I thought it would be hard to leave Granada, and so it proved. After getting lost on the way to the starion, I missed my train and then had to hike across town to the bus station – all the while carrying all my bags. After 2 hours of staggering around trying to lift my own bodyweight, I finally got to sit down for an hour and a half to wait for the bus.
Quite apart from the weight of the bags, and missing the train, it wasn’t a great walk anyway. The tourist information map highlights 3 or 4 small areas (roughly 10% of Granada) as “of interest to tourists”. When they employ me, this will be immediately changed to “of particular interest” as there are some very pleasant bits unmarked. But they were spot on about this part of the city.
Slept on the bus to Cordoba, then arrived to punishingly hot sunshine. I realise that most British readers of this journal will not be hugely sympathetic to this point (while my Mississippi readership probably consider it jumper wearing conditions) but I still had another trek with my luggage to come.
Street signs are not well marked in Cordoba. They are indistinct, in unexpected places or missing entirely. It would be scarcely less welcoming to the visitor if it posted signs saying “You’re not from round here are you?” at intersections instead. And maybe a sniper or two.
I do wonder to what extent my rapidly deteriorating mood had on my initial impressions of Cordoba. Because I wasn’t impressed. The streets of the old town were pretty enough, but by being flat it lacked the views (as well as the backdrop) that Albaicin offered, and it was thus also more difficult to orientate myself.
I crossed the Guadalquivir and mused on its fall from grace. A river that was once navigable all the way to the sea, now more silt than water. Along the bridge is a creation dedicated to St Acisclo and St Victoria.
I must say that I initially thought it was a perfume advert, and only took another look because it was the only shade for hundreds of metres.