Our Andalucian paradise

View towards the Paris-inspired Triana bridge from 1852. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Most people who visit Seville admire the cathedral and the Giralda tower, stroll around the narrow alleys of La Judería, and perhaps peek into the Alcázar fort. The rest of the time is usually reserved for tapas and shopping. There are many lovely ways to experience the Andalusian capital but the most unforgettable is perhaps the least common. Only very few visitors will see the city from within the Guadalquivir River- the city’s essential artery and the reason that Seville was established on this flat and rather barren land in the first place. So why not combine sightseeing with a bit of exercise and rent a kayak to explore the historic city?
 

Kayak rental by the riverbank  

Starting by the floating dock. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Ever since I read about the Viking’s conquest of the city (that time called Išbīliya) in the year 844, I have always wanted to see Seville from the river. Preferably with a Viking ship, but let’s be realistic here… That particularly bloody story will have to wait until I can arrange a meeting with the town archaeologist and dig a bit more. In the meantime, let us rent a kayak for a 2.5-hour guided tour of Guadalquivir, straight through Seville’s city centre.

Several companies offer kayak rentals along the river, and we went with Naturanda, a company that arranges guided kayak trips all around the country. I cannot guarantee they are the best alternative. Still, their kayaks are conveniently located at Seville’s rowing club in the town centre with several parking lots only a few minutes’ walk away. The club also has showers and lockers (remember to bring a lock), and a small café selling water bottles.

We arrive early (the Scandinavian curse …) and find neither our guide nor a representative from the company. But a couple of minutes past the starting time, our friendly local guide saunters in. Alejandro is a fourth-year medical student and a native sevillano who is very proud of his city. We speak Spanish together, though he also speaks quite well English and French. While waiting for the last four paddlers to join us, we do some stretching, put on life jackets (compulsory) and bring the kayaks down to the floating dock where we will soon set off. We decided on a double kayak so that I would have a chance to take photos. The hull is of the heavy plastic type that one sits right on top of, without a keel or spray skirt. They are nothing like the fast, responsive river or sea kayaks, but on the other hand, they are almost impossible to flip (handy for the photographer). Therefore, it is considered a perfectly safe and fun family activity.   

Since the rest of the group hasn’t shown up yet, we paddle around on our own, checking out life along the riverbank, which includes beautiful flowering bushes, pampas grass, dragonflies and many species of birds. There are also people fishing by the river, although the water pollution has been proven to pose a risk to the local flora and fauna.

While we are waiting anyhow, why don’t we take a trip back in history to learn a bit more about the river?

Looking back

Perhaps it looked like this in the 17^th Century? Photo © Karethe Linaae

The name Guadalquivir comes from the Arabic al-wādī l-kabīr meaning Mighty River. And it is rather mighty with its 657 kilometres from its source in Sierra de Cazorla in Jaén, through the provinces of Córdoba and Seville, until it flows into the Atlantic Ocean by Sanlúcar de Barrameda in the Bay of Cádiz. Today it is Spain’s only navigable river that still brings large ships to Sevilla, though in Roman times, one could sail even further - as far as Córdoba.

Guadalquivir played an important role in Seville’s history. The city fought sieges and conquering armies that came up the river through the millennia. First, the Phoenicians, then the Carthaginians. Later, from 205 B.C., the Romans exported minerals, salt and fish from Seville (Hispalis) to Rome. Under the Arab rule (712 to 1248) the Moors built a large anchorage and watchtowers to strengthen the city’s defence. This was also one of the places where they had enormous chains submerged under the water, which they could tighten to destroy enemy ships. So, this is one of the ways they stopped the Vikings’ other attempts at reconquering the city.


Torre de Oro with riverboats in the background. Photo © Karethe Linaae


In the 15^th Century, the city’s shipyard was expanded with the exports of grains, oil, wine, leather, cheese, fish, metal as well as silk to the rest of Europe. With the discovery of the Americas, Seville became Spain’s economic trading centre, a trade monopoly they later lost to Cádiz. Yet today, almost 3000 years after the first exports started from this port, cargo ships and smaller cruise ships can still sail 90 kilometres into the mainland to reach Seville.

Life on the water

River paddling with the entire family. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

The others in our group are two mothers from Paris with their young daughters. The children are ever so keen and have no problem following us, even if we are not the only ones on the river today. In addition to a couple of smaller river cruises that take passengers around, we encounter rowers in single scullers to eight-man boats as well as other kayakers and paddleboarders with and without instructors.

Lots of activities on the river. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Since the river barely has a current in this section (which is an artificial branch) and largely due to the hot climate, Seville has become a training ground for national and international paddling and rowing teams, especially in the winter months. The river also has a two-kilometre-long international regatta course. But for us who are a little less proficient, this river section is like a calm waveless lagoon.

Going under the Cachorro bridge. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

Our group of seven follows the left bank, keeping a distance from the rowers who speed by. First, we pass the Cartuja pedestrian bridge and the Cachorro bride which is covered in graffiti, before arriving at the oldest bridge - Puente de Triana from 1852.

The interesting thing about these bridges is that although Córdoba had a bridge already in Roman times, Seville didn’t have a proper bridge crossing the Guadalquivir until the 1800s. Apparently, for several centuries the town was only connected with so-called ‘boat bridges’, consisting of a dozen boats chained together and covered with planks that led pedestrians, animals and horse carriages across the river. This is one of those times when I wish I could time-travel!  

The Triana bridge as I imagine it looked like in the 1800s. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The bridge that leads to the charming Triana neighbourhood, was designed by two French engineers and inspired by the original Pont du Carrousel in Paris. From here, we can see a copy of one of the ships that Columbus sailed to the Americas. Behind is the ‘gold’ watchtower Torre de Oro whose construction began in 1220. The name does not refer to the presence of real gold in the tower, but rather the tower’s golden reflections in the river explains Alejandro. We pass under the San Telmo bridge with a nearby palace of the same name and continue to Puente de los Remedios, from where we can admire the magnificent María Luisa Park and even a regatta in the distance.  

Regatta ion the river. Photo © Karethe Linaae

This is our turning point, and we return by paddling along the other riverbank. Alejandro informs us that what we see on our left is Seville’s most exclusive residential street, Calle Betis. The street doesn’t have the city’s largest nor the most luxurious homes, but the view of the river makes it unique, and thus the most desirable and expensive. Everybody in the group pick our favourite house with a roof terrace overlooking the river.

Alejandro with Calle Betis. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Paddling along the Triana neighbourhood once again, Alejandro points to a church. This is where his brotherhood departs from every Semana Santa with several hundred nazarenos to carry the religious statues across the bridge. Next, we pass the site for the 1992 World’s Fair, which has been abandoned ever since. Clearly this isn’t the Costa del Sol. Otherwise, property investors would have taken it over ages ago!

Safely back at the rowing club, both young and old agree that we have had a couple of fascinating hours. Kayaking the Guadalquivir is a safe, fun and unique way to experience Sevilla from a new vantage point. And, speaking for myself, it is almost as if I feel a bit more local after learning some of the city’s many secrets – by water.

