The Odd Neighbour

by Sally Branston

Much of Belgium looks a little rough around the edges: buildings are soot-blackened; roads potholed; metalwork rusty and paint peeling. So why do I spend a lot of time there? Well, for a start, petrol is cheaper than in the Netherlands where I live. Secondly, the Dutch haven't quite got the supermarket concept, so a trip to Carrefour at Liège is from time to time a necessity. And thirdly, it's a relief to get away from the acres of modern Dutch housing estates, with their concrete-box houses and their hard-landscaped gardens and box hedging, manicured to within an inch of its life.

Ghent

To illustrate this latter point, I'll tell you about something my art teacher said. I was trying to do a water colour from a photograph of an old, rusty, corrugated-iron shed in the Falkland Islands. The teacher asked me what it was and I told her it was a derelict farm building. "But what is it for?" she asked. "Nothing," I replied. "It's just abandoned. "You would never see such a thing in the Netherlands," she said. "We would knock it down immediately." Which explains the total absence of old buildings where I live.

A British friend told me about a visit from her Dutch neighbour to complain about the front flower bed. Flowers were creeping in a naturalistic manner out of the bed and over the edge of the driveway. "Cut them back where they belong immediately," she was told. "And while you're at it, you replaced your garage door two weeks ago and it hasn't been painted yet."
Belgium is in complete contrast. Forget the quaint tourist paradise of Brugge (Bruges) and think dirt, dereliction and dilapidation. That's Liège (Luik in Flemish). But at least it's interesting. The Christmas market offers the chance to taste food and drink from all over the French-speaking world and every Sunday, there's a massive market all along the banks of the River Maas. It was also the birthplace of Belgium's best-known author, Georges Simenon.

Further down the Maas or Meuse, you find the rather strange city of Dinant, birthplace of Adolphe Sax and a picturesque spot on the way over to France. A citadel perched on top of a cliff overlooks the river where you can take a boat trip or go kayaking.

Sundays in the town of Tongeren, there is an enormous antiques market which takes up most of the town's streets until lunchtime. You can enjoy a Belgian waffle (gauffre) in the oldest inn in the oldest town in Belgium while you're there.

Bruges

Bruges is probably the favourite destination for British tourists and it is certainly pretty. And clean. And expensive. For a change, try its slightly less well known neighbour, Ghent (Gent). You can take a boat ride along the canal or visit one of the five Sunday markets. There's a famous painting to see in St Baaf's Cathedral - the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb - and lots of interesting Flemish architecture. If you're looking for somewhere old and typically Belgian to stay, a hotel with character rather than state of the art facilities, try the Gravensteen, although I wouldn't recommend trying to park anything bigger than a mini in the hotel car park.

Belgium is a country divided by language. In the Flemish areas, if you don't speak Dutch, try English rather than French. In the capital, French is best.

Don't drive unless absolutely forced to. Belgian drivers have to be amongst the worst in Europe. They have little idea what to do with roundabouts; will stop when you're least expecting them to; don't signal where they're going; drive very fast; and leave swerving across the traffic to exit the motorway until the last possible second. Brussels is confusingly signposted for visitors, so go by public transport if possible or at the very least, plan to leave your car in the hotel garage once you've arrived.

The Grand' Place is one of the most stunning sights in Europe and there always seems to be something going on. There are plenty of cafes in which to sit and have a beer, but the quality of both food and service will improve if you head out a few streets in almost any direction. Mussels are the thing to eat, washed down by any of a huge variety of Belgian beers, each of which comes served in its own special glass. If you don't like mussels, try a carbonnade, a delicious beef stew cooked in the aforementioned beer. The other local speciality is chips (with mayonnaise).

The battlefield at Waterloo is worth a visit if you're in the area, but probably not a special detour unless you're a military history buff. Climb to the top of the Butte du Lion to imagine the scene as it might have been or visit the Musée Wellington.

Carpet of Flowers, Grand' Place

At the end of April or beginning of May, try to time your visit to coincide with the annual opening of the Royal Greenhouses at Laeken. This has to be one of the "must-sees" of Europe for anyone with the slightest interest in either royalty or gardening. Ignore the huge queues - they move very quickly - and every step of the way is of interest. 

Every other year in August, see the Carpet of Flowers when the whole of the Grand' Place in Brussels is covered with an intricate design of begonias.Then have lunch in the enticingly named restaurant called "Sudden Death" (A La Mort Subite), named after a game and a well-known Belgian beer.

And finally, don't forget to look out for a sand-carving or ice-sculpture festival, according to the season. They are well worth the time spent. Happy holidays in Belgium!

First published in VISA issue 72 (Apr 2007)

Flying in the Falklands

by Sally Branston

As there are very few paved roads and many of the tracks are rutted and adversely affected by weather conditions, flying is often the only way to get about, particularly if you wish to travel a long distance or visit one of the outlying islands. As a military spouse, I was fortunate to be eligible to use three of the available means of air transport: the Falkland Islands Government Air Service (FIGAS), with their small, red, Islander aircraft; the Sikorsky helicopters of British International Helicopters (BRINTEL) and once, a Royal Air Force Sea King helicopter, although only the first of these is available to the general public.

Port Stanley's 
unusual cathedral

Flying with FIGAS is a very different experience from flying with a big airline in this country as it’s really an air taxi service. When you initially book your ticket, you state your dates of travel and the places you want to go from and to, and yes, you have to give your weight. I wonder how many people lie about this? You also have to state if you’re carrying anything heavy such as golf clubs (there are indeed golf courses on the Falklands) or a box of groceries if you’re going to stay in self-catering accommodation at your destination. Then, the night before your flight, you listen to the Falkland Island Broadcasting Service (FIBS) and at an appointed time, the flight schedules are read out. This is when you learn what time your aircraft is going to come and pick you up as your name is read out over the air. You also learn the names of your fellow travellers and who is going where and with whom. There are no secrets on the Falklands! People speculate avidly when they learn that the doctor is paying a visit to an island or a farm. They listen for his flight times to gauge the nature and severity of the illness by the length of the visit. I am told that only social workers paying a visit where children are involved are allowed to withhold their names, so no chance for anyone else to have an affair or sneak off for a dirty weekend!

If being collected from the huge runway of the RAF base at Mount Pleasant Airfield, you stand at one side near the terminal building and when the FIGAS aircraft lands, you wave to the pilot and he taxis round to collect you. They’re usually more or less on time. When taking off from one of the remoter areas or another island, the owner of the accommodation where you’re staying drives you out in a landrover to meet the aircraft and makes radio contact with the pilot. He tells him about weather conditions and the windspeed, then drives over the landing strip to check for hazards and drive off any stray sheep. He also hooks up to an emergency fire tender as a safety measure. The aircraft lands and picks you up right by the vehicle. A very civilised way to travel and you get some wonderful views.
The helicopters, too, are a great way to get around, but the landing sites are a bit more difficult to identify. You can get dropped off on an uninhabited island to see the wildlife and the pilot says he’ll be back to pick you up a few hours later, weather permitting. (You always carry a sleeping bag, food and water, in case of emergencies.) Then you have to try to remember which bush, rock or bit of grass he left you at so that you can find your way back in an otherwise empty landscape. When flying in the Sea King, it’s a legal requirement to wear an immersion suit if the aircraft will pass over water during its flight. These are extremely awkward and uncomfortable to get into and you feel choked around the neck. However, anyone who comes down in the water has cause to feel glad that the suit fits very tightly and is thus waterproof.

