The Rest of Barcelona Adventure

After a night of light on – light off – chit – chat – music – light on – light off – shhhhh I eventually got up and out of the hostel at 8.15am making the decision never ever ever to stay in a hostel alone again!

According to my detailed itinerary, Day 2 was dedicated to a day trip outside of Barcelona. At this stage I’d never seen a mountain; hills, yes; but never an actual mountain. I had breakfast at the hostel and took the 9.36am train for 15.90 Euro’s to Montserrat. The journey took about 1 hour and 15 minutes, during which I sat back and stared out the window at the dry and deserlet views. We were definitely in a different climate to the UK. It was hot, but the day was clear – less humid than the day before. I enjoyed the train ride, the overwhelming sense of independence that only comes from a journey on a train. As I stared out my window I saw long empty plains, a few electricity poles standing lonely in the wavering heat, a few derelict buildings coloured with fading flecks of graffiti. It was sparse and slightly depressing after the lush green fields of England… I suspected some would find the beauty in this, however, myself, I cant even watch a movie set in Mexico. The desert, the heat, the emptiness, it evokes a deep melancholy to me – give me fields of green and brown and washing water streams. May, yet again, have something to do with my childhood distaste for hot summers of drying wheat and barley fields, a long drive way to walk from the school bus to the house without a tree in sight. No – not my kind of world is a deserlet one.

However, that was all to change… maybe there is something to an endlessly flat landscape when it is juxtaposed by souring mountains that, for the sun, you cannot see the peak of. And this was exactly what happened. Staring out the window, feeling slowly less and less inclined toward Spain, the bright sun falling on my now-white legs descended into darkness and a chill fell across the train carriage and as I turned to look out the other side of the window I saw what I’d never expected to see. Not that I ever thought I wouldn’t see a mountain, I just didn’t realise how one would feel upon their first meeting, and my breath was taken away… It is a thing of magnificence, like music breaking through a pregnant silence. All of this nothingness and then… that.

It was as if all the plants had left the planes and chosen to grow on the face of the mountain, the deep greens of shrubbery ribboned around, while the grey’s and oranges of the stone and rock flickered through, ever expanding its presence as the mountain ascended to the clouds.

The top of the mountain looked as if giants had seen the face of medusa and stood stoney, stuck and looking over the world in their thundering silence. Have I ever felt so small and insignificant? Has the world made its presence known to me in such a way before? I was dumbfounded, and yet an excitement bore up from my gut and was released through my veins, I was buzzing with excitement. Strange thing to get an adrenaline rush from, but there it was.

Getting off the train I felt as if I was in the middle of no where, behind me there was nothing but empty space, and before me, this great wonder of the world bearing down on me. I wandered through the subway that led you from one part of the platform to the other side and under the train line. There, a sign directed you toward the cable car that would take you half way up the mountain. I paid my few euro’s and jumped on.

The cable car wobbled in the wind and began its journey up, ever up, to the middle of the mountain. I could feel the ground slip away from me and the precariousness of the rope that suspended me so far above sea level. Looking down I enjoyed a new perspective of Spain… brown rivers that curved through the low valleys, roads sidling along the mountain side, more mountain steeps in the far distance, I could even make out the metro pole mess of Barcelona… unknowingly being watched. It looked lush and green and cavernous and mountainous and everything I thought it was not. Ah, the power of perspective.

I thought how much my father would despise this little journey, more than the cable car I’d gone on the day before… this was a whole ‘nother level!

Finally, we reached the middle of the mountain where a small village exists. It is an original site of a medieval basilica and also the location of the oldest boys choir, apparently on a Sunday you can still come to the church and listen to them sing.

I don’t wonder why the monks decided to build here, what a view… they must have felt so much closer to their god. The exterior of the basilica was not as aesthetically pleasing as the churches I’d observed in Barcelona, red brick and severely square. Before it was a large open space – I imagine for festivals or larger services – and cutting this space from the cliff of the mountain were enormous arches that looked out over the perspective I’d seen on my cable car ride. Between each arch was a statue of a pope or saint. The Basilica itself was built under the shadow of the mountains main face, and the façade of the mountain itself, it looked as if three great giants were staring over the world. Quite severe giants at that, I wonder if the monks had of thought the same?

