One of the nice things about running a website like Women Travel the World, is the great people you meet in the travel business. We had based ourselves in Brighton at the lovely Pink House, but up just up the road was another women owned guest house which is also listed on Women Travel the World. Jane and Anne invited us over to visit, so we meandered out way along the coast, detoured to magnificent Beachy Head for a very cold but pleasant walk, and found ourselves at Eastbourne.
Jane and Anne had bought The Langtons as they had wanted a change and a new lifestyle. Read more
Today we are off on a pilgrimage – Ceridwyn and I are keen to see Fatima. This international focus of pilgrimage is just down the road from Tomar where we are staying. Danielle is not so keen and The Lonely Planet is downright scathing about tacky religious souvenirs
I am here as an observer of the phenomenon that is Fatima. A welcome sign invites us to enter as pilgrims and despite myself, I am soon drawn in to the sense of holy in the place. Read more
We have bought a GPS, christened her Maria, and we are finding it a great aid to navigation – Ceridwyn on the maps, Danielle at the wheel and Rosemary in the back with Maria – we are a great team.
We have an apartment in Lisboa – right in the heart of town, its fantastic, we can walk everywhere. What a great city Lisbon is – we loved it – a beautiful river, a magical castle up on the hill, plazas every corner you turn, and a beautiful big river/harbour. Read more
A great blog post What you decide to take on a round-the-world trip ultimately depends on the activities you plan on partaking in and the places you plan on visiting.
Packing for a long term trip around the world can be a challenge. The contents of your backpack should get you through a variety of climates, sustain you economically, be culturally sensitive, and should support a variety of physical activities without weighing you down.
Here are some items Tamia Dowlatabadi found to be indispensable during her travels:
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.
I have finally succumbed to Moroccan tummy – everyone has had a touch of it, and I thought I had escaped. I am laid low and close to the toilet. Luckily we have a few days in Marrakech to recover. I forgo the seaside trip to Essaouira and spend the day in bed. I do manage to attend our last evening festivities, but I don’t eat anything apart from an avocado juice (a fabulous local specialty.
Driving back into Marrakech feels like visiting an old friend – its now familiar boisterousness and crazy traffic welcomes us home. The Hotel Gallia is fabulous – a beautiful comfortable Riad with 19 rooms off a central courtyard. It is literally a stone’s throw from the main square, but surprisingly quiet – and for me a nice wifi internet cafe around the corner. We have a night to get sorted before heading off to the Atlas mountains overnight with just a backpack and sleeping bag. Read more
We reluctantly leave the desert – and head for two days of sightseeing and more relaxing afternoons. This is well timed by our guide Julie of Venus Adventures, as we are getting tired, stomachs are being nursed along, and we have washing and personal things to attend to.
First stop Todra Gorge – where we stay in a hotel under these extraordinary cliffs. Read more
It’s a breathe of fresh air staying with some of bestest friends in Oxfordshire – space from travelling to simply be with friends who effortlessly connect. It feels like home and a nice break to recharge batteries before heading off the unknown and mysteriously compelling Morocco. Hannah Ward and Jennifer Wild have been friends for 2o years – we met when they left the Franciscan Convent and became firm friends even though we are separated by half the world. Our interests connect over church/feminism/womens issues, but more than that they are family. Read more
