Ceri and Danielle travel in Imperial Europe,Turkey, Italy, Spain and Portugal

Porto perfecto

2009-01-31T18:56:00.001-08:00

In my first year at University, I discovered the delights of a glass of port and a cigar at the end of a day. The cigars are long gone, but I still love a little port from time to time.
Imagine my delight in looking out from our apartment window across the langorous Duoro river, right over to old warehouses dating back several centuries. The beautiful skyline of Vila Nova de Gaia, opposite Porto, is punctuated with grand signs redolent of gentlemen’s clubs and English country gardens- Sandemans, Croft, Offley Forester, Calem, Barros, AA Ferreira. We promise to go to tasting some of the varieties.
Looking down a little from the apartment window, I could see the barges or barcos, used to carry the barrels downstream from the cellars. Below most buildings are curved entrance ways for the rolling barrels to be stored.

This apartment has to be one of the most magical places to stay. I found it on the marvelous website http://www.ownersdirect.co.uk/. Our most helpful host, Ferdinand Almeida, met us by the Igreja dos Carmelitas, ornately decorated in blue Portuguese tiles. He guided us through increasingly narrow World Heritage lanes , to park the car then he even trundled our suitcases to his artistic and stylish apartment in the Ribeira area, just by the bridge called Ponte de Dom Luis 1.
We fall in love with the deep maroon of the sitting room, the dark tangerine of the hall way, the ochre of one bedroom and the saucy pink of the other. We are impressed that a previous guest was the NZ ambassador to Vietnam.
Ferdinand has a bottle of port waiting for us with some snacks.
Strains of the poignant Portuguese fado music drift in on the breeze, as we riffle through the selection of ‘what’s on’ booklets Ferdinand has collected, and sip the rich port. We sink into the armchairs and resolve to stay forever.

Sadly we had only two days to enjoy Porto, so it was out of the apartment to the riverside to book a tour up the Duoro River to see the hillsides where the famous grapes are grown. The boat travelled through productive vineyards, pretty villages and impressive rock formations, rightly designated a Unesco World Heritage Site. We were served the most delicious lunch washed down with plentiful wines to soothe the anxiety of two terribly deep locks. The late autumn sun cast a gold sheen on the quaint medieval buildings along the riverbanks, every bit as beautiful as the more familiar Florence.

The city of Porto rambles down to the river in narrow streets, elegant corner churches and generous squares. We would love to come back again for a much longer visit, to explore the history, the architecture, the music, the people and of course the many kinds of port.

Ferdinand’s apartment can be seen on http://www.ownersdirect.co.uk/ ref P4551

Leipzig and the coldest winter for 100 years

2009-01-12T04:02:00.000-08:00

Our train trip to Leipzig was through a landscape of white fields with foraging foxes, and villages surrounded by snowy pine trees - it was the Christmas card scenery we had hoped for.
It was exhilarating to walk in the zoological park, in shin deep snow. We saw a fox, a white owl, deer, hairy pigs, elks, buffalo, and lots of human skiers striding along on their cross country skis.

One church in the city held double fascination for us. St Nicholas church, built in 1165, and a Protestant church since the Reformation arrived in Leipzig in 1539, was where Johann Sebastian Bach was organist and choirmaster from 1723 to 1750. Architecturally it is one of Germany's most important monuments.

Its place in social and political history is even stronger.

All through the 1980's, people gathered at St Nicholas church to pray for peace. In the autumn of 1989 there was a hideous show of force by soldiers, industrial militia, police and plain clothes officers. They were welcomed into the church. The end result of the non-violent presence of thousands of fellow east Germans was the collapse of the party and the ideological dictatorship. - the Wall came down.

After paying homage to Bach, long time resident of Leipzig, and to Mendelssohn and Schumann, who promoted the performance of Bach's music in public, we retreated with our other friend Karola, from the cold and the challenges of sight seeing into one of the oldest cafes, Cafe Baum, for yet another hot chocolate and out last bit of German cake.

On our last morning, when the temperature dropped to minus 16, and newsreaders intoned about the coldest winter for 100 years, we felt our wish for a white winter had been more then fulfilled.

Dresden and the first snowfall

2009-01-12T03:37:00.000-08:00

The train from Munich took us north to Dresden where our friend Uta met us, holding out two red roses in greeting. She had borrowed her mother’s car, and her brother’s apartment for our stay.
With the car she drove us into nearby Saxony Switzerland, called thus for the huge mountain peaks, deep river valleys, and most impressively the high rocky pinnacles. Uta pointed out a book chained to the top of one of the vertiginous and vertical rocks, which bears her name, and that of other brave climbers- not ours! The wind bringing the snow drove us into the café, for thick hot chocolate and German cakes- perfect on a cold day.
Snow began to fall late afternoon , and fell and fell. In such a cold climate it is surprising that everyone parks their cars outside, on the street where ever there is a place, and we became quite nonchalant about stomping through deep snow to try to identify a car covered in snow.

The old city has been rebuilt, so it is really a new city. Over the river is the official NeueStadt, or new city, much older than the 'new city'. Here is a delightful colourful quarter, with many artists and crafts people selling thier wares, and living in creatively painted buildings. I loved this drain pipe arrangement.

Dresden is the city where, on 13 February 1945, the combined USA and British air forces bombed the city centre and surrounding districts, Some 35,000 people died in that air raid alone. We walked around the beautiful cobble stoned city centre which has been so faithfully rebuilt. Our friend’s parents were among the hundreds who helped clean bricks as part of the reconstruction.
“Whoever has forgotten how to cry, learns it again with the destruction of Dresden.“ (Gerhart Hauptmann)
We walked round the city in a sombre mood, mindful of the conflicted history of the countries we have visited over these three months.

To us coming from 'the new world', we are acutely aware of the layers of history beneath our feet.It is impossible to look at everything around us, old and new, without 'reading between the lines', imagining what was there 50 years ago, or 250, or 1000, or back before the common era. Museums and historical displays add to this knowledge, while still allowing us to enjoy and appreciate what is before our eyes. Having guides like our friends Uta and Karola made our time in East Germany added another dimension to our rich experience.

New Year celebration in Dresden

2009-01-12T02:43:00.000-08:00

‘You must come to Dresden! We will show you how we celebrate Silvester!
Our friend Uta drove carefully on the city streets to park the car near the Elbe River in Dresden. Clutching the bottle of champagne and three glasses, we made our way across the frozen ground, and past groups of people prematurely letting off crackers and rockets, hoping like mad they would not point them at us.
Uta set us up with a great view of the steeples, domes and towers of Dresden city, as the river flowed coldly in front of us, reflecting the floodlit buildings. It was -6 degrees at most. As midnight neared the brilliantly lit barrage increased. By midnight we could not hear the dozens of church bells ringing in the New Year because of the cacophony of sound. All around us were hundreds and thousands of rockets, explosions, shooting colours and sparkles across the sky.
We clung together for warmth and slowly circled, sipping the extremely well cooled champers, and watching the fireworks. There was no let up for at least 30 minutes of total exhilaration of exuberant firepower.
New Year arrived in Eastern German style for us this year.

Snowy Berchtesgaden

2008-12-29T02:27:00.000-08:00

A tiny mountain village nestles into a valley just over the German border. It is just below the luxury mountain retreat built for Hitler,called the Eagles Nest. All around the villages were occupied by staff officers. Today Berchtesgaden is colourful, lively and full of delicious food. A local speciality is white sausage, washed down with white beer.

Salzburg and real snow

2008-12-29T02:23:00.001-08:00

Just ouside Salzburg is a gorgeous mountain area, with picturesque houses, fir trees laden with snow, and neat piles of firewood ready for the open fire.

Christmas day castles and cathedrals in Vienna

2008-12-29T01:47:00.000-08:00

On Christmas day there was snow and ice on the ground as we crunched over the stones at Schonbrunn, the imperial summer palace of the Hapsburg dynasty. We only managed to visit nine of the 1441 rooms,but that was enough to learn of the grandeur and wealth of a family which ruled the Austro-Hungarian empire for 500 years.

We heard the strains of a choral mass from the private chapel, as we drifted down a wide staricase, but that was the nearest we got to church this Christmas. We focussed on Maria Theresa, rather than the Virgin Mary, and on her son Franz Joseph, rather than Jesus.

Maria Theresa was known as 'the mother in law' of Europe, because she carefully married most of her 16 children off into European ruling families. Franz Joseph gave his name to a glacier in NZ, so there is a little connection there.

In Schonbrunn Palace, we saw portraits of all the family on the walls,including a series of delicate oil portraits by one of the daughters. The family were all very talented in art and music, and seeing so many pictures of them all, and where they enjoyed thier summers, it was quite appropriate to compete the life cycle by later visiting their last resting places, the crypts and vaults , under a Capuchin monastery.

There lie Maria Theresa and her beloved husband, holding hands in death, plus all the children, grandchildren and great grand children, up to the present day. The last Hapsburg is Otto, now 90 and living in exile, who is often seen at the crypt, where his place stands waiting.

It was lovely to walk around a fairly quiet Vienna on Christmas afternoon, to admire the Winter Palace, the Cathedral,the Opera house, and all the grand buildings of this most appealing city, then to go back to the Hilton for a perfectly designed light Christmas supper. Having spoken with most of our dear far flung family, we were content.

Vienna for Christmas Eve

2008-12-29T01:07:00.000-08:00

What a romantic idea- snow on the ground, Christmas lights sparkling against the whiteness, old Bavarian hotel with a steep pitched roof, dripping icicles, sleigh bells in the distance.

None of that happened , as the snow had not arrived, but it was still wonderful!
Our room at the Vienna Danube Hilton Hotel looked over the Danube River gliding past on its way from the Black Forest, east to the Black Sea- so impressive. No wonder the most popular tune in Austria is the 'Blue Danube Waltz'.
The Christmas Eve treat was a concert by the Salonorchester Alt Vien, at the Kursalon Vien, followed by dinner at the restaurant Johann.

I could imagine the The Kursalon when it was built in 1865 in Italian renaissance style, where people came to drink the curative waters, then stay on for dances and promenades concerts. It was here that Johann Strauss became a musical sensation with his innovative waltzes.

In the richly decorated salon today, the Salon orchestra has developed a highly enjoyable program of Viennese music. We heard Voices of Spring waltz, Roses from the South, Rondo alla turca, Overture to the Marriage of Figaro and , of course, the Blue Danube waltz. Properly called, On the beautiful Blue Danube', it was originally composed for male choir and military band - that must be quite a different sound from the violins and piano versionthat we heard.
It was beautifully presented by an orchestra who seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Two ballet dancers leapt and pirouetted, two opera singers charmed us with arias, and the audience even got to clap along during the Colonel Radetsky march. Great fun.

Organised by Sound of Vienna, these excellent concerts are for local Viennese who want to show their visitors a slice of Vienna, for companies wishing to offer clients an exclusive musical evening, and for tour operators to offer excellent music, dance and opera. www.soundofvienna.at

During the interval we sipped dry Prosecco, and after the concert there was an elegant meal in the downstairs restaurant.

In Central Europe, it is the custom to celebrate Christmas on 24 December, with the family gathering ,and the special meal. Everyone is at home with families that day- we saw this for ourselves on the motorway into Vienna- it was virtually deserted. Interestingly, there are no presents. They are given much earlier, on 6 December, St Nicholas day, so there is no space for Santa around Christmas at all. Infact, I saw only two Santas the whole time. Instead there are lots of nativity scenes, of all shapes and sizes. Many of the shops put on beautiful animated nativity scenes,and there are throngs of children and families standing and gazing at these illuminated spectacles.

Budapest-two cities on the Danube

2008-12-28T09:22:00.000-08:00

Budapest by night was another perfect introduction to a city with a complex past. The wide Danube reflected the carefully illuminated buldings, as we heard the stories of the devastation of the war years, followed by the neglect which occurred during the Communist years. The twin cities of Buda and Pest are joined by several graceful bridges.

