(Missed yesterday’s post? Take a look at Day Three)
I know I’ve not mentioned it since the very first post, but throughout the trip I’d been trying to avoid a cold. It’s always the way. It started the morning before the flight with a stuffed head, but fortunately it never really went any further. However, one nasty side effect was a terribly sharp and painful pressure headache on the flight in’s decent. As such, I awoke on the morning of the return flight with a certain amount of trepidation. My less than extensive research on the Internet informed me that alleviate the pain induced by the changing of pressure was to chew gum and thus allow the ears to pop. Not entirely convinced that chewing gum would stop me having a stinging headache, I figured it was worth a shot.
But of course, the flight wasn’t until later in the day and I had a morning of attempting to take photos whilst wheeling my suitcase around with me. Check-out was at 12pm, but as I didn’t want to have to go all the way back to the hotel to pick my things up, I had to take everything with me. Luckily I’d only brought one small suitcase, so it wasn’t going to be a huge issue.
At slightly before 9am I trotted off with my baggage in tow after a final coffee at the hotel. For a Travelodge they made a damn fine beverage! My last day in town was to start off with a stroll to Montjuïc, which looked sufficiently close enough to walk to. And you know what? It was! Not 30 minutes later and I was on my way around the hill, which happened to be the location of the 1992 Olympic Games. Remnants still linger, including the Olympic Stadium which is currently undergoing refurbishment to host the 2010 European Athletics Championships. Its stone facade doesn’t look hugely impressive, though the stadium is larger on the inside than on the out as it’s been constructed into the hillside. I got a few pictures of the outside and some of the surrounding area as I continued to climb the hill; a task made all the more difficult with the suitcase clunking away on the surface behind me. The pavements around there seem designed as to deliberately cause the most amount of noise with the wheels of a suitcase as possible!
The hill just kept climbing and climbing, and I along with it. Evidently there was something I didn’t know about waiting for me at the top as I suddenly came across a cablecar station. Put off by the €9 price tag for a ticket, I opted to carry on my trudging upwards. In the end it wasn’t too far and I have to say that unless you’re physically unable to do so, the walk up the hill doesn’t take very long at all and certainly isn’t terrible enough to consider spending €9 to avoid.
Once at the top I did discover something worthwhile. The fortress sitting on Montjuïce wasn’t the greatest piece of architecture I’ve ever seen, but it was a great place to have a custard pastry and a drink of lemonade to quench the thirst, whilst looking out into the sea or gazing across the wide expanse of Barcelona below. By the time I got there I was sweating, and not simply because of the walk. The sun had come out and it was as bright and warm as a British Summer’s day. So obviously everyone else remained wrapped up in their coats and scarves. I, on the other hand, was very gad of the light jacket that I’d decided to bring along with me. A quick change and I felt so much better.
The journey back down was a lot easier as you’d expect, though my case did take on a mind of its own as it frequently overtook me on the steeper sections.
My final port of call was always going to be a proper glimpse of the Mediterranean, as I’d never been to that part of the world before. A short walk, a Metro train and a second short walk later and I was at Port Olympic, down by the expensive yachts and sailing boats; the promenade and the restaurants; and the sun, sea and sand. What a lovely place it was and with weather perfect for an Englishman wanting to get away in the sun, but not the sunburn. Plus, as it’s off-season the place is cheap and empty.
I spent a little while down by the sea, though didn’t venture onto the beach for fear of getting sand into everything I owned. What a perfect way to end my few days away. But if only that’s how you could end all holidays; with that final look out at the sea and you’re suddenly whisked back into real life. But no, you have to fly home. And before you can fly home, you must spend time at the airport. And before you can spend time at the airport you must first get there.
So the journey home officially began, initially with a Metro train to Passeig de Gràcia. Which was fine. Confusion began once there as my sense of direction went haywire once more. Passeig de Gràcia is a large station with many platforms for many different trains going in many different directions. Which shouldn’t really be an issue as you should simply be able to look for where you want to go on a map, head to the right platform and jump on the train. But in Barcelona there are several different operators, each working from different parts of the station, and each seemingly unwilling to provide any meaningful and useful signage to any of the others. So after 20 minutes of wandering onto different platforms I finally established that I needed to leave one part of the station by going through a barrier and purchase a new ticket from a booth manned by a different operator. Yes, Barcelona’s Metro system is clean and efficient if you know where you’re going, but it’s not very tourist-friendly.