The usual way to get about the islands nowadays is by four-wheel drive, but in the past, journeys had to be undertaken by horse and would therefore take a lot longer. It used to be the custom to throw an empty bottle into the ditch every time you passed through the gate between one property and the next. A few people still repeat that idea using beer cans, but it’s not the same as the days when a bottle of rum was a necessary accompaniment to keep fingers from freezing to the reins on the long, lonely journey.

When driving off the roads or tracks, this is known as “camp driving.” It’s not an affectation. “Camp” is the Falklands word for rough country, from the Spanish “campo”, countryside. When passing another vehicle on the road, it’s still customary to wave a greeting to the on-comer. Passers-by will always stop to help another vehicle in distress and offer a lift or a tow. The speed limit on the main road between Stanley and Mount Pleasant is forty miles an hour and should only be exceeded at your peril. Ice, mud and loose gravel, depending on the season, can make the surface treacherous and it’s easy to end up in the deep drainage ditch which runs alongside. Travelling more slowly also has the added advantage of giving you time to appreciate the magnificent scenery and maybe spot some interesting wildlife such as a caracara, a red-backed hawk or a turkey vulture. It also enables you to avoid the sheep when they dither and suddenly change direction right in front of you.

The Falkland Islands are a fabulous place and I would recommend that anyone travelling in South America give consideration to seeing if they can get over there for a visit. The cruise ships stop as well, but there’s usually insufficient time available for cruise passengers to get beyond Stanley, the capital, and being a small place, it tends to get swamped by visitors on the days when a large ship calls, so you don’t see it at its best. The beauty of the Falkland Islands lies in their rugged emptiness; in knowing that you’re one of only a handful of people in a particular location at any one time; in looking outside at night and the only light being that of the stars.


First published in VISA issue 55 (March 2004)

Samantha goes to Hamburg

by Sally Branston

"Turn around when possible!" "Make a u-turn!" Samantha's tone of voice seemed to be getting more and more exasperated.

Samantha is named after Humphrey Lyttelton's less voluble assistant on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue on Radio 4. Humph's Samantha says very little. Possibly because she is imaginary. Our Samantha doesn't really exist either. She's our satellite navigation system and she doesn't like it when we deviate from her chosen route.

Samantha's idea was that we would go from Xanten to Soest via the great urban sprawl that is Duisburg, Essen, Bochum and Dortmund whereas we preferred a more rural A-road, passing through a pleasantly wooded and agricultural landscape. What if it took a little longer? We were on holiday. Samantha was not pleased and refused to shut up. "Turn around when possible," she insisted, through gritted microchips.

Xanten has the distinction of being the only place in Germany to begin with the letter "x". It's a pretty town not far from Kleve (Cleves) with cobbled streets, a working windmill, a towered gateway and a historic church. It was settled by the Romans in about 100 AD and there is an archaeological park just outside the town where you can participate in a Roman-style banquet. The church is dedicated to Saint Viktor whose grave was believed to have been amongst those of early Christian martyrs who met their deaths there in the 4th century and who gave their name to the town Ad Sanctos Martyres - now contracted to Xanten. There are lots of cafés and inns around the square. After lunch of the local Westphalian speciality of broad beans and bacon pieces in a white wine sauce, we set off across the Rhine to Soest.

Samantha came into her own when it came to navigating the winding streets of old Soest, delivering us neatly to a car park at the back door of Im Wilden Mann, a traditional German inn. Negotiating the sloping floor of the bedroom, we discovered that we had a nice view of the town square and set off immediately to explore. Quite by accident, we discovered the starting point of a signposted town trail nearby and two and a half hours later, when we ended up at point number thirty-two, a few metres from where we'd started, we felt we had "done" Soest's green-tinged stone buildings sufficiently well to enjoy dinner in the inn's large restaurant.

Next day was Easter Saturday and what a contrast to the quiet day that had preceded it. Arriving in Osnabrück, we did a nightmare tour of the town looking for somewhere to park. All the shops were open and busy, but eventually we found somewhere and headed for the old town. There were a surprising number of beggars, entertainers and punks in the streets. German punks tend to look a little intimidating on account of being about two metres tall, including their Mohicans, and they seemed like some historic, Nordic army of invasion with their studs and studded-collared dogs. In complete contrast was the rather camp, hand-on-hip statue of Frederick Barbarossa outside the historic town hall. Osnabrück's main claim to fame is that the Peace of Westphalia, which ended the Thirty Years War in 1648, was declared from the steps of that town hall. The interior has a more contemporary peace dedication and an exhibition showing the town's near total destruction during the Second World War.

We thought we'd give Samantha a treat , so we headed for Hamburg via her preferred motorway route. At 140 kph, or 87 mph, I was one of the slowest on the road. Two-lane German motorways aren't for the faint-hearted. On the rare occasions when I came up behind a slower vehicle, I needed a gap behind me of about half a mile in order to get past without a Mercedes in the boot. I only got flashed twice. At one point where the road became three lanes, a British car in front did the typical British thing and immediately pulled into the centre lane doing exactly 70 mph oblivious to the sudden braking and parting of the ways behind as cars veered to either side to avoid him.

Hamburg is difficult to characterize and not an obvious destination for most British tourists. It's probably worth a stop-off if you're in the area, but not a special trip. Nevertheless, we enjoyed a full thirteen hour day of sightseeing, but you have to seek out its treasures and take advice from a good guide book or, even better, a German friend, in order fully to appreciate it.

We began Easter Sunday morning at the Fish Market. This early morning Sunday market begins at about 6am and is over by 10 and sells everything from live chickens to leather goods. The early finish was the condition extracted by the church when it first gave permission for the market to be held, thus enabling shoppers to go on to Sunday service afterwards. It was interesting to watch the traders filling up baskets of fruit or boxes of house-plants. The eel stall was one of the most entertaining. By 9 o'clock we were in the market hall, drinking hot chocolate and eating doughnuts to the accompaniment of a local rock group. The Germans were mostly drinking beer by then and everybody seemed to be having a good time.

From here, we went to the old tunnel under the Elbe, car-free on a Sunday, and walked under the river to the other side and back again. Both cars and people get down to the tunnel via lifts. Then it was time for Kaffee und Kuchen before taking a boat ride on the Aalster lake and its canals, past the back gardens of some of the wealthy residents of Hamburg. After lunch, we walked through some of the remaining older streets in town. There aren't many: not only because of the War but also because the city was formerly constructed largely of wood, with very narrow streets and therefore prone to burning down from time to time. There is however an interesting warehouse district and an Expressionist office district.

