Henry V

We booked Henry V at the Globe, as we hadn’t seen it on stage, before we went away to Portugal and Spain. When we got home, the first day I had Marc and Tom to look after, which was lovely because we had started to miss the family, and then the next day was the festival of washing. Then the next day was the trip to London and the Globe. So it all seemed a bit hectic and we felt we might have taken on too much. But the timing was perfect, because when  I was looking after Marc, we were in the town centre and there was obviously something going off. So we hung around for a few moments, and saw the Mercian Regiment, just returned from Afghanistan, marching through town. There was a band and the ram mascot, and all these young men in battle dress, and Marc was entranced. He was marching along with them, swinging his arms, loving it. It absolutely brought the tears to my eyes, to think that such a short time ago, these young men had been little boys like Marc, but now, what have they seen and been through?  And quite a number didn’t come home, or came home seriously, life changingly, injured.

The crowd was applauding them and there was the odd cheer, but I’m sure, if you’d asked people, they would have said that the army shouldn’t be in Afghanistan at all.  A good number of people in the crowd were obviously relatives and they were beaming with pride and near to tears.

So then to the Globe. And what is so wonderful was that you got all the same emotions as watching the troops march through Nottingham – that mixture of pride in courage and achievement, and comradeship, and the sheer glamour of  soldiery and war (from a distance), with an uneasy awareness that it isn’t  justifiable, and that men are killing and dying horribly for nothing worthwhile.

The timing was perfect. And Shakespeare’s marvellous ambiguities were just allowed to stand. The production didn’t have an “interpretation” forced onto it.

I’ve got to mention Jamie Parker as Henry, although the entire cast was terrific. We hardly even noticed the discomfort of the seats.  Last year we had a Falstaff couple of days and saw the two Henry IV and The Merry Wives of Windsor, so it was particularly satisfying to complete the story. 

Yesterday was my birthday, so we just pottered about, reading, sitting in the sun, swimming for me, and having a long walk along the cliff top into the next bay. There is a long walking route right round the coast; Portugal seems quite big on long paths. The highlight was the chocolate cake; there’s always cake for breakfast but we’ve never indulged. But today we sampled the chocolate cake and it was so good – intensely chocolatey but not too sweet - it’s made me dissatisfied with my standard recipe.

As this is our last full day we decided not to rush away from the hotel, but to have a long walk along the beach and a swim in the pool before setting off. This hotel was built in the 60s, but inside has lots of nice art deco-ish touches, and there are the huge rooms and the huge swimming pool just to make sure of happy guests. We are both talking about coming back to it for a few days some time, and it might happen as we have totally failed to summon up the will to see Lisbon! We simply don’t want to deal with a large city – the largest towns we’ve been in are Porto, Caceres and Salamanca, and they are quite small. The rest of the time we’ve been in such quiet and beautiful countryside.  So maybe we can have a city break in Lisbon, followed by a couple of days at the beach.

Monserrate

So instead of Lisbon, we went back to Sintra., and saw two more palaces with gardens. The first was Monserrate, which was begun by a very rich English friend of Byron (who visited, and wrote about Sintra). He had to leave England after a scandal involving a sixteen year old boy. No wonder he and Byron were friends. He built some Gothic follies and waterfalls. Then it was bought by a rich but respectable Englishman, who imported one of Kew’s head gardeners, and then by another rich Englishman who built a sort of Mughal pleasure palace, as a summer retreat for the family. The house is gorgeous and the gardens are amazing. There are giant sequoia, a colossal Norfolk pine, a lawn (the first ever in Portugal), agaves, Yucca, agapanthus, camellias – it all smells and looks terrific, although we did miss tunnels and secret doors.

The Duck house

Then we went to an even odder place, the Pena palace. This was built by Queen Amalia’s consort, who was Bavarian, and seemed to have had similar ideas to King Ludwig. It’s based on an old convent, but the rest is built out of reinforced concrete with elaborate doorways, crenellations, Moorish domes, a clocktower –it’s a hoot. The furniture is even more weird and wonderful, all carved and twisty and looking chronically uncomfortable – I bet they would have given anything for an Ikea Poang. There are life size statues of peasants with plant pots balanced nonchalantly on their heads, and Moors with turbans and pointy shoes holding up lamps, and best of all, a set of copper jelly moulds in the shape of a Yorkshire terrier’s head.

