Category Archives: History

Is Scotland set to break Catalonia’s heart?

It’s not a good sign when you sit down to write a blog post and your heart is already sinking.

Alliterative reasons aside, not for nothing is my blog subtitled ‘from Caledonia to Catalonia’. But as a Scot who’s spent the last almost three and a half years living and working in Barcelona, I have to admit that I’ve tried my hardest to steer clear of the entire socio-political morass developing on both sides of the Channel.

Why? Because I can’t win. Catalans, on hearing that I hail from Scotland rather than England, invariably assume I’m on their side (i.e. a raging nationalist). Scots, meanwhile, on hearing that I forsook the homeland in pursuit of Spanish fluency, deny me a vote in a historic referendum on my own country’s future.

Not to mention the countless Catalans – in Barcelona’s bars and on Twitter – who assure me that “Scotland is not even a country – everybody knows that.”

But with less than two months till Scotland goes to the ballot box, I’ve run out of excuses to sidestep the minefield.

I have no idea which way Scotland will vote in September (have I mentioned I don’t even get a vote?!), but I do want to talk about my experience here in Catalonia in the run-up to the referendum. And why I think Catalans might be backing the wrong horse.

Inca-Catalan-Independence

Precisely.

Two anecdotes to warm us up…

Around a year ago, I was heading home from work on the Barcelona metro and reading some research in English as I waited for the train. A fair-haired tourist walked up to me and, clocking the report, chirped, “Ah, are you English?” Without thinking, I smiled back “No, I’m Scottish”.

In a second, his demeanour changed. (He, apparently, was English.)

“You Scots” he sneered contemptuously, “you always have to make that point, don’t you?” And with that, he stormed off.

Left stunned on the metro platform, it occurred to me that if the situation had been reversed, and I had seen his appearance and fact he was reading an English report and said “Ah, so you’re Scottish?”, he would naturally have replied “No, I’m English”, without thinking any more of it. Yet as a Scot, I was not afforded the same courtesy.

More recently, I was talking to a Catalan friend on WhatsApp, and made some typically sarcastic joke about some nonsense or other. Failing to grasp the sense of humour (that’s a whole other blog post, believe me), my friend texted back “Exagerada”. “Of course I exaggerate”, I replied, “I’m British!”

His comeback was swift.

“You’re not British” he replied, in all seriousness. “You’re Scottish.”

The two scenarios have similarities. Firstly, the arrogance of someone presuming to correct what nationality you think you are. Just imagine the scenario in reverse – me saying to a local, “you’re not Catalan, you’re Spanish”. The fallout would not be pretty. Secondly, and this is where it gets fascinating – why is my nationality so important to both of these people from different countries?

Scotland – from touchpaper to touchstone?

On 18 September this year, around 4 million voters will head to the polls to have their say on whether Scotland, already a country in its own right, should opt for out-and-out independence from the United Kingdom.

As a Scot living abroad, I’m not entitled to a vote, as the Scottish government has decreed that only those people living in the country and registered to vote on Referendum Day can take part in the democratic decision.

(Bit unfair, eh? Yes and no. There are days it still rankles that I won’t get to cast a vote, as someone who was born and brought up in Scotland, is likely to move back one day and still owns property there. On the other hand, I can appreciate the administrative nightmare the Scottish authorities were presumably faced with. How do you decide who’s ‘Scottish’ enough to vote? What exactly are the criteria?)

Meanwhile, in the run-up to Referendum Day, my Catalan compatriots, most of whom have never set foot in Scotland, haven’t given me a minute’s peace. Say you’re Scottish (I try not to, but I fear the myriad mosquito punctures betray me) and their eyes light up.

Them: “So you’ll be voting for independence then?”

Me, patently trying to dodge the question: “Um, actually I don’t get to vote, because I live here.”

Them: “But if you did, I assume you’d be voting for independence, right?”

At this point, the smart answer would be to say aye of course, kick off my flip-flops and dance a Highland jig, but something in me resents the assumption that as a Scot I am automatically a nationalist.

