I love Spain. Madrid was a dry 34°C on the day I arrived.
One of the things I love is that at nine o’clock at night the city is alive. It’s warm and people are out. I just want to wander and be out, and do nothing. It’s so pleasant; it feels like a perpetual fiesta. Spaniards eat late. Dinner at 10PM is the norm.
A common things to eat for breakfast are churros, often described as Spanish doughnuts. They aren't much like doughnuts at all, but are indeed deep fried dough, extruded into finger thickness and looped into a teardrop, and then dipped in a pudding-like hot chocolate. I ate the following morning at Maestro Churrero – the churros are crisp and not oily, and the chocolate is thick and not powdered.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Museo del Prado
A tip for those planning to visit Madrid’s Museo del Prado: buy your ticket online. I was able to completely bypass the more than 100-metre long queue. My main reason for going was for Goya’s Black Paintings, including “Saturn Devouring his Children” and “The Cudgel Fight.” All fourteen are on permanent exhibition.
When in Bruges, I saw Hieronymus Bosch’s “The Last Judgement” and thought how small it was. In Madrid’s Museo del Prado, I saw Bosch’s triptych, “The Garden of Earthly Delights,” and it’s huge! The central panel must be 2m x 3m. There were also numerous other Bosch works, several of which I was unfamiliar with, and another version of Hans Memling’s “Adoration of the Magi” triptych, which I saw in Bruges.
When in Bruges, I saw Hieronymus Bosch’s “The Last Judgement” and thought how small it was. In Madrid’s Museo del Prado, I saw Bosch’s triptych, “The Garden of Earthly Delights,” and it’s huge! The central panel must be 2m x 3m. There were also numerous other Bosch works, several of which I was unfamiliar with, and another version of Hans Memling’s “Adoration of the Magi” triptych, which I saw in Bruges.
Ryanair
Ryanair’s maximum checked luggage allowance is 15kg. This is one of the ways in which Ryanair makes money – excess baggage is €15 per kilogram. My fully loaded backpack weighs 20kg. Before catching my flight from Brussels (Charleroi) to Madrid, I managed to jam all of my books, my camera and lenses and my laptop into my carry-on camera bag, but my backpack was still two kilograms over, so I had to pay €30 (A$51). It would be a tolerable amount, except that I already paid for two tickets! I was stupid enough to book a ticket under my middle name of Wayne instead of the name in my passport, Geoffrey, and the €100 cost of changing the passenger name exceeded the cost of simply buying a new €55 ticket. Still, at a grand total of €140, it was probably still cheaper than a full flight fare on a national carrier.
Getting from the Madrid airport to my hostel was very easy because the Madrid metro is so efficient. A single ticket anywhere on the network is €1 (or €2 from the airport), and you never have to wait longer than five minutes for a spacious and air-conditioned train. It surely must also rival the Paris metro in its extent.
Getting from the Madrid airport to my hostel was very easy because the Madrid metro is so efficient. A single ticket anywhere on the network is €1 (or €2 from the airport), and you never have to wait longer than five minutes for a spacious and air-conditioned train. It surely must also rival the Paris metro in its extent.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Bruges, Belgium
Bruges is beautiful, but bordering on fairy tale and very touristy.
Medieval buildings of brick and stone rise straight up from green canals of water lilies and vines. Cobbled streets traverse canals over stone bridges. Narrow laneways lead to small squares lined with trees and churches. Chimes from the carillons in the UNESCO listed belfries chorus through the streets, playing “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” and “Danny Boy,” and the sound of horses hooves as they pull buggies full of tourists mix with the clatter and bells of locals on bicycles.
It is possible to avoid the tourist kitsch altogether and see authentic Bruges in quarters like St Anna, a quiet, mostly residential district nicknamed Verloren Hoek – the Forgotten Corner – where I found the Jerusalemkerk, a 15th-century church purportedly based on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (though the two don't appear to share a great resemblance) and still owned by the same family.