The gardens are gorgeous, again, Sintra has this wonderful climate for exotics. There are lakes with black swans and two duck houses built like miniature (about seven foot tall) Gothic towers. Eat your heart out, whichever M.P. it was.

So now we’re comfortably ensconced in the airport hotel, and home tomorrow. We’re really looking forward to it now, though we’ve had a terrific time.

Sintra

Although we’ve finished Wellingtonia, there is a  World Heritage site on  our doorstep, the Sintra national park. Sintra is a mountain rising out of nowhere, very well wooded but with massive rocks in the woods, and close to Lisbon, so a brilliant place for summer palaces.


First we stopped for a coffee to fortify ourselves since everywhere is up. While we were quietly drinking it, in came about five or six armed police and three or four tax inspectors. The till and the books were examined, the waiters were questioned, the price list was checked, while the police ensured that no one made a run for it and nothing was smuggled into hiding. It was quite exciting to us, but it seemed an everyday occurrence for everyone else.

There is a Moorish castle almost at the top (we were very pleased with ourselves when coming down again) and it has the most terrific views. This was when we wished we had Marc and Tom, well, Phil did, but the crenellations weren’t very high, so it could have been a bit fraught. There’s also a summer palace started in the thirteenth century and finished in the sixteenth. It’s just lovely, with cool grottos and water fountains, and lovely decorations. There’s also a lot of beautiful Goan made chests and Brazilian rosewood tables and such, including a ghastly ivory effort from Macau.

Just a rock

Ta Dah! The rock moves!

Then we went to see a house built by a bloke who made millions in Brazil, in the late nineteenth century. The house was interesting, but the gardens were amazing. The millionaire bloke had all sorts of interests, including a sort of mystical philosophy, and, as far as we could make out, the garden is meant to be symbolic of something, probably something like the journey of a human soul. However that might be, the garden is great fun. There are really beautiful bits, but miles of tunnels and grottos, all pretty confusing, I felt we needed a ball of wool. And there was an “initiation well”, very well hidden in some rocks, with a revolving rock for a door, that was like a tower of Pisa, but going down. Luckily the new phones have a torch, because some turns took you into pools. There was a grotto and tunnels behind a waterfall. Now we really wished we had Marc and Tom with us, although frankly any age would have enjoyed it.

Sadly, the edge was taken off our enjoyment when Phil cracked his head on a downward projecting piece of stone. It bled quite a lot, and hurt more. A kind Polish couple gave us a plaster and we got it to stop bleeding. Then we had a excellent meal and came back to the hotel, so we are recovered.

The Lines Of Torres Vedras

Wellington's HQ

In the autumn of 1809, Wellington retreated to previously prepared positions, called the Lines of Torres Vedras after the small town which became a strong point. There were about 150 forts, mostly small, with two or three guns carefully trained on possible routes of attack. Wellington’s engineers employed about 170,000 Portuguese building forts and roads so that troops could swiftly be moved. Phil had to do quite a bit of internet research to find out where to go to see stuff, but in the end our day was a triumph. First we found Wellington’s HQ (a substantial farmhouse) in a village called Pero Negro, from where he rode up to the nearest fort every morning. Then we climbed up to the very highest point, Monte Soccorso, which is not a fort, but the signalling centre. It has stupendous views in all directions. Wellington brought in sailors to manage semaphore stations to communicate between forts and between the forward line and the second line of fortifications. There were naval gun boats as well, to stop the French outflanking the lines by sea.

Sao Vicente - you can see some of the other hills, all with forts.

From Monte Soccorso, you can see the line of forts along curving ridges. All the forts supported each other. Portugal is very big on renewable energy and now the ridges are usually occupied by wind generators. Then we went to one of the few big forts, Sao Vicente, just outside Torres Vedras. They tended to use old windmills as magazines – this has two inside the walls – and deep ditches lined with stone. It commanded the road from Leira to Lisbon. So Massena, after getting a bloody nose at Busaco, marched through stripped countryside, only to be faced with this!

Well, we have completed our Wellington trail. It’s been great, because we’ve ended up places we wouldn’t normally go, and seen a very wide variety of towns and villages, accommodation, and landscapes. So maybe our next project ought to be to follow Wellington through the Basque country and the Pyrenees into France.

