Beach walking out of the lockdown in Valencia

One of the things about emerging from Lockdown is that things you once took for granted now feel special.

Today, that was a visit to a beach near us, south of Valencia. It was the first since the lockdown began to the ease. Indeed, it was the first since just before the lockdown started.

Striding along the beach at El Saler

Taking people to that beach with its miles of golden sand is pretty much a fixture on our list of things to do with visitors. On Saturday 14 March, we went there with friends who’d been staying with us for that week. We enjoyed the visit though, already, the atmosphere was turning tense. 

We’d booked a table for lunch in a nearby village, for paella, since both the beach and the village are in the middle of rice fields. That means that rice-based paella’s a specialty.

The restaurant had, however, had to cancel our reservation. All cafés, bars and restaurants had been ordered to close in response to the coronavirus epidemic. So the shared paella, another item that appears high on our list of things to do with visitors, was off the table. Literally.

What was worse, we knew that the day after next Spain was going into full lockdown. France, where our friends were from, was talking about lockdown and already considering quarantining anyone arriving by air. Indeed, it wasn’t even certain that air travel would be allowed to continue, which was bad news since they were due to fly back the day after our beach walk.

So there was apprehension in the air. It didn’t stop us enjoying our time on the beach, but it did introduce some worrisome notes.

Even sadder, once our friends from France had gone, two friends from England were due to follow them to our place. They, intelligently, had already cancelled, however. Had they set out they might have found themselves trapped somewhere between their home and ours and, at best, having to make a difficult emergency return to the UK.

Unfortunately, however, that meant they didn’t get a beach walk at all.

Should we have gone out this morning? Well, the authorities differ on the matter. The leading local paper claims that, in phase 1 of emergence from lockdown, and Valencia is in phase 1, you can drive to different places in the same province to have some exercise there.

Others say no, you can only travel to specific places, such as restaurants, to meet small numbers of friends and have a coffee or a meal with them, outdoors and strictly respecting social distancing. I can see how that makes sense: if people all travel to the same place, there’s a risk that they’ll end up congregating in unsafe numbers.

The fear at the moment is that the end of lockdown will lead to a new surge in Covid cases and deaths.

Well, we decided to choose the interpretation of the regulations which suited us best. And it worked out fine. There were people in the nature reserve behind the beach, and on the beach itself, but few enough of them for distancing to be easy. Everyone seemed to understand that, as people approached each other, one or other would swerve away from the sea – a beach walk, naturally, involves being barefoot in the surf – and exchange polite greetings from a safe distance as they passed.

The nature reserve behind the beach,
with a black-winged stilt (I'm reliably told) flying over the water

Two of the people we met were in official uniforms and carrying guns. Since they said nothing, we decided we clearly weren’t committing any desperately serious offence.

And it was glorious out there. The air warm enough to be a delight but not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. Miles of sand disappearing southwards to a distant town. Limpid water we could paddle through, which reached out to deep blue at the horizon.

Just as we remembered it when we were there with our French friends back in March. Except warmer. Just as we would have enjoyed it with our English friends had they been able to make it. And a joy after ten weeks deprived of the pleasure.

So today’s walk, and this post, are dedicated to Marie-Line and Bernard from France, who were there on 14 March, and to Sue and Tim from England who had to cancel their trip, but we hope will join us soon.

At least we’re all safe from the Coronavirus so far. That makes the sacrifice a price worth paying. Let’s hope things stay that way.

So that we can indulge ourselves in other beach trips and, who knows, a wonderful local paella again, before too long.

Getting carried away by the community spirit

I get these enthusiasms, sometimes. I really ought to learn to resist them. They only ever get me into trouble.

Our neighbourhood meets nightly to applaud healthcare workers

In my defence, I’ve been impressed by the way the lockdown has brought out the best in our neighbours, in the little group of houses where we live just outside Valencia. We’ve had gifts of oranges and lemons (no, nothing to do with St Clements) from one neighbour, and we’ve had full meals from others – a paella from one, lentils from another, from a third a rice dish which we were told was absolutely not a paella though to my untrained eye it looked exactly like one (apparently it was made from mountain rice, not rice from the plains where we live, which makes it absolutely, definitely and undeniably not a paella).

