There are many sights to see on the road to Santiago, Spain, better known to pilgrims as St. James Way, or simply the Camino. Perhaps one of the most unusual I’ve experienced is Herreria de Compludo – the Forge of Compludo. Older than the pilgrimage itself, which became popular during the Middle Ages, the forge dates back to the seventh century.

Not only is Herreria de Compludo the oldest blacksmith shop in Spain, but it has been continuously running with a fire in the forge since then. It uses coal mined in the mountains to the north for fuel, and an ingenious system of waterpower to run everything else. It is a self-sustaining industrial marvel crafted before the dawn of the industrial age, back in the shadowy prehistory of an automation that was just a gleam in the first smithy’s eye. And it is the last vestige of a farming community nestled in a remote valley of Northwestern Castilla y Leon, Spain.

We hiked in on what was probably once a wagon road, a half-mile path winding in from the highway along a crystal mountain stream. The water swiftly descends into the valley while the path gently climbs the steep slope above it. The elevation can be misleading. As the path and stream separate a stone-lined causeway becomes visible between them, seemingly flowing up hill. The illusion ends as the path levels and it becomes evident that gravity channels the water into a small, natural-looking reservoir between the path and the stream below. Beneath the reservoir is the stone building that houses the forge. It is so shielded by the lush greenery of the forest that a casual hiker could pass it by. A small sign announces Herreria de Compludo.

We walked down a woods path to the clearing in front of the forge to meet the smithy, Manuel Sanchez. He, with his faithful German Shepard named Rex after the popular Spanish TV series of his youth, “Rex, un Policia Diferente”, that starred a German Sheperd police dog, broke the loneliness of this nearly abandoned setting. He is the fourth-generation smithy to operate this self-sustaining forge since his great-grandfather took it over in 1908. Manuel has traced the ownership back to the 1700s, but local histories place a forge at this site one thousand years earlier! With sections of the original stone building – probably the residence – collapsed, the moss and lichen covered forge looks its age. It is thanks to Manuel’s commitment and perseverance that people can still visit to see the ancient process of forging metal into plowshares and other tools.

Behind an outbuilding there was a pile of stones with a tree growing out of it that Manuel described as what was the shared oven for the once-thriving farm community. As a baker, after seeing how the forge worked, I wondered what marvelous system they used to have in place to heat the communal oven. But that is another story lost to the ages.

Behind us, the runoff from the reservoir spilled down next to a water wheel before being channeled back into the stream. Everything looked rundown and cobbed together, the last repairs done before even baling wire was invented. It was a doorway into antiquity.

That doorway opened to a dark cavernous space with the crashing sound of water surrounding a lighted hearth. We entered the cave-like structure, our eyes adjusting to the glowing coal fire. That, and what light entered through tiny windows made my eyes widen at the primitive surroundings. There was nothing simple about what I perceived. Genius was evident at every turn.

The stationary waterwheel was as much inside the shop as outside, visible in the dim light as connecting to a massive tree trunk that we learned was basically a huge hammer. Through an ingenious rigging a cable snaked up through the roof and connected to a spillway door. One need only pull the cable to open the spillway causing the water to turn the wheel. How much it was opened determined the speed of the waterwheel which, in turn, regulated the speed of the hammer. Because this was all made out of wood except for the hammer’s head, the connections would overheat relative to the speed of the work being done. To counter that, a wooden trough was placed to catch more of the water the faster the wheel turned, channeling it to cool the friction sites. It was brilliant, if ancient, engineering!

The sound of cascading water came from the rear of the forge as well. Behind the hearth there were carved stone steps up through a curved doorway into a well-like structure. Hidden beneath ferns and moss was the wooden system that replaced the conventional bellows. It is a Catalan horn, in which air is injected according to the Venturi principle. As water from the reservoir came down in and outside wooden tubes that narrowed in size as they descended, air was forced into the forge. That air was in turn regulated by a stopper that, when removed, allowed the air to flow into the room, but when in place it directed the flow right into the glowing coals of the forge. No bellows were needed! So much of the labor was automated that the smithy’s main task was to move the hot metal from the fire to the hammer to be shaped. It enabled the farming community built up around the forge to have all the repairs and tools they needed to survive.

Speaking of surviving, Manuel is part of a family tradition. I asked him about a fifth generation, a son to take over and he said “I have no son to succeed me. It would be impossible! Don’t get me wrong. I can have sons, but not one to continue this tradition. No one would want to.” And with that final statement, he picked up a hammer and shaped a metal spike for me, pounding it flat on four sides and curving the head. While it was still hot he hammer-stamped my name on the shaft, cooled the spike in water, and handed me a historic souvenir 1700 years in the making.

To visit Herreria de Compludo contact Castilla y Leon Tourism or see:

The Herreria de Compludo website.

There is a fee and specific times it is open. It is advised to make arrangements in advance. It is well worth the visit.

The post The Ancient Forge: Herreria de Compludo appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Citizens in the U.S. South often get a bad rap. But it’s not due to lack of humor. In a sense, they’re very much like the Swedish pop group, ABBA; where we think we’re laughing at them, but they’re really laughing at themself, and asking us to join along.

I just received this from Amber Sutton of It’s a Southern Thing. It’s devoid of any recipes, but filled with good old fashion Southern fun.

But, first, here’s my little story, a story about mayonnaise when I once took a delightful trip to Mahón, the capital and second largest city of Menorca, Spain. A chef presented a sauce, which he referred to as, mahonnaise. It was created with only two ingredients: eggs and oil. And the result was, as I should say in Dixie, Southernly Good!

Nevertheless, many places lay claim to be the birth of mayonnaise, with southwestern France as the most vocal. But, I still really think its origin can be traced to Mahón, which is also the home of Mahón Gin, made from high-quality wine alcohol, mixed with Pyrenean juniper berries, as well as other aromatic herbs.

Now that I’m at it, there’s Avarcas – also known as Abarcasor Menorquinas – the traditional sandals of Menorca, where the soles are made from the rubber tread of a used tire. They last forever, in fact, yesterday I had planned to wear my life-long pair for an afternoon of beachcombing along Seattle’s Golden Gardens – but as a rather rain intolerant Angelino, I cancelled my trip due to reports of bad weather. This was much to the chagrin of my Seattle friends, where daily bad weather is not unusual and something to be ignored. They also don’t seem to mind wading in rock-infested waters with old tennis shoes to avoid blood on their feet, and then staggering out of the frigid NW water, and tangled in seaweed, too.

Okay, that was fun, now back to Potato Salad, but not necessarily Southern.

There’s a particularly tantalizing French potato salad from France, which we curiously refer to here as French Potato Salad, which is made with plenty of mayonnaise and delicately chopped hard boiled eggs. But, there’s also another, which stems from Eastern Europe, without eggs and mayonnaise, but with an abundant amount of more potatoes, vinegar and mustard. It can taste a bit harsh to the innocent palate, but I find it to be equally tasteful and, well, invigorating.

And how could I forget…

Yes, that I had forgot that there was a carefully cultivated root, high in the Peruvian and Bolivian Andes, that over many millenniums, became what we know today as the Potato. And through the Columbian Exchange – from the New World to the Old- life in the European nations of the North transitioned to a new form of nutrients,no longer having rely on wheat from the warm Mediterranean climate.

But, in the end, whether it’s mayonnaise or mustard with plenty of vinegar in your potato salad, it’s all about your preference of the palate, but for me; I seem to adore them all.

And, I try not laugh when I read about Southern Things; for it’s far more than finger lickin’ good, getting too drunk and laughing too loud, and hitting on a cousin at a family barbecue — how could I even dare, with the names of William Faulker, Mark Twain, Thomas Wolfe, Flannery O’Connor, Tennessee Williams, William Dickey, Pat Conroy, William Saroyan, John Kennedy Toole, Walker Percy and Truman Capote, with his blemishes and all. Now, I’ve just stolen and revised a line from and Adam Sandlers’ Chanukah Song: “And what do they all have in common? All Southerners!”
— Audrey

In defense of Southern ‘salads’ because who needs lettuce anyway?