The driving was fine today, and there is another grey Panda in the car park, but they are ignoring one another, as pandas do.

A short note on the Portuguese language – it’s very different to Spanish – the whole country is very different to Spain – and while you can make some guesses with written Portuguese, you have no idea how anything is pronounced. They seem to slur and swallow syllables, so that “Torres Vedras” becomes something like “torsh verges”. Asking the way is not an option – thank heavens for the satnav. Although you have to watch her – she tried to take us up steps today.

Rolica, Vimiero and a day off

Today we left Luso and the site of Busaco, and drove to the seaside, taking in two battle sites on the way. They are Wellington’s two earliest battles in Portugal, Rolica and Vimiero. The British troops were landed on the coast further north by boat, by the navy. Wellington immediately marched towards Lisbon, aiming to prevent the French forces from joining up, and succeeded in having a numerical advantage at both battles, which was unusual for him.

Grave of Colonel Lake, a gallant officer

At Rolica, the usual Wellington strategy was reversed – he attacked up a slope, to the French army positioned on a ridge. In fact, he was trying to outflank them, but the 20^th foot, led by their Colonel Lake, launched an assault up a gully and got massacred, so that Wellington had to order a frontal assault. The ridge was gained and the French forced to retreat. Colonel Lake was buried on the ridge by his men, and there is a cross erected by his fellow officers, in memory of his valour, but I bet Wellington was furious. He is supposed to have said that there was nothing so stupid as a gallant officer.

With Vimiero, we were back to the usual style – he was positioned on a ridge, and although the French arrived from the “wrong” direction, he was able to manoeuvre the lines round and beat off five assaults. It’s very interesting to realise how vital drill was – it wasn’t, in those days, about looking good, it was vital in battles for the men to be able to wheel and turn in formation, and to fire in unison.

Wellington (Sir Arthur Wellesley as he was then) had already been superseded as commander by Burrard, and luckily Burrard had not yet disembarked. Wellesley’s brother suggested that Junot had been bribed by Wellesley, to attack before Burrard could take command!

We also had a sidetrip to the abbey at Batalha. King Joao I seized the throne to prevent the Spanish taking over Portugal. The abbey is to thank the Virgin for his victory – but he was also helped by a few hundred English longbow men. He then married Philippa of Lancaster, John of Gaunt’s daughter, in 1387. She brought English architects, so the abbey inside is English perpendicular, and very high and plain, and it feels oddly like home. Although you don’t normally get swifts zooming in and round and out of York Minster. Outside the Portuguese have got at it, so it’s all weird twiddly bits.

Philippa was the mother of Prince Henry the Navigator, who started the Portuguese on their voyages of discovery.

Me, in the pool

We finally reached the coast and our hotel, which is another triumph. It’s right on the beach, with a huge room with private balcony, and a 50 metre salt water swimming pool. It’s wonderful. There’s a lovely fresh wind off the Atlantic and one can watch the sun go down into the sea. We’re planning on doing nothing very much tomorrow.

Tomorrow (Tuesday 19^th)

We have kept our resolution and done nothing much. One reason for this is that driving yesterday was quite stressful and we need a rest from it. First, you are not supposed to do more than 50km/hour in villages, so there I am, driving through a long, long village, with a colossal truck a foot from the bumper.  I am not exaggerating. This was not good for my nerve, and then poor Phil, realising we’d passed the turning we needed, backed on to a track to turn round. There was the most terrible bang and lurch. The left hand back wheel had gone into a completely uncovered manhole! While we were staring at it in dismay, a man stopped his car, and another who was walking came over, and helped us lift it out. Thank heavens for good Samaritans, and thank heavens it’s a small car, so that we could lift it out. As it has a wheel at each corner with no overhang, there’s no apparent damage. Once we’d got back on the road, you couldn’t see the manhole at all, even though we were only three yards away. But the incident pretty much did for both of our nerves. We were hugely relieved to reach the hotel and switch off the engine.

The weather has been cloudless blue skies and sun, and the wind off the Atlantic keeps you cool, so I have got a bit overdone. Phil was very good, though, sitting under an umbrella, and he’s fine. The pool is wonderful – it is about 9 feet deep at one end and there are diving boards, and the most people I’ve ever seen in it at one time is seven. We walked right along the beach – there’s nothing much here, the hotel, a block of flats, a surfing shop and about four café/restaurants. At the other end of the beach the rock strata are completely vertical, which is worth seeing.

