No hablo español, soy escocía.

Sevilla, Cádiz and Córdoba.  

Disclaimer: Much as I would love to claim ownership, I take no responsibility for the images included in this post. Accreditations and thanks go to travel companion and fellow mentalist Miss Georgie Raggett, whose phenomenal photography skills do this trip far more justice than any of my words could.

There are some cities with which you instantly fall in love, and it’s hard not to leave Seville without vowing that you will return. The red-hot heart of Andalucia, the city itself is a breathtaking assault on the senses – a fantastically passionate melting pot of music, ambiance, architecture, tourists, tapas, and flamenco. Apparently, Byron once remarked that Seville was a “pleasant city, famous for its oranges and women”. This seemingly placid observation in fact entirely embodies the Andalucían charm and heat-induced hedonism of this southern city, where the art of enjoyment has been thoroughly tried, tested and perfected. Fairytale orange trees line the streets, and blanched pink, yellow and almond buildings give way to labyrinths of narrow lanes peppered with miniature churches, tapas bars and hidden plazas. Witnessing the passage of various civilizations, a unique mix of Roman, Islamic, Gothic and Renaissance influences are all very much in evidence; co-existing in a bizarre yet fantastically coherent fashion.

The amalgam of cultures is most obvious at the Catedral de Santa María de la Sede – a catholic edifice built on the former site of the city’s most following the Spanish ‘Reconquista’. [See notes on Cordoba below]. Although it is most definitely a fully-functioning cathedral – Altar? Check. Huge nave? Check. Hellalotta gold? Check - it has retained some elements from mosque, including the famous Giralda, a minaret-cum-bell tower. This is economising at its finest. 

For more of the Moorish-Spanish melange, check out the Jardines Reales Alcázares just opposite the cathedral or, for a more recent mixture, head south to the crazily diverse and extraordinarily lavish Plaza de España.

WARNING: these areas are extremely touristique. What's more, it’s hard not to become a little jaded with the inevitable juxtapositions that come with a top tourist spot. For example, snap-happy holiday-makers waddle towards the nearest horse and cart rides whilst shooing away the hoards of gyspy women proffering sprigs of rosemary in a promise to read your palm. The fantastic juxtapositions found in the town centre are in fact a microcosmic representation of Seville’s relationship with its surroundings, as the gaiety and wealth of the city exist in stark contrast to the economically depressed agricultural countryside in Andalucía.

Back to the city centre and a web of pedestrianized streets lead to the Plaza Nueva, the heart of Seville’s main shopping and commercial district. Smartly dressed and immaculately coiffed senoras sit yards away from topless tramps taking cerveza-induced siestas. In nearby Plaza de la Encarnación, it is hard not to miss the enormous yet rather incongruous Metropole Parasol – a match-stick-esque structure completed earlier this year by German architect Jurgen Mayer, and housing the central market and, bizarrely, an underground archaeological complex. Random.

A five-minute’ walk along the Calle Sierpes will take you to the Plaza de Jesús de la Pasión, another enormously busy yet spectacularly Spanish hotspot. Around lunchtime you’ll find hundreds of people milling around here; picking at ceramic plates of tapas, sipping at tumblers of cerveza and indulging in cones of crisps from weathered street vendors. With the roar of sound greeting you well before you arrive and the scent of incense and the midday sun clinging to your clothes well after you depart... this is not to be missed.

In terms of accommodation, there is more than enough to choose from, although look out as lodgings become sparse during the two major Sevillian festivals – Semana Santa (Holy Week) and the week-long Feria de Abril – wherein visitors flock to the city all corners of the globe. Due to some fortuitous planning, I was lucky enough to catch Palm Sunday and the opening of Semana Santa. Unlike anything I have ever witnessed, the festival consists of myriad processions of brotherhoods, all adorned in Nazareno robes and cone-shaped Capirote (as now unfortunately adopted by the Ku-Klux Klan) through the city streets, carrying enormous floats depicting 17^th-century images of the Virgin or Christ. Although strictly speaking this is a religious affair, there is a lot of merry-making for all ages, and bars are packed day and night with gorgeously smartly-dressed families.