I made my way through the entry way of the Basilica and had expected to immediately find myself in the church itself, however was spectacularly surprised by another open space, a placa, rectangular, the stone walls that surrounded it were a sandy off-white. The main spectacle at the far end was a grand circular stained glass window, about two men high, and above that, a clock. This wall looked all rather baroque to me with the soft waver at its peak, expanding as it came lower and curved in at the edges, like the edges of a scroll. Below the stained glass window the wall – from end to end – was filled with carvings of more saints or popes…

Flanking this were apartment looking walls, filled with awninged windows, very similar to what I’d seen in Barcelona with the ornate decoration. The floor on which I stood was made entirely of marble. In the centre the marble formed a mosaic that looked somewhat similar to the horoscope wheel (but that is neither here, nor there). Everything was so precise, so well maintained, so breathtaking and awe inspiring, and the surroundings where such a place of worship was built simply added to the subtle majesty of it.

I wandered behind the placa and found a small place of prayer and contemplation that had actually been carved into the mountain itself. There, a most wonderfully coloured mosaic of Mary watched over worshipers as they lit candles for their loved ones and placed them below the feet of Mary.

After a few silent moments thinking of those that always spring to mind in places like these, I moved on into the basilica itself… You weren’t allowed to take photo’s here and there was a service on at the time, so instead, I stood and I observed and I allowed myself to be taken away by the enveloping spiritualism of such a place. Hymns sung in Spanish wound their way around me as candles flickered in the deep crevices of the original stone walls, incense and candle scents, the candelabra whispered the prayers of the people.

I came out after some time and wandered the streets of the exceptionally tiny village. Arches hung over the tiny medieval streets between the high walls. It is all old and cobbled and dark and bright and… it’s a piece of history that I was standing on – perfect.

I headed toward the tiny train station to take the funicular further up the mountain. The mountain is too high for the cable car, funicular or walking are the only methods of reaching the peak… I was in jeans and trying my hardest to ‘fit in’, as opposed to looking like some hiking tourist, so walking wasn’t really an option – that, and since I’d been working I had not been walking so much and my fitness level had plummeted to say the least.

I handed over my euro’s and jumped on board and was more scared on this contraption than I’d been on the cable car! Even though I was touching the ground technically, we were travelling at a 90degree angle! I leant back in my chair, held my breath and hoped the cogs would not fail, if so, I could imagine myself sliding all the way down the mountain, not always in an upright position! Much to my appreciation, I did make it to the top in one piece.

I found myself on a plateau overlooking the ocean far off in the distance. This mountain seemed to go on forever, I thought I had come to the peak, however I stared up toward the searing sun…and no, there was more to go.
‘Well’, I thought to myself, ‘prolly not going to have a lot of other chances to climb a mountain by myself… certainly not in Spain anyway’, so I hoiked my bag up, rolled up the bottoms of my jeans and followed a path that said ‘THIS WAY’ in Spanish (atleast, that’s what I think it said, it could have said ‘RUN AWAY’ for all I know, but surmised that there would be a red exclamation mark if there was anything dangerous).

I could make out the outline of a small prayer room, or monastery? (Not really up on the terms for Catholic rooms of worship) but there was one off in the distance and I decided that was to be my first feat. I wandered, taking sips of water, along the dusty gravel path, trying to ignore the fact that to my left there was a cliff edge and no barrier and that if I slipped or scuffed my shoe there was a good possibility that I would fall rather quickly to either my death. Did I mention the heat? Probably, but let me mention it again… It was HOT! And I was in jeans… I had thoughts of taking a pen and stabbing the jeans to make a hole and then ripping the hole in order to create make-shift jeans… it was a good way to keep my mind off the heat and the sweat that was dripping down my back.

Up a steep hill, through some stark trees, past a cat and I was there, my baby monastery and ofcourse, it was locked up. But here I was, higher, closer to the peak and at a place of worship that had existed long before my country had even been founded. I cant tell you how happy I was. That I was alone, that I was ok in being alone, that, while alone, I had wandered a good hour to get to a destination… that I was ENTIRELY alone on a mountain in SPAIN! And in this realisation of what I’d accomplished, alone, I couldn’t but help think how wonderful it would be to share this with someone.