Once the train pulled into Barcelona Airport I was in for another surprise. Despite having clearly spent a lot of money on their terminal building (and its own five-lane motorway), they didn’t bother to extend the railway to meet it. So it’s a transfer onto a bus with the worst driver I’ve ever seen. Despite near on 100 people in the back, most of us standing, he tore around those corners like a mad man and almost tipped us over whilst on a roundabout.
Glad to be free and back on my own two feet once the hell ride was over, I headed into the terminal building. And it is very nice, if a little sterile. Self-service check-in and bag drop were a doddle and there was no queue at all going through security. I then did as I was instructed, headed towards gate area D and through passport control. I was all ready to head to a shop and get that chewing gum I needed. Only, if you have the misfortune to be flying from Gates D or E, you don’t get access to the 50 shops and 26 restaurants you can see on the ground floor below. No, you get access to one duty free shop, a cafe and a McDonalds. And let me tell you, even a greasy, vile Maccy D’s seems tempting after tucking into the Caffè di Fiore’s approximation of a sandwich.
Fortunately the duty free shop did have chewing gum, though only in packs of a million. So a million it had to be. They weren’t cheap either – nothing was. Damn that terrible exchange rate! Though I am now stocked up on chewing gum for the rest of my life.
As I sat waiting for my plane I took a look at my pictures from the previous few days. Even though I’d been to these places only two days before, there were still things I’d forgotten. Elements to my trip without which wouldn’t have made it what it was. Although that particular holiday was sadly almost over I still had two more trips to look forward to in the next few weeks – a flight over to New York City with my good chum @Y2Neildotcom and a second trip to Spain a week after that, this time to Madrid.
There was also still plenty more to do in the next few hours. A plane, the Tube and then finally a train before I could call it a day and draw a close to my first proper foreign vacation. The first, I hoped, of many to come.
Most fortunately, the headache didn’t return on the way back. Whether it did have anything to do with the chewing gum will remain a mystery to me, but I think it’s something I’ll do on every flight from now on. Just in case.
I was once more in child-like awe when we took off. The last (and only other) time I’d flown in the dark was on the way back from Ireland. On that occasion it had been cloudy all the way from Dublin to Luton and as such I had really got to see much of the ground below all lit up. You veterans of flight can mock all you like, but for a newbie like me it was another sight to behold. Barcelona below me, lit up and bathed in a warm glow, bade me farewell. And despite the few niggles which I encountered during the trip, it had been a great few days and a return trip at some point in the future is a definite must.
Take a look at the photos on Flickr or in the Photo Gallery. All of the photos can be viewed here – be warned: there are a lot!
(Missed yesterday’s post? Take a look at Day One)
I’d decided on a 6:30 start for my first full day in Spain. I’m not entirely sure why as I wasn’t planning on getting the train to Montserrat until after 10:30. So after a short lie-in, during which time the news had told me I was in for a dry – if not sunny – day, I headed out, camera in hand, to see what I could snap.
The area around the hotel which had seemed so rough-looking and quiet the day before suddenly sprung to life. Traffic tooting at each each other in that very European sort of way, pedestrians snaking their way through stationary vehicles and workmen returning to continue with the large-scale construction projects which were dominating the neighbourhood. Health and safety clearly isn’t a big thing in Spain, with tower cranes loading from the street and those of us on foot being diverted into live traffic to get around the closed pavements.
