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| Algarve sailing |
My love affair with Iberia has always been rooted in one
region: Catalunya. It was there I first
learned to love Spain, then slowly realised that most people in Catalunya do
not feel they are in Spain at all. I
progressed to love other areas of Spain : Aragon in particular, but also
Andalucia (hard not to love it), Navarra, Valencia, Islas Baleares. But even in the throes of delightful
infidelities with other areas of Spain, my heart wandered back to
Catalunya. To Barcelona, that most
magical of cities, and to the north of Catalunya: Emporda, Garrotxa, Cerdanya,
Val D’Aran. What places, what times,
what memories. Places with a vitality to
them, a sheer joy of living, which I’d never come across before. Barcelona, a metropolis that was
exceptionally cosmopolitan and exceptionally local at the same time, respecting
its past absolutely, and simultaneously turning that past on its head in ways
that were exciting and radical. And Cerdanya,
having nothing really outstanding to recommend it : a flat plain surrounded by
(objectively) modest mountains, a few towns that were (objectively) rather
similar to many other Spanish towns. And
yet Cerdanya spun its magic, and I couldn’t wait to get back there. I’m still not sure intellectually what the
magic of Cerdanya is, but I know it experientially.
And now, 24 years after first visiting Catalunya and falling
head over heels in love with north east Iberia, I am wondering if I missed a
complementary jewel of the Iberian peninsula: the Atlantic coast.
To equate Spain and Portugal as variants of Iberia is both
true and incorrect. Yes, there is an
Iberian aspect to both : life lived outside in cafes and bars and restaurants,
a gregarious sociability, a deep belief in family, a conservatism, a joie de
vivre. And there is that grand contradiction:
the conservatism (confirmed by the dominant presence of the Catholic church)
that is offset by a tangible radicalism – remember that Spain elected anarchist
and communist local governments in many places in the mid 1930s, which so upset
the conservatives that they launched a coup to replace democratically elected
officials and drove the country into the fractious and bloody Spanish Civil
War. Puigcerda, the rather non descript
but intensely alive town in Cerdanya, was one of the many flash points, having
elected an anarchist government (surely an oxymoron…). Spanish
anarchist thinking has spawned many hair-splitting “isms”, including the dada-esque
anarcho-naturism (a political philosophy confined to warm days, and certain to
be opposed by cloth manufacturers). The
richness of this radical tradition continues into the present day, sits
strangely for me with the conservatism of Spain, and is an essential part of
the magic of the Catalunya : the spirit of Durutti lives on. (Digressing, a Manchester band from the
Factory Records stable took inspiration from his exploits by naming themselves
The Durutti Column. I idly wonder if Vini
Reilly, lead singer of the band and a collaborator of Morrissey, is thinking of
the classic Smiths lyrics <In the days when you were hopelessly poor I just
liked you more> seeing the overblown hype surrounding Morrissey’s
autobiography).
There are plenty of differences between Spain and Portugal,
though. The language sounds very different,
with Portuguese sounding somewhat Russian to my ears. Portugal seems a bit more fashion conscious,
a bit more glamorous. There are plenty
of beautiful women in both countries, but perhaps Portugal has the edge. The influence of Portugal’s ex-colonies are much
more evident than Spain’s.
Lisbon has been a revelation. A little over four years ago, heading south
to the Med, Wendy and I explored Lisbon for just one day – a Sunday lunch and
an afternoon of walking around. The
bohemian bits of Lisbon we encountered felt very good indeed, so good that I
wondered about coming back, and perhaps even living in Lisbon for a time. I didn’t, sailing on to Sicily, Morocco and
the Caribbean instead. Wendy went to
live on an organic farm in Andalucia and write a novel.
A friend from Budapest, Szilvia, decided 3 years ago that the
next step in her wonderfully peripatetic and liberated life should be
Lisbon. Maret and I met up with Szilvia
and Carlos, and had a re-introduction to a small sample of the pleasures of
bohemian Lisbon. First stop was a bar in
a fishing tackle shop, Sol e Pesca, followed
by a converted brothel (Pensao Amor)
complete with fur-covered chairs, subdued lights, lots of velvet, low seating, and
a double bed. It was a taster of
bohemian Lisbon, and it was lovely.
