Spain Tour 10: Tunnel to Bulnes

Pobcebos and Bulnes aren’t really that far from Potes, but there are mountains in the way. So we had to drive North (back through the Gorge again), then West, then South to get there.
The chief reason for including this picture, taken in the Gorge, is as a reminder of the speedy, scary Spanish drivers up in those parts, and their careful lane discipline...

Finally we reached the southern leg of the journey, along the A264 (Carretara de Poncebos), through the Cares gorge. If anything, these mountains seemed even more stark and rugged than the ones we had left in the Eastern Picos.

At Poncebos is the entrance to a most unlikely construction. The Funicular de Bulnes. Bulnes is the only town in Asturias - apparently- with no road access. So before 2001 the only way to reach it from Poncebos was to take the steep, narrow, winding track by foot or donkey.

However, with significant EU funding the mindbending decision had been made to bore a tunnel 2.23 km long, rising around 400m, to carry a small funicular railway between one and the other. The journey takes 7 minutes, the inclination is 18%, the car takes up to 28 passengers, there is a van for goods as well (if wanted) - it really is a marvel. And the residents of Bulnes go for free.

But what astonishes me is that it was built at all. The decision wasn't uncontroversial, and from the OJEC records, there seem to have been some serious questions:

Work has begun on the funicular railway which will provide access to Bulnes, despite the fact that appeals havebeen lodged and that the work has not even been approved (as is legally required) by those responsible forrunning the national park. This irregularity was pointed out by the Environment Ministry in a document of6 November which was signed by the head of the national parks division and which points out to the AsturiasRegional Government that there are irregularities in the project.

In specific terms, three irregularities are mentioned:

− The works project should have been the subject of a prior report by the park management.

− The plan (PLAN) made available for public consultation does not correspond to the one ultimately put intoeffect by the body promoting the funicular railway.

− The lack of legal backing for the project in its attempts to circumvent what is laid down in the Picos deEuropa natural resources plan.

Many environmental bodies which have appealed against the Bulnes funicular railway maintain that thedocument from the Environment Ministry justifies their claims.(Written Question to the Commission at OJEC (98/C 323/71) - answered on the following page)

Well, it's there now - surreal as that may be - so the youngest and I decided to have a go.

Its long, very long, and seems incredibly steep. Some of the effects from inside the car are quite spectacular.



At the top, after leaving the funicular, you seem deep in the mountains. A path leads away along reasonably level ground to the pueblo of Bulnes.



We stopped at Bulnes for a snack. The village is very touristy, with lots of cafes and places to take refreshment. While we were there it seemed crowded, but that may just be because a group of teenage International Scouts had stopped a little way outside the village - and they seemed to be everywhere. Large numbers of walkers and climbers also come to this part of the Picos.

While we were there we finally witnessed and heard the harsh sounds of the Asturian bagpipes. I really enjoyed them - youngest was less sure. (Actually he was very sure - he said he thought they were horrid).

We waited a while, wandering around the village, and then finally met up with the others who had come up by the donkey-path. They certainly looked as if they'd had sufficient exercise!

This is the upper entrance to the funicular. We all took the railway down...
... and here I managed to catch a picture of the two cars passing at the mid-point - where the single track railway suddenly blossoms into a passing place.
However, given that two members of the household took the trouble to climb up the hard way, it seems only reasonable to end with a few of their photographs:

Poem of the Week

Harry Ploughman
Gerard Manley Hopkins

Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank—
Head and foot, shoulder and shank—
By a grey eye’s heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress. Each limb’s barrowy brawn, his thew
That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank—
Soared or sank—,
Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank
And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do—
His sinew-service where do.

He leans to it, Harry bends, look. Back, elbow, and liquid waist
In him, all quail to the wallowing o’ the plough: ’s cheek crimsons; curls
Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced—
See his wind- lilylocks -laced;
Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls
Them—broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced
With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls—
With-a-fountain’s shining-shot furls.

Spain Tour 9: Santa Maria de Lebena

Pre-Romamesque churches. Sigh. I don't entirely blame Cees Nooteboom for this; Spain had these churches well before he started writing about them - and actively promotes them at tourists. But I think he prompted this visit of ours.
A hot day; but only a short drive North from Potes - just back into the Gorge - and there is a hidden-ish turn-off to Lebena. The Church is a few hundred metres from the village, and although they have built a new car park, it felt quite deserted when we were there. Just a couple of other cars.

Mr Nooteboom drives there too. He finds the church locked, goes into the village, and meets an old couple who feed him strong liquor (orujo), and then open up the church for him. Nowadays there are published opening times. We get them wrong, can't be bothered to go into the village and just sort of hang around outside for a while.
It does all appear to have been very nicely refurbished, and there may be wonders inside, but we don't get to see them.

It's Tenth century and "a notable example of Mozarabic church architecture". Lots of people have researched it - and written a lot about it.

But what really excited us in the end were the lizards. Having a bask.

The church is meant to have a mighty fine yew and an impressive cypress outside it. But the yew, I fear, is no more and I got confused about which one the cypress was.


... and so we went away again...

Poem of the Week

To Whom It May Concern
Adrian Mitchell

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames
Made a marble phone book and I carved all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women,
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

First read out in Trafalgar Square in 1964

Hills around Nunhead

Firework Night. November 5th. We went to the highest point on Canonbie Road. North to the centre of town was lit up, and the occasional rocket skimmed into the night sky. (The next thing should be a Google Streetview of the area but sometimes it doesn't display properly).


View Larger Map

But in the opposite direction, South East, we could see almost continuous fireworks leaping up from thousands of low-lying individual gardens.
Never stopping, always something shooting upwards.
We were joined by just a very few other connoisseurs.
Amazing.

Why the green fuse?

I pushed the Dylan Thomas (see last post) at the blog a week ago - but to be published later (days after I'd chosen it)

And well before I'd properly thought about Emma.

I assumed since it was just a novel, I'd read it quite speedily. But no, I could not skim it. In fact, I could not keep up with the series on the Beeb.

Both the Thomas poem and the novel are challenging, and return slow reading, but they are truly not the same. The poem inverts sentences, uses elliptical constructions, the poet challenges the reader to work out what he means. Austen by comparison says what she means, but knows you are not likely to read it.

We all know that complex poems require slow careful readings, which we give them, and try to weigh the words and tease the sense out from them.

At the same time we race through novels, skimming the sense; we organise our understanding of them through plot and character.

Emma is decidedly not a poem; it is a true - and in a somewhat secondary and trivial way avant-guarde - novel. But it argues that the same reading habits that are appropriate for a dense poem are required here, in this prose.

Or demanded, for a true reading.

So, spending 20 minutes working out exactly what the start of Thomas's poem means is a mere fraction of what Austen demands in Emma.

Most readers don't notice, or give up, and fall back on the more comforting stories: Pride and...,, Sense and....

Truthfully; if you don't get Emma, you are reading too quickly.

Poem of the Week

The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower
Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.