It was colder than a mother-in-laws' kiss over the weekend. I went out for coffee Saturday and Sunday morning, after sleeping in late both days. That part was good. The cold wasn't. I was trying to get a little Christmas shopping done, and they had some sort of holiday street sale downtown at the big fountain. There were some really nice local, handmade things, but it was so cold I just couldn't stand it very long. After about an hour I packed it in. (Yeah, I know...wimp. But there's a reason I live in Texas.)
Most know I like to eat (and show it). And, I like to try new things so earlier in the week I purchased a couple of cheval (horse) steaks and cooked them up Saturday. They were really quite good. A little chewy, but that was because of the way I prepared them. Next time I'll get thicker steaks and broil them. The meat is quite tasty and very, very lean. I rank it right up there with Kangaroo, which is also very good. I do draw the line at some of the "sweetmeats" available, though. But giblets are sweetmeats, and I love them.
But...what I'm looking forward to eating soon is seafood gumbo, chicken-fried steak, Tex-Mex, biscuits and gravy, thick roast beef, and a fatback pork breakfast. Yep, I'm heading home for Christmas in a couple of weeks. And the bean soup at Two Amigos. YEAH! That's what I'm talking about.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday Drive - St. Nazarre
After coffee and breakfast at the Telensac market I decide to visit St. Nazarre for a little history fix.
Most guys my age remember the 1960 Johnny Horten hit, 'Sink The Bismarck.' The German pocket battleship, circling north of Scotland and Iceland and into the Denmark Straight, had met and sunk the HMS Hood, badly damaging the HMS Prince of Wales, pride of the British navy, on 24-May-1940. Sustaining damage in the battle, Bismarck headed to the only dry dock on the Atlantic coast of Europe capable of handling a ship of her size: St. Nazarre, France. British carrier bi-planes caught up with her before reaching St. Nazarre, damaging her rudder, causing her to move in circles, virtually helpless in the water. British heavy forces came up and, on 27-May-1940, after a two hour battle she was sunk off the coast of France west of Brest.
I have always been amazed at the "connections" in history. The dry dock at St. Nazarre was constructed for the SS Normandie, flagship of the French steamship line, CGT. Entering service in 1935, the proud Normandie held the record for cross-Atlantic luxury travel several times in her short career, a career that ended ignominiously when she caught fire and sunk at Pier 88 in New York harbor in 1942. Word leaked out that her sinking was the result of orders from the Mafia chieftain, Lucky Lucianno, at the time a guest of the state of New York at its famous Dannemora prison. Such supposed power impressed federal officials who made a deal with Lucianno soliciting the assistance of the corrupt union officials and loan sharks on the docks to protect against Nazi sabotage. This led, later, to using the connection with Lucianno, a close associate of the Sicilian mafia, to aid Patton's 7th U.S. Army's rapid movement through the center of Sicily.
After experiencing the firepower of the Bismarck, British grand strategy in early 1942 was to deny her sister ship, Tirpitz, and other large German battleships, access to an Atlantic repair port. Forcing them back to Germany for repairs would put them, effectively, "back in the box," a very desired result. This meant St. Nazarre had to be put out of action.
On 28-Mar-1942 British combined forces attacked St. Nazarre in what has been called the most successful commando raid in history. A force consisting of 617 British Navy and Army commandos aboard the specially fitted-out destroyer HMS Campbeltown and eighteen (18) motor launches and MTBs (Motor Torpedo Boats) entered the Loire at 01:22am. Spotted almost immediately, and lit up by brilliant searchlight, the Campbeltown broke through anti-torpedo nets strung across the entrance and crashed into the dry dock gates, ramming herself over 30 feet into the dry dock, at 01:34 am, only three minutes behind schedule. The commandos on board then left the ship, successrully attacking various targets as the ships crew set off scuttling charges placing her aft section firmly on the bottom. Simultaneously, timing fuses were set on over 4,500 lbs. of high explosives hidden in the bow of the ship. As soon as the Campbeltown was scuttled, MTB 74 carrying special torpedoes fired them at the gates of the outer lock leading to the submarine pens. Hitting the gates they sank, as intended, their fuses also ticking off as planned.