We still wanted to discover more, but whilst the spirit was willing, the flesh was getting weaker, so we jumped on one of the city sight-seeing buses and still managed to see a bit more. Our guide was a well-spoken, informative Portuguese immigrant. There must be quite a few of them because the restaurant area recommended by our hotel desk clerk consisted almost entirely of Portuguese restaurants. As we'd eaten there the previous evening and were trying to conserve resources, I'm afraid to say that we finished the day, courtesy of Burger King, with a hamburger in Hamburg!

Next morning, after a rather good breakfast, we allowed Samantha to have her own way and take us to the motorway. Not for long, however. The traffic was horrendous at the end of the holiday weekend and the motorway that we'd hurtled up two days earlier at 90 mph was reduced to a slow crawl. By early afternoon, we were pleased to get off it and head into Münster for a rest and a wander round.

Münster rivals Osnabrück in its claims to be associated with the Peace of Westphalia and goes one better. Their Town Hall boasts the actual room where the treaty was signed. It's worth a look if you're passing through, as is the astronomical clock in the cathedral. There was an intriguing date plaque fastened to the wall of a house nearby. Just a date a couple of years into the future. Is it the day the owners' mortgage gets paid up? What is its significance? We shall probably never know.

But we enjoyed Easter in northern Germany with Samantha, despite her nagging. I wonder where she'd like to go next?

First published in VISA issue 74 (Aug 2007)

Land of Paradox

by Sally Branston

At Easter we went to the north.

‘The north of where?’

Portugal, where we’ve lived for the past two years.

‘Portugal. What’s it like?’

My Portugal is a country where everyone drives an Audi or a Mercedes but can only afford to put €5 of petrol in the tank. It’s a place where everyone lives in magnificent mansions, but you won’t be asked inside, in case you notice that they can’t afford furniture. It’s a country where every one of my neighbours employs a daily maid, but both partners work long hours in order to afford her. It’s a country where my kitchen is full of the latest German appliances, but when something breaks down, there is no technical expertise to fix it. It’s a country where I’m the only person in the eco queue at the supermarket, because you bring and pack your own bags. All the other shoppers prefer to join long lines in order for the assistant to pack for them, and then wait as the person in front goes through credit card after credit card trying to find one that isn’t maxed out. It’s a country where I pay two and a half times more in rent than I obtain for my larger house in the UK. It’s a country where children go to school wearing designer clothes and with empty bellies. That’s my Portugal.

Staircase of the Church of Bom Jesus do Monte

As we headed into the countryside north of Porto, the anti-Spanish graffiti became more and more obvious on roadside walls and bus shelters. Weather-wise, it’s been a cold, wet winter and Good Friday was no exception. We wanted to visit the church of Bom Jesus do Monte, a famous sight in this part of the country and one which, the guide book assured us, would be crawling with penitents, climbing the magnificent baroque staircase in front of the church on their knees. But of course, first of all we had to find it and although this is one of the premier sights of Portugal and was, for once, sign-posted, there was no clue as to where to park or where the sanctuary was actually situated on the wooded hillside. In the end, we found it because we knew that one way to reach it was via a funicular railway and we saw a sign labelled elevador. This was indeed the car park and a means of access to the damp, misty hilltop. I would like you to guess how many pilgrims we saw. A clue is to think of a number that is less than one. The new religion of Portugal is that of the shopping mall.

From the Igreja de Bom Jesus, we headed to our hotel, the Pousada de Santa Marinha at Guimaraes. We rarely find Portuguese addresses in our sat-nav and this was no exception. We programmed in the name of a nearby street, but after a few hair-raising instructions to go up narrow, cobbled, one-way streets in the wrong direction, we headed back to town and discovered the road signs. The pousada is a former monastery, the rooms worth a sight-seeing tour in themselves. What a pity that dinner in the restaurant was scarcely worth bothering with and that the waiter tried to overcharge us.

Guimaraes

Guimaraes is known to Portuguese people as the birthplace of their nation. It was the home of their first king, Afonso Henriques, born 1110 and it’s an interesting, well-preserved town. Three things struck us: people were very friendly (unlike where we live, where my neighbours have yet to speak to me); the price of meals in restaurants was a fraction of what we’re used to in the centre of the country; and it was very obviously wash day. Local women were out in force, doing their washing in large, communal, open-air tanks. Those who weren’t doing the washing were visiting the graves of the dead. There was a well-kept cemetery adjacent to our hotel and every grave was clean and had fresh flowers.

Easter Sunday morning started bright and early with the boom of fireworks. It was a beautiful day and we set off in the car to visit the Solar de Mateus, wondering whether or not we would find it open. This is not a country where you can find that sort of information on the internet. The Solar – or stately home – is famous for featuring on the labels of the well known rosé wine. Needless to say, it took a bit of finding, and even when we arrived, we drove past, as the entrance wasn’t sign-posted. When we turned back, we weren’t sure whether to drive in or not as the gates were only partly open. But we gave it a go – and yes, it was open and yes, you could park inside, if you were prepared to pay. This was not a problem for us, but is a big issue for the Portuguese, who don’t believe you should have to pay to park, saying that it ought to be covered by your local taxes. Instead, they squeeze onto pavements; they double-park in the street; they park on roundabouts, on pedestrian crossings, in supermarket car parks, anywhere, as long as they don’t have to pay for the privilege. The house was very cold inside as there was no heating, the gardens quiet and beautiful. Guided tours were possible in English, French and Portuguese, but absolutely not in Spanish. The young guide who showed us round had attended Camden School for Girls and had a charming estuary accent.

Solar de Mateus

I was awakened next day at 3.30 am by ghostly howling from the cemetery adjoining the hotel. What a pity that it was punctuated by giggling or I might actually have believed that the ancient hotel was haunted. After a bit, there was noise from a car stereo and a vehicle drove off, the local teens presumably having tired of their joke. When we got up on Easter Monday morning, the grassy square below the graveyard was being used for a sort of twenty-a-side football match by local men and boys. A good supply of balls meant that whenever one escaped down the steep road – to be fetched back by a willing ball boy – another one came immediately into play.

En route home, we decided to visit the Citânia de Briteiros, an Iron Age Celt-Iberian settlement dating from 300 BC to 300 AD, not really knowing whether or not we should find it or whether it would be open. We did and it was. Not only open, inexpensive to visit and almost deserted, but information was available in English and there was even an on-site café. We also had the place to ourselves for the first hour and enjoyed scrambling up ancient paved roads and into the ruins of round houses; admiring beautiful mosses and wildflowers; listening to bird song and being observed by static lizards. It was a magical place that exceeded all expectations.

