My little excursion to Barcelona didn’t get off on a particularly high note. I awoke at 4:30am with the makings of a cold. Why it had chosen to make an appearance on that day of all days I do not know, but there was something clearly irritating about its timing. Still, I tried not to let it affect me too much (and I added a hand-full of tissues to my already bulging suitcase).
After double-checking I had everything it was off to the station to try and fight with the ticket machine. It seems that pre-booking your tickets online actually increases the length of time it takes to work the blasted thing. It also didn’t help that the first machine I tried refused to accept my card and that I was put off slightly when trying to type in the booking code by two lads who couldn’t work out which “effing” ticket they needed to buy, whilst simultaneously attempting to make the guard hold up the train’s departure for them.
To be honest, I think my initial crankiness over the developing cold and ticket machine issues was more to do with the fact that the coffee shop wasn’t open that early on a Sunday morning and I was missing my fix. Sitting on a train somehow doesn’t feel right without a coffee in my hand. I spent the entire long, slow journey to St Pancras praying that a caffeine injection was awaiting me at the other end, but deep down knowing that it wouldn’t be the case. What made matters even worse was that the First Capital Connect train I was forced to occupy stopped at even more destinations than it ordinarily would during the week. But these weren’t the thoughts to be having. I was on my way to Spain – my first time in the country and the first time I’d stayed away abroad (if you don’t count the short weekend spent in the Scottish lowlands!). So I attempted to stem the feeling that pretty soon my system would be 100% caffeine-free by reading. It didn’t entirely help in that respect, but by the time I looked up I was in Kentish town and not too far from St Pancras.
To my complete surprise, Starbucks was open as I emerged from the underground lair where First Capital Connect trains are forced to stop, save them coming into contact with Eurostar or East Midland Mainline. A skinny latte and a cinnamon swirl later and I felt much improved. Not even the TFL worker who chastised me for heading to the right platform could dampen my spirits (no signs telling me that the train would depart from the opposite platform, but her tone suggested that I was wrong for my lack of psychic ability). So I settled into my second lengthy train ride of the day, surprised to see so many faces so early on a Sunday morning. Fresh faces too – these weren’t last night’s crowd returning home, but rather well slept folk on their way to work.
Heathrow Terminal 3 seems fairly miserable from the outside. It’s not much better on the inside, though I can’t really fault BA staff for their courtesy and politeness whilst I was checking in my bag. They seemed to remain calm and well-mannered even with crowds of people around them and with me explaining that I had no idea what I was doing. After worrying I’d be at Heathrow far too long before my flight, I think I timed it just about right. Following a long queue to buy a lock for my case, a long queue to check my bag in, a long queue to get through security and a long queue in WH Smith, I was at the gate just after it opened and was able to walk right through. Beside the queueing, I think my first experience with checking in baggage was a rather smooth process.
As for the flight, the BA 757 was very drab inside, which was something the complimentary tea and Jordan’s bar couldn’t quite hide. Outside the plane was a completely different matter though. I’ve no idea of the flight path we took, but the French scenery beneath us, with it’s stunning snow-covered mountains and valleys, was a sight to behold. Perhaps one day, when I become a veteran at that sort of thing, the view from an aeroplane will become less awe-inspiring, or perhaps even a little blasé. But for now it continues to take my breath away. I only wish it were easier to take a good photograph from the seat of a 757, rather than having to make do with a quick pic on my 2mpx iPhone camera (switched to Airplane mode, obviously). Still, I plan on finding plenty more opportunities to be in the air in the future.
Unfortunately the day took a turn for the worse once I landed. Some might say I’m complaining simply for the sake of doing so, but it’s the little things which irritate us the most. Firstly there was the minor niggle of the cash machine only handing out €50 notes. I felt this would be an issue with taxis etc and, knowing how the majority of shops in England felt about £50 notes, I decided I needed a machine capable of giving me something a little smaller. (Of course, since returning from the trip I’m aware that the €50 note is widely accepted everywhere without fuss, so what I did next was really quite unnecessary). I scoured around for a while looking for another ATM. My woeful sense of direction led me outside, around a carpark, through a taxi rank and a mini bus station until I found my way back inside and located a machine not 20 yards from the one I’d been using. Entirely my own fault for not looking properly in the first place, but still not the perfect start to my time in Spain.
Things got mildly irritating again not 20 minutes later as the taxi pulled up outside the hotel. Apparently, according to the card he just so happened to have hidden in the front seat, there was a minimum fare for airport rides. And a baggage fee. And a window tax, or some such nonsense. All-in-all I felt that €24 for a ten minute taxi ride was not at all right. But what could I do? Faced with a burly taxi driver who was holding my bag to ransom in the boot, who spoke no English (as I spoke no Spanish), my only option was to give him this extortionate fee. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a little button under the dashboard he could call upon when in similar situations. I swore off taxi rides for the rest of the trip, although as you’ll see later on, this turned out to be more difficult than I’d expected.
So finally, after all that, I was able to check in to the hotel. This turned out to be rather easy, with a receptionist who spoke very good English and a hotel which, although not stunning, certainly afforded the usual Travelodge cleanliness and amenities. Except the room was missing a kettle which, as an Englishman, I do find a little hard to forgive. What it does have though is a bar and a restaurant open for breakfast, though due to the prices (and my desire to attempt this trip on a budget) I stuck to the coffee.
After unpacking the few clothes I brought with me I headed back out, intent on spending a while wandering La Rambla, which I’d heard was a a must. I followed Google’s advice about the location of the nearest Metro station, taking me through some more of the industrial estate in which the Travelodge was located (it was only €12 a night, after all). It also led me passed some of the most rundown housing blocks I’d ever seen, these being surrounded by a building site attempting to improve the area. (Though upon closer inspection over the next few days, I think the shutters which most of the windows had down and the clothing which each balcony seemed to have hanging from it made the whole scene look a lot worse from an English perspective. They had the look of a dodgy housing estate, but the people on the street seemed friendly enough and I believe my initial reaction was perhaps a little strong).