The motor launches had entered with the Campbeltown in two lines, one line to the port, the other to the starboard side of the channel. The area slated as the disembarkation point for the commandos was the "Old Mole," on the port side of the channel as the force entered (See map). Only one of the five launches assigned to capture and hold this important position was able to get through the heavy fire. Several of the starboard side launches reached their objectives and were able to land troops, however most of the launches were destroyed on the way in. This left the operation with very few boats on which to return to sea. Determining to fight until their ammunition ran out, many of the commandos were eventually forced to surrender and became prisoners of war.
At noon that morning the Campbeltown's hidden surprise detonated killing forty high-ranking German commanders and civilians inspecting the ship, and over 300 workers on the quay adjacent. Two days later, the special torpedoes fired by MTP 74 exploded destroying the entrance to the old basin. Of the 617 men involved in the attack, 169 were killed in action, 215 became prisoners of war, and 233 returned to England, five (5) of them by escaping south through France, into Spain and Gilbraltar. I bet that's a hell of a story by itself.
I think this adequately explains why Allied bombing had a lot of difficulty taking these guys out.
Looking back toward the ship channel.
Submariner's view coming back from shore leave.
This lonely one is across from the main pens. Behind it to the left is the Normandie dry dock. To the right is the gate area blown by the fuse-timed torpedoes two days after the attack.
From the channel-side looking back into a pen. The light is a bar now. I expect one had to walk a little further for a drink in 1942.
About mid-way up a pen looking through to several adjacent pens.
A mooring pin embedded into the wall of the pen.
Most guys my age remember the 1960 Johnny Horten hit, 'Sink The Bismarck.' The German pocket battleship, circling north of Scotland and Iceland and into the Denmark Straight, had met and sunk the HMS Hood, badly damaging the HMS Prince of Wales, pride of the British navy, on 24-May-1940. Sustaining damage in the battle, Bismarck headed to the only dry dock on the Atlantic coast of Europe capable of handling a ship of her size: St. Nazarre, France. British carrier bi-planes caught up with her before reaching St. Nazarre, damaging her rudder, causing her to move in circles, virtually helpless in the water. British heavy forces came up and, on 27-May-1940, after a two hour battle she was sunk off the coast of France west of Brest.
I have always been amazed at the "connections" in history. The dry dock at St. Nazarre was constructed for the SS Normandie, flagship of the French steamship line, CGT. Entering service in 1935, the proud Normandie held the record for cross-Atlantic luxury travel several times in her short career, a career that ended ignominiously when she caught fire and sunk at Pier 88 in New York harbor in 1942. Word leaked out that her sinking was the result of orders from the Mafia chieftain, Lucky Lucianno, at the time a guest of the state of New York at its famous Dannemora prison. Such supposed power impressed federal officials who made a deal with Lucianno soliciting the assistance of the corrupt union officials and loan sharks on the docks to protect against Nazi sabotage. This led, later, to using the connection with Lucianno, a close associate of the Sicilian mafia, to aid Patton's 7th U.S. Army's rapid movement through the center of Sicily.
After experiencing the firepower of the Bismarck, British grand strategy in early 1942 was to deny her sister ship, Tirpitz, and other large German battleships, access to an Atlantic repair port. Forcing them back to Germany for repairs would put them, effectively, "back in the box," a very desired result. This meant St. Nazarre had to be put out of action.
On 28-Mar-1942 British combined forces attacked St. Nazarre in what has been called the most successful commando raid in history. A force consisting of 617 British Navy and Army commandos aboard the specially fitted-out destroyer HMS Campbeltown and eighteen (18) motor launches and MTBs (Motor Torpedo Boats) entered the Loire at 01:22am. Spotted almost immediately, and lit up by brilliant searchlight, the Campbeltown broke through anti-torpedo nets strung across the entrance and crashed into the dry dock gates, ramming herself over 30 feet into the dry dock, at 01:34 am, only three minutes behind schedule. The commandos on board then left the ship, successrully attacking various targets as the ships crew set off scuttling charges placing her aft section firmly on the bottom. Simultaneously, timing fuses were set on over 4,500 lbs. of high explosives hidden in the bow of the ship. As soon as the Campbeltown was scuttled, MTB 74 carrying special torpedoes fired them at the gates of the outer lock leading to the submarine pens. Hitting the gates they sank, as intended, their fuses also ticking off as planned.
The motor launches had entered with the Campbeltown in two lines, one line to the port, the other to the starboard side of the channel. The area slated as the disembarkation point for the commandos was the "Old Mole," on the port side of the channel as the force entered (See map). Only one of the five launches assigned to capture and hold this important position was able to get through the heavy fire. Several of the starboard side launches reached their objectives and were able to land troops, however most of the launches were destroyed on the way in. This left the operation with very few boats on which to return to sea. Determining to fight until their ammunition ran out, many of the commandos were eventually forced to surrender and became prisoners of war.
