2023 Barcelona

21.1.23

Sitting in the splendid cathedral in the Gothic Quarter.  The wild, interlocking arches look like something out of Piranesi.  Lots of chapels filled with gilded polyptychs.  The Gothic area looks like Venice without the canals.  Lots of high buildings squeezing narrow alleyways beneath.  Glorious day, cold but sunny.  Cloisters complete with geese.  Bells boom.

In the Plaça del Rei.  Strange construction in one corner with rows of empty arches, the Mirador del Rei Martí – reminds me of the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana in Rome, as used in Greenaway's “Belly of an Architect”.  Already a few guided tour groups.  Must be hell in summer.

Good to be back in this civilised city.  The third time for me – once, 40 years ago, when I came here on my Interrailing.  Don’t remember much of that, except the then rather run-down Gothic area.  Now it is all splendidly restored, like everywhere in the city.  The second time was just before Covid struck, when I gave a talk to LIBER, the library association, in the Maritime Museum.  Managed to see the great Picasso Museum – still remember his amazing variations on “Las Meninas”.

Flew in yesterday evening – just one hour 40 minutes from Gatwick.  Picked up by taxi, efficiently, to our flat near Entença.  Strange design in what were probably warehouses, nicely converted with lots of exposed brickwork.  Went out for a meal in Café Bassy, very near.  Felt almost exactly the same as the little café in Rue Dauphine.  Big portions, good Rioja, from a freshly opened bottle.  Neither of us could remember the Spanish word for “glass” (copa).  Very interesting to see Catalan signs everywhere, but more Spanish spoken, I think.  (The service in the cathedral was in Catalan).  On the way back, bought fab strawberries, grapes and apples from a fruttivendola – local produce, presumably.  Good quality.

This morning, by metro to here.  Modern, clean, efficient – and very extensive.  Unlike London or Paris, the metro is more of a mesh.  Very good value – paid 11 euros for 10 trips – less than a quid each.  Eating churros, decent coffee.

Now in Els Quatre Gats.  Rather nice, even if a famous tourist hotspot.  Quiet, only half the tables occupied, suitably cool jazz playing.  Lovely tiles, ceramics, paintings, photos (black and white).  Strange bowls on the wall with chunks missing of the rim: not broken, because the pattern stops.  Clearly functional… Food OK, nothing special, but ambience good.

At the airport yesterday, and a first for me.  Seeking to avoid the usual queue, we went to one side as directed, to scan our passports automatically.  So far, so normal.  But the scanning unit also wanted our fingerprints.  Needless to say, this failed abysmally, and took two or three minutes to sort.  So much for automation…

Sitting on the steps by the port, the sun low in the sky in front of us.  Obscenely big motor cruisers before us, a monstrous cruise liner in the distance.  The thin wires of the Telefèric del Port visible with the cars passing now and then.  Wind strong, quite cold.  Lots of people out, taking their passeggiata.  

Before, went along to MACBA, the big white museum of modern art.  Looks like Centre Pompidou, but with only its white underwear on.  Didn’t go in, because I have Bilbao and the Guggenheim in a month or so.

Waiting for the  Telefèric lift – queue not too bad.  Reminds me of Bratislava…  Slow and beautiful slide across the harbour, Barcelona laid out like a map.  Reminds me of Hong Kong, although much less elevation in the buildings.  Sagrada Familia dominates the scene.

When we arrive at the other station, on Montjuic, the wind had risen, and the temperature fell as a result.  But the view great – almost identical to that from Bratislava castle, although the details were obviously different.  The problem was how to get down to the nearby metro Paral·lel.  After wandering around for a while, we came across a taxi, and took it down to the metro, which proved further away than it seemed on the map.  On the way back, got on the train going the wrong way – I claim the signage was misleading…

Barcelona confirms itself as a great, flourishing city.  Lots to see and do, and everything working well.  London is obviously a greater city, but it is far more unequal, with evident dysfunctions.  Still, Barcelona is clearly a fab place to visit, as it has been for many years.

22.1.23

Sitting in Santa Maria del Mar: fabulous. Soaring columns, raw stone, very spacious.  Mottled rock makes the view incredibly varied, adds to sense of something built, block by block.