The Groeningen Museum houses a permanent exhibition of the Flemish Primitives, a school of painters in the 15th & 16th centuries who were emulated all over Europe for their modern, realistic style. They include Jan Van Eyck, Hans Memling (known for his exceptional detail), and Hieronymus Bosch, whose triptych "The Last Judgement" is included in the collection and which I specifically planned to see. Imagine my disappointment when discovering the museum is closed for reinstallation!
Fortunately, the Musem St Janshospitaal is temporarily hosting Bosch's triptych (which is surprisingly small—the central panel is only about 100cm x 70cm). While I did also see some of Memling's works at the museum, I missed out on the Groeningen collection of the Flemish Primitives.
I drank beer every day through Germany and Belgium – and why wouldn’t you? My last night in Bruges was spent in a little beer-specialist pub called De Garre, hidden down a tight lane between the town's two tourist-packed main squares, Markt and Burg. I started with the 11% strength house beer and moved onto Satan Gold. It was Heaven.
Medieval buildings of brick and stone rise straight up from green canals of water lilies and vines. Cobbled streets traverse canals over stone bridges. Narrow laneways lead to small squares lined with trees and churches. Chimes from the carillons in the UNESCO listed belfries chorus through the streets, playing “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” and “Danny Boy,” and the sound of horses hooves as they pull buggies full of tourists mix with the clatter and bells of locals on bicycles.
It is possible to avoid the tourist kitsch altogether and see authentic Bruges in quarters like St Anna, a quiet, mostly residential district nicknamed Verloren Hoek – the Forgotten Corner – where I found the Jerusalemkerk, a 15th-century church purportedly based on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (though the two don't appear to share a great resemblance) and still owned by the same family.
The Groeningen Museum houses a permanent exhibition of the Flemish Primitives, a school of painters in the 15th & 16th centuries who were emulated all over Europe for their modern, realistic style. They include Jan Van Eyck, Hans Memling (known for his exceptional detail), and Hieronymus Bosch, whose triptych "The Last Judgement" is included in the collection and which I specifically planned to see. Imagine my disappointment when discovering the museum is closed for reinstallation!
Fortunately, the Musem St Janshospitaal is temporarily hosting Bosch's triptych (which is surprisingly small—the central panel is only about 100cm x 70cm). While I did also see some of Memling's works at the museum, I missed out on the Groeningen collection of the Flemish Primitives.
I drank beer every day through Germany and Belgium – and why wouldn’t you? My last night in Bruges was spent in a little beer-specialist pub called De Garre, hidden down a tight lane between the town's two tourist-packed main squares, Markt and Burg. I started with the 11% strength house beer and moved onto Satan Gold. It was Heaven.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tourists are idiots
I have no solidarity with tourists.
When I was once on a bus in Berchtesgaden, Germany, an American tourist had a digital SLR , which typically requires at least a basic understanding of photography. He then proceeded to shoot through the bus window with the flash (landscape scenery, no less). His flash reached just far enough to splash a huge white sun over the top of his picture. Even his teenage son told him to turn the flash off. "I can't," he said. "It just decides when it needs it."
Walking along the ramparts of Rothenburg, I was behind a Chinese woman with a video camera who documented every step of her teenaged daughter three metres in front of her. Never mind that there is a beautifully preserved medieval city surrounding you! Imagine the tedium of sitting through the tape. If travel writers chronicled their trips to the same degree of banality, the market indices would gain readership: "I walked along the city walls. They were very long, and I kept walking. I passed some stairs down to the road several times, but I didn't take them. Instead, I continued to walk straight ahead. I did stop once, but there were no stairs where I stopped, so I resumed my walk."
Cheap camera prices and the digitisation of photography have meant the medium has been ransacked by the proletariat.
I am not a hypocrite; I am an elitist.
When I was once on a bus in Berchtesgaden, Germany, an American tourist had a digital SLR , which typically requires at least a basic understanding of photography. He then proceeded to shoot through the bus window with the flash (landscape scenery, no less). His flash reached just far enough to splash a huge white sun over the top of his picture. Even his teenage son told him to turn the flash off. "I can't," he said. "It just decides when it needs it."
