2023
After a brief covid-related hiatus I embarked on the next leg of my journey to become a self-sufficient writer. I have given up my home in the UK and by a circuitous route via Ireland I landed in Spain in Bilbao on the Bay of Biscay.in June 2022.
My mission: to drive down the length of Spain to Cadiz on the Atlantic Coast, within spitting distance of Africa.
A hot journey, in a Spanish summer of heatwaves, suffering with a sciatic back, in an ancient car with no air conditioning.
Looking back, it was an early glimpse of the challenges and temptations that awaited any humble traveller setting out on a journey of self-discovery as championed by Joseph Campbell in his work -A Hero´s Journey. He talks of the ever -recurring arc of storytelling evolution, underpinning any tale worth its salt through the ages, from Homer and the Odyssey to Robert Macfarlane and Underland.
There would be many more challenges to come; a disappearing car; a UK international bank choosing the hottest day in the year so far to freeze my main account, then instructing me to pop into my nearest branch a mere thousand miles away to prove my identity; a short but bitter fracas with a Rackmanesque rental property czar in the unlikely setting of the genteel sherry capital of the world, Jerez de la Frontera.
All before settling, like the Phoenicians, Romans, Visigoths and Moors before me, in the ancient city of Cadiz.
All my first life seemingly I have been searching for the ideal spot in Spain whence I could re-invent myself, lay down my hat, shed my first skin and take on another. Cadiz, the home of the musician playwright, Manuel de Falla, proved to be the answer, cool, beautifully lit and with a unique voice I have come now to further research and write my second book, and first novel, with the working title of ¨The Cut Stick¨ It is set in 1940s Cadiz, after the end of both the Spanish Civil War and World War 2.
In looking to Cadiz now I want to write about the city from the perspective of an outsider and become perhaps an “Our Man in Cadiz” figure, although that probably is for you to decide. ¨The city was once memorably described to me as being like the Cuban capital on a bad day so perhaps subconsciously I am aping James Wormold, the heroic figure in Graham Greene’s book Our Man in Havana.
Carnaval in Cadiz, a Spanish version of Mardi Gras (16-26 of February 2023) symbolises the coming of spring and a brief opportunity to enjoy the harvesting of the bounty of the sea before the arrival of Lent, a period of abstinence and austerity.
I first discovered Cadiz, a decade ago when researching my first book, As I Walked Out Through Spain in Search of Laurie Lee and felt this could be my second home, the idea fermenting, bubbling away, as my life veered off course for the next decade.
The sandy terrain of the city ensures a rich supply of vegetables, and the fertile grape growing soil is a rich yellow-white and called La Albariza. It delights in the year -round purity of the light that gives the coast its name, La Costa de la Luz.
In Cadiz the arrival of Carnaval in February is traditionally marked by a celebration of seafood, the lifeblood of the city along with its sherry and salt. The tang of the sea is in the air, mixing with yeasty briny spores, that seep out from under the white veil of Flor, that lies along the top of the Sherry Casks at rest, in the gloom of the surrounding bodegas.
Meantime the nut-dryness of a fully formed Palo Cortado Sherry, an early wokeness of transient style fluidity, drips onto the chlorophyl-green leaf and drops like stone onto ochre-red ground.
The Palo Cortado (The Cut Stick) is the standard holder of Sherry here. It is seen as a miracle of the work of alchemy, defying the laws of physics and viticulture to produce its unique taste. At first dismissed as an aberration, it soon assumed the status of genius. As a metaphor for life and second chances it has become the working title of my book. The Cut Stick is a chalk motif that marks up the chosen casks in the bodega that have transitioned, ahead of its era if we look at the zeitgeist of our times.
Carnaval is heralded by the annual arrival of a round piece of sea fruit, this maritime marker in time is fixed by the annual appearance in the city of an abundance of the shy seafood delicacy, the Sea urchin or El Erizo, often a black ball of fun,with its whole surface area covered by a forest of sharp spines but capable of disguise in a kaleidoscope of tinselly colours belying its deadly essence. A sting from this little fellow can produce paralysis and respiratory failure.
Like the Percebe, a crustacean delicacy, found in the deepest of Galician rias the harvesting of El Erizo can be a hazardous business. The Festival of the Sea Urchin , La Erizada , takes place this year in Cadiz in the Barrio of La Viña , a mesmerising old fishing quarter.
On Christmas Day last year I had a memorable encounter with an Erizo, I will come to that.
Carnaval sets the tone of the cultural year of the city inhabited by a populace (pueblo) forged, throughout time, in a crucible of warring nations, as befitting a centre of world trade located at a crossing point of continents and a cradle of ancient civilizations.
A pueblo with a streak of independence, a healthy scepticism, a maritime sense of adventure and song, combine to create a collective absence of ego, a tendency to self-mockery and the sharpest of eyes attuned to the hubris of others, resulting in a warm-blooded Bain- Marie of crude satire.
The DNA of the Carnaval is a double helix of two spirals twisted together at the heart of Carnaval, one spiral combusting in a viscous outpouring of black humour, the other tempered by and bathed in, a gentler schadenfreude-like cooling liquid of humanity and hope. These represent the two sides of what writer Federico Garcia Lorca called duende, that indefinable life force present in the Andalucian /Spanish soul. This pits the darkness and despair of Goya against the optimism of El Greco with his yellows of butter and lightening.
Carnaval, on the surface, is ten days of pure mayhem but as is the case with Semana Santa, it is actually an organised chaos underwritten by community groups from all over the city who work tirelessly through the year, in their inimitable sense of tradition, anarchy, creativity and a sense of competition, to create an annual exposition of colour, song and savage wit, that at its best, speaks truth to power and sods the outcome.
