Seville

Day 1 Seville was a most of the day sleep in but we roused ourselves for 'going to Seville reason #1' an evening Flamenco show. It didn't disappoint, even if the 'tapas and show' deal took a good gouge at the bank card. Two nights later we went elsewhere for the show only and paid about a quarter, €36. The mix of guitar, dance and singing is thrilling and hard to do any justice to in a description. Both venues were small the second with an audience of just 60, seated on three sides around a wooden platform in a gorgeous old high ceiling room. A guitarist, a male vocalist and a male and female dancer. Each piece might last 20 minute or so and go something like this: the guitarist and male singer might wander out and seat themselves at the four old chairs at back of stage, without too much looking like chair sitting it their thing. The guitar is tuned and a few notes are plucked. The notes become more organised and the singer makes an appreciative sound or two, with the odd finger click. (They can click and clap to great effect.) Then the guitar might sweep into some caressing strums, with the singer calling encouragement then lifting his head and singing in a curious, yearning voice, in some archaic sounding language. The door then swings back stage and in marches a tall slim man. He faces the other two, clicks his fngers then stamps his foot with a sharp crack, then again and again. He lifts his hands and rotates on his feet, now producing a driving stamping rhythm. The singer claps hard and the guitar is in full flight. On stage marches the female dancer in full length bright dress with billowing ruffles on the lower rim. With calls of encouragement she turns, twists and arches her body, rotates and winds her wrists and clicking hands, building to a crescendo of foot stamping that ultimately explodes into a flambouyant conclusion. A brief moment held then away again, sometimes into a repeat of the wall of sound as guitar, feet and hand claps drive out the rhythm, sometimes into something subdued, delicate and sweet, or mournful. The music and dance ebb and flow until spent, with one some or all members exiting the stage back door. A minute or two silence then one or more of them reappear, as if having reconsidered the decision to depart. A bit of sitting about as a new musical conversation starts, but different in its tone and overall feel, coming together in due course and in its own way. The items are apparently traditional pieces, thematic in nature but expressed so personally and intimately. The impact of the music and dancing, in full cry, is quite unbelievable. Being this close one is sitting within the circle of a gypsy troup cavorting under the night sky, or so it seems. By day, from the hotel, Seville looks a bit nothing, low rise orange tiled houses baking in the sn. But that is misleading the town centre is as packed and old as anywhere, including many items from its historical past including the largest gothic building in Spain and the Alcazar palace, a seat of Royal power from the 12th century through to today, reflecting Spain's turbulent history in its own history of construction and reconstruction. The Arabic and Christian occupations have left an ornate, impossibly ornate complex of buildings housing many fabulous treasures. Away from the palace life at everyday street level is also something, with its tightly packed streets, plazas and alleys in an incomprehensible jumble we thought. Anyway it's hot hot hot, 43 degrees one day for example and we wore ourselves out trolling the streets, while beating a regular retreat to any of the zillions of bars and walkway cafes selling tapas and cold drinks. The people watching was tops, an unceasing procession of all types. But we couldn't hack a whole day out so our time mostly involved a morning then an evening cab ride into the city centre, with a bed crash in between. For one of our 5 days there we went to Jerez, via private driver. Getting to like these guys, this time a gleaming black S class Merc. They do black sedans over here and it has merit. Road cars rule, many in hatchback style but not a 4WD in sight. That must be what good motorways do to your car fleet? Anyway Jerez is south towards the coast, and gave its name to the English corruption of the Arabic pronunciation of the town : Sherry! We visited a sherry bodega and saw two wished for things. Firstly a 'solera', being a lineup of barrels where the wine for bottling is extracted from the last barrel but not all is taken, with that barrel then topped up by the previous older barrel and so on, to the final and oldest barrel which is topped up by the current vintage. This means the bottled wine has a contribution from every earlier vintage in the solera - we saw soleras dating back the early 1920's. My next desire as to see the 'flor', a cap of mould that overs the surface of a fino sherry as it ages in barrel. The flor ferments the wine to almost zero sugar, while excluding oxygen from reaching it, producing that remarkable delicate style of 'flor fino'. These wines age in barrels in cool gloomy stone built cellars, heady with the musty smell of the wine, barrels and cellar mold. Cherished desire #3 was to drink a chilled glass of Manzanilla (a salty, breezy flor fino produced near the coast) somewhere appropriate in Jerez and alongside some fresh grilled sardines, olives and goat cheese. Mission accomplished. Mission report: unforgettable, to be repeated, at home. Even Shanti, long disinterested in fino, is now a fan. Horses also feature in this region. There are equestrian schools, horse statues and posters, events, and also horses in the streets often pulling buggies for tourists to view the city from. It made me wonder how the equine culture relates to flamenco with the stamping, haughty arched back and lifted head postures of the dancers. Both are magnificent and brimming with attitude.