Córdoba's main point of interest is La Mezquita, a building that over the past thousand years or so has served interchangeably as both a mosque and a cathedral. It still holds daily prayer services, but it's now principally a tourist attraction and you pay ten euros to get in. Even though it doesn't quite compare with the cathedrals in Cádiz or Seville - or Durham - for overall grandeur in terms of height and majesty, the building and the grounds are extensive and varied. Also there are some stunning visual effects produced by the interplay of dust, stone, stained glass and Andalusian sunshine. My meagre attempts at capturing these effects photographically can be seen below.
The area immediately surrounding La Mezquita is a spotlessly clean warren of souvenir shops and overpriced restaurants. You can't really blame the locals for that, given the sheer volume of tourists swarming around the place even at this time of year. Mostly those tourists arrive by coach and shuffle around behind tour guides in large groups, doddery pensioners and sullen schoolkids alike.
I don't know what annoys me more, the stupid noisy tourists or the ridiculous made-in-China tat of the souvenir shops. Or is it just the knowledge that I myself am a tourist like the rest of them; that I have become the thing I hate? Actually, I do know what annoyed me most today. It was the relentless 90-minute-long chorus of smartphone noise that assaulted me on the train all the way back to Seville. Sometimes I long to be back in Japan: there, even when the train carriage is sardine-squeezed, blessed silence reigns.
Having said that, I don't mind it here in Spain when people talk on mobiles, because I eavesdrop shamelessly in order to practice my Spanish listening skills. During the intervals when the person on the other end of the line is talking, my brain has a moment or two to try and process what I've heard at this end. I'm continuing to study Spanish every day, and I think I've already attained a reading age of about five. Admittedly my speaking and listening age is probably only eighteen months or so.
However, even when I get to two or three, I will still refuse to be fully potty-trained in the Spanish manner. Many toilets here have signs asking you to put toilet paper in the bin, rather than in the toilet. No civilised Englishman can consent to be degraded thus. Toilet paper, once it bears my imprimátur, so to speak, can only be flushed. The plumbers will just have to deal with it.
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| Cordoba, during la hora de la siesta |
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| La Mezquita (1) |
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| La Mezquita (2) |
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| La Mezquita (3) |
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| Remains of a Roman temple from the 1st century AD |
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| This is a Guns'N'Roses tribute band. To a Spanish ear, Gansos Rosas is what Guns'N'Roses sounds vaguely like. It means, literally, 'Pink Geese'. |
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| Airy splendour at Seville's Santa Justa train station. It's the south-western end of Spain's high-speed rail network. I took the cheaper slow train for my day trip to Cordoba. Next time, however... |
