Something I’ve noticed about Madrid is they have quite the fountain fetish happening. At least in the central part you can’t walk ten metres without some piece of stonework spitting water at you. Not that, given the prevailing temperature, this is unwelcome.
After a brief twelve hour nap I bounded out of bed to see what Madrid could present me with. I had one thing booked, a tour of the Prado Museum (it’s actually an art gallery but don’t tell anyone). Aside from that my calendar was clear. I soon discovered that I could probably have put a couple of other things in it.
My walk to the Retiro the previous day had left me physically prostrate (that’s a fancy way of saying “tired”) and I was concerned that getting to the Prado would be similarly difficult. Happily the difference between me jet lagged and me rested would be decisive.
I set off at 8am for a 1pm tour which is taking caution to new heights but I was a man with a plan. Having scoped out the way to the Prado yesterday I proceeded to go in a completely different direction. My plan was to walk through a riverside park, turn right wander up to the royal palace, turn right again and approach the Prado from a completely different direction and, once culture had been imbibed turn right a final time and hopefully wind up back at my hotel. Much to my surprise this plan came off flawlessly.
According to the park website the river is being “rewilded” which is a fancy way of saying “we’re letting the grass grow”. The website waxed lyrical about the explosion of plant and animal life that has resulted. I didn’t see too much of that but it was only eight in the morning so possibly they were still in bed.
I rather like Madrid or at least the part of it I was staying in. Not only do they do parks on a grand scale but there are little plazas every block or so with a few trees and some seats for the locals to relax in. I’ve also noticed that the population comes in two distinct types. One half of the population are lean, fit and muscled, bursting with good health and fitness. The other half are paunchy, flabby chain smoking wrecks. There seems to be no in between. I fit in nicely with approximately 50% of the population.
With the park at an all too soon end I girded my girdables and turned right towards the royal palace. Handsome buildings and apartment blocks greeted my exit from the park. To be fair many of the handsome buildings were apartment blocks. At first I strolled up a broad, tree lined boulevard but as I approached the palace the roads narrowed and the buildings grew closer together. Which meant that when I crossed a bridge and encountered both the royal palace and the Cathedral of Almudena, both of which are large enough to warrant their own post code, I was a little stunned.
The palace wasn’t anything special apart from being huge but the cathedral was as impressive as a cathedral next door to a royal palace should be. It was now I wished I had booked a tour of the palace as well. I had plenty of time unfortunately what I didn’t have time for was to stand in the lengthy queue to get a ticket.
I was taking a breather in the inevitable park next to the palace when the rattle of drums summoned me to my duty. They were changing the guard at the palace. It was probably very impressive at the front gate but I was facing a side entrance where half a dozen soldiers and two guys on horseback were deemed sufficient to protect the most Catholic king from the ravening mob. Speaking as an impromptu member of said mob I would have appreciated a few more soldiers. Although if you want to overthrow the Spanish monarchy I can give you directions.
Once the amusement value of the exterior of the palace had been exhausted I turned right again and headed roughly in the direction of the Prado. My path took me through narrow streets lined with cafes and shops, your basic “old town of European city” district. It was appealing as such areas generally are but my eyes were on a bigger prize, the Prado beckoned.
Onward I strode, not just walked but strode, when I thought I was getting close I paused in front of a large building and checked the map. If I hadn’t done that I would have face planted the Prado. Once there it was a small matter to meet my guide, who was improbably named Macarena and set off for aging artworks.
I can’t really do the Prado justice so I shan’t try. Large building, lots of paintings now you’ve got the gist. I didn’t see the entire thing in a mere two hour tour but there was some creepily cool stuff by Heironymous Bosch, Velasquez hanging all over the place and paintings by a guy named van Eyck which seemed pretty impressive to a novice. I was delighted to recognise Titian’s painting of Charles V possibly the only time I’ve ever recognised an artwork. The tour finished with Goya and particularly the “black paintings” which were amazing; dull shades and metallic colours where there was colour at all. The artist was apparently going through a period of depression which frankly was quite obvious. They were grim, haunting and amazing. He apparently painted them on the walls of his house and by some technique which was literally hit or miss they managed to transfer them to canvas so they could conveniently fit in a museum.
The Prado’s cafe lives up to the tradition established by all cafes located in a place where food isn’t the priority by serving truly dreadful coffee. I didn’t risk the food but sat there sipping coffee, occasionally grimacing and feeling as cultured as anything. Sadly the Prado doesn’t allow photos so I can’t actually prove I went there. Although I can certainly prove I saw the outside.
Oh yes and I got a Spanish football shirt as well.
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