As the sun was now out and we were back in the vicinity of Bom Jesus, we decided to pay another quick call in order to get the photos the weather had denied us on Good Friday. In keeping with Portuguese custom and along with lots of other cars, we parked illegally and paid our return visit. Still no penitents, but traffic jams on the way home whenever we passed a road leading to a beach. The temperature on the patio when we got home was twenty-seven degrees. Perhaps the summer had arrived at long last.

First published in VISA 91 (Jun 2010)

Canadian Pacific

By David Gourley

Those of us who are of a certain age may well remember the long-running programme Two Way Family Favourites which ran on Radio Two and before that on the Light Programme.   It was a record request programme for families with members serving in the overseas armed forces.  A popular choice was Canadian Pacific by George Hamilton IV.  It tells of a chap who works his way right across Canada, from East to West, thus visiting all ten of the country’s provinces.   He starts in Nova Scotia and finally makes it ‘to British Columbia and heaven’ where his true love awaits.

We too did a rail trip in Canada.  It was a rather more modest venture and we were heading east not west, starting in Toronto.  And the old romance has gone: Canadian Pacific is no more and one travels nowadays with the more prosaically named Via Rail.  Still, it was a great, and great value, trip, involving first-class rail travel and overnight stays in three cities, Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal, in each case staying at a Fairmont Hotel.  These are part of a worldwide chain of luxury hotels.  This trip was of such good value that it is no longer offered!

We had stayed at Fairmont Hotels during our previous trip to Canada, at three locations in the Rockies, including Chateau Lake Louise, one of the most beautifully located hotels in the world.  Closer to home we had also stayed at their hotel in St Andrews, Fife.  Nowadays the chain is owned by a Saudi company but fortunately they don’t impose their country’s draconian laws on alcohol consumption!

We flew out with Air Canada.  Generally Canada is a hospitable country but someone flying with this airline might assume otherwise.  Indifferent food was served to us by poker-faced staff.   Moreover our in-flight entertainment didn’t work.  Everyone else’s seemed to be fine, however.  The fact that I’m paranoid ......

In Toronto we landed at Lester B Pearson Airport, named from a former Prime Minister, and our departure was from Montreal’s Pierre  Elliott Trudeau Airport, also named from a former Prime Minister.  These are by no means the only airports to be named after statesmen.   Thus Washington has Ronald Reagan Airport, Paris has Charles de Gaulle Airport whilst Berlin is soon to have an airport named after Willy Brandt.  But in Britain we eschew having airports so named.  Probably we are right: I wouldn’t actually mind having airports named from Churchill or Attlee but baulk at Heathrow becoming Margaret Thatcher Airport or Gatwick Tony Blair Airport.  Luton Airport I guess would then have to be renamed John Major Airport since it was in that town that he stood on his celebrated soapbox!  We do have a couple of examples of airports being renamed after famous people.  Liverpool’s Airport is now named after John Lennon (‘above us only sky’).  I rather like that.  One of Belfast’s is named after George Best.  I’m not sure that I like that.

Our local guide welcomed us to “Fortress Toronto”.  The G8 had been meeting elsewhere in Ontario and were now heading into the big city to join twelve other leaders for a G20 summit.  This was being held despite the fact that there was a scheduled G20 summit later in the year in Seoul.  The extra meeting had been arranged in the light of the worsening economic crisis.   Our arrangements were affected because some of the summiteers would be staying at our hotel.   As a result our stay there was cut from three nights  to two.  We didn’t feel hard done by for we were instead to have an extra night at the no less splendid sister hotel, the Chateau Laurier, in Ottawa.  We also got a room upgrade and the excellent buffet breakfasts were made complimentary. 

With fears of terrorism, and in anticipation of street protests by anarchists and others which did indeed occur, a large area around our hotel had been barricaded off.  We were still able to come and go as  we pleased – and rather liked the fact that the normally busy road outside our hotel was devoid of traffic!  The Fairmont Royal York is a fine hotel.  We enjoyed looking at its gallery of sepia-tinged photographs which recall the days when it was ‘the largest hotel in the British Empire’.  Like quite a few of the Fairmont hotels it is also a railway hotel, located directly across the road from Union Station.

It was early evening but the CN Tower, located a short walking distance away, stays open late so we headed off to it.  For some 34 years it enjoyed the distinction of being the world’s tallest building.  Now there are several taller buildings, including Shanghai’s World Financial Center, which we’d ascended a few months earlier.  There is a glass platform with a view 1,122 feet straight down.  It can, the visitor is assured, withstand the weight of fourteen large hippos.  Did they actually test this out?   Whilst there we booked dinner for the next evening, to mark my 63^rd birthday, at the revolving 360 Restaurant.

Our first full day included a trip to Niagara Falls, going by coach since the trains don’t go there.  I don’t generally bandy around the word ‘awesome’ but, yes, the Falls are one of the great sights of the world and are truly awesome.  One is here right on the US border and one looks across it to the American Falls.  These are magnificent but still more so are the Canadian, or Horseshoe, Falls.  The surroundings might be splendid but the town of Niagara Falls isn’t.  It seems to see itself as a mini-Las Vegas.  ‘I do not like,’ I remarked to our tour company’s guide Louise, ‘to turn my eyes from this beauty and see the word Casino’. 

Louise, a lady of our vintage, agreed.   She was an excellent tour guide but talking to her I realized that though her job might at first sight seem, to anyone who loves travel, enviable, in practice it is one I wouldn’t touch with a bargepole.  Her last tour had been in South Africa conducting a  party on a tour on the luxury train Pride of Africa, run by Rovos Rail.  Unfortunately South Africa was in the middle of a rail strike and though Rovos’s employees were not taking part, the company couldn’t get the insurance to enable it to run its trains.  So there was the logistical nightmare of organizing the scheduled trips, with people still returning to the train for their evening meals and overnight stays.  But she loved her job.  Her husband, ironically, didn’t like travel so went nowhere very much.

We had some spare time at the Falls and like nearly all in our party went in the small boat Maid of the Mist, which takes one as close to the Horseshoe Falls as it’s safe to go.  We concluded our visit with a buffet lunch at the Sheraton, from where there were fine views of the Falls and of the International Bridge that connects to the USA. 

We carried on to Niagara-on-the-Lake, which is not to be confused with Niagara Falls and  is so named because it is on Lake Ontario, pausing en route to admire the world’s largest floral clock.  Nowadays it is a quiet, rather well-heeled town but it has had an eventful history.  There was fierce fighting here in Britain’s short war with the Americans in 1812; the outcome ensured that, in this part of North America, the Canada/US border is a lot further south than for most of its distance.  It was also the key stopping point on the Underground Railroad for escaped slaves from the Southern States.  Even in the Northern States they were not free from the threat of recapture.  That threat was finally behind them when they crossed the border into Canada.

