When my daughter and I climbed up to the town's church, it was shrouded in cloud and its belltower was nowhere to be seen. However, after I'd struggled up the 107 narrow and almost perpendicular stairs to said bell tower, with the aid only of a vertical cord (not even a rope), I was thrilled to be able to see . . . . nothing but four bells. So, I compensated for this by swinging the clanger of one of these until it pealed. I wondered whether this would upset anyone so was a bit concerned to see a police car outside the church as I exited it. But they'd only come up from the town to have a quick smoke.
One of the plaques in the church advised that the font had been broken by French troops in 1810, as a prelude to their looting of the place. Not for the first time, I wondered why Napoleon's name is revered in France when Hitler's isn't in Germany. Perhaps some French reader could explain this to me. Possibly he was nice to cats. Which is always cause for suspicion to me.
Needless to say, the church - up in a little pueblo - had plenty of treasures, including works of Roldan and Durer. Which really should be sold to some museum or gallery and the proceeds distributed to the world's poor. But it ain't going to happen.
It wasn't a good day for me and water. When I stopped for petrol and a pee, the young lady told me, when giving me the key, there was no water in the toilet and then gave me instructions on how to unlock the door. Since these didn't work, I concluded the key was to the ladies' and made my way to a nearby tree. Halfway there, I realised I was walking through a patch of deep mud. Which did wonders for my shoes. Then, when checking into my hotel in Valdepenas en route for Madrid, the receptionist told me the café was closed for lack of water and that I would need to go to a place across the street for breakfast. Finally - and perhaps not unconnectedly - when I turned on the tap in my room, the water came out orange. Ah, the joys of travelling in Spain.