Take THAT Colonel Gaddafi! … and other Mediterranean ramblings - part nine

Okay, rather than lose you, three Spanish cities, Cartagena, Malaga and Cadiz, are going into one posting and - boy! - it's delightful to be in late autumn Southern Europe. Empty boardwalks and the usual battle for a mid-morning coffee at a sidewalk cafe are things of the high-season past. Bored waiters who, a few weeks ago, would do their best to ignore you, look hopeful as you approach.

Even a beach - this is Cadiz - on a misty, blustery afternoon is rewarding.

In Malaga, foreigners who denounce bullfighting, but have never seen a slaughterhouse, are reduced to a low-season rump. However, I did spot some local dissatisfaction with the city's toreadors.

Still, you have to admit the posters are good.

I was surprised to find the gates to the bullring open and, having never seen one, walked in. I more or less had it to myself. Impressive with lots of nice, fresh sand waiting to soak up the next bout's aftermath.

Not only the bullfight, but the seats would likely put me off from sitting through an afternoon. They might even put off Molly Bloom.

A few quick pictures to conclude. This was taken near the bullring, the protective covering on a building being restored.

One of my favourite squares in Malaga - one I always visit - has a statue of Ibn Gabirol, an 11th Century Jewish poet and philosopher, and a photogenic passageway.

It was Rupert Brooke who said something to the affect of Canada has no ghosts; that is, Canada has such a short recorded history compared with Europe. It's blindingly obvious, but in a place such as Spain, violent history is everywhere.

In Cadiz, a plaque honours a Spaniard - the Trafalgar foe we don't remember much - who died from wounds in the battle.

And in Cartagena, tucked away in a museum's dark corner, the old tyrant, Franco, looks down from a wall.

Take THAT Colonel Gaddafi! … and other Mediterranean ramblings - part eight

What hasn't been written about Gibraltar? I'm not going to try very hard. And why compete with the slogan associated with a major insurance company since the 19^th Century?

The Rock is unmistakable. Below, in the 1950s, a Royal Navy aircraft carrier passes into the Mediterranean. The white area on Gibraltar is the old water catchment.

I had a great time clambering along some isolated and precipitous paths. This is south towards Africa, a somewhat different view of the famous profile.

And this is north into Spain.

Many of the old defences are easily accessible.

The 9.2" guns could send a shell 29,600 yards. The straits are 25,500 yards wide, so it's easy to see how British held the entrance to the Mediterranean.

I found a long abandoned bunker dominating the harbour.

Near the harbour is a small cemetery.

In it lie two who died in the Battle of Trafalgar. Most were buried at sea, but some of the wounded were brought to Gibraltar and later passed away. I arrived a week or so after Remembrance Day. Hmmm ... I think they misspelled 'received'.

This is one of the wretched Barbary Apes, said to be symbols of the Rock, and a more self-satisfied and irritating lot I've never seen. Their greatest pleasure seems to be in tormenting tourists, which, come to think of it, is not a pastime confined to Gibraltar.

In Ulysses, James Joyce’s Molly Bloom lost her virginity to Lieutenant somebody-or-other on the vegetation beneath the walls of the Moorish Castle.

I searched a bit and the ground cover looked decidedly uncomfortable. That said, Joyce never got to Gibraltar.

Take THAT Colonel Gaddafi! … and other Mediterranean ramblings - part seven

The late Eric Newby, who wrote an indispensable guide to the Mediterranean, declared Carthage to be ‘a let-down’. He was right, especially if arriving after Cyrene and Leptis Magna.

Anyone who's studied Latin - or even not - has likely come across the expression ‘Delenda est Carthago’ (Carthage must be destroyed), which it well and truly was after the final Punic War when the city was burned and the Romans sewed its fields with salt.

Ancient places are sometimes romanticized as far from present-day habitation.

'Nothing besides remains; the lone and level sands stretch far away.'

(Ozymandias - Shelley)

But, of course, they're often not - Rome's forum and the Acropolis in Athens are prime examples. Carthage is in an upscale neighbourhood and current residents can look out on where human sacrifices took place a couple of millennia ago.

Here are a Carthage 2010 street and house.

