What you eat

Everyone has to eat. In Barcelona as in so many other places in Spain there is such a passion for food it’s almost overwhelming. 

Every tiny street in the centre has tiny bakeries, cafes, restaurants, fruit shops. 

As part of the planning of the new city in the 19th century, fruit and food markets were incorporated into the plans, and a visit to any one of these is really remarkable.

It is clear that a family can survive on the economic output of one small stall in one of these markets, as also on the output of one of the tiny shops.

In England today that is almost unheard-of. The rates and taxes are too high - one of the powerful reasons for the death of ‘the high street’.

Different market stalls are piled high with all kinds of local produce, fruits, spices, cheeses, fish, meats, cured meats, hams, sausages. It is not just local or Spanish families trading in these glorious good but also the new immigrant communities take part – Indians, Chinese, who knows?

Did we ever have a food culture like this in Britain? I have no idea. But the food culture here is radiant, shining, pulsating with love and skill, tradition and enjoyment, colour, flavour and smell.

Today is our last day. I slipped away from the rest of the party and went down to the Picasso Museum in the old city. It’s a good thing I got there early as it was rapidly filling up with quite large parties – school children, and Japanese and Chinese tourists groups. I was aware of a completely ridiculous sensation of rage that they should stand between me and the paintings. Surely I (the important 'me') was the one who deserves to see the things rather than anybody else?

The museum is housed in a fantastic building, a series of 4 palaces dating from the 14th century. The audio guide is pretty good, I would say essential in fact, to pull the most out of the experience from a first visit. 

It takes about two hours to go round and of course that is nothing like enough time. The museum really concentrates on his early years as an artist and then on the extraordinary reworking he made of the Velazquez Las Meninas, at the very end of his life. So there is very little about his life between about 1906 and 1967. However the works here are riveting, incandescent, inviting you to eat them, incorporate them into your body, just like the fruits in the market stalls.

Perhaps that’s the essence of life in Spain, something corporeal, sensual, colourful, here and now.
Our last lunch was back at the Flax and Kale restaurant, where we sat beside the pretty herb garden in the autumnal sun. I felt as if we were eating Spain.