By Amber Sutton

We Southerners get a lot of grief for a lot of things when it comes to our common kitchen practices, and one of those things is our affection for throwing the word “salad” into the name of dishes that aren’t really salads (to them) but are really delicious (to everyone).

I should start off by saying as someone who has lived my entire life in the South, it’s something I hadn’t honestly given a-whole-lot of thought until I started working at It’s a Southern Thing and realized that calling things that seem to involve every ingredient under the sun except lettuce a “salad” is, well, a Southern thing to do.

This is where I get stuck, though. Who said lettuce is a necessary ingredient when it comes to making a salad in the first place? After all, the official definition of a salad, according to Oxford Languages, is “a cold dish of various mixtures of raw or cooked vegetables, usually seasoned with oil, vinegar, or other dressing and sometimes accompanied by meat, fish, or other ingredients,”

Potato salad, strawberry-pretzel salad, pasta salad, tomato-cracker salad, egg salad, chicken salad, tuna salad, pear salad, Coke salad, ambrosia salad and many other iconic Southern salads easily fit that description, so the conclusion I’ve drawn is that Southerners actually just have a better grasp on what a salad can be.

So, are all those salad cynics just jealous because Southerners don’t have to settle for sad salads consisting of a handful of lettuce and raw vegetables coated in ranch dressing? Because the South had the audacity to see the potential for salads to be treated as what they basically are — casseroles you keep cold? That’s definitely what it seems like.

Now the next argument that will likely be made is how salads are supposed to be healthy and the South’s most popular salads typically aren’t on account of usually involving a heavy helping of mayonnaise or cheese or sugar. And there’s probably some truth to that — with lettuce coming in at all of five calories per cup, there’s not much out there that is as healthy as your standard garden salad. There’s also not much on its level when it comes to lacking in flavor.

See, we like to start our salads off using a healthy(ish) ingredient, and then add a kick of taste so that we, believe it or not, actually want to eat it. That’s the goal, right? Because many folks spend the entire car ride to the potluck daydreaming about getting a scoop or two of Granny’s famous potato salad, but we’re pretty sure no one in the history of time has said “man, I have been thinking about this garden salad for days.”

So yeah, we may coat the broccoli in our broccoli salad with bacon, cheese and a sweet, creamy dressing before we eat it, but we also enjoy eating it. That’s the real difference between Southern salads and the salads you’ll find elsewhere — we’re not eating them because we’re trying to be healthy. We’re eating them because we want to.

So, you know what, y’all can keep giving us grief about what dishes we call salads if it means we get an extra serving of Mama’s macaroni salad. We imagine swallowing your pride is pretty hard to do when all you’ve got to wash it down is some boring lettuce and a couple grape tomatoes anyway.

The post The Southern Potato Salad of the Great U.S. South appeared first on Traveling Archive.

At first glance, the Timanfaya National Park in the interior of Lanzarote, the Eastern-most of Spain’s Canary Islands, seems little more than a desolate landscape of lava fields with volcanos rising over them. It is only once you look closer that you can see the austere beauty of the many lava tubes, calderas, and craggy peaks, the lava sea, all wind-worn over the centuries. The arid, rocky plains and the smooth, naturally wind-swept fields of volcanic ash hold an austere beauty all their own. Euphorbia plants and lichens, as well as lizards and insects, call this untouched, protected area home.

Lanzarote is known by the sobriquet “Volcano Island” because of its volcanic origins and these vast areas covered in lava and volcanic ash, but one can find the occasional oasis of posh resorts with golf courses and palm-studded lawns dotting the rugged shoreline. What were once poor fishing villages are now sailing harbors with destination resorts. One such, the five-star Secrets Lanzarote Resort & Spa in Puerto Calero, is an all-inclusive hotel with more pools and restaurants than can be explored in a week of indulgence, and too many steps to climb to do it. At least that’s what I thought climbing to and from my suite with its swim-out pool. Fortunately, there are elevators, and the service is so great I didn’t have to leave my room except for an occasional tour of the interior.

As man has turned these oasis’ into tourist destinations, it is the hand of man that sculpted much of the rest of the island into pock-marked slopes with semi-circles of lava rock walls on the windward side to protect the fruit trees and especially grape vines growing at the bottom of the depressions. While Lanzarote has little rain and scarce water, there is a sea fog that rolls in condensing, as does the dew, on the porous ash which then seeps down to water the plants. This natural funnel is enough for grape vines to flourish so that wineries can produce some excellent wines. There is no better place to see this environmentally constructed design than at Stratvs Winery.

Located in La Geria, the wine growing region of Lanzarote, Stratvs Winery is an architectural gem surrounded by natural beauty. Their uniquely shaped bottles showcase their eminently drinkable, delicious wines. I’m a white wine fan, so their Malvasia white was my favorite, but their Tinto Joven is the rare red I would buy and drink again. You are well-advised to stop in for a tasting. While you are there, the restaurant is exceptional, and their shop is filled with unusual canned foods and gifts. Everything about Stratvs Winery says “quality.”

But Stratvs Winery is not the most remarkable “hand-of-man” construction in Lanzarote. For that we must look to César Manrique Cabrera, Lanzarote’s renowned artist, sculptor, architect, and designer. César Manrique (as he is known) had as much influence on the “look” of the entire island as Roberto Burle Marx had on Rio de Janeiro. (The white and black tiled sidewalks and squares paired with tropical plantings were Marx’s trademark.)

César Manrique is so completely tied to Lanzarote that even the airport is named after him. His concept of white houses, no more than 2 stories high, each with either green or blue trim, depending on location and use, was the model throughout Lanzarote. His commitment to environmentally sound construction and land use set the stage for the island’s development. And stage is the right word for many reasons. César Manrique lived his storied life in the spotlight surrounded by glamorous people engaged in hedonism and debauchery, influence and intrigue. His two most dramatically visible accomplishments utilize lava tubes both large and small to mix art and nature, creating unique structures where his sculpture, paintings, and designs are dramatically displayed.

To understand his architecture, you first must know a bit about the geology of the area and the nature of volcanos. Lanzarote is an ancient volcanic island. Three hundred years ago it underwent a violent volcanic period (there are more than 300 volcanoes on the island) that covered large areas in lava and ash, vastly increasing the island’s size. Lava flowing down the slopes and across the fertile farmland cooled on the outside, solidifying even as the hot lava still flowed inside. Then, as gases built up inside, some pockets exploded, while others expanded until eventually the roof collapsed, leaving holes in the lava tubes called jameos. What was left were expanses of underground tunnels with random sized jameos open to the sky. It was César Manrique who saw the value and beauty of these formations, turning them into underground living additions and creative spaces.

The César Manrique Foundation is where César Manrique lived before his death in a car accident in 1992. It is a more-or-less conventional house built over a lava tube with five jameos which he converted into rooms. Some open into covered living spaces while others into gardens and courtyards, the most dramatic housing an underground pool with waterfall, all connected by narrow passages of exposed lava. The underground rooms have small conversational areas, or trysting niches, if you are to believe the many photos on the walls. It is a hedonist’s playhouse, with the framed images of same and opposite sex couplings leaving little to the imagination. It is wondrously beautiful stage for a talented and free-spirited man with a lust for life! (NOTE: the many steps and narrow passages may restrict the infirm, and the imagery may not be suitable for all ages.)

