One weekend, I was up in the mountains with a few colleagues. We were exploring an old fortress from the Spanish Civil War which had been left derelict since the early 90s. It was a strange place, almost spooky. Although there were a few tourists, it felt like a ghost town. It would never have survived in the UK - it would either have been torn down or done up - here it was just left exactly as it had been. Health and safety clearly wasn't on the minds of the Spanish authorities. A happy result of this was that we ended up trespassing in through a locked but broken door and into the belly of a huge Vickers cannon:
Climbing in the pitch dark up metal ladders, brushing against oily walls, it felt more as if we were in a submarine than a gun. In its functioning days, this monster could fire a hefty missile over a distance of 20 miles. Once outside again, we explored the part of the gun that peeked out of the ground. I held on tight:
A few days later, an unexpected interlude presented itself in the shape of a trip home. Whilst Spain went on national strike to protest against changes to the labour laws, predicted budget cuts, and general unhappiness, I went to Wigan for an interview for my next placement. It was a successful interview. The company, like the one I am currently working for, specialises in salad. Lettuce, it seems, is my calling! Only this time I think I will have much more chance of becoming a real lettuce geek, rather than a lorry nerd. May the flat-hunting begin....
Back in Spain, it was time for my holiday, and my family came out to experience Semana Santa (Easter week) with me. Spain at Easter is impressive. In most towns and cities there are huge processions every night in the streets. We travelled down to Granada. By day we wandered the streets, sampled the tapas, learned the truth of the Spanish saying that it always rains in Easter week, met up with friends, and visited the Alhambra, marvelling at the moorish architecture.
By evening we watched flamenco dancing and processions:
Back in Murcia, more processions were in store, this time by day. And back in my little town, we were in for a surprise: the locals seemed to have renounced Christianity's claims on the week and chosen instead to celebrate with a huge medieval market, selling local arts and crafts, food and drink, and in the evening an enormous procession telling the story of the arab invasion of the area. The procession included dancers and gymnasts, duelling on horseback, marching bands, and a troupe of performing geese. On Easter Sunday things only got more bizarre, as I went out to buy a frozen yoghurt and got caught up in a parade to celebrate "the burial of the sardine". Apparently the sardine is significant to the area, as back in the day when people were self sufficient, when the land couldn't give them the food that they needed, they turned to the sea. The burial of the sardine hence symbolized the fertility of the land. Tins of sardines got thrown off floats into the crowd, children begged paraders for sweets and toys, and women danced in little more than underwear. It was odd, to say the least!
And now I only have five days left. And yes, perhaps I never thought I'd say it, but I'm going to miss it here in Spain, strange customs and all!
Hasta Luego!
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