Guadalquivir in all its glory. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The new trail seen from the Puente Nuevo bridge. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Millions of people have seen Ronda from the bridge that has become one of the symbols of Andalucía – immortalised in Hollywood films, international TV commercials and of course, a billion selfies. But now, you too can have a chance to see the mountain town from below. So, stroll down into the bottom of Ronda’s deep El Tajo-gorge on the newly opened Desfiladero del Tajo.

1,8 million tourists visited Ronda in 2023. I can guarantee that everyone took the compulsory walk in a constant queue of people across the Puente Nuevo bridge. But only a tiny fraction of the visitors dared (and took time to) take the trail that led down and beneath the iconic bridge. However, the so-called Ciudad Soñada (Dream City) now has a new official walking trail, El Desfiladero del Tajo, that brings visitors safely and comfortably into the depths of Ronda to see this cliff town from a whole other angle.  

A bit of history

Ronda from below. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Rondas Tajo is a 100-meter deep and 70-meter wide sandstone and limestone gorge that the river Guadalevín created through the millennia. Gradually, erosion of the soft rock shaped the unique rock formations– not only in Spain but perhaps in the world. The river is the main architect for this masterpiece which was declared an Andalusian natural monument in 2019.

The construction of today’s Puente Nuevo (the New Bridge) started in 1751 when the first bridge collapsed after a few years. The bridge which was the most costly in the world at the time, was completed in 1793, only a couple of years after Ronda’s equally famous Plaza de Toros. With its 98-meter height, Puente Nuevo was also the world’s highest bridge until 1839, when a bridge in Caille, France took over the honour.

The original trail into Ronda’s gorge. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The original path was dug into the porous cliff face in the 18th Century to bring the construction workers and materials down to the bridge foundations. For years, locals and tourists have snuck down the narrow unprotected path, but after several accidents and years of applications and red tape, Ronda finally got the approval and could reopen the trail - this time extended with a safe wide stone staircase with handrails on both sides.

Safe path with a spectacular view. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Of course, purists, nature lovers and those who used to climb down there will prefer the old, modest natural trail. The chain-link fence could admittedly have been replaced with something more pleasing to the eye (and less prison fence-like). But at least it is safe, and overall, one has to say that they have done a fairly decent job.

Now it’s your turn

Desfiladero del Tajo, first part. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

Prepare yourself for an unforgettable experience right in the heart of Ronda. The journey starts from the Plaza María Auxiliadora in the historic part of town. From here, wide stairs lead down to la Casa de Manolillo, the ruin that has been restored and serves as a visitor’s centre with impressive viewpoints with benches and a first-class view of the bridge. This is where one shows one’s ticket (which ought to be purchased in advance online – see box). Though this may be perceived as an overkill, one also gets provided with a compulsory helmet and hair net. Presently, the local authorities only allow 30 paying visitors at a time and one has an hour to walk down and up the path to take photos and admire the view, so there should be ample time and enough space for everyone.

The new path. Photo © Karethe Linaae

On the 250-metre-long path that ends at the bridge’s foundation, one can get to know the town’s history by scanning the QR codes attached to the fence. One can say that Ronda lived off the Tajo gorge, which at one point had thirteen mills along the slope and five mills down in the alley below, some in use until the 1950s. As part of the restoration, the municipality has also cleared trees and foliage around the old mill ruins to make them more visible.

“I don’t like to compare el Desfiladero del Tajo with any other trails, as it is unique”, says Ronda’s historian and chronicler, Faustino Peralta. “This is a historical, geological, monumental, enological and patrimonial path with many characteristics that other paths do not have.”

Path with view out towards Ronda’s green valley. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

Today the path ends in the bottom of El Tajo, where the bridge and the intensely blue sky are revealed above one’s head. Then, one must return to the starting point. However, this is just the first part of el Desfiladero del Tajo. In a couple of years, visitors will be able to walk on a suspended footpath above the river surface following along under Ronda’s three historical bridges: The new bridge from 1793, Puente Viejo (the Old Bridge) from 1616 and El Puente Romano, the oldest bridge with is said to have both Roman and Arab origins.

In the meantime, el Desfiladero del Tajo is a new, safe and fun activity for visiting families and people of almost any age. Remember to book your tickets online as soon as possible, because just on the first day the website was open, they sold 600 tickets.

For more information: https://desfiladerodeltajo.info/

Ronda with Puente Nuevo. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Dusty landscape. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Did you know Morocco was the first country to build a high-speed railway system on the African continent? After the railway line opened in 2018, one can now take a train from Tangier in the north to Casablanca on the Atlantic coast in a couple of hours, something that lasted almost five hours in the past. Not that one should rush when one travels by train, as there is no better way to see the world.

Street art, Tangier. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Morocco is a perfect travel destination for those who live in Spain. If one wants to experience something unique, it’s a different world. To my husband and me, trains are a great way to visit any country, so we head across the Strait of Gibraltar to check out the Moroccan national railway system, ONCF (Office National de Chemins de Fer).

Arriving in Tangier by ferry. Photo © Karethe Linaae

After a brief hour on a hydrofoil from the Andalusian surf town of Tarifa, we arrive in Tangier – now Morocco’s fourth largest city with just short of a million inhabitants. From here, there are high-speed trains to the capital, Rabat and on to Casablanca (which in global context still is best known due to the 1942 film by the same name). From this express line, conventional slower trains branch off to the inland cities of Fez, Meknes and Marrakech, the latter, our southernmost point on this journey.

Map with train lines. Express line in purple. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The Express from Tangier to Rabat
 

Africa’s first and fastest high-speed train, Al Boraq. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Trains from Tangier leave from the airy, modern Tanger Ville station, which features shops, cafes, a garden, and separate waiting lounges for first and second-class passengers. The station and platforms are much cleaner than in most Spanish towns and this seems to be the case at all the other stations we visit.  

The beautiful train station Rabat Ville. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Only 323 km of Morocco’s 4225 km of railway lines are configured for high-speed trains, but the plan is to expand these to connect the rest of the country. Recently ONCF issued a tender to expand its high-speed train to Marrakesh, though we won’t be able to enjoy this ride until at least 2027. What’s the rush ...

Morocco. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The Al Boraq trains are Morocco’s first high-speed railway and Africa’s fastest (max speed 320 km/h). The futuristic locomotives may resemble the French TGV trains because they are built by the same company and have similar comforts. It is wise to pre-order tickets online, as these trains, which are fast, clean, comfortable as well as punctual and reasonable compared to Europe, sell out easily. The only drawback that should be mentioned is that they do not have WIFI onboard, but at least there are plugs to charge mobile phones by the seats.

It is not only me who has to work on the train … Photo © Karethe Linaae

After a night in Tangier, our initial ride is with a two-storey high-speed train from Tangier to Rabat. The first-class ticket costs about 30 euros one way, which is quite reasonable for a 235-km journey in ultimate comfort. There are departures every hour, and we chose to leave at 11.00 allowing time for a café au lait and a walk around town before we board.