”Jameos del Agua”, the first Art, Culture, and Tourist Center César Manrique created, is woven through and above a much larger lava tube. Its design exemplifies his belief that artistic creation should be in harmony with the environment and nature. It was completed in 1977, before the term “handicap accessible” was a consideration. The entrance is via a steep spiral staircase down into Jameo Chico, a rough-hewn levelish area that houses the open-air restaurant. A short tunnel off to the east goes to the sea. To the west are steps down to a subterranean tidal pool where white endangered Blind Crabs are located. Passing through that you’ll climb up to the Jameo Grande where the most stunning swimming pool defiantly advertises No Swimming, yet begs to be swam in. It is a natural looking pool defined by the white painted smooth concrete separations César Manrique’s designs are known for. Stairs up to ground level lead to a visitor’s center of unusual and fun exhibits. The mirror room is not to be missed!

However, the crowning achievement of “Jameos del Agua” is just off the pool level, with steps down to an underground auditorium with excellent acoustics. Here, 550 people can hear classical and contemporary concerts in a natural setting, with seating sloping down to a stage set in a lava tube. The Auditorio Jameos del Agua is one of the many sites for the Canary Islands International Festival of Music held mid-January to mid-March every year. The auditorium is an artistic treasure linking the beauty of music to the beauty of nature in an environmentally sound way – the way all of César Manrique’s projects do.

Other things to do in Lanzarote include taking a short ferry ride to the neighboring La Graciosa island to experience a more rustic and isolated retreat, with no paved roads and few residents; visit the extinct volcano caldera on the edge of the sea called the Green Lagoon; visit Janubio Salt Mine (really evaporation pools) the largest in the Canary Islands for a friendly, personal tour; hike into the caldera of Volcan del Cuervo on a mostly level and well maintained path in Timanfaya National Park; also in the Park, Devil’s Kitchen should not be missed; and finally, eat and drink with abandon at the many fine wineries and restaurants.

I think the best meal I had was at Bodega del Santiago, but overall, the food everywhere was great, although the beef was often overcooked. I also spent one night at the five-star Hotel Fariones and compiled a video of the hotels and restaurants so you can see them for yourself.

Whatever your passions or pleasures, you’ll love visiting Lanzarote!

The post After Nature, The Hand Of Man Created Lanzarote appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Dear Maria,

Yes, Magellan lost his head in the Philippine island of Mactan in 1521. Ferdinand Magellan (Fernando de Magallanes in Spanish) was actually born in Portugal (Fernao de Magalhaes) but his expedition was funded by Spanish investors when his own country rejected his exploration proposal. Whether he changed loyalty to Spain is not clear but the Philippines is named after King Philip of Spain.

Magellan’s story is one instance where the old adage “the victor gets to write history” rings true. The PBS History website and Spanish movies like “1898: Our Last Men in the Philippines” depict the Filipinos as uncivilized thankless primitives. From Western perspectives, the Spaniards were the cultured benefactors who came to save the Filipinos from their ignorance. From the Filipino’s viewpoint, the Spaniards were the oppressors. The Spanish monks sworn to celibacy were notorious to have families on the side.

Western literature does not explain how Magellan was killed but ask a Filipino and he can tell you that that Lapu Lapu, the local tribal chief, cut off Magellan’s head. It may be conjecture but in fairness, the PBS video stated that Lapu Lapu’s many tattoos proved he was a strong warrior (how did they know that?) — now that’s conjecture if you ask me.

There is a popular, humorous, clever song about “Magellan” composed by funny man, Yoyoy Villame. You can watch the video below but here’s fair warning that Yoyoy ‘s accent is so thick, you may have to read the captions to understand the lyrics.

Excerpt of the song as you might hear it:
“En March sixteen, Pipteen Hundred Twenty one, the Phelepeens was disco-bird by Magellan.
[In March 15, 1621, the Philippines was discovered by Magellan.]”

Magellan’s claim to fame: The first man to circumnavigate the world. But actually, Magellan, was already dead when the ship Victoria arrived at Seville, Spain on September 9, 1522. The real navigator who accomplished this feat and whose fame was stolen from him was Juan Sebastian de Elcano. Hard to believe that was 500 years ago.

Magellan is also credited to have discovered the Philippines. That’s an insult to the Filipinos whose ancestors had a functioning civilization before the Spaniards forced them into Catholicism. Magellan’s arrival prompted the colonization of the Philippines that lasted for 300 years and, sadly, instead of sharing the technology, the Spaniards kept the natives uneducated in order to hold on to their power. The Catholic missions did put up schools and it taught the local elites (ilustrados) Western culture. Sure enough. the ilustrados, with eyes opened, realized the oppression of their people and started a movement of unrest with their writings. This led to the Philippine Revolution in August 1896.

It seems like the Philippines is always getting the short end of the stick (maybe it’s because most Filipinos are so nice and genteel … an admirable character trait but easy prey to opportunistic bullies) because, when the Filipinos finally united to stop the abuse, they partnered with America who helped drive the Spaniards out. However, seeing the weakened state of the Philippine revolutionaries, the Americans decided to take the Philippines for itself. The United States turned the Philippines into one of its commonwealth countries. Unlike the Spaniards, Americans brought in the protestant brand of Christianity and tradition of educating the natives. They started the public school system. At one point, the Philippines boasted it had the highest per capita literacy in the world. Thanks to America everyone (not just the ilustrados) could get an education. This affiliation with America forced the Philippines’ involvement in the US-Japanese War. Countless lives were lost from the Japanese atrocities. But after the war, the Philippines became the economic envy of South East Asia — more advanced even than Japan in the late 50s. But politics, greed, and corruption creeped in … but that’s another story.

Final observations

There are Philippine statues, paintings, food products and even a fish named after the barbarian Lapu Lapu but there are none for Magellan. As to your question: is it safe for Spaniards to visit the Philippines? Of course it’s safe. Despite the bad blood between the 2 countries, today Filipinos can travel freely to Spain without a visa. Many Spaniards consider the Filipinos as their brothers. Today the remnants of the Spanish influence can be seen in the Filipino names, street names, words in the Filipino language and in many of the food. The mulatos (or lighter-skinned cross-bred children of the Spaniards) are considered to be so attractive that they are plucked to be actors and models regardless of their intelligence or talent. This is part of the colonial mentality deeply ingrained in the Filipino psyche.

Another testament to the kind and forgiving heart of the Filipinos: they have great relations with the Japanese (maybe they’re attracted to Japan’s affluence). In fact, the Japanese (ashamedly) seem to remember what their warring ancestors did to the Filipinos more than most Filipinos today. Japan has also donated greatly to boost the Philippine economy. — Pedro Panduko

Send in your questions

This installment of our advice column comes to you from our Filipino-American expert, Mr. Pedro Panduko (this is his pen name). Ask him anything about the Philippines and he will give his expert opinion. Ask about the food, the beaches, politics, history, the people, customs, superstitions, economy, etc. He can even share affordable travel ideas.

Meet our Filipino-American: Pedro Panduko

Pedro was born in Aklan, a South Eastern province of the Philippines. He speaks Tagalog, Visayan and English. He was studying in Metropolitan Manila when his family decided to move to California, USA in the 90s. He’s a typical hard-working Filipino who enjoys sports (especially basketball, boxing and football), food, cars and action movies. He currently is the quality controller of a medical marijuana plant. No, he doesn’t sample the product (at least that’s what he wants us to believe), but he sure knows how to grow the best ones. He loves his family and America. He and his wife immerse their smart and talented kids into the American culture.