The seat of government is found in the Parliament Buildings, so huge that they only use half of the rooms. The Parliament was built when Hungary was a vast Empire of 60million people. Now , because of the Treaty of Trianon, it has only one third of its former territory.I was intrigued that there are 96 steps up to the buildings commemorating the beginning of the Arped Dynasty in 1096. For more history see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hungary

Attila the Hun was famous proto Hungarian, a long time ago- in the 5th century. He is still remembered for his fierceness and refusal to submit.

Early morning we visited Heroes Square , a grand open space with statues of heroes of the last 1000 years of Hungarian history. It is situated at in front of the City Park, at the end of the Andrássy Avenue, one of the most important streets of Budapest, a World Heritage site. The millenial monument was built in 1896 to commemorate the 1000th anniversary of the arrival of Hungarians in the Carpathian Basin.

Heroes Square is where the Russian tanks rolled in 1956.

It is on the edge of a gracious and leafy park,surrounded by elegant houses now occupied by embassies. They used to be wealthy family homes, until the commuists nationalised everything, and required up to 12 families to inhabit each home.

We saw the Great Synagogue built in a Moorish style, and heard a little of the Jewish people being resettled and put in ghettoes, transported, and killed. See
.http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/vjw/Budapest.html

A very sombre visit was to the House of Terror, a museum of the Nazi and Soviet days in Hungary. A tank pointing directly at the visitor is a scary start. On the walls are thousands and housands of photos of people who died or disappeared duriing those dark days. All around are old black telephones reminding us of the surveillance and informer networks which so terrorised the population. I saw copies of signed 'confessions', photos of the terrible conditions experienced by those sent to brutal work camps in Siberia, and displays of books, jewellery and belongings of those forced to leave home in a hurry. The Museum is on elegant Andrassy Avenue, in the former headquarters of the Hungarian Nazi Party. It is compulsory viewing to see what evil people are capable of, given the 'right'conditions.http://www.terrorhaza.hu/index3.html

Bratislava- after the Iron Curtain and the Velvet Revolution

2008-12-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

Bratislava is the capital of Slovakia, a pretty city on the banks of Danube, only 60km from Vienna in Austria. It was behind the Iron Curtain, then it became one of the main centres of the ani-communist velvet revolution in tha late 1980's. It has emerged as a very prosperous and active commercial, academic and cultural centre. We loved the street sculpture, like this man emerging from the underground system.

Bratislava is the home of the famous fine Herend porcelain, which filled the windows of many of the enticing shops, in the quaint and colourful old town area. Swarovski crystal is also found here, although it originates in Bohemia. We could not resist some small crystal earrings here.

There has been much restoration and rebuilding of damaged buildings,but it is a bit sporadic, as this photo shows.

Throughout central Europe we saw groups of people begging. Often they are gypsies from Romania , or Albania. Some are genuinely poor and displaced but our guide spoke of organised Mafia style gangs . The people are being driven to 'work' the streets and picked up afterwards. This little family group were singing under an archway with great enthusiasm and people were happily giving them money. Another time, we saw a gang with a mother, two teenage daughters and a baby, going up and holding the baby out , and asking for money in a pleading manner . Later we saw them again sitting, eating and laughing. Once on a train, a gipsy left a scrap of paper on the table in front of each passenger. It asked us not to be prejudiced against gypsies, who are simply trying to make a new life in a new land. It is hard to know who to believe.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bratislava

Prague by night

2008-12-28T08:22:00.001-08:00

A blue Christmas angel protects the square in Prague.

Prague castle seen from the river

Prague- castles, cars, clocks and beer

2008-12-28T07:44:00.000-08:00

Prague is a fary tale city, with slender spires, castles on the sky line, a romantic river and cobbled streets.
To see it from the river at night when all the buildings are flood lit is to catch some of the beauty and splendour. Prague was fortunate not have had much war damage, so the atmosphere is one of a well preserved historical centre, with a lively contemporary life.

Prague castle is well guarded by stern young men, who vounteer for the job, but ony have to spend one hour at a time- partly because of the icy cold, and partly I suspect because of the foolish tourists, lke this one, who insist on posing for photos.

The huge castle complex has stood on top of a hill for over 1000 years doing a great job of protecting the city. It is immaculately clean and maintained, with a large and beautiful church, St Vitus cathedral, and views across the Vltava river.

In the old town square is the famous astronomical clock, which demonstates a very advanced scientific understanding that the earth moves around the sun. We were shocked to learn that , when the clock was finished, the brilliant creator was blinded, so he could never make another.

We made a brief visit to the pilgrimage church of Our Lady Victorious, home of the infant Jesus - this is an antique doll which is who is dressed up in different clothes according to the season, , displayed in a gold surrounded baroque fantasia, and venerated by millions.

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A tour with no photos but a beauty I will never forget was a guided tour through the Municipal House, the state buildings, proudly paid for entirely with CZ money, designed and built by Czechs,, in 1905-1912, all in Art Nouveau. We saw 9 rooms, which open one to the next. Do have a look at it here. http://www.pragueexperience.com/places.asp?PlaceID=649
I loved the art nouveau details. Bevelled edge mirrors, hand embroidered hangings, huge nationalistic frescoes, theme rooms, such as the Oriental room, and the Ladies room .
My souvenirs were postcards and two ‘antique buttons’ turned into brooches- a great idea.
Prague is the location for many movies- our excellent guide Kaspar showed us where some movies were filmed , including Amadeus, Mission Impossible, The Illusionist, Fatherland.

Near Prague is Pilsen, home of beer, on a very large complex of five breweries. we tested the Pilsen and pronounced it good.

Also nearby is the Skoda factory.During the war, Skoda was the SS car of choice, and therefore very unpopular with the local Czechs. After the war it was known as a cheap but poorly made vehicle. Now it has been bought by Chrysler and is apparently very much better. The Octavia is their best seller.

Prague is one of the places I hope to return to- its present day beauty, its noble history, its range of cultural activities, the photographc opportunities.See the next blog!

Mulled wine and hot sausages- Christmas markets in Munich and Regensburg

2008-12-28T07:18:00.000-08:00

Marionplatz in the middle of Munich was heaving with heavily wrapped people, carrying beutifully wrapped presents, and leaning aginst temporary outdoor tables, drinking heavily aromatic and enticing mulled wine, or gluhwein. In spite of the warmth of the crowd, we were experiencing our first night of European winter- it was cold enough to freeze my nose. We paid for E2.50 for a steaming cupful of the spicy hot wine, and joined the cheerful crowds.

Every Christmas market we visited had stalls selling this essential winter drink, and we did sample many versions, in the interests of research of course, but the first sip on that cold night, with the beautiful Christmas lights all around us was memorable.

In Regensberg we enjoyed the market set among the coloured and undamaged facades of the town square. The market here was small but had high quality jewellery, lovely felt hats, and charming ornaments, as well as the gluhwein, hot sausages and huge rolls of fresh cinnamon bread sticks. These people with a single rose were off to a wedding.

Up to the Black sea

2008-12-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

If you go down to Galata bridge, in the middle of Istanbul, you can stand with one foot in Europe and one in Asia. The bridge spans the Bosphorus and links the two parts of this 17 million strong city.
Beside the Galata bridge are the ferries which ply across the water day and night. The wharves are seething waves of black clad locals coming to and fro.
We took a regular ferry up the Bosphorus as far as the Black Sea. It took 90 minutes, calling in to seaside suburbs on both sides of the water. Restaurants, parks, mosques, expensive houses with launches tied up outside, palaces, castles, universities, all line the shore and stretch up into the hills as far as you can see.17 million is a lot of people to house!
The narrow stretch of sea goes from the Dardanelles all the way to the Black Sea. The last stretch is all military zone and seriously off limits. At Anadolu Kavagi, on the Asian side, we walked up to a crumbling castle overlooking the heads and looked down onto a modern naval base, A warship lay at anchor in the bay, and gunfire echoed in the hills.
In Turkey all young men must do 18 months military service - in fact it is seen as a rite of passage. For young men living in remote country areas it is an essential part of becoming a modern Turk. For city boys the experience can draw them closer to their roots. And of course it strengthens the already strong sense of nationhood and history.
It was fascinating to see the Black Sea to the north, having been to the Aegean to the west, the Mediterranean (called the White Sea by the Turks) to the south, and knowing that Iran/Armenia/Georgia were very close to the east. Way ahead is the Crimea, with Russia, Moldavia, Romania, Bulgaria bordering the Black Sea. No wonder all Turkish boats, even fishing and hobby boats, fly the Turkish flag as they sail up and down the sea, - nation of origin is very important in these parts.
Back down at the wharf, there are many fish restaurants selling the most delicious fresh fish, with salad and a beer. We watched military vehicles come and go, women selling jewellery pashminas, and traditional bags, men trying to capture tourists into their particular restaurants, and little children coming home from school. In late December it was warm and completely absorbing, a marvellous way to see yet another aspect of this intriguing country.

Fairy chimneys, underground cities- Cappadocia has it all.

2008-12-18T08:05:00.000-08:00

Fairy Chimneys, intestinal tunnels, caves in the sky-we saw it all in one day.
The underground city of Derinkuyu was built to house people in times of war. In the soft tufa or volcanic rock, is a warren of rooms, kitchens, chapels, wine and food storage areas, water containers and air shafts. We crouched to shuffle along low tunnels which connect each area, going further and further into the earth. The tourist paths are well lit and signposted, but we could see a myriad of passage ways in many directions. Fantastic place to hideout, if you can control the claustrophobia!
There are at least 36 underground cities in Cappadocia, in central Anatolya. dating from at least 7th century BC. People could live as troglodytes for up to six months, and there is evidence that tens of thousands did so. There are round stones to cover up entrance ways, booby traps for unwary enemy, and holes in the roof to pour in boiling oil if enemy did breech the doors.
Rising above ground, we stood on a stomach lurching plateau looking at a perfect triangular volcano (dormant), Mt Erciyes, a carbon copy of Mount Taranaki. Below it the valley floor was full of conical rocky outcrops. On closer examination they revealed little holes for doorways and windows,. There were even ladders and steps cut out of the soft rock. This was the unearthly monastery of Goreme, the land of the so-called fairy chimneys.
Once a double monastery, with separate dormitory blocks and individual cells cut into the rock, Goreme is the most fascinating of all the world heritage sites we visited. There are several little chapels dedicated to different saints, some still with beautiful bright wall paintings and patterns. They date back to the 9th century, and are Byzantine frescoes depicting the lives of Christ and the saints. One is St Gregory of Nyssa, the old name for the place we stayed, Nevsehir. Gregory was the brother of the more famous St Basil, the local Archbishop. There are rock kitchens with black cooking smoke on the walls, refectories with seating platforms, and complex pigeon houses, where the dropping were collected. This fertilised the productive valley floor where even today there are excellent crops of apricots, grapes, cherries, sugar beets and chick peas. . The surrounding hills are a national park. The light snow fall made it all seem ethereal and other-worldly- a place I wish we had more time to explore to just absorb the atmosphere.
My heightened awareness was rudely broken when I stopped to take a photo of a camel sitting by the car park. The owner leapt out of his chair and shouted in a very unsmiling fashion. I think he wanted me to pay for the photo, but his manner was so aggressive I decided to move quickly to our waiting bus and not discuss the matter.