Walking along the ramparts of Rothenburg, I was behind a Chinese woman with a video camera who documented every step of her teenaged daughter three metres in front of her. Never mind that there is a beautifully preserved medieval city surrounding you! Imagine the tedium of sitting through the tape. If travel writers chronicled their trips to the same degree of banality, the market indices would gain readership: "I walked along the city walls. They were very long, and I kept walking. I passed some stairs down to the road several times, but I didn't take them. Instead, I continued to walk straight ahead. I did stop once, but there were no stairs where I stopped, so I resumed my walk."
Cheap camera prices and the digitisation of photography have meant the medium has been ransacked by the proletariat.
I am not a hypocrite; I am an elitist.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The hidden castle
I finished my cruise at the Rhine’s confluence with the Moselle River, at Koblenz, arriving in the evening. My intent had always been to use Koblenz as a base for a day trip to Burg Eltz, a tall and picturesque castle two hours along the Moselle, but I must have had a lapse of attention in my otherwise meticulous planning. I had booked a train to Cologne the next day at noon. I could have skipped Burg Eltz and concentrated on the pleasant, strollable Altstadt (“old town”) of Koblenz, but I decided instead to abandon my €17 train ticket and see the castle. It was wasteful, but I didn’t want to miss one of my must-sees on this trip for the sake of A$29.
From the Moselkern train station half an hour out of Koblenz, a 90-minute walk through forests and along streams takes you to the Eltz castle, towering above the valley. It is the only castle in the region to escape destruction by French forces under Louis XIV – all the others were blown up – and it has been restored several times under the custodianship of the same family which has owned it for 1000 years. The comforts of the castle were much advanced for the Middle Ages, and included rainwater flushed toilets.
It was predominantly for the photogenic aspect of the forest castle that I wanted to make the trip, but alas, the photographic expedition was a bit of a failure. No photography of the castle interiors was permitted, which is not unusual, but the light outside was really lousy. Bright sun struck the castle at the wrong angle, the afternoon light hazy enough without the wind also kicking up dust. Passing clouds which might filter the light skirted the sun like water avoiding an oily spot, so after waiting an age all I could do was put on a polarising filter and hope for the best. On top of this, the castle was blemished by the bane of architectural travel photographers: scaffolding. I can’t object to restoration or structural maintenance, but it seems that half of the castles and cathedrals in Europe are constantly marred with metal skeletons and veiling shrouds.
From the Moselkern train station half an hour out of Koblenz, a 90-minute walk through forests and along streams takes you to the Eltz castle, towering above the valley. It is the only castle in the region to escape destruction by French forces under Louis XIV – all the others were blown up – and it has been restored several times under the custodianship of the same family which has owned it for 1000 years. The comforts of the castle were much advanced for the Middle Ages, and included rainwater flushed toilets.
It was predominantly for the photogenic aspect of the forest castle that I wanted to make the trip, but alas, the photographic expedition was a bit of a failure. No photography of the castle interiors was permitted, which is not unusual, but the light outside was really lousy. Bright sun struck the castle at the wrong angle, the afternoon light hazy enough without the wind also kicking up dust. Passing clouds which might filter the light skirted the sun like water avoiding an oily spot, so after waiting an age all I could do was put on a polarising filter and hope for the best. On top of this, the castle was blemished by the bane of architectural travel photographers: scaffolding. I can’t object to restoration or structural maintenance, but it seems that half of the castles and cathedrals in Europe are constantly marred with metal skeletons and veiling shrouds.
St Goar & Burg Rheinfels
St Goar is a bit kinder to backpackers. I was able to leave my pack at the tourist information centre while I climbed up the hill to the ruins of Burg Rheinfels, once the most impregnable fortress on the Rhine. A rabbit warren of defensive passages, some as little in height as a metre, meant soldiers could quickly get to other parts of the castle and any invading army which gained entry would be confused and outflanked within the walls. It would have been impossible to get through all the low castle doorways and narrow passages wearing a backpack.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Pace
I've been moving at a pretty rapid clip so far, only once staying more than one night in the same hotel. I'm on a tight schedule for the first two weeks so I can get to a festival in Andalucia, Spain. As such, it's been difficult for me to stay on top of the blog as well as emails, phone calls home (free on Skype), managing my hundreds of photos (shooting, archiving and uploading), and a bit of sightseeing in between.