The post Dear Filipino-American: Did Magellan Lose His Head? appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Well, I’m still basking in the memories of my cruise experience aboard  Holland America’s ms Veendam.  At the end of each day’s illuminating  tours of the ports of call – Lucca and Pisa,  Málaga, Barcelona, Monaco and Gibraltar – I would excitedly rush back to the vessel to my favorite lounge, the Crow’s Nest, where I’d compile my notes over a crisp, full bodied Budweiser Budvar (circa 1245). The venue was quiet and relaxing, and once again I must commend Holland America for the remarkable  attention to service. I was on a first name basis with many of the staff, who were always interested to hear about that day’s tour. Last month in Part I, I wrote in detail about this floating pleasure palace christened the ms Veendam and the ostentatious culture of the tiny nation of Monaco. In Installment II, I cover the selected highlights of Lucca, Pisa, Barcelona, Málaga and Gibraltar.

Gibraltar – The Barbary Monkeys: Originally from Morocco’s Atlas Mountains, Gibraltar’s Barbary Monkeys are the only wild monkey population on the European continent. Though not confirmed, some believe they were brought to Gibraltar by the pirate, Red Beard. Currently, some 300 animals in five troops occupy the Upper Rock area of the Gibraltar Nature Reserve. The cute little critters are inquisitive and have no fear of humans. Upon my arrival one jumped on top of my car. Foraging for food seems to be their main goal, and they are known to even traverse the streets of capital city below. Due to being tailless species, they are often mistakenly referred to as Barbary Apes or Rock Apes. As an endangered species, Gibraltarian officials keep a sharp eye on them, documenting each individual monkey, feeding them and giving medical examinations.

With Spain at its back, on the southern tip of the Iberian Peninsula, Gibraltar’s two square miles of limestone Rock overlooks the Strait of Gibraltar, which separates it from Morocco. As a lover of maps, it was exhilarating viewing the African coast just 15 miles away. History tells us that Roman ships sailing west on the Mediterranean would not go beyond the Strait for fear of falling off the edge of the earth.

As a British Overseas Territory, the Rock features 32 miles of tunnels, as protection from Spanish and French forces in their attempt to take Gibraltar back from the British, when they were at their weakest during the American Revolution.  In one surprise attack, the monkeys were disturbed in the night, and alerted the soldiers. This led to the saying, “As long as the Apes (monkeys) remain on the Rock, so will the British.”

During WW II, the British used the tunnels as a garrison to guard the territory from an attack by the Axis Powers. In the early days of the war, Winston Churchill had visited Gibraltar, and was disturbed that the population had dwindled down to only seven monkeys. He immediately instructed that five new females be sent to the Rock. Churchill was well aware of the Gibraltar Monkeys’ symbolic importance to the British people, and feared that the disappearance of the animals would have a detrimental effect on morale – which the British Empire needed plenty of when they stood alone against the Nazis in 1941.

The population of the capital city of Gibraltar, situated at the base of the Rock, weighs in at 4,495. It’s small, flat and easy to stroll, with numerous venues selling all things British. Fish and chips, anyone? At the edge of the city rests the courthouse where John and Yoko were married, and Sean Connery, married twice.

PISA – Leaning Bell Tower of Pisa: Yes, it really does lean. In fact, it started to lean during construction in 1178, before builders had even reached its third story. Over the next 800 years, it became clear that the 180 ft. white-marble cylinder wasn’t just learning, but was actually falling at a rate of 3 ft. per year. This was due to an unstable foundation of shifting soft soil, fine sand and shells – an engineering debacle flawed from the beginning – which could not properly support the structure’s weight. To compensate for the tilt, the next eight-stories were built slightly taller on the short side in an attempt to disguise the tower’s lean. However, the weight of the extra floors caused the Romanesque-style tower to sink further and lean more. Because of this, the tower is curved. Numerous efforts throughout time have been made to restore the bell tower to a vertical symmetry. In 1964, the Italian government insisted on retaining the current tilt, due to the money-making role that the Tower played in promoting tourism to Pisa.  Today, only groups of 30 are allowed inside at once, and are welcome to scale the 251 steps from the bottom to the top of the Pisa Tower. The Tower’s bells have long been silenced as their movements could worsen the lean of the bell tower further.

Throughout the years, we’ve all seen endless photos of the Leaning Tower, but to witness it in person was a monumental occasions. I was unaware that the Tower stands on a pristine green-expanse inside the medieval walls of the Square of Miracles. The piazza is also shared by the white marbled Cathedral of Pisa, the Baptistery – famous for its acoustics, demonstrated by singers daily – and Capuano Monumental Cemetery, made with 53 shiploads of earth brought back from the Hill of Calvary in Jerusalem.

Málaga – Feria de Málaga:  I generally avoid outdoor street fairs, but that was before I joined the Feria de Málag (Malaga City Fair) in Málaga, Spain. I said ‘joined’ for I was made to feel part of the all-inclusive event in honor of the 15th century Catholic Monarchs who marched into the city after 800 years of  Islamic rule. I had never seen such open displays of affection: old friends embraced, strangers kissed one another on the cheek, and Malagueños couples walked hand-in-hand through the maze of the celebrating crowd. Musicians played anthem-like songs, with the crowd singing along, knowing every word. The day time event (there’s also one at night) is primarily based in Old Town along Calle Larios, where shops are beautifully decorated, patios turn into makeshift casetas, and restaurants take to the streets to offer their regional specialties.  The streets are overflowed with parades and shows, including the traditional dances of the Verdiales, whose origins can be traced back to the Minoan civilization. Women are sure to wear enchanting red flowers in their hair and decorative fans while men carry Málaga’s famous sweet wine,  Cartojal, which is poured into traditional fuchsia pink cups. Saluds are made and the laughter is infectious. It’s a celebration open to all who want to experience the addictive warmth and charm of the cosmopolitan Malagueños. You do not need an invitation or formal attire, just the desire to have fun.

With a population of 571,026, Málaga lies on the Costa del Sol (Coast of the Sun) in the Autonomous Community of Andalusia, Spain. It has long been a vacation destination for British tourists, with many retiring there. Today, an estimated 6 million tourists visit the city each year. In many respects, vacationers consider the culture, cuisine, history and alluring beaches of  Costa del Sol to be the very essence of the REAL Spain. If you are not too exhausted from the Feria de Málaga, you can visit the birthplace of Pablo Picasso and the Museo Picasso Málaga,  where Picasso’s earlier paintings are on display. From the panorama of a hill, I noticed a bullfighting ring.  I asked the two Malagueños beside me, if tickets were available. Without a look, they ignored me. I finally got it: many Spanish people are appalled and ashamed of this cruel and barbarous so called ‘sport,’ where the bull always loses.

Lucca – The City of Walls: Nestled in Tuscany, Lucca is renowned for its well-preserved city walls encircling its historic city center. The first wall was built by the Romans, but abandoned due to the advent of  gun powder in China. I noticed locals bicycling the top of the walls, with stunning country views on one side and narrow Roman cobblestone streets on the other. This will be the first thing I do upon my return to Lucca, which is ideal for a two-day stay. The city is also the site of the 56 BC Roman First Triumvirate where an uneasy alliance was made between Julius Caesar, Pompey and Crassus, designed to maintain Rome’s earlier expansions. Then, breaking the agreement himself, the military genius Caesar crossed the (now Julian) Alps and defeated the Gauls. With Caesar’s triumphal return to Rome, he proclaimed himself emperor of the new Roman Empire, which resulted in the fall of the Roman Republic for good. We all know the rest.

Lucca’s most famous citizen is clearly Giacomo Puccini (1712–1781), considered to be the greatest composer of Italian opera after Verdi.  Best known for his masterpieces: ‘La bohème,’ ‘Madama Butterfly,’ ‘Tosca’ and ‘Turandot,’ he was born and raised in Lucca, and lived there for most of his life. The Puccini Museum includes Puccini’s birthplace, and showcases priceless objects that once belonged to the musician: the Steinway & Sons piano used to compose ‘Turandot,’ signed scores of early compositions, handwritten letters, paintings, photographs, sketches and mementos. The centerpiece of the museum is an exhibition that explores the personality, the genius and the passion of Puccini.

