Un chien andalou

There's a place just below the alcazar in Antequerra, where you can stand and look out over the river valley that's just alongside the town. There's obviously been some sort of industrial development there in the past; the remains of a water wheel and some attractively ruinous stone factory buildings that litter the place romantically. There are some edgy-looking streets and small-holdings down there. too. The day before yesterday, we were looking over the railings, watching what was happening below. By a triangular swimming pool in the gardens of a neglected villa, a terrier was wondering whether to end it all in the green, scum-filled water, or just to drown its sorrows in the puddles of beer from the spilt bottles on the side; a pale horse was running to and fro in a worried kind of way in a bone-dry makeshift paddock next door. Down at the bottom of the valley we could see activity around a small iron footbridge across the stream. A man in blue overalls was trying to clamber down the bank towards SOMETHING in the water. A hen-shaped woman and a few other voters were watching, and discussing, the events. We watched for quite a long time, too. Eventually man another joined them, from a house with a big garden full of dogs and desolation. He argued with the man in the blue overalls and, though we couldn't hear what was being said, he obviously considered himself an expert. Eventually the man in the blue overalls dragged a big golden retriever from the river by a rope around its neck. It was obvious that the dog was not well; its hind end was black with
mud and no longer worked, and it tried to pull itself along with its front legs only. For a good half hour, while the rescued dog sat and waited stoically, there was animated discussion among the people about what could be the next step. At one point the 'expert' returned and tried to convince the dog that, given a kick up the backside, all was possible. The dog was having none of it and at this point, the 'expert' gave up and went off in a huff to his own rowdy dogs, barking around his backyard. He'd obviously told the little crowd that if they kept their dog safe inside their own property. like he did, this sort of sorry affair wouldn't happen. In the fullness of time, the poor beast's owners brought a wheelbarrow and manhandled the helpless dog into it. It got out quickly, turning the wheel barrow over, and sat on the road as forlonly as before. Their second attempt worked and they all scooted off down the road, at which point we lost sight of them. Is this a metaphor for our condition; is a swift, debilitating dunk in the muddy brook of life, followed by a comical ride in the wheelbarrow of oblivion, the best that we
should hope for?
Well no, at least not if the Cordobans have anything to say in the matter.
Cordoba is a city that's been governed by the Visigoths, Romans, Moors, Christians and Mammon in quick succession. It seems to have made a good job of assimilating them all to produce a glorious dog's breakfast of a place that somehow, really works. The epicentre is the Mesquita, a mosque, built over a Roman villa, with a Christian cathedral grafted into its middle. When you walk around inside, you get the disorientating effect of seeing cherubs carved onto Muslim pillars and a staggeringly ornate Mirhab (where the Immam stands to say prayers) looking out over a row of chapels to various catholic saints. It's not just in the Mesquita that this happens, either; out in the Juderia, the Jewish quarter, we found a lttle, ruined synagogue where there was a menorah at one end and a crucifix at the other. The guide explained that, probably, the Jews had used the building on Saturdays and the Christians on Sundays! The woman who ran the Jewish craft centre next door was bemused. She'd lived here all her life, she said, and had never been into the synagogue. At the top end of the town, beyond the winding old streets and churches, is a huge, arcaded square (see Almagro!). The Christian rulers of Cordoba used to hold jolly affairs like inquisitions, book-burnings and executions here, but now it's home to cafes, children's games, showing off the results of your latest shopping-trip and the occasional rock concert.
We ate in the Comedor Andalus-Arabie in a little back street, where we squatted on low stools and ate maq'luba - rice with chicken and veal - and drank sangria followed by arabic coffee (with lots of cinnamon-tasting spice);if my eyes turn blue within blue over the next few days, I'll know why!
Tomorrow, we are planning to head for Morroco. The idea is to make for Algeciras by train, then cross to Tangier and get the next sleeper train to Marrakech, there to look for a sheltering sky, or at least a likely hostel!