And we’re now recovered – so the lines of Torres Vedras tomorrow.

The beach at Praia Grande

The Battlefield of Busaco

Looking down from Busaco ridge

The battle of Busaco took place on a high ridge, with Wellington having arranged his forces just behind the ridge, and the French troop having to flog up the hill to be slaughtered. That’s the basics – but seeing the ground itself was just stunning. The ridge is extremely high and steep, and why Massena thought it a good idea to assault it, instead of outflanking it, I have no idea. I suppose he was just so over confident – convinced the Portuguese would run away, which, re-organised by Beresford and inspired by patriotism, they most certainly did not. Also, he probably underestimated the numbers opposed to him. Wellington was outnumbered, but had constructed a road to rush reinforcements from one part of the ridge to another, and his men were so well concealed that a French officer, captured at the battle, wanted to fight a duel with General Craufurd. He considered it most unfair that Craufurd waited until the last moment before ordering his men forward! Also one has to remember that Napoleon kept issuing orders from Paris, and that Wellington couldn’t afford too many casualties because Parliament was not in whole hearted support of the Peninsular venture. So both leaders had political considerations as well as military. But having taken all that into consideration, the French assault on such a strong position still looks suicidal.

The battlefield is just outside the National Forest, which is a very old arboretum, begun by monks in the seventeenth century, and it’s lovely. There are redwoods, cedars, all sorts of South American trees, a pond with black swans, and the loveliest little valley, with tree ferns, arum lilies, and a sort of hydrangea, but much more open than the ones you get normally, and only in a greenish white and a beautiful pale blue.

The monks also built a convent - they all seem to be convents in Portugal, whether inhabited by monks or nuns. The cells are all cork doors - I suppose to deaden the sounds - and Wellington and his staff spent the night after the battle in them. There's a chapel dedicated to the Holy Family, which made us ensure whether to giggle or feel creeped out by. There were loads of wax breasts, pregnant stomachs and tiny babies. The breasts made us think of stag night accoutrements form the fancy dress shop, but the babies were really creepy. There were letters of thanks too, so one must assume the wax models work at least some of the time. 

All in all, this is a lovely place. Something that amuses us is the people coming with car loads of gallon sized water bottles to fill up at the spring. Whole families arrive and labour away, lugging these heavy bottles. I suppose they must really believe the spa water is good for you.

To Bucaco

We left Porto this morning, travelling to see the battlefield of Bucaco. We are staying in hotel which is another different experience. This little town, Luso, is a spa, but definitely rather faded. The hotel is all polished wood floorboards, Turkey carpets, and old fashioned Victorian furniture with curlicues, powerfully perfumed with beeswax. There is a very nice pool and I’ve had a swim, and to top it all, the manager is a battle nut. He’s keener than we are. He’s given us some advice and maps, so tomorrow I expect we will have to report to him and sit a short test.

We stopped to have a look at Coimbra. It was really nice, although there are a lot of Salazar era university buildings, which make Moscow university look good. The old university is very nice, with a statue of King Jaoa, who was clearly Henry VIII’s long lost twin, and a wedding going on in the chapel. A lot of the guests spread their black student gowns on the steps of the chapel for the bride and groom to walk on, and they were serenaded by a band of male students in gowns, with pipe, drum, mandolin, guitar, and a chap with a tambourine, who leapt and kicked high enough for Bruce Lee. Then the bride and groom danced to the band. It looked good fun. It’s obviously wedding season, there were loads going on in Salamanca. They were accompanied by fireworks, so you couldn’t miss them, and vertiginously high heels, just the thing for cobbles.

I have to say something about our hire car; it’s a Fiat Panda,  which has been just wonderful for all the narrow streets, and the ”sit up and beg” seats are really comfortable and good for one’s back. Unfortunately it’s really underpowered for such a hilly country; we get frustrated drivers behind i.e. two feet from the bumper, until we can find a spot to pull over and let them pass. If doing a hill start, which one is doing all the time, it seems to be de rigueur to let the car roll back a yard or so before pulling away. We had some nasty moments until we learned to expect it. Talking of nasty moments, we were deeply impressed with the escape lanes on long descents. They are sand, some with tyre tracks but mostly raked, so we think they treat them like the long jump pit. “Oh, poor effort – this one was out of control and only going fast enough to get a third of the way up.” At the end, there are piles of old tyres – presumably if you hit those, a bell rings and you win an unfeasibly large stuffed toy animal.

