Ticket To Ride

I couldn’t face another marathon bus journey. I just couldn’t. Even after spending a self-propelled day on the ground in Seville, ambling leisurely and aimlessly from cafe to cafe, the thought of another day on the road didn’t appeal to me in the slightest; which was a shame because by all accounts Ronda—a mountain town bridging a gorge in the neighbouring province of Malaga—wasn’t to be missed.

I was nearing the end of my time in Seville and already facing up to the prospect of a FlixBus back to Faro and a Ryanair plane back to Edinburgh, but having only previously visited Barcelona and Gran Canaria in my teenage years I still wanted to see a bit more of Spain while I was here. Of the three satellite destinations I’d considered this left two—Córdoba and Cádiz—both of which where thankfully accessible by train. The same train, in fact, though sadly not in the same direction.

I cannot tell you what a difference this makes. After years spent travelling in Germany and Switzerland I’d become accustomed to the relative ease and simplicity of train travel. Even the rickety Italian line between Milan and Locarno had its charms. While this would still mean travelling an hour north or ninety minutes south respectively, it would be a more direct and scenic route—free from the traffic and other trappings of motorways that blight the landscape and dominate the view. It might even be pleasurable.

It occurred to me, though, that despite being in town for several days and covering a fair amount of ground I hadn’t seen any trace of a train station. I knew there was one somewhere but I hadn’t so much as spotted a set of tracks—save for those carrying trams between Plaza Nueva and San Bernardo. I decided to investigate the evening before, starting at Plaza De España and walking for what felt like hours to Santa Justa railway station. It wasn’t the most efficient or attractive route but at least I now knew how not to get there the following morning.

I knew next to nothing about Cádiz, save for the fact it featured in the Europe edition of Ticket To Ride, a board game I’d discovered prior to the pandemic and an app that’d helped me through the resulting lockdowns. I’d already visited numerous cities on the map (well, 13 of 48 and counting) and was keen to add another. This isn’t the reason it won out over Córdoba, incidentally. As beautiful as the Instagram-ready mosque-turned-cathedral looked, the forecasted temperatures tempted me back to the coast.

I arrived feeling fresh and enthused, and with a fully charged phone for the first time since I’d left Edinburgh—thanks, Renfe! I accidentally crashed Mass at Iglesia Conventual de Santo Domingo but stuck around for a while and watched the various rites and prayers with quiet confusion. I like visiting churches but rarely see them in action; and even when I do witness a service it’s never quite as impenetrably alien as this. Pardoned, I presumed, I climbed the tower over at Cádiz Cathedral and looked out over the ocean. Then, tired of crowds and congregations, I walked along the esplanade and causeway to Castillo de San Sebastián.

I love wildlife but would be the first to admit that crustaceans are something I often overlook—save for one surprise encounter in a cafe toilet in Broughty Ferry. This wasn’t so easy to do in Cádiz as, after discovering the fortress to be closed, I sat on the rocks below and watched locals and holidaymakers alike dip in and out of the exposed rockpools. In the one nearest to me was a small crab, and as soon as I spotted it I began to pick out others in the cracks and crevices all around—some much larger and more colourful. I sat until I’d drained my can of Coke and soaked up as much sun as my Scottish skin could handle, then I doubled back to have a look inside the cathedral proper just as the wind dropped and a plague of flies descended.

Given how bright and impressive Cádiz Cathedral was from the outside I was a little underwhelmed by how dark and plain it was within. Unsightly netting was strung across the ceiling to protect the upper reaches from pigeons—I presumed—but with the unfortunate side effect of hiding much of it from view. That said, dark and plain are much more desirable attributes in a crypt, and I would’ve happily paid the entrance fee just to explore this one. Shadows crept, footsteps echoed and portraits stared. It was easy to imagine secret passageways, occult meetings and sleeping vampires—at least until you read of the tomb’s actual inhabitants: poets, composers and playwrites. No wonder painted eyes seemed to wander.

My original plan had been to spend the entire day in Cádiz, but I’d heard that Sundays were something of a special event in Seville and decided to cut my outing short so I could people-watch at Plaza de España and perhaps catch the last of the flamenco. Even in Cádiz people were turned out in their Sunday best—the women in colourful frills and the men in tailored blazers. I bought a coffee, boarded the train, took one look at the exception I was supposed to sit beside and slipped into the empty row behind instead. This was definitely the way to go—at least until I was displaced by the seat’s rightful owner. Back on tracks and amen to that.