You can't beat a bit of Bulli (4 days in Western Andalucia)

By Spanish Bill

Thursday

The plane was late due to the pea-soup fog covering Gatwick Airport but the man holding up the placard saying “Mr. Spanish Bill” was still there as scheduled when we finally got to Seville.

“It’s always foggy in London. I’ve seen it in all them Sherlock Holmes movies,” our chauffeur cheerfully remarked.

“Yes mate. That’s right. Anyway who’s playing at home this weekend: Betis or Sevilla? What about Cadiz?”

There was plenty of the requisite ‘wow’ factor when we got to the hotel -- a beautiful converted hacienda a short drive from town. Moorish shabby chic with fountains everywhere, four-poster beds piled with ornate cushions in lush gardens, a gorgeous palm-fringed pool – and a two-Michelin Star restaurant to boot.

The fat jogger was set for a major hedonistic relapse and the missus was very,very happy about it. Mission Accomplished I thought.

And yes, I was counting on some payback.

After luxuriating for most of the day we checked out the main attraction -- the sister establishment of what was supposedly the best restaurant in the world 2004 and still is the second-best, according to Restaurant Magazine.

This was the El Bulli Hotel after all, connected to the famously avant-garde El Bulli restaurant several hundred miles away in northern Catalonia, near the French border.

I had already booked a set package so we just let the waiters do what they had to do, and the courses and titbits just kept on coming – so many I can barely remember half of them: caramelised quails' eggs, parmesan ice cream, garlic sorbet, olive oil soup, rabbit back with mango, seared red mullet with something, scallops with something else, stringy radish and watercress canapés, beetroot shavings, pineapple kebab with coconut foam, and on and on it went.

As you can imagine it was a bit hit and miss, just like the paintings of Salvador Dali, with whom Catalan chef Adrian Ferran has often been compared.

The white chocolate and truffle lollipop was definitely a miss and tasted of milk left out in the August sun over the weekend.

But overall it was an enlightening experience. This was cooking taken to a whole new level.

Take the El Bulli paella: a packet of dehydrated saffron-flavoured rice that you mixed in a specially prepared shot of stock and ate together with a skewer holding a caramelised shelled-prawn head, a raw prawn and a pipette of prawn juice.

Much like knocking back tequila with a slurp of lemon and a dab of salt, there was an ordered ritual to follow in order to recreate the fusion of flavours that one would expect from an A1 seafood paella. Aside from the pipette, it was truly amazing.

By midnight we were truly stuffed. No more please.   

Still, glancing across the table it was looking good for the payback. The excellent Mentrida and Somontano were having the required liberating effect.

“Nightcap darling?”

Friday

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which was a relief. Mrs. Spanish Bill can get a bit stroppy if the sun doesn’t play ball on holiday. And it’s no use me telling her that I am a mere mortal with no power whatsoever over the weather.

In her mind, the day’s already mapped out: a good book, a strategically placed sun lounger with maximum exposure, two bottles of sun cream, the odd sneaky look at a firm 20-something lifeguard, a dip in the pool every hour or so to cool down, and an occasional icy beverage. Anything less is unacceptable.

The customer is always right.

But before we laid ourselves at the mercy of the god of skin cancer, we were treated to what is easily the best breakfast either of us have ever had.

In culinary terms, the El Bulli breakfast is the equivalent of swimming with dolphins; it is a magical thing you should try to do before you die.

Three different smoothies each – lychee and coconut, grapefruit and raspberry, mano and passion fruit. Crustless toast served with an assortment of spreadables such as butterscotch, vanilla butter, mango marmalade, dill and chive soft cheese – all freshly made. A slab of superb local goats cheese. A few mini pastries to go with the smooth and aromatic coffee that was constantly topped up. Free papers. Strawberry salad. Some banana thingy.

And then something from the savoury menu to wrap things up. I went for the salt cod pisto one day and the Cantabrian anchovies the next. She had scrambled eggs with Iberian jamon.

Saturday

Betis-Barcelona? I couldn’t resist it.