From a neighbour: a rice dish (definitely not paella)
and home-made turón (nougat) as a dessert

Danielle responded in the Marie-Antoinette spirit, letting them eat cake. On one occasion she made a lemon drizzle cake, from some of the lemons we were given, and on another an orange cake, from the oranges. Both were delicious and well received.

And that’s when the enthusiasm grabbed me.

“What can I do?” I thought. Followed by a brainwave. “I know! I can cook for everyone.”

“Not for everyone,” said Danielle, incredulously.

“Well, why not?” I replied. “I can do something easy.” And, as an afterthought, I added, “easy and not too expensive.”

That was because I’d first toyed with the idea of doing a smoked salmon kedgeree, one of the dishes I most like preparing, but which costs a small fortune (I’m still paying off the last one).

“I know,” I went on, “given my Italian roots, I’ll make a pollo alla cacciatora.”

I was born in Rome, you see. Still, I guess you can call the dish ‘hunter’s chicken’, given where I got the recipe from. That’s how I cook, by the way. Always from a recipe. I lack the genius to just sort of invent dishes, or improvise them. And in this instance, I was going to use a recipe from the Guardian newspaper.

Well, as the Guardian itself keeps reminding me, ‘trust has never mattered more’. If I turn to the Guardian for reliable information, I might just as well turn to it for my recipes, too. After all, I only have to swallow the information metaphorically; cooking I have to swallow literally.

Got to be sure you can trust the source when you’re going to eat the product.

The sauce too.

Danielle kindly did the shopping. We pretend that’s because I need extra protection from potential carriers of the Coronavirus – men are more inclined to die of it than women, and we suspect Danielle’s already had it anyway, so she may be immune. 

The reality is that her going instead of me has little to do with the pandemic. It’s more that she picks all the things she wants from one supermarket aisle before going into another aisle. I, because I can never remember where anything else is, pick up things from coolers at one side of the supermarket, next go over to the far side to get some fruit, then come back to the freezers, before remembering that I needed vegetables as well as fruit, and they’re right next to each other.

This means that it takes me three times as long as it takes her, and usually I come back having failed to find at least two items from the list.

Finally, the day dawned for my great act of community service. The cooking time was only three-quarters of an hour. I called it an hour to allow for slippage. Another hour would cover chopping carrots and celery and garlic. And then I built in an extra hour just for leeway.

Given that I was preparing a lunch for Spaniards, so for 2:00 or 2:30 in the afternoon, I started work at 11:00.

Do you know, chopping stuff for 16 people takes far, far longer than chopping for three or four? Who knew?

I raced the clock. But when the time got to 2:05 with the 45-minute cooking time still not started, I had to acknowledge the inevitable. Lunch was going to be late even by Spanish standards. It was a depressing realisation. I’d made a commitment. I wasn’t going to keep to it. Honestly, it made me feel like a politician. Really bleak.

That’s the thing with my enthusiasms. I set myself up for failure.

Still, late as it was, in the end the lunch wasn’t a complete washout. Normally you should serve a cacciatora with rice or polenta, but I’m not cooking rice for the connoisseurs in the Valencia region, and I’ve never even tried my hand at polenta. They got mashed potato instead. Well, I fancied it. And it’s not something that gets served much around here.

“Mashed potato!” said one of the neighbours, “just like my mother used to make.”

My Guardian-based pollo alla cacciatora.
And definitely not polenta

I can’t be sure that’s a compliment, but I’ve decided to take it as one.

They all said they liked the meal, anyway. I tried it myself, and it seemed OK, so perhaps they weren’t just being polite. After all, it was made with Danielle’s ingredients, a ridiculous amount of work by me, and the backing of the supremely trustworthy Guardian.

There was no good reason for it to go wrong, right? It just represented a lot more work than I’d hoped.

Me and my bursts of enthusiasm.

Great cooking: often best at home

It can be great to eat out in restaurants. The ambiance, the wine, the company. Sometimes the food.

But only sometimes. Because often food is far better cooked at home.

