“In Granada, in a caslte, sheltered from the rain and wind…”, thus started a poem of doubtful taste, recited with some gusto by the boys from my neighbourhood. I stop in time from the reproduction of the poem, as the rest is quite lewd, though in a somewhat more refined way from the run of the mill teenage ditties. And here we are, over 35 years since I last heard a recital of this poem, I find myself in Granada for the first time. I doubt that I shall meet either don Alfonso “Brebenel”, or Brohilda, the sad maiden with a perfect body, for whom he was pining, under the gaze of his dotting mother. She (Brohilda that is) had two eyes and a number of carefully described features – as do most girls, maidens or not. Though, and here is a value judgment on my part which invites trouble, those who remain maidens for a long time, might be a bit sadder, on average, which I am almost sure was the case with sad, big eyed (and not just…) Brohilda. But away from her and the love-struck don Alfonso, Granada, at least the part that matter, the central part, is a maze of narrow streets and old buildings, with nice caffes and and restaurants, and an amazing juxtaposition of medieval Christian and Moorish architecture. So far so good. But you can easily get lost and not find your way for a while. Not that it matters much, as wherever you turn there’s something interesting. I wish don Alfonso and Brohilda best of luck.