I made my way passed the flats and suddenly came across a Metro station. A station which didn’t exist on Google Maps. Not for the last time that day I was going to be let down by Google.
I purchased my ten trip ticket which I thought would be more than enough for my few days in town. Unfortunately it all seems dependent on each leg of your journey and whether it takes you onto the trains of a different operator. If that is the case, you’re going to need more than one ticket to make your entire journey. So my change at Plaça d’Espanya in order to get to Catalunya meant two tickets there and two tickets back. I figured I’d probably need to buy another before the holiday was over.
La Rambla certainly was worth a visit as I do like a good walk. And some of the building facades were rather nice. It’s a strange set-up, with a very wide central reserve holding the vast majority of pedestrians, street sellers and performers. Cars pass by on either side, allowing just enough room on the pavements to head into the shops and restaurants which line the street.
After my amble I headed into Café Catalunya; a cafe/bar at the Plaça de Catalunya end of the street which caught my eye because of the promise of an English menu. I headed in and sat myself at the bar with a coffee and a list of food to peruse. I’d not had tapas before. I had no idea what I was doing. So I ordered two random items off the menu and I wasn’t disappointed. I started with a Bomba Picant amd la Seva Salsa, which was a breaded ball of potato surrounding a meat filling, accompanied by a very nice hot, creamy sauce. My second choice was a risk and one which I feared I was going to regret. To my absolute surprise and delight I adored my Broqueta de Sipia – a skewer of cuttlefish. They were amongst that group of foods which I always thought looked absolutely disgusting and thus wanted to avoid at all costs. But I figured I was up for trying something new, so I popped one of the little creatures off the stick and onto my tongue. Chewy, but also slightly crunchy due to the way it had been cooked. I’d never before wanted to eat anything with tentacles, but now I’m sure it’ll be at the top of my list next time I see it on a menu. Lovely.
I paid my bill and decided to get back to the hotel. It was, after all, starting to get dark at 6:30 and I wanted to make sure I was back at the hotel before it became pitch black. If you remember, I’d sworn off taxis for the remainder of the trip and knew that I didn’t like the look of the neighbourhood I’d have to walk back through in order to get there. Plus, I’d had a long day and planned to be out walking for the majority of the next three. Not being a party animal, I was also more than happy to be back at the hotel in the evening with a book on my lap.
So it was back on the Metro, changed at Plaça d’Espanya and once more headed out into the industrial estate. I decided that a new plan was in order to try and negate the need to pass by those housing blocks after dark. I started following a crowd towards a newish leisure complex, which housed restaurants and a cinema amongst other things. Then, once I was far enough away from the flats, I turned on Google Maps to plot me walking directions back following an alternative route. Sometimes it truly is a case of better the devil you know as Google didn’t know the way back to the hotel. Oh, it thought it knew the way back, but it didn’t have a clue. Entering both ‘Travelodge’ and the postal code into its search directed me to a Porsche dealership. And thus I was lost; trapped in an enormous, graffiti-covered Spanish industrial estate with no idea at all where the hotel was. Nor was there anyone around to ask. My only company for an hour were sleeping truckers, tucked up snuggly in their cabs. And there was no way I was going to interrupt a sleeping trucker to ask for directions! I’d never seen such a huge urban spread so entirely deserted.
Eventually I was becoming desperate. I could see no way out and couldn’t trust Google to point me in the right direction. Then I suddenly spotted a shining light. There was a hospital. And just outside the hospital, literally that moment dropping someone off, was a taxi. I was saved! I ran as fast as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the door before the fare could close it.
“¿Hablas Ingles?” I asked with an air of desperation. The taxi driver put her hands to her mouth as if to say “none at all”, but to my eternal gratitude she said “a little”.
“Do you know the Travelodge?” I enquired, a look of hope suddenly returning to my eyes. She shook her head, “Travelodge… Travelodge…”. Nope, she didn’t know. “The hotel?” I offered. Another few seconds passed by when a sudden look of recognition came across her face and she gestured for me to jump in.
Bless that woman for she is the loveliest taxi driver I’ve ever met. She happily drove me around that estate looking for the hotel, no real clue where we were going. All of a sudden it was there on our right and we both let out a yelp of joy. She seemed as pleased as I was that we’d managed to locate it. I had broken my promise to myself of not getting another taxi within a few hours of making it, but I’m very glad I did. This one didn’t try to rip me off and she received a handsome tip for her trouble. It was worth it.
My feet were killing me by the time I got back to my room. A bath was a necessity after that and I soaked my feet for a good long time, ending the day in front of German commentary of the Welsh Open Snooker Championship on Eurosport. I fell asleep in the hope that my trip to Montserrat the following day would be, in many ways, less eventful.
Sorry about this, but here is another test post. This time I’m testing a Google Maps plug in which apparently links to maps I’ve created. Here goes nothing…!
Regular visitors to this site are few and far between, but those who do exist may have noticed a new link at the top of the page to a Photo Gallery. As well as linking to photos I’ve put on Flickr I figured I could use up some of the unlimited disc space I have by hosting some on here too. I plan on including Google Maps in each gallery as well, to show you guys whereabouts they were taken.
I don’t think I’ll be using them to display photos in posts, though I may announce on here when I’ve made new additions. Time will tell as to whether or not I remember to do it!
Anyway, for now there are a few photos on there from Elvaston Castle and a few I took in York. Enjoy!