Now I say that after decades of enjoying the outstanding cooking produced by my wife Danielle. She amazes me, regularly, not just with her main dishes but also with those other accessory dishes, as it were, that enhance mealtimes.

For instance, for my birthday, she produced a favourite cake of mine, a marble cake. While, at the same time, also making yet another batch of outstanding marmalade.

Danielle's marmalade and her marble cake

Marble cake and Marmalade. Why, her cooking even alliterated.

The marmalade took some planning. The Valencian province is full of oranges – honestly, groves everywhere, right up to the start of the mountains – but few are the bitter ones, for which Seville is famous, and which alone guarantee proper orange marmalade. What’s more, even among those producers who have the bitter variety, an even smaller proportion grow their fruit organically. Since marmalade generally has peel in it, you need organic fruit if you don’t want to be eating large quantities of chemicals.

Fortunately, Danielle found a supplier in the fine old Roman city of Sagunto, up the coast, who delivered us 10 kilos of bitter, organically grown oranges, for this year’s marmalade production. She’s now converted all ten kilos into three varieties: straight marmalade, marmalade with ginger or marmalade with vanilla. All excellent.

But it’s not just Danielle’s cooking I’m thinking of. Our neighbour Isabel is quickly turning into a close friend. Her sister is a keen maker of the quince jelly known in Spain as membrillo, and excellent it is too. It goes extremely well with cheese, but I’m more than happy to eat it as it comes.

Membrillo: quince jelly, great with cheese, great on its own

Then there’s Paco. We met him through his wife Begonia. We met her through our dogs, who made friend with hers, in the Turia river park in Valencia. She looks after our dogs if we go away and can’t take them with us. It’s a task she takes on with delight, threatening us on each occasion not to give them back when we return.

Paella is a great favourite of mine, and Valencia is the homeland of that glorious dish. But the Valencian version isn’t made with seafood. You can get that other version in Valencia too, but the traditional paella Valenciana is made with chicken, rabbit and snails. I’m not a huge fan of snails as a delicacy but, hey, in a great paella I can handle them too.

We’ve had some great paellas here, including in the Albufera area, a huge area of flooded land south of the city, where most of the rice is grown. But no one has made a paella as good as Paco’s. Just moist enough, full of flavour, practically addictive. The invitation to share one with him was a culinary highlight.

Paco's paella Valenciana: exactly as it should be

Nor is all the home-made food we enjoy so much Spanish. Danielle has discovered, online of course, that in the town next to ours lives an Indian woman who, as she puts it, from time to time decides to make some delicacies that she offers for sale. Most recently, it was samosas. Boy were they good.

Our excellent local samosas, vegetarian and meat-filled

I’ve even got in on the act myself. Years ago, probably decades, I made a brief visit to Marseille, in southern France. The purpose of the visit has completely slipped my memory. It was something to do with business, but for the life of me I can’t remember who had invited me or why. What I shall never forget was the lunch I had. It was the first time I’d eaten fish ‘au gros sel’. The fish is entirely encased in coarse salt and then cooked in the oven.

To my astonishment, it’s anything but salty. On the contrary, the salt forms a crust over the fish. You crack the crust to get at the fish, and the skin just peels off, leaving the flesh, perfectly cooked but still deliciously moist. It’s a wonderful way to cook certain types of fish, particularly sea fish.

A week ago, I talked about Danielle’s purchase of sea bream, and a restaurateur’s advice to cook it in just that way, encased in coarse salt. Decades on from my first, and only, experience of that dish, but still remembering how appetising it was, I decided it was time to have a go.

With the restaurateur’s instructions clear in my mind, I had a go. And, wow, it was like being right back in Marseille all that time ago. The same flavours, the same consistency, the same pleasure.

Sea bream cooked in coarse salt
A lot better than it looks...

Yet another illustration of the principle that, however good restaurants may be, often the best place to eat is at home.

Your own or someone else’s.

