Dilly-Dali-ing around

Our reason for travelling was to get to Figuera, the home of the Dali Museum (and a few other attractions). BOth of us felt lousy – I could have slept another few hours at least and my nasal passages were as rough as if I’d been snorting iron filings. Damn head cold!

We managed to catch the 9:30 train by the skin of our teeth and endured a stifling 2-hour journey in the non-ac’d carriage. All the main sights in Figuera are well-signposted from the station and the Dali Museum is around 15 minutes’ walk away. The route takes you through some lovely streets and past an outdoor fruit and veg market.

It’s instantly recogniseable from any approach with bizarre sculptures surrounding it. One wing is crowned with a multitude of golden eggs and encrusted with gold jobbies. At least that’s what they look like. Entrance is €10 and includes entry to a separate jewellery exhibition that we didn´t have time to visit.

The main museum is on three floors, circling a courtyard. Pride of this place in this yard is a car being “ridden” by a large woman in chains. Above her, a boat levitates with water seeming to drip from its exposed hull. A multitude of squashed bathroom sinks ring the top of the interior wall.

Completely hatstand. Wibble, wibble, indeed.

We spent over two hours walking around looking at this lunacy. We had cold-induced headaches when we arrived and surrealism-induced ones by the time we left.

I managed to locate what seemed to be the only shop in Feguera selling junk food. Through a combination of miming, pointing, guessing and blind luck I got the world’s largest chicken kebab burger and enough chips to chose a horse that really likes chips. After I clogged my arteries with this lovely fare, we legged it to the station to catch the 16:30 back to Barcelona.

Sharon had a snooze while I caught up on email then we popped to a nearby bar to watch England U-21s throw away a 2-0 lead to draw 2-2 with Italy. Some things don’t change no matter what country you´re in. The bar was full at one point with an 11-strong Everton-supporting stag party. I’m glad I wasn’t sharing a bathroom with any of them that evening after seeing some of the cocktails they were downing: Baileys, Malibu, Bacardi, vodka and whisky anyone? Thought not.

Another early night as we were both ready to drop. I walked Sharon back to her place then hobbled to mine where I cuddled up with two paracetamol and some eucalyptus oil on my pillow.

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