Ponte Sampaio to San Antoninio 23 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. Read more

Ceridwyn writes: 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 have been erected by the Spanish government and are such a welcome sight. Read more

Ceridwyn Parr writes in Porto, Portugal: 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. Read more

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. (Rosemary decided to stay and catch up with her self and her emails at the hotel) 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 El 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.

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 is 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.

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. Read more

Ceridwyn Parr writes…

Need colour and sunshine and a taste of the exotic? Then a visit to Morocco will be just the thing. It ’s like entering Aladdin’s cave; the music, activity, spices, people, street life, take you into another world.

I was house-sitting in Manchester one cold and dull December, when I spotted an ad for a week in Marrakech. Over the weeks leading up to Christmas the price went down. As my spirits were also going down, Marrakech seemed the perfect pick-me-up. From the moment we landed, the magic worked.

Marrakech is a meeting point of African landscape, Arab culture and French/ European colonisation. We had enough French to get by, and enough curiosity to soak up the adventure of being in such a exotic and challenging place.

The first challenge was to get out of the English style comfort of the hotel and hit the streets. The first adventure was to the Djema El Fna, the largest traditional open air market in Morocco. Right in front of us one man spread out a mat, opened a basket, and revealed a hooded snake head. This was definitely the Arabian nights! A crowd gathered around , listening to the rasping rising tones of his flute. The snake wove patterns around in the air. I held my breath.

Ow! A sharp pain in my backside- someone’s hand had groped through the crowd to grasp my flesh. I held my friends arm closer.

All around, men in long robes, or djellabas, were setting up stalls and tables and chairs. All along one side of the square were big tables enclosing a grill. Plied up were purple aubergine, …..fish… Come and eat? We finally choseThe grilled aubergine became my favourite meal- I have never been able to reproduce it at home.

I was fascinated by the story tellers- one man would begin a story, others would gather, and add in a line or two, shouting and laughing, leaning in to listen. Then there were musicians, dancers, acrobats and jugglers, and of course the snake charmers.

To have a break from the endless movement and noise we walked up to a second level café which overlooked the square. Drinking strong and aromatic Arabian coffee and watching the action was a night’s entertainment in itself.

I am glad we took a guided tour the next day, as the culture shock is powerful. Having a man lead us through the streets of this city of a million people, past watersellers and Berber women begging, past carts pulled by donkeys, and luxury grand hotels, past the ramparts of city walls and doorways leading to mysterious interiors, was most reassuring. We just watched his brown djellaba and grey cap, and kept on going.

By our third day we had got over our culture shock and just wandered enjoying the street life., The streets are full of men- sitting around in cafes smoking, talking, shaking hands, kissing each other on the cheeks, giving white women the eye. The few women around are different. They are always in twos or threes, , always well covered in djellabas of grey, brown, dull pink, cream., with scarves and even veils to the eyeballs, always moving fast, never just hanging around like the men.

After two more lots of groping, and the hissing and cat calling which accompanied every walk we made, we resolved to go for self protection next time, and buy ourselves a djellaba- easier than all the hassle.

Our hotel organised a day trip to the beach- this entailed a taxi ride of a couple of hours through flat fertile farm lands, till we reached the clean wide sands of Essouira beach. Little boys played soccer , as we walked along in the mild sun. Certainly better than the grey damp of England! Fronting the beach are the stone walls of the old town. On the walls was a painter whose pictures summed up the Marrakech experience. Heavily robed women under a Moorish arch way, in the intense blue we later discovered to be called Marjorelle Blue.

The next day was the much anticipated trip to the Atlas Mountains, named after the Greek mythological Titan who held up the heavens on his shoulders, and was then transformed into the mountains at the top of Africa. Warm seaside town to snowy mountain villages in a few hours, of smooth highway then winding grinding roads. The hills appeared bare of habitation, until my eyes accustomed themselves to the variations in the reddish ochre landscape, and could detect houses, cut out of the same rock. Often the only marker was a carpet hanging over a terrace. We stopped for lunch at a tiny shop overlooking a wide valley, where our driver had grown up. He later took us to a former Moorish castle, with a huge internal courtyard, protection from heat and wind. How I longed to buy one or three of the richly patterned carpets on display, and how the sellers tried to get us to buy, but I resisted.

The old town of Marrakech, the Medina, is full of narrow lanes, high walls, courtyards hidden behind beaten metal doors, and endless street sellers in the souks. You go from spices piled into preposterous peaks, to jewellery made by my cousin in the mountains, to fabric, leather, musical instruments- what ever you want you can buy very cheap and very good.

The new town is like any French city- wide avenues, bland cream buildings, glass fronted shops, cars, apartments. But tucked amongst the urban blandness of Gueliz was an unexpected treasure.

The Majorelle Garden and Museum of Islamic Art is like an exotic version of the Chelsea Flower Show – pathways lined with ferns and palms, corners of bougainvillea, banana, coconuts, cactus and tropical flowers, streams and garden seats and birds- but the most astonishing feature is the colour blue. You will find single walls, or an urn or a stairwell in this striking colour, always contrasting with yellows, greens and reds .Jacques Majorelle was a French painter who created this masterpiece of a garden, collecting plants representing five continents. The gardens have been restored by Yves St Laurent and Pierre Berge and are open to the public. We loved the colour of Majorelle blue so much we have since bought a sofa that colour, and painted the walls a Moroccan ochre. Such is the power of travel!

Our week in Marrakech showed us only part of that city. Reading wikitravel, I realise how much more there is- so come a wet and dark December I will be off again, this time fully covered and ready to barter for a carpet.