Bon Dia

Valentia is one of the most westerly points in Ireland, lying off the South-West coast of Kerry, connected to the mainland by a bridge. If you want to go there be careful not to buy a ticket for Valencia – and vice versa.

Valencia, Spain’s third largest city, mixes 19th century grandeur with 21st century modern architecture. It is not as well known to tourists as Barcelona. I see this as a plus. When Switzerland won the America’s Cup it chose Valencia as the location for the 2007 AC. This, followed by four years of Formula I  breathed petroleum fumes and new life into the City, especially on the seafront. The relatively small airport has direct flights from London airports, operated by British Airways, easyJet and Ryanair. The modern Metro takes about twenty minutes from the airport into the old city centre, much of which has been pedestrianised to allow a seemingly endless ribbon of tables for al fresco snacking.

I flunked Spanish O Level but the language here is Valencian – a variant of Catalan. The title of today’s post is Good Morning in Valenciano, having said that almost everyone says buenas dias. Today, Friday, was the food market and churches, because Man cannot live by bread alone. The market has beautiful tiles on the outside and is constructed of wrought-iron girders like Leadenhall in London or many English railway stations. It is much more impressive than the recently built market in Lyon which was rather claustrophobic. The array of food on offer (there are about 700 stalls) is spectacular and the cod I had for lunch a testament to how fresh it is. The red and yellow stained glass window at one end of the market is Valencia’s flag.

I struggle to categorise the spectacular ecclesiastical architecture. One church has soaring perpendicular columns and a ribbed, vaulted ceiling. Others were a dazzling mixture of Gothic, Rococo, Baroque; a visual feast even more satisfying than the offerings on sale in the Mercado.

The cathedral has two precious relics. In a glass case behind the altar lies the mummified arm of St Vincent the Deacon, martyred in Valencia in 304. Here is a grisly extract from Wikipedia:

He was stretched on the rack and his flesh torn with iron hooks. Then his wounds were rubbed with salt and he was burned alive upon a red-hot gridiron. Finally he was cast into prison and laid on a floor scattered with broken pottery, where he died. During his martyrdom he preserved such peace and tranquillity that it astonished his jailer, who repented from his sins and was converted. Vincent’s dead body was thrown into the sea in a sack, but was later recovered by the Christians and his veneration immediately spread throughout the Church.

His veneration was not the only thing spread – his limbs are venerated in many churches including Notre Dame. Seeing his arm reminded me of St Oliver Plunkett’s head on the altar of a church in Drogheda. The cathedral’s other relic is the Holy Grail – the chalice from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. It is a small cup, the upper part made of polished brown agate. This has been dated to between 100 BC and 50 AD. The elaborate lower stand made of gold, alabaster and jewels is medieval. Pope John Paul II is holding it in this picture.