Rather to our irritation, our local guide insisted on stopping at a winery on our drive back to Toronto.  We were looking at our watches and thinking of our booking for dinner.  Also, the visit was of no great interest.  We have elsewhere enjoyed visits to vineyards accompanied by wine-tasting but this stop was really just to enable one to buy the produce.  The locals like it to be known that, though located so far north, they can produce marketable wine.  A phone call to the 360 Restaurant sorted out that we could arrive later than scheduled and we enjoyed an excellent meal and splendid night-time views over Toronto as we did a complete revolution. 

One might worry that a restaurant in such a location could be something of a tourist trap with mediocre food and high prices because the management think they can get away with it given the fine location.  But that was definitely not our experience here. Nor was it our experience  in two other revolving restaurants where we have dined, the Sky Tower in Auckland (the highest building in the southern hemisphere) and the Space Needle in Seattle – full marks go to both.  We are old enough also to have had dinner in the revolving restaurant in the BT Tower (as it then wasn’t).  A bit incongruously, it might be thought, Butlins had won the contract to run this - but they realized that the clientele might have different expectations to their ‘happy campers’!  Sadly the Tower was closed to the public after an attempted IRA bombing in the seventies.  The contract with Butlins was allowed to run to its conclusion, then the restaurant too was closed to the public, being nowadays used for BT corporate hospitality.  A pity.  

Our included tour of Toronto the next day put to the test our local guide’s creativity given all the fortifications.  He was not found wanting: we had an enjoyable tour.   Along the lakeshore there is the usual cluster of skyscrapers to be found in just about every North American city but pushing inland one comes into low-rise areas as well as to the historic University.  All in all this is a pleasant city.   Bisecting the downtown, and continuing for many miles beyond , is Yonge Street.  There are still occasional references to this being the “longest street in the world” but the basis for this claim was always somewhat dubious and it is no longer acknowledged by the Guiness Book of Records.

In the afternoon we transferred to Ottawa and thus had the first of our train journeys.  As we were travelling first-class, a complimentary meal with wine was included.  For  a while Lake Ontario was in our view then we headed inland.  Years before we had traversed the Yukon whilst travelling between different parts of Alaska and I was struck, like never before or since, by the sheer scale of its emptiness.  It was, well, awesome.  The countryside through which we were travelling is in no way to be compared with the Yukon yet even here, in eastern Ontario, it is apparent how unpopulated so much of Canada is.  After all it is the second largest country in the world yet has a population of approx 33 million, most of them residing within fairly short distance of the southern border. 

For some reason the authorities in Ottawa decided, in the fifties, to banish the railways from the centre of the city.  Until then the Chateau Laurier, our hotel for the next two nights, really was a railway hotel, located just across the road from the station.  Now the station is some distance out and there is no feel of arriving in a capital city.  It felt more like we’d arrived in Stevenage!  But our hotel, located on a hill next to the Parliament, is splendid.  Past guests include the Queen and Prince Phillip, Churchill and de Gaulle.

We had a city tour the next day which showed us how green it is, and also what a large area it covers.  I altogether lost my sense of direction and when we passed the US Embassy it seemed like it was miles from where we’d started.  Yet later in the day it was clearly visible just down the road from our hotel.  It is a squat, rather ugly building and one feels the USA could have done better by its northern neighbour. 

This drive took us, for the first time, into the province of Quebec.  Ottawa, rather like Canberra and Washington DC, was a compromise location between rival aspirants for capital status but unlike those other cities it is not a federal territory; rather it is part of the Province of Ontario.  But across the River Ottawa, Gatineau, in French-speaking Quebec, is part of the wider metropolitan area.  Until quite recently it was known by the rather unFrench name Hull.

The afternoon was free and we spent  a lot of it visiting the Parliament.   For the visitor, it is a welcoming place in a way our own Parliament perhaps isn’t.  I was clutching my wallet as we approached.  ‘You can put that away, sir, there’s nothing to pay.’  So, for free, we had a guided tour, ably conducted by a charming young lady, who showed us inter alia the House of Commons (American and British nomenclature is here combined: the upper house is the Senate) and the Library.  The latter is separated from the rest of the building by a corridor and by iron doors, decided upon by the first librarian who was concerned about the threat of fire.  When there was indeed a fire in the main building in 1916, which destroyed much of the central block, the Library was spared thanks to these iron doors. 

The Senate was in session but, no worries, we went and listened to the debate.   The parliament is bilingual with members speaking in the language of their choice and translation available to those who need it.  Inevitably, or  so it seemed, the debate was about the French language, a perennial hot topic in Canada.  It can arouse strong emotions on both sides.  In Alberta our guide had complained that on federal highways in the province the signage had to be bilingual even though just about no-one there speaks French as their first language.  Quebec has twice held referenda on whether to become an independent country.  In the first there was a large majority in favour of staying in Canada but in the second this shrunk to quite a narrow margin.   Sooner or later there will probably be a further vote for referenda like these tend to go on being held until they produce the right result for those wanting to change the status quo.  So any referendum resulting in Quebec’s independence would, one can be pretty sure, be the last referendum on the subject (likewise any referendum in which the Australians elected to have a republic). 

Without Quebec, Canada would, in geo-political terms, be a rather curious entity with the Maritime Provinces physically separated from the rest of the country. Maybe other centrifugal forces would come to the fore.  But Canada is surely a country that is well worth keeping.  On a scale of decency which might have Iran, North Korea or Syria at or near the bottom, Canada would be close to the other end.  Successive governments have placed much emphasis on humanitarianism and the country plays a major part in peace keeping activities.  It entered World War II well before the USA (though a little after Nova Scotia, which was still a separate colony) and since the War has chosen its interventions carefully: Korea but not Vietnam, Afghanistan but not Iraq.

Whilst Canadians rightly assert their distinctive identity, they might concede that a part of that identity is not being American.  This is North America without the rough edges, where moderation is prized.  Whilst America agonizes over whether there should be ‘socialized medicine’, as some insist on calling it, Canada quietly introduced a national health service, extending nationwide a scheme set up by the Province of Saskatchewan.  During our previous stay our guide warned us that referring to the ‘State of Alberta’ would not go down well: Canada has provinces.  It differentiates itself, too by having a  parliamentary form of government, with the Queen rather than a President as Head of State.  

We concluded our visit to the Parliament by ascending the Peace Tower and looking around its grounds.  Here there is a memorial to the Dutch Royal Family who were exiled in Ottawa after their homeland fell to the Nazis.  Princess Margriet, sister of the present Queen of the Netherlands, was actually born in Ottawa in 1943; to commemorate the occasion the Dutch flag flew over the Peace Tower, the only time a foreign flag has flown over the Parliament Building.  For dinner back at the hotel I enjoyed, as I had done during our visit to the Rockies, a main course dish of bison. 

We transferred to Montreal the day next day.  I usually bring maps with me when travelling abroad but hadn’t done so for this trip.  I assumed, as soon as we left Ottawa, that we had crossed into Quebec but in fact the boundary follows the Ottawa River which here turns sharply east so we were in Ontario virtually all the way to Montreal.   That city is on an island at the confluence of the Ottawa and St Lawrence Rivers, and is named from  the Mont Réal (or Royal Mountain, though it is actually a hill).