Off out for dinner – we had a good snack lunch in the student canteen in Coimbra, which welcomed tourists but made us feel rather old.

To Porto

Wellington took Porto in an audacious action in 1809 – when he arrived back in Portugal with a new expeditionary force.

Our journey from Almeida to Porto went over some mountains, with rocky tors and heath, including heather in bloom, and via three medieval walled cities, Trancoso, Penedondo, and Sernalcelhe.  In Trancoso  you can see Beresford’s winter quarters! So now I’ve seen his AND Wellington’s, in Freinada, where Wellington spent the winter of 1812 – 1813, planning his move which drove the French back to the Pyrenees.

                                          Wellington's winter quarters 1812 - 1813  

                         
In any case, they are very pretty villages – Penedondo’s castle looks so fairy tale that you can’t help thinking it should be in a Disney film. We also ate “sweet Sardines” – a high calorie local speciality of deep fried pastry, sweet custard and a sugar glaze, in a vaguely sardine shape.

                                  The castle at Penedondo

The night’s hotel was a complete triumph. It was a lovely and tastefully furnished house which was the HQ of a  small vineyard. I had a lovely swim in the pool, then there was a big communal table for a delicious dinner, at which there were an English retired couple (us), a Danish ditto, a young Australian / Canadian couple and a couple of gay Brazilians. It was the best night – everyone was chatty and friendly and there was heaps of wine and good food. All round the table commented that Spanish meal times are very difficult to cope with, so we were glad it isn’t just us - apparently even in Brazil they eat earlier. Then we all had to go out to attend the village festa for Saint Anthony, with grilled sardines, some sort of soup, more wine (as though we had room) and dancing. The village had booked a band who arrived in a lorry that folded out into a stage, and belted away, while the villagers danced a sort of quickstep, at which even the youngsters were impressively proficient.

So, finally bed – and then breakfast! There was cheese, ham, chocolate cake, fruit, bread made with olive oil, bread with meat in it, brioche, ordinary bread, quince jelly, home made jams of cherries, persimmons, and strawberries, marmalade with almonds……………… And whenever we flagged Maria urged something else on us.

                                          Casa Cimeira, the best B & B imaginable.

A good lining was important, however, as the next tem on the agenda was a visit to a port Quinta. The Douro valley is stunning – huge and deep, with vines planted on vertiginous slopes – you certainly wouldn’t have to bend over to pick them. It’s really beautiful. The Quinta we chose sent us out on a tour of the vines, armed with a walkman. I suppose it must have been cutting edge when they came up with the idea. But anyway, it was very informative. Then we got to taste four different sorts of port. Phil managed better than me, I wanted to go to sleep for the rest of the day! But I did drag myself round a museum, and I did see some traditional port barges, which took the barrels down the river, and which Hill’s troops used to cross the river. 

So the hotel in Porto is modern and boring, which is nice because one can get too involved – I’m still concerned about the young man who seemed to own the small hotel in Sierra de Gredos. He made me think of Dan, he did everything – when the closer failed on a door, there he was with the screwdriver immediately – and the hotel was a long way from full. So it was all rather worrying.

Porto itself is not modern and boring, but clearly got into quite a state under Salazar and is still recovering. The best bit is its position which is spectacular – the cliffs down to the river are really high and steep. Wellington took the city from Marshal Soult in a daring attack, as soon as he returned to Portugal. The convent, on the bank opposite the city, where he commanded the battle, and the seminary, on the city side bank, which he sent Hill’s brigade to seize, are readily identifiable. We even found the steps which the troops had to rush up from the river to reach the seminary. The seminary is now in a grotty working class district (the steps were choked with rubbish) and the taxi driver was quite bemused that we did actually want to be taken there. But we know how to enjoy ourselves.

                  The Douro at Porto.  The seminary is the white building, just    above the bridge on the left.