Tragic Trenches, Brilliant Banter, Blazing Bonfire

The woods behind our house are one of my greatest sources of pleasure from living where we are in Spain. And I’m finding myself fascinated by my reading about the Spanish Civil War, when a struggling and democratic Spanish Republic was overthrown by a Fascist dictatorship that lasted nearly forty years. Finally, Danielle and I have developed a love for the sport of Nordic walking, where one goes stalking along with a stick in each hand, like skiing without skis or, come to that, snow, and watch walkers unencumbered by sticks go streaking past us.

What better pastime could there be than an activity that combines all three?

Our Nordic Walking group met in our village, La Cañada, the other day. Wonderfully convenient. We went striding through my favourite woods, to a spot adorned with the melancholy remnants of low cement constructions linked by trenches. We’d seen them before without identifying them for what they were: the final line of defence before Valencia of the beleaguered Spanish government, facing the Fascist forces of Francisco Franco.

Blockhouses and linking trenches
from the final line in Valencia's defeated struggle against Fascism

That terrible, literally last-ditch defence never took place. The decisive battle of the war, which lasted for nearly four months between July and November 1938, took place far away, on the river Ebro. The Fascist forces, with their Italian and German support, won a decisive victory and inflicted huge losses on the Republic. So when it came for Franco to move on Valencia, the fighting was all but over and the city surrendered without a last stand.

It was poignant to see those final, desperate defences that in the end proved futile, especially given what we know came next.

Fortunately, from there we headed for a place with far more cheerful associations: the ‘Three Oaks’ (‘Tres Robles’) restaurant in our village, La Cañada. We were served a fine paella, of the Valencian variety (with meat, not seafood), Valencia being the home and origin of that great dish. The company was good, the conversation lively and the atmosphere entertaining.

The Nordic Walking group in the Tres Robles

I particularly like the restaurateur himself. Danielle had bought some fish from the fine local fishmonger, one of the assets of La Cañada, and asked the restaurateur whether he would keep it in his fridge for us while we lunched.

This he agreed to do though, when I came to ask for it back, he carefully explained that, under Spanish law, anything left in a restaurant owner’s position for over an hour without being claimed back, was legally his. Since this is precisely the kind of banter I enjoy, I told him that I naturally assumed he’d already eaten the fish, or at any rate served it to his clients. At that point, he confided in me that he had not, since we were foreigners, and needed to be treated with unusual kindness.

Instead, he told me how I ought to cook it: in coarse salt. That’s something I’m keen to try next time, though on this occasion Danielle had already chosen the recipe and the ingredients for a traditional Spanish sea bream dish. Which was delicious. 

The restaurateur wished us every enjoyment of the fish, but on one condition: that we send the bones to Puigdemont.

For those who may not be following the debate over Catalan independence from Spain too closely, Carles (to give his name in its Catalan form) Puigdemont is the former president of the Catalan region (or nation, as campaigners for independence would describe it). He is currently living in exile in Belgium, since he faces trial and, given what has happened to those of his collaborators who weren’t lucky enough to get out, probably a long prison sentence if he returns.

In Valencia, the Catalan separatists are not much admired. In fact, I might go so far as to say they’re roundly loathed. Resented too.

“They view us as Southern Catalonia,” they tell me.

Indeed, it only surprises me that the restaurateur wanted Puigdemont sent so much as fish bones.

Puigdemont's share of our excellent sea bream

In the evening, we headed for a different village, up in the local mountains. It’s called Olocau, so the fact that I accept its existence proves conclusively that I am no Olocau denier.

They were due to celebrate the feast of Saint Anthony with a bonfire and fireworks on the main square. Actually, we’d earlier seen the wood piled up ready for lighting, and it was clear that what was going to happen there was going to be about as much like what I think of as a bonfire, as the Battle of the Ebro was like a bar brawl.

Which is why we went to see how it turned out.

We were there early and spent a while wandering around the village. Many of the houses have huge main doors, the kind you could drive a carriage through or at least a horse and cart, as I’m sure many used to in the past. You know, the kind of door which has a human-sized one set into it. As we wandered around in the night, we found several of them open, allowing us to see in to the brightly lit interiors. At several, we asked if we could take photos.

To our amazement, one family suggested we come inside to admire the tiled walls, the wooden beams, the homely fireplace and, in particular, the cellar with its oak wine barrels, the last trace of the occupation of the present owner’s father as a wine maker. The barrels are now empty.

