Autumn 2019: Vienna: Episode 4

As we know all good things must come to an end, as do quite a few crappy ones too. But did this mean that I was just going to sit around the hotel room and mope all day instead of getting out there again? Well, to be honest, when I did my weather check this morning and found that the temperature at 9 am in Vienna was 1 degree above zero, the thought did cross my mind. But your Dave is made of sterner stuff than that, gentle reader, and so putting on two layers of clothing under my coat, I set off to brave the elements. Which might perhaps explain why the zip of my coat bust as I sat down on the first U Bahn train of the day. Brownie points to me for not deciding to write the whole day off after this ill omen, I think. 

So, where to first? Well, my 72 hour travel pass would be running out in a couple of hours, and so it made sense to me to get another 24 hour pass first. After all, by the time this one runs out at about half nine tomorrow, I plan to be in the airport. So a train and a tram ride took me to the Schonbrunn, so that I could tick off another one in my I Spy book of Viennese Palaces. I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind betting that Vienna can boast one of the world’s highest rates of PPHP ( palaces per head of population). This one, the Schonbrunn, was supposedly the favourite residence of the penultimate Emperor of Austria, the famous Franz Josef. It weighs in at a measly 1441 rooms, but then it was only supposed to be the Habsburgs’ summer palace, so they can be forgiven a little. Interesting man, Franz Josef. You have to feel sorry for the fact that his only son, Rudolf, shot himself in a suicide pact with his mistress at the Mayerling hunting lodge, and his wife was shot dead by an anarchist in Italy. Mind you, that has to be tempered with the knowledge that even if the decision to take the actions which led to the First World War were those of his ministers, he seemed pretty happy about them. And the fact that he greeted the news of the assassination of his heir, Franz Ferdinand, by saying that this was an act of God tends to mitigate against that much sympathy. 

The Schobrunn manages the tricky feat of being monumental in scale, and at the same time being elegantly beautiful. I did consider making a sketch of it, and I wouldn’t have minded taking a walk through the gardens, and having a go at the maze. I do like a maze. However it was such a misty and murky old morning, as well as being absolutely cold enough to freeze der balles off ein messing-affe

which put paid to that idea. Instead, I took a long tram ride to Schottentor. When I’d passed through on the tram sightseeing tour a couple of days ago we’d been shown a very tall church, supposedly inspired by Cologne Cathedral. By this time the weather had reached the balmy height of 6 degrees, and so I quickly sketched the one you can see. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the church in it. I don’t know why, but for some reason I must have decided that the place was the Karlsplatz. Wrong, he Karlsplatz is several stops along the tram line. Never mind.

I was getting hungry by the time that I finished the sketch, and luckily there was a Chinese fast food stand by the tram stop. Well, I say Chinese. To be honest, serving fried battered chicken and chips in a noodle box, with chopsticks doesn’t really make it a Chinese meal in my book. What the hell. I’d like to say it was delicious, but that would be an utter lie. The food itself was great, but they insisted, despite my protestations, in covering the chips with half a ton of salt. What’s that? No, of course I didn’t throw it away. There’s people starving in this world, you know.

 Off the point completely, I realise now that it’s high time that I mentioned the scooters.

To put it simply, the Viennese do seem to have a thing about scooters. And when I say scooters, I’m not referring to little motorbikes, but to the stand on it and scoot along with your foot type. I wouldn’t say that they are quite as popular here as bikes are in Amsterdam, but it’s not that far off. They’re everywhere, and people even take them onto the U Bahn with them. There’s even a scheme whereby you can rent an electric scooter all over the city, reminiscent of the old Boris Bikes in London. Could it catch on here? Well folks, just remember that you heard it here first.  

Now, you remember I said about the Natural History Museum? When? Oh, do pay attention, 007. In Tuesday’s post I mentioned that I was going to have a look at the Natural History Museum when I’d finished at the Kunsthistorisches, but having spent 4 hours in the latter I decided to give it a miss and postpone it until today. Well, I’ll be honest with you, I was in two minds about whether I really wanted to visit today, but in the end I was so glad that I did. Right, allow me a little digression here. I was once told that all men have a thing. Oooh, Matron. No, it was in an INSET day in school, and the remarkable thing isn’t so much that I remember this from more than a decade ago, but that I still remembered it when I walked out of school on the same day. How should I put this – the number of memorable INSET days I’ve found the least bit memorable in my 3 decades of teaching can be counted on the fingers of one hand. And two of the fingers aren’t needed for the counting either. Still, I remember on this particular day there were two trainers from outside, one of whom was a qualified medical doctor, and he was talking to us about stress. And he said that all men have a thing, that is, a consuming interest into which they put a huge amount of whatever time and energy they are left with outside of school. Well, gentle reader, I’m lucky enough that I’ve had several things in my lifetime. Behave yourself. But the first one that I can remember, the first all consuming interest that I can remember having, was dinosaurs.

I was already heavily interested the first time that my Mum took me as a very small boy to visit the Natural History Museum, and I can still remember the excitement of walking though the doors into that magnificent hall and seeing Dippy the Diplodocus in all of his glory. Incidentally, he’s in Cardiff at the moment. So while it wasn’t quite the same excitement, I still loved seeing the dinosaur exhibits in the Vienna Museum today. I sketched a triceratops skull– another of my favourites – while getting some very funny looks from other visitors. Well, look, nobody was stopping anyone else from taking photos, so I can’t see what the problem was with making a sketch. Or as you can see, two sketches.

Why the dodo? Well, the fact was that I couldn’t get a good enough vantage point to sketch the Dippy clone – like Dippy this is a plastercast of the original fossil donated by Andrew Carnegie. The dodo is interesting anyway. Poor sods. Put yourself in their position. You’re king of the island of Mauritius, with no predators to worry about, then a boatload of Portuguese sailors hoves into view. They give you a name which means stupid (although this is disputed – some would have it that the word dodo comes from the Dutch for Fat Bottom. Charming) Within a hundred years or so of the first settlers on Mauritius, you’re all gone. In fact, gone so completely that the last known stuffed dodo was destroyed in a fire in the Oxford Museum, and only a couple of bits remain to be seen. If you’re looking for a symbol of the impermanence of things, it’s a pretty good one. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair. 