Getting to Plaça d’Espanya wasn’t an issue and I collected a leaflet on Montserrat whilst there. It confirmed what I’d read on the Internet and in my guide book about the Tot Montserrat ticket. This gets you to Montserrat, up the rack train and cable cars, entry into the museum and even provides lunch. All this for only €36, which I thought was a bargain. As had seemed to beset this trip from the off though, something else occurred to temporarily darken my day. The ticket machine at Plaça d’Espanya wouldn’t give me the ticket I wanted. Again and again I got an error message to inform me that I needed to speak to a member of staff (I should point out that there are no kiosks at Plaça d’Espanya and all tickets are purchased from machines). I located a chap in a burgundy jacket who told me which ticket I needed to buy. It was €15 and would only get me there and back, with a journey on the rack railway to elevate me to the monastery. As my Spanish is almost non-existent and his English wasn’t too great either, I decided to just go for it. Only it wouldn’t take my €50 note. There was a little light informing me that they were indeed accepted, but no, it wasn’t to be. I needed to find a cash machine and left the station in search of one. It was only a few minutes walk before I came across a Santander. Which gave me another €50 note along with my €20. It seems that if you want money you can use in ticket machines in Barcelona you must deliberately take it out in small amounts.
On the way back to the station I noticed a tourist information kiosk, so stopped to ask about the Tot Monserrat ticket. Fortunately the woman at the desk spoke very good English and informed me that the ticket was currently unavailable because the cablecar was broken. It wasn’t the answer I really wanted, but at least now I knew.
Back underground at the station the machine took my €20 note and I hopped on the R5 to Manresa, which stopped at Montserrat en route. A very useful announcement in English informed those of us who could understand it that a further announcement would be made when the train was approaching the station where we needed to alight.
The rack railway train was awaiting us at the station when we arrived, which then proceeded to take us up the side of the mountain. And what views through the window of this modern, yet still rickety, vehicle! As we climbed, the valleys and hills beneath us began to grow in size and number. The shear drop just outside would be enough to turn any vertigo sufferer mad.
At the top you’re treated to a superb view off into the distance, broken up by the frankly phallic-looking rock formations which so define Montserrat.
The first task was to take a couple of pictures, as this was kind of the point of travelling there in the first place (though up until that moment the camera hadn’t been out). After a fifteen minute walk I decided a spot of breakfast was in order and so headed back to La Cafeteria where I wolfed down a large custard croissant and washed it down with two very milky cups of coffee (which I was becoming very partial to by this point). Before I could get there though I was accosted by a woman selling cheese, who was so intent that I should buy some, she made me try every single type that she had on offer. Not that I’m complaining mind – I do love a good bit of cheese. And these were some very good bits of cheese. In the end she twisted my arm into buying a large wedge of sheep cheese, which was very strong and ever-so flavoursome (what little remains is sitting in my fridge. I think I shall finish it off after I’ve written this post!).
A set of stairs then whisked me up to the monastery, which is a very striking, very large and very square building perched on the side of the mountain. It’s sort of the exact opposite of La Sagrada Familia down in Barcelona (see part three of these posts for that). It was also a lot newer-looking than I’d expected and it’s 18th century facade doesn’t seem at all to be succumbing to age. The same can’t be said for all of the statues however, with many missing noses or hands. I took a few pictures as well as some within the courtyard of the building itself.
Then it was over to the museum, whose entrance is situated on the same level as the main monastery building. Amongst the art and antiquities on display, the museum also housed only three patrons whilst I was there. And one of them was me. I found this rather surprising as on top of the huge number of paintings of Montserrat, religious iconography, Mesopotamian sculpture and Egyptian artefacts were a number of paintings by artists even I’d heard of; Picasso, Dali, Monet and Caravaggio. Unfortunately photography wasn’t allowed in the building, as the other two visitors discovered when chased down by a security guard who’d been watching them on the CCTV.
After my little foray into all that culture it was back to the cafe for a rather suspicious-looking giant sausage. In the words of Blackadder’s Mrs Miggins, “he’s made that horse’s willy last all morning”. Anyway, moving on…
Once lunch was out of the way I decided to climb a bit further up the hill. The Funicular of St Joan would normally have taken me right to the top, but it wasn’t currently operational due to its annual maintenance cycle. So another reason I couldn’t purchase that Tot Montserrat ticket. This meant the views from the side of the hill would have to suffice. I did manage to take some pictures of the statues that line this route though, which I would have missed had I taken the funicular.
Looking down into the valleys below, one can see that although there are vistas here of staggering beauty, the area is still very industrial. Road and rail wind their way between factories and warehouses. A crane is a sign that more building is to come, likely to be another of the large apartment buildings which dominate the once picturesque towns below.
