Underground - the Caves of France and Spain

Horses, Lascaux II, Montignac, France

I've wanted to visit the caves of central France and northern Spain since I was an undergraduate in Physical Anthropology. The human and animal populations of Northern Europe took refuge in the Aquitaine basin of France during the last Ice Ages; the Vézère valley of the Dordogne was a refuge for both Neanderthal man and Cro-Magnon man between 80,000 - 14,000 years ago. In Spain, the populations near the sea in Cantabria also moved to the caves to survive. Though they lived only in the entryways in man-made rock shelters (inside the caves, rock lamps fueled by animal fat with herb wicks provided minimal light), they moved into the interior caverns long enough to made fantastic, anatomically correct drawings of certain animals (chiefly bison and horses, but also deer, woolly rhinoceros, and other species that no longer exist or inhabit the area), and a few symbols: dots and hand prints made by blowing ground ochre pigment through a bone. 

Humans are seldom represented, and when they are, it’s with an animal head or features. Why early humans left these marks on the walls no one knows. I imagine a family finding their way into the still darkness, guided by the animal representations which usually faced into the depths of the cave, marking which passage to follow, and finding a wonderland of animals, a zoo of drawings on the wall lit by a succession of flickering lamps. What a wonder then! And today, too. What a privilege to be able to see the real thing in this lifetime, and to feel the presence of those who passed through these magical spaces so long ago.

Standing on the balcony of Gaudi's Casa Batllo, Barcelona

Not all was ancient art: During this trip, I enjoyed seeing the work of three contemporary artists I greatly admire: the whimsical architecture of Antonio Gaudi in Barcelona, Dali’s sometimes bizarre drawings and constructs in his home town of Figueres, and Richard Serra’s monumental steel structures in the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.

And I have to get some jamon, and soon!

This trip started on October 12 - to see the whole thing in order, click on "October" to the right.

The Strange Incident of the Beaten Man

The ghost of Antonio Gaudi says "Hi there!"

Thieves are always on the look-out for opportunity, and an older woman alone is less likely to chase or hit when victimized. While sitting, eating my burger with bacon and corn chips in the Barcelona Airport before catching a shuttle to my hotel, a strange young man appeared directly in front of my face, across the table from me. "Do you speak English," he said, with an obvious accent.  What was also obvious was that he had the living crap beaten out of him, the left side of his face an enormous swollen bruise complete with open gash.

"Yes," I said.

"Do I have to speak slowly, or can you understand me"

"I understand. You want money. No."

"Why do you say that?"

"Go away"

"No, please, why do you say that"

"Because I get hit up all the time" I started to stand up. "Do I have to call someone?" I said, looking for airport security. He took off like a shot.

I looked down and my formerly zipped cross-body bag, which is held very close to me on my left hip, was wide open. Nothing was taken, but damn, they are good at what they do, and he obviously had an accomplice who was behind me. I saw him approaching another older woman who was alone a few minutes later, but she said she didn't understand him. Creating a distraction is a primary method, and you really couldn't look away from this guy's face.

Dali's "Living Room"

The life-size "easy chair" in Dali's "Living Room"

Wanting to spend the night close to the airport, I chose Frontair Congress Aeropuerto (Alberedes, 16, Sant Boi del Llobregat), which had an excellent shuttle service to and from the airport, plus a shuttle into town during the day (this must be reserved--I didn't use it, but it's the only option to get downtown if you don't have a car). The hotel was was very sleek and modern--worth three or more stars--with a spa and pool (at extra expense). There was a popular restaurant/bar on the first floor. This was a surprisingly nice stay overnight close to the airport, though the strange location--in a shopping/industrial area far from Barcelona city—made walking around not possible. The hallways really carried noise, so people leaving or coming in the middle of the night were quite loud; generally though, it was very quiet. In the morning, I took the shuttle to the airport—far too early, I found, because the Barcelona airport is incredibly efficient with each of the three gauntlets travelers must run (passport check, security check, checking in/passport check again). 

Twisted trees outside a small market, Barcelona

There’s a fancy shopping area on the middle floor that can be entertaining. At last my flight was called—another hellish middle seat for nine hours, a three hour wait in Newark (I used my last free pass to the United lounge, and took advantage of their plush seats and minor munchies), then the last 5+ hour flight home between a linebacker and a sleeping teen. I completely understand why a strange look settles in the eyes of someone who has made a habit of flying standby—no direct flights, the worst seats, possible long waits for a seat at all, and way too much time spent in airports. But without the gift of stand-by this year, I never would have made it to all the fabulous destinations I’ve always dreamed about—and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Part of the facade of the Sagrada Familia

Killing Time in Santander; What’s with the Caves and Lighthouses?

Santander Bay with assorted flying saucers disguised as clouds

Santander is a pretty old city on its own, though there’s nothing sadder than a beach town off season. A ferry from Portsmouth, England stops here, but this still-warm-and-humid autumn, only Spanish tourists were on the streets and pristine golden beaches, and not many of them.