Doorway. Photo © Karethe Linaae

One can also take a night train with a couchette where one departs Tangier at night and arrives in Marrakesh the next morning. We prefer to travel in the daytime but assume that the quality and services are equally good at night. 

By mistake, we seat ourselves in a second-class car which seems quite all right, but the ticket inspector immediately refers us to the first-class carriage a little further ahead. This has two rows of ultra-wide comfortable velvet-covered seats that resemble a small sofa. The trains also have a cafeteria car, although the selection is not exactly a gastronomic experience. The seats feature large, extendable tables with plenty of space for a laptop, but I must admit that I mostly end up sitting and staring at the lush landscape as we speed south.

We arrive at Rabat’s Casa Voyageurs station one hour and 20 minutes later and have just over fifteen minutes to change trains. This proposes no problem as it happens to be on the same platform. From here, the journey continues by conventional train to Marrakech.

Traditional train – Rabat to Marrakech

Rabat-Marrakech. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The slower Al Atlas trains are the most popular means of transportation for the locals, so this part of the journey is a lively and social experience. Therefore, advance purchasing of tickets is also vital. The distance between Rabat and Marrakech is 334 km, and the journey lasts at least 3,5 hours. This segment also costs about 30 euros one way in first class, and even if the tickets are double the price of second class, it is well worth the extra dirhams.

Rabat station. Photo © Karethe Linaae

There is a crush of people on the platform, but this time we find the right compartment on our first try. The Al Atlas trains have a corridor on one side and are divided into smaller, classic train compartments on the other, something we have not experienced since travelling in India. The first-class compartments have seats covered in worn velvet with space for six passengers. Otherwise, there is only space for luggage on the shelf above the seats, so the passengers end up leaving their luggage in the narrow corridors. Eventually, the poor man with the snack trolly can barely squeeze past the huge Japanese-sized suitcases.

Snack cart. Photo © Karethe Linaae

From what I detect the second class has plastic-covered seats, more people in the same compartment and corridors filled with people. At least we are lucky that our WC has toilet paper, a seat, and a small wash basin (even if the door won’t close and potential fare dodgers use it as their smoking lounge…) From what I have read, the loo in the second-class cars still has the classic hole in the floor, but even with this article in mind, I have no further desire to confirm this.

As soon as we sit down, a couple of American travellers enter and insist that we sit in their seats (again something we only have experienced on Indian trains). Upon further investigation, it turns out that their tickets were for the day prior. This leads to a lively debate, especially when someone in our compartment informs them that the fine for an invalid ticket is 120 euros - per person. The couple decide against hiding in the toilet (like it happens in the movies) and depart at the first station to buy new tickets before receiving a hefty fine.

Ticket controller. Photo © Karethe Linaae

We have barely sat a couple of minutes when a gentleman comes in and gesticulates in a mixture of Arabic and French that my seat belongs to him. This time he is completely right. I explain that the reason why I am sitting in his seat is because the lady across from me is sitting in mine. The friendly man agrees to find a free seat in another compartment, and all is peaceful until the ticket controller comes and thus continues the eternal Game of Thrones.

Ticket controller, Al Atlas. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

We do not have a worktable in front of us on this train. However, there is ample entertainment with the virtual United Nations sharing the compartment with us. Our travel mates are from Morocco, France, Romania, and Australia, while we represent Mexico and Norway.

Our travel mates. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Whereas the countryside between Tangier and Rabat is green, hilly, and agricultural, the journey inland is more desert-like. Between a handful of stops in some smaller towns, we pass a sand-coloured landscape with an occasional bush, houses and huts in pink, orange and camel-colour, a dusty herd of goats and most of all, sand.

Al Atlas train to Marrakech. Photo © Karethe Linaae

When we approach Marrakesh, the terrain starts to undulate a bit more. The Atlas Mountains tempt further explorations. Perhaps next time ... The trip from Tangier to Marrakesh took just over five hours, but the time flew by, far too quickly given that the entire journey was like a geographical and cultural study.

Changing society. Photo © Karethe Linaae

At the station, Muhammed (with a sign with our names printed on it) awaits to chauffeur us to our Riad – the typical Moroccan guesthouses that now often operate as boutique hotels, often with only a handful of rooms. We have a few days here and a couple in Rabat before we take the same train ride in reverse to Tangier and the ferry back to Spain. But we will certainly be back for other adventures.

Peek view. Photo © Karethe Linaae

While the lively traditional trains are an experience I wouldn’t be without, the high-speed trains of Morocco can compete with the express trains of any European country. The best thing about this type of travel is that one doesn’t need to sit cramped into an aeroplane seat, worry about getting lost while driving, or find free parking in yet another unfamiliar city.

Motor stop, Marrakech. Photo © Karethe Linaae

At the same time, one can feel good about choosing the most sustainable public transport method available.  

Happy trails!

Roof terrace, Tangier. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Ronda's cheery cobblers, Jaime, Miguel and Ismael Becerra. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Is it only me, or have you also noticed that everything lasts a shorter and shorter time? Be it mobiles that are virtually useless after a couple of years, computers that refuse to update, self-parking cars that go wild, or clothes and shoes that barely last a season - it looks like the disposable culture that we should have put behind us a long time ago, is here to stay. For this reason, I was glad to discover that some trades that have disappeared in many other countries, still prosper here in Spain.

Take their friendly shoemakers …

Jaime fixing a pair of boots with a smile. Photo © Karethe Linaae

When we lived in Vancouver, British Columbia, our Chinese shoemaker made it very clear that my French leather boots were long past their prime and impossible to fix. However, since these were my favourite boots of all time, I still brought them with me when we moved to Spain. And here in our small mountain town, the shoemaker took them in with no reservations whatsoever. He added a new sole, stitched them up, and polished them so that they lasted for another three winters, all for the price of four pairs of shoelaces!

Shoeforms. Photo © Karethe Linaae
 

Cobblers or zapateros in Spanish is one of the oldest professions in the world. It is also a dying trade and a disappearing art in many Western countries, where we have become accustomed to buying a new item when something falls apart. It is increasingly more difficult to find someone capable of - and willing to - fix something as ‘degradable’ as used footwear. But at least here, the cobbler trade is well-regarded. Although Ronda has barely 34,000 inhabitants, there are three Zapateros that I know of in our town, and all run an industrious business with a bit of bag repair and belt sales on the side.

Sign. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Everything can be fixed

Our shoemaker, Zapatería Becerra, is a family business started by Miguel Becerra Aguilar (63) 40 years ago, and judging by the row of waiting customers, he won’t be retiring any time soon. The business has only increased, and his sons Jaime (42) and Ismael (34) started working with him after they finished senior high school. Today they have children of their own, and while both express hopes that their offspring will study instead of joining the family firm, they assure me that they enjoy their work. The only drawback is that they never have a single moment to sit down.

Ismael fixing a hiking boot. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Every time I have been to the Zapatería, including a couple of times I came by to interview them in their two-second break between clients, there has been a line-up. People bring old shoes, boots, sandals, stilettoes or slippers that need fixing, dyeing, and polishing, brand new shoes that need expanding, belts and watch straps needing extra holes or a new buckle and handbags, backpacks, suitcases and jackets with broken zippers or lacking Snap-on buttons, not to mention keys to be copied. The Becerra boys can fix virtually anything!