Before I headed back down to get the train for my return trip to Barcelona, it was back to the cafe for one last cup of coffee and a cake, and a trip to the gift shop to buy something for my tat collection. I make a point of buying something cheap and tacky whenever I visit somewhere new. Something that represents the place I’ve been, but something that is also cheap and awful; something you would never, ever want to put on display in your home. I opted for a little statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. My, my, it really is tacky (as this picture will no doubt demonstrate)!
The journey back to the hotel was generally uneventful, although I did notice that there was an extraordinary amount of graffiti. Not just on along the side of the railway as you’d see in England, but all over the houses and flats we passed. Whether the graffiti artist is more prevalent in Spain than in England, or if we’re just more adept at cleaning it off, I don’t know. There were also a large number of run-down villages and some which appeared to be completely derelict. Houses without roofs, old factories being used as makeshift homes, road projects apparently abandoned. Unless someone knows differently and can offer an alternative explanation, it appears to me that the area surrounding the seemingly rich Barcelona is extremely poor and desperately in need of investment.
Once at the hotel I decided I wanted to what the world go by. This wasn’t possible from my room as the window opened out onto the side of a factory. So I bought myself yet another coffee and found a seat in the cafe / bar / reception area with my book. I say I found a seat, but there were around a hundred to choose from and they were all unoccupied.
As a slight aside, I happened to spend ten minutes (and €2) accessing the Internet from Travelodge’s kiosk. It was using an archaic version of Internet Explorer – possibly even predating IE6. If you’re staying there and want to use the Internet, be warned that it doesn’t handle modern websites very well at all and that you may well be wasting your money if you’re after doing anything from the Web 2.0 era and beyond.
So that was day two. Montserrat really was lovely and seen in almost perfect weather. That morning’s news report had been clearly wrong and the sun they said would not make an appearance was out in full force. Hardly a cloud in the sky, and although a coat was a must, it was just the right temperature for a day’s walk.
The photographs from day two are now on Flickr and in the Photo Gallery.
My new toy arrived yesterday. It’s a Nikon D90 with an 18-200mm zoom. I’ll post my thoughts once I’ve had chance to play with it.
Well, that was that. I’m typing this back in Derby at my parent’s house. All did not go as planned today, but don’t worry it will all be explained.
I stuck to my original plan to be up and out by 5:30. At 5:40 after the ice had melted from the windows in the car I headed out to get some petrol. Unfortunately at a time like that on a Saturday morning in a town like Dumfries, there was no petrol to be had. I couldn’t find an open station. Never mind, I headed out anyway. The petrol gauge and the computer both told me I had more than enough fuel to get me to Edinburgh and I was sure I’d be able to get some more whilst I was there.
So I set off. What struck me was that when you come off the motorway, it’s tiny little A-roads right up to Scotland’s capital. Well, unless you’re willing to drive all the way up to Glasgow and then across to Edinburgh on the M8. Which I wasn’t.
It wasn’t long before the snow started to come down. Lightly at first, but then it picked up the closer I got to my destination. After about 70 miles I hit a road that was completely white, with just the odd bit of ice showing where the few cars that had ventured that way had driven. I carried on (very) slowly along the route through a couple of very nice-looking villages until I came upon some flashing lights and a sign that told me the road was closed. So I carefully turned in the road and headed back. It turned out that there was another blockade once I got back to where the road turned white. It looked as though it had blown away with the wind and someone had come back to replace the signs.
It was extremely slippery and very dangerous. I’m just glad I managed to get out in one piece.
I decided not to go on the diversion route and thought that it was probably a bad day to consider making the trip at all. I headed back to Dumfries. After listening to several weather reports en route I took the decision not to hang around in Scotland any longer. There was much more snow on the way for Scotland and probably some for the rest of the country too. So I got out whilst I could. I collected my things, dropped off the key, explained to the receptionist that I was checking out early (and that my cold-water tap had been running very hot that morning) and headed into the Little Chef for a Scottish breakfast (involving bacon, egg, lorne sausage, tattie scone, haggis, beans and toast). Very nice it was too.
The drive back to Derby was uneventful and in the end I’ve driven about 380 miles today. Which is something of a record for me. And although I really don’t rate Astras in the slightest, this one was extremely comfortable for the whole journey and I didn’t feel tired in the slightest once I got back. My feet didn’t even ache.
