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Saturday, October 12, 2013

Guest Post: Trains and Butts and Plains, Part 1

Just in time for Columbus Day, a trip to La Subbética, from my English truckbuddy Tim, now resident in Spain:

My apologies to Burt Bacharach for the punning title, but I couldn’t resist it. By way of recompense let me introduce you to the extremely studly Miguel Ángel Silvestre. I think you’ll agree he’s very easy on the eye, more about him soon!


Russ has long thought it would be a good idea for me to tell you about my life here in Spain, here’s his brief:
Most people who read the Blue Truck have never been to Spain - though they might like the music, kinda. (Hmm, there's a song in that somewhere.) It's always interesting to read a vivid description of a faraway place. Even if they have been there, it's likewise interesting to hear someone else's take on a place you already know well.

What color are the houses? How tall are Spaniards? Do they have discos, bowling alleys, freeways, pizza, fortune-tellers? You mentioned the other day the cubos or something, a small case of beer and its cost - now that was very interesting to know. Do you get a refund if you bring the box back to the store? And what does the beer taste like? Do you drink it cold or hot? Is it easy to be gay there, or do you have to hide it? I'm sure there are many everyday sights and sounds and things that are right in front of your nose, ordinary and familiar to you but strange and exotic to the rest of us that would make good reading.


. . . Next time get a yen to write, perhaps you will give us some descriptions of the place and say what led you to settle there, so far away from the Scepter'd Isle and a proper dish of tay?
So welcome to the first of what will hopefully be a series, a personal take on Spain and things Spanish, and perhaps along the way, we might look at some of my reasons for living here, so far away from that Scepter’d Isle . . . and get to answer some of Russ’ questions . . . bowling alleys, Bubba??

Partner and I first visited southern Spain some 35 years ago, and we determined then that it was the place we both wanted to retire to, which is exactly what we did 9 years ago this November. Undoubtedly one of the attractions all those years ago was that classic ‘Latin’ look of the young men, of which the aforementioned actor Miguel Ángel Silvestre is a perfect example.


Although I’m a sucker for the blond, blue-eyed beach-boy look, who can resist smouldering brown eyes, framed by thick black hair, olive-brown skin and a permanent five o’clock shadow to die for? Well not me obviously! Miguel Ángel is a very popular film and TV actor over here, made famous by his role as ‘El Duque’, a tale about the life of a drugs and crime baron, set in contemporary Madrid. But just like James Gandolfini’s characterisation of mobster Tony Soprano, he makes this monster a very human and believable person. He’s recently completed filming “I’m So Excited!” with Pedro Almodovar, so perhaps international stardom beckons, but for now he remains one of our better kept secrets. I noticed that in the interviews he gave in LA he used the word ‘adrenalin’ a lot; personally I think ‘testosterone’ would be better – woof!

It was April, and Partner had gone back to visit friends in the UK, so I decided to take a break too. The car was packed and with Lulu to keep me company, we headed for our favourite country retreat, a lovely rural hotel in the Subbética region of Andalucía.  


La Subbética lies at the heart of Andalucía - you can use this second map to follow my travels.


My drive is not a long one, a leisurely 3 hours if you take a long coffee stop, but it covers a wealth of differing landscapes and lifestyles within a short distance, and that is very typical of Spain itself, always something different. In Spain you soon learn to expect the unexpected; there is an anarchistic streak in the land and its people! I leave our home on the cosmopolitan coastal strip, the tourist trap that is known as the Costa del Sol, and soon I’m driving up through the steeply ridged mountains behind Malaga City. The road is a new one, it soars over the valleys on beautiful arched bridges and plunges deep through the mountains in sinuous tunnels.


And I’m completely alone. Not another car in sight. And why? Because this new road is a toll road, and Spanish drivers do not pay toll fees. They prefer to take the old road across the mountains, the one that follows the ancient sheep and goat trails. It’s tried, it’s trusted, and it’s free!

However, being alone on a Spanish road is no bad thing, for they are arguably the worst drivers in Europe. They have no fundamental rule of the road, no left and right, they simply drive down the middle, added to which they look no further than the end of their bonnet, if they are looking and not using their mobile phone that is! It’s the responsibility of other road users to guess where they are going, and act accordingly, not theirs. Providing you have enough rosaries, crucifixes and blessed virgins hanging from your driving mirror no harm will befall you, however badly you drive! Not being especially religious, partner and I have a fluffy stork hanging from the mirror in our Jag. We bought it in Extramadura, where the storks go to breed in the summer, and it seems to work almost as well as the religious icons! We call it ‘Storkie’.

This joke about traffic lights sums up the Spanish attitude to driving very well:
In cities they are a provocation, in the countryside they are an irritation, at Christmas time they are a decoration!
Within an hour I am passing the lovely old city of Antequera, with the spires and towers of its many churches reaching towards the sun above the surrounding streets and alleys.