There’s more to Lisbon than bohemia, though. Otra Vida was berthed in the Parque das
Nacoes marina, part of the Expo 98 area of Lisbon. The area is what would be called a new town
in the UK – entirely planned, entirely postmodern – and it works
brilliantly. Places like Canary Wharf in
London or Cuidad Olimpico in Barcelona don’t come close (and I won’t even mention
the disaster that is the Forum/Diagonal Mar area of Barcelona). In Parque de Nacoes every turn provides
something new and interesting to look at –a curved sheet of water projected
over a walkway, the Vasco de Gama tower in the shape of a spinnaker, a Japanese
styled water garden, a promenade for evening paseos - interesting public
spaces, places to meet and mingle, often with public sculptures - a white
giraffe peering at itself in a mirror, a surfing wave by Anthony Gormley, a
fountain made of rusted slabs and blocks that could well be by Serra. The world-class aquarium, many of the offices, the
shopping mall and the railway station are all inspiring examples of
contemporary architecture. The
apartments, too, are built with considerable thought for human occupation –
huge outdoor terraces, cleverly tiered so that apartments on different floors
can still have terraces flooded with sunlight and with sea views, and so that
viewed from the street they are architecturally interesting. It’s a place for living well.
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| Parque de Nacoes |
Paulo and Lino, two Portuguese colleagues from Vodafone, who
I had last seen in Istanbul about five years ago, came onboard while we were in
Lisbon. A memorable lunch at a local
restaurant followed, including Massada – something like a saffron bouillabaisse
with pasta, exceptionally good – and enjoyable conversations about old times,
new times, and putting the world to rights.
A lovely day.
During the same overly-rapid trip south to the Mediterranean
four years ago we stopped on the Algarve coast for 1 night. Rounding Cabo San Vicente at night in thick
fog, Wendy had a scare when two boats came out of nowhere and passed very close
to us. She had been watching the radar
and saw nothing concerning. Turning the radar
onto a higher range, we found the headland slowly circling around us. Pondering this, I wondered if Dali had made
an error when he declared Perpignan railway station the centre of the universe,
but quickly realised it improbable that Dali could have been out by more than
1000km, and concluded that Otra Vida needed a new radar unit.
Later that morning, after the fog had lifted and we’d calmed
down, we motored along the coast in zero wind, passing many resorts. Not knowing anything of the coast we randomly
anchored off a tourist beach, and after being moved on, ended up inside a river
breakwater nearby. We jumped in the
dinghy and went upriver, coming to Ferragudo.
What a delight. Grilled sardines
on the quay, a beautifully quaint little village, pretty houses, a small square,
and burned lips for me from trying unsuccessfully to match Wendy’s skills in
flaming mouth shots. Returning to the
boat late in the evening we noticed a lot of phosphorescence in the water, with
fish darting out of the way of the dinghy appearing as streaks of green
light. Back on Otra Vida we swam in this
amazing fluorescent soup, every hand movement creating bursts of green
sparkles, reminiscent of the old movie Fantastia.
Ferragudo is apparently the most photographed village in
Portugal. It’s rated as the “best” place
on the Algarve to see real Portugal.
Lino and Paulo recommended it as a stop.
It’s rated highly. And Wendy and
I stumbled across it. We could have
stopped almost anywhere else on the Algarve coast and our experience would have
been of a large holiday development. We
were lucky.
So this time, on a more leisurely trip, Maret and I anchored
near Ferragudo. It’s a lovely spot with
several wide sandy beaches, slowly crumbling honey-gold cliffs, and the dark
green shrubs so reminiscent of the Mediterranean. The river also acts as the stopping point of
the tsunami of crass holiday developments from the British/Dutch colonies west
of it – the eastern side is the lovely village, somehow still managing to
remain relatively unspoilt.
What is it about the northern European colonies in Iberia
that feels so awful? I sometimes wonder
if I am applying a double standard – after all, I relish those parts of London
that are unashamedly foreign. Why do I
feel that the Arabic colony around Edgware Road, the Bangladeshi colony around
Tower Hamlets, and Chinatown are all positive, and yet the British colonies
here are negative? On reflection I think
it’s to do both with what is being displaced, and what it is displaced with. In London, as in Barcelona, foreign-dominated
small areas provide diversity, and crucially are not bland or dumbed down. And they don’t really change the overall
nature of the place - these are large cosmopolitan cities. Areas like Torremolinos or Benidorm on the
other hand have all but eliminated any trace of Spain, and replaced it with a
depressing predictability of sports and TV bars, irish pubs, kebab shops, burger
outlets, chinese and indian restaurants, generic clothing, fake handbags and so
on. Try speaking Spanish or finding
Spanish food in some of these areas … it’s an experience. And it’s nothing to do with these being
lower-end places – the same can be said about upscale generically-international
resorts with golf, tennis, brunch, cocktail bars, designer brand shops, shrimp
Caesar salad by the pool, minimalist-styled beach clubs, and so on.