Using stitching machine from 1865. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Just for the last task, they have a row of seven machines that represent the technical evolution of key-copying from the middle of the last Century. The most valued antique in the shop is a curious sewing machine from 1865, and the oldest key-cutting machine with a very cool built-in lamp was the first that Miguel invested in when he opened the shop in 1984, and although he has the latest in laser cutting technology, it is still his preferred tool for the task.

Miguel makes keys with the oldest and most dependable of his seven machines. Photo © Karethe Linaae

From baker to shoemaker  

Miguel started working as a baker in the family’s bakery in the 1970s when he was a teenager. The Panadería which today is run by his cousin, is still so famous for its bread that the waiting customers spill onto the sidewalk. But Miguel didn’t enjoy working through the night as most bakers do and decided to become a shoemaker instead. He knew nothing about the trade and had no equipment, but gradually he learned and started his workshop across the street from their present location.

Metal lasts. Photo © Karethe Linaae

When I ask the sons how they learned the cobbler trade, they tell me that the only way to master the profession is to do it. “Everything we know, Dad taught us”, they agree. Jaime admits that he once had a dream of joining the police or the army, and Ismael says that if he ever changed job, it would have to be to become a bureaucrat with a generous salary, a big desk and very little to do. But none of them regret their choice and both smile while they hammer and patch and sew and glue until the sweat is pouring.

Jaime at the polishing machine. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Jaime at the polishing machine. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Service with a smile

The entire family is a friendly lot and I ask them if they always are this happy.

 «Well, our smiles aren’t glued on», Miguel winks and admits that there are certain days and a few customers that try even the endless patience of the Becerras. But generally, the clients are nice, and Miguel cannot recall having had a single complaint in all the years they have run the business. And why should they? The team works ceaselessly from when their doors open at 09.30 until 20.00 at night, except for a couple of hours siesta break. Around 150 customers walk in and out every day and the master cobbler calculates that if all three are at it, they can fix 60 pairs of shoes in a day, in addition to a slew of zippers and keys and what have you not …

Ismael can fix anything. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Most clients are told that they can come back and pick up the repairs already that same afternoon or the next morning - that is if they don’t fix it for you there and then. «We try to repair everything the same day we get it in», Miguel says and adds that jobs are paid when they are picked up.

Miguel adding a snap-on button to a jacket. Photo © Karethe Linaae

With such rapid rotation, one would think that there are hardly any repairs sitting waiting to be picked up. And one would also assume that they dispose of unclaimed goods after a couple of months. That is a common business practice, no? But I could not be more wrong. Jaime shows me rows upon rows of shoes from what he calls the ‘pre-pandemic era’ that soon will have been left for five years. All are fixed, polished, and ready to go. With an average bill of let's say 10 euros a pop, they are sitting on an entire fortune of abandoned shoes.  

Under pressure. Photo © Karethe Linaae

I ask how they can keep track of the hundreds of shoes that people bring into the shop, particularly when all they ask for is people's first names which are written on a Post-it note and attached to the insole of the shoe. Miguel admits that they aren’t fully digitised yet, but they have a system that functions well by separating women’s and men’s shoes and ordering them by the date they were brought in. In addition, they know almost all their clients by their name - or by their footwear.

Dangling shoes. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Miguel remembers only once a man came in to pick up a pair of shoes that they couldn’t find. They searched high and low, but the shoes had vanished. The man called his wife who happened to be at the hairdresser’s next door to tell her that her shoes were gone. She immediately reprimanded him, saying that it wasn’t a pair of shoes that he was supposed to pick up. It was a pair of scissors!

I should have guessed. Of course, the shoemakers also sharpen knives and scissors on top of everything else they do. To me, the zapateros are an important Spanish cultural institution, and without them, Spain would simply not be the same.

Stitching machine from 1865. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Grandma's fountain pen. Photo ©  Karethe Linaae

The turn of a year makes one particularly aware of dates and numbers. We might not remember what we did on the 7^th of August, but most of us know exactly where we were on New Year's Eve and what our thoughts were about the coming year. A new year tells us how incredibly fast time flies, and for us of a certain age, reminds us that our New Year's celebrations and years are counted. With January comes taxes, annual fees, and updates of electrical systems of mobiles and computers. And that is in fact what I wanted to talk about– computers.   

The other day I had to call Apple Care, Mac’s technical customer service for products that are under their warranty. As with everything in life, none of these warranties lasts forever, though one can purchase an extension of the manufacturer guarantee to a total of four years. My old desktop, which will be nine years old sometime in 2024, is therefore far beyond the warranty period, but thankfully my sleek little laptop is still covered. In the past, nine years used to be nothing for Apple (and this is not an ad for them!). The old Macs were like the Volvos of bygone years, which drove faithfully for decades, even with several hundred thousand kilometres behind the wheel. They were practically indestructible.

But let’s get back to the warranties. Since my desktop computer had started protesting and giving me blank stares if I had more than two programs going simultaneously, I wanted to transfer my enormous photo archive to my laptop. After several failed attempts, I decided to call Apple’s technical helpline. This means double waiting in Spain, as I insist on talking to their English-speaking customer support, who likely sits in Uttar Pradesh.

Once I got a live person on the line, I explained the issue to the technician who immediately said that she had to talk to her supervisor. The reason for this was that my computer was so old that it was what they called Vintage. I was fortunate as the machine was not yet old enough to be considered Obsolete, she added gleefully. If that had been the case, they would not be able to do anything for me and my ‘antique’.  

Let’s leave the technician for a while, while we go back to the theme of vintage, as the techie’s comment got me thinking. To me, the expression vintage refers to post-WW2 style clothes, American music from the 60s, and modern classic Danish furniture from the 1970s. In other words, it brings my thoughts to the baby boomers and their gear. Therefore, I had not expected to hear that my Mac from 2015 was in any way vintage.

The rapid expiry date of technical products these days is of course not only an issue with computers, as it is much worse with mobile phones, where just a handful of years makes them practically useless. But if a computer that is barely a decade old, is obsolete, then what am I?

With different operating systems and what have you, my technical conundrum has not yet been solved. However, it made me realise something. Whatever they say about stuff being obsolete, is not always true. At least this expired, out-of-stock model is still alive and kicking. May all of us who are defined as Vintage and Obsolete, live long past our official best-before dates.

Mindfulness before all. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Grape stomping is not for wimps. Photo © Jaime Barrera
 

You might have seen one of the movie history’s most-known comedy clips with Lucille Ball stepping on wine grapes. In the black and white recording from 1956, she dances around in an enormous barrel on a fictional Italian farm. But the vintage clip refers to a tradition that goes back thousands of years, and which thankfully still is kept alive here in Andalucía. 

When our friend and vineyard owner, Enrique Ruiz, told me that they had started the year's grape harvest and would stomp on some of their most selective grapes, I immediately made my feet available for the task.