Barcelona – Antoni Gaudí (1852 1826): Spending 16 hours was far too little time to explore the enthralling  metropolis of Barcelona, the capital of Spanish Catalonia. Peopled by 1.6 million stylish and sophisticated Barcelonés, I was greeted with grand boulevards and welcoming pedestrian malls which wandered down to the waterfront. I was particularly enchanted by the cityscape that reflects the lifelong work of Barcelona architect, Antoni Gaudí,  considered the greatest exponent of Catalan Modernism. As a proud Catalander, he refused to speak Castilian and seldom left his beloved Catalonia. Gaudí’s architecture illustrates his profound passion for nature and devotion to religion. Still ahead of his time, he integrated used ceramic pieces, stained glass and wrought ironwork into his architectural style. Seven of his works have been declared UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and include the still-incomplete Sagrada Família, the most-visited monument in Spain. A visiting bishop once asked him, “Why do you trouble yourself so much about the tops of the towers? After all, no one will ever see them.” “Your Grace,” replied Gaudí, “The angels will see them.” His faith in the Roman Catholic Church intensified towards the end of his life, with his living in a squalid room at Sagrada Família, frantically attempting to finish his astonishingly masterpiece. Still dressed in his work clothes, he would often venture out for a long walks in nature. In 1926 he was tragically run down by a streetcar. Gaudí desperately waved for assistance from passing vehicles, but was dismissed as a ragged beggar, and died shortly after. Today he is often times referred to by his nickname, “God’s Architect.”

For more about Barcelona, visit Richard Carroll’s two edifying articles on Traveling Boy, which feature stunning photographs by Halina Kubalski.

• A Gothic Happening in Barcelona’s Old Quarter by Richard Carroll
• Lift a Fork in Barcelona by Richard Carroll

For further information, logon to www.HollandAmerica.com.

The post Exploring the Mediterranean with Holland America’s ms Veendnam, Installment II appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The latest T-Boy Society of Film & Music poll is devoted to our members’ favorite international destination. That is, the first international destination we’d visit when the roadways, skyways and waterways are deemed safe to travel. You’ll find members’ selections to be illuminating, telling us much about their own personal preferences.  – EB

Susan Breslow – T-Boy Writer

Madrid, Spain – Despite the king and queen of Spain issuing an order in 1492 for all Jews to be expelled from the country, this Semitic jet-setter is determined to return. I first visited Madrid in 2019. A big fan of walkable cities, I made my way from bustling Gran Via to Puerta del Sol (the center of the country) and then into wide, airy Plaza Mayor. Entranced by the sights, the sounds (what was a mariachi band doing playing in Puerta del Sol?), and the shops, I ventured beyond. I visited the Prado Museum, slipped into Casa Alberto at la hora de vermut (1 pm, the vermouth hour) for a glass of the sweet fortified wine and Spanish olives, wandered the Literary Quarter, attended live flamenco performances at night. It was only a taste, which left me hungry for more of this city and country.

Richard Carroll – T-Boy Writer

The first international destination I will travel when it’s deemed safe to visit is Buenos Aires. The sensuous flow of tango envelops Buenos Aires like a big hug from a long lost lover. Intricate and lush, the essence of exquisite grace, tango has long captured the heart and passion of this grand city. The Portenos are eager to explain that tango is their very own priceless art form based on tradition and cultural roots. The passion and fervor of life can be seen in the royalty of the dance, but not unlike a naughty and mischievous little child who slowly but indisputably develops into a captivating icon, and now is celebrated worldwide. Throughout Buenos Aires tango has always gracefully touched me with a joyous welcome. The tango neighborhoods of La Boca or San Telmo is where the captivating rhythms of tango rule, and where the music and dance unifies the city in an artistic way that no other destination on the planet can match. I found that not all Portenos in Buenos Aires can tango; it often depends whether their mother or father taught them, but with a few lessons tango is captivating.

Writers have tabbed Buenos Aires, The Paris of South America, maybe not, but the large boulevards, historic architecture, fine dining, and a collection of distinctive neighborhoods, captured my travel soul. Browsing through the city with drifting riffs of guitar music touching my heart is a splendid way to cover a destination. The museum-like Cafe Tortoni on Avenida de Mayo dating to 1858, the oldest in the country, hosting everyone from Hilary and the King of Spain, to the late great Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, offers a top-rated tango show that has been enjoyed by thousands of visitors and Portenos alike. It was easy to see that Tango aficionados are never at a loss for a dance or live tango music, realizing that tango was recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The cultural heritage easily spread throughout the region. From the shores of Buenos Aires across the broad Rio de la Plata, the world’s widest river, is Uruguay with long-lasting tango roots in Montevideo with countless Tangueros or tango dancers, and a thriving tango culture.

Sitting in the crowded Bar Sur club in San Telmo, an earthy, popular, neighborhood in the heart of Buenos Aires, I was tucked around one of nine tables, where it feels as if you are smack dab in the midst of an old black and white foreign movie, and Bogart is going to wander in with a tango dancer draped on his arm, cigarette dangling. The intimate tango room with its classic black and white tile floor, twirling ceiling fans, and gorgeous servers, filling a space the size of a few postage stamps, continues non-stop. The dazzling female Tangueros have certainly left a trail of broken hearts behind them, and with a style and grace close to ballet, they are mesmerizing. I’m counting the days when I can again revisit Buenos Aires. A tango lyric is engraved in my thoughts, “Please take a slender slice of time and set it aside and listen to my fascinating music of life, passion, and lost love.”

Tom Weber – T-Boy Writer

Salò: Lake Garda’s elegant and historic town – Situated on the southwestern corner of Lake Garda, Italy’s largest lake, Salò is the most elegant town of all the lake’s locales. Sadly, during World War II, this gem on the lake also served as the capital of Mussolini’s failed attempt to relaunch fascism as the Republic of Salò.

Fyllis Hockman – T-Boy Writer

Provence, France – Only because we’re scheduled to leave November 21st, after having been cancelled twice before. So unless France closes down between now and then, we’re there!

James Boitano – T-Boy Writer

United Kingdom: Manchester and Wales – I have some longtime friends who live in Manchester. I visited them regularly every 5 years: in 2010 and again in 2015. I had planned to visit them in 2020 and even had my flight ticket to Manchester. We planned a fun trip to explore Wales and the Channel Islands. Of course, Covid got in the way for the past two years. So, the United Kingdom will be my next international destination.

Ringo Boitano – T-Boy Writer

Monterosso, Cinque Terre, Cinque Terre, Italy – The Conque Terre is a string of steep, hillside towns on the rugged Italian Riviera coastline, each with its own majestic setting of colorful houses and vineyards clinging to the terraces. The Sentiero Azzurro cliffside hiking trail links the five towns and offers sweeping, almost unimaginable vistas of the sea – and you must try to experience each of the towns! Monterosso, the first and largest of the five towns, is the only one with an expansive sandy beach, and is the best place to choose as your home base, with a recommended stay of a minimum of five days. After a day’s hike a refreshing swim is in order, followed by a Sciacchetrà, a liquored white wine from the vineyards’ slopes, a plate of fried anchovies (acciuga) caught that very day, and a bowl of Pesto alla Genovese at one of the many trattorias on Monterosso’s pulsating promenade.

Jim Gordon – T-Boy Writer

For me, it would be Italy, Italy, Italy! 2nd choice: England!

Weave Cleveland – T-Boy Writer

Lake Como in Northern Italy – It’s an early summer daydream where (my perception of) a beautiful mature lady drives me all around the region for at least 10 days, being my guide and chaperone. It also looks like I would surely agree to share the driving. Last week I watched the film The Burnt Orange Heresy and just knew that was it. I had never given it thought before but the region in Lombardy, Italy seemed like a special slice of Heaven, and the first place I would like to go is to Lake Como.