I drove to the lighthouse and hiked around, taking in the views of the Atlantic and the town and the irregular shapes of the mountains behind it. The gentleman at El Laurel suggested a stop in the town’s park, with it’s former royal palace, beaches and little zoo; it was as well-maintained and pleasant as advertised. Sunday is not the best time to visit a Catholic country--everything is closed except for a few restaurants.

The former royal palace in Santander

I drove to the old fishing village, the original port of Santander; though the city is trying to turn this into a tourist destination, that goal is a long way off. I buzzed the tiny airport, knew I had at least an hour and a half before my flight, and decided to break my promise to myself of No More Reproductions.

Artist Henri Bueuil's drawing of an Alta Mira Horse, 1902

I drove out to Alta Mira Museum, the reproduction of the area’s most famous cave. It was as slick and Disney-ish as Lascaux II, though not quite as large or well organized. One striking thing about the Alta Mira ceiling: the bison herd. The large bumps in the ceiling, formed by the mud and limestone, had been transformed into a herd of nearly life-size sleeping bison, curled up in various positions, their standing brethren arranged around them. My favorite drawing was there, too—the Alta Mira rampant horse. I was glad I went.

I returned to Santander, and caught the flight on RyanAir to Barcelona. Long known for cheap flights in Europe, RyanAir gets you on the luggage—if you check a bag the day before the flight, it’s 22 Euros—at check-in, it’s 60 Euros ($32 - $87)—a lot of money for one suitcase. I understand their policies are changing to be more user friendly—I hope so.

Hanging out in Santander

La Fortunata at the Horn of Sorrow

A tiny casa in the mountains near the entrance to El Hornos de la Pena cave

I headed out to my first cave, El Hornos de la Pena (the horns of sorrow--I have no idea where the name comes from) for a noon appointment I booked online. It was quite far out on narrow country roads, but my GPS had recovered (perhaps it felt threatened by the purchase of the map), and got me there most of the way. On the tree-shrouded, partially paved road, cyclists in stylish gear rode by every few minutes--it's a huge sport here. I was an hour early, and passed some folks coming down the mountain. When I got to the small hut at the top, no one was there, and a sign on the building said tours at 10 and 2 only (oh oh—direct conflict with the website). I was worried. Then I met an American fellow coming up the trail, Mike, who said he was waiting for his wife who was inside the cave on a National Geographic tour--and that the entire day was booked for the NatGeo people. The cave only permitted four visitors at a time. Oh joy. Fortunately (la fortunata!), another NatGeo group was coming along for a tour at 12:30--one of them dropped out, and I was able to join, thanks to their wonderful local guide who negotiated my way into the tour. I wish I had gotten her name so I could thank her in print!

Genuine ancient cave dirt

This was a most interesting cave, very primitive in both structure and content--we often encountered low ceilings, and had to sidle through narrow passages a couple of times--the art consisted of rude carved outlines of animals. El Hornos was one of the most ancient sites I visited; the cave art was from two different periods, 18,000 to 13,000 years ago. Our guide, Danny, was a young man who obviously liked taking all the old farts around; he helped us contort around stalactites and move along half-bent under ancient limestone formations, columns and glittering towers of crystalline material.

El Castillo hand prints, courtesy of National Geographic

After we emerged, I drove down the hill and ate another half a bocadilla (tuna this time, with egg--i never really know what I'm ordering since the language barrier is only semi-permeable) at a cafe, then joined the tour of El Castillo, back in Puente Viesge. At more than 40,800 years old, El Castillo is currently Europe's oldest dated art by at least 4,000 years. If the new dates are correct, El Castillo art would be the oldest known well-dated cave paintings in the world—a title previously held by France's Chauvet cave paintings, which is closed to the public. The El Castillo tour was in Spanish, though I understood a surprising amount, thanks to the guide who would throw in an English word here and there. El Castillo is aptly named—the rock formations, carefully lit, are phantasmagorical—the guide pointed out the resemblance to Gaudi’s cathedral in the intricate limestone formations, and I agree. The cave is sealed, and entirely temperature and humidity controlled; the technology is working, and gives hope to the rumor that Alta Mira, and possibly Lascaux, may be open to the public again.This cave had the largest number of hand prints I’d seen: men, women and children’s hands, outlined in red blown ochre on one ceiling. I held my hand close to one of the ones on the wall; the fingers were short and the palm was much wider, but I felt an immediate connection to a person who lived and died at least 35,000 years before humans began to record history. What a sense of continuity; it left me feeling peaceful, as though the world--and possibly humanity itself--will endure in spite of us.  As I left the building, Danny showed up to deposit my three euros from my visit to El Hornos de la Pena, and I was able to tip him an extra two.

View of Santander and the green mountains of Basque Spain

The GPS guided me (with only a slight out-of-the-way deviation) to the Escuelas las Carolinas hotel in Santander, a school for the hotel professions. The girl at the desk was extra-sweet, printing out my flight confirmation for the next day and a receipt. The building was an old one, but the room was spacious and clean and faced the ocean; it was quite noisy, but that’s what earplugs are for. The girl at the desk also set up the included breakfast the next day—truly a Jane of all trades. This place was a good deal for 52 Euros ($75.40).