White terraces of travertine- Pamukkale and Hierapolis

2008-12-18T07:54:00.000-08:00

I saw the snow first, a great gleaming hillside of it. No, said Erol the guide, it is travertine. Travertine is marble, shiny and white as the first snowfall of winter, stretching across half the mountain. The area is Pamukkale, meaning ‘cotton castle’.
We walked across the top of the glistening white terraces, which cascaded down the mountain side. Some terraces formed pools filled with blue water, enticing enough for us to paddle in. The bottom was slightly slimy and soft. Around the bend were more of the magical terraces, this time tinged with pink and green minerals. The terraces have been formed by calcium carbonate leaching out of the water.
The sight reminds me of the 19th century tourist attraction which brought people from all over the world in New Zealand - the pink and white terraces. They were destroyed by the eruption of Mount Tarawera. Here in Turkey, the legendary terraces of Pammukale, were in danger of being destroyed by their own popularity. Until a few years ago you could book into a hotel right on the terraces and play all day in the natural infinity pools. Now that UNESCO has declared them a world natural heritage Site, and recent buildings have been removed.
But they left the remains of several thousand years of civilisation, at the spa city of Hieropolis, built by the Romans in 190 BC, on the hillside and plateaus above the terraces. There are marble paved roads, golden limestone arches, old stone latrines, a thermal swimming pool, temple pillars, and a huge necropolis- a city of the dead. Hierapolis was famous as a healing centre and for its mix of pagan, Roman, Jewish and early Christian populations. St Philip was said to be martyred here.
The whole site, stretching over many hectares, is being excavated and reconstructed with funding by the Italian car company, Fiat. Not sure of the connection there, but other sites are funded by Mercedes, and Chrysler. Hierapolis was a wealthy city in its time, and it is taking the wealth of the 21st century to bring back some of its glory.
Some of the Turkish wealthy and their families are enjoying the 4 day ‘Sacrifice’ holiday at the same hotel as we are. Pam Thermal Hotel http://www.pamhotel.com/ is just below the Terraces, and boasts several thermal pools from 28-56 degrees. It could well be the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in ! It was glorious to sit in the sludgy brown water, watching the steam rise, and the children playing, while we relaxed muscles tired after bus travel, and time travel, in this most impressive and beautiful landscape.

Ephesus elegance

2008-12-18T07:36:00.000-08:00

Ephesus is my favourite place’ said Miriam, ’ you will love it.
And so we did.
After the ruins of Troy and Pergamum, which require a huge imagination to reconstruct city after city, generation after generation, it was such an easy street to wander down the marble paved avenues of Ephesus. Tall columns, with Corinthian, Doric, or Ionic tops, line the way. Terraced town houses, revealing luxurious Roman living, stack up on one side, just like apartments in Auckland’s hills and gullies. The spacious gymnasium overlooks the public baths and latrines, great places to gossip and plot. The boys on our tour could not resist sitting on the latrines, and our guide told us about an Aussie lad last week who pulled down his trousers, and pulled out a newspaper to read! Great photo opportunity there.
The Library of Celsus waits at the bottom of the avenue, its two storeys of stone pillars and carved capitals looking graceful and noble. It was reconstructed by the Romans between 41 and 117 AD. The courtyard out front leads to the open marketplace, or agora (as in agoraphobia) and you can still see the area for each individual stall or shop. A little further on, the amphitheatre sited perfectly for the sun to warm the 30000 stone seats lies ready for the next performance. It is still used today. So much of Ephesus has been reconstructed that it is possible to imagine St Paul coming to preach there, and people going about their daily life.
The ubiquitous cats and stray dogs which lie around add a level of reality to the whole city, tucked so neatly into the folds of the hills.
We were reminded of Androcles in 600BC, who chose the site, when the sea came up to the city; Alexander the Great who arrived in 334BC, the Romans who saw the city grow to 250,000,and then the Christians who settled there. St John and the Virgin Mary, known as Mother Mary to the Muslims, supposedly lived there, and St Paul also lived there for three years, writing his most profound of his epistles, to the Ephesians.
Most unusually, there was no Moslem/Turkish occupation of Ephesus. Why? Malaria struck the town in 6th century AD. It was finally abandoned and the stones used by the emperor Justinian to build a new city on the other side of the mountain.
The sun was setting over the Aegean Sea as we arrived at Kusadasi. A bonus of off season travel is staying in hotels which would be out of our price range in summer. Marble stairways, pool, gym, live music, superb food, luxury cruise ship moored nearby, a glass of Efes (Ephesus)beer at sunset- this is the life.

A Trojan horse and Pergamum parchment

2008-12-18T07:27:00.000-08:00

The first thing you see when you arrive at Troy, is a rather square but very huge horse. Immediately the story of the deviousness of the Greeks and the gullibility of the Trojans comes to mind. The Trojan Wars were considered legendary rather than factual, until Heinrich Schliemann began digging in the late 19th century. Now, behind the horse lie the remnants of the imposing city of Troy. Actually there re the remnants of nine cities, dating back to 3000BC, and up to 500AD. There are earthen ramparts and remains of various city walls, storage jars, pottery drainage pipes, piles of carved and shaped rocks, and a circular path with interpretative boards. The rest is up to the imagination.
At Pergamum there are more intact portions of the city to help the modern visitor. You can see impressive temples, a library which housed 200,000volumes, and the magnificent Acropolis . Pergamum was a renowned cultural and political centre from the days of Alexander the Great till Roman times. It was one of the Middle East‘s richest and most powerful small kingdoms. Parchment was invented there.
It was cleverly built on steep hillside above a fertile valley. You can still see Roman bridges across the rivers, irrigating farms and fields of herbs and plants used for medicine. There was a temple of Telesphorus, famous for healing. I loved hearing that the two daughters of Telesphorus were called Hygeia and Panacea - handing their names down into modern medicine.

Pick up lines in Istanbul

2008-12-18T07:03:00.000-08:00

At Istanbul airport, we were escorted to a dark car park and driven for miles.
‘I knew we would end up in the white slave trade one day’, I whispered to Danielle.
‘No. we are past our use-by date. Anyway he had our names on the board, and he is wearing a Fez Travel jacket.’
Soon the minarets of Istanbul appeared, and I was reassured once more. Our young driver turned out to be legitimate, and very charming indeed. But then so did so many of the men. It took a few days to learn the technique of not being propositioned, but before that we had some entertaining encounters.
No sooner had we booked into the hotel, and gone for an explore of the inner city neighbourhood, than Danielle received a marriage proposal. A handsome uniformed hotelier called out as we were passing, and not only offered her marriage, but 27 children, a big house and a garden. Like Sarah, she laughed.
Danielle looked very smug as her success was outclassing mine. I had only scored two hand kisses, by the same man, along with his offer to ‘show me secret things in Istanbul that no-one else knows about'. He owns the restaurant next to the hotel so it was hard to avoid his longing looks. We took to returning from another direction, and looking not to the left or the right. Later our tour guide described him as ‘very low profile, and just to ignore him’!
My most colourful offer was from a dark and handsome carpet seller who declared that I ‘held his heart in my hand‘, and would I like to step inside his shop. I did not like at all, but we parted with a laugh.
You have to laugh at the ridiculously eloquent pick up lines, directed at two ladies a little past their prime, and the excessive enthusiasm for their shop or restaurant. But it is tiring, when all you want is a coffee, after a hard day sight seeing.
The most awkward situation was with our tour driver, who gazed at me from his rear view mirror. One morning at breakfast he stood behind me and rubbed my back, chanting, ‘Good morning! Good morning. How are YOU this morning?’, and smiling very warmly through his huge black moustache.
I asked our guide to tell him it was not acceptable, and later he apologised ‘most deeply, madam. I am very very sorry.’
‘That’s fine', I replied.' We can still talk to each other, but no touching. OK?’
It is hard to know what messages we western women give out, but we have learnt that eye contact is the key. When men greet each other they shake hands and often kiss on both cheeks, but they do not hold eye contact. Women certainly do not meet the eyes of men. This was a helpful piece of local knowledge for us. From then on, we walked past shops, avoiding the eyes of the men owners, standing at the doorways. We also resisted our natural inclination to answer when men call out, ‘Hello, where you from?.’
So silently, steadfastly looking ahead, even wearing sun glasses, we forge our way through bazaars, lines of taxis, mosques and metros- life is so much easier.

P.S.Only once did our resolve fail. That is another, and expensive story, called
‘Captured by a crafty carpet seller and his wily daughter.’

At dawn we go to Gallipolli

2008-12-14T23:52:00.000-08:00

Nothing could have prepared me for the for the sight of gravestone after gravestone, after gravestone. they belong to boys aged 16,17,18 and for men aged 29, 35, 40, who landed here from 25 April 1915,onwards and mostly died here over the next few months. The marked stones lie tilted to the sun above the cool blue Aegean sea. Nothing can stop the pricking of tears to read this inscription
1113 Private H J Burton, died 30 November 1915, aged 18
Only a boy but died as a man for liberty and freedom
His Mum and Dad
Standing on the stony beach near Anzac cove, looking up at the steep cliffs called Sphinx and Nek, nothing can stop the sense of grief, of sorrow at the futility of the plan to capture the Dardanelles, the terrible terrible loss of ‘the flowers of that generation.’
Without its blood red history, Gallipolli would be a beautiful peninsula of beaches, sandy and rocky coves, low hills and steep eroded cliffs. It is now covered again with the scrub and pine trees which were stripped off in the battle, and which even now still conceal unnamed and unclaimed bodies. A road runs along the beach and up to the highest point, Chunuk Bair, which the Anzacs held for three triumphant days, before succumbing to the defending Turks. Now a huge statue of Ataturk stands astride the land, the crescent and star of the Turkish flag streaming above him.
He was ferocious in battle, but magnanimous in triumph.
Hs message to the mothers of the boys and men who died is carved in stone
Those heroes who shed their blood
And lost their lives
Are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace
There is no difference between the Johnnies
And the Mehmets to us where they now rest side by side
In this country of ours.
You the mothers
Who sent your sons from far away countries
Wipe away your tears
Your sons are now lying in our bosom
And are in peace.
After having lost their lives in this land,
they have become our sons as well.
It was really a battle in vain. The losses of life on both sides were too great, the tactical gains too small, for the five month campaign to continue. So it all ended as it began- the dead were buried and identified, or not, the wounded left or died, the Dardanelles stayed in Turkish hands.
We had left Istanbul at dawn, to drive the five hours to get to the Gallipolli Peninsula. Our guide promised us ‘one of the most emotionally touching places in Turkey’. And indeed it was
Each year 20,000 people turn up for the commemorations on 25 April. The sloping ground forms a natural amphitheatre overlooking the bays and sea. There are tour buses by the hundred, space is at a premium.
From the commonwealth ,and all over, people also come throughout the year and make a quieter pilgrimage, away from the crowds. I was with a group of young Australians and Kiwis and English, walking along slowly, hardly talking, stooping to read the names on the graves, and on the Battalion lists. Alongside were young and old Turkish people. From everywhere people come and stand , as we did, on the beaches, grassy slopes, rocky outcrops, or n the shallow trenches, and try to recall the bravery, confusion, terror, and determination shown by the soldiers who came ’from the uttermost ends of the earth.’ They were doing as they were commanded by men far away from the impossible battle field.
Our group stood at the New Zealand memorial as the sun dropped towards the sea . The peacefulness of the scene belied its history of explosions, gunfire, bayonet charges, trench fever, frost bite, sunburn, dysentery, heroism, camaraderie, and all the elements of war.
At the going down of the sun, we shall remember them.