At noon that morning the Campbeltown's hidden surprise detonated killing forty high-ranking German commanders and civilians inspecting the ship, and over 300 workers on the quay adjacent. Two days later, the special torpedoes fired by MTP 74 exploded destroying the entrance to the old basin. Of the 617 men involved in the attack, 169 were killed in action, 215 became prisoners of war, and 233 returned to England, five (5) of them by escaping south through France, into Spain and Gilbraltar. I bet that's a hell of a story by itself.
The red arrow is the Normandie dry dock. The yellow is the submarine pens.
Sub-pens from the front.
(Source: Wikipedia Commons)
 |
| Map of Sub-Pens (Source: www.uboat-bases.com) |
I think this adequately explains why Allied bombing had a lot of difficulty taking these guys out.
Looking back toward the ship channel.
Submariner's view coming back from shore leave.
From the channel-side looking back into a pen. The light is a bar now. I expect one had to walk a little further for a drink in 1942.
About mid-way up a pen looking through to several adjacent pens.
A mooring pin embedded into the wall of the pen.
Pen 11 markings.
Most know I'm a history nut. I just can't believe I'm getting such an opportunity to see all these places about which I've read so much over the years. I do appreciate it.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Lost (Ball) Weekend
Four day holiday weekend in France this weekend. Commemoration of WWI. All weather reports showed all of Nantes, and most of France, with tons of rain. I don't do rain, if I can help it. It's good for gardens, and flowers, but I don't need to grow more, in fact I need to grow less. So what to do?
In addition to it being rainy all weekend, it's getting cold around here. So I cast about for somewhere to go and noticed the weather report for southern Spain to be quite acceptable. Additionally, for those who followed my spring ride through Spain and Portugal, you'll remember I didn't get to see the La Sagrada Familia when I went through Barcelona. A bucket list item waiting to be completed. So, Wednesday late afternoon I get in the Renault and head south.
Twenty or so kilometers out of Nantes I see the thunderstorms heading in. I'm heading out so, okay by me.
My goal was to chop off as much of the distance as I could before getting too sleepy Wednesday evening. So I coasted through Bordeaux about 8:00pm and, wanting to be on the south side of town to avoid morning traffic, I continued on through and beyond. I decided to stop in Agen, a town about midway between Bordeaux and Toulouse pulling in there about 9:30pm. I had stopped and booked a room in advance so, once Mr. Garmin found the renamed place I settled in. But not without one of my famous French waiter adventures.
Everything was closed around the hotel but what appeared to be a truckstop. Knowing truckstop food is usually good, if fattening, in the U.S. I determined to go over and grab a quick bite. Entering there were about twenty or so truck drivers sitting around tables watching a football game (soccer to you Americans). They just about filled what appeared to be the "open" area of the restaurant so I angled toward the back and took a seat facing away from the television and opened up my iPad to check email.
On entering I'd noticed one lady behind the bar taking orders and making drinks, etc., for the patrons. There were three other ladies busy cleaning up the closed off sections. Now this part is typically "French." Those who were cleaning had the job (at the moment) of cleaning. The lady behind the bar had the job of taking and delivering orders. So, no matter how bloody busy it gets in there, not one of the "cleaning" ladies is going to stop her "job" and help the "serving" lady with her job, "serving." So I sit there. And I sit there. And I sit there.
Having about enough of that I stood as one of the "cleaning" ladies came by and asked if I could order. She looked at me as if I had two heads and then looked toward the very busy "serving" lady and said something I didn't quite catch. I think it was to the effect that there was a customer needing service. The "serving" lady said something about being very busy at the moment, casting hers eyes on all the customers she was dealing with and waving her arms in an encircling movement, obviously, too busy to provide service to a customer, after all, what could possibly be the end result of such behavior? They'd only pay for the product and then want more some other time. It's never ending, you know? So the "cleaning" lady just shrugs her shoulder, gives the famous French "thuugg" through her lips and calmly walks away. Not having the skill needed to say it in French, I said, "Excuse the hell out of me for wanting something as silly as service in France. Au revoir!" And I walked out. With every trucker looking at me as if I'm the rude one; hungry but with my money in my pocket. Something the real owners of the place may, just may, you never know over here, have wanted in their pockets. But we'll never know.