Then we went to the Taylor’s port lodge, which was lovely. You could get drunk just breathing in deeply. Some of the barrels are so big you could set up home in them. Sadly, they have finished all the 1900 wine, and the oldest they have now is 1904. We tasted three more ports. This following Wellington lark is hard work.

Good things

Our most abiding impression of this trip so far is bird song. There are just flocks of them, everywhere. Some people have pottery swifts fastened to their walls – if I could see where to buy one, I would, because it would be such a souvenir.  There are loads of birds of prey; I’m not even excited to see them any more. I can identify the kites – loads of those, but there are some bigger ones I’m not at all sure what they are. The storks are fascinating – they build all over church towers and such, huge untidy masses of sticks and stuff, and I’m sure I saw one bringing its chicks (if you can call such hulking youngsters  “chicks”) a rat to eat. They’re also pretty noisy with their loudly clacking beaks. I don’t think I could be so tolerant as people are here.

                                           Storks on a church tower

We’re somewhat stunned at how quiet the roads and hotels are. I know we’re early in the season, but this is like driving in the U.S.  Not complaining, though.

The goat’s cheese we’ve just had for a picnic lunch. Jolly good.

The little walled towns and castles in the mountains. There’s obviously a lot of civic pride and they are very nicely kept. The walking looks good, so we may return. Today we went to Penedondo, where the castle would look just right in a Disney movie.

                                                The castle at Penedondo  

Because our itinerary is based on the Peninsula War, we’ve stayed in a wide variety of hotels. But last night’s was the strangest – a big modern hotel, with great views of a valley, our own balcony, a very large sun balcony, swimming pools and sun terrace, a large restaurant and conference facilities, in which we were apparently the only guests. The whole thing seemed to be run by an elderly lady, with a younger one to help. We counted three dogs and at least eight cats, all apparently living in harmony.  Phil stood on one of the dogs, apologised to it, and it fell in love with him, and spent breakfast sitting on his feet. For breakfast we had the lady’s home made fig compote, and a long conversation in French – we think she was lonely. Apparently a sick cat arrived and then had kittens, and so on until now she’s a great great grandmother, but as the lady said, what can you do?  Our French doesn’t include the right vocabulary to explain.

Back to Portugal

We started by driving to Ciudad Rodrigo’s Portuguese counterpart, via the battlefield of Fuentes De Onoro. Almeida. We arrived in time for lunch. The guide book  says that the easiest way to get trampled to death is to come between a Portuguese and his lunch. We walked into the restaurant at 12.35, to find it full, and that one of the specials was already finished. Fantastic. My kind of people. Unfortunately I ordered salt cod. I got confused in Spain, because bacalao was sometimes fresh cod, so I asked the waitress and she said it was fresh, but I think she meant freshly prepared. Her enthusiasm that we were ordering the stuff should have warned us. It was beautifully prepared but nothing will ever make me like that fibrous texture and old fish taste. Still, looking on the bright side, meals are eaten at proper times. No wonder the Spanish invented tapas – it was the only way not to faint with hunger.

Anyway, Fuentes de Onoro. This was an earlier battle,  in May 1811, and the French were commanded by Massena, who was sacked by Napoleon for not winning. Wellington was defending a typically Wellington position, along a ridge. One end was the village of Fuentes De Onoro and there was fierce street fighting. It must have been really difficult as the houses are low and stone built and there are many narrow lanes with stone walls The village is pretty decrepit, it looks as though it never recovered, although Wellington asked Parliament to vote funds for compensation, saying the fighting “had not much improved” it. We drove along the ridge to where Craufurd’s Light Division carried out a textbook retreat from French cavalry.

Next, we went to the valley of the Coa. It’s strategically very important, and one can see why since it runs in a deep and steep sided valley. In 1811 the British were retreating into Portugal. They needed to hold a bridge near Almeida long enough to get the guns and cavalry across, which they did. Ney tried to force the bridge, in spite of the British now being across and  placed on higher ground and got three quarters of the regiment sent to attack killed or wounded.

                                               The bridge over the Coa

Then on to Almeida. The best thing abut this trip is that we are seeing parts of Spain and Portugal we didn’t know existed. This area is all tors, rocks, and heath or even moor. And I certainly never thought of Alpine type villages with half timbered houses and rushing mountain streams in Spain. We are so far off the beaten track that we have had some very strange conversations, including one with an old lady all in black with a mattock on her shoulder, who talked for ages, evidently under the impression that if she said things forcibly enough, we would understand. We didn’t.