Really BIG Art in a Time Warp

Giant spider heads for nest in large bent tin can

I made for the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, an hour and a half west, parking in a lot near the museum: I don’t know what the surface of this underground lot was, but it made the most peculiar squealing sound under tires. I suspect people enjoyed this, because several drivers drove in circles round the lot, squealing madly.

The Guggenheim was impressive—the beautiful building, completed in 1997, revitalized the former industrial port of Bilbao and initiated a modern building revolution that’s a treat for the eyes. This museum holds extra-large artwork, including pieces from one of my favorite series, “The Matter of Time” by Richard Serra. The Serra works are monumental, as big as two-story houses, made of structural steel curving into ovals and other shapes, inviting the viewer to walk through and experience the changing light--i saw other pieces from this series in upstate New York and had the same amazed, spacey-visceral reaction. 

Light patterns inside one of Serra's works

The Guggenheim is all about monumental works, including a Jeff Koons 15-foot-tall “Puppy” covered in seasonal plants out front.

On to the village of Puente Viesge and El Castillo cave--the GPS went weird here, and I turned off Beauty, tired of her political persuasions (“Turn left ahead. Why left? Left is better! Ask the communists!”), and moved on to bland Susan. I was led down a series of dead-end roads--at one point, I had to back up 500 feet on a narrow roadway, only to come to a complete block--a one-ton granite block in fact--at the other end. There was a metal post standing upright on one side of the road, and faced with the prospect of backing up again for a quarter mile, I got out of the car, uprooted the post, laid it by the side of the road and pulled around the granite block. I didn't replace the post—take that, powers of darkness! I figured the block would discourage the less-disgusted just fine.

Flag mannikins pump their arm up and down
along the roads to warn of hazards

 Got back to the main road, and into the village of Vargas, once again resorting to the ask-a-human method.  I stopped at Bar Charles (named for the singer Charles Aznavour) at the crossroads of N634 and N623, and the very pretty bartender took me outside and indicated the direction I was to go in with her perfectly lacquered red nails. It was all so uncomplicated, I cursed the GPS and shut it off. Early for my tour time of the cave, I had a bocadilla at a nearby tavern.  This bocadilla, a baguette sandwich made with various fillings, was the size of a small raft; the filling consisted of a layer of potato pancake a half-inch thick covered with my beloved Serrano ham. I downed some of it, then rushed up the hill to park, and walked the remaining few hundred feet to the ticket office for my tour. It was then I found I was an hour late. I had been relying on the car clock, which was set in the previous time zone where I had picked it up. Modern machines failed me.

I returned to Vargas and tried to buy a map in several places with no luck. I followed the road back to Santander and finally found a gas station with a hideously expensive (priceless to me) Michelin map of Catalan, this part of Spain. Everything became clear, and I backtracked east to the hotel I had booked.

The Hostería El Laurel (Barrio Solegrario, 26, Hoz de Anero) is REALLY in the country, set amidst verdant farms. The area is beautiful and peaceful, and the clouds are fantastic. If you want to get away from it all, finish your novel, or spend some quiet time, this is the place. The "hotel" is really a home-stay, and an unmarked one at that. There is no address--I drove around for half an hour trying to locate "Barrio Solegrario" (this is not a street, but a small group of houses on unmarked roads, two meters west of Hoz de Anero, a crossroads), and another half hour quizzing locals as to the house (no number). Once you find it, it's easy--it's the big white driveway door, second house west past the road marked "vente marin". Finally, I reached the gate and was let in to be greeted by a large black dog, a nervous chihuahua, a pony and her foal, and the lady who  lived there. I was led into the office--the smell of mold was so strong I got dizzy--and hauled my suitcase up a flight of stairs. The room itself was modern and pleasant, with a private balcony that looked over the peaceful fields. There are no restaurants or any other services nearby--this place is only reachable by car. My biggest difficulty was the musty smell that permeated the entire house (this part of Spain is extremely humid—almost Hawaii-like tropical during the day and chilly at night). Though the guest rooms were completely modern and very clean, the rest of the house has spent decades in the damp climate of that part of Spain--not for folks with respiratory challenges. The isolation was also a problem--not ideal for the solo traveler. The owners couldn't have been more gracious, however.

I took my shower n the cold bathroom (during the day, the humidity was so high I sweat through everything--at night it was windy and cool) and went to bed early after finishing the remains of my bocadilla (glad I saved it!). A few hours later I awoke to the most god-awful smell of mold. It was everywhere: in the mattress, in the room; it had seeped up from the office below, and soaked into everything. I opened the door, and felt relieved enough to fall asleep until the door closed and the odor woke me up again. I was finding it hard to breathe. I knew I couldn't spend another night there--the smell was the worst, and I was so far from everything I wanted to see. The sheer beauty of the place-so green it hurt your eyes, shrouded in magnificent clouds--wasn't enough. I explained through my iPhone translator that I would be sick if I stayed the next night as I planned and payed them an extra five euros for their trouble. The husband kindly wanted to make sure I had complete directions into Santander and the hotel I had researched as a possible option that we sat in his office for 15 minutes while he drew me diagrams and printed maps out. It was really quite sweet.

Clouds near Hoz de Anero