Slept well and warm, if hungry, awoke early and ravaged the "Continental" breakfast before pulling out for Spain.
About five hours later I pulled into The Clipper Hotel & Bungalows, Torroella De Montgri. Looking at Google and using Bookings.com I'd determined this place nestled right in the middle of several nice looking golf courses. After verifying that I'd made reservations.
It's the off season so I got a very good rate, only 64€ per night for three nights. The place is really quite nice. The room is large with a seating area and nice balcony overlooking the pool. But, enough of that. It's bucket list time so I unload my stuff and head for Barcelona.
An hour later I'm at La Sagrada Familia.
Construction began by public subscription in 1882 based upon a traditional neo-gothic design by Francesc de Paula Villar. By 1884 Villar was out, having lost the most important argument, that about employment, with the chief sponsor of the church, Spanish publisher Josep Bocabella. Antoni Gaudi took over as lead architect that year and, as they say, nothing was ever the same again. Gaudi, from whom we get the English term gaudy, made it his life's work, living in a workshop on the site, and working on the project for the next forty (40) years. When asked about the slow pace of the work he is reported to have replied, "My client is not in a hurry." His efforts ended with his death in 1926 after having been struck by a tram on the city's Gran Via. But the work continues to this day. One hundred and twenty-eight (128) years and counting. The work continues.
Do I detect a little Picaso here?
Starting between the two towers from the top. A tree with doves on it. I think these are Gaudi doves. But, it's a city with the inevitable dove "kinfolk," pigeons.
Day Two
Awoke early and cold. I was unable to figure out if the star symbol or the radiating waves on the thermostat meant heat and, thinking the radiating waves the better choice, picked that. Evidently I was correct...if I'd turned up the temperature dial it would have been perfect. Not my first mistake, and it certainly made the covers feel nice and warm during the night.
My technical problems continue. The iPad network sign on form "locks" up whenever I try to enter the login and password for the internet here at the hotel. Sort of a funny, as in weird thing. There are several wi-fi connections in the hotel. I tried all of them and was able to log onto only one, Clipper 3. I convinced myself it was the process I used to log in, first I "killed" the keyboard screen before touching the submit button. One doesn't log out and try to log back in to "test" a successful process so, imagine my surprise when, this morning, the process didn't work and Clipper 3 wasn't available. I'm thinking they do something with their sign-in screens that Mr. Jobs doesn't like, and Clipper 3 doesn't do it. But Murphy's Law is at work here. I haven't seen Clipper 3 since my one successful login.
But, all that is unimportant. Golf is the thing. I rode to the course early. Wonderful facility, lots of practice areas, good prices...of course, it's off season...but the weather's warm enough to play, that means above my MTT (Minimum Tee Time Temperature--50°F, including wind chill). So play I did.
Nice course. Fairly wide open (needed for my erratic drives), except in places. A couple of very intimating holes where overhanging trees to the right protected a green with the pin on the right. (Why do they always that? I have enough trouble hitting a fade anyway.) One very exacting par 4 where there's water on the right narrowing the fairway to a memory with a sharp dogleg to the right around the pond. I actually managed to hit the ball in the right spot off the tee, but came up short on the approach.
My goal anymore is to break bogey golf. After hacking my way to a 47 on the front side that goal was definitely in danger. I managed to knock off the double-bogeys on the back and found myself on the 18th tee needing a birdie to break 90. Not where I'd place my bets if I were you. I managed a good tee shot and, yep, did it again...came up short of the green by about 20 feet. For a tall man, I came up short all day long. I'd like to blame it on "heavy" air, but it wasn't. Or on wind, but it wasn't windy. Or on Friday. Hey, it was Friday. But that wasn't it at all. Even when I over-clubbed I was short. I'm beginning to think it's age and I need to stop playing the regular tees...this one measures about 6600 yards from the "regular" tees. Perhaps I need to move to the old men tees. But God, that's a concession I'm just not ready to make yet. A lot of rounds over 90 may be just the ticket to push me up closer to the "red" tees. (We don't say Ladies tees anymore.)
Oh, the score? I holed out the chip for an 89!! I couldn't believe it. Probably took forty minutes for the smile to leave my face.