Roy Endersby – Philosopher

Brownes Beach, Barbados – The coast of the island nation of Barbados ranges from beaches with powdery sand and protected Caribbean waters to the powerful swells on the eastern Atlantic coast, good for surfing, but dangerous for swimming. Brownes Beach is conveniently set near the capitol city of Bridgetown, and serves as the perfect venue for a serious dose of Bajan flavor with nearby tropical bars and grills, local music and dancing, crowds of people swimming and snorkeling; and yet you can still find your own place in the sun. And all this from a former English colony; today a fascinating cultural fusion of the descendants of plantation owners and slaves, who serve elegant high tea and play cricket.

Phil Marley – Poet

Magens Bay, St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands – Perhaps because it was my first tropical beach or maybe it was due to its heart shape, turquoise waters and one-mile stretch of white soft sand, I was a goner the second I saw Magens Bay. Located on the Atlantic side of St. Thomas – one of the three US Virgin Islands of the Caribbean – Magens Bay is a short, picturesque drive from the port town of Charlotte Amelia. There are no waves and currents, and there is a good mix of sun and shade under the palm trees. On the ends of the beach are rock formations that provide good snorkeling. Despite its distinction of being called one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world by National Geographic Magazine, there are also very few people. Now that I think of it, it is for these very reasons that Magens Bay is my favorite beach in the world.

Skip Kaltenheuser – T-Boy Writer

Carnival Anywhere – Right now, any change of scene looks good. But if and when festivals crank up again without becoming super-spreader events, my primary addiction has always been Carnival across different cultures. But alternatively, solitude also attracts, such as returning to museums in Berlin or pursuits of wildlife in Africa or elsewhere. Of course, there’s also abundant solitude wandering amid crowds in foreign countries, whatever they’re up to. Intergenerational travel, sharing perspectives and sights with younger eyes, is always an informative pleasure I seek.

Ed Boitano – T-Boy Editor

English Bay, Stanley Park, Vancouver, BC – A mandatory pilgrimage for me is to stroll down Robson Street in downtown Vancouver to Stanley Park, my favorite urban park in the world. In the days of my honeymoon, we knew it as Robsonstrasse, due to the number of its German and European delis and bakeries. Today, I would continue further west towards the bay, and soon I am at Stanley Park’s English Bay. With the exception of a kayak trek, I’ve never once set foot into its waters; for the cool of the evening is my desired time to visit. Locals after work congregate on the beach or at nearby bars and grilles. Hikers and bicyclists traverse the lanes along the shore, and I simply take a place on a piece of driftwood and bask in the beauty of what is Vancouver today.

Annie Brouwer – T-Boy Writer

Hello…Italy. We just watched “Luca” the Pixar/Disney film, but I think that town isn’t real (Potorroso). I’d want to go there though.

Roger Fallihee – T-Boy Writer

I would love to visit Morocco. I’ve read that a large part of country is mountainous, which includes the Atlas and Rif Mountains. Apparently both ranges are mainly inhabited by the Berbers. I need to have a better understanding of these fascinating people. I mean, who the heck are they?

Tony Chisholm: T-Boy Writer

The Oregon Coast – I’d love to repeat a trip I enjoyed a few years ago in June, when I joined a contingent of hardy (we thought) cyclists from Toronto. We flew into Vancouver with our bikes for a 10 day cycling trip down the coast of Oregon. Our group included 2 guides and we’d be camping out for this spectacular 400 mile scenic adventure. From Vancouver we drove through Washington State to the Oregon border in our mini-bus picking up the rest of the cyclists along the way.

Finally on our bikes, we head out of the town of Astoria with “the wind on our backs” as promised. We were filled with the confidence that only ignorance can produce. We rode 44 miles the first day and then camped out that night on a beautiful beach that looked to be 10 miles long and very secluded. We found out why it was so secluded. When we went into the water which at 50 degrees was totally leg numbing.

The next day we ride 60 miles. The weather is cool and my friend Chris bonks (an athlete’s expression for running out of fuel). We started a “Yellow Jersey” contest for all the cyclists. Chris wins it for showing grace during a severe bonk and in desperate need of food. In fact, that day when we finally stopped for lunch Chris just kept ordering food until something arrived on the table. It ended up being literally half the menu!
Then comes the trial.

Monday dawns with lots of rain, rain and more rain! It poured all night. Everything we owned seemed wet. So we had the lovely task of dressing in wet, cold clothes to head out on our 65 mile ride. What an experience. This was our trial by rain. As we headed out, the rain intensified. The cold water poured out of our jackets down our legs and into our shoes. It was so cold that on the downhills with the wind and the wet my hands started cramping on the brake hoods.

Finally when it seemed almost intolerable we stumbled across “Cinnamon Town” a restaurant in a tiny town that served huge, unbelievable cinnamon buns – an Oregon diet staple. There we sat, miserable in our wet cycling shorts, dripping all over the table. We tried to stay warm by soaking our feet in warm water in the sink in the men’s room. That’s how desperate we were. Then as if in a dream, the guides showed up with dry clothes. “Thank you.”

Warmer, those of us that went on, faced the rain again to start a 3 mile climb fueled by “cinnamon power”.

Oregon is well set up for cyclists. There is a bike lane all along route 101 that follows the sea. They offer excellent state campgrounds every few miles with special areas for hiker/bikers. Even at the tunnels they have special traffic signals the rider turns on before entering to warn drivers of a cyclist up ahead. The beautiful coast was broken up with side trips to lighthouses and amazing vistas on cliffs above the sea and over long unbroken beaches. I became known as “Mister Vista” when I’d continually complain that we weren’t stopping enough to enjoy the views.

By the 5th day we had a full day off riding in the old restored town of Florence to dry clothes and lick our tired muscles. The sun came out and our trial by rain was over.

As the rest of the week went on the sun got stronger and so did my legs. Must have been true for everyone because our speeds seemed to increase. We did notice a strange phenomenon. After stopping for lunch it seemed we always started out with a big hill. On those occasions it was all we could do to hold our food down. Salt water taffy was a local delicacy that we ate in vast quantities. It seemed our food consumption went way up as our bodies demanded more and more calories.

The last two days were among the nicest but also the longest thanks to a string of flats caused by the sharp gravel along the edge of the road. One day, 3 of us got 5 flats and I ended up walking most of the way back to camp having run out of tire tubes. We took all of this in our stride and everyone seemed to have a positive attitude that really helped make the trip so much fun. Besides, the rain was over and the sun just made these last beautiful days more precious.

On the last Saturday we proudly had our photos taken under the “Welcome to California” border sign. What a wonderful experience. Over 400 miles of riding past some of North America’s most spectacular country.

READERS, feel free to offer your won selections of the first international destination you’d visit in the post pandemic world. Please send to **@Tr**********.com , and we will post in our Readers’ poll.

READERS POLL (as of today):

As a lover of 20th century history, it must be Berlin, Germany. — Kyle – Seattle, WA

Though I’ve never been, island hopping in Tahiti should be the thing which I’d love to do. — Terry – Portland, OR

The post The First International Destination You’d Visit in the Post Pandemic World appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Every day I found myself in the mountains, seeing things no guidebook mentioned.

Photographs by Richard Frisbie

The clouds of Asturias roll in over the rocky shore from the Cantabrian Sea like fog, filling the valleys and cascading over the low hills to butt against the spikey ridgelines of the Pico de Europa mountains in the interior, causing them to look like islands in an inland cotton sea. We drove to this view early one morning on a winding mountain road, the only traffic a herd of cows coming down from their summer pasture, nonplussed by our presence, yet they skitter by, their cowbells echoing the change of seasons through the valleys long after they pass.

