Cooking the perfect Spanish Omelette

There are a few secrets to the perfect Spanish Omelette.

 

The first one is good company.

 

It is Sunday night in Vigo.  We’ve had a beautiful day – and I have had to concede to Maria that she was right, there is actually sunshine in Galicia and we have swum in the Atlantic on 19 October and sunbathed on the beach until 7.30pm.  So now is the reckoning.  I said to Maria that I would like to cook her and her daughter Silvia a meal to say thank you.  My culinary skills as are about as honed as my flying skills (i.e. lots of time as a passenger and no time in a cockpit). 

I want to learn how to cook a good Spanish Omelette – Maria will supervise and guide.  Much laughter, a pretty blue apron later I’m armed and ready with the ingredients.  My large farmer’s fingers chop at a rate that is snail’s pace as Maria kindly smiles, picks up a knife and speeds up the proceedings.

·         6 potatoes , washed, peeled and dried then cut into small cubes

·         Put in bowl and sprinkle in salt

·         1 onion (the Galician soil is acidic so ½ an onion is used over here)

·         Frying pan of (good Spanish olive oil!). – very full (1/4 bottle)

·         High temperature then put potatoes in to fry after drying them off

·         After 5 minutes on a high heat, stir/turn the potatoes and still in the onion

·         Whisk up (7 – apparently the perfect number Maria informs me) – eggs with some salt

·         Once the potatoes are starting to crisp-up, take them out of the pan and put in the bowl with the egg

·         Pour out the oil from the pan into a container to use at a later date

·         Making sure there’s enough oil in the pan to cover the bottom for cooking the omelette, put on high heat until hot

·         Pour the mixture into the frying pan and turn the pan to low

·         Once the first side is done, put a plate that covers the egg over the top of the omelette and turn the pan upside down onto the plate.  You can then slide the uncooked side from the plate back into the frying pan.

 Serve with good wine and a smile.  We also ate [Spanish equivalent of Parma ham] and hot bread with it.

Galicia - Spain - An unexpected pilgrimage

Gallego (the Galician people from Spain) hospitality is famous – and there’s a good reason for that.

I have had the humbling and amazing opportunity of experiencing this first-hand and it has been one of the highlights of my trip.

About a month ago at the ski club in Portugal the night before a European water ski tournament the group went out to dinner. As is want with the Latino crowd, it is a noisy and very social affair.  I sat at one of the officials tables (Francisco is the perfect host and always finds a way of making the strays feel welcome).  There was an elegant lady sitting at the same table – and we struck up a conversation.  Maria’s English is excellent and I soon learn that she is the mother of one of the talented young skiers in the Spanish team here for the tournament. 

“Have you been to Spain?” she asks

“Barcelona” I reply.  I explain that I have not really planned to go anywhere else in Spain.

“Well that is a pity.  You have seen one city – that is not seeing Spain.  You have not seen Spain until you have seen Galicia.” 

I’ve not heard of Galicia – certainly not one of the top spots on the travel guides. 

Maria paints a compelling picture of its beauty and people.  Over the next month between email exchanges, I lay down a challenge.  I will come to Galicia for a few days if she can see her way clear to show me around some of it.

 The thing anyone who has the privilege and pleasure of becoming friends or getting to know Maria Jesus is that she does not do anything by halves. This is a driven lady of countless talents who is lives life to the full.

Maria (on the right) with Laura 

 I arrive just after a less welcomed guest to Vigo, Spain, namely Margritte - the name given to the storm that lashed the city and coast that day.  It created havoc, closed the airports, and flooded roads downtown. True to her word, Maria picks me up from the train station where I have travelled from Porto Portugal. 

I am surprised and humbled that someone who I have only just met is willing to take time out of their busy schedule to introduce me to Galicia.  Maria is CEO of a major freighting logistics company in Vigo (a coastal city whose main employment is the ports). Trained in law and economics, she speaks fluent English and is studying Russian.  In amongst her busy day of being CEO, raising her 17 year old daughter by herself (her son, now 19 is away at University) , she is a sailor (a yacht master) and a keen diver and doesn’t sound like she sleeps that much.  Trying to keep up with her is a challenge.  She has an infectious and permanent smile and a lust for life.  “My mother died when she was 45 years old and I was relatively young.” Explains Maria, “from that moment on I always said I was living life for two people”  With everything she crams in to her time, there’s definitely truth in that.

