This book was a disappointment to me, entirely my fault, though, as I had not realised that it was first published in 1964, so obviously it’s dated. While this author’s 1960 book on Venice is still relevant and a hugely enjoyable read, today’s Spain bears no resemblance to the one described by Jan Morris and it feels like he’s writing about another place entirely.
It was a time when “Spanish courtships were discreet, Spanish mothers dominant, Spanish men very manly and Spanish women usually chaste, when carriages were swaying down Andalusian lanes with ladies chatting in their cushioned recesses, young people came up from Barcelona to dance the Sardana in Montserrat, gypsies were thought picturesque, the men of La Mancha wore headscarves and rode about in covered wagons like Western pioneers, the leathery muleteer rode through the streets of Andalusia, his string of animals heavy with sacks, panniers or baskets of vegetables, the Murillo boy trotted by on his donkey, the women chatted perpetually around the fountain, their big waterpots propped upon its parapet, splendid brass-bound locomotives snorted in steam and metal polish down Spanish railways, the miller stood outside his windmill on the ridge, with a smell of flour, and creaking of old mechanisms, old Spanish village ladies hid their faces from strangers behind their black headscarves ….. you get the message, this book is totally dated.
And though the author can’t be blamed for describing the country the way he saw it decades ago, he might be criticised for his overwrought, gushing style, for his exaggerations and generalisations (nobody can be kinder than a Spaniard, with his lack of envy, his guileless courtesies) his over the top flights of fancy (he knows no other building with more fizz than the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela which exudes a delightful air of cheerful satisfaction) and last but not least his unacceptable (in my books) glorification of the bullfight (...“the savage magic and grandeur of the corrida”...) Shame on him !
What I enjoyed about this book were Cecilia Eales’ lovely lopsided watercolours.