Taking over the streets

When I came out this morning I discovered that my lively barrio, Macarena, had been transformed into a flea market with stalls all down the Calle Feria selling hats, vases, dreadful pictures in dreadful frames, stamps, medals, toys, LPs, an accordion, and all sorts of other fifth-handery. I weaved through the browsers until I came to tourist land then I weaved through the tourists to the Real Alcazar.

Originally built as a fort in 913 and revamped many times since, the royal palace is a spectacular mix of Christian and Mudéjar architecture. As I walked through the fabulous tiled rooms, I tried to work out where, if I inherited it, I'd put the kitchen. Tricky problem: as the interiors are protection from the heat of the sun they are quite dark. But all those geometric tiles would make beautiful splashbacks, even if the ones with raised details (made by pressing the clay onto a wooden mould) would be a bit of a challenge to wipe down. And the intricately carved stone arches would be a bugger to dust. Still, I'll deal with that problem when the time comes.

The absolute top inspiration of Moorish architecture is rooms opening onto tiled courtyards with shaded seats, shallow pools and small fountains. Sadly, the fountains, both internal and in the gardens, were a mere trickle, if anything, and the basins were mostly empty. The deeper garden basins were stagnant and smelly, though there was no sign that the carp were fussed. 

I sat and ate my picnic in a shaded rotunda in the gardens and was delightfully disturbed by a peahen with her brood of little ones (peas?). The formal gardens are very elegant but there's nowhere to sprawl. 

But over there! Look! Some trees casting shade on uneven grass - that seems a more likely place. I look at the plan. Yes! Jardin Ingles! I find a choice bit of shade and sit myself down. Perhaps I even rest my head on my bag for a moment. Then suddenly my carefully prepared Spanish about adding authenticity to the English Garden dissolves under the finger-wag of a yellow-unifomed member of the securidad team. I must not darken the tatty lawn with my fatigue. So I go and join all the other weary tourists on a hard wooden bench by another waterless fountain.

Santa Cruz. A tourist must-see. To be honest, if you plonked me down in any of its narrow twisty ochre/orange streets I couldn't tell you what Andalusian city I was in. I might even think I was in Girona (sorry, Catalunya). But I don't think that in Girona I'd have been ignored in a bar - again. I asked when I went in if they had room for one and they pointed to a table in a corner then promptly bought menus to the two men who came in just after me. Then took their orders. Then one of the waiters stood in the doorway, back to the bar and back to me, to invite other customers in.

This time I wasn't amused, I was angry. And of course I left, and found somewhere much friendlier just round the corner.

Walking home I was surprised to see blue flashing lights. Unlike the blocked cars, I could continue through the narrow streets until I came across a parade of oxen-hauled floats - many resembling traditional UK hooped traveller wagons (extras) but one, behind these horses, that seemed to be made entirely of elaborate silver). There were pipes and drums, women in long swirling dresses and men doffing hats. It was very hard to get any pictures in the crowds and in evening light, but at least I have an impression.

Also an extra from the Real Alcazar.