PS. Our guide was a Turk, Erol, with Fez Travel . He gave us an excellent historical background as well as an overview of the events around Gallipolli. Fez Travel operate Anzac Day tours, for several days each side of Anzac Day http://www.feztravel.com/

Silk, Perfume, Music and Food- another side of Florence

2008-12-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

Florence is visual overload! I needed an antidote, and found it on the streets of Oltrano, on the ‘other side’ of the Arno river.
The huge brick workrooms of the Antico Setificio Fiorentino, the ancient Florentine silk factory are just along from the best lunch we ate. Trattoria Sabatini , via Pisana 2/r ,is a family run restaurant where the Buccioni family served us with pollo arrosto, patates arrosto, cavolo crude roast chicken, potatoes and coleslaw) and creamy stracchino cheese , and the usual glass of red wine, very cheaply . For once we were the only tourists in amongst local business people and artisans.
Back to the silk. Behind a wrought iron 18th century gate is a fabric lover‘s paradise- walls and walls of silk , damasks, brocades, linens and taffetas, in every shade, with braids, tassles and trims for every possible design scheme. Only an hour before, in the perfect Cappella Brancaccio we had seen two Florentine gentlemen in a 15th century painting wearing flowing garments of heavy velvet and silk, woven in this very factory.
Ten master weavers produce exquisite fabrics on six wooden looms from 18th and 19th century , and on six 19th century mechanical looms, for private houses, theatres, palaces, and state buildings in Italy and around the world. We saw photos of the Grand Palais of the Kremlin completely refurbished in Florentine silk. There is a Catholic connection here ,even with silk ,as it was Catholic missionaries who brought silk , and silk worms, back from China in the 12th century. However silk weaving has been in private hands ever since. I love the story of a new colour being invented for the birth of each baby in these families, and that colour being available only to that child’s family till its death. How is that for ‘exclusive’? Even now all fabrics are hand dyed, with no chemicals at all,
The saleswoman explained that Florentine silk is very different from Thai silk, and in her opinion much superior. I touched the soft filaments of silk , and
I lusted after a ’travellers pack’, consisting of a pillow and silk to match, but at E90 it was a bit much for a souvenir.
Antico Setificio Fiorentino, via L. Bartolini 2/4, Florence. Showroom has free entrance, and guided tours of the workshop are offered, by appointment only. Tel 055 213 861.
http://www.anticosetificiofiorentino.com/
To the sensuous touch of silk, we added the smell of roses. Near the railway station is an imposing doorway leading past frescoes and antiques, into a 16th century version of the Body Shop- Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella. Nowadays a temple for the wealthy to pamper their bodies, the Pharmacy is one of the oldest n the world. Founded in 1221 by Dominican brothers selling their herbs and medicinal remedies, it is in a former chapel, and retains an air of quiet reverence. There are glass fronted wooden display cupboards housing such delights as eaux de colognes, essential oils, baby products, nourishing oils, powders, soaps and gels.The perfumes sounds like a florist shop- lavender, iris, gardenia, jasmine, violet, verbena, and the most popular, rose.
The inside of the body can be nourished with teas, tisane,s, honey products, herbs and infusions. There is even chocolate, licorice and extra virgin olive oil. All in exquisite packaging, at exquisite prices.
It is a beautiful, aromatic peaceful place to visit, and to marvel that the shop has been in that exact place since 1612
Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella. Via della Scala, 16, admission free.
Music in Florence comes in many forms. Plainsong at S.Miniato al Monte, chant each midday at Badia, sung by the Brothers and Sisters of Jerusalem
A chamber concert in an Anglican church, across the Ponte Vecchio, in Oltarno. Franz Moser, an Austrian, studied the piano for years, then completed his law degree. He now lives in Sienna and organises concerts in Florence. In a beautiful Romanesque church, softly lit, with icons, frescoes and renaissance art on the walls, Franz played a fine grand piano to accompany Eva Mabellini, a well known Italian opera singer, in a recital of classical arias by the likes of Mozart, Rossini and Bizet. Franz played Chopin, Schubert, and Debussy, and we wished there had been more.
All profits from this Associazone Musicale support a charity project , AMALA,in south India. www.concertoclassico.info
All of these places we found in a wonderful book .
To Florence con Amore : 77 ways to love the city. by Jane Fortune
The Florentine Press 2007

Chinked coastline- the Cinque Terre

2008-12-01T23:31:00.000-08:00

Sunshine in the morning let us explore the fabled colours and cleverness of the Cinque Terre. From Manarola we took a walk along Lover’s Lane, or Via dell’Amore- a paved, gentle walk for twenty minutes to the next village, Riomaggiore. Far below the sea promised excellent kayaking and snorkelling on its emerald water, fringing the rocks with clean white foam. The walkway had seats to admire the view, a couple of cafes in the summer and some picnic spots. Apparently it is so crowded in the season that the ticket numbers are limited.
Tickets? Yes we had to buy a day ticket to walk the walkways, and use the trains and buses between each town. As part of the revenue goes to preserve the unique and fragile landscape, we were very happy to contribute to keep this World Heritage area alive.
Riomaggiore and Manarola are two of the five villages, making up the Cinque Terre, tucked into rocky bays, making Wellington look like the Canterbury plains.
For lunch, we took one of the hourly Regional trains to Corniglia, very picturesquely perched on a rock, with 365 steps zigzagging up the hill. Fortunately a little electric bus meets the train, and we were delivered to the only café open for lunch. Later, full of pasta and red wine, we ventured to the furthest village, Monterosso. On foot it would take three hours on the narrow path , but on the train it took less than 10 minutes, mostly in tunnels!
Monterosso had a couple of pebbly beaches which attract the summer crowds, and a well organised boat, bus and train service, taking people out to sea, along the coast, and up the mountains to the Sanctuaries- sacred places for each village. Little was operating in late November, but we could still admire the faithful work over a thousand years which has built over 7000km of dry stone walls, to terrace the hillsides, and provide fertile patches of earth for olives, grapes and vegetables to grow.
On the hillside opposite our B&B, locals had places huge silhouettes of characters in the Christmas stories. Shepherds, sheep, cows, farmers, children, wise men, all look as if they are going up to the very top of the hill to the stable, outlined on the highest rock. The lights will go on , on 8 December.

The weather kept to its promise overnight- the wind screeched from the snowy mountains, the rain created streams along the perilous footpaths and stairways, and the sea changed from turquoise to evil grey. I recalled the gravestones in the hillside cemetery telling the stories of young fishermen, children and unwary tourists drowning and disappearing into the sea -summer warmth and seaside idylls seemed far away.
We covered our suitcases with our parkas, wore our thick coats and hats, and staunchly trundled down the silent village to wait for the train to Florence. The train whipped in and out of the many tunnels along the coast- a fantastic human achievement, in an impossibly beautiful area, rightly designated a world heritage site.

Music and the food- such love in Lucca

2008-11-29T10:43:00.000-08:00

This little boy was in front of us at a concert, conducting and dancing for all he was worth!

Here in Lucca, it is music on every noticeboard, concerts on every corner - it is the celebration of 150 years since Puccini’s birth. Puccini spent most of his life here, in a house just around the corner, and is being truly feted this year. There are concerts every day of the week from November to April- imagine, in a city of 82000.Glorious arias, amusing comic songs, even full scale performances of Manon Lescaut and Madame Butterfly.

Sunday morning saw a recital of Mozart which we had to miss to go to church with a huge choir , and we missed a Boccherini concert in a cafe in order to hear popular Tuscany songs sung by a young and energetic local group, Il Balhuardo, who included a tribute to Miriam Makeba, the African gospel singer who died recently. Conducted by baritone Elio Antichi with jazz pianist TizianoMangani, it was exciting stuff.
All this music to feed our souls, right alongside the feast of food also on offer, and all mostly free.
The weekends of November and December are brightened in Lucca with a colourful exhibition of local produce and craft-Il Desco- sapori e sapere Lucchesi in mostra . The weekend was called L’Olio e I Tesori di Lucca: iniziative enogasronomiche ed eventi culturai nella provincia diLucca. see http://www.luccaturismo.it/ How could we resist?
Free giveaways of grilled bruschetta drizzled with extra virgin oil, sea salt and pepper, slices of proschiutto, lard which Rosemary pronounced gorgeous, chocolate covered candied peel, chestnut paste prepared as it has been for centuries in Tuscany, between flat pottery plates-we lapped it all up!
The setting is an old convent behind the famous S. Frediano Church with its pure gold mosaic. The convent has interior courtyards, and cloisters which are perfect for displays. I stood for ages watching a Hungarian playing recorders, ocarina and whistles.The beautiful wood on the treble recorder tempted me sorely. Sweeping marble stairs lead to the upper floor, primo piano, where lace making, weaving, jewellery, exquisite furniture were attracting wealthy looking buyer types. We took our tourist looking types along to another free concert, this time of Hungarian songs and dances, Spettacolo Folkloristico con Musiche ungheresi. There was much slapping of leather boots (theirs) , heaving bodices and full skirts (again theirs not ours) and tapping feet and smiles of pleasure , this time on our part. The conductor was Kerko Neptanc.
The following night we returned for Opera Buffa - comic operatic sings.
We love the sheer serendipity of coming out of a café, like Antica Drogheria on Via Elisa, into pouring cold rain and wishing aloud for an umbrella. What immediately appears but a very black man with an armful of umbrellas to sell. He smiled when I called him an angel , Angelo. Later we peeped under our purple(Danielle) and rainbow (Ceri) umbrellas and saw him again.
‘Ciao, Angelo!’ I called across the sodden square. He raised an umbrella and a smile in reply.

Serendipity too, of coming across an exhibition of photos of projects in Africa where Italians and French are working together in former colonies to help women and children.
Right next to the Museum shop where we gazed at length at illuminated manuscripts from 14th century. I resolve to learn more about lluminations, and maybe even try to paint one.
Right next to the Museum, at the Romanesque Duomo of St Martino , I was delighted to find a labyrinth carved into the stone column by the door. We stood in the rain and walked our fingers around the marble, as so many thousands must have done for centuries.
Then, with our fresh bread from an artisan baker, new season’s Chianti, local tomatoes, leeks, garlic, broccoli, fat juicy olives, and two fat and meaty sausages, from the markets, we left the icy rainy streets and returned home to our warm apartment. We closed the green shutters, put on piano music by Franz Moser whom we met in Florence and ate another of Rosemary‘s marvellous meals. What culture! What a delicious time in Tuscany!

Lucca in Tuscany- hard to get into, easy to get around

2008-11-28T08:17:00.000-08:00

Lucca- why is it hard to get into? Is it fully booked? Is there a massive drawbridge which collapsed in the last storm?
No, but close.
Lucca has a perfectly preserved city wall, as wide as a road, with only six small rounded gateways for entrance. The only cars in sight belong to people who live within the walls, and most of them seem to have bikes instead. Any other cars are charged $2.50 an hour to park.
The result is an almost car free, peaceful town where you can walk anywhere around the winding streets and frequent open piazzas, moving out of the way at the tinkle of a bike bell. Locals are so relaxed they even say ‘Buon Giorno!’ Lucca became a self governing city in 12th century, and had few political troubles- hence the preservation of the walls.

Easy to get around. Sunday we walked around the broad Renaissance walls, circumvallazione, along with every grandma and grandpa, either on their stately bikes, or walking in their winter coats, just unwrapped from the mothballs. There were bikes with dad riding, baby strapped on his chest, and Mum side saddle on the back! Young couples walked their dogs, just released from their tiny apartments, young men in jeans and black jackets sauntered and slouched, and small children whooped and played, all in golden sunshine.
It was the day of the Lucca Wall International Bike Race, too. Hundreds of competitors raced a portion of the wall, then down onto the green park below, up slopes so steep some had to carry their bikes, around hairpin bends and back along the wall. The commentary was a continuous torrent of Italian- all I know is that Marco Aurelio Fontana did very well, as his name was repeated many times!
Lucca is in Northern Tuscany. It has the ochre, yellow, umbers and creams you see in Tuscan paintings, along with mellow orange and brown roof tiles, big wooden doors, stone streets and archways. Picture book stuff. Our apartment is in a typical four storey tenement, windows with shutters, parquet floor with Persian rugs spacious and lovely.

Hard to get up. Its only drawback, and it is a big steep and difficult one, are the two flights of stone stairs, so steep that it is better to descend backwards. It was so hard to pull the suitcases up the stairs- I was afraid of falling backwards. Extraordinary how any could manage those stairs on a daily basis.
However we do, and we go forth and explore with great delight.