Tunisia suffers - as have so many Middle Eastern countries - from a sclerotic president, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, who's hung on since the year dot. The previous one was deposed on the grounds of senility. The current leader's pictures (of which I saw more - and bigger - than Gaddafi in Libya) show a much younger and more vigorous man than his current 74 years.

The liveliest thing about Carthage was this group of schoolchildren.

Of more interest than the ruins - to me, anyway - was the village of Sidi Bou Said on a hillside overlooking the Mediterranean.

What the tourist brochures don’t say is that, in 1988, an Israeli hit squad killed a senior PLO leader, Abu Jihad, who was living here. Two bodyguards and a Tunisian were also killed.

Take THAT Colonel Gaddafi! … and other Mediterranean ramblings - part six

To avoid boring you to death, I'll combine two Italian cities, Trapani on Sicily and Cagliari on Sardinia. The shot above, taken through my cabin's salt stained windows, is of Trapani's main waterfront street. Smaller ports allow docking often only a stone's throw from a town's historic centre and a decent caffelatte.

There is, it is said, a church on every corner in Trapani. Mostly empty but for a few elderly women murmuring prayers. Many visitors feel obliged to check out every church in the local tourism office pamphlet, but I find peeling baroque, martyred saints and gloomy side altars unappealing, so this is the only chiesa you'll get from me.

Trapani is a Sicilian Mafia centre, second only to Palermo. Their current scam is laundering money through wind farms. There's an uneasy relationship between the Catholic Church and the Mafia. While away, the geriatric godfather of the Montreal Mafia has been murdered and, according to the ship's newspaper, got a church funeral. Why?

In a Trapani square, I found statues to local politicians who'd been killed by the Mafia.

I do like old cars. Both Trapani and Cagliari supplied a feast of plucky Fiat 500s, mixing their distinctive sound with that of the waspish scooters in the narrow streets.

Trapani also offers molto Italian street life, perhaps not a big surprise in Italy. Click on the picture and look at the expression of the man in the centre. And the baby has clearly developed an early interest in Italian politics.

I came across this little girl exploring a seaside rock pool.

I watched for some minutes. The last place I can remember the pleasures of poking with a stick and discovering what the tide had left behind is New Brunswick, decades and decades ago.

Why is it that Cagliari, a small city on Sardinia, has electronic signs for bus users and the Toronto Transit Commission hasn't?

While awaiting the bus, one can study acceptable standards in Italian advertising, standards that would certainly never make it onto the TTC. Sorry about the unavoidable reflection, but the picture's worth studying.

The use of English is intriguing, but how many of the locals would get the point?

Marketing extends to the most wonderful windows in local restaurants. Definitely lunch here!

I lied: one more picture from a church, actually a chapel. While wandering around the Cagliari train station (with an impressive old steam engine on display), I came across this little chapel. One could be cynical and say it's understandable in a country with a history of some truly spectacular train crashes. On the other hand, it was a quiet place to sit and study an altar supported by train wheels.

Take THAT Colonel Gaddafi! … and other Mediterranean ramblings - part five

It wasn't that long ago - well, not if you're my age - that the Royal Navy still commanded the Mediterranean and Malta was a British colony. I like Malta and I like coming into the Grand Harbour from the sea, even if there isn't a single British warship in sight.

And I particularly like any place that has a 'Cat Cafe' for local strays.

Nice ladies maintain food supplies.

Here's a satisfied customer.

The British connection attracts thousands of holiday makers.

Still, it is sometimes overdone. As at the magnificent Saluting Battery, a public park, where Vera Lynn and 'The White Cliffs of Dover' were emanating from the loudspeakers and not a Messerschmidt in sight.

This is 'Malta, George Cross', which the island won for its heroic role in the war, and they're not going to let you forget it.

Nearby, the Gunpost Snack Bar, built in an old defensive emplacement, advertises Spitfire Beer. 'Enemy in sight.' 'Roger. Take that, you blighter!' RATA-TAT-TAT! 'Oops! Sorry, it's a German tourist!'

Parts of Valetta are delightfully dated.

Although the Useful Bazaar seems to have ceased being useful.

It's the buses, many from the 1950s, that really burn up the SD cards.

This one has an old Automobile Association badge from the UK.

Despite independence, in Malta the Empire lives on.