Baddest Bruja in Toledo

So if you've read my destination list, you've probably noticed that the bulk of my trip will be spent in France, much to the shock of my resort-loving family members who see more appeal in Spain. I understand the affinity with Spain. The warmth, the food, the landscape, the music. There's a lot going for it. But I avoided spending too much time here for three reasons:

1. I feel I have visited Spain a lot in my life. I've been to Mojácar, Madrid, Barcelona and another place (the name escapes me). I wanted this trip to plunge me into the new.

2. My biggest regret in life is not taking A-level French (which is pretty mild as a "big regret" if you ask me). It's my favourite language and I'm determined to master it.

3. My third point is trickier to explain without oncoming eye rolls. Hopefully, today's story will illustrate it for me.

Driving across the border into Spain was less momentous than I thought.

There was no big flag or bright sign.

There was an EU sign about 200m before the actual boundary, but once I passed it, I barely noticed the difference until my car clock changed (clever car). I did stop and take a picture though.

The Portugal-Spain border is barren which is an apt metaphor for the relationship between the two (if you believe the stereotypes).

There's a kinship in some ways but mostly the Spanish find the Portuguese to be timid and lacklustre. The Portuguese find the Spanish to be boisterous and up themselves. (Not my assessment by the way - I read it in a book on Portuguese culture.)

As I drove deeper into the fields of Spain, I was struck by the beauty of the landscape. The temperature was palpably warmer too. The sun shone through thick clouds and I felt excited to be there.

Once I got to Toledo, I knew I was going to like it. The brownstone that characterised the entire town was an architecture lover's dream. I adore old buildings in glittering landscapes so expect to see that a lot on this blog.

I dropped my car at the hotel to start my explorations.

And then it happened.

I was shuffling along in the arctic wind, camera in hand and hair blowing all over the place.

I smiled and greeted everyone I passed as we would in Portugal, but my greetings weren't returned.

No harm done - perhaps it’s not that kind of place.

When I reached the bridge I was mesmerised.

The sun was setting over the river and flushed the stone in golden light.

I swooned. I sighed.

Not that audibly but enough for a passing elderly man to stop in his tracks and glare at me as if I had slapped his mother in the face.

I forced my frozen cheeks into a big smile and nodded in acknowledgment.

This is when the name-calling started.

"Bruja bruja!"

He stuck his varicose fingers into a cross sign, puffing out his chest as if to intimidate me and shuffling backwards in yellow-belly cowardice.

Mind you, I hadn't moved from my spot by the bridge, a good 2 metres away from him. He scuttled away and I continued my path through the town.

Walking my way through, I reached the cathedral just as the sun said its final goodbye for the night. I adore cathedrals and ornate churches. Though not religious myself, I can't deny the majesty I feel sitting in the pews of an intricately handcrafted building.

As I normally do, I sat in the pews in silence and explored my thoughts. A middle-aged woman sat behind me. She was wearing a parka coat in cream, with bright green leather gloves and dangling brown beaded jewellery. An alarming shade of plum was slathered onto her fine lips and several layers of eyeliner framed her eyes. I smiled and greeted her as she took her position.

The wide-eyed glare this woman gave me sends chills in my bones just thinking about it. It was the type of glare that questioned my audacity to even breathe in her direction. I could see the eyeliner twitching but her eyeballs stayed still. I shrunk back into my position, resettled my nervous system and skulked out shortly after.

I ended my night at the hotel restaurant. Spain never lets you down when it comes to food. Any kind of steak in Spain is miles better than in Portugal. So I had oxtail parcels with warm apple compote to start, followed by venison tenderloin with truffle potato purée.

After assessing my small frame, the waitress warned me that there were eight oxtail bites as it was meant as a sharing plate. She had kind eyes. I said it would be fine slightly worried I'd over committed. In the end, I had to hold myself back from licking the plate. Dessert was meh but I've never been one for desserts anyway. More patrons came to the restaurants as I was leaving. They were kinder. Some even wished me a good evening which felt neighbourly and welcoming.

Toledo was everything I imagined it to be. The river shimmered as the sun went down. The paved streets were wide and clean. The bridge was majestic. The food was satisfying.

While I'm not embittered by the brief encounters I had with the locals, it's fair to say there was more than a chill in the air last night.

Ta ta for now,

Olivia