Our apartment on Via Del Fosso overlooks a running stream. When Napoleon’s sister , Elisa, was appointed governor of Lucca she was so appalled by the stench coming form the then open sewers she ordered them covered over. By the time she left, the water was clean enough to drink. Today we will walk along Via Elisa and through one of the city gates named after her, Porta Elisa, and remember this woman of the early 1800s who made such a difference in this lovely town, there is now a statue to her in Piazza Napoleone . In fact a coffee and croissant there could be a fitting tribute to her.

2008-11-28T08:15:00.000-08:00

Pools of Gold- early morning iin Florence

2008-11-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

Our first morning in Florence, I woke up before the others and left the house quietly. I shut the giant wooden street door behind me. A solitary cyclist passed me on Borgo Pinti, an old man flung water on the footpath outside his building, no-one much else was around. The brown tiled dome of the Duomo was still in darkness, but the sun was just touching the top of Giotto’s Campanile or bell tower.
Crossing the Piazza del Duomo, I walked towards Piazza della Signoria. The Fountain of Neptune was spouting forth, surrounded by cool gray marble sculptures. I looked for the plaque marking the spot where Dominican monk Savonarola was hanged after his disastrous attempt at purifying politics in church and state, but could only see an old man and his bike sitting as still as Perseus holding up the head of Medusa.
On the Ponte Vecchio, the sun created a pool of gold in a scallop shell, and washed it across the ancient jewellery shops with a promise of the gold they would sell for real later in the day.
Walking up the other side of the Arno river, I tried to capture the calm, warm colours and timeless reflections, which have enchanted painters and lovers for centuries.
By the time I crossed back over to the city side, attraversiamo, tour groups were assembling, traffic was building up, and the sun was illuminating the pink, white and green marble of the 13th century cathedral. My first full day in Florence was beginning.

Just roaming in Rome- empire, friends and gelato

2008-11-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

Can you go to Rome and not visit the Vatican Museums, the Sistine Chapel, the Forum, Palatine, Colosseum and St Peter’s tomb?
No, definitely not.
Rome for the first time has to include those essentials.
Rome for the next time, for us, meant catching up with friends against the backdrop of history and imperial magnificence.
Staying in Trastavere at La Foresteria Orsa Maggiore, Via Francesco de Sales, 1a, www.casainternationaledelladonne.org , gave us an immersion into narrow lanes opening into unexpected piazzzas, with cafes enticing us to linger and drink espresso and lattes in the warm sun. Lonely Planet describes its ‘traditionally proletarian nature changing as crumbling old palazzzos are gentrified and wealthy foreigners move in to the picturesque and labyrinthine lanes’ Right on.
Sunday morning, we found the oldest church in Rome, Santa Maria in Trastavere, with standing room only. A real parish community, with a big group of deaf children and adults and a beautiful sister signing the whole liturgy. So much better to participate in the liturgy, than just popping in to see the art. However, the building was pretty amazing- foundations from 337AD, building from 12th century, 21 ancient Roman columns, mosaics from 1140, and Byzantine painting of the Madonna. After that external and spiritual beauty, we needed coffee in the lovely Piazza Santa Maria, with our friends Hannah and Jennifer from Oxford.
We met Fi and Marion at the Spanish Steps and climbed up to Villa Borghese Gardens, north east of the Piazza de Popolo, full of families, biking, roller blading, pushing the pram with nana and grandpa, going on the merry go round, eating gelato- all in this glorious symmetrical paths and formal plantings once the garden of Cardinal Scipione Borghese.
We enjoyed the open spaces and fresh air after the intensity of Roman traffic and people.
The Galleria Borghese , so popular you have to book ahead, in the middle of the park, houses 6 Caravaggio works, which interested art historian Fi, as well as works by Bernini, Titian, Raphael, Botticelli and Rubens.
We watched the fading light over Rome silhouetting the flocks of birds, coming back in huge swirling patterns to roost in trees of the Medici villa- the legendary umbrella pines of Rome were full of the chirping sounds of birds at the end of the day.
Across the city is a surprise- an Anglican church, part of the American Episicopal Diocese in Europe. St Pauls within the Walls , on Via Nationale, is an Art Nouveau delight, with candy pink and white striped walls, rich green tiles by William Morris, frescoes and mosaics by pre Raphaelite Edward Burne Jones, and gentle rounded arches with a Moorish flavour. Built in 1873, it is one of the newest churches in Rome, and boasts great big bronze doors commemorating a significant meeting between the Pope John xx111, and Anglican Archbishop Geoffrey Fisher.
Our visit was not for history however but to hear Mozart’s Requiem- choir of 50, soloists, orchestra, rich reverberation, passionate music- bliss!
Sunday night in Rome sees many restaurants closed for family time, so we were very pleased to look down a side street and see the neon lights of Est Est Est . This restaurant is a Roman institution- again an art deo interior, dark wood panels, shiny brass taps on the wine cupboard, coat hooks and racks behind each table, with original 1920s chairs and tables.
In that environment, how could the food fail to please? It didn’t! Fresh bread and olives to nibble, salads, interesting vegetables, meats, seafood, Chianti to wash it down.

We had coffee in Campo de Fiore ,watching the locals shop at the market, and Danielle ate Rome style tripe ( served with tomatoes and cheese, it was delicious, she said) in Piazza Navonna at Cul de Sac. This restaurant was a guide book recommendation. The queues around the corner testify to its excellent menu and vast wine list. We got there early!
The Pantheon dating back to 120 AD, looms large, round and stately, its extraordinary dome the most important achievement of Roman architecture. Originally a temple to the planetary gods, the Pantheon has housed many Christian altars - I think they sit awkwardly in the curved spaces - better to have left the soaring columns of that monument alone.
We ended our four days of friendship, laughter and birthdays with a roller coaster ride through history. The Time Elevator , in SS Apostoli, off Via de Corso, is a multi screen presentation . Safety bars stop yourself falling out of the seat as you twist and rocket through a time machine- a fantastic, entertaining way to get an historical overview , showing how many of the buildings appeared in their prime, and how people have lived, worked, created and designed in Rome over its many centuries of decline, fall and rise again.
We wandered home through Rome by night, over the Tiber, getting our adrenaline levels down by eating gelato - liquorice, rock melon, lemon, and chocolate.

Come to my birthday in Rome

2008-11-19T09:16:00.000-08:00

It all began with a throw away comment- we should celebrate Danielle's 70th birthday in Rome- and this is how it happened.

We flew in from Madrid, flung ourselves out of the taxi in crazy Roman traffic, and right into the arms of English friends who had already arrived. We all stayed at the atmospheric Foresteria Orsa Maggiore, a converted 16th century convent., in the Trastavere area, over the Tiber.

Pasta and vino rosso for dinner.

Saturday mornng we got a text ,‘Meet us in the middle of St Peters Square,'and there are two more friends, from Cardiff. We stood in the middle of the massive piazza, with the line for the tour of the Sistine Chapel curling behind us. Nuns and priests walked past in pairs, tour groups followed little flags and umbrellas, and we stood beaming at each other, and getting our photo taken. Danielle was already overcome with her birthday treat and it was only 11am. The tall columns of antiquity stood around us, the cobblestones which have felt so many feet for so many centuries.

We decided to skip the queue and enter St Peters as if we were normal church goers. No such luck- a very abrupt guard gesticulated firmly to the queue at the south side. Even Danielle’s rusty Italian and charming smile did not change his mind. Across the square again, the queue moved us quickly enough up to a security check and Xray of luggage and we are in.
Nothing can prepare you for the immense spaciousness of St Peters. The sweeping expanses of tiled floors, the slender columns reaching to the curved nave ceilings.

We paid special attention to the tenderness of the Pieta, created out of pale marble by a 23 year old MichelAngelo.

We walked to the statue of St Peter-tradition has it that you kiss his foot before a pilgrimage or important event.
Danielle is allowed to touch the statue, burnished to a high patina by many before her, but I am not allowed to photograph the action. The guard does not explain why.

We wander back down Borgo Santo Spiritu, and past Regina Coeli Prison, where the man who shot John Paul 11 is incarcerated.

At last we have learned the value of an afternoon rest if you want to eat at anything like the local time.

For predinner drinks, Maria leads us to ‘the hippest place in Rome’ according to Time Out. We think the price of a glass of Prosecco, a dry champagne type drink, is very steep until she reveals that there is a buffet of free food included. We stand out on the cobbled square by the Tiber, sipping Prosecco, sniffing in the scent of dope, watching the full moon and doing our best to feel hip.

Finally the birthday dinner at Luna e l’Altra, more glasses of Prosecco, and red wine, antipasti of

zucchini in light batter, cheeses, salad, bread, followed by grilled meats, fish, grilled aubergines, roasted peppers, and Danielle's favourite dessert, tiramisu. We began to eat at 8.30 and finished at 11.30.

'It was a wonderful occasion, with friends from UK, in a lovely Roman restaurant. It was full of fun and celebration!' said Danielle.

Not rain in Spain, but snow on the last day.

2008-11-17T08:19:00.000-08:00

We left Santiago reluctantly, captivated by its charm, but realising we needed to move on. A quick stop at Ourense for breakfast and for the promised hot pools, but nothing opened before 11.00am, so we hit the toll road for a very easy trip south east towards Madrid. The road travelled through hills and valleys, the fabled rocky sierras, then smoothed out into high cold plains as we neared the capital.
Just off the motorway was Avila, where Teresa became famous in the 13th century for reforming the Carmelites and writing her books on mystic spirituality. She collaborated with John of the Cross whose best known work is The Dark Night of the Soul. I was very intrigued to read that one of her fingers was on display, along with a fragment of her cloak, her walking stick, and some of Johns bones, so had to go in search of it. They were all faithfully displayed in a glass case and I had a strange jolt of reality- these two were real people, real bones and flesh, and here was some evidence (I guess). The guide book says that Franco had the finger of Teresa, complete with large ring, beside his bed during his years as dictator of Spain- not sure of the significance of that!
The museum and reliquery are on the site of one of her many extensive and busy convents, all within the walls of beautiful Avila, so well preserved it is another UNESCO world Heritage Site.
We would loved to have lingered, but the wind was coming off the snow on the surrounding hills, proving the claim that Avila is the coldest place in Spain.
We drove off to our airport hotel, in readiness to leave this fascinating country, with a promise to return, and fly east to Rome.

Beautiful and Preposterous- a few days in Santiago de Compostela

2008-11-11T07:59:00.000-08:00

There can be few cities in the world as beautiful as Santiago founded on so preposterous a story, so says the Lonely Planet.

The legend of St James was the impetus for the growth of this city since 12th century. Nowadays it has all the bustle and charm of a modern European city, with the characteristic historic centre, pedestrianised, throbbing woth people all day and most of the night, and full of such a range of architectural styles that every turning is charming.

We stayed at the Mapoula Hostel http://www.mapoula.com/, on the 3rd floor of an old building. It has a lift, free wi-fi, very comfortable ensuite rooms, and is in a brilliant location, 5 minutes from the cathedral and all the historic sights, and only 2 minutes from underground parking for the car. Each morning we crossed the narrow cobbled streets and walked into a cafe for breakfast- each evening we chose a different cafe or restaurant for a meal.

Spain is not expensive for Kiwis, wth most main meals costing us about $20 each, with wine.

The Catedral del Apostol was my first stop in Santiago- still with my pack on, I sat in the quietness and breathed my relief that the walking was over. There was a faint smell of incense in the air, and I could see the huge botafumeiro , or thurible, for dispensing incense, tied to the wall. The biggest in the world, it is now only used 20 times a year, and I assume had been used for All Saints. We returned for the Pilgrims Mass the next day at 12 noon, when the Cathedral was full in all three areas. At the beginning the priest read out a list of all the places Pilgrims had come from. We strained to hear Nova Zelanda, and smiled at each other when it came!