Up to another glorious day, then on the metro to Diagonal.  Streets quiet, even more impressive because Passeig de Gràcia is pedestrianised in the middle, with traffic creeping by shamefacedly.  To La Pedrera, first of an intensely Gaudiesque day for us.  Fairly restrained for Gaudí, only the ironwork of the balconies out of control.  Unlike Casa Batlló – totally bonkers, with frightening Venetian masks on the balconies, weird alien eyes behind.  The roof even more insane. The other buildings in this fine boulevard are inventive with their crowns and pepperpots.  The street feels like Champs-Élysées with better architecture.  Down past Plaça de Catalunya, then walking towards here through the Gothic quarter.  The amazing Antic Theatre – equally crazy.  Clearly something in the air here.  The backstreets remind me strongly of Venice again…

Amazing the columns by the altar of Santa Maria del Mar: eight thin pillars holding up the roof.  Bare for two thirds, then fluting up to the centre.  All sturdy octagonal pillars, with tiny, barely pointed arches between them at the top.

On the metro, to La Sagrada.  Already booked ticket for 2.30pm, plus trip up Passion tower.  So until then, along to Granier café nearby. Honest little place, basic fare.  Better than nearby La Sagrada, with its huge heaving crowds.  Madness.  Dread to think how it is in peak season.  Looked in estate agents, prices here very cheap (compared to London…).  But more generally, things are cheap here – food etc.  Very liveable as a city.

On the  Telefèric yesterday, the curve of the beach emerged clearly.  Another remarkable aspect of Barcelona – it has a good beach nearby.  I can’t think of another major city that has all the facilities of Barcelona, and a beach, plus the ancient quarter.  San Francisco has the first two, but not the last.  And here, the mountains are not far away, either…  A city that has everything…

Back past La Sagrada – you forget just how massive it is, how it looms over everything.  And the main tower is still unfinished – it will be so tall…. Up along the Avenida de Gaudí – lovely pedestrianised area, full of people out in the sun.  Strangely, reminds me of Armenia, Vazgan Sargsyan Street leading to the main Republic Square in Yerevan.  Up to Sant Pau – not quite Gaudi, but extravagant.  The old hospital being converted to galleries – even more of them, in a city already well endowed.  Another reason to return.

In La Sagrada.  Insane levels of security – full airport scans of clothes and person.  Inside, impressively high nave, with jagged angels on high, tree-like branches on top of the columns.  Gaudy (sic) colours stream through the stained glass windows – oranges, reds, greens, blues, geometric shapes that probably represent something.  The altar unimpressive – the canopy over the crucifix looks like a circus big top.  Indeed, the whole place is close to tipping over into the vulgar.  Perhaps the external view is best to dwell on…

Up the tower.  Views OK, nice to see the other towers being built.  But the overall feel is still that it is the view from outside that will impress, not the interior, once everything is finished.  Even the outside is spoilt (IMHO) by the words built on the surface of the building – they look like ads.  Descending inside the tower was a good reminder of the reality of heights, all-too hidden by lifts.  The 400 steps down the spiral staircase went on for ever; the central void that went from top to bottom – no guard rail – was quite stunning.

Perhaps the most telling moment was at 3pm, when the bells struck: four times for on the hour, three for the time itself.  At least the bells were good.  Nope: as we moved through the tower, we saw there were no bells, only loudspeakers.  It was all recorded…

A long walk along Passeig de Sant Joan to the Arc de Triomf – which looked rather Indian to my eyes.  Then on the metro to here, the Plaça Reial, for a drink in perhaps the most civilised square here.  The sun still visible on the eastern side, illuminating the tops of the palm trees...

More destinations:

1991 Lisbon

1993 Mexico

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1990 Western Ireland

5.5.90  Claddaghduff, County Galway

5.15pm, the sun beginning to sink over the Atlantic.  Utterly idyllic, I'm afraid.  Crunchy seaweed like a Chinese meal; the smell of Cornwall; hard, flat beach, a causeway across to an island; low tide, worm casts; impossible turquoise  and jet-black-blue waters.  No one but me and Sister Anne around.  The sea a distant murmur.  The wind keen, refreshing.  Was I really in London 12 hours ago?

Everything like the last reel of a sad but profound film.  My little white Fiesta tucked away by the sand's margin.