My little cottage in Vigo - as small as a yacht and rural enough to have
3 roosters serenading me at 0530 each morning

Over the next five days I have a whirlwind tour- fitting in more in these days than most would see in a month or more. While the weather for the first 2 days is raining, the company makes up for it.  I am swept into the many catch-ups Maria has with her friends.  Meeting wonderful and fascinating people like…Anna, Julian and Mona, Laura and Claudio and Maria’s father (where I begin to see where she gets some of her tenacity from).

Me at the top of the hill at Monte Facho - site of Roman ruins

Vigo - a view over the bay from the bridge

 

 While you won’t read too much about Galicia as a headline destination in Spain, it has a rich history and sights.  The food is wonderful – especially the fresh seafood and the fruit.   On my first night there I almost have an arm wrestle with Silvia (Maria’s daughter) over a plate of Pereebes (large cooked barnacles - a delicacy in Galicia and delicious) as we eat our way through 4 different seafood dishes(Pereebes, camarones, necoras and Pulpa) .  Apparently Galicia rates up there with some of the old Japanese villages as having the longest life expectancy for the population.  Many attribute that to the fresh seafood.

Galicia is where the Spanish Armada sailed from.  It’s another proof for me that Spain is not actually Spain –rather  a collection of fiercely proud and independent regions. Galicia has it’s own language (similar to Portuguese) .  While I am getting a crash course in Spanish from Maria and others, I protest that it’s not reasonable as, even if I could stutter through a few Spanish phrases (compared to the rapid fire pace of the native speakers), all of the road signs are in Galician.

 

For the Catholics amoung you, you are probably familiar with the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela (Camino de Santiago) or the Way of St James.  Ground zero for the pilgrimage of Catholics to see the relics of the saint.  It is also a university town with the university having been established in the 16^th Century

 

Anna and Maria - my tour guides at Santiago de Compostela

I joke with Maria and her friends as they are showing me around that there are more churches than people in Galicia.  We meet  Anna for lunch on Friday.  She is another lawyer who has seen the light and given up practicing to run a very successful insurance brokerage.  She is a Santiago local and our visit there is made all the richer by her being able to explain the detail of the Cathedral, university and other sights.  This is frequently interrupted by the many friends of Anna we bump into and the ensuing conversations.   The Galicians are a sociable lot.  After seeing Santiago we drive on to Portosin so Anna can drop some things off at her yacht for the upcoming race in the weekend.  The sea is in their veins. 

Anna and her yacht at Portosin

 

As if to reinforce the point about sea in the veins, Maria comments in passing as we walk around the ramparts of the Parador of Bayona castle – she points out to the reef in the harbour.  “My uncle was captain of a  fishing boat that went down out there in a storm in 1968 when he was 35  -while they found some of the wreckage and some of the bodies, they didn’t find his – he’s part of the sea now. “.  We stop off at the small fishing village of La Guardia whose coulourful houses all seem to lean toward the sea – like its inhabitants.  Seafood is on the menu again  - and it is great.  Saturday is topped off by a visit to the seaside spa of Thalaso – which overlooks the Atlantic and pumps in sea water, thermally warming it and you can relax in the spa pools while starring at the sea below.  Maria takes me to see the local water ski club- it is about an hour from Vigo and is on the River that separates Spain and Portugal in a town called “Tui” (I had to laugh at that – it’s hard to explain the Tui slogans etc to a Spaniard who doesn’t understand the kiwi context).  In Tui we caught up with a client and old friend of Maria’s – Julian and his wife Mona – they are a retired couple who are very young at heart and have a small organic vineyard and wine label – “Canonigo”. We sample the wine and it flows as easily as the conversation – a wonderful couple and a wonderful place. 

