Some pics from a recent trip to La Safor, an area in the south of Valencia Province. Mostly of the town of Gandía. These are from the 'old town' area where nearly every building was photogenic. Blogger has uploaded the photos in reverse order, not that they are in any order that matters anyway. Most of them were taken during the quiet siesta hours so there are few people around.
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Excerpt from Vicent Andres Edellés, 20th century Valencian poet.
You will assume the voice of a people,
And it will be the voice of your people,
And you will be forever, a people. |
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Plaque in Valencian to local poet and knight, Ausiàs March. Rough translation: Love, love, I have cut (myself) a garment
from your cloth, dressing my spirit.
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| More March. Taken from the wall opposite the lines by Edellés. |
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| This reminds me I need to order some Cypress trees for my Italian battles. |
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| Local boy made good. Francesc de Borja, 4th Duke of Gandía. The family are better known to history as 'the Borgias', two of whom became popes. Franny went one better and was canonised. Not sure how much it means given the family's track record. |
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| How the mighty have fallen. From popes and saints to opticians?! Surely the most Gaudiesque shopfront I have seen outside Barcelona. |
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| More detail from the optician's shopfront. |
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| The Lesser-Spotted Margravina enjoying the vista above. |
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| Out on the coast where we were staying, there was a thunder storm late one night. I could see flashes of lightning from the balcony so I walked round to the sea wall and sat taking videos and photos of the sky hoping to catch the lightning. This one came out looking apocalyptic or the scene from the Ten Commandments when the Red Sea was split asunder. |
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| It was actually darker than it appears when I tool this. Bar the blue box on the right it looks like an oasis scene in Lawrence of Arabia or Ice Cold in Alex. |
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| Another Biblical movie shot. |
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| Late night walk along the prom. The lights in the left middle distance are reflections of the lamps on the right I think. |
On the last day we met one of the neighbours in the same apartment block. A Frenchman by the name of Juan. The Margravina had previously read that a lot of locals emigrated to France in the 20th century and (they or their descendants) frequently return on holiday. Juan told us that he had inherited the flat from his father who had bought it after returning to Spain many years after going in to exile. The father fought on the Republican side and left in 1939. I'd love to have found out more.
Adéu!