Now in Renvyle House Hotel. Backtracking… Up at 4am, to Heathrow – huge red globe of the sun like a fruit.  Hour flight to Shannon – surprisingly big airport.  Met Sister Anne (who stayed nearby overnight), picked up car, onto N18, to Galway.

Overcast (London was totally clear), coldish.  Anne is optimistic; but I am not.  Stop off in Galway for morning elevenses.  Pleasant – bustling market town – looks like something out of the 1930s.

The coast road (R336) to Costelloe.  Weather beginning to clear.  The sea to our left, all very like Kerry of two years ago.  A detour to Cornamona, then up to Gortmore.  We see the 12 Pins (Bens) in the distance.  Beautiful as we come into Cashel.  Sun brilliant, a few fluffy clouds.  Lunch (a rip-off) in Cashel, then up to the T71, through the Kylemore Pass – very Lake District.

We stop off at the Victorian Kylemore Abbey.  A school for girls with a stunning view of the hills and Kylemore Lough.  A case full of podgy blotchy hockey teams.  The stars and their Cantab PhD.  Tea and tea-cake (like Xmas cake) in their tea shop, then to Letterfrack (great name), up to Cleggan.  Wind very strong now, the bay a huge ruffled turquoise pool, the 12 Pins behind, a hill opposite.  We sit on straw bales – the smell of tortoises.  Then round to the amazing, beautiful  Claddaghduff, and its low tide causeway to Omey Island.  Driving down to the N59/T71, the sea full of island – you can see why Irish mythology is full of Land of Youth and such-like – it's all obviously true.

Back to Letterfrack and then to here.  £30 each for a decent room and brekkies.  Fair number of sports facilities – including boating, which obviously Anne wanted to try.  But the wind by now very strong – waves rising.  We/I can't get the boat out.  I sulk, we flounder – then I/we give up.  Hmph.  Anne going to mass soon.  Earlier, we saw in the distance the amazing cliffs of Achill Island, where we hope to go tomorrow.  Today – despite my deeply mature tantrum etc. - has been glorious.  Who could believe that three weeks ago I was in Sonoma?

After dropping Anne off, down to Renvyle Point.  To my left, the ruined tower and the slightly dusky sun falling towards it; in front, the bay, and the distant mountains gradually receding into the mist.  Sheep graze, the wind roars and thunders – but quietly.  The sea is a pewter pool, and looks infinite.  Kelp lies in huge bundles like old rope.  Hobbled sheep.  A yearling lamb.  A ram like a ball of wool. The lambs are eating the seaweed (and why not?).  A ewe's bloated udder bounces between her legs.  The beach a huge swatch of babbled, starry cloth, pebbles gleaming, pools white.  Apart from the wind, such silence…  A shepherd appears, timeless.  Sicilian, weather-beaten, garbed in trousers and a cap.  

Memories of other Irelands…  Although unintentional and non-systematic, Anne's and my journeys in Eire are pretty comprehensive.  A gibbous moon.  The driftwood piece I gave as a gift.  I could sit here for centuries (the Land of Youth again…).  A cloud rests on a smooth peak like a disembodied gloved hand resting on a bronzed breast.  A curtain of cloud rolling in from the West; and tomorrow…?

6.5.90 Renvyle House

Up late after superb dinner (6.45am).  Overcast, but hope for sun.  I sit on my bed, looking at the 12 Pins.  Through a chasm in the clouds an extraordinary sight: a falling of white light like a silver shower.  Very physical.  Reading Peig Sayers' "An Old Woman's Reflections" – very strong sense of the ancient heroic age and its passing.

Last night, I gave Anne her various prezzies – Holy oil and tapes and a book from St Makarias – and "Glanglish".  I was struck by the pleasure I gained watching her read a few essays – her expressions, her concurrence.  I can see how this might prove addictive…

Along to Achill Island, to Keel – one of the most westerly points in Europe.  Then the beach at the end of the road.  Brilliant white beach, feathered with black.  A stream to the sea, ox-bowing before our eyes.  Anne is drawing the gothic arched bridge over the stream.

Lunch in Keel – oysters, lobsters – with what consequences…?  Interesting restaurant – à la Man and Calf: long, aqueous, like a ship's saloon.  Pop and rap incongruously fill the air.  Food good, place nearly deserted.  Achill Seafood Restaurant - £40.