I took a brief film of where I was, I’ve said before that my camera had become a portal for me between myself and my loved ones and so long as I was able to chat to the camera, I didn’t feel so very far away.

Well, I’d made it that far, I thought, ‘why stop now?’.
I carried on up the mountain, following the sometimes precarious path. At times it looked like a road of some description, but then fell away. Steps broke away as I trod upon them, sand and gravel coursed under my shoes. I wondered what these paths would have looked like originally. Apparently they were made my wandering monks who had decided to set up camp as close to god as possible. How incredible, though? So far up and only on foot or with a donkey to carry up all the required tools and elements required to make a place liveable. As I walked along the sheer mountain face, bending and crawling under crevices cut out from the rock I made out scratch marks or faucets where water was once retrieved from. I could make out crosses, here and there, in places I wouldn’t dare try and walk to alone. I think a lot of marriages would last a lot longer if they were as dedicated to their relationships as monks were to their gods.

Where I was walking was infact a fully functioning monastery at one point, with many many men living up here, harvesting what they could from the trees that made their way through the stone of the mountain, sourcing water from streams that lurked silently and unseen within. Looking out from the carved spaces I didn’t wonder that they chose to worship here, how could you not thank something for the beauty that lay before you… all the way to the sea.

After much creeping and crawling and gasping at times I came to the end of the path I’d been wandering. Time was slipping away and my itinerary was not getting any smaller. I found some steps – well, I assume they used to be steps – now, it was a steep crumbling path that, I hoped, would lead me back to the station. I had to crab walk most of the way down so that I wouldn’t fall face over feet all the way to the very rocky bottom. I hadn’t seen another person in a good couple of hours and didn’t rate my chances at being found if I were to break an ankle or anything else for that matter.

I had had such a thrill from my hike, enjoyed the views and the potential danger and the discovery… I felt more alive than I had in quite some time, I loved the open space and the wonders that you would come across every few steps. I eventually made my way through shrubs and bushes and came back to the train station – breathing a sigh of relief – and, after waiting for a while, taking some more photos and having a brief but insightful conversation with a stray cat, made my way back down the mountain.

Although the hike up and around the mountain had been exhilarating, it was also exhausting and I couldn’t help but fall asleep on the train, waking myself up every few moments in fear of missing my station and ending up in Madrid.

The sun was sinking faster than I felt necessary. According to my schedule I was running two hours late and needed to see the Sagrada de Familia, Gaudi’s Apartment building and Casa Balto… goodheavens!

So, off one train and onto another, I made my way to Les Padera aka Gaudi’s Apartment… apparently I wasn’t the only one who was interested in the magnificence of an architect and by all accounts, artist, well beyond his time. Between the tourists and the constantly running traffic it was practically impossible to first, take in the overwhelming beauty of the design and secondly, take a half decent photo.

I wandered across the road to get a better look at Les Padera, feeling frustrated that they hadn’t thought to close off the area around it, or potentially, construct a park or garden around it in order for the architecture to be properly appreciated. If all buildings were so beautiful, so surreal, then maybe it would be fine for it to be stood on the side of an exceptionally busy intersection, but so few are… it’s sad that you cant spend time, silently, taking in the profound genius of such an architect. For me, when I see architecture like this I like to imagine what the creator was inspired by, what they wanted to bring to the area, what they were attempting to develop – and also imagine living there, working there, making use of the building itself – but no luck here. I was able, however, in amongst the tourists and the traffic, to be completely blown away by the sweeping magnificence of a beautiful structure that juxtaposed the metropolitan, that, while in the hustle bustle of Barcelona, was able to instill a sense of peace, or maybe its emptiness… its very surreal, as if being momentarily within a Dali painting, being present in something entirely other-worldly, and entirely beautiful. The walls flow, and bulge and expand and rescind and jut out in sharp edges before reducing into soft curves… the off white, browns and then, dark steel at small columned balconies. Everything was considered so intricately. I loved it. I want it… it may potentially be out of my price range!

