New Years Day 2024 and walking along our local Leighton Beach. Of course I’m listening in to the scattered conversations . Like a lot of people, my age anyway, I’m thinking of past New Years and estimating how many more I might see.
“It was the best night of my life, ever. Oh my god,” exclaims a young woman to her companion. That so strongly stated phrase set me off wondering and questioning: Is there a best New Year?/ can I remember just one/how does one decide?
There is the usual muddle of memories. Every time I retrieve one remnant from my mind another one emerges to obscure the one I have.
Ok then I’ll just stick with one New Year which always comes to mind. One spent in Exeter, UK with my Aunt Gladys and cousins and assorted people. Gladys always gathered people around her, and she celebrated at every opportunity. But Christmas/ New Year was her favourite. Lights, tree, wrapped presents and lots of wonderful food. She was a great cook. The highlight of this celebration was the brew. For months leading up to the night bottles would be opened, sniffed, tasted and lids screwed back on. Finally on New Years Eve assorted bottles would be produced with the lethal cocktails prior to the meal.
I can’t remember a lot, probably the combination of baby, my 5 month first child was with me, and the alchohol. I don’t remember much noise from my breast fed baby. The memory is of stories, a warm room and fun. My Aunt, despite the many sadnesses that came her way, had always created this sense of joy.
Each New Year I remember that New Year in Exeter with Gladys, and remind myself to laugh more.
So I raise a glass of the best whisky to you Aunty Gladys.
And this post is a memory too. I started it at the end of my travel to Spain and then UK, a few months ago now. But real life took over and I abandoned the blog.
Back in Bath, where I was born. Where I lived with my grandmother years later, and where I have returned over a number of years.
And here I am again. Grandmother long gone.
Sitting in the Pump Room having the traditional morning tea. The place in which ladies and gentlemen danced, flirted, gossiped and intrigued in 18C England. It was here to the mineral springs of Bath Spa where languishing women, and men I guess, came to take the waters. It was here that Jane Austen’s herioine Elizabeth Bennett met the taciturn Mr Darcy.
No longer can we sip the water from the fountain in the far corner or bathe in the warm baths as I used to do as a child. Some lurgy made its way into the water a while ago,
We sat in the corner on the right
There in a corner I can see my grandmother holding my baby son so proudly. Her first great grandchild. There’s a photo at home that I’ll have to pull out when I return home, pull out of the mass of photos that have mushroomed and muddled themselves over a number of years.
I tried to capture the curve and decoration of the windows, and ceiling detail around the chandelier I have swum in this Roman bath with my grandmother as a child Here they are 18 C elegant men and women parading around the Assembly Room
So a warning, this blog is more for me than the reader (I guess most writers blogs are so ). I need to record those Bath memories now.
As I lift the cup of beautifully served coffee to my lips and grab the traditional bath bun ( a solid doughy sweet bread sprinkled in cinnamon and a little brown sugar and eaten with the real butter sitting neatly on a butter dish on this white tablecloth) I am glad that it’s still happening / the traditional morning tea in the pump room served in the grand manner
Outside the Roman Baths/Assembly Rooms is the Abbey and the churchyard. Full of the usual buskers and tourists. A sunny day at the beginning of winter
I listen and watch for a while and then walk around the corner to the square where musicians perform to tourists and Bathonians alike. Bath has a music school so the buskers/ performers are very accomplished. I can remember from the time I lived and worked in Bath doing exactly what I’m doing now, sitting around in the circle of benches in the ‘no sun’. Actually, I used to buy an ice cream cone from the place over the road. It’s still here, but all repainted, completely refurbished.
The violinist is just setting up
And I think it’s worth putting up, a blue contrast to the Bath Stone
Well I can’t hang around here all morning so I make my way up towards Widcombe where I have lived at various times, and visited to see my parents and family.
I walk over the River Avon, peering into Parade Gardens underneath. No, it’s not me and my brothers playing down there next to the music stand. If I close my eyes I can see back 46 years, my grandmother again proudly pushing her first great grandchild, in one of those old fashioned perambulators. The baby is swaddled in white woolies, the tip of his nose poking out from the firmly arranged blankets. It’s a crisp autumn morning.