After a stupendous meal, along to the Cathedral Rocks.  Drive to the east end of Keel's beautiful beach.  Looking back West, the headland with its implicit cliffs, the Lake District hills.  The sun breaking through now and again.  Strong smell of wet seaweed – and of Cornwall, 30 years ago.

Rocks like blasted trees, dendrochronology gone mad.  Soft ferns draped like antimacassars – fairy lands again.  The drip of water.  Only the Garden of Fand beyond.  That sound of lapping water – I'm a born Englishman, sea in my veins.  The strand lit by the sun – a slivver crescent of light.  Anne sketching, echoing in images these words.  Software cropped grass – fairy lawnmowers… The sun comes out, hot and beneficent [A fly gets behind my Ray-bans…].   I could eat this seaweed – were I not stuffed.  The cliffs rear up like Balinese rice fields, stepped, luxuriantly green. And yet the Cathedral's themselves are small and unspectacular – nothing compared to Étretat…  The more I see all these places, the more I long to live here for a few months, writing, thinking.  Will I…?

I sit facing the fabulous (fables, indeed) Cliffs of Moher.  It is 8pm, and the curving sun has slipped below the broken cloud cloth, heading towards the burnished sea.  The cliffs stretch away to the right, classic sheer drops, with deep arches – real "Famous Five" stuff.  The polyphonic gulls' cries filter through the air.  Down below they look like swarms of gnats.  The striated cliff walls have green splashes – like stains in baths.  Ink-blue black sea froths at the cliffs' foot.  A tower is behind me, the sun at 45 degrees to my right.  Most of the tourists have gone, leaving me with this majesty.  Anne too has gone.  Moody is alone (ah…).  But a glorious end to a glorious day – and weekend.

This reminds me of Tintagel, and of the dragon watching the sun from his cave.  The long, long shadows lie on the deep green grass.  Behind the cliffs – which form a spur, the coast further south west – nothing for 3000 miles.  The End of Europe.  This place is very different.  On the radio here, a programme about the latest news in Irish folk music.

Moving round north, the Aran Isles bask like happy whales.  Beyond them Galway, Connemara and the 12 Pins.  The cliff to my right like the curtain wall behind Queen Hatshepsut's Temple – sheer and incised.  Then a wall at right angles to it, closing it off, making a kind of proscenium stage and arch.  The rock layers very straight and horizontal – as if laid in courses.  The sun growing golden.  My body really quite chilled – but pleasantly.

Back in Ennis, the Queen's Hotel – not bad.  No din-dins after such a lunch (and alas – I can't remember what I had for dinner last night – which was excellent: mushrooms stuffed with ham and mustard, carrot and ginger soup; but then what?  With the Côte de Beaune?)

So, from Renvyle to Westport, then to Achill – very like Skye.  So many beautiful vistas.  And finishing with Keel.  Lunch: oysters – crisp; lobster; then apple pie.  All excellent and in such an atmospheric café.  The hurtling back for Anne's bus to Cork.  From Leenane to Maum, along Lough Corrib to Headford – then a long, straight road to Galway.  We stop off at Gort to see WB Yeats' shack – idyllic, creeper up one side, fast trout stream with stepping stones.  Then to Ennis.

Me out to Cliffs of Moher.  As I return the sun stains the clouds amazing hues.  A quick turn around the town – very pleasant, quite unspoilt and reminding me very much of Wexford.  And so to bed (soon).  What a day/life…

7.5.90 London at 1000 feet

About 10am – I have just seen my flat, flying over it – the air is so clear, and London laid out like a map.

Well, here's a turn-up for the books: Moody in Chiswick Gardens, just north of the villa.  I have been along to Hogarth's House – finally, having passed it for so many years.  But I never even knew these gardens existed.

The House – though much restored, and filled mostly with prints – is charming.  A mulberry tree in the garden.  The place looked after by a late middle-aged chap – typically friendly.  Told me about Church Street – an idyllic street of Georgian and Elizabethan houses – and only steps from the A4.  Down to the river – the smell of mud, the tiny crepitation of low tide. 

Back to Chiswick.  Past the greenhouse – reminds me of Powerscourt – a broken urn like something out of Greenaway.  Café closed, alas.  Round to the Rotonda (so to speak).  Planes roar overhead, echoes of myself.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1989 Eastern Ireland

Moody's Black Notebook Travels