An Iberian Indiscretion

gerardcarey said:

''He wants to know if you are the gentleman looking for the swimming cows?''
The receptionist bloke at the hostel is asking the question...on behalf of this rather serious looking policeman whose level of English appears to equate approximately to my level of Spanish.
''That'd...be me,'' I reply, slowly, cautiously.
I'm on edge. It's just that I have a history of policemen being grumpy towards me. Sometimes like severely, with batons.
Up close and personal, old enmities resurface.
My sensory and nervous systems light in a flash.
And it doesn't help that I've seen those Spanish coppers, on TV, getting a bit too violent with the older Catalan folk on their way to register their vote in the Independence referendum.
Just no excuse for that.
Whatever. I'll sort this bloke out.

Health considerations had determined I needed to, seriously this time, restrict my pilgrim packing to the bare essentials. Like ultra-light. So, only one pair of long pants to wear on long flights, if warmth was needed on early morning starts, or whenever a reasonable standard of dress was required.
Undies next, then shorts. Could I cut corners here? Go Commando? Bit doubtful about that. Then a flash of brilliance...for which I'm not generally noted.
What say....I replaced the undies and shorts with two pairs of those silky feeling, unlined running shorts? Quick-dry, light and cool. If required I could use them as undies under my pants, certainly for walking shorts during the day, to sleep in at night, and for swimming!
Talk about multi-purposing! Am I a genius or what?

Years ago, I can't remember where, but probably on the net, I read the story of James' first visit to Spain. It certainly impressed me. From memory, it went something like this
.
James inhaled a breeze laden with the thick odour of orange blossom which wafted across the deck of the scruffy little freighter that was anchored a way off the beach. The captain said that they barged the oranges out, there being no harbour.
The barges had first been dragged ashore, up onto the sandy beach, then crammed with steel barrels full of oranges.
Huge oxen were attached by chains to the barges, then, with great effort from the oxen, and many loud and encouraging profanities from the bargemen, the barges were pulled back out into the sea.
Deeper now, out into the ocean, most of the time with only their eyes, horns and snorting noses visible above the surface, the oxen walked, plunged, and swam their barges out to the freighter.
The bargemen splashed alongside, holding onto to the horns of the oxen.
After being lifted on board the barrels were opened to show that every orange had been cut in half. The captain then ordered the barrels be filled with clean seawater, and the bungs be reinserted.
Why this was done, the captain explained to James, was so that on the journey home, the wave action would slosh the oranges about in the sea water, the effect of this being to turn the rind of the oranges translucent.

James had always been intrigued by Spain. For some reason it held a mystical and romantic hold on his mind. No wonder then, as a young American student in Scotland, he signed on the freighter as a chart boy when this working holiday opportunity presented itself. They would be taking a cargo of coal to Italy and bringing oranges back from Spain.
The very finest marmalade was made in Dundee.

Now here I, and this story, am in Valencia.

He'd had a gutsful of the complaining people of Valencia.
It seemed to Franco that, with annoying regularity, the river which wound through their city regularly overflowed its banks. The city then, to a considerable height, disappeared underwater.
His 'Valencia' problem was finally solved by the river being diverted around the city, leaving a deeply-set, exposed riverbed, all set to be converted into a wonderful city asset.
Today this deeply-set, shady-treed park, perhaps up to 200 meters wide, winds languorously thru this third largest, and imo, most livable, of Spain's cities.
The river's bridges, left in situ, isolate the park from the busy city that surrounds it.

I'm standing atop the river bank, looking down one of the entrances into the park.
The walkway runs down and out into the park, then becoming one of many tree-shaded paths.
Groups of local folk, out for a spot of gentle exercise, meander along.
More formal groups are exercising, working out, dancing, practicing Tai Chi. Cyclists, with towels and picnic paraphernalia in their bags and baskets, are heading out to the beach.
Wait for me. I'm coming too.

The bloke hiring me the bike takes a liking to my t-shirt.
''Give me this shirt and you can have the bike for today for free?'' he enquires.
My bright yellow Icebreaker merino t-shirt certainly stands out. On the chest it has a bold depiction of a rather strange wooden bicycle, with squarish bamboo wheels.
But this t-shirt has found a treasured place amongst my limited possessions.
It's going nowhere.

I pedal enjoyably along the deeply-set paths, out to the beach.
Just my towel, and some coin cash safe in a zip-pocket, is all I need.
My quick-dry shorts, and my coins, will get their first swim.
Arriving at the coast, I turn left along a wide sandy beach that stretches away, seemingly forever, up towards Barcelona. Somewhere along here, there was a village, out from which James' freighter had moored to load the oranges.
I'm not sure why the cows remarkable exploits have so excited my brain cells.
I wonder if any still remain, and if so, where I can go see them.

I pull over and enquire, from what appears to be a large local family, if they have any knowledge of the cows and their aquatic antics. After the children translate my request to their elders I receive an unusually quick denial of any knowledge and am immediately directed to look further up the coast.
These elders are not what you'd call friendly.
Very unusual for Spain. Wonder why that is?

