I’ve cycled south from Albacete via Yeste twice. On both occasions it would have been really nice to have had a direct road or track from Parolis / Parolix to Los Arroyos, but there just isn’t one, whatever all the maps say. The road from Miller up to the sierra does exist, but those extra…
Not much doing this year. Here, nevertheless, oneself and the local deity, with thanks to C&P. There are some good and affordable wines to be had in the Manchuela, the pocket-plain extending between the rivers Júcar and Cabriel (hence “the Manchegan Mesopotamia“, with Villatoya presumably corresponding to Baghdad) and tucked away between Cuenca and Albacete.
For all the current aping by Catalan hypernationalist Josep Lluís Carod-Rovira of Gerry Adams’ sniper chic, and the corresponding romanticisation of IRA-Sinn Fein by Catalan fascists, Irish nationalism has in the past often been closer to Spanish conservative nationalism and fascism than to the tradition of atheistic, centralist republicanism represented by Carod and his followers.…
Unlike Carlos, I’m actually rather fond of Albacete, and not just because its ugliness is on a smaller scale than Birmingham’s. Although generally more energy tends to be devoted to damnation than to praise, I found out the other night, flicking through a book called Historia de la provincia de Albacete, that I’m not the…
In Amor se escribe sin hache (Amor is written without H, 1929), “an almost cosmopolitan novel,” Enrique Jardiel Poncela describe Birmingham as “the Albacete of the United Kingdom.” Not to be outdone, José Martínez Azorín (who also gave the Generation of 98 its name) baptised Albacete “the New York of La Mancha.” That all this…
I did a little customised walk for some people this morning, taking in planned and unplanned (ie gypsy shanty and troglodyte) housing developments at the point where Barcelona crests and breaks on the Collserola ridge, and ending with drinks at my favourite spouse-swapping club. We started amid the tower blocks of airy, light Nou Barris.…