Because nationalism is not a notion deserving of inherent trust. I’m Scottish, I’m British, and I’m most definitely European, but for the life of me I can’t see the sense in defining ourselves even more narrowly than we already do.

Agitating for autonomy

Support for secession has been on the up in Catalonia ever since the start of ‘La Crisis’; the dire state of economic affairs in which Spain has been floundering since 2008.

It’s no exaggeration to say the effects here have been devastating.

Every day in Barcelona I walk past people – of all ages and backgrounds – hunting around in public wheelie bins for something to eat, or to sell. The numbers who’ve lost their homes and jobs have all swelled the ranks of the vocal and visible supporters of Catalan nationalism, many of whom joined hands last September to form a 300-mile human chain in support of Catalan independence.

Catalan flag Girona by Keith Ellwood

The recession has been that bit harder to bear in Catalonia because, and here’s the rub, many locals see themselves as contributing disproportionately to Spanish state coffers, receiving a paltry molt poc in return.

You can see their point. In fact, Catalonia contributes around a fifth of Spain’s GDP and accounts for roughly a quarter of its taxes. It has a rightful claim as the economic powerhouse of Spain (although scant few Catalans seem willing to chalk up any part of the Crisis blame to the spending decisions of their own regional government, the Generalitat).

Catalan president Artur Mas has announced a ‘consultation’ on Catalan independence to be held two months after the Scottish ballot, on the 9th of November. It’s a ‘consultation’ rather than a referendum as the Spanish government has avowedly refused to entertain the idea of a legally sanctioned vote, leaving campaigning Catalans somewhat in no man’s land in the interim.

The confusion even among Catalanists is palpable, with some pushing for outright sovereignty, others for greater devolutionary powers and still others for the ‘third way’; a negotiated solution that would bring about an end to the impasse.

Scotland and Catalonia: two very different situations

The Scottish bid for independence is often held up by Catalans as the great aspiration, but my experience of both locations is that the comparison is inappropriate.

Catalonia’s cultural identity is deeply pegged to its language, with most inhabitants of the region enthusiastically speaking Catalan alongside Spanish.

Not so in Scotland, where Gaelic is most definitely relegated to the ranks of a romantic linguistic relic. (Don’t be fooled by cheery signs of ‘Failte!’ in Edinburgh’s Waverley station. The tourists may love it but only 1% of the Scottish population actually recognise it as their native language.)

The Catalan language, in contrast, is thriving. Enter Barcelona’s metro system and you’ll be greeted by ticket-vending machines that talk to you exclusively in Catalan. Get admitted to Barcelona’s hospital system (as I was for over a fortnight), and you will be given medical paperwork exclusively in Catalan. Send your kids to school in Barcelona and they’ll be taught in Catalan, with a tiny percentage of time devoted to lessons in Spanish.

Many Catalans here are grudgingly admiring of Scotland’s ability to have negotiated its right to a referendum, but many fail to realise what a phenomenally long road it’s been to achieve it. It’s taken over 100 years to get a legally recognised referendum on Scottish independence, something which Catalan nationalists, keen to highlight the British government’s graciously accommodating stance towards the Scots in comparison to Spain’s absolutist intransigence, tend to overlook.

I remember a visit from SNP activists when I was in primary seven, aged 10, and one of my classmates took full advantage of the Q&A session to ask “Do you think Scotland will ever be independent in your lifetime?” This was the late 1980s, long before the days of devolution, and as the question reverberated around the room even a bunch of school kids knew that it was in all likelihood rhetorical.

Going from that to September’s referendum is not the result of an overnight negotiation.

Not to mention the absence of a written constitution in the UK, unlike in Spain, whose constitution specifically forbids autonomous regions from holding referenda on self-rule.

But perhaps the most obvious – and yet, inexplicably contentious – difference is in the current legal status of both territories. Scotland is a country, a constituent nation within a united kingdom of four countries – Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland. Get off the plane in Glasgow and you’ll be greeted proudly by signage welcoming you to “the best small country in the world”. You’re free to contest the adjectives, but the noun isn’t a matter of debate.