“All but one,” he explained, “we top it up every year with the same wine from the same grape and enjoy it greatly.”

The Olocau house we visited
With a family member in one picture, and barrels in another

It struck me as typical of this region, with its warm-hearted openness to us immigrants, that they invited us into their home in this way. It made for an attractive end to a great day.

Spectacularly topped by the bonfire and fireworks. Which were just as dramatic as we were expecting.

Fireworks and the bonfire in Olocau

The Rain in Spain

Whatever rain gods are looking after Valencia seem a tad forgetful.

It’s a highly fertile region of Spain. Throughout the province of Valencia – of which the city is the capital – there are groves of oranges, mandarins, olives, almonds and other fruit. Fields are full of artichokes or cabbages, potatoes or carrots. As Danielle points out to me, you more or less only have to plant something around here for it to grow and flourish.

That needs rain. But the rain hardly ever falls. Though when it does, you certainly know it.

When the rain falls around here, it really falls

The other evening was the first when we played badminton during a rainstorm. All around the hall stood buckets carefully positioned to catch the leaks from the roof. Even so, there were wet patches that we had to avoid.

“Why don’t they fix the roof?” Danielle asked our badminton club president.

“Because it doesn’t rain often enough,” he replied.

Makes sense. With rain so infrequent it’s easier, and cheaper, to put buckets out.

Those long periods of dry weather, with clear skies and warm temperatures, are wonderful. Sadly, though, we pay for them with periods of intense rain when the weather finally does break. They can be ferocious: back in September, there was flooding in many parts of the province, leading to some six deaths. It’s as though around here, it forgets to rain most of the time, and then compensates with long, intense downpours.

See what I mean about forgetful rain gods? Or perhaps not so much forgetful as easily distracted.

The Cafe de las Horas: 
where rain gods would go for Agua de Valencia

I imagine them getting together for a little light entertainment whenever they can. As local gods, knowing the area well, they probably make for the Café de las Horas for a particularly good Agua de Valencia (looks like orange juice but that's only one ingredient), or maybe they go in search of an especially well-prepared paella. Then they pass their time in well-lubricated pleasure until the provincial council sends someone to remind them of their duty.

Paella Valenciana, a great Valencian invention

I picture a deferential figure, probably a man, unostentatiously dressed, with a pen in his breast pocket and an official notepad. He approaches the rain gods in trepidation, worried at their response to his interruption but equally determined to carry out his difficult task.

“Err… excuse me, gentlemen… oh, and ladies,” because Valencia being a community of liberal outlook, a small but growing minority of its rain gods will be female, with gender equality an objective by 2050, “my apologies for disturbing you, but I wonder whether you’ve lost track of certain obligations?”

This would be the approach around the 15th of a month without rain. By the 25th, he would probably have been replaced by his boss, a man or possibly a woman (see above) of more redoubtable aspect, who takes an altogether sterner approach.

“OK, fun’s over, time to pull your fingers out. We need a month’s rainfall and we need it in the next five days. Get to it.”

In response to one or other of these local bureaucrats, one of the gods might say, “oh, hell, yes. It’s that time of the month again. We’ve got to provide these guys with some water.”

“But,” another might protest, “I’ve booked us a table for a paella on Saturday.”

“It’s Wednesday. If we pull out all the stops, I bet we can get enough rain out over the next three days to meet the quota, and still enjoy the meal on Saturday. What’s more, if the rain’s done by Friday evening, we’d have great weather for our lunch. We could eat outside.”

“Let’s do it!” cry the others, “one big push, everyone, and we’re done.”

They rush outside and see to it that our badminton courts are flooded.

The official from the council would be a Rain God Reminder. And his (or her) success in affecting weather conditions would be celebrated by all.

After all, it would be a great demonstration of the power of reminder over matter.

Do women clog up supermarkets?

It’s a well-known fact, or popularly accepted prejudice – the two notions are synonymous – that women, through their tendency to natter endlessly with each other, are the main reason why shopping clogs up, turning the process into a sluggish, nerve-grinding, exasperating nightmare.