The sanctuary is probably the most ornately golden and sculpted I have ever seen but the bare simplicity of the rest of the church is a foil for the extravagance, and it is simply exquisite. I was happy to sit and let the Spanish liturgy flow over me and soak up the beauty of the surroundings.

In front of the Cathedral is Obradoiro Square, flanked by a Renaissance Hotel of the Catholic Kings- that means Ferdinand and Isabel, who 'brought Spain back to Christianity'- the Reconquista. They had it built for the poor, but it is now one of the luxurious state owned hotels or Paradors.

We saw some university students all dressed in flowing black robes, selling their CDs of traditional music, and promising to perform later in the evening if it stopped raining- it didn't!

Just off the square is Cafe Casino,with big Tiffany style windows looking on to the street, large armchairs while you drink your wine, or even your tea- one of the few places we found that knows what tea is!.

Another favourite is Derby at the end of our lane, Entremurallas. I arrived there at 5.55 pm after taking off my pack and wanted coffee and some tapas, while the others wanted wine and beer.The waiter was most unhappy because it was not yet 6pm, and tapas don't start till then, but he gave that gallic shrug and served us as though we were royalty, white table cloth and all.

The Art of Rain- Santiago de Compostela

2008-11-11T07:29:00.001-08:00

It has rained nearly all the time we have been in Santiago. I picked up a guide about What to do in the city when it is raining: a brief guide to arcades and other shelters, privileged places to watch the rain and give your umbrella a rest.'

It proudly claims that Santiago is the capital of rainfall,with 142 days of rain. Under this drizzle, a patina of moss embellishes the granite and provides a constant greenness to city parks.

The art of rain is reflected in shimmering patterns on the stone streets, which you can enjoy from the plentiful rounded arcades , your choice of Gothic, renaissance, baroque and neo-classical. The guide book assures me that the network of covered passageways enables me to walk a good distance safe from the rain , or to stop and watch it, smell it and listen to it without endangering my clothes. My preference is a warm cafe, with a cup of chocolate and warm crunch churros, a bit like tiny doughnuts.

However we did use the wet days to explore fascinating museums like Pligrimage Museum in Rua de San Miguel, see http://www.mdperegrinaciones.com/ and the Galician Ethnographic Museum, in Convento de San Domingos de Bonaval ,where we learnt heaps about traditional local culture, music, trades and religion. Excellent see http://www.museopobo.es/.

The Museum at the cathedral was full of visigoth coins and artifacts, as well as Roman, Moorish, Christian information and excavations. I love the layers of history that can be revealed by the turn of a spade. It is so exciting to imagine the past, from the perspective and comfort of the present!

By the time we had done museums and cafes for a few days, the sky lifted and , just as the book promised, we were rewarded by a luminous city bathed in warm clean sunshine.

Literature should have, like life itself, meteorology. Fog, wind, rain always tell us something.' so said Anxel Fole. Whoever he is, I agree.

Strangely moved- the last day to Santiago

2008-11-10T09:52:00.000-08:00

It should have been a short and relatively easy day, but my leg was swollen and painful, so I walked slowly with a strange flat footed gait. Rosemary had lent me her walking stick which had been useful for threatening dogs and crossing muddy streams, but now came into its own as a support.

The quiet woods and shady lanes of the past few days gave way to new towns and building sites, with road works and new tarseal obscuring the Way. After going up a steep hill on a new road, beyond MillaDoiro, I could see no Way marked, so chose 'down and north'. Not a good choice as I ended up by the river I wanted to cross into Santiago, but no bridge. So up the hill again, asked for help from two people who gave me contradictory advice, decided to head for the nearest bridge, and limped off. Later I learned that this spot was the scene of three separate assaults on women travelling alone, only a few weeks ago. Each had hesitated, trying to find the way, and a man had offered to show them - leading to complaints to the police and an arrest.

The guide book had been promising the uplifting sight of the Cathedral spires in the distance, but all I could see in the rain was chimney pots aand cranes. The bridge was for the highway but I was determined to get across, so I faced the traffic and forged ahead, finally crossing a huge roundabout and heading up the hill along Avenida de Xoan carlos 1,to the old part of Santiago.

Through a forest of umbrellas I found the old city gate of Porto Faxiera, and clomped up Rua da Franco.You can imagine the late Saturday shoppers all dressed up and going about their business, and here am I, yet another pilgim, uncertain of the exact way, desperate to get to the cathedral, the end of the long walk. A smiling shop assistant stood at the door of her gleaming cafe and offered me some 'tarte de santiago'. I took a piece gratefully, and said what I had said so often this week, 'Soy peregrina, gracias' (I am a pilgrim, thank you)

'Bon Camino' she replied automatically.

My camino was almost over, this part of it anyway. I followed the winding street to the vast south facade of the Cathedral. Up the steps, in the door and sat on the simple wooden seats. I was there.

It was quiet, dark, cool, but full of atmosphere. My eyes pricked with tears, as I saw other pilgrims come in, take off their packs,and jackets, and sit, just sit. It is over, we have arrived.

Other well dressed people come and go, a tour group bustles past, the lights are low, the gold of the sanctuary gleams, we are here. I am strangely moved, yet strangely detached. It feels as if all around me are the others who have been here before, here on earth. I am aware of my grandmothers, my sister and friends who have died and of many others I do not know, other pilgrims- the great crowd of witnesses surrounding me on many sides. I would like to stay in this great quiet place for a while.

Tomorrow I will come and join in the midday Pilgrims' mass. Today it is enough to just be here.
I walk outside to find the Pilgrims' Office, to have my credencial verified and be issued with my Citation or Compostella issued by the Canonicus Deputatis pro Peregrinis. That is the photo above.

George Sand said, 'What is more beautiful than a road?"

Expect to see yellow spotted lizards- day 5 on the camino to Santiago de Compostella

2008-11-10T09:06:00.000-08:00

The bright yellow spotted lizard lay on the path, looking like a child's toy. But it was real, and unexpected. later I saw another one, its gold colour matching exactly the chestnut leaves which fell around me in the woods.

Each time I stopped for a rest there would be a blue butterfly, or the first autumn crocus, or a long tailed magpie to watch. Lovely surprises, and some not so lovely.

I did not like the spider as big as our old 50c piece, which looked at me out of the toilet bowl- I know the pilgrimage is a spiritual journey but it was hard to stay calm about this event. I mimed it to the bar keeper, and got the gallic shrug- very zen.

However, another bar owner served me a huge piece of apple cake with my cafe solo, no charge, which set me up for a peaceful walk thrugh damp pine woods , past water mills, over streams and into collections of farm builngs, all with dogs on duty who like to bark till I was out of sight.

As I neared Padron, the guide book promised me the the hamlets of Pedreira, Cadelo and Condide, and the unfortunately named Infesta. Often the villages have no names on the pilgrim path, only on proper roads, so I would come to some buildings and have to work out what they could be. Often I just kept going, with no real idea of my whereabouts. Around Padron, villages were named, which made up for the lack of the yellow arrows I had been relying on.

It is such a horrible feeling to stand where several roads meetand wonder where to go- usually I chose down hill and north. This was to bring me a bit of trouble soon enough , but today I arrived into a very french looking boulevard in Padron, with a double row of plane trees along a majestic river front, great place for fish, frites and a beer.

Padron is named after the Pedron, a treasured pilgrim symbol, a stone altar dedicated to Neptune. Tradition says that this is where the boat was moored which carried the body of St James (Santiago) and his two apostles from Jerusalem where they had been executed in 44AD.

A walk of 3 more kilometres took me through no less than 7 tiny hamlets in the Sar valley, before I could see the twin towers of a huge church at Escravitude. The Marian sanctuary of Escravitude was the site of a miracle in 1732, which saw such a generous flow of donations that there is this massive baroque fantasia of a church, 'playing with masses and volumes in a decorative frenzy', says the guide book. The bells were ringing in a frenzy too, wildly and unmelodically, but for once the church was open with a priest to welcome me, stamp my credencial, and give me a holy card. It is so good to sit in the cool and quiet, like so many thousands have done before me, all on a journey, whether it is in baroque times or in the 21st century, and be grateful for the largely unseen women who prepare the flowers, and keep the church open.

Down the flight of steps and over the main road there was a restaurant over the road where I enjoyed a sweet rice pudding and a glass of wine, with my two lovely friends. Only one day to go.

Half way to Santiago- who cares? day 4

2008-11-10T08:40:00.000-08:00

Hot water flowed from the spring by the old Roman bridge in Caldas de Reis- a place where kings used to stop and where Thomas a Becket gave his name to a church. I stopped to feel the waters, and lost my bearings. no signs visible, no-one around, as it was siesta. An old man came up over the bridge, called out to me, and pointed his walking stick towards a tiny lane. Again the unasked for kindness, and from a man who must have seen so much sad history in Spain.
We have been reading a book called Winter in Madrid, by CJ Sanson, about the siege of Madrid, before Franco took total control in 1940. What passionate politics from left and right, what a grim life for people in the cities and towns, what a history to carry and what a transformation into such a lively country these days. Although as I walked through the country villages, it seemed as if the rhythm of the agricultural year and the church's year had not changed much for centuries.
November is the time for chestnuts, acorns, and pumpkins, for burning the stalks of corn, and planting the new brassica plants. It is also for remembering the dead, the month of the Holy Souls, the faithful departed. Every graveyard was a a magnificent display of floral arrangements, every grave cleaned, polished and decorated. Some graves are stacked 4 high, like minature apartments, with family names on the tops, and spaces for people yet to die. Such a strong sense of continuity, sustained by the apparently ageless women I saw, coming out of cottages, wearing the country uniform of long cardigan, woolen skirt, stockings rolled to the knees, woollen socks and big shoes, all topped wth a pinny or overall. Servicable I guess, if not as stylish as the city women, with their high heeled boots and tight jackets and immaculate hair.
Back to the Camino, which took me on day 4 beyond Caldas to Carracedo, where the locked church and typical Galician granary looked out over the ruined rectory and proud wayside cross.

I waited to meet the others in a bar filled with men, having lunch (at 4pm) , playing cards and chatting. They took no notice at all of this hot, wet foreigner rippping off her jacket, scarf, back pack, hat and shoulder bag, spreading out her map, and writing up her journal, the glow of achievement and weariness apparent to her but no-one else. I guess that pilgrims come, pilgrims go. I experienced a detached and benign acceptance- a very easy way for me to walk this path.
.

Don't panic too soon - the Camino to Santiago de Compostela day 3

2008-11-09T07:20:00.000-08:00

Ponte Sampaio to San Antonini023 kms.

Today Danielle joined me for a pretty walk through the tiny steep streets and old Roman roads of the villages, through vineyards and small holdings, to the beautiful city of Pontevedra. We called in at our Lady of the Camino sanctuary,the Shrine of the Virgin Peregrina, again full of beautiful flowers. When the churches are open, they look as though as wedding is about to happen.

My afternoon was solo again, and was meant to be an easy walk.

It was only a little panic- the sun was setting behind the hill, the village I was heading for was nowhere to be seen, and there was no-one around to try out my Spanish on. around the corner, I saw some builders still at work on a house. The conversation went like this.

Donde San Antonino?

You want an alberge for pilgrim?

No,I want the cafe Praza in san Antonino ( because I am meeting my amiga there, but I can't say that in Spanish or even Galician)

You want the pilgrim hostel. It is a long way, there..

No! Donde el Cafe Praza?

Finally the foreman came to the rescue, pointed out the lights over the valley and I dragged my sore leg and tired body down a winding road, up a steep lane, past the locked chapel, then up the N550 to the cafe where Rosemary waited.It was still not qhite dark, but I was glad she realised the panicky phone call was just to give my GPS position if I did not turn up!