After a wonderful day on the golf course, ending with a chip-in birdie, I was ready for a nice, late lunch and a couple of adult beverages. Leaving the course I rode into Palamos, a small seaside town about 20 kilometers away. Reading a magazine in the hotel lounge later, I learned that Truman Capote lived in Palamos for about three years while writing 'In Cold Blood,' probably his most famous novel. Most do not know this, but, between the ages of four and ten, Capote lived in Monroeville, Alabama where he was friends with a young Harper Lee, author of 'To Kill a Mockingbird', in my opinion, one of the greatest stories ever told. Dill, the young boy visiting his aunt in that story, was based upon Capote. Say what you want about his lifestyle and outrageous ways, the man could write.
View from my balcony this morning.
On the way to the golf course.
At the course.
There was this great old abandoned farmhouse just off the course property. As you've probably guessed by now, I love old buildings...and the stories I believe live in them. I don't believe in ghosts, but I certainly believe in old stories.
In Palamos I found this Japanese/Chinese restaurant open. The food was excellent. So, if you're in the area and want some great Chinese food I recommend La Tortuga D'Or (The Golden Turtle).
The beach at Palamos.
Very quaint little town. I expect they know how to price things here during the "high season." But, I gotta believe it's less expensive than the south of France.
And, while I like the south of France, there is just something a little more "homey" here. A little less pretentious. A little more relaxing. (Wonder what cottage prices are like right now?)
Day Three
Awoke (a blessing at my age), quick shower, "Continental" breakfast (that means lots of calories from carbs, but little protein from meat), and just sat around relaxing, reading my Kindle. Tee time at 11:30am, but a little worried about it. Must have slept a little "wrong," I woke up with a pinched nerve in the lower right shoulder. But, I'm gonna play. That's why I'm here.
New course today. The guy at the front desk set up both tee times for me. The first course, he said, was pretty open...he was right. The second, he warned, was fairly narrow and once hosted the Spanish Open. Okay. I'm game, bad shoulder and all, so off I go.
This was the widest fairway I think I saw all day. The guy wasn't lying about narrow.
They paired me up with a couple of guys from Sweden, Soren and Clause. Very nice gentlemen; in Spain getting in some rounds in preparation for their hard winters.
They were like many old friends when we play, enjoying not only the game, but the competition as well. "Someone was happy on every shot." And they ribbed each other constantly, at least I think they did, it was in yet another European language I don't understand.
Of course, they could have been making fun of me. With this bad shoulder I was hurting on every shot and all over the place today. Bogey golf? No way. That was just a memory from yesterday. The only good thing I can find to say about my game today is I never lost a ball. And believe me, as narrow as this course is, that's saying something.
But, we had nice scenery.
This was diabolical. This picture is from the point where a perfect drive would land. The second shot? Over the damn trees!
The green, nestled comfortably back behind the trees. Interesting visual. Hit it too far from the tee and you have to hit too much loft to clear the trees and can't reach the green. Hit it too short off the tee and you can't hit the approach shot high enough to get over the trees. It got worse than this.
View down the 10th. The only way to widen the fairway was to use the closeup lens.
And it still wasn't wide enough. By the time we'd finished this I expected a clown mouth at the end. Of the three of us, only Soren finished the hole. After hacking it into a trap up by the green I hit two more and was still in the bloody trap.
It reminded me of a like occurrence many years ago when a fellow player looked at me and said, "You have a pocket, don't you?"
I did...and I used it.
I thought the Maquis de Sade was a French nobleman. Turns out he designs golf courses in southern Spain. Check out this par three.
Well, yes, there's a green down there...
somewhere.
A closeup showing the people in front of us.
The shot wasn't all that tough, but, like many of them out here, it was visually intimidating.
Tee was up so it was a nine-iron up through the slot. Obviously needed to turn it over, but didn't. As yesterday, I hit it short, just over the trap and short of the green. Couldn't get up and down...much as my whole day...but enjoyed the round, the course, and the company.
Couple of hours later I'm in the hotel room contemplating dinner and the long drive tomorrow. I'd like to come back here. Nice relaxing place this southern Spain.
Day Four, the Return
Set the alarm for 6:00am with plans to be on the road by 7:00. Shaved, showered, sung, but not loudly, and was ready to pull out by 6:30, ahead of schedule. Then I went to check-out...the front desk was totally dark, shut down. I hit the bell a couple of times and a night watchman/caretaker joined me. He explained that they wouldn't be in until 8:00am. He said he'd try to help and was able to check me out. The only problem is he didn't know how to change the room rate to that promised when I checked in. It represented only a 33€ for the weekend so I told him to tell the front desk to process a credit against the card when they came in and I was off...at 6:50am.