The Convent school I went to briefly is long gone, but I cross over the road to St John’s . The primary school is no longer, but the church, much restored, is right ahead. I was baptised here. Inside it’s brighter and more attractive than I remember on other visits
Then it’s along … , much the same, past the spruced up train station, through the tunnel and over Hapenny Bridge to Widcombe. This is the bridge I walked over every morning , and back at 4pm to St John’s School, with my little brother. Only for a year or so. Freezing in the winter. The white swans are still swimming around, but I’m not scared of them now.
With my Bath rellies in the garden of Ring o Bells. A garden now .
Past the Ring o Bells and the White Hart to the crossroads. Ring o Bells, Rosie’s place, the bar lady my father and uncle spoke of with such affection: she stood behind the bar and managed everyone with a mix of sternness and humour. Up Widcombe Hill to Perrymead Cemetry. Dad there now with the brother I walked with to school.
A bit of weeding at Perrymead
Then it’s time to compete the circuit. Back along Church Lane where I walked with my grandmother. I don’t take the small path to the right where we used to go to feed Dobin the horse, on our way through to the exotic sounding Rainbow Woods. I can’t see any arrows on the walls, kids and I played Arrow Chase along here. At the end of the lane is 2 Widcombe Terrace. Spruced up, lots of cars parked in the lane. I squeeze behind the car and pose against the blue smartly painted door.
I’ve just got rid of the cars. 2 Widcombe Terrace ,
I turn off Widcombe Hill to the right and head down The Tyning to the canal. I’m now on one of the regular family walks, down and along the canal. When we were older it was a longer walk through Henrietta Gardens and tunnels with a stop at the closest pub.
Today I turn left back towards the city, pausing to enjoy the special canal sights
Soon enough I’m back where I started, past the pretty flower shop (always been there but sprucer now) and a charity shop and turn over Hapenny Bridge towards our very beautiful bedsit in the Royal Crescent.
I couldn’t resist this. Sitting on Barajas Plaza Mayor, enjoying a very delicious paella on this, our last night in Spain. The Plaza is probably the last bit remaining of what was once a small town far from Madrid. The airport has grown quickly so that small villages have been incorporated into its area.
A view along the long passageways surrounding the central garden and fountain A couple of the old homes squashed between the new This lovely door remains although the large church around the corner has been rebuilt The fountain in the center
There we were enjoying our food
The Restuarants span the plaza and by 10.30 pm as we were finishing our meal, the whole plaza was teaming with people eating and drinking.
Enjoying last meal in Spain
All around there was activity. Cars coming along in front, cars entering via the side street, the bus on the hour driving around the plaza to the bus stop opposite, the occasional police car, an ambulance, even a motor bike. People crossed in front of cars to and fro, and I watched the guy from one of the restaurants wheel over a full bin to the line of bins lined up across the street.
I had to get up and take photos
I thought of Fremantle’s South Terrace . Quiet in comparison.
A fun night here in Barajas, though. Noisy but full of life. A beautiful space.
We have finished walking the Olvidado : A fairly remote, outstandingly beautiful, Camino in North Western Spain. You can read the many blogs I have written this last month:the Olvidado, starting in Bilbao Northern Spain and making its mostly mountainous way to Villa Franca, is the most interesting and constantly changing Camino I have walked. If you’re thinking of walking in Spain, want a challenge, spectacular vistas and not too many walkers, then get to it !
Just some of the views along the Olvidado
Most of the Spanish Caminos are looked after and sustained by people who love them and live on them, or around. A variety of people: hospitaleros of course and those who have mapped the different ways so we can follow the path, putting up the yellow flechas that guide us. Also, particularly on the Olvidado which is so solitary, the tienda people who are often the primary source of food in the small places, the small bars and camareras/os, who have helped us along the way and listened patiently to my Spanish; in fact just about all the Spaniards we met.
I haven’t got the names of all those who were kind to a stranger really, so I’m just naming those I can:
Adolfo in Nava de Ordunte Albergue
Sonia Fernandez, encouraging and cheerful hospitalera, Almuhey Albergue. Julia too, whom we met there .
