Jason Webster - Spanish Ways: Explorations of an enchanted land

SPANISH WAYS

Explorations of an enchanted land

by

JASON WEBSTER

Also by Jason Webster

Non-fiction:

Duende: A journey in search of flamenco

Andalus: Unlocking the secrets of Moorish Spain

Guerra: Living in the shadows of the Spanish Civil War

Sacred Sierra: A year on a Spanish mountain

The Spy with 29 Names: The story of the Second World Wars most audacious double agent

Chief Inspector Max Cmara series:

Or the Bull Kills You

A Death in Valencia

The Anarchist Detective

Blood Med

A Body in Barcelona

SPANISH WAYS

Explorations of an enchanted land

By Jason Webster

Published by Duende Books in 2016

Copyright Jason Webster 2016

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

www.jasonwebster.net

Table of Contents

FOREWORD

THE REAL SPAIN

DREAMS OF MOORISH SPAIN

EL CABANYAL

THE FUTURE OF FLAMENCO GUITAR

THE EROTICISM OF MOORISH SPAIN

FALLAS

A VERY BRITISH BULLFIGHTER

MADRID

KING JUAN CARLOS ABDICATES

THE SPAIN OF LAURIE LEE

MOORISH VALENCIA

FEMALE FLAMENCO GUITARISTS

MUDEJAR SPAIN

CATALONIA PULLS AWAY

RAFAELILLO

SPANISH CIVIL WAR CORRESPONDENTS

BENIDORM

MANUEL MOLINA

TEN BEST BOOKS

CATALONIA BANS THE BULLS

FOREWORD

My fascination with Spain began when I was in my teens and remains today, over thirty years later, as strong as it ever was. I am married to a Spanish woman - the flamenco dancer Salud - and my two children were both born in a country that has become my adopted home, a land with which I have enjoyed a long and sometimes complicated love affair. And yet, despite having written over ten books and dozens of articles with a Spanish theme, I cannot give a simple answer to the question why. Why Spain?

This is unfortunate as the question is frequently asked. In the past I did not know, and was simply aware of a powerful and quite ineffable draw to the Spanish people, their customs and landscapes. Occasionally I would reply - only half-facetiously - that I was writing about the country in order to answer the question for myself. Now, some years and many thousands of words later, I feel I may be inching towards some kind of explanation. But if I am, it lies beyond the realm of clear, easily understood statements; it is a sensation, a taste - not unlike duende, the mysterious power that lies behind all great Flamenco performances - that can perhaps only be hinted at with words, never fully defined or delineated.

Recently, out of curiosity, I have been going back over my earlier writings on Spain: has my view of the country changed to any degree? Has my understanding of it developed and matured at all? The result is this book: Spanish Ways, a collection of articles, essays and stories written over a period spanning two decades. I was surprised to find that while my knowledge of Spain widened over the course of many journeys and encounters - covering subjects as diverse as the Spanish Civil War, Catalan politics, bullfighting, Mudejar art, and the legacy of the Moors - the initial spark, the mysterious attraction that Spain has had for me from the beginning, has remained constant, like some heavenly body shining bright in a warm, southern sky, a personal Pole Star always guiding my way.

I believe that all great countries have an essence of sorts, one which exists in some poetic, other-worldly form, and which, resonating on an inner level, can capture and enchant a person for a lifetime. I have seen this take hold in many people for many different places around the world, and this has been my experience with Spain. It is my hope that the pieces in this book will capture and retransmit some of that reality.

Cadiz, 2016

THE REAL SPAIN

A couple of years ago I had to travel by rail to catch a plane back to London from Alicante. It was a warm sunny day in mid December, with the clear crystal air typical of the winter months on Spains eastern coast. Setting off from Valencia, I left plenty of time for what ordinarily would be an uneventful journey. About half an hour in, we left the plain and headed up into the mountains that divide these two Mediterranean cities. There it began to snow, heavily, and we quickly found ourselves caught in a white powdery blizzard. The train came to a stop in the middle of an empty field. Time passed and we didnt move, the frozen air slowly blanking out the world around us, bare almond trees like bony fingers vanishing in a wintry haze. Having lived in Spain for over ten years by then I had allowed for some holdups, but the hour hand on my neighbours watch moved relentlessly on while nothing happened. If we didnt start again shortly I would miss my plane never an enjoyable experience but this time I was travelling to a funeral. My grandfather had always complained about my time-keeping when he was alive: I was damned if I was going to be late for him now.

This being a Spanish train, everyone in the carriage was already talking to each other, passing round pieces of sausage and swapping anecdotes, while the inspector passed through several times filling us in on what little news he had. There wasnt much what with the snow it was simply too risky carrying on. Wed wait a bit more then see what happened. In general the Spanish can be a nervous people, charging around trying to get things done, but when a certain point is reached a kind of fatalism takes over and they place themselves passively in the hands of destiny; everyone settled down comfortably for a long wait and a nice chat. I, on the other hand, couldnt sit still: images of the plane taking off without me were churning my stomach. At the top of the train I could see a group of passengers huddled round the open door of the drivers cabin. Five or six voices were jabbering at once offering advice and sympathy, while the driver himself seemed to be giving a lesson in the basics of locomotive engineering. I ambled up and joined the group.

No chance of us moving? I asked. The driver explained about the snow and everyone concurred knowingly. There was little chance of anything happening in the next hour or so. We were stuck. In desperation I mentioned I had a plane to catch, and the reason for my journey. Id already reckoned that even were we to set off now Id barely get to the airport on time. Alicante was almost another hour away. My only chance was for us to start again immediately.

As soon as Id spoken a change came over everyone. For a second the driver looked as though he was about to shake his head, but the other passengers leaned in towards him expectantly. He paused, drew on his cigarette, then gave a quick look to the inspector, who nodded. Right, he said. Within seconds we were back in our seats, the train was in gear and we were rocketing through the snow once more. I smiled: only in Spain could something like this happen caution and safety tossed aside because someone needed help, as though some ancient code of chivalry had kicked in which overrode all other concerns. What could be more important than getting somebody to a family funeral? But with a glance I saw my neighbours watch and my heart sank so much time had passed I would almost certainly miss the plane. My clenched fists went white as we sped down the mountainside. The snow began to thin out, then vanish entirely. Before long we were down on the coast once more, the sun was shining and windows were being opened to cool us down. Still, though, the time moved on. My neighbour put his hand on my shoulder while the couple in front smiled. It seemed the whole carriage was willing me on to catch that plane. Moments later the train screeched into Alicante station. I leapt out before it came to a halt. Someone threw me down my bag. As I sprinted down the platform to find a taxi, the train driver, the inspector and a dozen other passengers poked their heads out the windows and cheered me on, waving and shouting as though at a race track.