NAVARRA could not be more different from Andalucia.
Down in the south they provide an archetype of Spain, propagated as something of a national myth since the 19th century and a lure to foreign holiday makers and their money. In reality, Andalucia was once an endless warzone, out of which the survivors built unions of Castilian formality merged with Moorish art and flamenco.
In contrast, Navarra was once a great kingdom, spanning both sides of the Pyrenees, and later absorbed by the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabella, in their 15th century reconquest and unification of Spain. The French side came to be abandoned as indefensible by their grandson, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in the 16th, but the his- tory and influence remain. It is beautiful, verdant countryside, which I have walked through many times on the Ruta De Santiago, or Way of St James.
As you cross the border through the stunning Roncesvaux Pass nothing changes except the name to Roncesvalles.
Many locals actually call it ‘Orreaga’, as Basque was the original language here and has had a strong resurgence since the 1970s, even if the politicians who encourage the region’s separation – and once used armed struggle to do so – now take a hammering at the ballot box.
Speaking of armed struggle, mine is struggling to work after running the bulls in Pamplona, the capital of Navarra. Judging by the comments section on previous columns, many readers will…
Click to enlarge
…be delighted that I took a hammering.
On day two, I tripped on a fallen runner while matching my feet to the hooves of the bulls of Cebado Gago, from Cadiz, a breed which strikes fear into the hearts of all experienced bull-runners.
While a half dozen other runners landed on my back, putting a hairline fracture in a rib and destroying my knee, the bull did something far more interesting when it landed on my arm.
It doesn’t look quite so bad today, but it doesn’t look normal either.
I would have been far better off joining the Olive Press editor in the nearby cool leafy hills, sampling the food at Asador Etxeberri (see review on page 34) often said to be Spain’s best restaurant.
Sadly, I was not invited, and I would have been interested, as I recently listed a restaurant more local to the Olive Press as the best in this country in the Daily Telegraph: Azulete in Gaucin, which is under new management.
I hoped to be there this week to lick my wounds, but instead I’m watching my better half, Klarina Pichler, enter her own preferred zone of animal-based risk.
As I write I am watching her run rings around other players, both male and female, on the polo pitch of Puente de Hierro, ‘Iron Bridge’, in Sotogrande. Polo is one of the few sports where men and women can play together at a high level, and Klarina is among the top dozen female players in the world.
Her team Las Sacras Romanas – ‘The Holy Romans’, a nod to both her Austrian heritage and Spanish residency – made it to the semi-finals of the British Ladies Open at Cowdray Park, the Wimbledon of polo, last year.
This year, though, we are in Sotogrande, looking after her breeding herd – her stallion, El Star, is first cousin of Frankel, the highest rated racehorse of all time – and she trains and sells them from Iridike Polo Club in Jimena de la Frontera. For now, between typing and sipping cava on the impeccable lawns of Sotogrande, I keep my fingers crossed she doesn’t end up under half a dozen horses in a sport at least as dangerous as the taurine craziness they call sport up in Navarra.
Somehow, my injury is a tiny bit more deserving, I hear you say.
For the original article, available to subscribers only, please click here. You can read more about Klarina and Polo in the Daily Telegraph article reprinted in the post following (or click here.)
Alexander's Journal 
The Olive Press
July 26th-August 8th – Vol. 17 Issue 424
At Home With Xander:
Armed Struggle
NAVARRA could not be more different from Andalucia.
Down in the south they provide an archetype of Spain, propagated as something of a national myth since the 19th century and a lure to foreign holiday makers and their money. In reality, Andalucia was once an endless warzone, out of which the survivors built unions of Castilian formality merged with Moorish art and flamenco.
In contrast, Navarra was once a great kingdom, spanning both sides of the Pyrenees, and later absorbed by the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabella, in their 15th century reconquest and unification of Spain. The French side came to be abandoned as indefensible by their grandson, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in the 16th, but the his- tory and influence remain. It is beautiful, verdant countryside, which I have walked through many times on the Ruta De Santiago, or Way of St James.
As you cross the border through the stunning Roncesvaux Pass nothing changes except the name to Roncesvalles.
Many locals actually call it ‘Orreaga’, as Basque was the original language here and has had a strong resurgence since the 1970s, even if the politicians who encourage the region’s separation – and once used armed struggle to do so – now take a hammering at the ballot box.
Speaking of armed struggle, mine is struggling to work after running the bulls in Pamplona, the capital of Navarra. Judging by the comments section on previous columns, many readers will…
Click to enlarge
…be delighted that I took a hammering.
On day two, I tripped on a fallen runner while matching my feet to the hooves of the bulls of Cebado Gago, from Cadiz, a breed which strikes fear into the hearts of all experienced bull-runners.
While a half dozen other runners landed on my back, putting a hairline fracture in a rib and destroying my knee, the bull did something far more interesting when it landed on my arm.
It doesn’t look quite so bad today, but it doesn’t look normal either.
I would have been far better off joining the Olive Press editor in the nearby cool leafy hills, sampling the food at Asador Etxeberri (see review on page 34) often said to be Spain’s best restaurant.
Sadly, I was not invited, and I would have been interested, as I recently listed a restaurant more local to the Olive Press as the best in this country in the Daily Telegraph: Azulete in Gaucin, which is under new management.
I hoped to be there this week to lick my wounds, but instead I’m watching my better half, Klarina Pichler, enter her own preferred zone of animal-based risk.
As I write I am watching her run rings around other players, both male and female, on the polo pitch of Puente de Hierro, ‘Iron Bridge’, in Sotogrande. Polo is one of the few sports where men and women can play together at a high level, and Klarina is among the top dozen female players in the world.
Her team Las Sacras Romanas – ‘The Holy Romans’, a nod to both her Austrian heritage and Spanish residency – made it to the semi-finals of the British Ladies Open at Cowdray Park, the Wimbledon of polo, last year.
This year, though, we are in Sotogrande, looking after her breeding herd – her stallion, El Star, is first cousin of Frankel, the highest rated racehorse of all time – and she trains and sells them from Iridike Polo Club in Jimena de la Frontera. For now, between typing and sipping cava on the impeccable lawns of Sotogrande, I keep my fingers crossed she doesn’t end up under half a dozen horses in a sport at least as dangerous as the taurine craziness they call sport up in Navarra.
Somehow, my injury is a tiny bit more deserving, I hear you say.
For the original article, available to subscribers only, please click here. You can read more about Klarina and Polo in the Daily Telegraph article reprinted in the post following (or click here.)