Catalonia’s status is rather different. Like it or not, vote for it or against it, Catalonia’s current legal situation is that of a region within a country. Which means that right from the get-go, the two situations are not on a level playing field.

So wha’s like us, then?

I have no idea which way Scotland is going to vote on the 18th of September, but despite not being able to participate, I am extremely happy that the referendum is going ahead. I sincerely hope Catalonia is afforded the same right, so that we can all just vote and move on.

If they are granted the right to a legally valid vote on independence, I expect to be allowed to take part in it, as a full-time citizen and taxpayer of Catalonia. At the moment, this is not on the cards. If not, the ridiculousness of the situation would be thrown into sharp relief – a Scot living in Catalonia who’s barred from voting in either referendum. Now there’s democracy.

Meanwhile, if it’s a no from Scottish voters in September, I suspect Catalans will be at best crestfallen and at worst completely crushed. Maybe they’d do well to remember the words of Robert Burns, Scotland’s national poet.

“Wha’s like us,
Damn few,
And they’re a’ deid”

 

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Caldes de Montbui – the Spanish spa town with one seriously fiery festival

Barcelona day trippers, you’re going to like this.

If you’ve already sunbathed in Sitges, made like a monk around Montserrat and gone giddy at the mix of modern and medieval in gorgeous Girona, here’s an idea.

Take a 50-minute bus ride to a little-known town just 30km from Barcelona, blessed with curative thermal springs, magnificent Roman ruins and the second-largest cache of Picasso originals in Catalonia. Not to mention a summer festival where you get singed and soaked in equal measure.

Welcome to the Spanish spa town of Caldes de Montbui.

Font del Lleó Caldes de Montbui

The town’s centerpiece  ‘Font del Lleó’ – its 76-degree springs among the hottest in Europe

Perched on a tectonic fault, Caldes de Montbui is characterised by the thermal waters that flow up into its streets, breaking through the surface at a toasty 76 degrees. Nowadays, just like in Roman times, locals make the most of this subterranean source for leisure, craftmaking and medicinal purposes.

Termas-Romanas

Ruins of Roman thermal baths – just one part of an entire spa complex

Witches, wicker and washerwomen

On the edge of the old town sits the Lavadero de la Portalera, named for the four gates in Caldes’ medieval wall that used to lead into this public laundry house.

This is the realm of women.

Even today, on a quiet Saturday morning, an elderly woman clad in an apron and impressively long rubber gloves hunches her body over the largest trough, dooking the dirty laundry into the thermal waters redirected from the Font del Lleó. The thermal waters, it’s said, leave clothes particularly clean, white and soft.

Fer safareig

Back before washing machines were invented, these laundry houses were the social hub of the town. Women (they were, predictably, exclusively women), would line up from five in the morning, laden with the household’s dirty cloths and clothes, to scour, sponge and sluice them into spotlessness.

The women found other canny uses of the thermal waters that welled up into their town. They would often bring pulses and vegetables to cook in the vats of naturally scalding water, while wicker would be left to soak, becoming easily malleable before made into large baskets destined for the fishing wharves of Barcelona.

As the women worked, they nattered, leading to a fascinating set of connotations in Catalan.

The phrase ‘fer safareig’ means to do laundry or to wash clothes, but it also means ‘to gossip; to chat about everything and nothing, everyone and no-one’. The word safareig is behind the modern Spanish ‘chafardear’, meaning to gossip, and gives new meaning to the British phrase ‘to wash your dirty linen in public’.

Fer Safareig Caldes de Montbui

But wet clothes weren’t the only thing to be hung in Caldes de Montbui.

Which brings me on to the witches, and another compelling quirk in the Catalan language. The expression ‘fer bugada’ means to do the laundry or to gossip – but it also means ‘to confess’.