It has to be said that the entire weekend could have gone better. I didn’t get a huge amount of photos, though I’ve hopefully learned something about the technicalities needed to photograph in such conditions and about how I’d cope travelling alone. I did rather enjoy my weekend and my photo-trip around Galloway. It’s a nice part of the world – not as spectacular as I’d hoped (nowhere near as nice as the snow-covered Lake District I passed which turned out to be even more stunning when travelling from the north) but nice nonetheless. I think I’ll head a bit further north on my next trip to Scotland. Somewhere in the Highlands but I think it’s best done during the summer.
I’m not sure whether I’ll head out anywhere tomorrow. After the long journey I fancy doing precisely nothing at all.
P.S. I’ve just noticed that in total I’ve written more than 3,000 words on my trip (I’m using Word to jot everything down before posting it all to the web). I haven’t written that much since my university days!
I thought I’d post a short addendum to my earlier message. I went to the Little Chef and I have to say I wasn’t at all disappointed with the food. Mainly because I had set my expectations so low it would have been impossible for them to have got it wrong. And they played a blinder. The chicken in my chicken burger was so small I’d finished most of the bread before I’d hit any poultry. And the chips weren’t much cop either. The pudding was even worse and I wish I hadn’t started it. Apple pie with custard turned out to be pastry mush with yellow lumps. And the whole thing cost the Earth to boot.
The only real surprise was that there wasn’t a big fat greasy bloke in sight (at least not behind the counter). Instead the whole operation seemed to be run by two young and surprisingly attractive women. There wasn’t a middle-aged lass in a tabard to be found. Of course, they were both miserable as sin and clearly didn’t want to be there, but you get that anywhere you go these days.
So all-in-all it was both a surprising and predictable trip. I’m not sure what I’ll do for food tomorrow as I now appear to have been to both of Dumfries’ eating establishments – Morrisons and Little Chef. Perhaps I’ll take a trip to Spar and stock up on snacks. Then again I’ll hopefully have made it to Edinburgh for the day, so perhaps by the time I get back here I’ll be too knackered to want to eat anything. My weight appears to be increasing again, so perhaps that would be the best option anyway. I must return to the gym on Tuesday.
Actually (this post seems to be growing somewhat in length!) I’ve been thinking about not going back to the gym. From the effort I seem to put in I don’t think it’s worth the £40 a month I fork out for it. I could try harder, but I just find the whole thing tediously dull. I’ve enjoyed my walks into work in a morning much more than a session at the gym, although I don’t suppose I’m getting as much from that as twenty minutes on the cross-trainer. Trouble is it’s never twenty minutes on the cross-trainer. It’s five minutes on there before I get ridiculously bored.
So perhaps it would be better if I spent a couple of month’s gym membership on a decent set of dumbbells and started going running. I do think it’s the tedium that stops me from really accomplishing anything. There’s nothing to look at apart from early-morning television without the sound, or perhaps an album on the iPod I’ve heard a thousand times. At least if I’m outside I’m actually heading somewhere and there are the surroundings to look at as I go. OK, it’s Bedford so it’s not spectacular but at least it’s something other than the four walls of the gym. One idea I’ve had is to get someone to drop me off a set distance from home and then I’ll run back from there. If I do that there won’t be any excuses once I get half-way and decide I don’t want to do go any further. I’d have to push myself to do it. And if I did get tired and decided to walk, well at least I’ll still have that to do.
Anyway, I’ve gone completely off-topic enough and whilst my laptop tells me it’s only ten past nine in the evening I really should get going. I’m setting my phone to wake me very early again so that I can get a head start on my trip to Edinburgh. According to the map it’s only about seventy miles, although Google continues to inform me that it’s likely to take me over two hours to do. An average of thirty-five miles per hour on a trunk road can’t be right, can it? I shall let you know tomorrow (or actually in a few minutes when I finally get around to posting all of these onto the blog!).
P.S. I’ve also noticed how much more I’m writing for this blog when I don’t have the distraction of the Internet or CSI on DVD. An I really enjoy the writing. You never know – perhaps the next time we have a power-cut I shall write a novel! Right, time for bed!