Mrs. Spanish Bill bought the idea, eventually, as a fitting 5-star cultural detour.

She likes her football. I once caught her watching lower division Scottish football while ironing.

“The pace of it is in tune with what I’m doing,” she offered by way of explanation.

But deep down we both knew we were ceding the big man a wee treat.

I loved it. I’m less sure she did. But she seemed content enough.

It wasn’t a classic game and yet it had everything: a saved penalty, a farcical red card, and five goals. At 1-1 it was even fleetingly competitive.

But 10-man Betis could only hold out for so long against the champions in crimson and blue, who eventually won 4-1.

Even without Ronaldinhno and Deco, Barcelona were simply too much for the Sevillanos in green and white.

What stood out, though, was the spiky crowd. With the K.O. not until 10 p.m. – that’s Spain for you – the fans were in high spirits.

Betis has a reputation as a club with an ardent and raucous underclass-come-working class following.

Imagine West Ham or Liverpool in a hot climate immersed in the gypsy culture of flamenco -- that’s Betis.

Throw in a bit of quaint organisational chaos and some bone-idle official tolerance of mildly anti-social behaviour, and you begin to get the picture.

The Betis crowd certainly had reason to be vexed when their lone striker was sent off for what can legitimately be described as sarcasm (i.e. clapping the referee after he was given a yellow card for moaning about an earlier decision he failed to get. Unlike with Rooney a week earlier, there wasn’t even hint of aggression in the act).

But their remonstrations also looked habitual and there were no gasps of surprise from the more expensive seats when loads of stuff was thrown on to the pitch and elsewhere.

The handful of Catalans high up in the stands got a soaking.

I couldn’t tell if it was just water being hurled at them in plastic bottles. But that was as violent as it got.

What really took the biscuit though was the Sevillian scally who ran onto one end of the pitch while the game was being played at the other.

He caught the Barcelona keeper napping by sneaking into his net and stealing whatever it was he had inside (at a distance it looked like a towel, but it could have been a lucky blanket or even a bag of spare gloves). And like a rat up a drainpipe, he scurried back into the crowd and up and out of the stadium.

It was over in seconds.

Victor Valdes, Barça’s keeper, was stunned -- so were we – and his attempts to explain what had just happened fell on deaf ears, adding to the comedic spectacle.

His team mates were bemused, the opposition had problems of their own and couldn’t have cared less, while the referee was unimpressed and gave Valdes a yellow card for time wasting.

You couldn’t have written a better script. Pure anarchy.

.

Sunday

It was the small hours of the next day by the time we got back to our second hotel.

We’d left Seville behind and switched to one of the least well-known provinces of southern Spain – Huelva, which borders Portugal.

And to get to our destination – the Parador Hotel at Mazagon – it was first necessary to drive through a spectacular complex of refineries and plants.

The photo above is from a similar complex in the States and helps to give an idea if what it is like; imagine that view stretching as far as the eye can see on either side of the road.

It wasn’t just oil, gas and petrochemicals either. For this is, or was, zinc and iron mining country. It is where the British company Rio Tinto got its name and, in turn, founded Spain’s oldest football club – Recreativo de Huelva.

With all those pollutants in the air it certainly made for a fantastic sunset.

It is hard to imagine that some of the best cured ham in the world, Jabugo, comes from Iberian pigs nibbling on acorns some 50 miles away to the north.

But our hotel, which was barely 20 miles away, might as well have been in a different country. For come the morning it was just as I remembered Spain as a young child: vast and pristine beaches and not a high rise in sight.

I can’t recommend this place enough. It was also a lot cheaper than El Bulli, which is easily the most expensive hotel I have ever paid for (Memo to self; try and make some money).

“Thanks Spanish,” said the missus, giving me a tender peck as we gazed at the gleaming Atlantic and played footsie with the sand.

“My pleasure,” I said, glancing up to the heavens to thank Mr. Blue Sky for his input.

That night we went back to Spanish basics at a local coastal restaurant – a plate of bellota jamon, some clams, some fried fish, a salad, and a bottle of local white.

It was good to be back -- back where we belonged.