¡Holy Toledo!

I'm still not sure what to make of Toledo.... After finally getting there...

We headed to the greenery of the Atocha Renfe station to get our tickets for the 30 minute train ride, having only seen one small oblique reference to 'get your tickets online before you go to Spain', but nothing anywhere as to why this was the case, and not backed up by apps or guidebooks. Ah the naivety. Tickets for Toledo, you see, can't be bought from the many and numerous automated ticket machines in the station, but rather from a real-person ticket desk, for which you have to take a number and wait for 50 other people to be seen before you. It has to be said, the system worked in the end, it was just that it was about an hour after arriving at the station before I had tickets in my hand, and another hour (and a bit) before we were sat on the next available train.

Passing through the arid Spanish landscape was an exercise in the dryness and the need for good irrigation, and Toledo sat perched above it all, as we encircled, having paid for a guided bus tour from the station, instead of the 30 minute, all very-uphill, slog in the early afternoon heat of 30 degrees... We actually took the ticket for the wee guided walk tour off the bus as well (same price as bus only) but on arrival, trying to listen to Miguel, the guide explain the four options for returning to the railway station in both Spanish and English, taking 10 minutes or so to do so, and seeing the streets we were being lead to the Cathedral utterly laden with people, we detached from the group, and made for quieter side alleys that quite frankly gave you more of a feel for the place. And it's lovely. So much nicer than the crowds let it be. But we managed to play the labyrinth game to the Cathedral ourselves, stopping only for ice cream, taking in the utter extravagance, the opulence, and the piety, before making for the virtually deserted Alcazar - now used as a war museum, though only those wars that pt the Spanish in a good light, so the Armada defeat is completely ignored, while they focus on winning back Mallorca from the British, and the civil war gets a tiny little corner that barely registers it as the immense event touching lives in the entire country, and still providing a sense of tension to this day. Oh, and don't have lunch in the cafeteria there, it's abysmal.

We left the flags and made downhill to the station to head back to Madrid (a poor wee dog in a basket whining the whole way from the luggage racks); and then time for Tapas. El Mollete may be a tiny place, and the food may be utterly simple, but the people were lovely, and the food was certainly tasty in its simplicity. And it was also beside what had become our favourite evening hang-out, the Plaza de Oriente, which we made for having had our fill, to sit in the midnight warmth having a drink, watching the promenaders going about their business in amongst the young BMXrs, with not a single raised word (well, save for a group of young girls clearly looking to impress the BMXrs); nor drunk rabble-rousing.