Parador of Bayona - view from Castle walls

Water ski club at "Tui" - border between Spain and Portugal

Bayona, Galician and Spanish flags



Maria, Laura and Claudio

It’s getting late by the time we catch up for dinner with Claudio and Laura.  I am starting to get used to lunchtimes around 2.00 and dinner starting anywhere between 9.30 and 11.00pm.    Claudio is an Italian diving instructor, fluent in at least 4 languages as far as I can tell, passionate and full of life.  His Galician girlfriend in equally as vivacious, bright and intelligent.  :Laura shows a keen interest when she hears I am from New Zealand.  She is a marine biologist and is currently doing her masters in marine mammals – especially Dolphins and Whales. 



 

We obviously visited enough churches on the first 2 days to deserve the blessing of wonderful weather on Sunday and Monday. 



If someone had said to me (which in fact Maria did) that you could swim in the Atlantic in autumn and sunbathe on a beach there until 7.30pm I would not have believed them.  In fact, I said as much to Maria.  The water is not too warm – but still a healthy 18-19 degrees. “It is warmed by the currents that flow through from the Gulf of Mexico” explains Maria as we dry off on the pristine and almost deserted beach surrounded by golden sand.

The Atlantic in October (would you believe!) - these waters are warmed by the flow from the Gulf of Mexico



 

Having picked me up from my apartment at the other end of town, we are at Maria’s for lunch with her daughter.  She cooks lunch then dinner 3 days a week and has a helper for the other days.  We drive out of the driveway “Look at the time” she says.  “Why.”  “We’re going somewhere and I want you to time how long it takes.”  One minute later we are entering the yacht club that also hosts the dive centre. 

 

  
 



 
 

 

Laura and Claudio at the river

Monday is my last full day in Vigo.  It ends up being a special day – Claudio and Laura have the day off work and Maria is able to take the afternoon off.  We head to a place that’s relatively unknown, even to locals.  It is the river that sits alongside the water supply viaducts.  The water is pristine and clear and flows into a series of pools down small falls.  It is reminiscent of the west coast of New Zealand.  The water is refreshing – though not too cold for this time of year.  We have the place to ourselves and the sun bakes the rock at around 27 degrees that day – apparently quite unusual for that time of year.  It is quite ironic swimming in something that could be a New Zealand river when you consider that I am literally half the world away.  There is a website that lets you see where the antipodes of any location is.  If you type search on Vigo, Spain it does a virtual tunnel through the earth to see where you would end up – and apparently that is a small place called Barrytown in Greymouth on the West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand.

when swimming I always try to have a marine biologist with me!

Tuesday and I need to bid farewell to this unexpected and wonderful stop off on my journey.  Great people, great new friends and a great place.  Like I have promised with Barcelona, I will be back.

 

 

 

Au revoir to a month in provincial France

A last look in the rear vision mirror  at the top of the hill and the Pyrenees dips below the horizon.  Round the bend and through another quaint French village – stone buildings and houses splashed with colour in the flowers in window boxes and brightly painted shutters that adorn the windows. 

 

Vineyards everywhere on the way to Carcassonne

It’s the last 10km before the Carcossonne Airport – there are trees lining both sides of the road which create a morse code of view into the vineyards as I pass along them.  This contrasts with the different routes on my trip in by train from Carcossonne to Varallhes a month ago when it was fields of sunflowers as far as the eye could see.  They were dying off at the time –I had missed them in full yellow blossom by 2 weeks then.

 So, some time to reflect.

It’s been a wonderful 4 weeks.  Eventful, fun, energetic, learning. 

  

My home for a month - I was staying in the
bottom apartment

 
 
 

Me, Ruth and Rob

Ruth and Rob (refer earlier post) accepted me as a HelpX worker – I emailed Ruth 6 months before coming over.  This was, in part, to get to spend some time putting down some (shallow) roots and doing some work after a busy travelling schedule, partly to see what being on the other side of HelpX is like (we have hosted HelpX and Wwoofers for that last 15 years at home on our farm) but largely to exchange some of my labour for some climbing with some people who are top of their game. 


