We woke this morning with one thought in mind, will Garage Rotunda text Gill as they promised to confirm that the replacement wing mirror had arrived? In truth, given our experience over recent months with the fecklessness of the Great British tradesman, we were living more in hope than expectation. Contrary to stereotypical attitudes regarding Spain's supposed 'manaña' approach to life, at 8.30am sharp the service manager of Garage Rotunda confirmed that part had arrived. 'We'll be with you by 10.30' Gill replied. Back came a thumbs-up emoji.
On Saturday when we went cycling through the Rioja's vineyards, from time to time we came across small vans parked askew among the rows of vines. Huddles of venerable looking men in threadbare work clothes were in earnest discussion. We presumed there was only one topic of conversation - is it time to pick - perhaps their most important decision of year.
Sunday dawned ten degrees cooler. By evening it had clouded over completely. Overnight it drizzled. As we drove towards Logroño' in Monday morning Rioja was a hive of activity. Our progress was slowed by small tractors chugging along, one towed a grape harvester, which seemed far too big for the spindly vehicle pulling it. Others towed trailers piled high with empty mesh boxes ready to be filled with ripe grapes. I slowed up to allow yet another tractor and trailer pull out from a side road. The owner must have been up at dawn. His trailer was piled high with glistening ruby red grapes.
Further on I overtook a small Renault van. No wonder it was travelling at 30kph, there must have been eight people squeezed into it. The reason soon became apparent, a similar vehicle was parked at the side of the road. Out of the drivers door emerged a somewhat squat local man of indeterminate age. Six tall African men tumbled out of the back, each holding a black heavy duty plastic bag. The grapes they were about to pick must have been prize specimens. Only those destined for vintage wines are picked by hand these days.
I recalled the sepia photographs of grape harvest's gone by that decorated the exclusive tasting rooms of Haro's most up-market bodegas. The photos had one thing in common, they all showed a family group, children, parents and grandparents, posed for a post harvest picture. They graced the bodega walls to assert tradition and continuity, the link between people and place, blood and soil, stretching back generations. Seeing the groups of migrant grape pickers made me wonder if itinerant labour was always required at harvest time. Maybe last century mainly involving Spanish gypsies. In all likelihood they had been excluded from the photographs back then, just as no bodega now would be likely to showcase African faces, even though it is these skilled workers that hand pick the choice grapes destined for the finest Rioja's.
Despite the delays we arrived at Garage Rotunda more or less at the appointed time. It was a tricky manoeuvre to get the van into the service bay which was really designed for smaller vehicles. That done, after a bit of paperwork, we were ushered into a comfortable chair in the showroom. Though the place was badged as a Fiat garage, it mainly sold Alfa Romeos. We waited among the gleaming specimens of Italian design, famed equally for élan and mechanical unreliability. Twenty minutes later the van was fixed, I felt delighted to see it back in one piece, sad about the €422 bill. Nagging doubts returned, should I have seen that the oncoming van was too close, could I have taken evasive action?
Onwards to Burgos, about a 70 mile drive, the roads were almost empty, we arrived just after lunch. The reviews of the city's area auto-caravanas on Campercontact were very positive mentioning the place was well managed and handy for buying groceries at the large Alcampo supermarket situated nearby. It was all true. Normally we don't use city aires, preferring to find a nearby town with public transport links. However, both here and in the region's other northern city - Leon- the facilities for motorhomes are excellent. Unlike similar places in Italian cities, reaching them is relatively stress free as Spanish drivers are more considerate and placid.
Having parked, shopped and lunched it was time to explore the city. The medieval centre is about a half an hour walk from the aire. It's not an unpleasant stroll, Burgos's modern outskirts are somewhat bland, mid-rise modern apartment blocks line broad tree-lined boulevards, but it feels lived-in and well maintained.
The old city is delightful, pleasant squares with ancient palacios interspersed with nineteenth century facades with glass covered balconies, so typical of 'green Spain'. For us, however, there were two outstanding monuments, one sublime, the other ridiculous.
First the sublime. Burgos Cathedral is remarkable. Almost contemporary with the first great exponents of the High Gothic style in the Ile de France - Notre Dame, Reims & Rouen - the facade of Burgos manages to retain both the scale and the grace of the originals.
Other thirteenth century 'exports' achieve to monumental scale but lacked finesse. In comparison Canterbury is clumpy and Cologne engineered to be soul-less. Burgos is simply beautiful, not just the building itself but the portal sculpture on the south transept.
You approach the Portico del Sarmental.dramatically up steep steps as if the believer is ascending to heaven. Above the door Christ in Majesty blesses the faithful. The scene is depicted with engaging naturalism inspired by Classical antecedents.
In particular the small figures of the Apostles below the seated figure of Christ display individuality and psychological acumen. Panofsky called this new interest in Classical scholarship the 'twelfth century proto-renaissance. This was more than a change of style, High Gothic reflects a key moment in the history of a Western Europe when the intractable bonds of feudalism loosened a little, Theocracy softened to admit Classical texts into the canon, cities became more mercantile, international trade increased and the first universities were founded.
As a foil to all this serious stuff, Burgos's other famous monument is refreshingly silly. Quite rightly the burghers of Burgos are proud of the city's association with the extra-ordinary military genius and mercenary knight errant - El Cid. A contemporary of William the Conqueror, he was born near Burgos, but his exploits covered the whole of Spain, sometimes leading Christian troops, occasionally lending his expertise to their Muslim adversaries. El Cid eventually became the first Christian monarch of Valencia, however, on his death in 1099 his remains were returned to his native city, Burgos.
It is difficult to find the date of the big equestrian statue of El Cid which guards the entrance to the city just beyond the the ancient bridge over the Rio Arlanzón. The monument looks like a late Nineteenth century effort. What it lacks in artistic merit it more than makes up for in enthusiasm. I cannot recall ever having seen a more animated sculpture. It exudes a fantastical febrile energy like a petrified Terry Pratchett cover, a Josh Kirby in stone.
The sculpture is inadvertently funny due to a failure of scale. Think the opposite of Spinal Tap's Stonehenge set. Here a enormous, overblown statue of El Cid on his galloping charger poses precariously on a tiny traffic island barely three metres in diameter At any moment both horse and rider appear to be about to leap from their pedestal and plunge headlong into the traffic to defend the city from marauding infidel hordes.
Other than the things we did, we managed to clock-up a list of things we failed to do. Just across the river from the El Cid statue is Burgos's Museum of Human Evolution. It has a set of rooms dedicated to the life and work of Charles Darwin, who must be a contender as the most influential Englishman in history. Why he is memorialised in Burgos rather than Shrewsbury I have no idea. Anyway, this place alone justfies including Burgos on our 'another a time' list. The city also has a clutch of well regarded tapas places, all closed, as our stroll around the centre coincided exactly with the moment between late lunch and early evening when bars and restaurants stop serving food or close altogether.
Though the motorhome aire is in the middle of a built-up area we had a peaceful night. By 10am we were back on the road - more endless beige plains - next stop, Salamanca.
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