There was a rather unexpected occurrence on our train journey: an earthquake.  Not in the least serious, but it delayed us for an hour.  I was concerned, since this was well into the afternoon, that we’d miss out on some or all of our two-hour city tour.  On our arrival our local guide, a lady whose first language was English (“there are some of us in Montreal”) introduced herself and said that we would be losing an hour off our tour.  But we would still see everything that mattered, apart from the site of the 1976 Olympics and even that would be visible from the Mont Réal.  She was a nice lady and offered in her own time afterwards to take those who wanted on an additional walking tour.

Our tour showed us what a pleasant  city Montreal is, a pleasing blend of French and North American influences.   It is the world’s second largest French-speaking city.  There is a rather laid-back sort of feel.  One suspects that by and large people don’t get as worked up about Québecois nationalism as those in Quebec City, say.  From our vantage point on the Mont we got our distant view of the Olympics site.  We seemed fated to see such sites in the distance: we’d seen the Sydney site, several miles to the west, on our Sydney Bridge Climb and got a glimpse of Beijing’s celebrated Bird’s Nest whilst being transported between different parts of the city.  But in 2012 we actually got to go to the London Olympics thanks to our success in the first ballot (and we don’t as a rule win things!)  Cynicism deserts me: it was a great experience and London, and the entire UK, can be truly proud of  hosting this deservedly acclaimed event.

The others in our party were a nice group of people, all around our age or older, but they could sometimes behave like, well, old dears.  With one exception they were all ‘too tired’ to avail themselves of our guide’s kind offer of a walking tour.  Excuse me, but you’re probably never going to go to Montreal again yet you are ‘too tired’ to go on a gentle walk of an hour or so before dinner.  Unfortunately the exception was  a lady who’d discovered, at the outset of the walk, that she had lost her camera so, understandably, she was a bit preoccupied.  Sadly the camera was not retrieved.  We thoroughly enjoyed our walk and I think our guide was gratified that at least someone had taken up her offer.  There was the bonus that she took us back to our hotel on the metro.  I like to go on overseas metros but don’t always manage to do so.  In the process we got a glimpse of Montreal’s celebrated Underground City.  I cannot really get my head around what this is.  Resorting to Wikipedia I see it is described as ‘the set of interconnected complexes (both above and below ground) in and around Downtown Montreal’. 

Our hotel, the Queen Elizabeth, was not just near the Station.  It was the Station.  The platforms are at subterranean level and a lift takes one straight to the foyer.  It was a perfectly good hotel but there was something of  a feel of corporate bland which was wholly absent from the other two hotels that we stayed in.  We were not as impressed with the dining either.  The fine dining restaurant, for no apparent reason, was closed for the two nights of our stay.  So no chance to find out what the ‘cheese from our own goat Snow White who grazes in the Laurentian Hills’ was like.  We had dinner one night in the other restaurant and waited so long that a couple who had wisely gone across the road for their meal returned whilst we were still between our starter and main course. 

On our last full day we did a trip by rail to Quebec City, returning to Montreal.   This must be one of Canada’s most beautiful, and also most historic, cities.  The main part of the city is on a hill, some distance from the railway station.  Our local guide Olivier took charge.  The tour included a visit to the Citadel, interesting for itself and also because it affords fine views over  the Lawrence River and the surrounding countryside.  This really is where the urban corridor of Canada, which spreads out intermittently all the way to Windsor, immediately across the border from Detroit, comes to an end.  Here again some of our party were old-deary, complaining about having to spend time on this visit.  But if I visit an overseas city, I like to see its historic sites rather than spend time in shops.  And there was going to be free time anyway. 

We also learnt from Louise that some in our party had formed an adverse opinion of Olivier, thinking he was ‘too nationalist’.  One should maybe be not too surprised, if one goes to Quebec City, to find people, even tour guides, who are ‘too nationalist’.  He’s entitled to his opinion.  I won’t say that he oozed charm but he conducted the tour in perfectly polite and competent manner and didn’t talk about politics at all, so in fact we don’t actually know if  he supported the Party Québecois!     But it was maybe a tad patronizing for him to say he didn’t mind if we used the English variant of his name, Oliver.  We can manage to get our tongues around Olivier  which was after all the surname of one of our greatest actors! 

We used some of our spare time to have lunch in the city’s Fairmont Hotel, the imposing Chateau Frontenac, which never has been near a railway station.  The roll call of famous visitors is still more impressive than that of the Chateau Laurier and wartime conferences were held here involving Churchill, Roosevelt and the Canadian Prime Minister Mackenzie King.  Non-residents can book a tour but it’s not a place for those simply wanting to pop in to use the facilities for they have adopted the ruse of making the toilets accessible only by means of inserting  room keys.  Since  we were dining there we could use the facilities with no problem.   Otherwise we would have asserted our claim as residents of the sister hotel in Montreal!

The following morning there was time, but not much, to do a little bit more looking around in Montreal before again putting ourselves in the warm and tender embrace of Air Canada.  To be fair, the staff were nicer, the food better – and the in-flight entertainment worked. 

First published in VISA 107 (February 2013)

Spanish Grand Tour

By David Whiting

We marvelled at Madrid's monumental Plaza Mayor, a square dating from the early 17th century. Small shops and cafes line the arcades. We walked to the Puerta del Sol, site of a former gate, from which all distances in Spain are measured; and past the parliament buildings. We returned past the house where the writer Cervantes (1547-1616) lived and died: he died on the same day as Shakespeare.

Plaza de Espana, Seville (photo: Helen Matthews)

We returned through the Plaza Mayor as far as the 16th century Royal Palace, which has a fine panoramic view of the valley below. King Juan Carlos lives in a palace called La Zarzuela, but uses the royal palace on state occasions. Then to the adjacent cathedral before continuing to the monumental victory arch at the Puerta de Toledo (Toledo Gate).

On a sightseeing tour, we passed El Prado, with the world's best collection of Classical paintings, including Spanish, Flemish and Italian artists. Then the Parque de Retiro and Columbus Square; the Columbus Statue was erected in 1685. We stopped at the bullring, built in 1020, which has 27,000 seats. In ancient times, bulls were allowed to run in city squares. Adjacent is the statue of Dr Alexander Fleming, erected in gratitude for his discovery of penicillin, which saved the lives of many injured bullfighters. Another stop was in a square which has a lovely statue of Cervantes overlooking Don Quixote and his good and faithful servant, Sancho Panza.
We visited Toledo on a day trip from Madrid. This city was founded around 4000 BC on a naturally fortified site, overlooking the River Tajo (Tagus), which flows to the Atlantic Ocean at Lisbon. In AD 711 Arabs (Moors) conquered Spain; they were the most scholarly people of the time and had huge libraries. Around AD 900 craftsmen from Damascus came to Toledo to introduce their damasquino metalwork. Their tradition of making knives and swords is still maintained here. Toledo has changed very little since medieval times; the streets are often narrow and steep.

