I’ve booked a beautiful hotel in Sevilla. A huge room awaits me complete with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. I’m slightly sad that I won’t be sharing this with another but I embrace the space that is for me only. The place is beautiful, full of different courtyards, the sound of fountains, colourful tiles, orange trees, the scents of mock orange. It’s so hot. I walk until I find a great place for lunch. On the way I see carriages with horses bejewelled and girls and men dressed for the Feriale, the celebration of the Flamenco. At La Bodega, I have tiny whole prawns in crisp pancakes and the usual spinach and chickpea dish and wine.
Then I’m ready to find the Plaza de Espana. It’s a long walk and I’m just about to give up when I realise I’m there! Tiles, water, bridges of tiles and porcelain. Exhausted and hot, I become alive again with the beauty of it all. I sit on the seats, I watch the women in their flamenco costumes, as they wander through the square, talking on their phones. If it weren’t for that piece of modern equipment, it could be a world back in the 1920’s. I climb to the top of the building and my hands hover over the incredible gemstone colours of the tiles, malachite, lapis, citrine. I look out over the curve of the water course intersected by bridges that are made of ceramics and women and men in their flamboyant colourful fabrics are walking and I am stunned.
I decide to follow them to Los Remedios where they will go to eat, drink and dance to dawn. The heat is palpable, I don’t know how they are walking through the hot air in their long sleeved dresses, their bare shoulders draped with the beautiful tasselled scarves; the men in their suits and hats. But finally we all make it there.
The soil is the colour of saffron! There are supposedly 1000 tents, decorated with chandeliers, ceilings of lace and draped vibrantly coloured materials, painted seats and tables, filled with people. Laughter, music, ochre coloured dust unsettled by thousands of shoes. I try to find somewhere to sit and eat but the tables are pre-booked and full to overflowing. I wander and photograph the outfits and long to be Spanish in this moment in time. I want big earrings, fringed shawl, red lipstick and flowers in my hair. I want to dance till dawn. But I am wilting and hungry and I start to walk back but realise I can’t do it. A couple get out of a taxi and I get into it.
I’m taken back into my neighbourhood where I find a restaurant and have a stack of eggplant and goats cheese rounds, surrounded by a hot dark chocolate sauce with nuts , pumpkin seeds and sultanas, it’s an incredible mix of flavours that somehow works and I end with a dessert of chocolate chestnut cream. When I finally get home, the hotel says I must try a traditional drink that they serve for the Feriale. It’s strong and strange, Rebujito, a sherry. My day is complete.
The next day, I find a beautiful 1920's cafe that serves my breakfast in little jars with red and white checked lids; thick, creamy yoghurt and fruit The cafe is ochre with deep, dark wooden beams and furniture, chandeliers dripping crystals, the past moved into the present with ease. The old fashioned me fits in here and I breakfast slowly. Then I’m off across the Isabella bridge to the Tiana markets and ceramic shops. Everywhere I go, there are painted tiles; inside doorways, courtyards of tiled fountains, walls and staircases are tiled. I’m in heaven. I have lunch in another old fashioned bar, perched high at little round tables, small light crepes filled with mushrooms, ones with ham and cheese, then a bowl of the spinach and chickpeas but this one served with a crunchy sweet biscuit.
In the afternoon I walk to the Metropol Parasol, a structure out of this world; an architectural marvel that begs to be photographed fro every angle. I go to the top of this elongated structure of mushroom- like shapes and stare out over the city's rooftops. With the ticket, comes a free drink. I have a light beer and watch the people, still dressed in their outfits; maybe they are just now on their way home. I look at the shapes of the women’s gorgeous curves hugged by the fabrics and I know what inspired the Metropol Parasol.
That night, I decide to do a bar crawl. The first bar I go to is the oldest bar in Seville, 1670; El Rinconcillo. They write your order on the bar in chalk and calculate the cost. No modern tallies here. The waiters are dressed in white shirts, black pants, the walls are filled with ornate delicate wooden white fretwork shelves filled with bottles of wine. I have a lovely sweet wine with white Iberian chorizo, standing amongst the Spaniards at the tall round tables. After that I go to Las Teresas for big, plump prawns glistening with oil and garlic, a tapas of mushrooms in similar dressing and another drink. Hopefully I can find my way back h
That night, looking at the two wine glasses and a bottle of red which my partner would have enjoyed, I feel a pang of regret and an uneasiness at being on my own. If he had been here we might have danced the night away with the Spaniards. I’m alone and palely loitering in beautiful locations.
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