Parable of a Parador - Part Three
The plaza mayor: our 'van at the centre, the 'precious Parador' to the right
Then, through the murky depths of our despair an apparition appeared before us in the shape of a young man on a motor scooter waving his arms about. “I think he’s trying to help,” I said realising that he wasn’t just making rude gestures at hapless tourists (us).
With no other options, Harry had to go along with it.
“Well it looks like he’s hinting we should pull the wing mirrors in.”
It seemed a sensible suggestion and one worth trying even though we were unsure if this would completely solve our predicament. By now we were also becoming aware that we’d attracted the interest of several ancient and well-oiled patrons of a bar just up ahead, and our little drama turned into a full-scale pantomime as they began gesticulating and beckoning us on.
“Si! Si! … Se puede!” they exclaimed excitedly and at the same time doing what could only be described as some sort of grotesque ritual dance.
This was a good time to remember the meaning of those words in my favourite scene from the language video.
“Se Puede! They seem to think we can do it!” I translated helpfully.
It was not like Harry to give up, but the high temperatures and a general fatigue which we were both feeling as a result of driving hundreds of miles since leaving home had taken their toll. After all, being from an island which is only some 22½ miles at its widest, the distances involved in our ambitious circumnavigation of Spain were by comparison, not even a ball-game let alone a different one. I don’t really think the re-spray carried out on the van as part of its re-fit before we left home had anything to do with his sudden caution, but no doubt the thought of that new paintwork being given a Donatello-type sgraffito treatment didn’t help. Paintwork aside, there was no real choice for a way out of our situation. The only alternative to cutting the van up into small pieces and carting it off to one of the charming scrap heaps we’d noticed enhancing the Andalucían countryside, was to trust these helpful locals who were surely experienced in this type of thing. Slightly encouraged by the sight of a small local bus (wing mirrors folded of course) behind us, though not quite as large as our van, we edged forwards.
“If that goes through every day, then surely we can!” Pollyanna chirped.
Of course we had no reason to know that the bus did not actually include a stop up that hill and outside ‘our’ Parador, but emboldened by its presence, Harry managed to squeeze the van through the archway. Now all that was needed was to get it round that wretched tight corner beyond, which was so tantalisingly displaying the sign to the object of my desire. Inch by inch, Harry shunted the van backwards and forwards until eventually we found ourselves liberated in the wide expanses of the town plaza mayor. There stood my Parador occupying the whole of one side of the square, white and shiny, the jewel in the crown. On one of the other sides was a picturesquely-crumbling Baroque church and a third consisted of the vertiginous cliff-edge with its breath-taking views of the surrounding parched countryside. How wonderful, how authentic. At last, the real Spain! The Spain of Laurie Lee... the country as I had imagined it to be when my hero walked across it in those far off days…
I soon had to come back to the here and now because our next difficulty was finding somewhere to leave the van. The square, rather than being an open space for the recreation of the good people of Arcos, was a car park. It was at this point that something important occurred to Harry.
“You should have booked a room. After all this trouble, we might not be able to stay there anyway. You didn’t think of that did you?”
Why was it always my fault? But I couldn’t argue. It wasmy idea to stay in the place, as he’d already so forcibly reminded me.
“You’d better get in there! Here’s the Traffic Warden wanting to move us on!”
A mean-looking uniformed man, complete with peaked cap, was heading our way, so I bravely left Harry to sort out the problem of parking, and jumped out of the van to make a dash for the hotel reception. It was only then I realised that I looked like a disaster area. My hair was all over the place from travelling with the van windows open, and I was wearing the faded-tee-shirt-shorts-and-flip-flops look that had been great for dossing around on campsites, but not really suitable attire for a five-star hotel. For the first time in my sheltered life I needed to stop being squeamish about my appearance. I was already unpopular for bringing us here, so it was no good whinging that I should change into something more respectable - or at least put a comb through my hair. Paraphrasing in my mind the words of Basil Fawlty, “Only the upper classes would wear tat like that”, I hoped the hotel staff would think me one of those English eccentrics, as was our erstwhile reputation abroad before the arrival of the package holiday and the lager lout.
As I neared the entrance, I noticed a smartly dressed couple making their way up the steep path to the hotel pulling suitcases behind them. Of course, unlike us, they were hardly likely to have trundled all that way up to the Parador without booking, but with no time to apply this bit of logic to the situation, I found myself running the last few yards to bag the imagined last room in the place. Obviously used to all sorts there, nobody at the reception desk batted an eyelid at my accelerated arrival technique and bohemian appearance. I just couldn’t go back to Harry without the key to a room. My heart was in my mouth making speech difficult as I enquired calmly if they had a room available, and for once it was a joy to fill in the annoying forms in exchange for the key. I returned to the van in triumph. It was a pleasant surprise to discover that the parking man was not mean at all, and was directing Harry to a suitable vacant space in the square. I couldn’t help thinking though that any change of attitude may have been our elevated status as guests in the Parador rather than ageing hippies in a scruffy camper van.