When I came out of the Museum, mentally patting myself on the back for having taken the plunge and gone in, I had one self imposed task left. On Tuesday when I’d finished in the Museum I’d walked into the centre through the Hofburg, and taken a bite to eat in the Burggarten, where I’d seen the rather wonderful Palm House, which you can see in one of the sketches with this post. At first glance it looked to me like the sort of place from which you’d expect a Jules Verne airship to emerge. Dating from the first couple of years of the 20th century, what we’d maybe call Art Nouveau is called Jugendstil here. Quite ironic really. Jugendstil translates as something like young style, the irony being that nowadays old style would probably be more accurate. I love it.  

Wherever the sun had been all day, it had now set, and with my coat flapping open, and my hands moaning about the cold, I set off back to the hotel. When I opened the door to my room, something struck me as not being quite right. Nothing had moved while I’d been out. Everything was exactly where I’d left it. Then, at about half past six, there was a knock at the door. A very nice lady, with a cleaning trolley, spoke to me in German, and then, in English, asked if I’d like my room cleaned. At half past six. In the evening. I considered giving a sarky reply, but merely shook my head and said Nein danke. Which I guess was exactly what she was hoping that I’d say, considering the way she went skipping along the corridor to the next room.  

So that’s it, dearly beloved. My flight is at 11:05 tomorrow morning, and my aim is to be in the airport by 9. So no time for more foolishness tomorrow. Thanks for being with me, and if you’ve enjoyed it at all, then why don’t you come back for the Spring 2020 edition from . . . ah, that would be telling! Auf wiedersehen.

Autumn 2019 - Vienna Episode 3

Now look, I know that you’re all itching to hear about the tram museum, aren’t you? Well, all good things come to those that wait. Let us first, though, begin with the Hundertwasserhaus. Gesundheit. 

I set out at 9 this morning, and, knowing that the aforementioned tram museum doesn’t open until 10, I walked for about 20 minutes to see a rather rum concoction called the Hundertwasser House. You can see it in the sketch, and I have to say that the sketch doesn’t really do justice to how odd it actually is. The House was the brainchild of artist Friedenreich Hundertwasser. After making a number of television programmes outlining his views on architecture, he was invited in 1977 by Leopold Gratz, then the Mayor of Vienna, to design an apartment block.
His working relationship with the architect Joseph Krawina was stormy to say the least. I’m not surprised, mind you. I can just imagine what some of their conversations might have been like:-
“So then Fred, let’s talk about some of these ideas you want to incorporate into the house.”
“Ja, ja, all ist gut.”
“Now, you want as many roof gardens as is humanly possible?”
“Nein.”
“Nine? Oh well, it seems a bit excessive, but I’m sure we can – “
“Nein. No. Not gardens. Forests.”
“I see. Roof forests. And while we’re on the subject of roofs . . . an onion dome. On a skyscraper. What’s that all about?”
“The onion as der symbol of life itself, the tawdry outer layers, yet with each new layer unwrapped we come closer to der shining pearl of understanding. . .”
“Hmm. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Fred, but have you seen a doctor recently?”
In the end the house was finally opened in 1985, although it took a court case ending in the noughties to have Krawina recognised as its co-creator. 

The house really is a most remarkable looking thing. What you can’t see in the sketch is around the other side where the entrances on the ground are all rounded – not an angle in sight, and look like the kind of place you’d see Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry emerging from. Well, on a sunny day, anyway. On a murky day like today, Smaug seemed more of a possibility. In all fairness I should probably mention that the house is an extremely popular tourist attraction, and by the time I finished my sketch, it was absolutely thronged with camera happy tourists.  

Today was a cold day in Vienna, colder than yesterday, and the wind was cutting. So I dashed off that sketch in about 30 minutes, and then sought the nearby U Bahn station and rode the train the two stops it took to get me to the Remise tram museum.

What can I say? I loved it. Now, when it comes to museums, I’m not that fussy – as opposed to art galleries. I like them all, but especially I like them if they tell a story, and the Remise definitely told a story. Yes, it was the story of the Vienna tram system, but in essence this was also the story of Vienna in the 20th century, and it was a story that I probably learned more about here than anywhere else I’ve been in Vienna. The museum is illuminating about the struggles Vienna faced after the peace treaties after world war I, and is also quite candid and honest about the period between the Anschluss with Hitler’s Germany and the end of World War II, for example. 

I sat down, and made the sketch you can see with this post. To me this shouts from the rooftops that it’s a product of the 50s – at one point Vienna had some trams which had been scrapped from New York running in the post war period, and I’m sure you can see the influence in this. 

It was while I was sketching that a very nice Hungarian lady with a large brood of children in tow came and sat down. The kids were bouncing – literally in the case of one who was sitting on the other end of my bench, and the way they started to unpack a picnic gave me a hint that they weren’t going to be getting up any time soon. How do I know they were Hungarian? Well, she started talking to me about the sketch, and my lack of understanding of German or Hungarian led to a longer conversation. Her family lives in Budapest, and they had just come for the day because one of the boys loves trams. I predict he’ll go far. The round trip is between 3 and 4 hours apparently. We did actually get onto the subject of Brexit, which she summed up rather succinctly with,
“Well, we do have some stupid people in Hungary too.” I couldn’t top that and so I didn’t try. 

It was about a 20 minute walk back to the hotel, which kept me from freezing, and gave me the opportunity to put on another layer of clothing. The day had already been a great success, and I wanted to maintain it as much as possible. So the next step was to take a tram from Schottentor U Bahn station to the Belvedere Palace. Alright, I know that this has been a bit of a tram-heavy episode so far, but I’m just trying to tell it like it is. And I have to say, that with the sun out, standing in the back of the tram in the standing only area as it trundled along the Ringstrasse just left me with a massive grin on my silly old face. I can’t help it.  

As for the Belvedere, well, that was the second museum of the day. Put simply, the Belvedere is a palace built as the summer residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy. However, what we’re interested in about it today, is that the Upper Belvedere – the main palace – is the home of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. I think it’s probably fair to say that The Kiss is, along with Mozart, one of Vienna’s real star turns. Never mind all the other great paintings in the museum, the signs, which direct you to it, make it perfectly clear that most people are there for Klimt’s greatest hit. And it is a wonderful painting, no doubt. But what was just as interesting was looking at some of Klimt’s other work, and seeing just what a great traditional portrait painter he was as well. Of all of his paintings, though, even more than The Kiss I was drawn to his Judith. This is a painting I’ve seen reproductions of, but never knew it was supposed to represent Judith of Judith and Holofernes fame, nor that she is actually holding the severed head of Holofernes. Incredible.  