I've had my swim and am powering homewards, back along the beachfront hoping to get my shorts dry.
As I approach the turn-off up towards the park entrance I hear some bloke shouting his head off from behind me. Going too fast to safely turn and look, and anyway I'm not doing anything wrong. What the hell...probably doesn't concern me...carry on...head down...at speed.
Back in downtown Valencia, at “The River Hostel” (which just across the road from the river park) it's time for a shower and change. Then down to reception and the common area. I ask around to see if anybody has heard of the swimming cows but they just shake their heads and look at me strangely. Surely, surely these cows were a special breed. Hopefully some still remain...as treasured reminders of days gone by.

I decide that before dinner I'll hit a couple of the local bars, sink a couple of cold ones while continuing with my enquiries.
But I have no joy in the bars so now I'm off to find some dinner.

''Valencian paella!'' the waiter says. ''Here in Valencia, this is the paella you must eat!''
The Valencians I'm meeting do appear very excitable in their speech.
My request as to its ingredients is greeted with disbelief.
"Of course! It is made with rabbits and snails! Do you not know that the word Hispania means Land of Rabbits?''
''Well I do now mate!'' I reply.
Didn't think to ask how the snails became involved.
Whatever. I'm starving after my big day.
''Make that a Valencian paella then, for two people, but all for me, and another beer,'' is my request.

It's after breakfast the next morning and I've been summoned to reception.
It's here that I find myself being keenly assessed by this policeman.
The receptionist bloke appears to be adding some animation of his own to the translation.
“Yesterday afternoon! Out at the beach. On your bicycle. He says he called out for you to stop. But you took no notice!”
Oh yeah, I remember, but not going to admit it to this copper, am I?
“Don't recall that. What's he on about anyway?” I reply aggressively. “Why did he want me to stop?”
A prolonged discussion ensues, to which I am of course, not a party.
Eventually, the receptionist understands enough to translate.
“He had received a complaint that you were advertising. That is why he wanted you to stop!”
“Advertising? I reply in frustration. What is he on about? Advertising? I don't understand!”
My trusty translator is lost for words.
In exasperation he finally reaches down and tugs at the leg of his shorts.
“Advertising!” he exclaims, “from down here! On your bicycle!”
Dawning enlightenment morphs quickly into a horrified understanding.
I turn in bewilderment to the policeman who is still standing with his arms folded, regarding me severely.
I tap my chest, “Me?” Then point down my leg. “From down there?”
He nods, then converses again with our translator, who, after a momentary deliberation, continues.
“He did not actually see this himself, although he did look. But he must take action on such a complaint.”

It takes me a while to get over the initial shock but I'm finally able to deliver a somewhat garbled apology, along the lines of.....“If this is true I am most ashamed, mortified, and extremely sorry for any offence caused....I can assure you that if it did indeed occur it was a most unfortunate accident.”
He nods slowly, thoughtfully.
He's got the gist of my apology and also of my embarrassment.
“You leave Valencia, Mr Carey,” he now enquires. “When?”
“2pm. Today. Autobus to Cordoba.”
He pauses, considers this for sometime while looking at me piercingly.
He finally nods, slowly again.
“I think this is a good idea.”
He thanks the receptionist then pauses and turns back to cooly nod me goodbye.
I watch as he walks across the foyer and out into the street.

Oh right Gerard. I remember. This is the bloke you were going to sort out.
Somebody got sorted.

Regards
Gerard

PS
I've heard that a painting exits of the oxen on the beach at Valencia!
It's apparently hanging in some Gallery in Dublin.
How I'd love to see it.
I'd happily shout a couple of pints of Guinness, and have a couple meself, with any good Dubliner who can point me in the right direction.

PPS
James A Mitchener - Pullitzer Prize winning author.
50 books. 75 million in print.
If not the, at least a top selling author of the second half of the 20th century.
In 1977, on presenting James A Mitchener with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, America's highest civilian award, President Gerald Ford stated as follows;
“Author, teacher and popular historian, James Mitchener has entranced a generation with his compelling essays and novels. From 'Tales of the South Pacific' to 'Centennial' the prolific writings of this master storyteller have expanded the knowledge and enriched the lives of millions.”
He certainly entranced me. I've never read Iberia, although I do remember Hawaii, Tales of the South Pacific,and Caravans.
It was those, amongst others lost now to memory, that helped awaken in me an adventurous love of our world.

A non-fiction autobiographical work, Iberia details James Mitchener's love for, and experiences of, Spain and Portugal during the 1930/40/50 & 60s.
Nearly 60 years now since it was published.
His work seems to be somewhat out of fashion.
But not out of value!
I noted the very last chapter of Iberia is entitled “Santiago de Compostela” and have been advised that this is the best chapter in the book.
I'm a bit short on knowledge re SdC and the Spanish Caminos during this period.
That chapter alone should make for very interesting reading.
So that's one book sorted for my next Camino.

PPPS
Ok, so well maybe the basic idea was good, but I definitely should have bought lined shorts, or at least longer-legged one.

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mspath said:

The painting Oxen on the Beach mentioned in your PS is by Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida
a prolific Spanish impressionist born Valencia 1863/died Madrid 1923.
The National Gallery Dublin held a special exhibition, Sorolla Spanish Master of Light, this past summer which closed recently. See more here
https://www.nationalgallery.ie/art-...past-exhibitions/sorolla-spanish-master-light

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gerardcarey said:

I'm thinking a holiday (extended) there, should be in my future plans.
My regards to you and yours.

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