We visited the splendid cathedral, which has 750 stained-glass windows - half are original. The cathedral treasury contains many crosses made with precious jewels and other religious relics, as well as a 13th century Bible of St Louis (Louis IX of France). The cathedral was founded on the site of the first temple here (5th century) in 1227, but is mostly 14/15th century, finished in 1496. The cathedral is beautifully decorated, especially the choir, with its high reliefs in stone and wood. The magnificent brightly coloured late 15th century retable depicts 24 steps in Jesus's life.

The Sacristy contains numerous works by El Greco, Van Dyck and other artists. El Greco came to Toledo in 1575 after a request in Venice for foreign painters to come to Toledo to paint works for the monastery. We visited a small gallery, part of a church showing El Greco' s chief masterpiece, the burial of El Conde de Orgaz (Burial of the Count of Orgaz).

From Madrid, we headed northwards, stopping in Segovia, once an important Roman city, before continuing to Burgos. We saw the tomb of El Cid in Burgos Cathedral, which was founded in 1221. 

El Cid was born Rodrigo Diaz in the nearby village of Viler. He fought first on the side of the Spanish before changing sides and fighting with the Moors, who named him Sidi, meaning Lord. Later he changed sides again, helping Spain to reconquer Valencia, where he died. His body was finally brought here in 1942.
Nearer to Bilbao, where the rainfall is greater, the fields and trees are greener. Coniferous forests cover the mountainsides, reminiscent of the Tirol. We entered the Basque region to spend the night in Bilbao. It is now famous for its Guggenheim Museum, built in 1997 at a cost of $100 million, looks like a ship and was made of titanium. Outside the front entrance of the Guggenheim is a 'puppy' around 10 metres high, covered in a wide variety of flowers.

We spent a night in Pamplona, famous for an annual festival in July, when bulls are chased through the medieval city streets. Ernest Hemingway wrote about this festival, the Encierro, in his novel The Sun Also Rises. We explored the city, visiting the cathedral, which is mainly plain brick but has several highly decorated chapels and a fine altar. It also contains the tomb of Charles III who founded the cathedral in 1416.
Our next stop was Zaragoza, founded in 14 BC, Spain's 5th largest city and the capital of Aragon. The artist Goya was born here. The huge Basilica de Nuestra Senora del Pilar was built on the spot where the Virgin Mary appeared to St James (the patron saint of Spain) and ordered him to build a church. The present basilica, dating from 1677, has some very rich decoration and a small museum contains jewelled clerical garments, chalices etc, and paintings by Goya. Some Roman fortifications are visible.

Entering Barcelona, we passed the two great towers of the Placa Espana, marking the entrance to the site of the 1929 World Exposition. We continue to Montjuic, named after a medieval Jewish cemetery on the hill; many Jews came to Spain after the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, 70 AD. Below it is the Poble Espanyol, a 'medieval' town of Spanish buildings created for the Expo 1929.

We drove through the botanical gardens, with tropical plants and cacti from Spain, Central and South America. We descended to the port, which is overlooked by a statue, erected in 1880, of Christopher Columbus, who sailed from here to America in 1492.

Picasso studied at Barcelona's Academy of Fine Arts, now the Stock Exchange. Nearby are several large sections of the medieval fortifications. We walked to the cathedral, completed in 1913, although the foundations contain Roman and other ancient stones; there were many beggars on the cathedral steps. The cathedral contains beautifully decorated chapels: I wonder if modem cathedrals will last as long as those built centuries ago? Two years ago, one of the King's daughters was married in this cathedral. She works in a nearby bank, which we pass.

The 1920s bullring is decorated with blue and white tiles, typical of Spain. The bullfight season had finished and there was a circus in the building. We then made a short stop at the Temple de la Sagrada Familia, begun in 1884 by local architect Antonio Gaudi. He died in 1926 (run over by a tram) without leaving any plans for the unfinished church and work stopped until it was decided to recommence in 1940. It is expected to be finished around 2050. Parts of the church were damaged in the Civil War in 1936.

The tomb of Gaudi is in the crypt. The church can be visited by tourists, as can the Gaudi museum in one section of it, but we did not have time. Mila House (1906), another of Gaudi's works, looks like a cliff of the Costa Brava with 60 balconies. His buildings are totally surreal; it's hard to believe his audacity!
We also visited Montserrat ("serrated mountain") and its Benedictine monastery, founded in the 9th century. A Black Madonna was found there in the 12th century, as a result of which it became an important place of pilgrimage. It was rebuilt after being damaged by Napoleon's troops in 1812. It has a remarkable position on a sheer cliff, 100 metres above the valley floor and there are tremendous panoramic views.

When I came here in 1974, the Catalan language was banned under Franco. Now it is the first language. Montserrat attracts an enormous number of tourists and is seriously over-commercialised. Cable cars and walks are provided for the more adventurous to explore the mountains. We took the motorway towards Valencia.
Some rice is grown in this part of Spain. In fact, Valencia is where Spain's national dish, paella, originated. Valencia is Spain's third largest city and is surrounded by orange groves and ceramics factories. The city was captured from the Moors by El Cid in 1094; he died here in 1099.

We arrived late in the afternoon at our hotel and took a bus to the centre where, drinking a beer near the cathedral, there was a sudden series of fireworks and a great explosion, announcing a wedding inside. After the wedding party left, another arrived for the ceremony in one of the chapels. The whole city was awakened by a fireworks display at 12.45 am, evidently part of the wedding celebrations!

We crossed La Mancha, by-passing the city of Albacete (from Arabic Al Basite, the Plain), surrounded by agricultural plains and famous for the manufacture of knives and scissors. The drive along county roads through small towns, all very quiet, amongst vast panoramas of olive trees, was very pleasant. The picking season starts at the end of November. On the approach to Cordoba, the olive groves alternated with cotton fields. Immigrant workers, often from Morocco, come here at harvest times, and there are numerous signs in Arabic.
Cordoba, with a population of 320,000, was an important city under the Romans and Moors; it was founded in 152BC and used to contain over 1,000 mosques. Cordoba's medieval Arabic walls, built on Roman foundations, are complete and form the back walls of many later houses and shops. Some columns have been re-erected on the original foundations of the Roman temple, 14-15 AD. A partly Roman bridge still carries traffic over the River Guadalquivir. The land was recaptured from the Arabs in 1236 and the Mezquita (mosque) was converted into a cathedral. TIle minaret was incorporated into the 16th century cathedral tower; some of the Arabic arches were opened out in the 15th century so that Gothic arches now support the cathedral.

The mosque, formerly the second largest after that at Mecca, was built for 25,000 people. It was the only mosque not correctly aligned to face Mecca. There are hundreds of red and white striped arches and granite and marble columns brought from Arab lands. The cathedral, built 1523-1628, seats only 300 people. The choirstalls and organs were added in 1750.