With tempus busily fugiting, I left the Belvedere, and headed back on the tram to try to squeeze in another sketch. This time I got off opposite the Kunsthistorisches Museum, which you may recall from yesterday’s episode, and walked along to the Hofburg, where I sketched the geegee carriage. I did wonder whether one horse was asking the other how the accordion recital had gone the day before. 

I treated myself to a melange – a Viennese coffee – on the way back to the U Bahn, which was well needed since the light had faded by this time, and the clearness of the sky suggested that it was probably going to get a lot colder any time soon. So there we have it, dearly beloved. A very good day indeed, and one more full day left. Tune in tomorrow to see where Fortune – and the U Bahn – takes us. Goodnight Vienna.

Summer 2019 - Episode 15 - 4th day - Malta - Mdina - Valletta

Hello, good evening, and welcome to this, one might almost say, valedictory final episode of An English Fool Abroad with his Sketchbook, Summer 2019 series. Yes, dearly beloved, I am here safely back home in the bosom of my family (a member of which who shall be nameless has just observed – Yes, in the bosom of your family and making a tit of yourself. Charming.) The reason why I didn’t post yesterday – well, I will come to that in the fullness of time.

So, then, Saturday. I’d nearly taken a bus to Mdina once I got back from Gozo on Friday, but I’m glad that I decided not to. There just wouldn’t have been enough time left on Friday to get the full benefit of the place. It’s pretty stunning and unmistakeable from a couple of miles away, a sandstone yellow walled city on a hill dominating the surrounding countryside. Basically, in the 16^th century, the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem – otherwise known as the Hospitallers – who were certainly a bit more hospitable than the Templars – were kicked out of Rhodes by the Ottoman Sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent. He allowed them to leave Rhodes in peace, and probably regretted it a few years later when he decided to invade Malta and found the Hospitallers well entrenched there. They had made Mdina their capital, and through a mixture of obdurate defence, brave fighting, and barefaced lies they defended Malta and Mdina successfully against the Ottomans in the first great siege of Malta. Their Grand Master of the time, a certain Jean de Valette, buckled on his armour at the ripe old age of 70 to lead his troops, and he was recognised by having his name given to the new capital, Valletta (double l because it’s the Italianised version of his name).

Now, going back to my second trip to Greece, in 1984 I stayed a few days on Rhodes, and I was very much taken with Rhodes Old Town, which still looks much as it did when the Hospitallers were based there. So it was hardly surprising that my overwhelming impression of the old town within Mdina’s old defensive walls was that it reminded me very much of Rhodes Old Town. The colours of the buildings are an overwhelming sandy yellow which I find most appealing. Once I found a convenient corner in the shade I sat down and started sketching the picture of the church tower, looking down the street, which you can see at the bottom of the page. It was most pleasant. The only cars allowed in old Mdina belong to the residents, and most of the traffic which passed was horse drawn taxis. And, for the first and only time this trip, I had passers by stopping to gawp at me drawings. If I said that praise from strangers means nothing to me, then it would be an utter lie. 

In some ways, the visit to Mdina helped me to crystallize my thoughts about this trip as compared to my visits to Ieper, Prague, Berlin, Budapest, Kaunas, Madrid, Amsterdam and Stockholm in previous sketchpeditions. In those trips, there were certain linking experiences – all of them involved quite a bit of walking through streets of the one city or town, visiting museums and galleries, and joyriding on trams, metros and trains. 
Now, okay, I’ve walked a lot, and I have visited the one museum in Malta. However in many ways this trip reminded me a bit more of the three solo trips I made in 1982-4. In some ways Malta is rather reminiscent of the Greek islands I visited. The heat has been similar, and the never being far away from the sea. In another way as well, when I was backpacking around the Aegean, whenever the fancy took me I’d just hop off on another boat and go to check out another island. Well, I did just that with Gozo, and I’ve been doing that with other towns, like Mdina and Mosta. Mind you, in one way it’s been completely different. In Greece, I was just one of thousands of 20 somethings from all over Europe and the States, whereas now I’m just like an observer of them. St. Paul’s Bay is crowded with thousands of teens and 20 somethings just doing what I was doing back then, but I’ve just no wish to be part of it any more. Been there. Done that (well, some of it.)

Enough of such things. I’ll be honest, I just lazed around the apartment after I’d got back from Mdina until quite a long time after the sun had gone down. The problem which I had to deal with was this. St. Paul’s Bay is about ¾ of an hour away from Malta International Airport. My flight was at 7am this morning. I don’t get nervous about the actual flying part of flying. But I do get nervous about using airports. I don’t know why, but I always have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that something is going to go wrong in the airport, and I’m not going to get home. So, although I always check in online at least a day before I fly, I have a thing about being at the airport at least 2 hours before the flight is due to leave. The thing is, though, you won’t find a bus to the Airport from St. Paul’s Bay at 4am on a Sunday morning. The latest I could find left at about 1:30 am this morning. Yes, okay, I could have booked a taxi to pick me up at that time. However, there were two problems with this. Firstly, the worry over what I would do if it didn’t turn up, and secondly the likelihood that I would oversleep. Oh, and the cost as well. Having already bought my bus pass, the airport trip on the night bus would cost precisely nowt.

Well, let me tell you this now. I have been as bored as I was in the Departure Lounge a few times before – I remember trying to read Tristram Shandy when I was at University, for example – but not many. The problem was that I was too tired to read, but too uncomfortable to sleep. But I will say this much for Ryanair today. We were efficiently assembled by the gate at 5:50, and then effectively boarded, so much so that we did actually leave on time. Not really happened with me before on Ryanair. We landed in Cardiff half an hour ahead of schedule – no idea whether the captain was on a promise or what, but better that than half an hour late, which is my more usual experience with Ryanair. 

So that’s it for Malta. Overall I really enjoyed my visit, and think I saw enough of Malta to have gained the impression that while it reminded me of quite a few places I’ve been, it was also different to all of them. In some ways it’s like Spain, in others it’s like Greek islands I’ve been to, and in other ways it’s actually quaintly British. If you’ve visited any of the more popular Spanish costa resorts, you’ll have seen bars being run by ex-pats which proudly trumpet themselves as a British bar, and you’ll maybe feel like me that somehow it doesn’t come across as quite genuine – maybe through trying too hard. Well, places like this on Malta somehow just didn’t seem quite so out of place. It somehow seemed appropriate that every place I visited – even Mdina, had eateries where fish and chips were on the menu. So I can totally understand why so many Brits holiday on Malta. It’s different enough that you feel like you’ve been away, and yet similar enough to be comforting and reassuring. 