I followed the yellow arrows into the direction, and through lanes, upon cobbled stones, amongst vespa’s to the internationally famed, Segrada de Familiar. Looking back I can really appreciate this masterpiece… at the time, I was hot, grumpy, tired and just… really wanted to hide away in a room with a good DVD and a cup of tea. Let us not be distracted by such mortal needs! Let us also ignore the fact that it cost 12 pound to enter the Segrada de Familiar and the fact that a suggested donation would probably be more appropriate given the amount of people they were letting in there at the time, or alternatively, make me pay 12 pound, but let me experience it without half of the American continent… ok, so maybe it would have been better for me to leave it a day and come back here another time when I was more energetic and therefore more accepting!

But… I will always have the images of that particular structure in my mind. The sheer magnitude that Gaudi had in mind – no wonder its taken 500 years to build – not to mention the intricate and profound beauty of every single element that makes this cathedral what it is. I understand the dedication of the city to this structure… it is, beyond individual conceptualisation.

Its size is awe inspiring, the overall structure reminds me of a Picaso, the spires – entirely and grandly gothic, statues protrude from every crevice, images of the Mother, the Birth, the Death of Christ, the Saints and Popes, but also deamons and the dark elements of life, nature, the Church. Combining all life, good and evil, and death.

All of this, and I’d only seen the exterior.

It was only after moving under the looming (and somewhat mortally judging) statues that I understood the utter magnificence of this… this living and growing piece of art. Light seared in through the colourful and dramatic stain glass windows. The interior columns reflected the intense reds and greens and yellows, they danced above and around you, one felt as though they were in a living beast, stuck in a moment, completely engulfed in some kind of beautiful purgatory. The shadows cast by the columns and window sills alone developed some surreal atmosphere, as if like the sun breaching parting clouds.

Sadly I ran out of memory on my camera and so there are few images of my experience here, however, it only adds to the other-worldly nature of such a memory. I would have given anything to be in that cathedral alone. To listen to the music of colour dancing around me, the echo of my voice between columns, the step of my shoes echoing, bouncing from window to beam to floor to wall. Imagining the sound of organs here, how the sound would wrap around you and even if you were not religious or spiritual in any way, I cannot imagine anyone not being moved by a space such as this.

After meandering through the cathedral, entering the work-place of the now deceased Gaudi, and taking in the grandeur of the façade I headed across the road and into a small park. Reviewing my photos there was nothing that even came close to what I’d just experienced. It’s difficult to capture some things on film and this was one of those things. Taking a deep breath and trying to regain some level of energy I decided to get onto the latter part of my itinerary, if I didn’t go now then I’d never see it, Casa Balto – Gaudi’s actual apartment. I’d seen photo’s of it and now wanted to see if with my own eyes.

As I rushed onto the metro, up and down streets, I started to realise that I was not travelling ‘right’. I had always thought travelling was about experiencing a place, a point, a culture… and here I was ticking key points of interest off a list, rushing around like a headless chicken, ensuring I had experienced what was necessary to be experienced, and yet, by doing so, missing the experience a as a whole. Funny that your intentions sometimes prevent you from reaching your goal.

After walking in the wrong direction and turning (if I’ve not mentioned before I hate retracing myself) back, continuing down the same street for some 20 – 30 minutes I came to Casa Balto. I was not disappointed in the building itself, but again, as with my other two architectural sites of the day, the proximity of it to the menacing noise and drama of the city streets. There, if you glanced between beeping busses and buzzing bikes, was a mosaic wall, a mosaic wall that tapered its way up the entire façade of the apartment. Beautiful magnificent colours, it was as if someone had found a piece from Atlantis and resurrected it to exist, here, in Barcelona. There was ocean in the essence of its intense blue mosaic roof, choral in the shimmering and winding mosaic that floated from street level to the very top, bulbus eyes of glass protruding from the balconies of the apartments… oh, to take that and put it in a winery, a stable, a farm… an open space and to exist there, in amongst natural and man-made beauty, that would be an existence I’d be happy to enter in to.

I headed back to Las Ramblas and decided to call it a day, away from the ever busy Placa Reil, I wandered through the little streets, the miniature streets where I could be entirely alone and take in the differences between my world and the world that I was walking in.