Dulio and his wife in La Magdalena. They run the restaurant and look after the very modern Albergue. The most enormous tortilla and ensaladas we have had. So patient and good humoured.
Laura and Ana. La Magia de las Nubes in Riello.
Amazing place in the clouds, beautiful food and women.
Estella. Gracias for looking after the Old Monasterio Albergue in Vergarienza. It is obviously well loved; and for taking the time to tell me a little of its history.
Senor Antonio, Hostal Las Eras, Cubillos del Sil. I enjoyed so much our chat about the town and your family, and the ‘ tranquilidad’ we look for. Gracias tambien to Antonio’s friend who runs the bar in the town, and prepared a delicious salad and calamares for us, even though place was closed for food .
The lady in the tienda where we bought such fresh fruit in La Robla. Also for her interest in out lives.
The guy who ran the bar underneath the Fasjar Albergue and went off to get milk for our breakfast in the morning . Had a great night there talking away to our peregrina friend, Irish Eileen .
And: Enders and others, for all their research and writing. We followed the guides and wikiloc.
Nava de Ordunte Sonia and I at Almuhey Gracias Dulio at La Magdalena La Magia de las Nubes, Riello Monasterio Vegarienza Vegarienza Fasjar Albergue NocedaCongosto Albergue Noceda Albergue
These are only some of the people, and some of the albergues along the way. Without the ‘kindness of strangers ‘ we would not be able to enjoy this Camino Olvidado, nor others in Spain. I know that on the path there’s a camaraderie, a hotch potch creation of a peregrino family. But still: Thank you .
The four weeks of walking the Olvidado is a strange, mirrored tapestry of shifting reflections at this moment, a week after. Rather like the patterns on this wall plate I looked at this morning. It was hanging in the tiny courtyard beneath our apartmento in Avila.
So I am fascinated by doors and windows. They are wonderful photographic subjects with curves, carvings, different textures and shadows. Here in Spain, especially on the Olvidado path I have just walked, past lives are etched into surfaces gifting the meandering walker, (in this case a slow peregrina), a glimpse into another world.
Of course some of the photographs also show life now, especially of the larger towns where I stayed on the way, sometimes for a few nights. And the cities , Madrid, Salamanca, Ourense …visited after the walking .
Windows and doors look out as well as inwards. I spent quite a bit of time looking out from living spaces, gazing over roof tops at houses, churches and fields, peering into next door yards and small streets, watching people walk past. All part of a larger Camino which we travel each day in our different cultures.
‘ Doors and Windows : Imagine ‘
First window, from Hotel Artistic in Madrid . Yay we’re here in Spain . Light on curtains, light in my life
And it’s a tall door, Day in Madrid getting ready to start the Olvidado
Se Vende. Said the notice . A pause on our way to Ordunte. Old monastery. First day walking
Padlocked And this was one of the doors to a once thriving monastery
More from ‘Doors and Windows:Imagine’
The front door of. Albergue in Quintanilla, Old house Hostal El Escuder Cilleruelo Got door/ window fever myself ? Valle de Valdebezana . Beautiful door in small church beside path And a close up Arroya , upmarket posada Small wayside chapel after Arija Random photo. Valdeolea Entry to old part of Aguilar Guardo Casa del Peregrino 1579 . At Nuestra Senora de la Velilla .Walking up from Almuhey La Ercina . wayside chapel marking route pilgrims took to Santiago in 11 C Bonar . Hostal Inez Ermita door at start of walk to La Robla Unusual to be blue Nearing Riello ? Lago , old Pueblo near Riello Near Riello La Magica de las Nubes, Riello Orange door at entrance to village past Riello Vegarienza Monasterio Albergue Ermita Santo Cristo on way to Fasgar Ermita at Murias de Paredes Outside Nocedo Outside Nocedo Walking through Bembibre Hostal Las Eras , Cubillos Finally Ponferrada . I think that’s the end of Spanish Windows !
So I may have left out some doors or windows or, alternatively, given the reader door fever. But this collection shows all that I cannot put into words: the joy, the colour, the life, the history, of Spain.
And some of my story as I gazed with curiosity at this country. Hola ! This is a little of what Susanna saw .
Sambasue21 