Almeida is the strongest fortress we have seen. The fortifications are absolutely immense. Wellington was quite confident that the garrison would be able to hold out for months. Unfortunately, almost immediately a French shell set off the most tremendous explosion in the powder magazine, which took the citadel and the church with it. With no powde,r weapons or provisions left, and with most of the gunners dead (and, no doubt, the rest demoralised) it fell the next day. It’s a pleasant town nowadays and they are obviously proud of their history. There’s still a massive hole in it! I managed to send the grandsons a post card – I thought they’d like the story of a massive explosion. I haven’t seen anything to buy them, except wooden scimitars, which I think they like but hurt each other with, so I’m trying to send post cards. Having a suitable card, stamps and a post box all at the same time is surprisingly challenging, however.

Salamanca and Cuidad Rodrigo

Well, this was the most terrific day – it felt a bit like when we went to the Little Big Horn – this is a mythical place, but here we are! The Arapiles are very easy to find and you can climb them both – the lesser is where Wellington commanded and spotted the French mistake. ”Mon cher Alava, Marmont est perdu.”  He rode himself with the order for Pakenham’s division to attack. It’s a long way, I should say 3 or 4 miles. I don’t know how they got a field battery up onto lesser Arapil so quickly, they must have manhandled them, I don’t see how you could do it with horses.

We spent a long time pottering around with maps, as you can probably tell. So many men killed, just here, and now it’s peaceful fields of barley. There were 14,000 French casualties and 5,000 British and Portuguese.

The greater (French) Arapil from the lesser (British).


Two French generals were killed, Thomieres and Bonnet, and Marmont himself was severely wounded. But the British lost Le Marchant, who led the astoundingly successful charge of the heavy dragoons. The dragoons did well - during the French retreat the King's German Legion dragoons broke a French square, not once but twice!

We were surprised to find a rather riotous night life in Salamanca (well, by European standards – it’s nothing to Newcastle.)  But there were stag and hen parties and some noisy Portuguese football fans, less noisy after their defeat by Germany. Also, by nine o’clock at night we are ravenous and bad tempered and it’s still too early for people to eat. But we really enjoyed looking round Salamanca, and the nuns have not developed sophisticated marketing strategies, so we escaped without cakes or biscuits. Wellington’s more cultured officers commented that the university was more attractive than Oxford as there were no smoking chimneys. But there didn’t seem to be any heating, so it must have been horrible trying to study in winter here. The French demolished 20 colleges and two convents, for stone to build forts, but there’s no shortage of sights.

Cuidad Rodrigo

Another mythical place! After a drive past cork plantations, with long legged grey pigs and black bulls artistically disposed beneath the trees, we reached the second of the “keys of Spain”, Cuidad Rodrigo. It’s a really nice town, I would advise any one to visit, even without the Wellington associations. There are quite a number of palaces, mostly sixteenth century, with massive doorways and coats of arms, in one of which Wellington stayed after the sack of the city was over. It wasn’t as out of control as the sack of Badajoz, probably because the city was taken with less loss. The storming of Badajoz seems to have traumatised even experienced troops. The breaches are marked, and there is a plaque in memory of General Craufurd who was shot through the spine in the lesser breach, leading his Light Brigade. Both breaches are close to the cathedral, which shows a lot of damage.  There’s a memorial to the Spanish general who held it for 25 days against the French; the British battered the walls in the same place to create the larger breach – the repairs weren’t as strong as the older part of the wall. But there is a deep ditch, a glacis, newer artillery fortifications, another deep ditch, and then the old high, thick walls. It’s amazing that it was taken so quickly although I think the French weren’t expecting an attack in the dead of winter and from several directions. Also they don’t seem to have been as infernally inventive as at Badajoz.

Some of the damage to the cathedral.

A Peninsular adventure

We’re now four days in to our attempt to follow Wellington’s Peninsular campaigns. Actually, as soon as we started planning, it became obvious that we would have to do it in two passes. So we’re going up to the battle of Salamanca, in 1812. And we realised that we wouldn’t be able to do it chronologically, or it might take us as long as it took Wellington. And just to distract further from the verismilitude of the experience, we decided that we couldn’t face the heat of Estremadura  in the height of summer. (Wellington’s troops did not have a choice.)  And we are always well supplied and no one is trying to kill us. And we’re travelling by car and not on foot or horseback.  And we’re not relentlessly starting at daylight and having cold meat for dinner, as Wellington did. But otherwise……………..