We are following Jose Andres’ guide to experiencing Asturias. The world-renowned humanitarian and chef was born here and returns as often as possible to replenish his soul in the stark mountains, lush valleys, and rugged coastline of his family home. He said to truly learn the heart of my country “begin your day in the mountains with the sunrise”. And so we did.

Breaking through the clouds as we continued to climb this serpentine road, more a switch-back narrow track than a bonified highway, we stopped at an overlook with a view on clear days far down through the valleys and out to sea. Today, with the sound of the cowbells still reverberating in the hills, the spires of the Basilica of Covadonga were all that was visible poking through the mists below, while the horizontal light of sunrise gilded the mountaintops above as they pierced the impossibly blue sky.

We drove on, upward through the sentinel peaks to look down into the branas, or high valley pasture where the cows had summered, the golden ridges reflected in the mirror waters of two pristine lakes, Enol and Ercina. This is a popular destination in the Pico de Europa National Park, already busy with the early-risers, and soon to be busier with busloads expected to crowd this verdant valley until its serenity is broken, only to be refreshed overnight and readied for a new dawn and the onslaught to return.

There are day hikes, limited overnight camping and only one small lodge to hike in to, so it is a daytrip to be enjoyed at dawn and dusk, and possibly for moonlight stargazing, when the crowds are thinnest. We left before the sublime beauty was crushed under the arriving busses.

The rising sun’s rays washed down the valley walls pushing the clouds lower, until as we descended, we could see the huge basilica emerge beneath its spires. Nearby a tiny church was tucked into a grotto above a cascading waterfall that filled the pool below.

This achingly picturesque spot is where one legend tells us that the Virgin Mary appeared to Palacio (Palayo) leader of the Spanish forces, and handed him a cross, telling him that if he carried her cross into battle against the Moors, Spain would be Christian. Another, more likely scenario, has him praying for victory to a statue of the virgin he found hidden in the cave while lying in wait for the Moors. Asturias was Spain’s last holdout against the advancing Moorish army, with Palacio’s victory marking the beginning of a surge, called the Reconquista, that eventually drove the Moors out of Spain.

Of course, defeating a force that was so entrenched in Spain does not remove its many influences. The further south you travel in Spain the more pronounced are the architectural and culinary remains of the North African culture. (The Alhambra and sherry immediately come to mind.) And even in Asturias the occasional Moorish arch in a window reminds us of the pervasiveness of their influence.

The beauty of our surroundings dulled these thoughts of conquest as we continued to a distant branas unknown to tourists, ironically called Las Vegas del Toro because it was once the home of the bull that serviced the local herds. This is where the last of the shepherds still minds his flock of sheep. Following a rutted, 4×4 dirt track miles off road, past a tiny village, we entered a pristine green valley surrounded by barren mountain peaks.

Here we found a cluster of ancient stone buildings, their red tile roofs held in place against the wind with stones the glaciers dropped when they receded millennium ago. That is, the roofs that hadn’t collapsed already. There is a sad state of disrepair and dereliction evident in the mountain beauty.

This was once a community of twenty or so shepherds, each minding his flock in these summer pastures. By day the sheep roamed the valley and surrounding slopes, guided by the sheepdogs and their master, the gentle ringing of their bells reminiscent of a Tibetan Bowl ceremony in the quiet high-altitude serenity. At dusk the sheep were herded into a paddock that led to a cave for shelter and protection from inclement weather and the ever-present wolves.

The lead dog, a large mastiff fitted with a spiked collar to shield his throat from wolf attack, remained with the flock overnight while the shepherd rested in his stone hut or made his way back to the village. His is a solitary life made more so because he is the last of his kind in the valley. When he is gone, more than just the shepherd and a way of life will be lost.

The delicate ecological balance of the valley’s environment will be disrupted, the plants the sheep no longer eat will flourish, choking out the grasses and wildflowers as they overrun the valley. But for now, the sound of the sheep’s bells persists, soothing in the pure mountain air.

Leaving the shepherd and his flock far behind, we soon found ourselves on a small back road, one that climbed through forests in a national preserve for Spain’s endangered brown bear, past tiny villages of 20 to 30 stone houses clinging to the steep hillsides. We were here to explore another fast-disappearing way of country life: teitos, or thatched roof cottages.

Accompanied by the sounds of a mountain stream tumbling down through the steep valley below, and ever on the look-out for bears, we hiked into La Brana Campa (place where shepherds stay) in Saliencia Valley to find three thatch-roofed stone houses, really cow houses, nestled in obscurity. Centuries old, these houses are where the cows were wintered over once they came down from summer’s high pasture.

Each has a small field for the six or so cows they hold, and the surrounding slopes are thick with broom, the plant used to thatch the roofs. The earthen ground floor houses the cows; the loft above holds the hay to feed them when there is more than a dusting of snow on their pasture. The men hike in and out from the small villages nearby to care for their herd as needed, sometimes staying overnight in the haylofts if bad weather persists, the body heat from the cows keeping them warm.

Originally, teitos were more than cow houses. In one tiny village nearby is a museum dedicated to teitos as houses for people, too. Ecomuseo de Somiedo Las Casas de Teito de Escobe is a cluster of three houses. One was being renovated so we could not visit it. Another, called Casa Rosa, was the more prosperous residence, built on a hillside with an attached kitchen, and the area above the cow pen a one room living quarters, with hay for the animals in the loft above it. This one even had an oven with a rounded back stonewall built off the kitchen, with room for pigs to sleep beneath.

The kitchen also had a typical open fire in the floor with seating around it and no opening for the smoke to be released. The only opening was the door, which was used to go outside to climb stairs to the living quarters. Everything in the kitchen was black with ancient soot. Sitting around the fire while working was called filandox, and it is where knitting and other group activities took place.

The third teitos, Casa Flora, was the poorer residence. The cows had a stall to the right as you entered. The rest was an “L” shaped room with a kitchen similar to Casa Rosa, but without the oven, with a bed in the alcove. In each, plumbing was nonexistent, nor were there outhouses. The compost pile in the kitchen garden served that purpose, your bodily functions on display as all aspects of life are in a small village. People lived in this house until 1954, when the road came through that connected all the isolated villages. Before that, people could be born, live, and die without ever leaving.

This way of life is being preserved somewhat, as the teitos are registered and numbered as historic landmarks. But of the three we saw at La Brana Campa, one’s roof beam had broken, the thatch folding into the center, one had a blue tarp over a presumably damaged roof, and only the last was intact. It was numbered #224, while Casa Flores and Casa Rosa in the museum complex were #32 and #33 respectively. Less than 300 teitos exist today. As the people who use them pass, more will decline. We were extremely fortunate to see these ties to past traditions that have survived. But I have to wonder how long they will last.

And that’s why I travel; to see the history and culture of a region. To feel the beating heart of the rural countryside and see the agricultural history of a place means so much more to me then all the cathedrals and Roman ruins combined. And, of course, there is always the food and wine to taste and experience. But that is another story.

The post The Heart of Asturias, Spain appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Located in the northwest corner of Spain, its coastline overflows with colorful coves, greener than green valleys, and fast running rivers that – on a sunny day like we had when we were there – sparkle as if they were filled with hundreds and thousands of the world’s finest diamonds. One of the most important people on any press trip is the guide. How good, or yes bad, is she/he, and do they give you newsy, thought-provoking information? Ours was, I thought, a real winner.

The bus on which we were traveling in Galicia stopped on the upper reaches of a huge hill – one could hardly call it a mountain – and as the breeze that’d appeared to have come out of nowhere, shrieked around our vehicle in eddying wind whipped gusts, our savvy guide told us, in the best “Get to know the local witches well” voice, “as you’ll NOT want them to cast a spell over you” almost whispered that moments from now, we’d be in a unique village called Santa Tegra.