After all the stress, we were keen to get out of the suffocating heat of that town square, multiplied a hundred–fold inside our tin-box of a home. We grabbed what we needed for that night, including our ‘posh’ clothes, and stuffed everything apart from these into a small case. I’d insisted on bringing this with us for such an occasion, despite being told there was no space for such frivolities.
“What’s wrong with using carrier bags?” I’d been asked.
“Well if you don’t know, I can’t be bothered to tell you.” It was against my principles to enter my precious Parador like a couple of bag-ladies.
We made our way up to the room and I gasped as we entered. It was huge, with its own entrance hall, comfy sofas, tables and chairs. It was heaven.
“Let’s just stay here for the next week, abandon the van and fly home,” I suggested.
“Well don’t forget whose idea it was to do this trip in the first place, and you hate flying!”
The bathroom alone could have accommodated the living space inside the campervan some four times over. A lifetime had passed since I’d been able to wallow in a deep bathful of warm water. Designers of campsite showers needed to go back to the drawing board. Nine times out of ten my clothes managed to get as wet as I did, and it was normal for water not to be as hot as advertised on the tap. Not unusual either was that this so-called ‘hot’ water ran out half way through washing my hair resulting in a lot of futile insults being shouted at the pipe-work. I wasn’t used to roughing it and this was not my idea of a good time.
Before we could begin to enjoy our surroundings properly, we had to undertake the important task of transferring our cheese supply and other perishables from the van ‘fridge into the chilled mini bar in the room. The refrigeration facilities in the van were just about adequate whilst on the move, though good when plugged into the mains on a campsite, but obviously no such arrangements were available in that scorching Town Square.
Having done the deed, we could now turn our attention to enjoying the view from our balcony. It was an excellent vantage point for observing the comings and goings in the plazabelow. A good source of interest came from the police station on the opposite side to the Parador. From our observations, the guardia of Arcos may have the best policing job in the world. Their main duties seemed to consist of:
a) Lounging provocatively, James Dean-like, astride large motor bikes
b) Smoking huge cigars
c) Chatting to and sharing a joke with various passing acquaintances
Along with peaked caps, sun-glasses and large moustaches seemed to be obligatory parts of their uniform, so when a workman wearing a yellow hard-hat stopped for a chat, the ensemble was in danger of resembling the ‘Village People’. The temptation for a chorus of ‘Y.M.C.A.’ was too much to resist.
The number of police in that square seemed superfluous, but our solution to this was simple. If they made a Spanish version of the film ‘The Italian Job’ in Arcos, (only of course renamed The Spanish Job) and using motorbikes rather than Minis, movie-stardom could be just around the corner for these rather glamorous and under-occupied guardia. Those narrow, steep and winding alleyways would certainly make it an exciting prospect.
However, pleasant as this was and not wishing to spend the whole time in Arcos playing the voyeur, we ventured out into the square. The tourist office (yes, there was one all the way up there) turned out to be next to the police station, but I was left wondering if it might have been better located somewhere near the town’s entrance for visitors to take full advantage. Anyone who had already made it up to the plaza major would probably have no need for one by then. On the door was a poster advertising guided walking tours of the town’s historic buildings and apparently famous patios. Naturally it did not re-open until later that afternoon, so as temperatures began to cool, we returned and took up the offer. As a bonus, this was free for guests of the Parador. Being the only interested party that day, we had an exclusive tour with the pleasant raven-haired young woman from the tourist office, who spoke impeccable English. Harry even managed to make her laugh, something of a feat in Spain, as we passed a noisy bunch of Germans intent on disrupting the tranquillity of those narrow streets: “Tut, tourists!” he said, “We get them at home!”
Despite seeing the exquisite patios and learning the interesting history of the town, I began to feel uneasy. The recurrent pealing of bells from its many church campanile along with chiming clocks, reminded me that one side of the square containing the Parador was taken up by that ancient church. Churches mean bells; bells mean laying awake half the night. This had been an enduring memory from a previous trip through the Spanish Pyrenees, where clocks chimed not only on the hour, but five minutes before and after. This helpfully made sure that listeners just dropping back to sleep after the first lot were in no doubt of the time for the rest of the night.
“Those bells,” I wondered. “They must stop at night, mustn’t they?”