It is hard to go hungry in Seville, and it would be sacrilegious not to make the most out of the city’s multitudinous eateries. For a casual midday munch, head to the city centre or to Calle Alfafa for some seriously good outdoor tapas. Across the river, the Calle Betis is renowned for its strip of bars and restaurants; a perfect place to unwind and watch the sun go down over the river.

In terms of nightlife, Seville is renowned for its relaxed, fun-loving nature and, due to the abundance of tourists security on the streets is the least of your worries. For those with shallow pockets, grab a bottle of Estrella and head to the riverbank, where hoards of Spanish under-agers drink and flirt in the reflected light of the moon. For something a little more stylish, head to Calle de los Alemanes, where you will find yourself spoilt for choice with bars and disco’s a-plenty. As the flamenco capital of Andalucía, it is imperative that you try your hardest to catch some live dancing – for the best advice, steer clear of the heavily overpriced tourist trail and ask your nearest local on the top spots for some highly impassioned and truly authentic Spanish performances.

                                                                                     

A mere two-hour bus ride away, spending a lazy afternoon on the beach at Cádiz is another no-brainer. To enhance the experience, head into the elegant old town centre for the evening; indulging in a casual tapas and tinto with the scent of sea salt still clinging to your clothes.

Likewise, Córdoba is easily accessible, whether by bus or train, and is also home to the remarkable Catedrale de Cordoba. Echoing the mosque-cum-cathedral of Seville, the site started out as a pagan temple, then became a Visigothic Christian Church, then the Umayyad Moors converted the building into a mosque, then following the Reconquista, it was transformed once again into a Roman Catholic cathedral. A mind-boggling mix of Moorish architecture and Christian edifices, you find yourself seemingly walking from one religion to another – an experience that really forces you to appreciate the beauty of both.  

Passion and prayer, flamboyancy and faith; Sevilla, tienes mi corazón.

"You are staying with your French pen-pal in Marseille..."

Second-city syndrome is one of those debilitating maladies that often serves to tip the tourist balance away from many well-deserving underling. France is no exception to the rule and as the second oldest and largest city in the French pecking order, the north-south rivalry between Paris and its unruly sibling, Marseille, extends far beyond the football pitch.

Paris is a hard act to follow, and mention the P-word in the southern capital and you will either be met with a disapproving glare or a hefty coup de poing in the gonads. Yet, unlike the unmistakable inferiority complex of Chicago, or the pseudo-alpha-male claims of Lyon, this urban runner-up seems to show no concern about playing second fiddle to the French capital. Perhaps it’s due to the laissez-faire attitude of the south, brought on by sunny skies and an abundance of fresh fish; perhaps it’s just a habituation to the exasperatingly centralised French infrastructure; or perhaps it’s because according to the Marseillais, anything north of Toulouse just isn’t worth caring about. Returning from my own little sojourn in this scruffy yet gloriously vibrant city, I for one am vouching for the latter.

With its thriving harbour, bustling markets, and thoroughly cosmopolitan feel, Marseille is a melting pot of Provencal flavour and North African spice. A far cry from the stiff upper lips of neighbouring Aix-en-Provence and Toulon, and the over-the-top richesse of Nice and Cannes, this southern hub of industry is an unpolished gem that deserves more credit than it receives.

With such tangible energy comes a hefty serving of squalor, and if you like your cities perfectly polished and gleaming, then Marseille is not for you. Yet look past the litter-strewn streets, screeching sirens and fleeting pavement rats, the gritty reality is in fact something to savour.

Hostel-wise, there is a massive amount of choice, making it almost seem as though Marseille was expressly made for the budgeting traveller. Choosing one at random, we ended up at the well-priced and unbelievably chilled-out Vertigo Centre; a drunken stumble away from the city’s station (42 Rue de Petites Maries). With friendly staff, a handful of bizarre Eastern European guests, and an extraordinarily comfortable sofa, I would definitely go so far as to recommend it.

