy and library. It sounds lovely, but we couldn’t make it in time because it sits away from the town’s other sights.

If you want to visit these sights as well and have more time to wander the medieval streets, you can easily fill two full days exploring the city.

A full Toledo photo gallery with more images of mine can be found here.

Madrid one more time 17

2012-02-01T23:40:00.001Z

Toledo’s old town deserves its UNESCO World Heritage status by virtue of its network of medieval streets: a dense labyrinth of cobbled alleys, stepped streets and dead-ends. It’s a confusing jumble to navigate, compounded by hilly terrain and the heat of the sun.

The only way to gain an overview of the entire city is to climb one of the few towers that poke above the tiled rooftops. For the postcard view of Toledo seen in all the brochures, be sure to find Iglesia de Los Jesuitas (the Jesuit church).

The church’s whitewashed baroque interior is of no great interest, but climb the stairs and you’ll find yourselves on the city’s best balcony, where all of Toledo spreads out below you. The panoramic view allows you to admire the bulk the Alcazar, the cathedral tower and the hills that surround the city.

The view is at its best near dusk, after the feverish heat of the day has broken and when the light of the setting sun rakes across the rooftops. We had to settle for the mid-afternoon glare.

We had time enough before our train to call in at the Santa Cruz museum, the municipal art collection. At the time of our visit most of it was shut for renovation, with ‘only’ a dozen El Greco paintings of saints on view, plus some tapestries.

The building used to be a hospital and still has its cloister, these days lined with Roman sculpture. The rooms around it held a large exhibit of antique tiles and some contemporary art. It was all free and allowed us to wander around one last lovely old building.

A few steps away and past the statue of Cervantes,

we found the town’s main bus depot and caught our ride downhill to the train station for our return to Madrid and our last night in Spain.

Madrid one more time 16

2012-01-31T23:02:00.002Z

Toledo is a bit like Jerusalem in that Jews, Muslims and Christians all endowed the city with prominent religious sights. Sometimes a single building shows influences of all three, like Santa Maria la Blanca which was initially a synagogue (albeit one built by the Moors for the local Jewish population at the time) that since 1405 has been a church (St Mary the White).

Despite its long and complex history the building most closely resembles a mosque, with delicate columns topped by Arabic arches, the simple rhythms of their arrangement enlivened by complex geometric carvings in the stonework.

Like the Jews, Muslims do not allow any representation of God. Muslims also forbid any depiction of the human form in their art, so unlike the overblown extravagance of the Catholic cathedral, decoration is limited to shapes and words.

Despite its modest proportions, the building gave me an idea of what Cordoba’s Mezquita must look like inside (that will have to be another trip). Leaving behind this small but interesting building, we soon found a massive monastery which turned out to be the highlight of the day.

San Juan de Los Reyes (St John of the Kings) does not look like much from the entrance but after buying our tickets, going down a flight of stairs and heading through a door overlooked by a reclining skeleton we emerged into a sunlit cloister.

A cloister is the garden of a monastery and here the square colonnade surrounds a courtyard scented by the blossoms of the roses, limes and oranges growing here. There were many delightful features to admire while strolling under the arches – decorative tiles, a painted wooden ceiling and exquisite stone carving. Unlike the overwrought cathedral, the decoration appeared much more restrained and cohesive.

This unified approach continued as we entered the sanctuary, an enormous space that easy to take in thanks to the limited use of colour and gilt. Without these distractions it was easy to admire the beauty of the stonework and interpret the clear Biblical messages of the altarpiece.

If the two-headed eagles adorning the sanctuary look familiar it’s because this religious symbol was adopted by General Franco after his fascist forces overran the city during the Spanish Civil War.

Heading up some steps took us to the upper level of the cloisters, for a bird’s eye view of the gardens to cap off our visit to this lovely, tranquil place.

During our visit we saw maybe four other people the entire time in a building nearly as large and impressive as the cathedral (for a fraction of the admission price to boot). Highly recommended!

Madrid one more time 15

2012-01-30T23:56:00.000Z

The fascist dictator General Franco left one admirable legacy to Spain: the cheap three-course lunch. Come midday and practically every eating establishment in the country advertises their menu del dia, a filing lunch with wine on the side.

There were many different restaurants competing for our attention when we left Toledo's cathedral and we chose one that offered a bit of shade on a pedestrian street. This provided plenty of people-watching opportunities while we enjoyed our long lunch.

To start we had a green salad with plenty of sweet sun-ripened tomatoes and bread on the side.

For the main course we had a thick pork stew with garden peas, spiced with smoked paprika.

Dessert was only a pot of ice cream and the white wine accompanying the meal was a bit astringent, but for €11 a head it was a bargain.

Around the corner we found the church of Santo Tome which is famous for its massive painting by El Greco showing the Count of Orgaz’s funeral. It’s one of his more accessible and cohesive works.

Certainly his largest!

Again, no photos were allowed so I’ve had to find these images elsewhere.

The painting dominates the church, covering the first wall you see as soon as you enter. The rest of the small church is surprisingly plain, but with a few interesting details like a modest painted altar.

Madrid one more time 14

2012-01-30T23:25:00.003Z

For someone who spends most Sunday mornings making pancakes and brewing decaff coffee, on my travels I always make a point to have a look inside the local church. They have free wine!

I’ve ticked off quite a few German doms, Italian duomos and English minsters, but I can report that Toledo’s cathedral ranks as the most extravagant place of worship that I have seen to date. Every inch of the interior has been decorated, carved, gilded or embellished over the centuries.

It felt like a million pair of eyes looked down on us sinners: cherubs jostled with saints, while any gaps between angels were filled with bodiless faces. A fair few thousand earthbound eyes stared back up at the heavenly host. I’ve no idea what the floor is like, it was impossible to see for all the hundreds of other tourists milling about!

Regular announcements in several languages insisted ‘silence – no photos’ so the images for this entry are ones I’ve had to crib from elsewhere.

Several coachloads of tourists of were being marched around and the herds caused jams in the choir stalls, so it was hard to appreciate the wooden carvings here.

Most panels were dedicated to the Christians laying siege to the Moors occupying the city, but there were also the more imaginative flights of fancy that you often find in this part of a church.

The altar, both front...

...and back,

was an astonishing exercise in over the top glamour in the name of God. It was hard to tell if there was a Biblical message to be gleaned from the cavalcade of bejewelled bishops and other men wrapped in satin.

The sacristy houses a Prado in miniature with paintings by El Greco, Bassano, Van Dyck, Goya and Ribera. Most canvasses though were dull portraits of church leaders and interchangeable idealised saints.

Caravaggio’s St John the Baptist (one of several versions he painted) was pick of the bunch, dramatic and effective, but like the rest in need of a clean.

I suppose you can expect a bit of dust and grime in a 785-year-old building. Work on the present structure first began in 1227 atop the foundations of a 6thC church which had been used by the Moors as a mosque.

According to the brochure, ticket sales help maintain the building as well as the ‘charitable goals of the church.’ Standing in the Treasury and looking agog at the gold reliquaries...

...illuminated manuscripts and jewel-encrusted goblets all locked up behind glass, the thought occurred that perhaps the bishops could sell off a couple trinkets to tend to the sick, house the poor and feed the hungry.

Speaking of hungry, let’s go find somewhere to eat!