Suddenly the mountains are behind me and the plain of Antequera stretches ahead. This plain – the Hoya de Antequera, is a wonderfully fertile basin surrounded on all sides by mountains. Rich farmland, ideal for cultivating grain, rice, sunflowers, and home to the sheep whose wool is still processed in the old city. But alas not for much longer. The powers that be have decided that this flat basin will make the perfect spot for a huge rail technology centre, a railway test-bed for the latest developments in high-speed rail travel. It will entail the loss of more than a quarter of a million acres of farmland, the expropriation of 712 farmsteads and small businesses.


Spain is justifiably proud of its position as the purveyor of some of the world’s fastest trains and technology. China, Saudi Arabia and the USA are just 3 of it’s customers for high-speed train systems. Undoubtedly the test centre will bring employment and create wealth and business opportunities, but the fertile land and existing economy will be lost. Believe me, there are plenty of flat, worthless areas in central Spain where such a centre could be swallowed up unnoticed, yet still create the jobs and wealth. This scheme, like so much in Spanish politics and big business today, smells of bribery and corruption.

Continued after the jump . . .



My journey continues north across the plain, and shortly after a coffee break, a range of jagged peaks fills the horizon. These are the Sierras Subbéticas, and my destination, near the tiny whitewashed village of Zuheros, lies nestled in the foothills on their far side. The Pueblos Blancos, the ‘white villages’ of Andalucia, are often touted as a disappearing asset, a must-see tourist attraction. The truth is most villages in Spain are painted white, like Henry Ford said, you can have any colour you want, as long as it’s . . . er, white! Little Zuheros is on very few itineraries, but if it was set on the coast, people would flock to it in their thousands, so thank God it’s where it is!

But before I get to Zuheros I pass through the bustling town of Cabra, which means ‘Goat’. The name probably derives from the ruling Moors in the 10th Century, rather than the animal, but goats are still reared and herded in the foothills of the Subbética as they were over a thousand years ago. Their milk makes wonderful cheese, strongly flavoured and crumbly in texture and their skins make interesting bags and shoes. However, as for the goats themselves, never touch one unless you have soap and running water nearby, they stink, and so will your hands....been there, done that, phew!

What attracts me to Cabra this time are not the goats, but trains. Not the modern high-speed, land-hungry ones, but real trains, old Puffing Billy’s powered by steam and coal.


My destination, the Hacienda Minerva, lies just outside Zuheros, on a walking and cycling path called the Via Verde or Green Road. This in turn was established along the former route of the Olive Oil train, the Tren del Aceite, which linked the oil producing regions south of Córdoba and Jaén. Cabra was a major station and goods yard, and today the old station houses a museum and examples of the Mikado 1-4-1 steam locomotive that used to haul the oil in bulk using tank wagons and also a cute little Pegasin diesel-engined shunter for working the goods yard . . . aah!


I arrive at the hotel in the middle of the afternoon. First of all I take Lulu for a quick walk, back up the bumpy track that winds down half a mile to the hotel from the main road. Whilst I take in the view and stretch my legs, Lulu forages for fallen olives in the groves that line the track, for this is the heartland of the olive growing territory. The rolling hills that stretch away north to Córdoba are covered with olive trees as far as the eye can see, some 54 million of them in this province alone! And not just any old olives, Zuheros is at the centre of the famous Baena Oil producing area, one of only 2 olive oils produced in the region that hold the coveted Denomination of Origin (D.O.) classification. Too good for frying or cooking with, this oil needs to be savoured like a good wine, drizzled over a fresh salad or simply eaten with the local bread – absolutely beautiful!


Nature satisfied, Lulu and I return to the hotel where I register and then unpack before taking a brief siesta, that wonderful Spanish institution, in which I have become an expert!

The next day we walk the Via Verde into Zuheros. I carefully avoid the temptation to pet the goats kept just outside the village. They are still penned in before being released up onto the mountain slopes later in the Spring, and they are rank! The large Mastin dogs that guard the herd are not pleased to see Lulu or me, so we pass quickly by after greeting the goatherd who has come out of his tiny white cottage to see what all the fuss is about. A steep footpath leads up from the old railway track into the village and by now we are both ready for a coffee break, me for the coffee, and Lulu for the accompanying biscuit.


Sitting on the edge of the plaza in front of the church I can look out for miles to the north, for the village sits half-way up the north face of the craggy grey mountain behind us. But my interest is suddenly focussed much closer to home, for in front of me are not one, but three pairs of Choughs, black as jet, performing their wonderfully aerobatic mating flight. Back in England they are a rarity, and these are the first ones I’ve ever seen.

Then, not to be outdone, a pair of Kestrels join in with their own display. Someone points skywards and there, about 3,000 ft up, are a couple of large dots, circling in the still air – Griffon vultures on the prowl for lunch. Quite low for them, they usually cruise at 8,000 ft or more, from where their incredible eyesight gives them a huge field of view. Their close cousins, Ruppell’s vulture, who sometimes stray into our airspace from their usual home in North Africa, have been recorded at 37,000 ft, as one got sucked into a jet engine at that height! This is something to think about next time the Captain says “We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 35,000 ft, you may now unfasten your seat belts”!