“I expect so,” was Harry’s unconvincing answer.
I put the thought to the back of my mind. We were here and it was all going to be fantastic.
(Continued ... )
With no other options, Harry had to go along with it.
“Well it looks like he’s hinting we should pull the wing mirrors in.”
It seemed a sensible suggestion and one worth trying even though we were unsure if this would completely solve our predicament. By now we were also becoming aware that we’d attracted the interest of several ancient and well-oiled patrons of a bar just up ahead, and our little drama turned into a full-scale pantomime as they began gesticulating and beckoning us on.
“Si! Si! … Se puede!” they exclaimed excitedly and at the same time doing what could only be described as some sort of grotesque ritual dance.
This was a good time to remember the meaning of those words in my favourite scene from the language video.
“Se Puede! They seem to think we can do it!” I translated helpfully.
It was not like Harry to give up, but the high temperatures and a general fatigue which we were both feeling as a result of driving hundreds of miles since leaving home had taken their toll. After all, being from an island which is only some 22½ miles at its widest, the distances involved in our ambitious circumnavigation of Spain were by comparison, not even a ball-game let alone a different one. I don’t really think the re-spray carried out on the van as part of its re-fit before we left home had anything to do with his sudden caution, but no doubt the thought of that new paintwork being given a Donatello-type sgraffito treatment didn’t help. Paintwork aside, there was no real choice for a way out of our situation. The only alternative to cutting the van up into small pieces and carting it off to one of the charming scrap heaps we’d noticed enhancing the Andalucían countryside, was to trust these helpful locals who were surely experienced in this type of thing. Slightly encouraged by the sight of a small local bus (wing mirrors folded of course) behind us, though not quite as large as our van, we edged forwards.
“If that goes through every day, then surely we can!” Pollyanna chirped.
Of course we had no reason to know that the bus did not actually include a stop up that hill and outside ‘our’ Parador, but emboldened by its presence, Harry managed to squeeze the van through the archway. Now all that was needed was to get it round that wretched tight corner beyond, which was so tantalisingly displaying the sign to the object of my desire. Inch by inch, Harry shunted the van backwards and forwards until eventually we found ourselves liberated in the wide expanses of the town plaza mayor. There stood my Parador occupying the whole of one side of the square, white and shiny, the jewel in the crown. On one of the other sides was a picturesquely-crumbling Baroque church and a third consisted of the vertiginous cliff-edge with its breath-taking views of the surrounding parched countryside. How wonderful, how authentic. At last, the real Spain! The Spain of Laurie Lee... the country as I had imagined it to be when my hero walked across it in those far off days…
I soon had to come back to the here and now because our next difficulty was finding somewhere to leave the van. The square, rather than being an open space for the recreation of the good people of Arcos, was a car park. It was at this point that something important occurred to Harry.
“You should have booked a room. After all this trouble, we might not be able to stay there anyway. You didn’t think of that did you?”
Why was it always my fault? But I couldn’t argue. It wasmy idea to stay in the place, as he’d already so forcibly reminded me.
“You’d better get in there! Here’s the Traffic Warden wanting to move us on!”
A mean-looking uniformed man, complete with peaked cap, was heading our way, so I bravely left Harry to sort out the problem of parking, and jumped out of the van to make a dash for the hotel reception. It was only then I realised that I looked like a disaster area. My hair was all over the place from travelling with the van windows open, and I was wearing the faded-tee-shirt-shorts-and-flip-flops look that had been great for dossing around on campsites, but not really suitable attire for a five-star hotel. For the first time in my sheltered life I needed to stop being squeamish about my appearance. I was already unpopular for bringing us here, so it was no good whinging that I should change into something more respectable - or at least put a comb through my hair. Paraphrasing in my mind the words of Basil Fawlty, “Only the upper classes would wear tat like that”, I hoped the hotel staff would think me one of those English eccentrics, as was our erstwhile reputation abroad before the arrival of the package holiday and the lager lout.
As I neared the entrance, I noticed a smartly dressed couple making their way up the steep path to the hotel pulling suitcases behind them. Of course, unlike us, they were hardly likely to have trundled all that way up to the Parador without booking, but with no time to apply this bit of logic to the situation, I found myself running the last few yards to bag the imagined last room in the place. Obviously used to all sorts there, nobody at the reception desk batted an eyelid at my accelerated arrival technique and bohemian appearance. I just couldn’t go back to Harry without the key to a room. My heart was in my mouth making speech difficult as I enquired calmly if they had a room available, and for once it was a joy to fill in the annoying forms in exchange for the key. I returned to the van in triumph. It was a pleasant surprise to discover that the parking man was not mean at all, and was directing Harry to a suitable vacant space in the square. I couldn’t help thinking though that any change of attitude may have been our elevated status as guests in the Parador rather than ageing hippies in a scruffy camper van.