The Ariege Region

This part of the expectation was exceeded and I ended up doing more climbing in this month than I did on the climbing leg of my trip in Thailand.  I’m very grateful to Ruth and Rob for giving me that opportunity and (patiently) teaching me how to move beyond a metaphorical crawl with my climbing.

 

me on a climb - need to practice more footwork

 

Vive la difference

Provincial France (at least this part) is a universe away from the French cities.  There are quaint habits and differences that are a mix or delightful, frustrating and weird in equal measure.

At one point, there was a French law that required every  town to have it’s own town hall.  Not sure if this arcane law still exists – though every small township (and large one) seems to have them and these (Mairie) are often a hive of activity.  There really seems to be a local village community spirit to these.  In “our” (I’ve been there only a month and starting to personalise it!) village of Loubierres, I passed what looked like a practice for Halloween last Wednesday night – until Ruth reminded me that it’s actually the kids circus  training night.  That’s been going for 4 years and most of the village kids go to it – to learn juggling, acrobatics and a range of other circus stuff (physical education dressed up in fun clothes!).

 

Hop on any French train and you can’t help but be impressed by the efficiency and cleanliness.  For a country that’s not strong on service or schedule, this particular piece of the travel puzzle has a Teutonic feel to it.  That’s until you see the French train conductors and breathe a sigh of relief that you must be in France as you look at their uniforms that look like they have come straight from a cat walk in Paris. 

 

Service is an interesting concept in provincial France.  The French serve themselves first and other’s needs after.  While this was frustrating at first, there’s a balancing act here somewhere and that started to dawn on me.  At home we are used to the convenience of late night and 7 day shopping – available at our whim.  There are people serving in those shops and behind those tils. 

Here – on Sunday everything is closed (including many of the public service amenities).  Most shops open around 10.00 – then it’s a mad scramble to get what you need from them before they close their doors for 2 hours for lunch.  That’s right – there’s no such thing as rostered lunch breaks to provide coverage – the shop announces you have 5 minutes to get what you want and clear out before it closes it’s doors.  Opening again around 2.00 then up until around 7.00pm in some cases.  In the intervening lunch hour, there is a mini traffic congestion as everyone goes home to have lunch together with their families.  4 sets of rush hour – though in the villages of the Pyrenees, that equates to a few extra minutes on the journey.

 

In the small villages as you drive by at lunch time, you see families (of all different ages) sitting at a table outside eating lunch and communing. 

 

On the topic of traffic – there’s a little competition to see how many foreign cars you can spot..  A bit of mental arithmetic at the end of each journey and you would be lucky if more than 10% of the cars you saw weren’t French.  Either there’s a fierce patriotism here or the import duties on foreign vehicles are enough to make you patriotic (a little of both I think?).  Most cars are small and economical and indicators are clearly optional. 

 

The French take pride in their land – including the little plots that adorn the back yard of the old houses.  Most are immaculately kept – though not with lawns but with vege patches. 

 

So,with a two hour lunch break, a unionised working week of 35 hours or less and school that  runs 4 days a week (the local school is closed on Wednesday and also enjoys the 2hour lunch break in between each day) it’s hard to know how France will or can compete with some other industrialised nations. 

One word that has it’s origins in France – and you realise why when you’ve been here a while:

·         Bureaucracy

One French phrase – ditto

·         Jeaux de vivre

 

Right angles

If you are lucky enough to own, live in or work on any old building here you soon come to realise there’s no such thing as a straight line, right angle or level.  Decide what you would rather have – a modern and symmetrical building/construction  of modern materials that will be lucky to see out it’s half century, or a quaint old building hewn of stone, oak and tiles that is up to half a millennia old and brimming with character?  Theoretically I know which I would opt for – though when the “brimming with character” bit becomes a DIY maintenance task it becomes less romantic. 

