Parable of a Parador - Part Two
The Parador - tantalisingly on the top of a clifff
I ordered the Parador
brochure and eagerly awaited its arrival. My enthusiasm was not curbed by its
contents, and even though full of intriguing places such as restored castles,
convents and palaces, my heart was set on the former home of the corrigidor
(town mayor) at Arcos. I had pictured myself gazing out from that terrace,
glass of Rioja in one hand (although no food). There really was nothing else
that could possibly compete.
“Well it just has to be
the one at Arcos,” I said, showing Harry the brochure.
“If that’s what you want, then we’ll go for it.”
And so it was that a few months later our Spanish sojourn took us en route north from Cadiz, seeking out this fabled place like conquistadors on a quest to find El Dorado. Or at least a less exciting without-horses version anyway.
Upon arrival outside the town our mission ground to a halt. It was not entirely clear how to get up to our destination or even into the town itself. We could see it so temptingly out of reach at the edge of the cliff above us, and I was reassured to see that it actually resembled the guidebook picture. The endearing Spanish tradition of making strangers guess how to find their way around was in practice, and there were no visible directions to the Parador despite its VHS fame.
“Let’s find the Tourist Office,” I suggested.
“You’ll be lucky. It’s bound to be their four-hour ‘lunch’ break,” Harry replied.
He was right of course. How many times had we optimistically tried to get information from one of these places only to discover them closed and not only because of lunch but also because it was a Saint’s Day/Monday/election day/out of season. Perish the thought of a tourist office actually being open when it was needed.
“Well, there’s got to be a way up to the Parador, otherwise how would it be in business?”
Harry, resigned to his role as reluctant tour driver, shrugged his shoulders, put the van into gear and we set off once more. The first guess we made as to the way up and into the lower part of town only led to ‘no entry’ signs. At this point it was a pity we didn’t hear the warning bells, though we would hear enough real ones later. Even at this early stage, Harry was uncharacteristically ready to give up.
“Come on. Let’s forget about it,” he whined.
I was determined not to be deprived of my goal.
“We just can’t go away without trying a bit harder,” I had after all come so far and got so tantalisingly near.
He resisted. I insisted. He lost, for once.
With each time we drove back and forth across its bridges, the foreign green river flowing at the base of the hill upon which Arcos is so “precipitously” set, soon became as familiar as our local town’s supermarket-trolley-containing-stream. However, by the process of elimination, we eventually found a road that thankfully didn’t lead us back to where we’d just come from, and I felt that now I could actually look forward to my night of five-star luxury. Things were now looking up both literally and metaphorically as this road was of a reasonable width and actually not too steep. But soon the ominous appearance of one-way signs again tried to confound us, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead, and this time not because of the Spanish heat.
“This is hopeless,” it was so unlike my normally confident Other Half to admit defeat.
“It can’t be much further!” I said, trying to cover up the fact that I actually agreed with him.
The higher and further into the town we drove, the narrower became the streets. Not in the sense of British narrowness, that is with pavements or verges and the sensible addition of the occasional passing place, but in the sense of those white, unforgiving walls of buildings actually being the sides of the road. In my enthusiasm, it hadn’t occurred to me for one second that when donkeys were the only form of transport and in an effort to achieve relief from the relentless summer heat of Southern Spain, houses in towns were built as close together as possible. Our guidebook with its emphasis on the steepness of the streets, had neglectfully omitted to mention their width. And I’d paid good money for it too. There’d been no warning signs. There was no room for manoeuvre. Any possibility of turning round was a non-starter, and in any case out of necessity this was a one-way system. Just as we thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. A low archway loomed ahead of us, making the way forward even narrower than before. We were stuck. Backing up was out of the question because since we’d stopped, the world of Arcos and its wife had decided to take a spin in the car and a queue had built in our wake. With both sides of the van threatening to add a new dimension to the walls of the houses, it was nigh on impossible for either of us even to climb out. That we might actually be in a tricky situation did seem a big possibility. On the plus side however, like Pollyanna I’d found a silver lining.
“Look! There’s a sign for the Parador! Over on that wall!”
Our enforced stop had enabled me to spot the small sign pointing up yet another steep and narrow turning beyond the archway. The usually unflappable Harry was already disenchanted with the trip in general and with Spain in particular. This was proving to be the last straw on top the huge stack we’d accumulated since leaving home two weeks before.
“Well in the first place, I doubt if we can get through the arch – and anyway, how do you think I can get the van round that corner? This van’s got a long wheelbase – there’s no chance!”