What’s certainly true is that there are two schools of thought towards shopping. One views the experience as essentially pleasurable: the retail therapy school, I suppose. The other sees it as a strict necessity, to be borne because it can’t be avoided, but to be completed in the shortest possible time. Retail utilitarians, you might say.

I may have been too heavily influenced by my own strict and wholehearted adherence to the latter school when I tended to associate it more with men, and the former more with women. So when I turned up at the fish counter in that fine establishment made available to the British supermarket-goer by Mr Sainsbury, I was delighted to see only one person there before me, and he a man.

Surely my wait would not be long, I surmised.

And I couldn’t have been further from the truth.

It seems that the man ahead of me had decided to prepare a paella for his “mate” who was coming to visit him and had expressed a taste for that iconic Spanish dish.

Paella. It may be to your taste or it may not.
Either way, it takes a long time. Sadly, mine too, apparently

“He’s quite a cook himself, and I want to show him that I can make something good to eat too.”

When buying food it strikes me that the best thing is to just buy the stuff and go. If you have to talk about it, surely that should only be to ensure that you’re buying the right thing, if you need any reassurance on the matter. Explaining your motives? Isn’t that more appropriate in the presence of a counsellor than a fishmonger?

To my horror, this particular fishmonger seemed genuinely interested. Well, either that or he was an excellent actor. Could anyone possibly really want to know about some stranger’s first excursion into the hardly inspiring realm of paella preparation?

“Will you be cooking this indoors or outdoors, then?”

It turns out that, much to his regret, it would be indoors. “I was tempted to buy one of those gas-jet outdoor stoves, but can one justify the investment for something you’re only going to use a couple of times a year?”

I couldn’t say. But I was hoping was that he’d spare us the full business case.

“Of course, I did think about using the barbecue but, you know, you’ve got no control of the heat, do you?”

By now he’d decided on some of the ingredients he needed.

“I could do with some scallops.”

The fishmonger pointed at a bowl with a small number still left.

“Will you take all of those?”

“Could you weigh them, please, and tell me how much they’d be? I’m also trying to work to a budget here.”

It turned out that the price was bearable, so he had a second weighing including all the stock available, and decided budget would extend to cover the lot.

“And now some cod, please.”

The whole piece? No, this time we were beyond our budgetary constraints. The fishmonger cut the piece in two. Were we taking the bigger piece or the smaller?

Sadly, at this stage I’m unable to remember which he went for. An anaesthetising numbness had seized my brain and, devoted though I am to faithful recording history, I can no longer provide this vital detail of the unfolding Paella saga.

“Thanks very much,” he said cheerfully, picking up his two packets and getting ready to leave.

“Oh, prawns!” he exclaimed, “do you have any prawns?”

They were in a bowl prominently displayed in the ice-decked case. But the fishmonger, the soul of courtesy towards a client, merely pointed them out without making any remark about his apparent blindness.

“I’ll have half a dozen.”

Now it was the fishmonger who suffered an attack of momentary blindness.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to find the price tag. It’s vanished.”

They were both staring bemusedly into the case, so I couldn’t resist intervening.

“It’s not that price tag there, is it?” I asked, “the one stuck in the ice next to the bowl of prawns? The one marked ‘prawns’?”

It turned out to be the right tag. The fishmonger weighed and priced the half dozen.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll take the lot,” said the customer.

Finally, the three packets had been sealed and priced. The customer had carefully looked through the display case and clearly decided there was nothing else he needed. He picked up his bags and started to move away.

“Have you got the San Miguel to go with the paella?” asked the fishmonger.

Oh, Lord. There followed another long and highly-informed conversation on various beers, their respective qualities and their greater suitability, or not, to accompany paella. The worst of it? It was clearly mutually fascinating to both participants.

So gone are my prejudices about women in supermarkets. Next time, I want to be in a queue with women who know what they want to buy and get on with buying it. Served, I hope, by a woman behind the counter who resists any temptation to inquire into their motivations and drinking habits.

The worst of it? I’ve never liked paella. And I’m not fond of San Miguel either.