In 1619, following torture, several women accused of witchcraft in Caldes ‘confessed’ to the crime, and were promptly hung from gallows erected in the town’s main square. This wasn’t the first time the town had been associated with witchcraft, though. Its thermal waters are said to have a legendary origin of their own, conjured through the acts of witches themselves.

And every second Saturday of July, the people of Caldes gather for the Escaldarium festival to celebrate this mythic source.

Expecting a fairly standard Catalan correfoc celebration (after you’ve lived in Barcelona for a few years, you get used to the sight of burning tridents and fire-breathing dragons), I wasn’t sure what to make of the news that Escaldarium would also include a trip to the gallows.

And I really wasn’t prepared for the spectacle we were about to witness.

witches by Quim Dasquens

On the Friday evening around 9pm, some eight women dressed in period garb were shackled and paraded through the town, flanked by men with whips and preceded by two sombre-faced drummers.

Crowds of townspeople thronged along behind them, as the witches wailed and protested, goaded by men in the crowd clamouring “Fora bruixes!” (out with the witches!) in a worryingly animated fashion.

“Powerful, isn’t it?” one female onlooker said in hushed tones to her neighbour.

I studied the faces of the spectators lined up on the edge of the town, watching as the witches were led out towards the gallows, which had been assembled some distance away in the midst of Caldes’ vegetable patches. The morbid procession of drummers, chanting chain of witches and whip-happy guards made its way out to the scaffolds, with some of the women feigning to faint as they approached their mock death.

town watching

“Lead to the hanging place, where chimneys are smoking a warning of ash, ash, and the streets are strangely ebullient”

One by one (and I still don’t know how they did it), the guards slipped a noose around each witch’s neck and hung her from the gallows. “Make sure they’re all dead!” the middle-aged gent standing next to me bellowed, making me jump out of my skin.

Obviously satisfied they were indeed mock-dead, the hangman took each witch back down, and lined up the ‘corpses’ at the side of the gallows.

What with the forceful acting, the incessant drums and the het-up crowd, the whole performance was so lifelike that it was deeply disturbing, and I had to wonder at the children being allowed to look on from the crowd (albeit a good distance away). I escaped back to the hotel, the noise of the death drums seeming to sync with the thud of blood as I ran.

gallows by Quim Dasquens

Escaldarium – a fiesta of hellfire and water

2014 is the 20th anniversary of the Escaldarium festival, which takes place on the Saturday night in the town’s main square, right on the witching hour itself.

Earlier in the evening you can catch Catalan Sardana dancing and live outdoor music, but the showstopper is the nine dances of the Caldes devils. You’re actively encouraged to take part in the alternating dances of fire and water, under the proviso that you don a hood, protect your eyes, and to quote the Town Council’s advice, “follow the devils’ instructions at all times”.

Scalding-Escaldarium

Caldes throws one hell of a summer party…

What seemed like the entire 17-thousand-strong population of Caldes crammed into the central plaza, excitedly awaiting the grand entrance of the dancing devils. Meanwhile, the Irish band on stage played a rousing set – original music that was part traditional Celtic knees-up and part Catalan folk melodies. The result was a triumph.

Ring of Fire by Quim Dasquens

Burn baby burn

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, the pyrotechnics kicked in, flames burst forth and incandescent devils whirled like burning dervishes. The crowd were ecstatic, leaping around in the midst of the action, as the rain of sparks shot in every direction and the music picked up intensity.

Correfoc by Quim Dasquens

With the first water dance, though, the mood subdued, and we raised our arms to be dowsed in the jets arcing out across the square.

waterworks by Quim Dasquens

In the heat of the Spanish summer, in the heart of Catalonia, experiencing the fusion of these two elemental forces was something truly unique, and all my expectations of a ‘typical’ Catalan correfoc were firmly extinguished.

After an hour of being singed and saturated, the Escaldarium dances came to an end, but not before fireworks had etched a flaming finale into the night sky. The crowd cheered, dripped slightly, and kept on partying, with live concerts taking place into the early hours.

For more photos of the fiesta, visit the Facebook page of local photographer Quim Dasquens, whose shots of the evening capture its spirit perfectly.