 It’s hard not to be a bird watcher in southern Spain, the close proximity to North Africa, and the short crossing from there to Europe via the Straits of Gibraltar puts Andalucia firmly on the migratory path, and it’s not just for the birds. Drug dealers, cigarette smugglers, and sub-Saharan refugees also make frequent use of this natural crossing point!

Later in the day, on our way back to the hotel, we run into a large group of school children, about 60 of them, 8-10 year olds and half a dozen harassed teachers. Now the Spanish, and their children in particular, are not great lovers of dogs. I have had people cross themselves and mutter Perro de muerta – Dog of Death, at the sight of Lulu, who, being black, is particularly regarded as an omen of bad luck. She’s a Labrador, the worst she would do is mug you for food or lick you to death! Anyway, on approaching the children some of the girls begin to scream and run. However, macho to the last, a couple of larger boys stand their ground, although a tad uneasily. As I pass, I offer one of them Lulu’s lead to hold. She goes quite happily, and emboldened, the boy takes her to show his friends how brave he is, soon everyone wants a turn at the lead.

Realising that no one is going to be eaten or die just yet, the other children, including the girls, all crowd around and the next thing is I am being given 6 cameras by the teachers, the children have lined up with Lulu centre stage, and everyone wants a photo. I practice my Spanish, telling them Lulu’s name and age, get corrected by the teachers for my poor grammar, and everyone has a grand time. Lulu’s amiability may have won them over, but the spontaneity of the children was very Spanish. If they like something it’s celebrated there and then. Expect the unexpected!

The next day I walk in the opposite direction along the Via Verde, past the little agricultural town of Doña Mencía town and out into the countryside beyond, I’m keen to carry on, I always want to know what’s around the next corner. But it’s warm and Lulu has had enough, so we return to the town, stopping for suitable refreshment at the former railway station that is now ‘La Cantina’ an excellent bar and restaurant. We are soon joined by numerous cyclists, for the flatness and hard surface of the old railway track makes it as perfect for cycling as for walking. We have seen them all day, first zooming one way, and then an hour later zooming past in the other. Heads down, legs pumping.


Cycling is an extremely popular, and serious, pastime amongst Spanish men of all ages, and it is de-rigueur to have those skimpy, clingy revealing lycra suits to do it properly. This highlights another delightful aspect of the young Spanish male, his butt. Partner and I are convinced that Spanish boys are taught from an early age how to shake that thing! And not some girly wiggle, or camp sideways hip sway. There is a vertical as well as a lateral movement that raises this walk to an art form. Conducted with firm, clenched cheeks and following a precise pattern which I can only describe as a figure of eight on its side, or for those scientists amongst you, an infinity symbol, like this...∞, Lol!

I have tried, and failed, to emulate this movement, I think something has to be double jointed, or unusually flexible, to perfect it, but the effect is mesmerising. Of course you also need the right apparel, the tighter the better, and you can heighten the effect by nonchalantly tucking one corner of your t-shirt into your trousers, or hitching one side of your shirt into your belt, thereby showing one cheek fully whilst the other remains coyly half covered. Then you walk that walk.

I tried long and hard over several days to get some good butt shots, even to the extent of letting Lulu loose in front of the cyclists to slow them down, but little good did it do me, apart from improving my vocabulary of Spanish swearwords. When I chatted to Russ about it, he suggested I lie down in front of the cyclists instead, but this idea received short shrift on my part. I’m not prepared to get run over for the sake of a good post, even by a cute butt! Here’s some I did manage to click:



And since we’re on the subject, you will enjoy this little clip of Señor Silvestre and his chums, plenty of Spanish butts on show here. To set the scene, El Duque has discovered that one of his Lieutenants has been passing secrets to a rival gang. El Duque takes out his frustration by first honing his interrogation techniques on a punch bag. Then he invites his chums to his pool, where they have to strip naked, so he can see if anyone is carrying a wire. Yes, welcome to the world of Spanish prime-time TV. The one who is nervous about stripping is his best friend, and quite cute too IMHO.



I love the voice Miguel Ángel uses in this role, a low, smoky growl. It doesn’t come from his throat, his chest or even his belly, it comes from his balls – a great performance! So popular was the character in fact, that an alternative ending to the series was made. In the original our anti-hero dies in a hail of bullets, but in the alternative he survives and escapes to a happy life abroad. I know which one I prefer!

And there we will end Part 1 of my trip to La Subbética. In Part 2 Lulu and I get to meet some of the locals, and visit some more interesting places as we wend our way home.

And for those of you who like to see more pics of the studly Miguel, check out his site here - it’s like visiting an art gallery, very sophisticated and very Spanish!

In Part 2 we shall be in the company of this fine young man, Martiño Rivas - hasta luego!



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