Back in France passing some vineyards. Evidently grapes are deciduous, their leaves changing color and falling like the soft woods of the northeast. Many, many trees and shrubs are in France and they are absolutely beautiful.
Notice the ones in the foreground are more "reddish" and the ones on the hill more "yellow." I think they are different varieties. You see a lot of this throughout the various fields.
The road department does a great job on the shrubbery. Here they've interspersed with diciduous shrubs creating a wild change in color. Allowing them to grow longer made me think of Peacocks hiding behind the green shrubs with tails fanned out.
I just love this place and all my adventures. While riding down the road, whether on Betsy or in the cage I am just amazed when I see a reminder of where I am and what I'm doing.
In addition to it being rainy all weekend, it's getting cold around here. So I cast about for somewhere to go and noticed the weather report for southern Spain to be quite acceptable. Additionally, for those who followed my spring ride through Spain and Portugal, you'll remember I didn't get to see the La Sagrada Familia when I went through Barcelona. A bucket list item waiting to be completed. So, Wednesday late afternoon I get in the Renault and head south.
Twenty or so kilometers out of Nantes I see the thunderstorms heading in. I'm heading out so, okay by me.
My goal was to chop off as much of the distance as I could before getting too sleepy Wednesday evening. So I coasted through Bordeaux about 8:00pm and, wanting to be on the south side of town to avoid morning traffic, I continued on through and beyond. I decided to stop in Agen, a town about midway between Bordeaux and Toulouse pulling in there about 9:30pm. I had stopped and booked a room in advance so, once Mr. Garmin found the renamed place I settled in. But not without one of my famous French waiter adventures.
Everything was closed around the hotel but what appeared to be a truckstop. Knowing truckstop food is usually good, if fattening, in the U.S. I determined to go over and grab a quick bite. Entering there were about twenty or so truck drivers sitting around tables watching a football game (soccer to you Americans). They just about filled what appeared to be the "open" area of the restaurant so I angled toward the back and took a seat facing away from the television and opened up my iPad to check email.
On entering I'd noticed one lady behind the bar taking orders and making drinks, etc., for the patrons. There were three other ladies busy cleaning up the closed off sections. Now this part is typically "French." Those who were cleaning had the job (at the moment) of cleaning. The lady behind the bar had the job of taking and delivering orders. So, no matter how bloody busy it gets in there, not one of the "cleaning" ladies is going to stop her "job" and help the "serving" lady with her job, "serving." So I sit there. And I sit there. And I sit there.
Having about enough of that I stood as one of the "cleaning" ladies came by and asked if I could order. She looked at me as if I had two heads and then looked toward the very busy "serving" lady and said something I didn't quite catch. I think it was to the effect that there was a customer needing service. The "serving" lady said something about being very busy at the moment, casting hers eyes on all the customers she was dealing with and waving her arms in an encircling movement, obviously, too busy to provide service to a customer, after all, what could possibly be the end result of such behavior? They'd only pay for the product and then want more some other time. It's never ending, you know? So the "cleaning" lady just shrugs her shoulder, gives the famous French "thuugg" through her lips and calmly walks away. Not having the skill needed to say it in French, I said, "Excuse the hell out of me for wanting something as silly as service in France. Au revoir!" And I walked out. With every trucker looking at me as if I'm the rude one; hungry but with my money in my pocket. Something the real owners of the place may, just may, you never know over here, have wanted in their pockets. But we'll never know.
Slept well and warm, if hungry, awoke early and ravaged the "Continental" breakfast before pulling out for Spain.
About five hours later I pulled into The Clipper Hotel & Bungalows, Torroella De Montgri. Looking at Google and using Bookings.com I'd determined this place nestled right in the middle of several nice looking golf courses. After verifying that I'd made reservations.
It's the off season so I got a very good rate, only 64€ per night for three nights. The place is really quite nice. The room is large with a seating area and nice balcony overlooking the pool. But, enough of that. It's bucket list time so I unload my stuff and head for Barcelona.
An hour later I'm at La Sagrada Familia.