After the party – what to consume in Caldes de Montbui

Caldes has carved out a reputation for itself based on the quality of locally sourced ingredients and lovingly made products, and you’ll find plenty to choose from in the town’s shops and market stalls.

Carnivores will love Caldes, which is famous for its long spicy sausage (llonganissa), while pasta lovers should pick up a packet or two of fideus (short pasta noodles) made with local waters since the 1700s by generations of the Sanmartí family in their Caldes factory.

For a lunch or dinner that will put hairs on your chest, head to restaurant Robert de Nola, whose raison d’être is ‘quality Catalan cuisine’. This is the type of place where the chic, understated décor, courtesy of the waiters and personal attention of the chef immediately make you realise you’re in for a treat.

The menu is dominated by fresh, seasonal ingredients and complemented by an extensive choice of wines from their own cellar. Catalan classics like crema catalana and mató cheese with honey adorn the dessert list, but if it’s on offer, I recommend you opt for the typically Balearic pudding of flaó. This cheesecake-like sweet dates back to the Middle Ages, mixing mató cheese with herbs and mounted on a biscuit base.

Flao by Julie Sheridan

Medieval Spanish dessert of ‘flaó’, made with fresh mint

Takeaway gifts for the hungry hordes back home include the locally grown honey (mel), which is perfect paired with mató cheese, typically made from goats’ or ewes’ milk and served as a dessert.

And to wash it all down? If you’re one of those people who likes life on the edge, try the locally brewed beer (those thermal waters get everywhere, seriously), called Calderina, introduced by the townsfolk as the world’s first ‘thermal beer’ in 2012.

If quaffing thermal waters isn’t your thing, a safer bet are the locally produced liqueurs, either the aniseed-sweet Anis Taronja, which dates back to 1918, or absinthe-green coloured Flors del Remei. Boasting supposedly salutary properties, this orange and green combo of cordials are consumed en masse by health-conscious locals, typically alongside the sweet toasted bread (that’s the best translation I can come up with) of ‘carquinyolis’ (or ‘carquiñoles’ in Spanish).

Carquinyolis by onnoth

Caldes is famous for its ‘carquinyolis’ – made with almonds

It’s fair to say these sweet bites are held in high regard by the locals, who will proudly regale you with tales of the traditional technique. Bakers would leave the almonds on which the recipe is based to blanch under the red-hot waters of the Lion Fountain, rendering them easier to peel and absorbing the health-giving properties of the thermal spring waters. This technique is no longer in use, but the repute of Caldes’ authentic carquinyolis is still a source of local pride.

When to visit

Ideally the second Saturday of July, when the Escaldarium festival takes place, but if you can’t manage that, aim for the second weekend in October when the town celebrates its Festa Major. Expect devils, drums and a downright demonic spectacle.

And if you really can’t manage either of those, visit on a weekend that takes in the second Sunday of the month, when from 10am till 2pm a local market is erected in the town’s main square.

Where to stay

Back in medieval times, Caldes de Montbui was famous as the leading spa centre in Catalonia and the second-ranking in the whole Iberian Peninsula, in terms of both the number and quality of its specialist spa facilities. Even as recently as the 19th century, Caldes had eight separate spas. Nowadays, though, your spa accommodation choices are happily more straightforward.

I stayed at the Hotel Balneari Termes Victoria, a 3-star hotel right off the main square, with air-con, free Wi-Fi and most importantly, an inbuilt spa facility where ‘thermalism’ is guaranteed to rejuvenate even the most jaded Barcelona inhabitant.

The view from my double room was enough in itself to kick start my senses, but the best was yet to come.

View from Hotel Termes Victoria

View from my balcony at the Termes Victoria Hotel

The basement floor of the hotel is given over entirely to the relaxing, revitalising powers of Caldes’ thermal waters, which are tapped and channelled into inbuilt saunas, swimming pools and jacuzzis.