So let me bring this to an end by thanking once again all my family who contributed to the success of this sketchpedition, through giving me it as a much valued birthday present, through taking me to the airport and just as importantly bringing me back, and for patiently putting up with my panicky phone calls when I couldn’t find the flat. Thank you all so much – and thank you for taking the time and trouble to read this nonsense. See you again.

Summer 2019 - Episode 14 - Malta Day 3 - Gozo

Good evening and welcome again to An English Fool Abroad with his sketch book, in a Malta stylee. When last we met I mentioned the possibility of a boat trip to Gozo. When I had my morning cappuccino in McD’s today – which surprisingly enough lasted until I’d done everything I’d wanted to do on their free wifi, checking in for the flight home etc. – I looked up the cost of the ferries, and a round trip is a ridiculously cheap 4 Euros 65. That’s cheaper than yesterday’s breakfast. So thence to Cirkewwa, which is on the northern tip of Malta, and where the ferry terminal is. 

I amused myself by playing a game I made up, based on Douglas Adams’ and John Lloyd’s wonderful little book, “The Meaning of Liff”. The challenge was to try to make up a meaning for the names of each stop along the way. Pitiross, Bragg and Snajjin were all gifts, but none of them quite so much as Duracak. (Lasts up to 6 times as long as ordinary cack). Little things and all that. Kept me chuckling to myself on and off all the way to Cirkewwa (which itself, I decided, means ‘redolent of the smell of a Scottish coastal church in which a disgruntled parishioner has nailed a week old Arbroath smokie to the underside of one of the pews.’) 

I had a little while before I could board the ferry, during which I made the first of tonight’s sketches. I don’t honestly know how far you can get away from the sea on Malta – I know the furthest point from the sea in the UK is only just over 70 miles away from the nearest coast. In Malta I’d be surprised if it’s much more than about 7. Which is all to the good, as it means the views are very often fantastic. Once on the ferry, we had a little time before departure, so I started sketching the ferry which had just came in. Which is when a group of other passengers decided to start playing the ever popular game, ‘let’s stand in front of the pillock with the sketchbook, and block his view.’ It’s a multiplayer game, and apparently is also suitable for the whole family.  

The ferry to Gozo – why do we call it Gozo, by the way? The local name for it is Ghawdex, which is

far better to my way of thinking. Gozo sounds like a rejected name for a muppet, while Ghawdex sounds like a proprietary brand of painkiller. However, I digress. The ferry to Gozo docks at the port of Mgarr. And if that name wasn’t bestowed upon it by a pirate, then I’m very disappointed. The entry to the harbour is very beautiful, with the sailing boats on the twinkling sea, and the huge church on the hillside. However, my intended destination was some way inland, namely Victoria, the island’s capital.

 Gozo is a beautiful island, a little more unspoilt than Malta in my opinion, and I enjoyed most of the journey to Victoria. We passed a church in

Xewkija (a jar which has been sitting on the shelf so long that its contents have become unidentifiable, and nobody can remember what’s in it, and can’t be arsed to open it to find out.) Now, remember how yesterday I visited a church with the 4^th largest dome in Europe? No? Well, please yourselves. Well, according to my guidebook, this particular church has the 3^rd largest. I earmarked it for a visit on my way back to the ferry later.  

Victoria was quite pretty, although I have to say that if I was forced to choose, then I would choose Valletta. 

I had a mooch around the citadel. Now, when I left Bugibba at the start of the day, it was overclouded, and the temperature was down to a downright chilly 27 degrees. Walking through the citadel above Victoria, the skies were clear and the sun was blazing. I was the hottest I have been on this summer’s sketchpeditions, and possibly the hottest I’ve ever been since that day in Greece in 1982, which is another story for another time, and not for the squeamish. So I made my way back to the bus station, and caught a bus to Mgarr. Unfortunately, not the same number bus as I’d caught earlier, and so I’m afraid Europe’s third largest church dome will have to wait for another trip another time.  

Back on Malta itself, and on the ride back to Bugibba I did something which I’ve never done before on a bus, and only once done on a train. You’re making up your own stories now. No, I fell asleep. Even though the bus was air conditioned, we were crawling along through traffic for a good half an hour, and it was stupid hot, and I just went. When I opened my eyes about 15 minutes later we’d moved perhaps 200 yards since I’d fallen asleep.  

I did think about rounding the day off with a visit to Mdina, the old capital, but it seems as if that needs a bit of time, and to be honest, I just wasn’t prepared to wait half an hour for another bus. So that’s pencilled in for tomorrow.  

Which I suppose is as good a way of saying that’s it for tonight. Join me tomorrow for my last day on Malta.

Summer 2019 - Episode 13 - MALTA day 1 and 2

Starting with yesterday, flying into Malta was actually rather wonderful. I had a piece of luck really. I was in seat B, and the chap who was next to me wanted to go and sit in the spare seat next to his mate behind me. Suited me fine. It did mean that I had the best seat in the house as we flew over Gozo, Comino and the north of Malta. One building does actually stand out as your flying over the island, amazingly. It’s a huge church, and I’ll tell you a little bit more about it later on.  

Now, whenever I take one of these trips to a new place, I do try to sort myself out with a public transport route from the airport to where I’m staying, and I try even harder when I arrive in daylight. Bearing in mind I had to cross more than half of the island I was quite pleased with myself for doing so. Google gave me a route, and the information that I could get an unlimited bus rides ticket for all the time I’m here for 21 Euros. Well, I’m sorry, but I doubt very much I’d have got a one way taxi to where I’m staying for as little as that. 

No, the fun and games only started when I got to the right street. You see, there was no helpful sign outside with the name we were given by the booking agent, and no number of the building. I’d met an Australian Maltese man on the plane, and, after forbearingly not mentioning the cricket, he told me that everyone speaks English on Malta, and are extremely helpful. Well, when I got to the right road, that proved to be true. Everyone I spoke to – and there were quite a few – wanted to help. But not one of us could find the place. Eventually I rang Jenn, and I’m not sure what she did, but a lady emerged from a building and started waving to me, and we were in. 

This isn’t hotel. It says it’s a guest house, but I have a feeling it’s just a room in a family flat. Now, you know me, I’m not that fussy about where I stay. I have some very basic requirements, and that’s it. Still, my hopes of the place weren’t raised when the lady told me

“It’s on the 4^th floor. There is a lift . . . but it’s broken.”