We sat by a huge fire in a tiny stone bar, drinking vinho tinto de Rioja, local red wine, and I confessed to wondering aloud today why on earth I was doing this walk at all.

It sounded so intriguing, even romantic, a stroll in the park, back in NZ. I expected to get tired and foot sore, but had not anticipated the moments of anxiety, cold, and irritation with myself. I even experienced some competitiveness when the only other two pilgrims passed me just before Santiago, and I wanted to get there before them!. I quickened my steps,before remembering that it is not a race, but a journey, one that does not really end in Santiago. I read a nice quote from a pilgrim...

The Way to Santiago is as life itself. it is a marvellous experience. it has no end , because when you arrive, you realise that you have to keep on walking to St James, towards the others, towards your inner self, towards God. This will only be finished when the life that we enjoy day by day comes to an end.

I love the idea that Queen Isabella did this pilgrimage at least once, in 13th century, and that Thomas a Becket came over from England, where he was Archbishop, and made the pilgrimage this Portuguese way, not long before he was murdered in 1170. For me to place my footsteps where they and thousands of others have trod, and to join my humanness to theirs, my hope to theirs, is enough for now.

see some photos

http://picasaweb.google.com/ceridwynparr/CaminoToSantiagoDeCompostela#http://picasaweb.google.com/ceridwynparr/CaminoToSantiagoDeCompostela#

Signs come when you need them- Camino to Santiago de Compostella 2

2008-11-09T06:37:00.000-08:00

Each day, I started where I left off, usually by a wayside marker, , with a bright yellow scallop shell pointing its rays in the direction i needed to go. The number of km is also on the marker. It was so great to see it drop from 115km t0 99 to 83 and down to 49- over half way. The markers havebeen erected by the Spanish government and are such a welcome sight. I would take a stone from the pile and feel the companionship of others who had walked before me. Sometimes I came to two paths and would not know which to follow- no way marker, no sign post. then I would see a yellow arrow painted on the lamp post, or on the tar seal. in Pontevedra, they were painted on the rubbish bins, so I just followed the signs. Occasionally I tried to see ahead and got a bit nervous as there was no indication, but once I got a bit closer, there would be a little yellow arrow- I said over and over, 'just trust there will be a sign when you need it!' a hard thing for a person who likes to have the whole road map, and be in charge- nothing like that on the Camino. Accepting the kindness of others and trusting there will be a sign are two big challenges for me.

If there is no yellow sign, there are these big way side crosses, often decorated with flowers, marking this ancient path. And always if there is a church spire, the path will head in that drection. Around churches are stone seats , tables, often a spring, and a shady tree for pilgrims.

The second day I walked 23 km, from Porrino, through Cabaleiros, Redondela and met the others at the old Roman bridge called Ponte Sampaio, where the sun reflected on the perfect arches over 1500 years old.

Fantastic to get into a hot bath with a glass of local port at the end of the day.

It has no end - the Way to Santiago

2008-11-09T05:34:00.000-08:00

My 115km walk began in Tui- yeah right! Just over the border from Portugal, in Spain, is Tui- I caught a train up from Porto and watched the green damp countryside pass me, as I wondered how I would manage , on my own, walking through unknown places, using the 8 words of Spanish I know.
The train stopped at Tui station, and it was miles from my starting point of the Cathedral - the ticket inspector got off at the same time and offered me a lift up the hill, and a cheerful 'Bon Camino' - have a good walk. My first experience of the kindness of strangers.
My official credential was stamped by a cathedral official ( at one fo the few churches open- more of that later) , and I set off towards the north, after asking a surprised policemen to take this photo.
Although I did not know it, this first day set a pattern- a short wander through town and city streets, always the old pathways or Roman road, winding past small holdings, hens, dogs, women in overalls and sturdy shoes carrying long loaves of bread, then a stop at a church or council offices to get the stamp, a search for a cafe or bar, then out into the country lanes again.
The kindness of strangers- an old woman held my arm in Porrino, and blessed me; an elderly Spanish farmer and his French speaking neighbour gave me a very fast and animated alternative route when the yellow arrows has been covered over by r0ad works. there was much hand waving - to the left, to the right, straight ahead, todo direto, and we parted happily, except when I got to the top of the hill, the French man shouted at me and pointed me in the right direction, Au revoir!Bon camino!
Bst of all, in a cafe, in Cabaleiros, where two old men smoked, played cards and listened to the TV, and the female owner shouted over the din, I had a cafe solo-espressocoffee. One of the old men came over to me, talked, gestured, and finally stumped over to the bar. He brought the grumpy boss over, with her stamp pad and stamp, and with a great flourish, asked for my credencial, and stamped it.
This was a very useful piece of drama, as I realised that I could collect these stamps from any establishment, not just churches and council offices- much easier to find a cafe, bar,or restaurant, and besides so many churches are not open because of theft and damage.
So my essential evidence of my progress , on a spiritual journey, looks much more like a journey through the bars of Galicia- which it is! But the staff at the pilgrim's office in Santiago accepted it happily- more of that later too.
The first day I sarted in Tui at 11am, and walked 17 km, through Ribadelouro and A Rocha, to O Porrino. Part were romantic country lanes, but the last 7 km were a long straight stretch through the industrail outskirts of Porrino, with heavy trucks swishing water up at me. I did not like being a pilgrim at all, and was very pleased to find the Praza San Sebastian, complete wth a spring where the locals came to fill drinking bottles, and a bar for me to have a cafe solo.

Three days in the heart of Portugal

2008-10-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

Three days in the heart of Portugal 28-30 October

Fling a shawl around your shoulders and you can face the world! At our exhilarating fado evening , the two women singers used their shawls to dramatic effect- such bravado and confidence. we took the plaintive melodies with us as we drove north, via the wild and windy Atlantic coast, to inland Tomar.

This is the home of the Knights Templar, that short lived but very efficient army of soldiers who fought in the crusades, then became Portugal's first bankers. Their years of success lasted about 3 centuries then in about 1570 the last of the leaders of the Knights templar was burnt at the stake. Their memorial is the 'new'design of the Christian cross, with curvy ends, and a plethora of magnificent buildings. we visited the UNESCO World heritage Site of the Convento de Cristo, rich with ornamentation and evidence of the lavish lifestyle.

Very close by is the town of Fatima, place of a visitation by the virgin Mary to three young children in 1917 Whether or not the story is externally verifiable, the town is a thriving centre of devotion. Millions come each year, especially on 13 of June and October, and there are hundreds of hotels and cafes, streets of shops selling statues, rosaries, vestments and items of devotion. I was very impressd with the atmosphere of silence and respect. even though it is not my style of religion at all. A vast white square bigger thaan St Peters Rome, stands in front of a basilica. We arrived as mass was being said in German at a modern outdoor chapel. It was great to be able to join in the ancient ritual, knowing the liturgy even it is in a foreign language.

Another religious experience was in the tiny town of Batalha (battle) which is clustered around the most beautiful example of perpendicular Gothic I have seen ( and I have now seen nearly enough to last the rest of my life) A simple, unadroened creamy interior, with narrow windows decorated with fruits and leaves, not the gaudy relgious scenes usually found. In a side chape were the stone statues of King Jao and Queen Phillipa (who had come to Portugal from England), lying side by side, hands joined together. a simple story of love across eight centuries.

Underground we toured the largest caving system in Portugal, brilliantly lit like an early technicolour movie, all dripping water, lurid pools and the threat of large white spiders. Our guide consoled uss with the local honey liquor at the end!.

Today we began the dy at our now favourite cafe in Tomar, cafe Paraiso (Paradise) and ended t inanother paradise. We discovered the flooded valley of the Zazere, deep coves of blue water, tiny white and schist villages clutching vertical hillsides, and holiday beaches now deserted for the winter. Our guide book advised a restaurant in Fernandes so we wound down the hill, squeezing past lines of cottages and rumbling down the cobblestones. The restaurant was so close to the precipice I had to get out, and later needed to guide the car back up the hill.

We looked out over the water, sampling three different kinds of local fish, grilled with herbs , and served with the local green bok choy- like vegetable, tossed in olive oil, all washed down with a little too much delicious white sangria. The restaurant was also called Cafe Paraiso (Paradise) and it felt like that too.

the view was pretty clost to paradise too.

This area is full of tiny villages, enchanting cafes, old historic town centres, castles on hill tops, rivers, vast mountain scenery, but also schools, children, people going about their lives. very real, very fascinating. Three days has not been enough.

16 October Monkeys, Big Guns and the British- a day in Gibraltar

2008-10-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

Monkeys , big guns and the British - a day trip to Gibraltar.
We saw The Rock from the motorway, sticking up like a giant shark fin, as we drove valiantly towards it. Peter at the guest house advised us to park the car in Spain and walk over the border, but the promise of half price tax free petrol was irresistible. We joined a 20 minute queue, flashed our passports and crossed over from Spain into British territory . We emerged from the underground car park into British Home Stores, with all price tags in pounds. English pubs were advertising steak and kidney pies, fish and chips and nice cups of tea, and English bobbies strolled the crowded high street wearing their traditional high black helmets.
Gibraltar is a little England, complete with English holiday makers and a few gowned and veiled African women, and men in smart suits rushing from bank to business. Such a contrast to the more exotic and less ordered Spanish markets. Our tour guide was a native born Gibraltarian, speaking both English and Spanish, looking like a Spaniard but being British.
It is a real mix of people-A Church of England clergy man hailed as we dithered outside the museum, a South African builder gave up his table for us at the Irish pub, then brought his Kiwi mate over to meet us. The mate comes from Taranaki, works as a carpenter in Gibraltar earning up to 2000pounds a week, but he lives in Spain with his wife and child. We read that the average wage is 300 pounds a week-a very profitable arrangement for him.
What to do in Gibraltar apart from buy a pair of lighter jeans and some sandals as it is so much hotter than I expected? The museum told the story of Gibraltar in an informative video, chronicling the separation of the continents, the discovery of’ ‘Gibraltar woman’ just before the more famous discovery of Neanderthal man, the arrival of Vandals, Visigoths, the Moors, the Christians and finally, with the Battle of Trafalgar, the indomitable British.
Another stranger arrival was the Barbary ape, 300 of which now occupy the higher parts of the Rock, the massive steep outcrop which marks the end of Europe, and was one of the mythological Pillars of Hercules. These cute little monkeys live in three distinct family packs and lurk hopefully at the tourist stop off points, always ready for a handout and a photo opportunity. Our guide had a big stick ready to beat off overfriendly adults, as he encouraged us to feed a baby.
Local legend says when the monkeys go, the English will leave the Rock.’ no sign of that happening, as recent elections recorded a vote of 12138 to 44 in favour of British rule.
The cave where ‘Gibraltar woman’ was found , is actually a spiralling labyrinth of chambers, with graceful stalagtites reaching down to tall stalagmites, as beautifully etched as the alabaster columns I had seen at Cordoba. Each chamber was subtly lit with red or blue, the effect was of ethereal lightness, even though we were walking in the centre of ancient and very solid rock. One massive chamber is used as a concert venue, with steps and platforms and technical areas.
Further up the rock were more chambers, for soldiers looking out over the Mediterranean, with 6 cannons at the ready. These lookouts date from the Siege of Gibraltar, in 1779-83.A heavy military history, right up to the present.
Good to visit, good to leave, in a long hot queue back through border control, back to Spain, even if it is to a British owned holiday flat in an ’urbanizacion’ on the Costa del Sol, Spain’s Sunshine Coast.
Note 1 Do leave your car in Spain, walk over the border and take the local bus
2. Do take a minibus tour rather than the cable car, as the walk down is hot and strenuous.
3.Do expect to pay twice as much for food which is definitely only half as good as that in Spain

7 October Quiet spaces in Hong Kong

2008-10-28T08:44:00.000-07:00

Quiet Spaces in Hong Kong
Amongst the astonishing torrents of people and traffic, the migraine level of neon lights and the war-zone barrage of noise, it is possible to find spaces of peace and stillness, and all for free.
Our first morning saw us wandering down the streets near the hotel, watching Kowloon wake up. An unassuming wire fence opened up a tiny park, brick paved, with greenery and trees. Even so early there were people doing tai chi, exercises, meditation, and just sitting. We found other quiet spots, by accident, as we did my very favourite thing in a new city- just moseying along seeing what there is to see. Steps from the footpath led us up to a temple, complete with mandatory old woman selling incense, and old men sitting outside in the open space. There was a marble chess board waiting for players, and beautifully raked open areas. Outside the fence there was a constant flow of people, old young, male, female, school children. Hardly any other fair skinned people like us- even most of the tourists we encountered were from Malaysia, Singapore, India and China.
A short walk from the hotel down the Kowloon peninsula towards the ferries is the Kowloon park, a foliage dense botanical delight, with paved walkways, lakes with flamingos, tortoises, swans and joyful singing birds, as well as swimming pools, sports grounds and sculpture courts. An unexpected visit to the museum showed us the French contribution to Hong Kong life- orphanages, social services and most surprising a flowering of Art Deco architecture.
Our final act before flying out was a walk back down towards the now familiar Ladies Market, in search of batteries and a mouse for my computer. We passed the park again, and simply went and sat, like all the others there, beyond the relentless flow of pedestrians and the deafening, grinding traffic.
I loved the oases we found, for the physical relief, and for the mental detachment, even if it was only for a short time. Ironic to be in Hong Kong, looking for peace, but it is there.