Construction began by public subscription in 1882 based upon a traditional neo-gothic design by Francesc de Paula Villar. By 1884 Villar was out, having lost the most important argument, that about employment, with the chief sponsor of the church, Spanish publisher Josep Bocabella. Antoni Gaudi took over as lead architect that year and, as they say, nothing was ever the same again. Gaudi, from whom we get the English term gaudy, made it his life's work, living in a workshop on the site, and working on the project for the next forty (40) years. When asked about the slow pace of the work he is reported to have replied, "My client is not in a hurry." His efforts ended with his death in 1926 after having been struck by a tram on the city's Gran Via. But the work continues to this day. One hundred and twenty-eight (128) years and counting. The work continues.
Do I detect a little Picaso here?
Another side
The center block says, "THUS," Don't know what the other two say.
Another Side
Starting between the two towers from the top. A tree with doves on it. I think these are Gaudi doves. But, it's a city with the inevitable dove "kinfolk," pigeons.
Then, I suppose, the Master with Mary Magdalene, perhaps.
Then the worshipers. Pretty neat stuff.
Yet another (unfinished) side
Notice the white figure above the windows?
 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| Mary? The Mother? Magdalene (the wife?) |
Across the street a little park.
A short ride later and I'm back in Costa Brava.
Day Two
Awoke early and cold. I was unable to figure out if the star symbol or the radiating waves on the thermostat meant heat and, thinking the radiating waves the better choice, picked that. Evidently I was correct...if I'd turned up the temperature dial it would have been perfect. Not my first mistake, and it certainly made the covers feel nice and warm during the night.
My technical problems continue. The iPad network sign on form "locks" up whenever I try to enter the login and password for the internet here at the hotel. Sort of a funny, as in weird thing. There are several wi-fi connections in the hotel. I tried all of them and was able to log onto only one, Clipper 3. I convinced myself it was the process I used to log in, first I "killed" the keyboard screen before touching the submit button. One doesn't log out and try to log back in to "test" a successful process so, imagine my surprise when, this morning, the process didn't work and Clipper 3 wasn't available. I'm thinking they do something with their sign-in screens that Mr. Jobs doesn't like, and Clipper 3 doesn't do it. But Murphy's Law is at work here. I haven't seen Clipper 3 since my one successful login.
But, all that is unimportant. Golf is the thing. I rode to the course early. Wonderful facility, lots of practice areas, good prices...of course, it's off season...but the weather's warm enough to play, that means above my MTT (Minimum Tee Time Temperature--50°F, including wind chill). So play I did.
Nice course. Fairly wide open (needed for my erratic drives), except in places. A couple of very intimating holes where overhanging trees to the right protected a green with the pin on the right. (Why do they always that? I have enough trouble hitting a fade anyway.) One very exacting par 4 where there's water on the right narrowing the fairway to a memory with a sharp dogleg to the right around the pond. I actually managed to hit the ball in the right spot off the tee, but came up short on the approach.
My goal anymore is to break bogey golf. After hacking my way to a 47 on the front side that goal was definitely in danger. I managed to knock off the double-bogeys on the back and found myself on the 18th tee needing a birdie to break 90. Not where I'd place my bets if I were you. I managed a good tee shot and, yep, did it again...came up short of the green by about 20 feet. For a tall man, I came up short all day long. I'd like to blame it on "heavy" air, but it wasn't. Or on wind, but it wasn't windy. Or on Friday. Hey, it was Friday. But that wasn't it at all. Even when I over-clubbed I was short. I'm beginning to think it's age and I need to stop playing the regular tees...this one measures about 6600 yards from the "regular" tees. Perhaps I need to move to the old men tees. But God, that's a concession I'm just not ready to make yet. A lot of rounds over 90 may be just the ticket to push me up closer to the "red" tees. (We don't say Ladies tees anymore.)
Oh, the score? I holed out the chip for an 89!! I couldn't believe it. Probably took forty minutes for the smile to leave my face.
After a wonderful day on the golf course, ending with a chip-in birdie, I was ready for a nice, late lunch and a couple of adult beverages. Leaving the course I rode into Palamos, a small seaside town about 20 kilometers away. Reading a magazine in the hotel lounge later, I learned that Truman Capote lived in Palamos for about three years while writing 'In Cold Blood,' probably his most famous novel. Most do not know this, but, between the ages of four and ten, Capote lived in Monroeville, Alabama where he was friends with a young Harper Lee, author of 'To Kill a Mockingbird', in my opinion, one of the greatest stories ever told. Dill, the young boy visiting his aunt in that story, was based upon Capote. Say what you want about his lifestyle and outrageous ways, the man could write.
View from my balcony this morning.
On the way to the golf course.