Yes, you are right, I was already mentally composing the Trip Advisor review at this point. There are 18 steps between each floor. When she took me up, I was so relieved just to have found the place that I think the adrenaline carried me all the way up. Then she showed me the bathroom – and that actually has a bath as well as shower – so that is a plus – and my room. Right, well, look, I don’t mind small, and as long as I’ve got a bed, table, chair and cupboard, then I’m happy, and all these things are here. I was much less happy to see that the room is not air conditioned. The only concessions to the heat are an open window and a fan. I also found out in the middle of the night that the light doesn’t work. I kind of knew what the answer was going to be when I asked what the wifi password was. The poor girl wrinkled up her nose as if I’d used an unfamiliar and somehow distasteful term.

“We don’t have it. “ She was right too. They don’t. 

Okay, so I’m coming towards the end of slagging off the room. Just one more thing though – when I went out a little later, I just couldn’t lock the door. You have to half lift it off of its hinges to get the bolt into the lock, and the same to unlock it.  

Well, using the map I printed out before I left home I easily found my way to the bay, and the moment when I turned the corner into Il Halel and saw the sea at the end of the road was when things really started looking up – and I made the sketch which goes with this episode. St. Paul’s Bay, which is what this area of Malta is called is where St. Paul was shipwrecked back in the day.I mean, it’s very touristy – believe me you’re spoilt for choice when it comes to crap – but hey, I have a thing about islands, especially Mediterranean islands which are bathed in sunshine, which probably goes back to my days backpacking from Athens to Crete and Rhodes when I was in my late teens. (And that thing, gentle reader is called sunburn.) No, sorry, couldn’t resist that. But my legs are no longer bone white, and have a subtle pink flush after yesterday.  

I woke at 2 and then again at 5 this morning, local time. Which is okay. I’d seen the McDonalds at the end of Il Halel yesterday, and that it would be open by 7. To be honest it was more like 8 before I found the oomph to move, but I’m glad I did, because a Maltese McDonalds breakfast is pretty much indistinguishable from a British one, and it meant that I could work out my route to Valletta. On the way to the bus stop though, I did something very rash, which I’m not normally prone to doing. I bought . . . a hat. I don’t care, every day my bald patch comes to look a little more like a monk’s tonsure, and I’ve managed to avoid getting sunburnt on the top of my head for the last 55 years, so I want to keep it that way.  

I was in Valletta by about 10 this morning, which meant that I was able to cross off another page in my I Spy Book of European Capital Cities. Okay, I could joke about this (show me the evidence says the reader) – but I won’t. Valletta has a lot of what I like. Narrow streets, although not winding at all, since the city is set out on a grid system. Sandy coloured buildings which almost seem to be built out of solid sunshine. Great churches and architecture. An archaeological museum. I’m really glad I went in this one, because although the cost was 5 Euros, it told me quite a bit about the island that I didn’t already know. The first inhabitants of the islands were building the most incredible stone tombs 7000 years ago, long before anyone else. Then they stopped, and nobody knows for certain what happened to them. Then the bronze age settlers must have originally come from elsewhere because they were using metal tools, while Malta has no metal ore of its own. Thoroughly enjoyed the museum and spent a couple of hours there.  

After mooching around for a bit, I decided that walking around in the hottest part of the day was not a

good idea. When I got off the bus at just after 10 am it was already 38 degrees, and getting hotter. So I took a tour on the electric city tour bus – which you can hopefully see in the other sketch. You see the problem with Valetta is once you get off the bus and enter through the city gates, you are on Republic Street. If you go off this street, then inevitable you are going to be going downhill. Now, I have no problem with going downhill. If you want to move from a high place to a lower place, then going downhill seems an eminently sensible way of doing it. No, the problem is I’m not so fond of going back uphill again. Not when I’ve got 72 stairs waiting for me when I get back to the flat. So the bus tour seemed a decent way of doing it. During the tour, I learned why it is that everyone on Malta speaks English. They have to. Seriously, English is one of the two official languages – Malti being the other, which is related to Arabic although written using the latin alphabet. Lessons in school are taught in English in all subjects.  

Right, remember me telling you about the huge church I saw as I flew into the island? Well, it’s known as the rotunda, and it’s in Mosta, which is roughly halfway between Valletta and St. Paul’s Bay. I passed it on my way to Valletta this morning and so when the bus passed it on the way back I got off at the nearest stop. And I’m very glad that I did. The Rotunda is a remarkable looking building. Hemmed in as so many great churches are by buildings, making it difficult to make a sketch, it cost 2 Euros for a tour, but this did include a short film about the church. Basically, it’s the 3^rd one to stand on the site. A 19^th century priest decided that as the town was growing he wanted a church which would be able to cater for its growing population. “Hmm,” he mused, as I believe priests are wont to do from time to time, “What was the name of that nice old church in Rome that I worshipped in once? I know, the Pantheon.” So the church is modelled on the Pantheon in Rome. It supposedly has the 4^th biggest dome in Europe. Took a while to build mind – the priest himself never got to say mass in it since he died before it was completed.  

Well, there we are, then, that’s my first two days in Malta. Tomorrow I’m thinking about a boat ride to Gozo, but we’ll see how things turn out. Hopefully see you tomorrow evening.

Summer 2019 Episode 12 - 4th August - San ISidro - Crevillent

Hi, glad you could make it on this, the penultimate full day of the San Isidro leg of An English Fool Abroad with his Sketchbook. Yes, only tomorrow to go now.  

When I got up this morning, I had a think about the day ahead, and decided that opportunities for on the spot sketching were probably going to be like jockey’s legs – few and far between. Bearing this in mind, I cheated somewhat on today’s sketch. I took a few photos as well as making the sketches in Murcia last week, and so today’s sketch is just based on a photo I took. This is not the nicest looking bridge over the Segura in Murcia – the nicest bridge I already sketched last year. But hey, I’ve got make a sketch of at least one bridge whenever I’m away, I’m sure somebody passed a law about it a while ago. 

Sunday lunch in the Las Palmeras restaurant in Crevillent was the big event of the day. John really wasn’t feeling very well at all before we left the Casa Me Duck. He’s developed a bit of a bad chest. Jen did check his blood oxygen level, and he’s fine on that score, so working on that principle we proceeded towards the restaurant, and he did improve somewhat while we were eating. A nice meal it was too, although interestingly, as it was last week, the starter was better, and more of a main course than the actual main course was. Speaking of the main course, I did think twice about sole in orange sauce, bearing in mind experiences with Chinese lemon chicken before now. The second – and last – time I had this particular dish it consisted of cubes of chicken served up in what resembled nothing quite so much as lukewarm Gale’s lemon curd. Thankfully, the orange sauce was quite subtle, and the sole cooked to perfection today. 