So, first we went to Elvas, from where Beresford took the guns to bombard Badajoz, and Wellington planned the successful siege of Badajoz that followed. There are very well preserved defences in the Vauban style, and it’s a nice little town, but closed. Getting something to eat brought back painful memories of Norway, last year, although when we did eventually find somewhere to eat, we didn’t faint at the price, so not so like Norway. We visited the British cemetery on one of the bastions, well kept and a pretty spot. The wounded from Albuera and those sick of “fever” (sic – Sgt Lawrence) were taken to hospital in Elvas, and those who died were buried here. Only a few officers, who died of wounds after the battle of Albuera have grave stones. But various regiments have erected plaques to their men who died both at Albuera and Badajoz. Most of the Peninsular dead were stripped by looters and buried in mass graves, from whence they were often dug up by wolves. A year after the battle, the field of Albuera was completely covered with bones. We’re not visiting Albuera because it wasn’t a Wellington battle – the army was commanded by Beresford. It was a victory of sorts – the French retired – but a very costly one.

So, then over the burning plain to Badajoz. It’s a much busier city than Elvas. You can still see the fort of San Christobal, which Wellington decided was too strong to attack, but the Picurina fort, which he took in a surprise attack, seems to have vanished under modern flats. It was easy to identify the bastions between which he breaches were made, Natividad and Santa Maria, and to see how the moat was flooded. The walls are still alarmingly high – the thought of rushing them with ladders doesn’t bear thinking of. The citadel (the Arab Alcazar) was even more daunting, although of course that is where the British finally got a good foothold. (A red jacket is still hoisted at the Crich war memorial on the anniversary, repeating the action of a lieutenant of the Nottinghamshire regiment, who wished to signal that the citadel had fallen, when so had anyone who had a union flag.) 

The walls of Badajoz

We called in at Caceres and Trujillo, no Wellington associations but we didn’t want to drive past, and they were very interesting. In Caceres there is a house built by the chap who married a daughter of Montezuma, and in Trujillo one for Pizarro’s half Inca daughter. One wonders what they made of this desolate, featureless country, baking in summer and freezing in winter. Also, what must it have been like for the British army? We climbed any church tower we could  (four) to get a view over the countryside, which was featureless and baked dry already, so I don’t know why we bothered,  plus we climbed one just on the hour and nearly got deafened by the bells.

We visited Oropesa, where Wellington met the Spanish general, Cuesta, before Talavera. The battlefield of Talavera has now a motorway running across it (they found a mass grave when they were laying the motorway), and the Portina brook is dammed to make a small lake. The Medellin hill, crucial in the battle, is privately owned and there is no access.  However, a monument was erected on the motorway junction, at about the position of the British lines. Tellingly, the British bit just lists the regiments involved, and the French bit lists the regiments, but also gives the names of all the commanding officers. You have to drive a stop down the motorway to see the Portina Brook, go round the junction and drive back, but actually it was worth it, as you could see the slight rise from the French positions to the British – a typical Wellington eye for land. The sun was scorching, and the battle was a month later. And hotter. There was a brief truce for both sides to drink from the brook, they were so thirsty.

We’re now on the way to Salamanca, and we’ve stopped in the Sierra de los Gredos. It’s beautifully cool, woods, wild flowers and mountain streams, and very quiet, except for the time the cows spontaneously formed themselves into a steel band. I had a swim in one pool (see above) - there was absolutely no one about so why not? It was absolutely icy, I couldn’t stay in very long because it was making me ache, but it was very invigorating and a lovely experience. It’s so quiet here that we couldn’t find a food shop, but luckily in Trujillo, a sweet faced nun smiled and waved directly at me from behind a grille, with the result that we ended up buying some biscuits – hand made by nuns I’m sure. They were very nice but cost 5 euros, and my husband kept moaning about being mugged by a nun (“They probably have a competition to find the oldest nun with the sweetest smile and station her behind the grille”)  but they were all we had to eat, so you see, God moves in mysterious ways…………………..