Mad Dogs and Driving Rain

Back to the Cathedral of Madrid — officially known as Almudena Cathedral — a building that seems determined to make you crane your neck at every opportunity.

Now, I’ll be honest: the museum section is… worthy. Educational. Thorough. Possibly a touch endurance-based. But once you start climbing and the views begin to open up, things improve dramatically. Madrid spreads out beneath you in all directions — red rooftops, grand boulevards, the Royal Palace sitting proudly nearby — and suddenly the stair climb feels justified.

Architecturally, though, I couldn’t help comparing it to the mighty Toledo Cathedral, formally the Primatial Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo. Toledo’s cathedral feels weightier, grander, more… senior. Which makes sense, because the highest-ranking archbishop in Spain resides there. Yes, it turns out cathedrals have hierarchy. I had absolutely no idea. Apparently, Toledo holds the title of “Primate” of Spain — and no, not the monkey kind.

In fact, I only discovered that “primate” was a religious term thanks to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? — a show that has educated me in more obscure trivia than school ever managed. The word comes from Latin meaning “first” or “chief,” which neatly explains both archbishops and apes. Language is efficient like that.

Back in Madrid, though, we spent most of our time doing what you inevitably do in grand European churches: looking up. Ceilings, frescoes, statues, arches — everything is designed to pull your gaze heavenward. This particular photo captures the upper dome and bell tower of Almudena Cathedral. Magnificent. Dramatic. Full of architectural confidence.

Though I must confess: I never actually saw any bells.

One of the real highlights is the ability to walk around the upper gallery and take in panoramic views over Madrid. That is, of course, assuming the cloud hasn’t descended to eye level and erased the city entirely. February weather in Spain can be less “Mediterranean glow” and more “mildly apocalyptic mist.” On one occasion, visibility dropped to the point where I was fairly certain we were hovering above a blank sheet of paper.

And yet, in what I can only describe as a masterclass in human stubbornness, on our final day we visited El Retiro Park. The rain was relentless. The boating lake looked like it was auditioning for a disaster film. And still — still — there were people rowing boats with umbrellas open, defiantly circling the lake as if this was perfectly normal behaviour.

I have questions. Mostly: how much rain does it take to sink a rowing boat? And secondly: why are we testing this theory voluntarily?

But then again, I’m British — specifically English. Which means two things:

1. I will complain about the weather.

2. I will continue participating in outdoor activities regardless.

As Noël Coward famously observed, “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” He neglected to mention that we also go out in sideways rain, dense fog, and anything else vaguely inconvenient. Weather is temporary. Englishness is permanent.

And if there’s a cathedral dome to photograph, we’re climbing it — bells or no bells.