Thus replete and satisfied we set off on the short walk back to the Hancoxmobile. Now, forgive me for using actual photographs for the next bit, but they can probably better convey what happened next than mere words. We came out of the restaurant, and looked at the Hancoxmobile. This is what we saw:-

Then we got a bit closer and this is what we saw:- 

As they say in Spain – bloody el. 

I did offer to get the spare out and whip it on, but John and Jenn were adamant that this is what they pay their insurance for, and called out breakdown assistance. More about that in a while. After Jen had rung up the breakdown people, we had a good half hour’s wait, and John wanted to answer a call of nature. His wheelchair won’t fit in through the door of the Gents inside the restaurant, however the restaurant has its own swimming pool, and we were certain there was a toilet down by the pool, even if we weren’t sure exactly where. I wheeled John down the ramp, and two rather unhelpful steps and we found the toilets, a rather ugly blockhouse with unisex cubicles. After we’d waited for a good ten minutes, and then did the necessary and came out, a lady stopped me, laughing, and said something I’m afraid that I didn’t understand. Then she pointed to the blockhouse next to the one we’d used. Then she pointed to the sign above the door – I can’t remember the exact words, but it was pretty clear that it translated as disabled toilets.  

Once the breakdown guy arrived – and to be fair, I thought that being there in 30 minutes on a summer Sunday was pretty good going – he whipped out the spare, a lever jack, and a wheelbrace, and he was done in a matter of minutes. Impressed as we were, I passed on a 5 Euro tip, and said “Toma una bebida conmigo”, which I think sort of means – have a drink with me. Mind you, judging by the look on the guy’s face when I said it, it might just has easily have meant – have a baby with me. No, I did google it when I got back, just to be certain.  

Well, after all that excitement I’m afraid to say that I scarcely moved from the sofa in the Casa Me Duck once we returned home. So this is of necessity a rather shorter episode than we’ve become accustomed to. As for tomorrow – well, Russ is coming in the morning, and with the cleaners coming in I shouldn’t wonder that we’ll be going out for a bit tomorrow morning.  

Hopefully see you same time tomorrow.

SUmmer 2019 Episode 11 - 3rd July - San Isidro - Catral

Evening. Here we are then at the second weekend of the English Fool Abroad with his Sketchbook summer sketchpedition. It’s Saturday! That’s about the only thing I don’t like about the school holidays – Saturdays somehow become less special. Still Saturday – Sabado – it is, and so let me ask you this. What do I normally do at least once on a Saturday whenever I’m staying in San Isidro? How very dare you! No, not that, I meant we go to the market in Catral.

First of all, though, we passed through the market to grab a coffee and a tostada in a café close by the church, which you can see in the sketch below. The Café Plaza – named after Port Talbot’s sadly dilapidated art deco cinema, I believe – was an interesting place. The coffee and tostada were delicious, but it was one of those places which has led me to formulate a theory, which I am sure that posterity will dub Clark’s theory of inverse volume. Basically it means that the smaller the volume of a café or bar in Spain, the greater the volume at which the locals within it will talk. And there’s a certain type of Spanish chap who is very, very good at speaking at full volume. Every bar/café has at least one, and the Plaza, in its small space, had 4, two in front of me, and two behind. By the time we came out I did feel a little bit like I’d been beaten over the head with a blunt instrument.

Now, just in case you’re starting to think that I’m being unfair to Spanish men, fear not. Now I’m going to have a go at the English as well. I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity critic. A practical move we could take to lesson the toll being taken on John’s feet was to provide some cushioning and protection for him, and so we visited a chemist just off the main square. Now, if alarm bells happen to be ringing in your mind following my experiences in the chemist in San Isidro, well, I can understand that. However, this chemist, being in cosmopolitan downtown Catral, was well used to dealing with British customers. Which was just as well. There was a queue ahead of us, all of us being held up by a senior citizen, whose accent irresistibly reminded me of The Last of the Summer Wine. See what you think about what he was talking about.

“What I want to know is, why are you closed sometimes?” When met with confusion from the pharmacist, he elaborated,

“What time do you open?”

“Half past eight.”

“I was here at nine and you were closed.”

“Ah, well, it’s the summer . . . “ Trust me, that is a perfectly adequate excuse in Spain.

“This was in the winter.” – and so on it went. The poor girl was berated for the fact that they closed during siesta time, and weren’t open the second after it ended, and so it went on. Eventually the miserable old devil gave up – maybe he was starting to feel all the daggers that everyone had been looking at him , although since everyone in the queue was British, we just silently wished him a bout of amoebic dysentery rather than saying anything to him about it.

The market. Right, would you like the glass half full appraisal, or the glass half empty appraisal? The half full appraisal was that there was quite a lot more stalls there than there was when I visited last year. Last year it was a couple of weeks later in the year, and a lot of the stallholders were on holiday. The half empty appraisal was that I just wasn’t really that interested in what was there. Fruit and veg stalls, sweet stalls, and above all else, ladies’ clothing stalls. Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that ladies need to wear clothes, and ladies clothing stalls would seem to be a reasonable solution to that problem. But, how should I put it, to me, when you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

Still, looking on the bright side, the fruit and veg stall did at least allow me the opportunity of  making a Spanglish pun. It helps if you know that the Spanish for spinach (hmm, the Spanish for spinach? The chalice from the palace and the vessel with the pestle come to mind.) – the Spanish for spinach is espinacas. Hey – stop making up your own puns! Jen pointed out the spinach on the stall which was looking very sorry for itself, and said,

“That spinach looks like I feel.” To which I replied,

“Espinackered. “ No? Well, please yourselves.

That, then, was about it for today. Just Sunday’s and Monday’s instalments to go in part one of the trip, good people. I hope to see you then.

Summer 2019 - Episode 10 - August 2nd - San Isidro - Catral

Well, hello, good evening, and welcome. Now the really observant among you will probably have noticed that although I have posted an episode of An English Fool Abroad with his Sketchbook every day, by spreading my post about my trip to Murcia over two days, I cunningly avoided having to say anything about yesterday. Clever huh? Well, the fact is that there really isn’t much to say about yesterday or today, so it will be interesting to see if I can string one episode out of the both of them.