Speaking of photos, I'll be uploading one for every so many posts, as and when I get a chance. You'll start to see photos appear in the oldest posts first.
Speaking of photos, I'll be uploading one for every so many posts, as and when I get a chance. You'll start to see photos appear in the oldest posts first.
Feelin' Groovy
I've had more comments on my flu than on any other post here so far. Thank you all for your kind words, but let me reassure you that Tamiflu and Sudafed are magic. After the necessary and sometimes prolonged clearing of the pipes in the morning, I feel absolutely fine and am completely unimpeded to traipse around Europe. The Travel Doctor paid off.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
How to work off a German breakfast
A hard day’s yakka today, working my way up the Rhine by ferry cruise, hopping off to visit different ports and sightsee along the way.
Carrying 25kg on my back.
Running.
I hopped off the ferry in Rüdesheim to visit the Niederwald Denkmal, a monument celebrating the creation in 1871 of the German Reich, high above the Rhine and accessible by a 2-person cable car. It’s then a 30-minute walk through the forest to the chairlift down to Assmannshausen (which sounds like a house Cosmo Kramer lived in – boom-tish!) I rested the tired dogs on the peaceful chairlift down, but by the time I found the ferry wharf I had to crack the whip. I was 300 metres away and the ferry was already there! I had to run, which is hard to do wearing a backpack. It’s a good thing I have a sharp whistle, because at 50 metres they were pulling the gangway.
I made it to Bacharach, one of the prettiest towns on the Rhine, full of half-timbered houses on narrow streets surrounded by a city wall. Burg Stahleck, the castle on the hill overlooking the town, has been a youth hostel since 1920, and I booked a private room there months ago. Unfortunately, there’s no cable car or chairlift; the access is hundreds of stairs and switchback trails up the hill.
The steam from my shoes hissed like a train when I finally released my belaboured feet. The shower was very welcome.
Expecting a relaxing evening overlooking the Rhine, I came downstairs from my room to find the youth hostel completely overrun by overexcited schoolchildren on an overnight excursion, screaming, playing, and running everywhere. Being the happy-go-lucky traveller (tourists are always happy) I rather enjoyed their fun, though when they were playing in the hall outside my room, screaming and falling against my door, I had to look up the word "quiet" in my phrasebook and open my door with "Ruhig, bitte!" German children are very polite, and they complied.
Misty morning view from my room in the castle.
Carrying 25kg on my back.
Running.
I hopped off the ferry in Rüdesheim to visit the Niederwald Denkmal, a monument celebrating the creation in 1871 of the German Reich, high above the Rhine and accessible by a 2-person cable car. It’s then a 30-minute walk through the forest to the chairlift down to Assmannshausen (which sounds like a house Cosmo Kramer lived in – boom-tish!) I rested the tired dogs on the peaceful chairlift down, but by the time I found the ferry wharf I had to crack the whip. I was 300 metres away and the ferry was already there! I had to run, which is hard to do wearing a backpack. It’s a good thing I have a sharp whistle, because at 50 metres they were pulling the gangway.
I made it to Bacharach, one of the prettiest towns on the Rhine, full of half-timbered houses on narrow streets surrounded by a city wall. Burg Stahleck, the castle on the hill overlooking the town, has been a youth hostel since 1920, and I booked a private room there months ago. Unfortunately, there’s no cable car or chairlift; the access is hundreds of stairs and switchback trails up the hill.
The steam from my shoes hissed like a train when I finally released my belaboured feet. The shower was very welcome.
Expecting a relaxing evening overlooking the Rhine, I came downstairs from my room to find the youth hostel completely overrun by overexcited schoolchildren on an overnight excursion, screaming, playing, and running everywhere. Being the happy-go-lucky traveller (tourists are always happy) I rather enjoyed their fun, though when they were playing in the hall outside my room, screaming and falling against my door, I had to look up the word "quiet" in my phrasebook and open my door with "Ruhig, bitte!" German children are very polite, and they complied.
Misty morning view from my room in the castle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)