17 october BAndits, white villages, and the beginnings of bull fightng

2008-10-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

Bandits, white villages, and the beginnings of bull fighting.- a day in Ronda, Andalucia

In the Spanish Civil War, a group of fascists was clubbed and flailed as they were forced to run the gauntlet between two rows of townspeople in the plaza on top of a cliff above the river. At the end of the line, the victims, dead or alive, were thrown over the cliff.
Today, 70 years later, we stood in that plaza, and walked alongside that cliff, looking hundreds of metres down to the bottom of the gorge, below the ’New Bridge’ (finished in 1793)
It is a beautiful sight, tall arches, across the narrow wooded El Tajo gorge, joining the two parts of the town of Ronda. There are cottages half way down and winding pathways, leading out to the fertile fields of the high mountain alley. But I find it impossible to see only the charm and not read the sad and brutal history underneath.
In the car coming down the mountain, we listened to the CD which Rosemary bought at the Bandit museum. The Habanera from ‘Carmen’ filled the little Peugeot. The gullies and ravines and barren peaks around us were the setting for the original story- we could just imagine a bandit behind every rock. Disaffected and outlawed men across the ages have found refuge in this massive range of mountains, the Serrania de Ronda, and made their living robbing travellers, and smuggling contraband. Even today the area is known for its lawlessness, and illegal drug and contraband smuggling from Africa to Europe.
This part of Andalucía s famous for the white towns clinging to the hilltops and tucked into valleys. All very picturesque, but mimicked in less attractive way by the strip developments of holiday homes and multi storey apartment complexes all along the coast, and encroaching up the hillsides accompanied by golf courses. The official name is ‘urbanizaciones- huge complexes of mostly holiday homes, with bars on every window, locks on every door and gateway. There are no little shops or bars, no attempt to create a community, so no heart. Now that the recession is affecting the building trade, many sit unfinished, gaping holes and ugly piles of rock devaluing the otherwise dramtic and magnificent Mediterranean landscape..
What about the bull fighting? It al began in Ronda with a grandfather, father and son each adding to the deadly dance between man and bull, and even starting a College of Bullfighting. We stood beside the oldest bull ring in Spain, but not even a history of 220 years was enough to entice me in.
Beautiful gardens, hypnotic views, fabulous buildings, charming courtyards and doorways and window boxes, dramatic winding roads, and a heavy hearted history- a mix of a day.

22 October Over the border without a bump Seville to evora

2008-10-28T08:36:00.001-07:00

Across the border to Portugal without a bump or a passport check, but taking the slow road.
From Spain to Portugal is a seamless seque- no toll gate, no armed soldiers, nothing. All I noticed was a clock on the motorway which seemed to be an hour behind. Our hotel in Evora confirmed my suspicion- Portugal is an hour behind Spain. This must be very difficult for the people who live in Portugal because it is cheaper, and work in Spain. And how do the residents of Rio de Onor cope, as the border passes right through the centre of town?
We were glad of the extra hour as the trip had taken us through tiny white villages and towns, and along smooth country roads, instead of the fast motorways? Why? Because we were using a GPS for the first time, and had not altered the program from ‘scenic pedestrian’ to fast motorway over 120kph’. We stopped for lunch in a village off the beaten track, and re-read the instructions. From then on our GPS now named Maria led us patiently back to the motorway and speedily up to the ancient Roman walls of Evora, in Portugal.
Evora is a world heritage site- apart from its beauty as a hill town, it has intact examples of every kind of architecture, from Roman walls and temples, to Moslem houses and mosques, built over and around by Christians using Norman, Gothic, Renaissance, baroque, and Manueline styles. A perfect city wall surrounds the town of 14000 inhabitants. Huge gateways hide gardens, courtyards and the swimming pool of the rich, much needed in summers of 40 degrees plus.
Right now in late October it is 23 degrees, the sun making the whitewashed and marble and stone buildings gleam with a golden autumn light. The University students walk around in long black gowns, a remnant from the Jesuit days, little children clatter up the cobbled streets to school, and the elderly congregate in the village square, the Placa de Gironimo, to read the publicly displayed death lists and eat chestnuts freshly grilled by local growers.
We took a historical tour this morning, through the longest cathedral in Portugal, complete with 15th century organ built from Brazilian wood, soon after Christopher Columbus visited Brazil, and brought back news of its gold and treasures. Our beautiful local guide showed us such a complexity of history and domination of Romans by Moslems, Moslems and Jews by Christians, that I became quite dizzy.
I retreated to our 16th century hotel, where the semi tiled walls are half a metre thick, and the ceilings are of arched brick, and lay down for a bit.
After nearly 3 weeks on the road, I intend to adopt the local custom of a siesta in the afternoons, and not try to see absolutely everything, even though it is all so fascinating. We went out to dinner last night, intending to listen to fado singing, but the heat and the travel caught up with us, and we staggered home up the cobble streets at 9.30pm, as the locals were just going out to dinner!.

2008-10-28T08:29:00.000-07:00

A hefty fine , corks, and hefty monoliths - Evora to Lisbon
25 October
Our GPS Maria guided us on to a road which we thought avoided the tolls, and would give us a scenic route. Great drive west through fields and fields of olives and cork trees, with distant views of white hilltop towns and castle walls on the horizons.
As we neared Lisbon, the toll booth approached- the unsmiling officer asked for our ticket. We pleaded ignorance and foreignness- no messing with him, $70 cash please. Later I read in the guide book, that it is “strictly forbidden” to drive a toll road without a ticket. We will not do it again. Paying a $3-5 toll is a much better idea. It was bread and jam for lunch today, not our usual menu del dia, about $16-20 each.
Hefty monoliths were on our itinerary as we negotiated the narrow twisting streets of the Jewish quarter of beautiful, enchanting Evora. The colours of yellow, blue and white sat so well with the old stone buildings, and echoed the azure sky, (‘blue’is azul in Portuguese)and golden leaves of the autumnal plane trees.
Along the country road towards Guadalupe we saw our first cork trees- gnarled and twisty like olives, but with a big difference. The bark is stripped off every ten years, to make products of cork. Each tree has a bare reddish trunk, and a bold white number to tell its date of harvest. In the shops we had seen not only mats, decorated corks, and toys, but also exquisite handbags, and hats of fine soft cork sheets, spoons and cooler bags- insulated lunch boxes. Corks are a major industry. It is now easy to understand the resistance to screw caps for wine bottles.
The Portugese version of Stonehenge is easily accessed up a smooth dirt track through a private estate of cork trees with goats resting in their shade, their bells chiming peacefully. About 100 human height stones in a rough circle on a hillside, calm, mysterious, keeping their astral and religious secrets. A little group of itinerant artists and jewellers had set up camp for the tourist trade and Rosemary bought a silvery rhodium bracelet from Italian Carlotta, and I bought a red stone and silver necklace. My first souvenir.
On the way down the track we deviated up to a huge stone phallus, which apparently is in line with the other standing stones at certain times of the year. Always the questions are how did these people manage to convey massively heavy rocks across such distances, and why was it so important to do so? The answers are only speculation.
Anyway we conveyed ourselves very comfortably, if expensively, in our Peugeot to the main square of Lisbon, Placa Dom Pedro iv, to meet up with Luciano, who guided us through yet more winding lanes, to our apartment in the Russio district.
Key words monoliths, toll roads, cork

Trying to be a good blogger

2008-10-24T09:56:00.000-07:00

Trying to be a good blogger means taking the time to sit and write. I have learned that today when the excitement of all the new places, the effect of the heat, and the continual moving on, caught up with me. I took to me bed (in a 16th century palace) while Danielle and Rosemary drank coffee and explored Evora, our first town in Portugal. My resolution is to now catch up and send off a few blogs, and even attach some photos, if we can find a cyber cafe which allows me to plug in my flash drive.

In the meantime the sun is shining across Placa de Giralda, the tables are full of people having a cool drink, I shall go and join my mates, and relish just being here.

A stamp of the foot- a day in Seville

2008-10-22T23:53:00.000-07:00

A stamp of the foot, a toss of the head- Seville
From the steep hills of the sierra, we drove across the flat red plains to Seville. I had been looking forward to the wide avenues lined with orange trees, and was not disappointed. Even though it was raining. Danielle and I took the bus to the centro urbano. A French couple from the hotel were also headed for the Cathedral and they escorted us through the narrow streets of the Juderia, the old Jewish quarter- narrow, winding lanes, with tall apartment blocks dating from 14th century. So full of character and history as in all the Spanish cities, the Jews were evicted just before Christopher Columbus set off for America in 1492.
We kept glimpsing the cathedral between the buildings, but did not grasp ts immensity till we stood in the massive interior. The biggest gothic church in Europe, embellished with dozens of ornate renaissance and baroque side chapels. Such an overload of detail in the carving, oil paintings and gold . How the simplicity of the Christian faith could have developed into this display of wealth and power! All on the site of a Moslem mosque, to emphasise the triumph of the new catholic regime.
The original Moslem tower is still intact so we walked up 37 floors, to look over the calm ochre and reds of Seville, the horizon punctuated with spires and towers.
Stamping feet, snapping fingers and tossing heads, with passionate guitar playing, and a deep gutteral wailing= our evening of Flamenco was so much more than I expected. We were shown different types of flamenco, which had its roots in the dances and songs of the dispossessed, and is performed with an intense anguish . Three young women each danced, wearing brilliantly coloured dresses with long frilled trains. These they kicked back, as they stamped and licked their feet in complex rhythms, which were answered by guitars and loud contrapuntal handclapping. Two men also danced, wearing dinner jackets, which they swung and held, like bull fighters. Again the clicking and stamping and tapping, not unlike river dance, the fiery head tossing, leaping and swirling.
We had seats a metre from the stage, and we watched and clapped and gasped, while sipping Sangria and nibbling tapas- paella, meat balls, cheese, hams, potato salad, bread, finishing with fruity ice-cream.
The flamenco evenings at Al Arenal are held nightly, designed for tourists and great value and atmosphere. Afterwards we wandered the cobblestone streets, misty with rain. At 10pm people were walking, drinking and eating in cafes, riding bikes, wheeling babies, laughing and talking. We took photos of the floodlight ancient buildings and felt very sad to be leaving Andalucía.