I came to a cathedral and wandered through a street close by, imagining what it was like inside, watching the beggars on the streets, the street theatre artists restringing and preparing their bags for coins to be deposited in. I eventually came to a small bar in the middle of no where, between a Cathedral and a non-descript wall and ordered a glass of wine. Taking out my writing material I listened to the busker group who wandered with their guitars and other instruments around myself and other diners.

The wind became rather cold so I wandered off and came to another bar where I ordered a tea (with milk! Good heavens!) and continued to write. This place was well hidden from the main streets and had a cult feel to it. There was a lack of tourists which I enjoyed and the waiters spoke very little English, so in this environment I felt very inspired to write about my day.

After an hour or so I decided to move on and find somewhere for dinner. I didn’t really take note of the street that I was on or how to get back, it was more important to find something genuine, and meandering empty alley ways and unknown crevices seemed to me a good way to find something authentic.

I found a place which I imagined to be close to the wharf by the scent of the sea and fish. I sat down and listened to the music that danced off in the distance. I continued writing my postcards over a glass of wine before ordering sizzling prawns and some kind of spicy potato dish – delicious as always. I couldn’t finish my prawns so gave the rest to a table of Americans who were very excited by the offer.

Back to my writing and I heard a rowdy bunch of English come to the dining area, possibly on a stag do – I knew they would be trouble. They were terribly rude to the waiter, to whom, I apologised to on their behalf. One of the crowd looked over at me,
‘She’d want me’, said one of the men,
‘She looks like a scag head’ said another,
I leered at them in my most intimidating manner, and the man who called me a ‘scag head’ leered back,
‘You might want to consider whether the people you are insulting speak your language before you insult them…’ I said,
They laughed and thought this was an invitation,
‘You’re REALLY not my type’, I said and stood up and walked away.

Day three in Barcelona, my last day infact. I had a bit of a later start that initially intended. I wanted to be up and out by 8pm, but by the time I had my bags packed, a cup of tea and some breakfast it was 10am, I needed to be at the airport back to London by 6pm… my rather sardonic itinerary advised that I had a lot to do between now and then.

I headed to the metro with my backpack grooving itself into the small of my back most uncomfortably and headed to Parc Guell… after walking up and down, climbing one fence, shuffling under another and traipsing a hill under the hot sun I came to the big ‘Must See’, and having cursed for 90% of my journey up here I finally understood the reason behind my journey – this was incredible.

Up here you could take in the brilliance of Barcelona, the metro-pole to the ocean and all the incredible architecture in between. I was at the top of the fill, there was a cross over looking the city, there was an emptiness, a garden nature to everything I took in, you could truly appreciate the differences in the landscape of this great city.

I followed a path around, completely propelled by the constantly changing urban view, the lack of forestry, the silent landscape, sand and stone and nothingness and the fact that beauty existed in all of this.

It was hot and I was desperate for some water, I eventually came down along the path to the main meeting place, people milling around, snapping camera’s and oohs and aahs resonating in the silent protruding blue of the sky. I had come to the precipice of the gardens of ‘Parc Guel’, it was a great open space that looked out over the city. There were market vendors selling everything from ‘genuine Spanish jewels’, to ‘genuine Spanish water’… of the water, I must say, I partook.

Ahhh that first sip of water, it could have come from the Ganges for all I could care, I needed liquid, and having been rejuvenated carried on my wander through the fascinating surrealist landscape of the park. I took in the mosaic fountains, the intensely coloured buildings, bizarre architecture, pillared open spaces, everything… I think I loved this display of Gaudi most – it was open and accessible and people milled around, musicians played, there was a bohemian feel to the environment. It is difficult to explain the complex sensual nature of this environment, although busy, you felt alone amongst the buildings and sculptures – I wish I had more time to here. I sat down for fifteen minutes sipping my water under a column, listening to a guitarist and breathing in the atmosphere.