At the course.
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| Clubhouse |
There was this great old abandoned farmhouse just off the course property. As you've probably guessed by now, I love old buildings...and the stories I believe live in them. I don't believe in ghosts, but I certainly believe in old stories.
In Palamos I found this Japanese/Chinese restaurant open. The food was excellent. So, if you're in the area and want some great Chinese food I recommend La Tortuga D'Or (The Golden Turtle).
The beach at Palamos.
And, while I like the south of France, there is just something a little more "homey" here. A little less pretentious. A little more relaxing. (Wonder what cottage prices are like right now?)
Day Three
Awoke (a blessing at my age), quick shower, "Continental" breakfast (that means lots of calories from carbs, but little protein from meat), and just sat around relaxing, reading my Kindle. Tee time at 11:30am, but a little worried about it. Must have slept a little "wrong," I woke up with a pinched nerve in the lower right shoulder. But, I'm gonna play. That's why I'm here.
New course today. The guy at the front desk set up both tee times for me. The first course, he said, was pretty open...he was right. The second, he warned, was fairly narrow and once hosted the Spanish Open. Okay. I'm game, bad shoulder and all, so off I go.
This was the widest fairway I think I saw all day. The guy wasn't lying about narrow.
They were like many old friends when we play, enjoying not only the game, but the competition as well. "Someone was happy on every shot." And they ribbed each other constantly, at least I think they did, it was in yet another European language I don't understand.
Of course, they could have been making fun of me. With this bad shoulder I was hurting on every shot and all over the place today. Bogey golf? No way. That was just a memory from yesterday. The only good thing I can find to say about my game today is I never lost a ball. And believe me, as narrow as this course is, that's saying something.
But, we had nice scenery.
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| Pretty wide..but with a tree in the middle? |
This was diabolical. This picture is from the point where a perfect drive would land. The second shot? Over the damn trees!
The green, nestled comfortably back behind the trees. Interesting visual. Hit it too far from the tee and you have to hit too much loft to clear the trees and can't reach the green. Hit it too short off the tee and you can't hit the approach shot high enough to get over the trees. It got worse than this.
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| Clubhouse |
View down the 10th. The only way to widen the fairway was to use the closeup lens.
And it still wasn't wide enough. By the time we'd finished this I expected a clown mouth at the end. Of the three of us, only Soren finished the hole. After hacking it into a trap up by the green I hit two more and was still in the bloody trap.
It reminded me of a like occurrence many years ago when a fellow player looked at me and said, "You have a pocket, don't you?"
I did...and I used it.
I thought the Maquis de Sade was a French nobleman. Turns out he designs golf courses in southern Spain. Check out this par three.
Well, yes, there's a green down there...
somewhere.
A closeup showing the people in front of us.
The shot wasn't all that tough, but, like many of them out here, it was visually intimidating.
Tee was up so it was a nine-iron up through the slot. Obviously needed to turn it over, but didn't. As yesterday, I hit it short, just over the trap and short of the green. Couldn't get up and down...much as my whole day...but enjoyed the round, the course, and the company.
Couple of hours later I'm in the hotel room contemplating dinner and the long drive tomorrow. I'd like to come back here. Nice relaxing place this southern Spain.
Day Four, the Return
Set the alarm for 6:00am with plans to be on the road by 7:00. Shaved, showered, sung, but not loudly, and was ready to pull out by 6:30, ahead of schedule. Then I went to check-out...the front desk was totally dark, shut down. I hit the bell a couple of times and a night watchman/caretaker joined me. He explained that they wouldn't be in until 8:00am. He said he'd try to help and was able to check me out. The only problem is he didn't know how to change the room rate to that promised when I checked in. It represented only a 33€ for the weekend so I told him to tell the front desk to process a credit against the card when they came in and I was off...at 6:50am.
Back in France passing some vineyards. Evidently grapes are deciduous, their leaves changing color and falling like the soft woods of the northeast. Many, many trees and shrubs are in France and they are absolutely beautiful.
Notice the ones in the foreground are more "reddish" and the ones on the hill more "yellow." I think they are different varieties. You see a lot of this throughout the various fields.
The road department does a great job on the shrubbery. Here they've interspersed with diciduous shrubs creating a wild change in color. Allowing them to grow longer made me think of Peacocks hiding behind the green shrubs with tails fanned out.
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| The "Peacock" Plants |
Scenes like this constantly remind me how lucky I am.
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