Barcelona Birds

It was my fault.

It's always my fault.

"I can't talk to anyone," I sobbed at the Long Suffering Husband, "I just want to run away."

The LSH is a very nice man, although, at times, rather literal and that is how I found myself on the way  to Barcelona for a long weekend.  If you are going to run, it might as well be to somewhere nice and sunny and if you can't talk to anyone, you might as well go to a country that speaks a language where you only know one word.* Spanish has always been a mystery to me and I'll never work out the phonics of the letter c.

There were challenges.  Travelling when you are anxious is tricky, as are crowds, noise and bizarrely, churches. However, as walking, while looking at my feet or the sky and noticing bird have been my saviours, my view of Barcelona was unique.

I can't tell you about the Segrada Familia (except that there are doves and a bassoonist carved on the outside), the cathedral, the beach or any of the bars but I if you want to know about the trees, pavements and birds of the Catalan capital then I'm your woman.

The birds were the first thing I noticed.  They sounded different. Noisier, faster in their chatter than British birds.  They were somewhere hidden in the trees lining the streets.  Trees that burst with loud colours. No muted pink and white blossom of English trees.  The trees in Barcelona were proud and loud. Bright orange flowers of the Tipu tree, with it's pea-like leaves competed with the regal purple of the Jacarandas.  The flowers fell and covered the pavement stone carved with child-like flowers.

There were the usual sparrows (but bigger and noisier) and pigeons (there are pigeons everywhere) but there were also Swallows  and the larger paler Alpine Swifts diving, gliding and swooping, even in the heat of the midday sun, shouting for everyone to admire their acrobatic feats.

"One swallow doesn't make a summer," I muttered.
The LSH thought that Summer wasn't in doubt.  "Swifts flying high, weather staying dry." I replied.
He seemed relieved, as we do normally get rain when we go away.
They were making a lot of noise.
"It can't all be coming from the swallows," I said to explain why I kept stopping and looking up at the trees. "All that noise."

Then we saw them.  Bright green, chattering parakeets, with white faces.  Once you have seen them they are everywhere and the longer you are in Barcelona the less bothered by you they are. It's a good job we were only there for a long weekend, or I would have had a Monk Parakeet riding on my shoulder, learning English. These birds are thriving.  The descendants of escaped pets from the 1970s there are now over 10,000 of them.
"Look, there's a falcon!" The LSH had spotted a Peregrine hovering, hoping for a small bright green bird for tea. The authorities had introduced them to keep the numbers of parakeets down.  I'm not sure it's working and I'm glad.  I became quite fond of those bright green birds. Much better than pigeons.  In a flock of pigeons, you should always choose to be a parakeet.

At Park Guell, (where Gaudi lived and played) even the pigeons are decorated.

"Is there anything you want to see?" The LSH thrust the guidebook at me, hoping I might want to follow the tourist trail.
"There is a statue called woman and bird, I think we should see that."

We looked at it from several angles.

"Is it me, or does that look like a penis?" I asked.

The LSH agreed that he couldn't see a woman or a bird.

Here are the rest of my holiday snaps.

*The only Spanish word I know is sacapuntas, which means pencil sharpener (not pencil case, as my daughter told me.)  It is a word I kept hearing while the LSH was watching football. Spanish people apparently shout "pencil sharpener!" when they get excited.

(Who said, my one word wouldn't come in handy?)