The following day I headed for his vineyard, La Real Fábrica de Hojalata outside the village of Júzcar (otherwise known for the Smurf movies). Finally, I was to try grape stomping and understand why some winemakers still choose to use this ancient method for their most valuable vintages.

First, we stomp …

José Manuel in the bodega. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Enrique and his oenologist José Manuel Cózar Cabañas are waiting for me outside the classical bodega. After a proper hosing down of my feet, I get to do a trial round in a smaller tub where the grapes only reach up to my ankles. «These are Tintilla grapes», states Enrique while I get used to the squishy feeling of having crushed fruit between my toes. 

The grapes that were picked at the crack of dawn, are gathered in tubs, and pressed by foot so that the raw grape-must comes in contact with the natural wax that grows on the surface of the grape skin. This is how the fermentation process gets activated.

Grapes on the vine with natural wax on the skin. Photo © Karethe Linaae

«We give the grapes a hand with the process so that the wine ends up how we want it», says the Venezuelan oenologist who became smitten by wine while studying chemistry in Seville. The maturing process happens completely without additives. «We keep in the grape stems, so they are in contact with the liquid», he explains as I step out of the small tub.  
 

Wine stomping in miniature. Photo © Jaime Barrera

But the work has only just started. The real stomping is about to begin – this time in a tub that one could almost drown in, which contains 750 kilos of grapes. First, my feet get another hose down, of course. Then, I climb up a small ladder and let myself gradually sink into the bubbling, orange-coloured grape mass which clearly already has been given a couple of stomping treatments. Since the mush reaches well up on my thighs, I can neither run nor dance around in the barrel like they do in Hollywood.  

While I stumble around like a drunk (not having touched a drop), it occurs to me that the ancient Greeks had a good idea when they used a rope suspended above, so the stompers could keep their balance. But practice makes perfect, and gradually I get into a sort of Zen rhythm – pushing the foot gently down and then sliding the rest of the body forward. The time-tested process instantaneously raises my appreciation and respect for nature production and the love of wine, as it is completely unreal and ever so cool to be able to stagger about in what just might be La Fábrica de Hojalata's most exclusive future wine!

The point is to stay on one’s feet. Photo © Jaime Barrera
 

This time around, I am crushing the white grape variety Moscatel Morisco in what is the bodega’s pioneer experiment of making what in old Spanish was called vino brisado. In English, it is commonly called orange wine due to the colour, but this can easily be mistaken for a Vino de naranja which gets its taste and flavour by the addition of orange peel. Vino brisado has still not received an official wine classification, despite being the most authentic wine one can possibly produce with a thousand-year-old process.

Only a small fraction of the grapes that are grown on La Fábrica de Hojalata will go through the stepping process, but all their wines are organic nature wines and are pressed with a hand press. In total, they expect approx. 700 bottles of ‘my’ specially stomped, amber-coloured vintage and 2,000 bottles of foot-pressed red Tintilla. In comparison to commercial wine producers, La Fábrica is a tiny winery, only making some 9,000 bottles per year. And while industrial wines are set to age after just 3-4 days, raw wines, or nature wines as they are called, spend up to one month while they ferment at their very own leisurely pace. «Instead of filtering and purifying the liquid, we wait until all the solids fall to the bottom of the batch before we hand press it. This way the wine purifies itself» explains the oenologist.
 

Vino Brisado and pressed raw wine. Photo © Karethe Linaae

José Manuel explains that in industrial winemaking the grapes are rinsed, sorted and stems removed before the juice is pressed in a machine. Thereafter, the first correction will take place when they add sulphur and adjust the sugar- and acidity levels with chemicals. If the must doesn’t have the characteristics and consistency that the producers desire, they will add it. And to ensure that the final product is as ‘clean’ and clear as possible, they remove the naturally occurring yeast and nutrients, and therefore have to add yeast and nutrients in addition to more sulphates. Other chemicals might also be added to ensure that the wine won’t crystallize in the bottle. While this type of mass-produced wine can contain up to 250 ppm (parts per million) of added sulphites, organic wine has a maximum of 115 ppm and raw wine has under 50 ppm. A wine totally free of sulphates does not exist, as all wine has naturally occurring sulphites (under 10 ppm).

Safely out of my first ‘grape bath’, my education on raw wines continues. For health reasons, La Fábrica de Hojalata only uses non-toxic food-grade plastic tubs for the pressing, instead of the traditional wooden tubs. They also use the latest technology in measuring apparatuses.  «Raw wine does not mean unclean wine. We make our wine with the least amount of interference, as the natural grape juice has all the wine needs – yeast, acidity, sugar, and nutrients», explains the eager oenologist.

Nature wine from La Fábrica de Hojalata. Photo © Karethe Linaae

More than 8,000 years of history

For the longest time, it was believed that the Romans (think Wine-god Bacchus), the Greeks (who stomped grapes accompanied by flute music) or the Egyptians (who also made wine from dates, pomegranate and figs) were the first to make wine, but we have to go even further back in history to find what we today consider the world’s oldest winemaking technology.

In 2015 a group of archaeologists discovered some clay urns during an excavation of a Neolithic settlement in East Georgia. The urns that were dated to approximately 6,000 BC, had traces of wine and were decorated with paintings of grapes and dancing men. These Qvevri urns are now part of UNESCO’s World Heritage List and are still used in winemaking in Georgia to this day – some 8,000 years later.

If one thinks about it, even Homo Sapiens from prehistoric times who by accident squashed some berries underfoot could have inadvertently started winemaking. Since it now is proven that the Neanderthals in Andalucía made sophisticated art more than 50,000 years ago, couldn’t they also have made yeasted grape juice? We might not be here when the discovery is made, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there is still proof out there that winemaking is even older than we now believe.

Grape stomping anno 2023


First steps. Photo © La Fábrica de Hojalata

Pisado, or Pieage as it is called in French, has been the universal winemaking tradition for thousands of years, but wine producers gradually converted to mechanical pressing – the method that now is the most common for almost all wine producers. So, why in heaven's name do some winemakers still stomp on their grapes, and why has this tradition recently got a renaissance?

First and foremost, I would argue that the trend with boutique hotels, gourmet restaurants and luxury wine tours has increased the demand for exclusive wines. People are willing to pay almost anything for a unique product. Furthermore, the environmental- and sustainability trend has probably also inspired the new wave of grape stomping, not to mention the Slow Food movement. People – at least those who can afford to - want to distance themselves from mass production and get back to the original means and methods.

Why crush the grapes with one's feet?

Oenologist José Manuel explains the process. Photo © La Fábrica de Hojalata

The human foot is the perfect tool for the job. The pressure is light enough that the grape stones don't break, which can give the wine an unwanted bitterness. As most modern grape pressers crush the stones, some port wine producers still use pieage.

There are in fact also practical reasons for using one’s feet. The natural fermentation process that gets initiated can prevent damaging bacteria and mould, at the same time as the stomping circulates oxygen in the tub. The grape skins, stems and stones that come to the surface as one moves the must, contribute to the wine's final colour, taste, and natural aroma.

Traditionalists insist that pressing the grapes by foot allows for better control of the wine's taste profile and produces more complex and textured wines with a unique terroir signature. There are numerous festivals that now include wine stomping. It has become a tourist attraction in for instance Napa Valley and Brooklyn!