The ceiling in the house - 400 year old oak - not a straight line in sight

Ruth on an 8a grade project

Laurence on an 8a roof climb
- you wouldn't guess she is in her 50's!

the old Cathar castle in Carcossonne

At times while working on gib board, plastering, stairs or roof beams I would have a chuckle and wish that my friend John the builder were here – it would drive him completely insane.  After all, life in a straight line sounds pretty boring.

 

If you do manage to go to a local swimming pool at a time it’s actually open, then make sure you are covered for the dress code.  While I have a perfectly good pair of swimming shorts made by “speedo”, they are not acceptable for swimming in the pool.  You need briefs (Budgie Smugglers as some call them), a swimming hat and goggles. 

 

Things I’ll miss:

·         The cheese (emmental)

·         The wine

·         The history

·         Climbing in the Ariege

·         The people I’ve met

·         The weather (autumn and 28 degrees)

·         Driving/cycling through the villages

·         Not seeing any shopping malls

·         Living in a 400 year old house

Things I won’t  miss:

·         The bureaucracy

·         Waiting for service

·         Supermarkets without eggs

·         French telecommunications

·         Opening hours of “public amenities”

·         The ceiling height of 400 year old houses

 

If you want a real sense of what it’s like living in provincial France – do it for at least a month with a French family or an ex pat one that’s assimilated into the culture.  If that doesn’t quite work for the budget or time available, read “A Piano in the Pyrenees” by Tony Hawks-  he sums it up beautifully and with a dry sense of humour only the English can muster.
 

 Anyway - that's my France leg of the journey - thoroughly enjoyable.  I'm heading to Porto overnight en route to what I am reliably informed is the beautiful Galician region of Spain. 

Climbing with Ghosts

There’s rock, trees and silence.  The rock is the Pyrenees rising from hills to craggy peaks dwarfing the surrounding countryside. 

There are castles and ruins of forts from long ago. Turn a corner and high on the skyline, in the most inhospitable places, are old ruins surveying the valley like a silent sentinel.  This is the Ariege, Cathar territory – or it once was.

The Cathars did not record their faith in word, they lived it.  And were persecuted for it.  Wiped out by their own countrymen – but a world apart in religion. 

Sometimes the rock and cliffs morph into man-made towers and defences, now crumbling.  Sometimes the old castle and monastery ruins dissolve into rock until they all look made from the same material and equally as old.   

The place demands a respect of quietness, both for its natural beauty but more so for the history you are amongst.  

There are few people in many of the places we go to climb.  The cliffs rise majestically, towering a above us.  Many of the climbs are steep and long.  We have an 80m rope as most climbs here demand it  or more.  The climbing grades are as hard as the rock itself.

There’s something magical about climbing in the Ariege.  A faint haze covers the valleys – beautiful fresh air. And silence.

The rock itself rises like a colossus.  Hidden gems of caves that burrow kilometres through mountain, neolithc cave paintings, underground rivers.

 

“…When history is silent, myths take over.  And myths are also an art form of the collective memory.  Since these men and women of days long gone have kept their secrets, we should keep silent about their unfortunate destiny.  Yet legend would have it that the Cathars left a treasure somewhere.  In fact, they did not hide away a hoard of precious metal, the concealed vague memories which are waiting to be rediscovered. Seen in this light, a historian’s methods are more respectful of Catharism’s painful past but, although prudence is wisdom and probity a safeguard, neither of them can eradicate history.  On the contrary, they leave room for dreams.”

Extract from “Discovering the Cathars” by Lucien Bely

 

People I’ve met and climbed with along the way here

It’s like I ‘ve ended up in one of the halls of Valhallah and knocking around with some demi gods – such are the surroundings and people I’ve met.

 “Leave your ego at the door” – it’s a common reflection from some seasoned and expert  climbers here.  The grades aren’t a reflection of the difficulty of the routes in many cases.  My ability compared to those I am lucky enough to climb with is a reflection of how much more I need to learn. 

These climbers are probably in the top 5% of their age group in the world.  With age the vigour of youth, and energy replaced with a calm and methodical approach.  Conserving energy in every move, reading the climb, attacking when needed. Breathing long and slow.  They offer encouragement and advice – the wisdom of years that has them climbing around 8b (between grades 30 – 32). 