This year sees Carnaval back at its best after Covid managed to do, what many politicians, Kings and Queens and the odd dictator failed to do, that is, to stop Carnaval or any pale imitations thereof, in its tracks.
To a British pair of eyes, Carnaval is akin to It’s a Knockout, with a hearty sea shanty ¨Blow the man down¨riff, a splice the mainbrace of Gilbert and Sullivan absurdity, coupled with the Welsh language, poetry and mist of the Eisteddford, with their bards and their chairs and their frilly bonnets , all driven by a gentle but ruthless engagement in competition to identify the best of class in Celtic/Gaditano song, instrument and voice.
The Falla Theatre hosts the more sedate traditional preliminaries in the weeks before the main event, a popular set of trials and hearings to find the top dogs of the festival of song and wit, the Coros, the Chirigotas, Cuartetas and the Comparsas.
Las Coplas are, in essence, the language of Carnaval, a rhythmic melodic form of ballad or rap sung or spoken , in performance, to deliver the typically satirical and outrageous ¨highball bombs” that skim along the crests of the waves in the Bay of Cadiz and detonate in a contagion of guffaws. Las Coplas have strict rules about lyrics and musical composition. In Cadiz they even have a University Department dedicated to scholars of Las Coplas, a School of Creative Writing focussing on the Carnaval tradition.
As we have seen the period leading up to Lent, along with Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, celebrates the harvesting of the fruits from the sea and the highlight of this period sees the Cadiz Festivals of Ostionada, Erizada and Pestiñada or to you and me, Oysters, sea urchins and sweet fried pastries (similar to the Beignets from New Orleans) that arrive in quick succession.
Aah, El Erizo, the cuddly Sea Urchin, a colourful ball of fun that rolls merrily along the floor of the deepest seabeds , propels itself along on the tips of its deadly spines, or loiters with intent just below tidal waters on rocky outcrops. They can be tricky and dangerous to catch, but caught they are and then dressed for show.
The Sea Urchin name recalls for me the picaresque age from the Golden Age of Spanish Literature, represented by a Lazarillo de Tormes figure, a wily Jack the Lad, living off his wits, a spiky personality, running rings around his elders and betters.
I was introduced to Lazarillo on Christmas Day last as I strolled along the promenade with a fellow marooned expat. We passed the two ancient, entwined trees, so beloved of the locals for over a hundred years, that dominate this coastal strip. They have a sad haunting wintery look, to me, of two retired Old Admirals, gazing out to distant horizons. They can feel the pull of the wind but will never again put to sea.
We continue along the length of a spray- battered causeway leading out to a castle and the lighthouse: Think John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman in Lyme Regis. Not far to the west is Cape Trafalgar, the scene of the decisive Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, in which, on the flagship Victory, Nelson lost his life. His body was transferred to the Rock of Gibraltar, pickled in a cask of brandy, to outlive the journey home to his resting place in St Paul´s Cathedral.
As we approached the rocky outcrop, lit up by the strobing light, my fellow desert island companion recalled that she was once met at this spot by the sight of a diver emerging from the sea, clutching a basket full of sea urchins.
I stopped in my tracks as a flashback recalled the opening scene from the first James Bond film Dr No back in the 60s. Ursula Andress, a vision in blonde, and just about carrying off a white bikini, is seen emerging from the sea, wet and dripping through a Bahamian fine mist. Strapped to her bikini bottom is a diving knife and clutched in her hands is a white Queen conch shell with its trademark flared lip pink-parted cavity, no doubt a gift for Sean Connery. It became an iconic moment in film history, smashing into the American conservative psyche and dragging it into the second half of the 20th century.
Unbeknown to me at that time was the fact that another James Bond film with another Bond girl, Halle Berry, emerging from the sea, Die Another Day (2002) , had indeed been filmed in Cadiz at this very spot on La Caleta beach which now doubles up as my favourite writing location.
My companion, in the meantime, was busy describing how the diver had paused to talk to her and offered her a sea urchin that he quickly broke in two, cleaned out the innards, all except for the mango -coloured bite-sized pieces of flesh that so tantalised the admirers of the delicacy and passed it over to her.
She informed me that the taste was sweet and briny. I thought no more of it, and we made our way to the modern parador, a sort of ¨Centre Pompidou ¨construct on the shorefront (not to be confused with the stunning actual Centre Pompidou Malaga). It was time to dine at its renowned restaurant.
In honour of the day, I went for the out-of-season delicacy on the menu, el erizo of course, what else.
It had been prepared in an actual half shell with its own caviar and other herring eggs and it was indeed creamy, briny and sweet. It was also very expensive and in all honesty, a bit of a queasy let-down. * This feeling of Christmas anti-climax was exacerbated by my companion who proceeded to inform me that I had basically just consumed two pairs of fishy sexual organs or gonads as they are affectionately known apparently.
La Erizada festival takes place this year, today, the 11th of February and will be washed down with an early outpouring of Carnaval excess. Erizos are free at the point of purchase if you wish to queue, or you can go private and buy them from the purveyors of fine foods that have descended upon the city like a plague of locusts ( or in the case of Cadiz, cockroaches)
On reflection I felt that there was more chance of me enrolling at La Escuela de Escritura de Coplas than dining out again on an erizo and whilst I may well walk abroad to enjoy the spectacle of La Erizada, I will be abstemious in practice, for in this instance, to my eternal credit. I remain an Englishman.
* I was informed later by a travel writer, a Spain specialist, of a well- known English newspaper, that I was wrong, that el erizo in fact, was like nectar from heaven. I bow of course to her more refined palate. She added a footnote that it was a bit of a marmite thing. I don’t like marmite either.
thelittlesummerofthequince 