If one feels a certain reluctance to drink wine that has been touched by unknown feet, keep in mind that cooks use their hands and that these are often in contact with much more dangerous bacteria than our feet. Furthermore, almost no human bacteria can survive in a wine environment. The fermentation process reduces the oxygen levels, and combined with the natural sugar level that gets converted into alcohol and the grape's natural acidity, all contribute to removing unwanted bacteria and pathogenic organisms.

Wine as poetry


Vineyard owner Enrique Ruiz. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Our little group leaves the bodega and seats ourselves in La Fábrica de Hojalata's beautiful garden while the sun disappears behind the Serranía mountain range. Enrique opens a hand-pressed Moscatel Morisco from 2020 which has a deep amber colour. «When you make a million bottles, you cannot do it the natural way. It would be impossible. And one must admit that there are some excellent industrially made wines, as well”, he admits.

«What happens with raw wine, is that you get hooked», José Manuel interjects. «The more you learn, the more you want to learn. It is a fascinating world.”

Oenologist José Manuel Cózar Cabañas. Photo © Karethe Linaae

We make a cheer for this year's grape harvest, and I cannot resist but wonder if a great oenologist must be not only a good scientist but a bit of an artist.

«There are oenologists who are engineers who learn how wine should be made and follow this in every minute detail. And then there are other oenologists who are more like poets. They have the knowledge and the technique, but they make the wine with love – just like our guy here», says Enrique, referring to the oenologist at his side.

It is very doubtful that such an innovative winemaking method could have even been invented in our times. As the world gets increasingly antiseptic and mechanized, raw wine made by hand and foot, is really both old-fashioned and forward-thinking.

«A raw wine is a wine with a heart that you caress with your feet”, declares the oenologist-poet, and after the day’s stomping adventure, I have to say that I wholeheartedly agree!

The hard-working team outside the bodega after the first hand-pressing of the Moscatel Morisco. Photo © La Fábrica de Hojalata

Prototype of Dior's first suitcase that was made in Ubrique. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Where are Dior’s handbags, Prada’s fashion accessories and Cartier’s leather-covered jewellery boxes made? In a sweatshop on the outskirts of Paris? In a factory in China? Or perhaps in the fashion district in Milan? No, many of the leather goods of these and other exclusive brands are made in a remote rural Andalusian village by the name of Ubrique. Want to know more? Join me on a visit to get acquainted with the town's leather history and to separate the rumours from facts regarding Ubrique’s almost mythical leather industry. 

Hidden, but not forgotten

Ubrique – tucked in a valley. Photo © Manolo Canto


There is no easy way to get to Ubrique. Whether you come from the coast or from the inland, you end up on a narrow corkscrew of a road that you must follow down to the bottom of a secluded valley where the village is located. It is not only hidden, but most of the companies who have leather production facilities in the town, work behind locked doors. The companies hired to make the latest leather accessories for some of the world’s most prestigious fashion designers and their designs, are highly confidential. In fact, it is so secret that the employees must sign a confidentiality agreement and are not permitted to bring their mobile phones into the workplace. For this reason, I decided to make my first stop at the town's leather museum where they gladly share information about Ubrique's leather history. 

Leather museum in Ubrique. Photo © Manolo Canto
 

El Museo de la Piel is housed in a former Capuchin monastery on a slope above the town centre. The building has been newly restored and contains an incredible collection of leather articles, tools, photos, furniture, and equipment that show the development of the leather industry in this area in the 19. and 20. Century. The prime instigator of the museum is the passionate Maribel Lobato who started the collection (often from landfills and rubbish bins), gathering stories from the oldest inhabitants, and who still gives guided tours of the museum. Regretfully, she doesn’t speak English, but the museum is truly worth a visit even if one does not understand Spanish (Price 3 €). Should one want to get one's hands dirty, Paco Solano offers workshops for school classes and other interested parties who return home with a self-made leather purse from Ubrique (Course fee 5 € per person).

Paco Solano will teach school classes how to make their own leather purses. Photo © Karethe Linaae

These days, most of the leather articles are produced in larger plants located on the outskirts of town, but just a few decades back one could hear the hammering from the leather workshops that one could find on virtually every street and alley in town. All the inhabitants used to work in or for the leather industry, including children down to the age of six. And everyone had their own wooden leather hammer - called patacabra because they looked like the hind leg of a goat.

Collection of donated ‘patacabras’ at Ubrique’s leather museum. Photo © Karethe Linaae

It wasn’t an easy task to feed an entire family in rural Andalucía in the past. Therefore, the workers were given the opportunity to bring home extra work - after a 12-hour workday, seven and later six days a week. Every single piece of leather had a use - including leather from chicken legs that were boiled and pressed and used as watch straps, ox testicles that were made into tobacco purses, and fish skin that was made into shoes! As the fame of the town’s leather works grew, Ubrique started importing leather from all around the world.

Maribel Lobato tells the fascinating leather history. Here with a tobacco purse made from ox testicles. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The villagers were hard-working, persistent, and forward-thinking. They saw the need for souvenirs on the coast and made inexpensive leather articles decorated with Spanish bullfighters and flamenco dancers – articles that sold like hotcakes when the mass tourism started on the Costa del Sol. Ubrique was also the place where they started producing the official leather covers for the passports of almost every country in the world, including Spain, France, England, Italy, Portugal, Israel, Venezuela and Mexico. Not to forget the fashion accessories. In the museum, one can see the prototype of Dior’s very first leather suitcase made right here in Ubrique.



Leather covers for international passports were made here. Photo © Karethe Linaae

New life to the industry

Entrance to town. Photo © Manolo Canto

It is almost unbelievable that a tiny remote town off the beaten path in Andalucía is currently the world’s largest leather bag producer and exporter – especially since the leather they utilize does not come from the area, but from Italy and other countries. A couple of decades back, some of the workshops in Ubrique began to close their doors, because their large international clients moved their production to Asia to save money. There were rumours circulating that some designers had their bags fabricated in China to subsequently put a Made in Ubrique-label on the goods. Whether it is true or not, the trend didn’t last very long, as the designers soon discovered that the quality of the goods could never compare to the products made in the little Andalusian village. Hence, the clients came back to the town, which today hires more people and makes more leather bags than ever. According to the town statistics, they produce between 5,000 and 9,000 bags a week, which is more than any other place on the planet. Ubrique’s exclusive leather goods are sold to more than 50 countries (including France, the UK, Italy, China, the USA, and Japan) and produce accessories for some of the world's most renowned designers.

Ubrique’s leather history made in leather. Photo © Karethe Linaae

I am lucky to be invited to Adana Piel, one of the town's leather producers. The owner, Antonia González, took over the business from her father and has now opened a second production facility. While she describes her father as «a Gepetto» (Pinocchio’s father), she herself is more of a businesswoman. Her company produces several hundred exclusive leather bags every day, both by hand and with the aid of modern machinery. We rush past the diligent workers who come here to work from all over Spain and Latin America.

