…And Now She’s Taking All Her Clothes Off…

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Issy decides on a morning of hair washing. That activity’s not really an option for me, or at least not one that would take any time, so I head off exploring.

First stop are the Quart Towers which are only a couple of hundred metres from our apartment. I read that they formed part of Valencia’s medieval wall, and are one of only two sets that are still standing. They were built over a twenty year period in the fifteenth century, and formed the city’s western entrance. It looks like some parts of the outer wall have started to deteriorate, but no, the holes are apparently the result of Napoleon and others lobbing cannonballs at them over the centuries. Next stop is the city’s other set of surviving towers, the Torres de Serrano. These were built a bit earlier in the late fourteenth century at the northern end of the wall and were considered to be the main gateway into the city. There’s not so much evidence of cannonball havoc here, but it seems this is more than likely due to them having being restored over the years rather than any sort of poor aiming.

This is tourist central. We were told yesterday that you’re only allowed to bring a car in here if it happens to be a taxi or for some other legitimate business purpose, and that they lock you up and throw away the key if you get lost and accidentally try to drive through here in your hire car. We’re hiring a car tomorrow and we’re picking it up very close to here. I hope Issy‘ll be OK getting back to Oz without me. It seems however that you can bring your wheelchairs here no problem, particularly if you happen to live in the local five star old people’s home which is right here on one of the main tourist strips. A lot of the residents are sitting happily out the front watching the world go by.

I wander on into the very attractive Plaça de la Mare de Deu which has the spectacular Font del Turia as its centrepiece - Neptune is looking quite relaxed surround by a dozen or so naked maidens pouring water in all directions. I think I’d be looking quite relaxed too if I were him. I follow other tourists into the Basilica de la Mare de Deu on one side of the square, well I assume they’re other tourists. It’s quite small and it’s packed with very serious people who look like they’re here for a meeting. I pretend that I am too, but I think the camera might be a bit of a giveaway. I sneak away trying to pretend I’m late for an alternative appointment. I hope no one noticed. The Basilica was completed in 1667 and is apparently highly revered by Valencians as the house of the image of Our Lady of the Abandoned.

Next cab off the rank is the Valencia Cathedral. I stand in the visitors queue; if I’d wanted instead to go in just to say a few Hail Marys or confess my many sins I would have had to go in via the slightly worryingly titled “Entrada de culto”. I read that the current iteration of the Cathedral was consecrated in 1238 when the Moors were sent packing, and it was constructed progressively over the next two centuries. As seems to be the case throughout most of Spain, there was a mosque here when the Moors were around, and this had in turn been built on the site of an ancient Visigoth Cathedral.

Issy’s after some more water (the stuff that comes out of the tap here tastes a bit ordinary), and her beloved strawberries have proven a bit hard to come by in Spain, so I duck into the massive Central Market to try my luck. Markets are also good places to take pictures. I snap happily away at the hams, but when I try to snap a bunch (I don’t think it’s still a school if they’re dead) of cute looking fish, the store owner looks like he’s about to come at me with what looks like an alarmingly sharp instrument. “No picture” he snarls, and then points angrily to a small tile on the wall which looks like it could possibly be indicating that photography isn’t allowed here, only here, it’s perfectly fine at all of the market’s many other fish stores. I want to ask him why, but he’s still holding the sharp instrument so I think better of it. The fish are dead, well I think they are, so I don’t think they’re going to object. I wonder if angry man’s got a stash of drugs stuffed inside his catch; they’re cheapish drugs if he has, only six Euro per kg.

Back at the apartment it’s time for lunch, well that was the plan until we find last night’s bread crawling with ants. So it’s time for the next bit of apartment-side entertainment - putting bottles of water in the middle of the floor and seeing which direction they roll off in and how fast.

We head out for a pre-dinner stroll through the old city and across into attractive parkland that apparently used to be the mighty Turia River. But not anymore. It seems that the locals were a bit unimpressed when it flooded the city back in 1957, so most of it’s now been diverted elsewhere. That must have been some feat of engineering.

We dine at an Italian restaurant off the Placa de la Mare del Deu. A group of girls out on what looks like a hens night walk past. The bride to be is waving cheerfully at everyone. I’ve got my back to the action, but Issy’s describing it in such graphic detail that I’m not feeling any need to turn around. The star of the show looked like she might have had the odd drink or two when we saw her walk past, and so it seems. Issy says she’s now taking a dip in the ornate and probably centuries old Font de Turia, and she’s also got a man for company. Still I’m feeling no need to take a peek. ….”and now she’s taking all her clothes off” says my beloved. Ok, now it might be time to look. Oops, no she hasn’t, and I think I might now be in trouble….

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