And as for the city itself, number one visit in the guide books is Marseille’s Vieux Port (Old Port). Still very much in use, you can happily lose a couple of hours on the Quai des Belges while you watch the world go by. However, accompanied by fumes from both the nearby fish market (quite pleasant actually, if you’re into that sort of thing), and the incessant stream of traffic (not quite so nice, in fact more like chain-smoking twelve packs of Marlboro Reds), the threat of suffocation along with the extortionate prices serves to deter all but the well-heeled tourist.

We found the Vieux Port nice, but after burning copious holes in our already shallow pockets, we found solace in Le Palier – the lesser-known ‘arty’ quarter on the north side of the city. Sunny cafe terraces beckoned, vying for attention with the multitudes of miniature galleries that lined the streets – all with free entrances and extremely accommodating proprietors. (For accommodating read: high). The sun-scorched almond-coloured buildings, with their flaking paintwork and scars from Marseille’s precocious graffiti-ing population, were enchanting and we spent a happy afternoon getting lost in shady backstreets of the quartier. Of course, my highlight was stumbling across the ‘Plus Belle la Vie’ corner – a miniature piazza dedicated entirely to the French equivalent of ‘Neighbours’ i.e. a cheaply made but highly popular daily television series. Having spent the winter in a rural wilderness, I am now completely addicted, and sitting having a pint opposite the programme’s boutique (I was glad to see that all the actors have published a biography...) before catching a 20-minute film about the production of the series was, in all seriousness, absolute bliss. During the film I was, of course, enraptured – sitting hugging my knees and vowing to myself that one day, one day, I will be in possession of a box set. Milan, my co-pilot, was asleep.

Another un-missable Marseillais monument is the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. Dating from the Second Empire, this iconic landmark sits astride one of the many hills surrounding the city; with a monumental gold statue of the Virgin looking out to sea, with the idea being that her gleaming skin serves to guide ships safely inland. Great story. Not so great climb up the hill. But, arriving just in time to watch the sun setting over the seemingly silent sea, bright lights of the harbour twinkling as the portside cranes stood sentinel against a pastel sky, it was well worth the sweat.

In terms of nightlife, don’t take everything you have heard about Marseille’s reputation as crime-central to heart – it’s hardly any different from other French major cities. Even as we enthusiastically hit the town after dark and, on the advice of a couple of locals, headed off the beaten (and pricy) track and further east to Cours Julien, we had little to no trouble. Although, this might have had something to do with the company – four little Scottish girls and one 6’7” Sarladais-Guadalupian quasi-bodyguard (je te remercie encore, Milan… ho waaaw). Aside from getting chased on to the metro (may have been due to a little illegal gate hopping on our part...) and meeting a heavily drugged up transvestite, our nocturnal adventures were effortlessly smooth; sharing a Heineken giraffe with some highly clued-up local French and Spanish students, tasting spicy street food and all sorts of local Ricard (euugh), and winning half a bottle of Champagne due to our expert Biffy Clyro knowledge in a somewhat unlikely French ‘pub quiz’.

What do I think about Marseille? Spend just a few days in this sun-soaked playground, bursting with raw energy and real life, and it’ll be hard not to fall in love with its clumsy charm. As for me; sausages, a gold Virgin, rats and free champagne... fantastic. 

Whose Wedding?

So, it was the Royal Wedding on Friday. Not going to lie, wherever you are in the world this was one event that was certainly hard to miss. Probably the most exciting British news since VE-Day, I ‘m afraid it was one giant leap for the UK, one could-not-care-less attitude from this side of the channel. I am aware that my nonchalance is unfounded and I really should show more interest in what is after all a British NFT (in the words of Stephen Fry, except slightly less crude), but seriously, I didn’t really care that much.