Factory owner Antonia González and designer Manolo Canto from Adana Piel. Photo © Karethe Linaae

In the workshop, I also meet the photographer and designer Manolo Canto who is currently creating Adana Piel’s own line of handbags, Briza. I am graciously allowed to take a few photos, though Antonia immediately points out that the bags are only prototypes and are not approved for production yet.

Prototype of Briza handbag designed by Manolo Canto for Adana Piel. Photo © Karethe Linaae

On the walls of their office, one can admire the company’s former designs which include handbags by Prada and, one of my favourites, Jacquemus. His collection of world-renowned mini handbags was recently produced in giant format, given wheels, and driven through the streets of Paris. But the actual bags were produced here in little Ubrique!

While most of Andalucía’s white villages suffer from depopulation and unemployment, Ubrique is constantly looking for skilled labourers and has trouble housing all the leather workshops. The town is alive and well, growing and prospering. And there is only one reason – the excellent and superior quality of their leather production.


From the Anana Piel leather workshop. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Make a trip to the village and experience the leather history of Ubrique for yourself. I can assure you that you will leave town with a new handbag or a new designer belt from one of the many leather stores on the town’s main street.

Window to Ubrique. Photo © Karethe Linaae

UBRIQUE DATA:
Inhabitants: 16 383
Inhabitants who work directly or indirectly with leather: 80 %
Number of leather factories and workshops: approx. 200
Types of products:
handbags, wallets, belts, suitcases, briefcases, mobile covers etc.
International brands who make/made leather handbags and accessories in Ubrique:
Dior, Louis Vuitton, Loewe, Carolina Herrera, Polène, Chloé, Gucci, Chanel, Jacquemus, Strathberry and many more.

Selection of classic Ubrique designer bags. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Rafa, el bombonero. Photo © Karethe Linaae

If you believe you have a tough job, think again. One of the most demanding occupations here in Spain must be to deliver the gas bottles to the country’s homes and businesses. I had a chat with our local bombonero and discovered that he lifts close to 10,000 kg – per day! 
 

In almost every Spanish neighbourhood you know when el Repartidor de Butano is on his way. First, you hear the honking or beating on metal when they announce their arrival, and then the rattling from the truck as el butanero or el bombonero as the locals here call them, drive around to deliver the easily recognizable orange gas bottles simultaneously as they pick up the empties that residents leave outside their front doors.

Just like people in other parts of Europe got coal and firewood delivered to their homes in the old days, most of the Spanish population still receive gas on their doors – unless they live in a modern complex where the gas is supplied directly via pipes into the building. For us Scandinavians who associate gas with BBQs, cottages, and camping, it is a bit surprising to realize that gas is still delivered by hand to Spanish households. The tradition started under Franco when a state-owned gas company had a monopoly. And even if the gas companies now have steep competition from other energy sources, los bomboneros are still an important part of the Spanish streetscape.

Deliveries in every street and alley. Photo © Karethe Linaae

45 % of the Spanish population – or more than 8 million households – still used gas for heating and cooking in 2020. The main reason is that gas is cheaper than electricity. Gas prices fluctuate amongst others due to transportation fees, crude oil prices and world events, and in the past decade, the price tag for a bombona has varied from ten to almost twenty euros. Some might have reservations about having something that explosive in our homes, but for people around here, that’s what people are used to.

The approximately 65 million gas bottles the Spaniards consume yearly are filled with liquid petroleum gas (LPG) or natural gas of either butane or propane. Most of the gas comes from the multinational Spanish company Repsol, which is the country’s biggest supplier with more than 2000 employees just delivering gas bottles all over Spain.

This not-very-enviable job is one that most of us simply couldn’t handle, if nothing else, due to the weight. So, who are these tough guys who pick up gas canisters like they were a litre of milk?

Rafael Dominguéz Naranjo. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Meet Rafa, el bombonero

Rafael Dominguéz Naranjo (48) is almost like an institution in the town of Ronda. Everybody knows him and expects his truck to come by every single tiny alley in each neighbourhood three times per week. I always look upon him with a mixture of awe and amazement when he picks up a gas bottle from the open truck, brings it straight up over the guard rail and onto his shoulder – hour after hour, day by day, in the frying Andalusian summer heat and howling winter storms. And if that isn't enough, Rafa is always smiling and friendly and even helps bring the monster inside the house should one need it. Despite the demands of the job, their salary is barely 10 euros per hour (June 2023), so a generous tip is not just good manners, but both well-deserved and should almost be obligatory!

One day I asked Rafa if I could interview him.

-Why on earth would you want to talk to me, he asked surprised, and based on his reaction I can guarantee that not a living soul have shown any kind of interest in his occupation before. I explained to him that his job is quite unique for many foreigners because in some countries (like my native Norway) people generally do not use gas in their homes. So, with a shy smile, he agrees that yes, he will share his story.

Rafa started as a bombonero when he was 19 years old, and besides a few months in construction, he has delivered gas bottles ever since – soon 30 years!

-In the winter I deliver between 180 and 200 bottles per day, but in the summer when we sell less, I only deliver 90-120.

-Only, I exclaim, and he shrugs his shoulders.

The full bottles weigh almost 28 kilos, which includes the metal canister plus 12.5 kg of liquid gas. I do a quick calculation and estimate that he carries between 2500 and 5000 kg every single workday. But that is not all, informs the humble worker. Every bottle is in fact lifted four times. First, when he loads the full tanks onto the open truck in the morning, next, when he delivers them to the homes, then when the empty tanks get picked up and finally when these must be loaded off the truck at the end of the day. At the same time, one must not forget the almost Rubik-cube-like system and the eternal game of musical chairs on the truck bed itself, as Rafa moves the full tanks towards the edge and the empties towards the centre of the truck.

Rafa on an ordinary day. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Then, there are the large industrial gas containers.

-The big tanks which weigh 62 kilos, are sold to restaurants and hotels where there is a need for stronger pressure to push the gas up several stories. I also put those on my shoulder, but my colleagues carry them together.  

The job consists of fetching the gas cylinders at the local depot and delivering them to customers, whether they are businesses or private clients. Rafa almost always works alone. Together with two other bomboneros, the three of them deliver all the Repsol gas bottles in town in addition to supplying a handful of smaller villages in the vicinity. When they deliver to apartment buildings, they still must deliver straight to the client’s door. This means using the elevator when available. If there is none, or it is out of order, they must use the stairs. Rafa will usually take one tank on his shoulder and another one in his spare hand, and if he has more deliveries in one place, he uses a handcart.

-Our obligation is to deliver the gas tanks to the customer's door and not any further. But I always help the elderly customers and bring the bottles to where they store them. I even connect the bottles if they need me to. But not all bomboneros do that.

Rafa admits that it is impossible that the job does not affect one's back after so many years. When it comes to safety, the canisters lacked a safety valve in the past, so they exploded on occasion. But that doesn’t happen anymore, he assures me. Gas bottles in homes are much less common now than in the past, and every year there are more alternative energy sources. I ask Rafa if he believes his occupation will exist in 10 years' time.