If you’re a guest in the hotel, you’re welcome to use the spa facilities whenever suits you throughout the day, but for a seriously spine-tingling experience, book on to one of the hotel’s ‘nocturnal circuits’. This night-time bathing tradition goes back to Roman times, and essentially means you will walk into a tealight-lit, incense-infused retreat, where your biggest quandary in life is whether to slip into the bubble bath or sweat off the stress in the sauna.

While you’re deciding, take your pick from the mineral water, herbal teas, fresh fruit sticks and Cava on ice laid out enticingly for you in the relaxation zone. Yip, in Caldes they know how to sauna.

Cava fruit at sauna

Catch a bus to Caldes

From Barcelona, you essentially have two options to reach Caldes de Montbui – car or bus. By car, head for the C-33 out of Barcelona and stay on this motorway till you get past Montcada, where you should look out for signs for the C-59. Once on the C-59, it’s a straight road to Caldes. By bus, it’s a skoosh – catch the Sagales bus from Passeig de Sant Joan no. 52 in Barcelona – the journey is a bargain four euros and takes around 50 minutes.

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A new view of Barcelona – from the Fabra Observatory

Mount Tibidabo is fast becoming my favourite place in Barcelona.

It’s a slow burner, granted. I’d lived here two full years before ever setting foot on a single funicular to ferry me up to its pine-clad slopes, up, up and away from the anything-but-bucolic Barcelona below.

And once you peak, chances are your head is turned by the exigencies of expiation. The screams from the funfair’s roller coaster (they must be atoning for something), or the beguilingly beautiful lanterns of the summit-smug Sagrat Cor church.

Sagrat Cor by Julie Sheridan

Admit it, you’re beguiled.

But all the while, right under your nose – and indeed, in most postcards of Tibidabo – is a century-old site that most Barcelonans themselves have never discovered.

The fabulous Fabra Observatory.

fabra observatory by scalleja

Perched among pine trees at over 400 metres above sea level, the Observatory was originally conceived of as a site devoted not just to the study of astronomy, but of meteorology and seismology.

In fact, dating from 1904, it’s one of the most ancient bases of astronomical, meteorological and seismological study in the world.

The first team of staff took up their posts in April 1906 (it had taken two years to recruit them – bear in mind, the guide points out, there was no InfoJobs back then). And they didn’t mess about. A good 29 years before the Richter Scale was even introduced, the Barcelona team’s instruments predicted major seismic activity on the other side of the world.

Sure enough, on 18 April 1906, the devastation of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake was unleashed.

Fabra Observatory Museum by Julie Sheridan

“The universe knew we were coming.”

The ascent

The universe might have known we were coming, but I’m betting it hadn’t bargained on us coming by public transport.

The Observatory’s website helpfully counsels “we recommend you come by car”. Sadly lacking in the car department, I somewhat trepidatiously eyed up the public transport options. This involved a metro ride from Tarragona to Plaça Catalunya (20 minutes), then a connecting train from Plaça Catalunya to Peu de Funicular (15 minutes – make sure you sit in a middle carriage or you’ll alight straight onto a brick wall), then the funicular train from Peu de Funicular right up to Vallvidrera Superior.

Exiting the station, in the middle of nowhere up a mountain, I consulted the bus timetable from Vallvidrera, only to find out I had a good 25-minute wait in store. In what was probably not the wisest decision of my life (iPhone in handbag), I decided sod it, what’s a dark mountain top between friends on a Saturday night, and hiked it up the hill on foot till I reached the Observatory, pausing now and again to gasp in awe at the Sagrat Cor church lit up, up close. (The church is honestly spectacular, and well worth the trip.)

Suddenly I see

Reaching the Observatory, at last, it turned out I was 45 minutes early. Ushering me through the gates, the guide was magnanimous in the face of my quaintly British tendencies.

“Why don’t you wait at the look-out point?”, he suggested, as I nodded and obligingly circumnavigated the building in the dark.

Alone, early, feeling irksomely non-Spanish, I found myself stumbling towards a long bench of decking, flanked by trees, and then gasping at the sudden view of the whole Barcelona conurbation corruscating at my feet.