However, the wedding and the multitude of column inches devoted to it did provide me with ample material for the first week of teaching, and I spent a merry time telling my little French kiddies about Queens and Kings and crowns and royalty.

Yes ‘Laydiidii’ is pronounced ‘Laydee Die-ANNA’. Yes, the Queen is still alive, even if it is her head on the coins. No, Prince William will not become Queen, he will become King. I don’t mind if you think the Tricolore is better than the Union Jack, it doesn’t mean we are going to change it. And so on and so forth.

Slightly disillusioned with all my exported monarchic paraphernalia so lovingly transported across la manche, I left an array of flags, bunting and newspaper articles in the staff room for colleagues and pupils to peruse at their own will.

God bless the French. As I flicked channels on W-Day (day off on Friday!!), I received a message from one of my colleagues with a photo of the staff room balcony...

Ferdinand Buisson Primary School - overlooking Place 14 Juillet in Sarlat

Later on in the afternoon (I had to check it out for myself!)

I’m glad that the British invasion is slowly reaching the South West...

Le lion est mort ce soir

Do you remember when holidays lasted forever? Long summer evenings that seemed to touch eternity, and come September, school ties and pencil sharpeners were a brusquely alien addition to an otherwise barefoot existence.

Alas, now old and wise, this is no longer the case. Try as I might, days and dates are not as easily forgotten, and the end of the holidays always seems to sidle up to me like an unwanted street vendor. Yet, I must admit that this year, with a full fifteen days for the spring holidays, it was, and seemed like, a fairly sizeable break. However, in this case, it was this ‘sizeability’ that had slightly worried me throughout, as the first day back to school (la rentrée, as it is known) was also the day of the whole school show for Ferdinand Buisson.

That was some seriously good forward planning. With every class having spent just under seven months preparing a programme of songs for performance, it seemed like madness to schedule the concert the day after a two-week holiday. But, this is France. And what’s more, this is rural South-West France. So really, anything goes.

Thus, the whole of Tuesday was spent at Le Centre Culturel de Sarlat – a modern, multi-function concert hall, complete with professional lighting, a complex maze of backstage corridors and really big squishy chairs. In fairness, despite fears that words would be forgotten, there really was no cause for concern. The children were fantastic. (Relatively) well-behaved in the all-day rehearsals, they then pulled out all the stops for the real deal. Each wearing a bright t-shirt and many sporting extraordinary hairdos, they all performed brilliantly - showing an enthusiasm and energy that was most definitely absent from Thursday morning ‘music’ classes.

Any nerves that the kids might have had were quickly dispelled. Not only was there an uncommonly noisy audience – waves, shouts and constant flash photography were but a minor distraction – but also Sylvie, the musical director (if it can be called that), was seriously chilled out. Introducing each song with quips and stories, she immediately set the children, the teachers (myself included) and the audience at ease. Furthermore, she was completely unperturbed by errors – if something went wrong, she would just stop and start again. Pas de soucis.

In fact, hats off to Sylvie. Left in the lurch on Tuesday morning by her fellow musicians, she was assured by the Valerie (the headmistress of F. Buis) that it was fine as there was an English assistant who was ‘really good at the piano’. They’ve never heard me play! For all they know, I could have the gift of the gab but about as much skill as a wallaby wearing boxing mitts when it comes to piano playing.

Thankfully, we pulled it off. I was about as chuffed to be asked as I was apprehensive about playing; after all, it has been about three months since I’ve touched a piano key. Somehow, with half a day’s practice, Sylvie, the children of Ferdinand Buisson Primary School, all the teachers (as conductors) and I managed to bash our way through our programme of songs, and made it out the other end in one piece. In fact, with two encores, I think they may even have liked it...

Afternoon rehearsals with Sylvie on the keyboard

My bunch of flowers... not going to lie, I'm so proud!