After all the stress, we were keen to get out of the suffocating heat of that town square, multiplied a hundred–fold inside our tin-box of a home. We grabbed what we needed for that night, including our ‘posh’ clothes, and stuffed everything apart from these into a small case. I’d insisted on bringing this with us for such an occasion, despite being told there was no space for such frivolities.
“What’s wrong with using carrier bags?” I’d been asked.
“Well if you don’t know, I can’t be bothered to tell you.” It was against my principles to enter my precious Parador like a couple of bag-ladies.
We made our way up to the room and I gasped as we entered. It was huge, with its own entrance hall, comfy sofas, tables and chairs. It was heaven.
“Let’s just stay here for the next week, abandon the van and fly home,” I suggested.
“Well don’t forget whose idea it was to do this trip in the first place, and you hate flying!”
The bathroom alone could have accommodated the living space inside the campervan some four times over. A lifetime had passed since I’d been able to wallow in a deep bathful of warm water. Designers of campsite showers needed to go back to the drawing board. Nine times out of ten my clothes managed to get as wet as I did, and it was normal for water not to be as hot as advertised on the tap. Not unusual either was that this so-called ‘hot’ water ran out half way through washing my hair resulting in a lot of futile insults being shouted at the pipe-work. I wasn’t used to roughing it and this was not my idea of a good time.
Before we could begin to enjoy our surroundings properly, we had to undertake the important task of transferring our cheese supply and other perishables from the van ‘fridge into the chilled mini bar in the room. The refrigeration facilities in the van were just about adequate whilst on the move, though good when plugged into the mains on a campsite, but obviously no such arrangements were available in that scorching Town Square.
Having done the deed, we could now turn our attention to enjoying the view from our balcony. It was an excellent vantage point for observing the comings and goings in the plazabelow. A good source of interest came from the police station on the opposite side to the Parador. From our observations, the guardia of Arcos may have the best policing job in the world. Their main duties seemed to consist of:
a) Lounging provocatively, James Dean-like, astride large motor bikes
b) Smoking huge cigars
c) Chatting to and sharing a joke with various passing acquaintances
Along with peaked caps, sun-glasses and large moustaches seemed to be obligatory parts of their uniform, so when a workman wearing a yellow hard-hat stopped for a chat, the ensemble was in danger of resembling the ‘Village People’. The temptation for a chorus of ‘Y.M.C.A.’ was too much to resist.
The number of police in that square seemed superfluous, but our solution to this was simple. If they made a Spanish version of the film ‘The Italian Job’ in Arcos, (only of course renamed The Spanish Job) and using motorbikes rather than Minis, movie-stardom could be just around the corner for these rather glamorous and under-occupied guardia. Those narrow, steep and winding alleyways would certainly make it an exciting prospect.
However, pleasant as this was and not wishing to spend the whole time in Arcos playing the voyeur, we ventured out into the square. The tourist office (yes, there was one all the way up there) turned out to be next to the police station, but I was left wondering if it might have been better located somewhere near the town’s entrance for visitors to take full advantage. Anyone who had already made it up to the plaza major would probably have no need for one by then. On the door was a poster advertising guided walking tours of the town’s historic buildings and apparently famous patios. Naturally it did not re-open until later that afternoon, so as temperatures began to cool, we returned and took up the offer. As a bonus, this was free for guests of the Parador. Being the only interested party that day, we had an exclusive tour with the pleasant raven-haired young woman from the tourist office, who spoke impeccable English. Harry even managed to make her laugh, something of a feat in Spain, as we passed a noisy bunch of Germans intent on disrupting the tranquillity of those narrow streets: “Tut, tourists!” he said, “We get them at home!”
Despite seeing the exquisite patios and learning the interesting history of the town, I began to feel uneasy. The recurrent pealing of bells from its many church campanile along with chiming clocks, reminded me that one side of the square containing the Parador was taken up by that ancient church. Churches mean bells; bells mean laying awake half the night. This had been an enduring memory from a previous trip through the Spanish Pyrenees, where clocks chimed not only on the hour, but five minutes before and after. This helpfully made sure that listeners just dropping back to sleep after the first lot were in no doubt of the time for the rest of the night.
“Those bells,” I wondered. “They must stop at night, mustn’t they?”
“I expect so,” was Harry’s unconvincing answer.
I put the thought to the back of my mind. We were here and it was all going to be fantastic.
(Continued ... )