Day 2 (Thursday, 2 June)
With Bea now sofa-bound, it was my responsibility to source food and medicine for us both. Until now I had been cowering behind Bea’s superior Spanish. Now, I had to request cheese and ibuprofen in my best Spanglish.
Cheese was easier. With the pills, however, the vowel at the end – ibuprofenO – was the difference between incomprehension and communication. I know this because the first time I tried to buy the drug, carefully rolling my R, nasalizing and shortening my vowels, ‘íbúprófén’, the pharmacist just gave me a blank look. Luckily, the woman to my left worked it out for him, giving the term correctly.
Another thing I attempted to buy was a strap for Bea’s injured ankle. This required explanation, and though I had learner tobillo, ankle, from the previous day’s tribulations, I was grateful for the bilingualism of the orthopedic shopkeeper. However, I wasn’t sure of the product she presented, so I took a photo for Bea to assess (see above).
I also did things other than errands that day. This chiefly involved wandering around the old town, and I found an interesting corner which was simultaneously historic and dominated by nightclubs. I was aghast at the prices for a night’s discoteca in a crumbling townhouse and then stumbled upon a quiet square not far from the psichologia department of the university. Here, some students were having a midday café con leche.
I also explored the east side of the cathedral quarter. Even in England, this is where one finds the business end of the diocese. Cloisters, chapter-houses and libraries are in the remit, and this is roughly what I found. Behind the cloister, helpfully marked DOMVS DEI on the street side, was a building with three flags. They were placed in ascending order of authority: first, the local flag of Asturias; second, there was the national flag Spain; and then, the spiritual. Yellow, white, and the rings of a gold and silver key neatly tied together with red string were visible in the folds – Peter’s keys. This was the Papal flag. Coming from Protestant England, I found this gesture strangely exhilarating.
I peered inside. I read a sign which said Archivo Diocesano. Here, all of the manuscripts and records of the cathedral and its whole administration would be kept. I peered further, and saw a glazed reception booth. It was guarded by a nun, appropriately attired. Excellent. I was sure she would be friendly, but I didn’t have enough confidence in my language skills to start pestering her for Top Trumps facts about the archive’s holdings.
I left her to her quiet opus dei and headed to the museum of Bellas Artes. The museum is remarkably good for a provincial city of this size, replete with a good chunk of late medieval art. I saw numerous iterations of San Miguel poking the head of Satan with a spear (los toros?), and some Virgins lachrymose or serene, depending on the occasion. Seeing the chop and change of style gives one an indication of wealth and decline. Some of the panels had influences from Tuscany and the Low Countries, which were the Dubai and Luxemburg of their day. Others had crude, heavy outlines and tortured faces, mannerisms I haven’t seen before and must hail from northern Iberia itself (yes, I did check the labels!).
I walked past dozens of 18th- to 20th-century paintings. Sorry –I find the Sunday painting of coal-powered societies less interesting these days, and the collection was somewhat less illustrious for its later stuff. Nevertheless, on the strength of its early works this gallery was superb in my view. Apparently, its visitor count is pretty limited, even in June. In fairness, I wouldn’t have visited were it not for poor Bea’s calamity. There is something distinctly un pilgrim-like about lingering in white halls full of delicate images.
After my excursions around Oviedo, I returned with a mixed collection of shopping, mixing some proper Asturian items with more generically Spanish ones. The offending articles in the latter regard were the two quesos, one rather dry (read: old and more expensive) and one rather young, sprightly, and elastic. Both were effectively manchego made with goats milk and therefore not local, since these verdant hilly parts are dominated by vaccas, cows.
This is a dairy-and-apple food culture as opposed to one based upon grain and wine. The formula of apples and cheese should be familiar to those that inhabit the wetter parts of the United Kingdom, particularly Cornwall, where arable land is limited. I believe comparisons are often made between northwestern Spain and Cornwall. In reality, only a native of neither place or, less probably, both would be qualified to say if this was a real parallel or not.
More Asturian was our method of cooking the chorizo fresco which I also purchased – to boil it in sidra. Immediate success. The smell is at first an odd combination, as weird as the colour palette of potent red sausage mixed with cloudy green liquid. Once mellowed together, the cider provides acidity which cuts through the fat and smoke. All the more strange is the realisation that the now-reddened ‘broth’ is actually oil sitting on the surface. The acid-green sidre lives on below!
A few more pieces of sausage lived on til the next day, too. These were placed in a sliced croissant in the morning. This can either be viewed as a pan – geddit –European gastronomic exchange or cultural violence, depending on your view! I half-regret to say the results were superb. Fat and spice and residual acidity met with flakiness, a little sweetness, and the slightly more dainty fatty flavour known as butter. Croissants are ubiquitous here, and I am certain this combination has been eaten thousands of times before. It is probably a known bocadillo in its own right. But I reserved a little smugness for myself, as if I had invented the pairing. When the two ingredients happen to be in my kitchen again, I will repeat it.
– Alfie