We walked through some of the ancient lanes and courtyards, with their pretty trees, in the Arab and Jewish quarters. Ferdinand and Isabella prepared for the conquest of Granada in Cordoba. In 1492 they promised Columbus help to get to India, the land of spices, by sailing westwards, as all the lands eastwards were in the hands of the Arabs.

Next stop was Seville. One evening, after dinner, we attended a colourful flamenco show, near the bull ring, in El Patio Sevillano; on the way we passed the former cigarette factory where Bizet's character Cannen worked. The lOO-minute performance comprised dancing to taped and live music. Immense concentration is required for the stamping of feet and heels and the clicking of castanets. The tunes included Granada and Carmen. The costumes are sumptuous; the smart caballeros and the senoritas in their colourful frilly dresses. Flamenco has gypsy and Arab roots and is a medium for the dancers to express their emotions. It is a serious art; will the same be said about rock and roll and break dancing in 50 years? The city is the host for an annual flamenco festival, which attracts around ten million visitors.

We stopped at the beautiful Plaza de Espana, built 1917-1929 for the 1929 World Exposition. Lovely pictures on the walls represent historical events and the various Spanish provinces in alphabetical older. The building now contains Government offices.

Near to the Alcazar (fortress) is the Archive of the Spanish exploration and discovery of South America, containing some 82 million documents. The present Alcazar is the fifth on the site since the first building, a 1st century BC Roman fortress. This building, 1350-1309, was built by Moslems for the Christian rule, and unique in that respect. It is the winter residel1ce of Spain's royal family when in We walked through medieval lanes to the Plaza de Santa Cruz where painter Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-62) was buried, marked by a 17th century cross on the site of a church which no longer exists. As we were about to leave the square, another group arrived, accompanied by a minstrel! We passed the house where Murillo lived, now open to the public.

The cathedral was originally built (1184-1198) as a mosque. Two thirds of the minaret and a courtyard of the original remain. The minaret was incorporated into the tower, 98 metres high, known as La Giralda after the weather vane weighing one-and-a-half tons on top. This building was mainly erected in 1434-1517. Two massive pillars are being dismantled as cracks have been found in them; temporary scaffolding is being noisily erected and it is hoped the work will be complete in six months. The monumental tomb of Christopher Columbus stands at one side of the cathedral although three other places claim to have his body. His descendants have now agreed to DNA tests to prove once and for all where he is buried. Opposite his tomb is a grand altar used in the annual procession through the city.

Jerez de la Frontera is famous for the breeding of horses and the production of sherry. The soil here is chalky, ideal for the grapes required. These grapes were introduced into this area by the Phoenicians in the 11th century BC. We visited the Gonzalez Byass Aodega (wine cellars), where Tio Pepe sherry and other brands are produced. The bodega is close to the town's Moorish fortress. The bodega was established in 1835.
We were welcomed in a conch-shaped hall, with barrels bearing the name of every nation to which Tio Pepe sherry is exported. The cellars contain many barrels (amply) dedicated to or autographed by celebrities, including heads of state from many countries, sportsmen etc. There is a small museum, with old bottles and barrels etc.
We drove along the Ruta del Toro, named after the many ranches where fighting bulls are raised. In some parts of Spain, the barbaric so-called sport of bullfighting is gaining fierce opposition, like fox-hunting in Britain. Perhaps soon, both "sports" will be extinct. The land approaching Gibraltar is covered with much woodland and is sparsely populated. We entered Gibraltar through the border town of La Linea.

The entrance to Gibraltar is across the airport runway, controlled by traffic lights. We opted for a 90 minute taxi tour, costing £10 each. British money is interchangeable with Gibraltarian money; Spanish money is equally accepted. The main industries are tourism and philately. The coach park is on reclaimed land. The local taxi-bus took us past the British-built sea defence walls, then past the scene in the 1980s when three IRA members were killed by members of the UK's Special Branch.

There is a vast system of tunnels inside the limestone rock, which was used in World War Two when they housed hospitals, generators and so on. During the war, the entire population could retire into the tunnels. We passed the entrance to a tunnel where, in 1942 Montgomery organized the offensive in North Africa; it is now NATO property. We stopped at Europa Point, near Europe's most southerly mosque, built by the King of Saudi Arabia for the small Arab community of Gibraltar. At this point is the Last Shop in Europe, originally built in 1844 as a magazine to store ammunition; it became a shop in 1965.

We drove up to the Upper Rock area, a protected part. We visited St Michael's Cave, known since Roman times. It was converted into a hospital in World War Two (but never used) and is a cave system; one cave is as large as a cathedral. We also encountered some of the 300 apes, which are wild and dangerous. They will eat anything that remotely looks like food, and they constantly climb on (and if possible into) vehicles. Crossing from Spain into Gibraltar is a simple business, but crossing back into Spain we all had to leave the coach and carry our hand luggage across the border. We headed inland to Granada.

Granada has around 250,000 inhabitants, augmented by some 2.4 million visitors to the Alhambra each year. Although Granada is one of Europe's hottest cities, it has plenty of water as there is snow in the Sierra Nevada for most of the year. The Alhambra (meaning Red Castle) was built by the Moors in the 14th century on the site of a 3000-year-old Iberian settlement, later a Roman town.

The walls of the Alhambra are covered with Arabic patterns and inscriptions from the Koran. The ceiling of the Ambassador's Salon is said to consist of 8,017 pieces of wood, the same number as the verses in the Koran. The Arabs were so technically advanced that they did not use screws, nails or adhesive. The proportions are symmetrical and perfect.

After the Moors were ejected from Spain, Emperor Charles V built a palace in the grounds of the Alhambra in 1526. He ruled an Empire larger than the Roman Empire. Part of the city of the Alhambra was mined by Napoleon's army. Washington Irving wrote his Tales of the Alhambra in Charles V's palace in 1829.
After visiting the Alhambra we walked round the Generalife Gardens, originally built as a private park for the Sultan, although its present Italianate gardens date from after 1492.

After lunch, we walked along The River Barro, past ancient Moorish fortifications and into medieval quarters of narrow steep streets, from where there are grand views of the Alhambra.
The Capilla Real (Royal Chapel), built 1506-1521, contains the tombs of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, who wished to be buried on the site of their victory over the Arabs; their coffins are in the crypt beneath their tombs. The adjacent museum contains Isabella's crown and mace, her personal art collection and other treasures. The altarpiece is very colourful and beautiful.

Finally, we visited the Cathedral, which contains an exhibition of religious art and artefacts and a second exhibition concerning Charles V and the city of Granada, with pictures, documents and other objects. There is atmospheric mediaeval background music to take the visitor back in time. Some of the cathedral's beautiful chapels are obscured, but there is a fine organ.

First published in VISA issue 40 (spring 2001)