Although far from perfect, the warts-and-all performance was probably the reason why the concert was such a success. I, for one, had the time of my life. Never again will I have the opportunity to accompany a whole primary school, plus family, friends and relatives, in a raucous rendition of ‘Le lion est mort ce soir’... franchement, aujourd'hui il me semble que la vie est plus que parfait! 

Joyeuse Pâques

Easter is such a funny one. I know it is the most important festival in the Christian calendar, and is taken relatively seriously in the non-practicing ‘Christian’ west i.e. Clinton Cards, but I always feel that there is an enormous amount of disparity in the way that people celebrate, or even mark Easter. Obviously there is nothing wrong with a healthy dose of difference – on the contrary, it is quite nice to notice the various ways, if at all, by which Easter is celebrate. I always get super excited – a little over the top, but is most likely due to a catholic upbringing and constant reminders that although there were no presents, this was more important than Christmas. For others, however, it is little more than another Sunday. Bless Cel, but as I bid him a Happy Easter when calling after Easter Mass today, I was greeted with a bemused ‘Oh yeah. It’s Easter today. I totally forgot’.

Certain Easter Sundays have always stuck out in my mind. Easter 2007, I was with the children of the Calvary Zion Orphanage in Mombasa at a full-day church service. Firmly situated in the ‘Easter-is-the-most-important-day-of-the-year-and-we-are-going-to-definitely-take-that-to-heart’, I felt awestruck at just how much this celebration meant to the people there. We had songs, shouts, chants, tears (few of which were from the children) and even people speaking in tongues. Although it was quite full-on for my first Sunday on the continent, I am extremely grateful to have had that opportunity, and to have first-hand experience. Last Easter, spent at home with (almost) the whole family, plus a few added extras in the shape of my three favourite boy-cousins, I have no recollection of, as I was a little too preoccupied drowning in a dissertation-shaped hell-hole. Extremely bad Catholic there Imogen.

This Easter, however, has proven to be one to remember. Despite being weighed down with trepidation, being the only member of the family absent from the table at 109 Trinity Road and having reluctantly bid goodbye to Celyn after what seemed like the quickest three days in my life, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Gingerly heading to the Cathedral (which has shamefully been avoided in the past few months so as not to cross paths with the ex-landlords!), I was treated to the most fantastic Easter mass. With standing room only, four baptisms and extremely enthusiastic singing from almost all the congregation, the priest’s already obviously good mood seemed to get better and better as the liturgy progressed.

Pulling into La Ferme after church, I caught sight of a couple of brightly coloured flashes hiding in the grass. As I looked twice, I saw that they were rapidly disappearing as five-year old Gabrielle (Ludo’s cousin) eagerly gathered up all the Easter eggs she could find – the hunt being a treat for her attendance at church that morning! For Easter lunch we were seven: the Pérusin family (Daniel and Nadine, Lucie, Ludo) plus Lucie’s boyfriend, Greg, plus the two hangers-on (Jason and me). Following aperitifs on the terrace, we were treated to asparagus, roast lamb and haricots blancs, and topped off by strawberries and Chantilly (both light and full-fat!). As if this wasn’t enough, as we sat down at the table, we were all instructed to close our eyes, which proved to be surprisingly hard for all the tricheurs! As an Easter gift, Nadine had bought each of chocolate eggs or ducks or various other ‘relevant’ surprises as made by Mr Kinder. It was such a nice gesture, and although completely unnecessary, I am so grateful to Nadine for having thought of us away from our families – especially as I have been experiencing some serious mal du pays since returning to Sarlat. However, I think this brief bout of homesickness has been well and truly vanquished – not going to lie, but it might have something to do with having just gone for a swim in the outdoor pool in the late afternoon sun...

Pee Ess.

I do have a confession to make, in that I have a hellalotta catching up to do on this ol’ Grumpy Scot. Having recently soothed my itchy feet with a remarkably illogical journey through France, to Spain and finally shooting through England and Wales, there are a fair few tales to tell. Although perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, watch this space..!