If that introductory paragraph didn’t manage to put you off, then I applaud your tenacity, and just hope that what follows will be worth you sticking with. Yesterday, then. Jen left the casa very early in the morning for an appointment at the hospital. The good news is that when she returned she said that her immune system has improved considerably, and certainly she has seemed much more like herself in the last couple of days. 

She’d been given another prescription, and John also had a prescription which needed picking up, so this put me onto chemist duty in the afternoon. The pharmacist I’ve been dealing with in the last week has been a holiday relief apparently. As I walked in and she saw me, I saw a cloud pass momentarily over her features as I walked in. I bet she was thinking, “Oh, flipping heck, not Senor Ladythings again.” After I handed her the prescriptions and Jen and John’s cards, I did for a moment think that I was actually going to achieve my mission without any fuss for the first time this holiday. But no. She stood there, looking at Jen’s medicine, then her computer screen, and shook her head. She couldn’t work out whether she was just supposed to give the one box, because if she was supposed to give more, then she’d have to order it. Still, between her uncertain English, and my far worse Spanish, we worked out between us that I could have the one box, and would come back if there was supposed to be more so she could order it. 

Now, having sampled the delights of Catral, Dolores, San Felipe Neri, El Realengo and Callosa de Segura over the last few days, I’d decided to venture in the other direction and check out Crevillent for a suitable subject for sketching yesterday afternoon. And I found one. Heading down what I presumed was the main street, I saw a sign for the centro urbano pointing uphill. – That sounds promising. – said I, and drove the Smart uphill, and round a complicated maze of streets until we came to a very promising looking church. Unfortunately there was absolutely nowhere I could park even the Smart. I resolved to try going around in a big circle, and have another look for a parking space when I got back close to the church. The only thing is, in these nearby small towns, the Spanish do have something of a fondness for one way systems. I could go up, and I did. I could go down, and I did. I could go round and round and I did. Could I find my way back to the church, though? Could I heck as like. So I’m sorry, but there’s no sketch from yesterday. 

Unable to satisfy my creative urge through my pen, last night, I ended up cooking for all of us. We quickly fished out all of the ingredients, and I got cracking. And you’ll have to take my word for it, but let me tell you that once you’ve had a nibble on my Bolognese, you don’t go back. Sometimes you can’t.  

Today, then. On a more serious note, Russ has been worried about John’s feet for a week now, and after yesterday he saw to it that John had a Doctor’s appointment to examine them. Without going into huge detail, as I said John finds it very difficult to walk any distance at all now, and is also experiencing difficulties with his hands. Up to now, this has been treated as a consequence of a spinal injury which John suffered some years ago. Now, according to the doctor John saw today, it is a consequence of his diabetes. His diabetes was diagnosed a few years ago, and his sugar is stable, but all the years it went untreated did the damage according to this doctor. He’s making an appointment for John to see a specialist, so we’ll see what they can do then. 

The big event for the day, then, was lunch out at El Burladero in Catral. Quick trivia question – where would you see a burladero, and what is it used for? No? Well, you’d see it in a bull ring. It’s a wooden screen which a bull fighter can cower behind when the bull finally decides it’s had enough of a big red hanky being waved in its face. To be honest, it turned out that dining here was a little bit of a gamble, not because the food wasn’t good, but because there was no written menu and the lovely waitress couldn’t really understand us any more than we could understand her. More by luck than judgement, though, we ended up with a rather delicious meatball starter, and a definitely delicious cod main course. We sat out in the open, which was just as well. There was a bull’s head mounted on the wall, and had we been eating beefy meatballs under its nose it would have been rather insensitive to say the least. In the forecourt, the restaurant had fans which sprayed a fine mist of water over the diners at intervals, and very refreshing it was too. 

So there you go, dearly beloved, we made it to the end of the episode after all. Without much chance for sketching today, I’ve included a sketch made in the station in Murcia, which I’ve been holding back for a sketchless episode just such as this one. 

Summer 2019 episode 9 - 31st July - Murcia

Okay, so when I left you in the previous episode, I’d just scarpered from the Testivos de Jehova. I sat myself outside the Church of San Bartolomeo, fully intending to sketch the church as an act of penance, when I noticed a rather interesting statue right in front of it. Dios Mercurio, or the God Mercury as we call him. My first thought was that the Church was rather bidding against itself by having this statue outside its entrance, but then, thinking about it, I suppose that it’s the ecclesiastical equivalent of a Marvel comics/DC crossover. By the way, if you’re looking at the sketch, that thing sticking out in front of the statue is his caduceus. Ooh, Matron. That’s his wand – ooh Matron. Honestly, get your minds out of the gutter, please. The caduceus is the staff with two serpents wound round it which has since become an international symbol for medicine and medical help. As for the strange thing seemingly sticking out of his cheek, well, this was all part of a baseball hat and scarf combination which had been hung rather haphazardly around his neck.

I had a hankering to see the Plaza del Toros, which I noticed on the map. Yes, that’s right, a bullring. Now, let me try to explain my feelings about this. I have never been to a bull fight, and I never want to go to a bullfight. I understand that bull fighting is part of Spanish culture and tradition, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it or condone it, because I don’t. But architecturally, I wanted to see the building – well, the outside at least. For me, a Spanish bullring is the closest modern descendant of a roman amphitheatre, both architecturally, and also in terms of the bloodthirsty spectacle provided. So I did walk along to it, and in terms of architecture, I can’t say that I was disappointed. It wasn’t easy to get a good vantage point to sketch it, and this was a standing up job.

I walked back towards the cathedral, and found a useful low stone wall to sit on while I sketched the bell tower, which you can see on the same page as the sketch of Mercury. Time was getting on by now, and a spot of lunch seemed to be in order. Cards on the table, food never forms an important part of my agenda whenever I’m on a sketching trip, and especially when the weather’s hot as it is here, then it tends to suppress my appetite. However, you do have to eat, and in this case I walked back down the Gran Via towards the bridge, then took a detour towards what I think was the Church of San Pedro, and this was surrounded by restaurants, as you can hopefully see from the sketch I made. I had a very nice slice of pizza with cheese and chorizo, and thus fortified, I headed back towards the river.

It was while I was walking towards an interesting Iron girder bridge that I noticed that something was sticking out of the river. Something huge. A closer look revealed that it is in fact a sculpture, of the head of a fish, and its tail sticking out of the river. I have to say that I rather liked the frivolity of it. I idly googled it when I got back to the casa last night, and found out that it is the Sardina del Segura – the Segura being the river – and it’s a tribute to the most famous ancient fiesta of the city, the Enttierro de la Sardina. It’s held every spring, and the literal meaning of Entierro del Sardina is the burial of the Sardine. And you thought my putative Fiesta del Propane sounded silly! I’m not making this one up. Apparently it is a mock funeral procession which ends with a symbolic burning of an effigy of a sardine to mark Ash Wednesday, the end of carnival and the start of Lent.