From there, I headed out ad down toward a fountain with stairs at each side, the sculture of a dragon or lizard covered in mosaic tile. Everyone was taking photo’s of this, children swishing their hands under the water that flowed from the lizards mouth. From here I continued on and away from the Parc, stopping in at a small mosaic store and wishing that I had the money and means to take every item from this store home – it was an interior decorators dream. I bought some presents for my family and carried on down the hill eventually getting to the metro.

I jumped off the train new the boat wharf where I was on the first day, I headed along near the zoo, circumnavigating it while listening to the laughter of children and chaotic sounds of animal. Eventually I came to the entrance of Parc del a Ciutadella which opened onto an orchestrated landscape surrounding what I think is a man-made lake. An enormous fountain sparkled water and to the right of this an old Palace juxtaposed the Parliament opposite. There were open greens where people laid – often without tops on! And an oversized statue of an elephant, people practising juggling and café’s where patrons sipped coffee, chatted and laughed. In the lake couples paddled in boats, children played with automated crafts… A lovely atmosphere, birds circling the vicinity, picnickers, the smell of warm food. I headed along a wide street and away from the tranquil environment toward an enormous arch made of red brick – an impressive and ridiculously huge site to see, the street was wide enough for five horse carriages at least and tourists milled along it, taking snaps, sitting to take in the perspective, watching street theatre artists.

Time was running out and I needed to get to the train station some time in the near future, first, though, I needed to find a bag or SOMETHING appropriate for my sister. I wanted something unique, something she’d love… and that’s a difficult task! I headed back to Las Ramblas and rushed through streets and up alley ways, into every souvenir and gift shop I could possibly find. It was Saturday… in Barcelona… there were people everywhere – why did I leave this to the last minute?!

I bartered with a man at one of the stores, trying to get a bag and a top for Tiffy, eventually we came to a consensus and I believe he took me for a ride, but I didn’t have the time to walk away and the top I chose – I could just see Tiffy wearing, silver sparking – perfect.

I started heading back to a Metro station, stopping briefly to enjoy a break dancing group that was commanding such a crowd – they were incredible, jumping and standing on hands and twisting about on the hard marble ground under a scorching sun. I listened to a full orchestra under the shadows of an ancient church and finally was asked to dance by an elderly Italian as he conducted a small band – I waved him off, trying to explain in hand language that I was in a rush but I so wanted to waltze there… maybe I’ll get the chance another time.

I got to the station I needed to descend and had one hour spare, perfect amount of time for a quick and final lunch. I sat at a lovely little restaurant and ordered some pasta from a very grumpy waiter. I must say, the staff reflect the service and goods… the pasta was terrible, the wine… awful… next time I am served by a grumpy waiter I will move on to another restaurant! Am sure he probably was just having a busy day and was sick of tourists… should give him the benefit of the doubt, really? Personally, I was a waitress for two hours and that was more than enough for me!

Getting to the platform of the train station I realised that there were two Airports… and I had no idea which one I needed to be at!!! This is what comes of being in a city with ONE international airport! I happened to sit down next to an English couple who were on their way home – someone is looking out for me!!! – who happily advised me where I should be heading too. There are so many nice people in the world and you always meet them when you really need to.

Finally… I was on the plane, my bags were on the plane and apparently I was heading back to the UK. Strangely though I had a terrible panic attack while I was in the air, it took everything I was made of not to scream out,
‘LET ME OFF!!!! LET ME OFF!!!’…
But, the plane did not crash, all was well, I took the tube back to my house in East Finchley, arrived sometime around midnight and was woken by a phone call from Nigel at 2am making sure I’d arrived back alright… When I got that call I was so deeply asleep I had no idea I’d even come back form Barcelona and apparently discussed with Nigel that I was taking the plane tomorrow and that he was being ridiculous, I was not in the UK! The power of the mind!

Well, that was my Barcelona experience, it was brilliant and horrible and everything I needed it to be and I am so glad I did it alone. I’ve discovered I LOVE hiking, mountain climbing, the outdoors… new outdoors! I love meeting new people and am more confident than I ever thought I was… or maybe I have become more so from the experience. This was an essential experience and every moment I appreciate whole heartedly – its not really much, its not climbing Mount Everest or traipsing across the archipelago… but its something and its something I did by myself.

I cant wait for my next adventure!