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I’d been trying to do a day trip to Cordóba all during May, as that’s the month when everything seems to be happening there, and although I missed the Cruz de Mayo and the Festival of the Patios, I finally made it on the last Friday of the month, in time for the Cordóba Feria, which was also my 20th anniversary of living in Spain, so that turned out to be a good choice. And the weather was perfect.
First stop was for late breakfast/elevenses, at a little café alongside the Plaza de Colón, with some rather yummy tostadas topped with olive oil, fresh tomato and tiny taquitos of jamón. Thus fortified, it was off past the Torre de la Malmuerta (tower of the bad death) to our first stop, and one of the main reasons for coming to Cordóba, the newly opened Palacio de Viana, the Palace of the Patios. As you can see from the photos below, this wonderful 500-year-old building has no fewer than eleven interconnecting patios, as well as a garden, each with its own individual design and character. Really worth a visit. Also nice that it’s a bit outside the main tourist area around the Mezquita, and wo walking back to the centre through the winding streets of the old town we saw a part of the city that we hadn’t seen before.
Along the way we stopped off in the Plaza de la Corredera for a pre-lunch cold beer. This is a magnificent Castilian-style Plaza Mayor, apparently the only one of its kind in Andalucía, mostly built in the late 17th century, although the buildings on the south side of the square where the market (a former prison) is are even older. The name comes from the fact that it was once used for bullfighting, and it is also thought to be the site of the Roman amphitheatre. Then it was off to find some lunch…
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Twenty years ago today I arrived in Spain. Really until almost the last minute I wasn’t sure about how I was going to move from Bristol to Salamanca, but it turned out a friend of mine was looking for a short-term adventure and so one fine day we packed up all of my worldly belongings into her car and headed to Dover to catch the ferry that would take me to my new home. The first day we got as far as Le Mans, after a short stop for lunch and a walk in Tours (actually Tours was so darned pretty I said to my friend that we should just stay there!). As we were trying to avoid the toll motorways we ended up having a few “where the hell are we now?” moments out on country roads in France, but eventually made it to the Spanish border. It was only then that I thought… “Will they let me in? How do I explain taking a sewing machine on holiday??” But when the border patrol guys saw my Canadian passport they just wanted to know if I spoke French (good thing I was still young and pretty enough to flirt my way over a border back then…).


