On the way to the station I stopped by the market again for strawberries. At 360 pesetas/kg (these were pre-Euro days, something like 4.5 AUD) they were more expensive than the day before but still great value and tasty. I got breakfast near the station. Orange juice was usually the most expensive component of Spanish breakfasts.
The train left punctually. I observed an elderly Spanish couple in nearby seats. The wife was talkative and often burst into cackles of laughter, while the husband was taciturn and masticated what I think was tobacco. She obviously needed talk for stimulation, her hands were tapping and her feet shifting constantly.
Our diesel train ascended into the hills passing the dry bed of the Túria river and cemeteries. As in many other Catholic countries, coffins are often placed in niches rather than interred. In the vineyards new growth was sprouting. The line went through tunnels and over bridges.
At Cuenca I looked for my desired lodging and had to resort to the tourist office, then asking bystanders for directions a couple of times. To no avail. So I gave up and took a room in the Alaska Hotel. It was pricey but very comfy. The owner gave me a town map. For lunch I took an anchovy bocadillo at a bar, then ate the strawberries in a park.
Cuenca is in the community of Castilla-La Mancha which I had to pass through to reach Madrid from the coast. La Mancha is where Cervantes set the adventures of Don Quixote. Another thing I remembered from lessons was Manchego cheese.
After the siesta I caught a bus to the old city where the casas colgadas (hanging houses) are. These attractions are ancient houses with parts overhanging a ravine. The ascent was steep and I was glad I didn't go on foot.
They are used as residences or council houses. In one is the Museo de Arte Abstracto Español. It was elegant and had a restaurant and a gift shop.
Peering out a window onto the courtyard I noticed a Japanese woman chatting with her partner. Later in the journey I discovered that I was mistaken.
Outside it was bright, so much that the light hurt, but cool, because we were in the mountains. This is looking back on the city.
I followed the road up the hill, passing a Bar Dulcinea (the imaginary lady who was the object of Don Quixote's chivalry). Cars bearing Madrid plates passed. I guessed that they were weekend tourists (and in fact I have just read that Cuenca is even more popular now as a weekend getaway). Some gave me a friendly wave. I liked that.
Down in the ravine was an artificial beach by the river.
Another hanging house.
A close up of the balconies.
Back in the new city, townsfolk were out for the evening. I had never seen so many young on the streets till then. I said ¡hola! to a group of girls curious about me. Cuenca had the pleasant feel of a small town.
I was beginning to suffer a sense of unreality, as if I were not really on holiday. But the idea of home felt equally unreal. (This difficulty of living in the moment was an affliction of mine in those days.)
It was a cold night due to the elevation and I was glad of the heater in the room.
The train left punctually. I observed an elderly Spanish couple in nearby seats. The wife was talkative and often burst into cackles of laughter, while the husband was taciturn and masticated what I think was tobacco. She obviously needed talk for stimulation, her hands were tapping and her feet shifting constantly.
At Cuenca I looked for my desired lodging and had to resort to the tourist office, then asking bystanders for directions a couple of times. To no avail. So I gave up and took a room in the Alaska Hotel. It was pricey but very comfy. The owner gave me a town map. For lunch I took an anchovy bocadillo at a bar, then ate the strawberries in a park.
After the siesta I caught a bus to the old city where the casas colgadas (hanging houses) are. These attractions are ancient houses with parts overhanging a ravine. The ascent was steep and I was glad I didn't go on foot.
Peering out a window onto the courtyard I noticed a Japanese woman chatting with her partner. Later in the journey I discovered that I was mistaken.
Back in the new city, townsfolk were out for the evening. I had never seen so many young on the streets till then. I said ¡hola! to a group of girls curious about me. Cuenca had the pleasant feel of a small town.
I was beginning to suffer a sense of unreality, as if I were not really on holiday. But the idea of home felt equally unreal. (This difficulty of living in the moment was an affliction of mine in those days.)
It was a cold night due to the elevation and I was glad of the heater in the room.
No comments:
Post a Comment