 

Ruth is working on an 8a project at the moment.  Despite moving and living here to be close to the outdoors and rock I sense the day to day business of looking after the kids and the Gite (French version of a registered B&B) has meant a forfeit of some of the expected outdoor life. That said, she is very active locally with guiding over the Pyrenees and is incredibly fit. 

Ruth Jenkins - British record holder in the 90's for highest female grade climbed.

 

Rob is climbing around 8b –preparing for a big wall climb in El Cap with a local legend by the name of Stevie Haston next April.

 

The hire car I’m returning served its purpose well.  I shared the costs of it with Paul, Ruth’s brother, who flew in from the UK for a 10 day break and some climbing and to see Ruth, Rob and the boys.  Well, break isn’t the right word for Paul.  He is somewhere between captain marvel and Tigger.  Paul is in IT as an architect and developer but, at a year older than me, is one of the fittest IT folk I’ve met.  After 4 days solid climbing and the “rest” day being spent bouldering, I reflected to Paul that the reason some cars have a rev limiter is so they don’t blow themselves to bits.  Paul has no such safety valve.  Rob was back in Scotland for 10 days and Ruth had various Gite (B&B) and kid duties so it fell to me as one of my “jobs” to go climbing with Paul (what a chore!).

 

Laurence - on an 8b - not in bad shape for being in her 50's!

One day Ruth arranged for Paul and I to go climbing in the large local cave with Laurence Goultart.  Laurence is a giant in climbing and outdoor terms – a short smiling lady that belies the tenacity and talent she displays on rock.  She is more well known for pushing the women’s Alpine grades up higher than any other female climber of her era.  She has been a professional photographer and an adventurer for most of her life – including snowboarding feats involving Boarding down from 7000m in Nepal.  She is a yoga teacher and master in Kundalini yoga and teaches classes for the locals and for climbers who want to learn how to breathe and focus properly for climning.  Today she looks at the roof of the cave and smiles.  “I’ve not climbed for 2 months.  Let’s see how this goes.”    Well, whatever it is Laurence has been doing for 2 months, she is still in good shape.  She ascends to the roof and climbs upside down across it’s length on an 8a climb – the ground is about 15m below her.   Laurence is a lesson on wha focus and energy can deliver – in her 50’s, she has a style, grace and stamina on rock that most people half her age aspire to.  Her body is strong and supple, her attitude relaxed and focussed. 

 

We talk about Yoga and I ask if it’s OK to come to a class of hers later that week.  There I meet Laurence in her other identity of Suri – serene yoga instructor and spend 90 minutes in a wonderful class that focusses on breathing and energy.  Thanks to Suri for being patient and conducting the class bi-linguially for the only attendee there who couldn’t speak French!

 

4 weeks of climbing later – humbled and exhilarated, it’s time to move on for the next part of this journey and adventure.  “Where are you going next?” asks Paul.  Well, a simple question but an answer I don’t have fully mapped out.  I recall the advice near the beginning of my journey from a traveller who has lived in Asia for a year.  “Don’t plan too much ahead” she had said.  That’s anathema to my background and work – but I’m learning my way though that. 

 

Galicia in Spain is my next port of call – that is set and I am really looking forward to it.  Beyond that I was not sure.

“I’d like to do some more climbing to keep up the focus and what I’ve learned here,” I reply.  “Trouble is we are heading into winter and short of going back to Asia or the Southern Hemisphere – not sure if there’s much good outdoor climbing left?”

Paul nods, thinks – in hisa analytical way you can see the cogs turning.  “There’s Kalymnos” he says.  “Where?” I reply

“Kalymnos” – one of the greek islands.  Famous for its climbing and weather.  You can climb up to Christmas with the weather there and it’s meant to be idyllic.”

A google search or two later and I’ve booked 2 weeks there – climbing, diving, beaches, water…sounds like me. 

Farewell and Thank-you to the Ariege.  I hope I can live up to some of the climbing I’ve learnt and done here.