Barcelona view by mazlov
The photos, of course, don’t do it justice.

To the left stood the Torre Agbar, in all its contentious conflagrations. In the middle the W Hotel, punctuating the horizon, definitively marking the end of the beach. A little inland, the reasurringly blue rays beamed over MNAC, the Magic Fountain dancing and prancing in symmetrical synchronicity, commanding attention, the prettiest belle of the ville.

I thought of James Joyce and his epiphanies.

Welcome to our World

Half an hour later, I found myself, not for the first time in the last two and a half years, the only non-Catalan-speaking person in the room. The guide seemed a kind, friendly little man, who clearly knew his stuff. He quickly clocked the look of dismay/incomprehension/boredom on my face as he launched into his welcome speech to the audience, which I was surprised to see on a Saturday night were mostly made up of parents and young kids.

“I’m just going to switch into Spanish”, he smiled at everyone, much to my gratitude.

lecture at Fabra Observatory by Julie Sheridan

Owned by the Royal Academy of Sciences and Arts of Barcelona, the southward-facing Observatory has an illustrious history. It’s the fourth-oldest observatory in the world that’s still going strong, and the building itself is the brainchild of reluctantly Modernista architect Josep Domenech i Estapà (the same designer behind the likes of CosmoCaixa and the city’s Law Courts).

The Observatory’s scientists began keeping records in 1914, and our guide takes pains to point out that not one day of data over the last 99 years – on the local weather, regional seismic activity and celestial shenanigans – has gone unrecorded. (He also mentions that this October has been the warmest since records began, confirming my deeply-held Scottish suspicions.)

Poignantly, this uninterrupted track record comes despite the devastation of the city during the Spanish Civil War. The Observatory then became a makeshift refugee camp for some members of the Royal Academy of Sciences and Arts, and the systematic bombing of Barcelona from its viewing deck must have been a terrible sight to behold.

The dame in the dome – the Fabra Telescope

Holding court in the Observatory’s cupula, the telescope itself is a grand old dame. One of the largest and oldest telescopes in Europe, it loomed large in front of us as we climbed the narrow access ladder, momentarily silencing the overweening Spanish children.

Each person got to take their turn, for about 20 seconds, to eye up the in-focus planets. On clear nights, our guide explains, they zoom in on the moon, but on overcast evenings the planets provide a more satisfying voyeuristic experience.

telescope Fabra Observatory by Julie Sheridan

Did the earth move for you?

I have to admit, what I saw through the lens wasn’t earth-shattering.

It could best be described as a nebulous white blob.

Later on, the young Spanish mother who I’d met in the museum and who had very kindly offered me a lift back down the mountain confessed to a similar sense of bemusement.

“What did you see?” she quizzed me as her husband took the Tibidabo bends expertly. “A white blob?” I ventured, and the three of us laughed in relief.

telescope Fabra Observatory by Julie Sheridan

Similarly starstruck?

The Observatory is open to the public on Sundays from 11am to 12.30pm, and you’re fine to just show up without booking ahead (note that it’s closed all throughout August, though).

For night-time visits (and let’s face it, that’s what it comes into its own), you’ll pay a bargain 10€ entry fee for a welcome speech (in Spanish), followed by on-eyeball planet action through the telescope, and a stroll around the panoramic outdoor walkway.

Feel Museum at Observatorio Fabra by Julie Sheridanlike splashing out? Or just hungry? From June till September each year the Observatory offers ‘Sopars amb estrelles’ (‘dinner under the stars’), where you get to dine in what must be one of the most privileged places in Barcelona. It’s not cheap (and I can’t vouch for the food), but having seen the look-out point/terrace where the supper takes place, I bet you’re in for a treat. Book ahead.

Whenever you go, bear in mind that Tibidabo tends to get a little on the frigid side (relatively speaking – I’m from Glasgow), and you’d be as well to bring a cardigan or light jacket for when that wind really starts to nip.


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