Well the noise turned out to be a party from England.
I thought that they must be a group of teenagers, given the commotion and the running up and down corridors and the incessant laughter and chattering and banging on doors. However, come breakfast time, it turned out to be a party in their middle years. Perhaps, they don't get out much.
Thank the Lord, reception informed us that they were leaving that day. Judging by his reaction to my relief, there must have been other comments from guests as well. It's the sort of thing that gives the English abroad a bad name.
Anyhow, Roland and I set out and did some window shopping. Despite the lack of sleep, I felt a lot more collected this fine Monday morning. We pottered around. Roland told me that very few of his friends like mooching in this fashion. I loved it.
Barcelona, and particularly the Barri Gòtic, has retained many of its small specialist shops, tobacconists, knife makers, sewing shops, drapers, chandlers, bookbinders, all huddled together. We peered through century-old windows on stock to treasure.
I could have bought more than I did but, as ever, transport was an issue. I was content with some expensive Bulgari afershave, a copy of Verdi's first edition of Macbeth on CD and a book of cartoons from the Sex Shop across from the hotel.
And that's how the pattern of the next couple of days took us. Much pootling around shops, some very good food and two operas in the evenings. Oh and a bit of tourism in the Museu d'Història de la Ciutat (Barcelona's Museum of its own history).
This was a fabbity venture. In the foundations of the building, they have excavated part of the original Roman town with walls, inner road and outlying buildings. There are remains of dwellings, wine making facilities and fish processing factories. Really impressive were the vats in which the fish was macerated (no, I didn't know what this meant either and had to look it up - it means to soften by soaking in water).
When you think about it, with wine and fish as staples, Barcelona hasn't changed an awful lot in 2000 years.
I sampled the fish on the waterfront for Monday lunch with a local dish called esqueixada (pronounced es-kay-SHA-da) which is shredded raw cod in a salad of onions, olives, tomato and lettuce. I added monkfish stew for my main course and slept the rest of the afternoon away needing only a snack to eke out the rest of the day.
It was a similar story on the Tuesday. We lunched at Los Caracoles (it means
The Snails) which is renowned for its spit roasted chicken and suckling
pig. And yes those are smoked hams hanging from the ceiling. On the grounds
that I can get chicken at home - stop giggling at the back - I opted for the
suckling pig and was much impressed by taste and texture.
A further photo opportunity was provided by the sweet wherein I opted for
Crema Catalana which was produced before our very eyes. One again, I waddled back
to the hotel to sleep off such a massive midday repast.
So to the operas.
First things first. The genesis of this trip came about when Roland and I missed out on seeing Opera North when they visited Manchester back in September. Semi-seriously, he suggested that we go and see them in Barcelona instead.
The Liceu is a traditional horseshoe shaped opera house with many tiers. I was fine on the third tier on the Monday night but bottled out of the fourth tier on the Tuesday and moved into an empty seat much lower down. The house is comfortable with a warm acoustic which on the limited experience of two performances seems to favour male voices. I should like to return there with Ross sometime.
We saw Janacek's Cunning Little Vixen in a new production and Britten's Gloriana in a production which I had seen when it was new back in 1994 when it was a sensation. It was a part of a trilogy of productions, including Walton's Troilus and Cressida and Tippett's King Priam, which were ground-breaking.
The Vixen evening was a mixed bag. I liked but did not love the production.
There is a classic David Pountney prodction which has been shared by Welsh National
Opera, Scottish Opera and English National Opera for over 20 years. At its best,
that production is so life-enhancing as to be almost unbearable. This was good but
not great. It seemed to be too much in the older production's shadow. Maybe it's
time for a completely fresh look. I would suggest trying to emulate the cartoons
which were the work's source materials.
Of the singers, Christopher Purves gave us a beautifully sung Forester which was moving at all the right times. Mark Stone was a virile poacher in looks and timbre. His was the voice I liked best in the evening. And Nigel Robson was most touching as the schoolmaster. Between them, these three men underlined the work's themes of nature and man, cycles of death and rebirth, cycles of hope and love and loss. I'm afraid I didn't like Janis Kelly's Vixen nor Giselle Allen's fox. They both sounded very thin of tone.
The orchestra and chorus worked their socks off and Steven Sloane's conducting, which had come in for much initial criticism seemed to me to be in full control of all the forces and, though the ending may not have been as resplendent as I would have like, I left the theatre happier than I entered it with much of the music buzzing in my head.
Gloriana was more of a known quantity. Once I'd gotten over the
vertigo of being so close to the ceiling of the theatre, I settled down to enjoying
a stonking production. Josephine Barstow's Elizabeth is one of the rôles of
her career. These days, however, her voice is shredded and doesn't really command
as it used to. But she imposes herself upon the stage in a way that few performers
can manage.
But it's an amazing company achievement. I'd like to see it again with a different leading lady.
The trip wound down gracefully. We passed the Wednesday morning with some more mooching before we hit the homeward trail. We left the hotel at 11am British time and I walked through the front door of Kimberley Avenue just on 6pm. Seven hours door to door. I've had longer and more desperate journeys coming back from London.
And there was a hot house waiting for me. And hot food in the preparation. And
a hot man in my bed. 