More details about paddling

The apartment we’ve moved into isn’t quite up to the standard of the previous one, even though by all accounts it’s more luxurious. There’s a lack of kitchen utensils, for instance; a lack of dinner plates (Celia reckons they’re back at the other place and the rest of the set is here); and various other small things that add up to it not being quite what we first thought. That’s okay; we were much better off in the other apartment for the week.
We had nothing much in the house for lunch so we walked in Plaza de Reina (Reina meaning Queen) and pretty much took up the first café/bar we found. It was advertising an English breakfast, but once inside we opted for the Paella, even though our last experience of paella, in Barcelona, was most disappointing. It had been very salty and rather burnt underneath.
We also opted to stay inside out of the sun, because by that time the sun had decided to give it a go, and it had become very hot. Opting to stay inside meant we were (a) able to read Lesson 42 in the Spanish/English course that was left on our counter. It was a lot of fun, and obviously was partly done with tongue in cheek. ‘Your cologne smells like gasoline.’ ‘You remind me of Robert Redford. You have made me feel like a real man.’ ‘Why aren’t these accounts up to date? What, you think I’m some kind of magician? You need to be, or else you’ll be looking for another job.’ ‘I read The Economist. It tends to focus on gay marriages and the legalisation of drugs.’ And so on.
(b) We were also in the firing line kitchen-wise. It was rather like being not in the restaurant but in the kitchen itself, and of course, with the staff all being Spaniards, there was a great deal of full on in-your-face discussion. Fun.
The paella was lovely when it came, and just what the doctor ordered.
From there we caught the tram back down to the beach, which was more crowded than the other day: lots of families, and kids, and couples. We watched a father play with his children (aged from about four to fourteen) for ages: he was creating a circle in the sand and they had to get him out of it or get him down. They never did. Even when his wife joined in, he stayed on his feet - she went down with quite a thump at one point. Celia was tempted to join in, but restrained herself.
We also paddled in the Mediterranean. The first wave was cold, but nothing like Dunedin beaches. And after that you didn’t feel chilled, but just comfortable. We walked along the beach quite a way, Celia’s foot apparently enjoying the change.

Oxburgh

I didn’t get round to writing my post on Oxburgh yesterday, so here it is now. Oxburgh turned out to be one of the most delightful Halls we’ve visited. It was owned by the Roman Catholic Bedingfeld family until it was given to the National Trust in 1952. However, the Bedingfelds still live in some part of it.
There’s a wall all the way around, with towers at intervals, and a wide open garden area as you enter. A stream runs along one side; well, when I say stream, I’m not sure that it goes anywhere, but it’s like a stream, and there a beautiful lily-pads in flower over towards a little platform. Across it at one point is a bridge which has a pulley on it, so that part of it can be raised to allow a small boat through. Small, as in a rowboat.
In front of the Hall is the parterre garden. I guessed this meant something along the lines of ‘by earth’ but in fact the proper translation is on the ground, which seems just a little bit obvious for a garden. Wikipedia tells us that a “parterre is a formal garden construction on a level surface consisting of planting beds, edged in stone or tightly clipped hedging and gravel paths arranged to form a pleasing, usually symmetrical pattern. Parterres need not have any flowers at all. French parterres were elaborated out of 16th-century knot gardens.” The parterre at Oxburgh is elaborate and colourful - and it does have flowers, and a knot shape.
Beyond this is the Hall itself, surrounded by a moat, which may have only arrived in the 19th century as there was a photograph inside the building of men working on it. The building (which was begun in 1482) itself has been added to and altered but in spite of its inconsistencies of design is strong in its features. There’s a bridge over the moat and plenty of fish in the water. We couldn’t tell what kind they were, except that they were black, or dark in colour, and about 6-8 inches long. Long iridescent dragonflies hovered over the water.
Apparently the house was originally U-shaped, but the fourth side was filled in by the industrious Victorian, and there is now a courtyard in the centre. The Victorians also added the Flemish-style windows and the terracotta chimneys.
While the house is interesting to walk around in, its major claim to fame is that it has a priest’s hole. This was a hiding place for Catholic priests in the time when they were being hunted down. The hole is in an interesting place. One of the rooms above the main archway was slept in by King Henry VII. The privy (it has a more particular name which I’ve forgot) was up a short flight of steps. Behind this was the trap to flush out the doings; in the troubled times, this trap didn’t flush anything out but hid the priest who had a small ‘room’ beneath. His access was in fact through the trap, and he would have had to have been a fairly skinny fellow to get through it.
Above the King’s room was the Queen’s, reached by a stone spiral staircase. And further up the staircase again is access to the tower overlooking the roof. There’s more access to something above that again, but it was closed to us yesterday.
Unless you have a good idea of period furniture and style it’s hard to tell what was original in the house and what has been added. The Victorians seemed to have collected a great deal of carved wood, sometimes adding it to existing furniture. Only someone with particular knowledge would know what belonged to what.
Yesterday there was an art exhibition on at the house as well. Art in the sense of ‘someone’s idea of art.’ It consisted of copy after copy of various ‘common’ items such as books, hotties, tanks and airplanes (!) all made in white porcelain. The artist had a philosophical reason for making all this stuff - these sorts of artists always do - but in fact it wasn’t particularly exciting, and it detracted considerably from the genuine art and furniture and fittings in the house. Fortunately the stuff was only in two rooms, otherwise it would have been quite irritating. One of the volunteer guides expressed some considerable disdain for it, as well he might.