September 10th
Time for another day trip, so we jumped on the AVE high-speed train for a thirty-minute trip up to Segovia.

Now I’d heard that the AVE station was some way out of town and that most people took the connecting bus. Me, however, being stubborn and and an idiot, wondered if walking might not be an option, seeing as how buses in foreign parts are so difficult to use: how do you pay? Do you get in at the front and exit at the back? How will you know when you’ve got to a place you’ve never seen before?
The moment we exited the train station it became immediately obvious that the walking strategy was a non-starter : outside there lay absolutely nothing except scorched pale golden treeless ground for as far as they eye could see. No houses, no paths, nowt, and no indication of the direction in which the town lay.
After a brief vision of some vultures pecking at a small pile of bones in the middle of a desert, we got on the bus with all the other tourists and alighted half an hour later at the edge of Segovia, in front of the amazing sight of the enormous aquaduct that dominates the landscape.

This thing is really jaw-dropping in scale, antiquity and magnificence, even for a seasoned world adventurer like myself. I mean, this giant structure is two thousand years old and was constructed by the Romans without cement or clamps, and was still bringing water into the town a hundred years ago. Amazing to think of the skills that those Romans possessed while the rest of us Europeans were up to our knees in shit in our mud huts. These guys clearly understood mathematics, geometry, gravity and the curvature of the Earth. They had nice uniforms, too.

After viewing this epic structure from every possible angle and taking way too many pictures, we ascend into the city proper and make our way to the main square, passing numerous gorgeous architectural gems making the town a living museum.
Suddenly, however, I notice a strange gentleman following us. See, sometimes being a paranoid jittery bag of nerves has its advantages.
All visitors to the great sights of Europa should be aware of the existence of smelly people intent on relieving them of their valuables, which reminds me of a recent post on Tripadvisor.com where some cretin gave a Madrid hotel a terrible rating simply because outside he’d had his bulging wallet removed from his back pocket by a thief. Doh!

Here’s what you do to prevent yourself falling victim to the pickpockets (and yes, fat middle-aged Americans, I’m talking to you!). Put your passport, tickets, cash and credit cards in your hotel safe. If your room doesn’t have one, either lock these items in your suitcase or put them in a money belt to be worn under your shirt, tucked into your trousers.
Then each day, work out how much cash you’re likely to need and put that in a loose roll in your front pocket. Dress down (easy for me!), don’t flaunt your Rolex, stuff your flashy camera in a bag which doesn’t look like a camera bag, and without being paranoid, be aware of people around you.

The thieves work in teams. A spotter selects a good target, then the gang moves in and one member will attempt to distract you while the others remove your gear without you realising. I know this because I’ve seen it in action several times.
Anyway, there we were on the narrow streets of Segovia and my weirdo/criminal radar is telling me of an approaching nutter. This guy is smiling strangely and seems to be tailing us. We speed up, do a bit of weaving, but he’s still there. Luckilly the main square hoves into view, and there stands a very cool-looking Spanish policeman. Baseball cap, shades, goatee, and a uniform that looks like sportswear – oh, and a fucking great automatic pistol, too.

So we stop and have a casual chat near this suave upholder of the law, and turn to face our stalker, whose strange smile momentarily leaves his countenance upon spotting the cop, and he slinks off to the nearby tourist information office, lurking behind other less-wary visitors, no doubt.
I contemplate informing the officer of this weirdo, but decide that it is not the thing for an anarchist like me to do. Besides, our friend in blue is busy chatting up some strumpet.

Segovia cathedral, enormous edifice of sandy-coloured stone looms in front of us, and wonderful though it is, we decide that after our experiences in Toledo, it is perhaps better to enjoy it from the outside rather than enter and be fleeced by the Papists and suppressed by pedantic and constricting regulations.
So off we head to the opposite side of the citadel, heading for the splendid Alcazar, a fairytale castle built like the prow of a ship jutting out into space.

The Moors first built fortifications here in the twelfth century, but many of the fancy turrets were added considerably later. It pains me to say it, but word is that Walt Disney used it as a template, but don’t let that put you off, for it is an amazing place.

Inside, as well as a comprehensive collection of medieval armour and weapons, there is a museum of artillery and another concerning early astronomy. The castle itself still has strong ties with the military, as evidenced by the large group of uniformed cadets gathered outside who contained among their number a number of young ladies. I was unable to restrain myself from bursting into a mantra-like chant of “girls with guns, girls with guns” before being forced to desist by my embarrassed companion.

The upper levels of the Alcazar are full of chapels, royal apartments and lofty battlements, but the piece de resistance ( or it’s Spanish equivalent) is the central tower. After ascending a knackering and frankly dangerous stone staircase to the top, the views were stunning indeed, and a fine chance to get both the polarisation filter an the zoom lens working.

While all this camera nerding was taking place upstairs, my companion, who eschews all forms of physical exercise, inexplicably chose to hide at the bottom under the stairwell, where I later found her curled up asleep on the cold floor like a cat.
Choosing a restaurant was again a difficult and trying experience. Guide books are no use, since they tend to concentrate on the renowned and hence the expensive. It remains then to spot somewhere that has enough clients that you know it serves half decent grub, but in Spain it was inordinately problematic to do this since we could not figure out the correct time to eat. Rumour has it that the locals eat a late lunch, say between 2pm and 4pm, but in Segovia everywhere looked deserted.

In the end the place we chose, while reasonable, was too full of underemployed flunkies to be comfortable, and the palpable difference in service between us, the set menu cheapskates, and the Spanish family nearby gorging themselves like Kings, made the whole experience somewhat less than satisfactory. The food was shite, ‘n’ all!
However, this in no way dampened our spirits on what was a superb day out to a truley remarkable location, and once again, as we hurtled back to Madrid on the AVE, we could not but rue the shortness of the visit and the vast number of splendours left unseen…