- Yes, I believe so. There is gradually less work for us, but in the villages where it is more costly and difficult to lay gas pipes, I believe they still will need bottle deliveries.

Heavy lifting. Photo © Karethe Linaae

According to our almost tireless gas man, the toughest part of the job is when he arrives at an apartment building without an elevator or when it is impossible to find parking in the town centre and he must walk for blocks to deliver the bottles. And the best thing about his occupation is the contact with the customers.

- After all these years I practically know everyone in town, and people almost always take time for a chat. Most people are nice, but of course, there are all kinds...

Just as quickly as it started, our conversation is over. Rafa pops a gas bottle up the street and returns with an empty one. Then he hurries on to some 99 other deliveries before his workday is over.

Gas deliveries are one of those everyday occurrences that one sees here in Spain, but perhaps not often think about. It might be a dying trade as our society moves steadfastly towards full automation and complete digitalization. But in the meantime, we can still enjoy hearing the jolly honking announcing that the gas man is here!

99 deliveries left to go. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Sun over Ronda. Photo © Karethe Linaae

We know it is summer in our Andalucian hometown when the only time it is liveable outside is before 9 am in the morning or after 9 pm at night. The hottest we experienced was the day we passed a thermometer outside a pharmacy, measuring 52 degrees. Not to forget that time during our first summer here when we were foolish enough to park right in the sun in August in Jerez de la Frontera and came back to 57 degrees inside the car. Not fun…

Summer fatigue. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Of course, one cannot completely avoid the southern Spanish summer heat, but my husband and I have learned to wake up at dawn, go to our allotment garden by seven and do our shopping as soon as the stores open or just before they close at night. Otherwise, we fight the heat with an endless selection of cold beverages, Spanish hand fans, SPF 50, face spritzers in every handbag, an eternal production of ice cube trays and experiments with cold soups, all windows and doors closed during the day, fully open doors (with mosquito net) and electric fan at night, cooled-off sheets (yes, you can put them in the fridge!) and an emergency sofa bed in the basement should it get particularly intolerable. 


Walk at sunrise. Photo © Karethe Linaae

We know it is summer in Ronda when the fields are dusty gold, and no green straw of grass is in sight. When there hasn’t been raining for months and no prospect of precipitation either. When the town announces water restrictions (that they themselves never comply with) and even the neighbours stop washing their cars with a hose.

Workers searching shade. Photo © Karethe Linaae

We know it is summer when the neighbourhood kids who run around are tanned as nuts and spend most of their waking hours jumping in and out of any pool that comes their way, as here school don’t start until the second week of September. We often hear children’s chatter and laughter long after we have gone to bed. When the toddlers finally get herded inside by their parents, we lay listening to the clicking sound of the geckoes that climb on the exterior walls hunting for mosquitos and other bugs, and as far as I am concerned, they can have the whole lot!


Antón cooling off. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The summer is also the wedding season in Spain. I cannot imagine how the women in the bridal party can stand getting into the rather tight and often synthetic dresses, monumental feather hats and towering stiletto heels to teeter up the cobbled road to the Espiritu Santo church in the height of summer - but what doesn’t one do for love!

Summer also means village fiestas with ceaseless Reggaeton music and piped and live flamenco into the wee hours. 

Night movie. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Most Scandinavians choose to travel north in this part of the year, and who can blame them? I have always had big plans of finding a holiday substitution post on a weather-exposed lighthouse north of the Arctic Circle every August. Oh well, perhaps another year ... 

Reflection. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Ceramic art, Übeda. Photo © Karethe Linaae

As you read this, my husband and I are travelling around Morocco by rail to mark my 60^th birthday. I am NOT sharing this news to attract felicitations (Please don’t!) or sympathy. Rather the contrary. I usually keep very quiet about such occasions and am no great celebrator of birthdays in general. I cannot remember the last time I had a party with friends and cakes and candles and all that jazz. On the other hand, I do recall a whole lot of birthday trips, excursions and adventures which will live in my memory for as long as I am blessed to have some.

Museum, Sevilla. Photo © Karethe Linaae

As my Catalan friend Juncal says «If anyone ought to be congratulated on my birthday, it is my mother. After all, she was the one who brought me to this world!» However, since I now sitting here wondering how I got to this point - and so very quickly – I have decided to share some reflections about life in general.

First, the hard facts. Ageing is something we all share. From the day we are born, we age – every day, hour, minute and second. To live is therefore to age. It is nothing we can avoid and certainly nothing we should be ashamed of. Yet I believe that most women my age are reluctant to or outright refuse to admit how old they are.
 

Blurred lines. Photo © Karethe Linaae

I am rather the opposite. I usually lie upward and have been saying “We who are in our 60s…” for a while now. Perhaps because I think it is funny and quite absurd.  The (good) voice in my head is still the same as 30 years ago, and like my son pointed out last time we met, I still act like a fourteen-year-old most of the time.
 

Other-wise. Photo © Karethe Linaae

Lately, I have become acutely aware of some age-related Spanish expressions, like código de barras (Bar Code) which refers to the vertical lines that appear with age on one’s upper lip. Not to mention alas de murciélago (bat wings) which naturally refers to the loose flesh and ‘love muscles’ that hang on the underside of one's upper arms. Yes, indeed, age creeps upon us, but thankfully it also usually brings a tad of wisdom. And the great thing about getting older is that one cares less and less about what others think. Like my late mother-in-law used to say on that very subject: «No me dan de comer» (They don’t feed me).



Potions. Photo © Karethe Linaae

With my somewhat advanced years in mind, the only things that really matter to me are keeping my health and my head intact. If I still can knot myself into a human Pretzel and stand on my head in my morning yoga, who cares about a few wrinkles? Every scar and crevice is duly earned. My goal for the, let's say, next 20 years (not to be too greedy) is to see more, breathe more profoundly and always to stop and smell the jasmine and orange blossoms.
 

Yogini street art. Photo © Karethe Linaae

A sermon by a Norwegian priest really resounded in my heathen heart. It spoke about how we always live ahead of ourselves. I am certainly guilty of thinking about undone tasks while I eat and making mental lists of what to do the next day if I wake up in the night. The only time that I possibly live more ‘in the now’ is when I have my hands deep down in the dirt in our allotment garden. So perhaps I should add digging in the soil as a thing I should do more of in the next couple of decades.

Step inside. Photo © Karethe Linaae

The other day I came upon an interview with a woman who became 122 years and 164 days old (not that I expect to get there!). She has now passed on to greener fields, but in her lifetime, she was a real inspiration. She took up a new hobby – fencing- when she was 85, biked until she was hundred, and quit smoking (a habit she started at 21, in 1896!) when she was 117 because she was too blind to light her own cigarettes. In a conversation with a journalist on her 120^th birthday she said;

“To be young is an attitude. It doesn't depend on your body. In fact, I am still a young girl. I just haven’t looked that young for the past 70 years.»

Graffiti. Photo © Karethe Linaae

So, cheers for Jeanne Luise Calment. Remember to add life to your years, whether you celebrate it by blowing out candles, or skip the cake entirely and go straight for the adventure.

Diving in. Photo © Karethe Linaae