But still, am I applying a double standard? Is some of my dislike of Britain showing
through a little too much? Recalling the
places we visited in Scotland earlier in the summer, I think I would feel the
same way about a Chinatown or an Arabic area on Islay. Even if the areas were
authentic and vibrant it would materially detract from the local culture, and
the local culture is something worth celebrating. I know this could easily be recast as an
argument for cultural purity, or even as closet racism, but I’m a million miles
from both of those. And I’m certainly
not advocating worshipping of a congealed past.
Somewhere there’s a balance though, and it seems to me that the decent
British pubs I’ve known in Barcelona and Houston are positives, while the stuff
infesting San Antonio (Ibiza, not Texas), La Duquesa and Praia da Rocha are
not. And that while the wonderful
Bangladeshi food markets of Tower Hamlets are a positive, the same on Colonsay
would not be.
Ilha da Culatra, an island in the Faro estuary, is lovely, and
entirely uncosmopolitan. More
reminiscent of Mexico than Europe, the small village we anchored off has sand
as its primary surface. Small concrete
slabs form walkways in the sand, there are no cars, and the houses are low and
square roofed, mostly white with brightly coloured detailing. The village continues to makes most of its living
from fishing – the harbour is chock full of small fishing work boats, and each morning
boats came near to us pulling up gillnets.
It supplements fishing with catering to visitors in the summer – there
are about half a dozen restaurants/bars in the village, far more than would be
necessary for the small population. It
is most definitely not developed or spoiled.
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| Culatra sunset |
During the time we were anchored off the island, back in the
UK the comedian Russell Brand was guest editor of the New Statesman, a
respected political and current affairs magazine. He wrote an essay promoting non-voting as a
protest. His basic reasoning was: the
western model of today produces unacceptable results (environmental, wealth
inequality, reduced opportunity); the political system within that model has
been bought and twisted, and consequently offers only an illusion of choice;
voting implies tacit acceptance of that political system; therefore do not
vote. Brand’s articulation of this is
chaotic, but much more entertaining than my rather dry summary. The right, naturally, had a predictable spasm
of outrage, trotting out the old canards of “champagne socialist” and “corrupting
our youth” (yeah yeah, whatever).
Anyway, it so happens that the people on this sandy island
have some relevant experience of not voting.
Frustrated by the lack of progress on basic infrastructure on the island,
they decided to organize themselves into a union. After trying other tactics and getting
nowhere, not one person on the island voted in a particular election. This worked beautifully, and things got
better for the residents of Culatra: reliable electricity, street lighting,
harbour protection, and a new ferry terminal followed. Maybe they are champagne socialists and have corrupted
their youth. We didn’t see any evidence
of either, but we did see the streetlights.
A short dinghy ride from Culatra is Olhau, an important fishing
town with a large fish market. Courtesy
of a restaurant in Ferragudo we discovered a fish new to us. Called cantarilho in Portuguese, in English
it is the blackbelly rosefish (according to Wikipedia). Never heard of that one before. It tastes somewhat of seafood, with a texture
like a delicate form of monkfish (but much easier to prepare). Given its deep-water habitat I doubt we’ll
ever catch one (not that we’re great at catching fish in general anyway,
although we got one tuna last week) so it’s been a pleasure trying this fish while
it was available from a market.
We’ve now moved further south to the Cadiz area : home of
sherry, one of the world’s great drinks.
It’s also a foodie area of Spain, bullfighting country, and a place of
much sunshine. I think it will be
enjoyable.
Swordfish with rice
-
Stock for the rice: garlic, chilli pepper, star anise, coriander stalks, lemongrass, fish stock. Boil and strain. The stock should be quite spicy.
- Cook the rice in the stock and vegetable oil, then add chopped coriander leaves.
- Trim swordfish steaks, soak in 4% brine for 30m. Sweat garlic in olive oil, add chopped coriander leaves, and cook the swordfish gently in this.
- Remove the swordfish and reduce the juices. Avoid browning the garlic. Pour over the swordfish.
- Serve with lime segments.
Dorada with vegetables
-
Bake a whole Dorada in a salt and egg white crust to a core temperature of 44C. Remove crust and skin, remove fillets carefully, remove any bones and fat.
Cauliflower puree: cook the cauliflower, puree with cream, butter, a little mace, and white pepper. Char a slice of cauliflower with olive oil and white pepper.
- Turnips: boil, glaze.
- Potatoes: make cylinders (apple corer), cook in vegetable oil twice. First time at 130C to cook through, then remove. Heat oil to 190C and brown/crisp the potatoes.