Now was the time for him to succumb to that uncharacteristic bout of steering wheel thumping and towel-throwing-in. Helpfully I just shut my eyes and wished I could curl up in a ball and die.
(Continued ...)
“If that’s what you want, then we’ll go for it.”
And so it was that a few months later our Spanish sojourn took us en route north from Cadiz, seeking out this fabled place like conquistadors on a quest to find El Dorado. Or at least a less exciting without-horses version anyway.
Upon arrival outside the town our mission ground to a halt. It was not entirely clear how to get up to our destination or even into the town itself. We could see it so temptingly out of reach at the edge of the cliff above us, and I was reassured to see that it actually resembled the guidebook picture. The endearing Spanish tradition of making strangers guess how to find their way around was in practice, and there were no visible directions to the Parador despite its VHS fame.
“Let’s find the Tourist Office,” I suggested.
“You’ll be lucky. It’s bound to be their four-hour ‘lunch’ break,” Harry replied.
He was right of course. How many times had we optimistically tried to get information from one of these places only to discover them closed and not only because of lunch but also because it was a Saint’s Day/Monday/election day/out of season. Perish the thought of a tourist office actually being open when it was needed.
“Well, there’s got to be a way up to the Parador, otherwise how would it be in business?”
Harry, resigned to his role as reluctant tour driver, shrugged his shoulders, put the van into gear and we set off once more. The first guess we made as to the way up and into the lower part of town only led to ‘no entry’ signs. At this point it was a pity we didn’t hear the warning bells, though we would hear enough real ones later. Even at this early stage, Harry was uncharacteristically ready to give up.
“Come on. Let’s forget about it,” he whined.
I was determined not to be deprived of my goal.
“We just can’t go away without trying a bit harder,” I had after all come so far and got so tantalisingly near.
He resisted. I insisted. He lost, for once.
With each time we drove back and forth across its bridges, the foreign green river flowing at the base of the hill upon which Arcos is so “precipitously” set, soon became as familiar as our local town’s supermarket-trolley-containing-stream. However, by the process of elimination, we eventually found a road that thankfully didn’t lead us back to where we’d just come from, and I felt that now I could actually look forward to my night of five-star luxury. Things were now looking up both literally and metaphorically as this road was of a reasonable width and actually not too steep. But soon the ominous appearance of one-way signs again tried to confound us, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead, and this time not because of the Spanish heat.
“This is hopeless,” it was so unlike my normally confident Other Half to admit defeat.
“It can’t be much further!” I said, trying to cover up the fact that I actually agreed with him.
The higher and further into the town we drove, the narrower became the streets. Not in the sense of British narrowness, that is with pavements or verges and the sensible addition of the occasional passing place, but in the sense of those white, unforgiving walls of buildings actually being the sides of the road. In my enthusiasm, it hadn’t occurred to me for one second that when donkeys were the only form of transport and in an effort to achieve relief from the relentless summer heat of Southern Spain, houses in towns were built as close together as possible. Our guidebook with its emphasis on the steepness of the streets, had neglectfully omitted to mention their width. And I’d paid good money for it too. There’d been no warning signs. There was no room for manoeuvre. Any possibility of turning round was a non-starter, and in any case out of necessity this was a one-way system. Just as we thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. A low archway loomed ahead of us, making the way forward even narrower than before. We were stuck. Backing up was out of the question because since we’d stopped, the world of Arcos and its wife had decided to take a spin in the car and a queue had built in our wake. With both sides of the van threatening to add a new dimension to the walls of the houses, it was nigh on impossible for either of us even to climb out. That we might actually be in a tricky situation did seem a big possibility. On the plus side however, like Pollyanna I’d found a silver lining.
“Look! There’s a sign for the Parador! Over on that wall!”
Our enforced stop had enabled me to spot the small sign pointing up yet another steep and narrow turning beyond the archway. The usually unflappable Harry was already disenchanted with the trip in general and with Spain in particular. This was proving to be the last straw on top the huge stack we’d accumulated since leaving home two weeks before.
“Well in the first place, I doubt if we can get through the arch – and anyway, how do you think I can get the van round that corner? This van’s got a long wheelbase – there’s no chance!”
Now was the time for him to succumb to that uncharacteristic bout of steering wheel thumping and towel-throwing-in. Helpfully I just shut my eyes and wished I could curl up in a ball and die.
(Continued ...)