Well, I thought, how do you follow a giant, concrete sardine sticking out of the middle of the river? I’ll be honest, I didn’t have much of an answer when I’d finished the sketch. My modus operandi for a day’s sketchpedition is to keep going until my legs hurt, and then stop. It was about 3 o’clock and my legs were hurting, so I headed to the station. Where I swiftly found out that the next train to Alicante didn’t leave until 4. Well, such is life. I wasn’t in a huge rush, which was just as well because it was more like quarter past  by the time the train left the station.

Just one more thing worthy of mention. Only two of us got off the train at San Isidro. The other guy was ahead of me, and we both walked out of the station. Then he headed off in exactly the direction I wanted to go. Every turning I needed to make, he made exactly the same turning before me. As we approached the road with the Casa Me Duck I couldn’t believe that he walked into exactly the same street. Poor devil must have thought that I was deliberately following him. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had preceded me into the gates of the casa, but thankfully he went into a house across the road, and so my brief, unwanted career as San Isidro’s own Senor Stalker came to an end.

Well, that’s it for yesterday’s Murcia trip. Not a lot happening on what has been a lazy, can’t be bothered to step outside the casa, day so far today. So I’ll see you again tomorrow.

Summer 2019 Episode 8- 31st July - Murcia

Right then, I know you’ve probably been unable to sleep for worrying about where I was going to end up going today. Well, fear not. All will be revealed. But not right this second. Firstly, though, today’s shoutout. This episode is dedicated to my grandchildren, Ollie, Mimi and Alfie. Grampy misses you loads.

So, today’s lucky winner was . . . Murcia! Yes, I could easily have gone to Alicante or Elche again, today, but in the end Murcia was the clear winner. Why? Well, you may remember that I visited Murcia last year, and it was only after I’d been that I realised I’d missed out on something while I was there. What’s that? I hear you say. (Go on then, say it.) Well, what do Prague, Berlin, Budapest, Alicante, Birmingham, Amsterdam and Stockholm all have, that Ieper, Kaunas and Madrid don’t? Yes, you’ve got it, trams. I’m not saying that you can’t have a good holiday without going on a tram, since I’ve done it several times. However the tram is usually the icing on the cake.

I set off from the Casa Me Duck at just after 9. I didn’t borrow the Smart this time, because it’s only a ten minute walk to the station. Bearing in mind how likely I am to burn, I borrowed John’s hat. Which was the cue for the sky to cloud over, and the sun to disappear, never to seriously threaten to break through until I returned back to the casa. All in all, though, it made for a very pleasant walking day. At one point the temperature was down to a bracing 25 degrees. And me without my scarf and gloves.

Unbeknownst to me, the new timetable for the Cercania line between Alicate and Murcia starts on the last day of the month rather than the first. My first clue that I could be in for a long wait was when I noticed that the Spanish for Waiting Room is Sala de Espera. From Latin and French I know that Espera is derived from the word for hope as well. Be fair, even in the 70s, British Rail never tried to get away with having a Hoping Room instead of a waiting room. Might have been a bit more honest, however, I digress. Still, at least the 50 minute wait at the station gave me the opportunity to make the first sketch of the day.

It takes slightly more than half an hour to Murcia by the train, but it’s a very pleasant journey, passing close by the mountains between Callosa de Segura and Orihuela. I was somewhat distracted by the lady who got on and plonked herself opposite me at Callosa de Segura. Judging from her somewhat homely appearance, her headscarf and her age, she might well have been called Senora Norabatti. She kept trying to engage me in conversation, despite the fact that I assured her “No hablo Espanol” at regular intervals. Actually, I say she tried to engage me in conversation, but actually no. She just wanted me to be an audience to her monologue, and didn’t seem to care in the slightest whether I could understand what she was saying. Come to think of it, I’ve taken part in Parents Evenings like that.

Having visited Murcia last year, I had a pretty good idea where to go when I left the station. Luckily the route took me over the River, then past the Cathedral, to the southernmost point of the Murcia tram network, the Plaza Circular – so named after the 19^th century dramatist Juan Pablo Circular, best known for his riotous farce, “Toreador, Don’t Spit Upon the Floor” I believe. The Plaza itself is round, which is a bit of a coincidence, too, I suppose. The tram stop just around the corner thankfully had some benches, so it wasn’t really a hardship to sit and work on the tram sketch you can see as three trams went by. Time was getting on, though, and so I did photograph the actual tram I got on, in order to help me cheat to finish the sketch later on. I’ll come back to that.

So, having ridden on a tram network that I’d never used before, the day had already become a huge success for me. So the big question was what to do for a lap of honour. Now, on the Gran Via leading off from the Plaza Circular there’s a tourist information booth. If you know me, then you know I love tourist information booths and offices, because I love free maps. The one I had from this booth had, I noticed, numbers between one and the high 40s in blue circles liberally sprinkled across it, with the majority clustered between the Plaza and the cathedral. Each of these was supposedly a place of interest. So I set off to find as many as I could. To be fair, some of them are fantastic. If you’re in the centre of Murcia, you need a church and you don’t fancy the Cathedral, well, I can guarantee that you won’t be far from another church which might be more to your taste. On the other hand, though, some of them are, well, I’m not saying they’re not worth looking at, but I did walk past them three or four times before I realised they were there. So alright, I am saying that some of them aren’t worth looking at.

I stopped briefly in the Plaza Santo Domingo, where I made one of my favourite sketches last year, and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t. I was called over by a group with a little stand with the words Testivos de Jehova. You’re probably reacting to that word Jehova the same way that I did, and you’d be right. They were in fact Jehovah’s Witnesses. Now look, I have no quarrel with and would make no criticism of any religious group or religion, and I certainly haven’t got anything better to offer anyone. But I don’t wish to discuss it in detail in public when I could be sketching. The thing is, though, my Spanish just isn’t good enough to convey all of that, so I resorted to the universal language of scarper.

I shan’t lie to you, Dearly Beloved. I’ve had a terrific day, but my head is hurting. I’ve taken some tablets, but I think it would be best if I shut this down for tonight, and then took up the story again in the morning, when I’ll also post the rest of the sketches.

See you then.