As promised we rolled into Santa Tegra to be confronted, and almost enveloped, by a vast phalanx of booths, small stands, curio shops (of all shapes and sizes) selling – or trying to – almost everything connected to Spain, history, local crockery, stone ware, toys, gizmos of one sort or another, and enough scarfs, jackets, rings and things, to stock at least 5 huge American shopping Malls. Tucked in amongst all this paraphernalia, there were seemingly never-ending booths and shelves with witch dolls that highlighted how wizardly, wonderful and wicked witches were and, even better if one wanted to purchase one, they conveniently came in sizes small, medium, large, and were “tourist ready” and clothed in almost every sort of dress, outfit, and all in colors you never knew existed. All of us, all at the same time, instantly knew why our tour bus stopped at this precise spot.

Nevertheless, we all – as expected – stood, gawked and rubbernecked at this cauldron of local lore, as our guide informed us that Galicia is known as the Land of Witches. Embellishing this point, he theatrically stated that in olden times when someone was stricken with some sort of deadly disease, the local witch was summoned to cure the illness. Did they know back then, I wondered, if they would one day be a powerful draw for tourists?

I’ll confess, I’m still a real sucker for all this kind of sightseer schmaltz, and sensing this “I’m ready to buy” syndrome, one of the vendors, elderly and frail looking, with a spindly black hat, and wearing her required Witches wardrobe, approached me and pulled out this truly intimidating witch (model, of course, NOT a real one!) seated in a rocking chair and, when wound up, would rock back and forth. Even better, if one clapped one’s hands, she’d let out a blood curdling yell! I purchased it on the spot. As I said, for something offbeat, coupled with an unequalled array of exquisite scenery, check out Spain and, of course, Galicia. You might even say “It’s spellbinding.” Contact John:

jd******@gm***.com

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The word is that the Dali Theater-Museum, celebrating the life and work of its enigmatic founder Salvador Dali, (1904-1989), Girona’s world-famous surrealist artist, is now one of the city’s most visited tourist attractions. The revival of interest in his paintings, both revered and ridiculed during his lifetime, are now seen as visionary.

Dali’s most recognized painting, the Persistence of Memory, now in the Museum of Modern Art, in New York, depicts — according to some — a dying world, marked by a scorched landscape and melted pocket watches. Or as one of the guides in the Dali Theater-Museum explained to the tour group I joined, the painting clearly suggests that dream time is elastic, the drooping clocks a clue to its creator’s inner life.

Are his paintings symbolic or are they a joke? asked a frowning young man who’d been standing silently, pondering an image of Dali’s wife titled Galatea of the Spheres. The guide blinked and the query went unanswered. Fortunately for historians, Dali, the man, who spent most of his life in Girona, left as many clues as he did art.

Dali’s life in Girona, his home in Port Lligat and his wife’s home in Pubol, both open for guided tours, offer surprising insights into the artist and the man. Sunny summers in the beach town of Cadaques, 15 minutes from Port Lligat, where his family often summered – and where I spent a charmed afternoon – fostered a love of the sea. For clues to his last decade, and some of his largest most ambitious projects, the answers are found in the Dali Theater-Museum, a building he designed and built on the site of his favorite movie theater, in Figueres, where he grew up.

I should have started at the museum when I headed to Girona for a long-planned, two-week escape. But Salvador Dali was the last thing on my mind. I’d been to the Costa Brava years earlier, stayed a couple of days and spent most of my time there on the world’s most inviting  beach. Going back again, I realized Girona was a town with a history. Settled 2000 years ago by the Iberians and officially founded by the Romans in the 5^th century, it has been a proud survivor. 

Free to wander, I spent a couple of days exploring the Old Quarter, first circling the area on the path of 4^th century Roman wall, then visiting various 10^th century monasteries and churches. Deep in the middle of the ancient streets I discovered a wide spot, with a couple of shade trees and a café, my lode stone from that moment on.

On the advice of Marco, the hotel clerk, who said he was more interested in movies than history, I climbed the 91 stone steps up to the entrance of the 12^th century Romanesque Cathedral, built on top of a mosque, after the Moors were defeated and driven out.  They’re the same steps that the “Game of Throne” used when they were filming the last season, he said, beamingly.  Counting each step, I thought of the countless people who’d been there before me.  

Marco also recommended a sight-seeing bus tour north along the coast to the Cap de Creus, the tip of a rocky peninsula jutting into the Mediterranean Sea. The drive, winding through bush-covered hills ended above a windswept rim, looking down at the water and a chain of small bays. Munching a bag lunch and stretching my legs, I spotted a sailboat leaning into the wind, heading north toward the French border, 16 miles away. Before there was a border, Phoenician and Greek ships came this way, stopping at coastal villages like Empuries, to trade.  

Ten days into my vacation, done with museums and the occasional vineyard tour and wine-tasting, I headed to the beach, still the softest sand and freshest water on the Mediterranean’s western shore. Striking up a conversation with a couple of Canadians sunning nearby made the afternoon fly by. They had rented an apartment for six weeks, I was in a hotel; they were going on to Madrid, I was flying back to Denver. We both liked skiing at Whistler Blackcomb, in British Columbia. And they wanted to know more about Salvador Dali.

So, I tagged along, heading first for –  Pubol Castle, the 12^th century mansion Dali bought in 1970 for his wife Gala. Larger than it appears from the entrance, it consists of a main house, a tower and an open-air covered passageway, surrounded by gardens.   

Joining a tour, we were waved through by a guide who offered a brief history: The renovation of the building, Dali’s interior designs and the decade that Gala lived there alone, entertaining overnight guests, both women and men, and banning Dali, except by her written invitation. 

People ask why she wanted a house of her own, said the guide, when the rest of the group drifted away to other rooms. Dali was 67 or 68 then, and Gala was 77, ten years older than he was. Too old to want another man, you’d think. He loved her, but they couldn’t live together. Like many couples.

Whatever the reason, Dali rebuilt the structure and surrounded it with gardens, tucking home-made stick-thin elephants between the leaves. Furnishing the rooms with satin and velvet, he installed modern bathrooms and a kitchen, and he decorated with paintings, ceiling murals, wall hangings, hand-decorated tiles, tiny tables, angular arm chairs, mirrors and dozens of little baubles and charms. A reluctant collector myself, it tickled my heart to see that he, too, couldn’t resist objets d’art.

Spotting a lion’s head lying on top of an 18th century wardrobe (a clothes closet), near an out-of-focus photo of a person, I took a second look. Comic theater? Or was Dali spoofing the book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? He could have read it when they fled Spain for New York City, in 1940, after the Nazis invaded France.

Before we left, I went to the photography exhibit upstairs to see what Dali and Gala looked like together, in plain black and white. They’re in their Manhattan studio, she’s laughing for the photographer, and he, the celebrity of the moment, is mugging for the photographer, with his trademark wide-eyed stare and curvy black mustache.

The next day we headed for Dali’s permanent home on the shore in Port Lligat, a house filled with gewgaws, cartoon figures, knickknacks, a stuffed bear next to the stairs and chains of tiny, dried, white everlasting flowers. The sort of things a teenager collects.

The house, with several six-foot white eggs mounted on the roof, one of them half-cracked, were a link to his older  brother, who died at nine months old. According to Rosia our guide, the cracked egg, big enough for a man to climb inside, symbolized Dali’s other half, without which — it’s said, he always felt incomplete.

I’d already been to the museum in Figueres; now I wished I’d saved it for last. Making another reservation I went again, walking and looking. This time the place was packed, the rooms crowded with guided tours. Don’t come on Saturday if you can avoid it. But if those drooping clocks leave you wondering, come. This is where the pilgrimage ends and disconnected symbols click together, making sense. I hope. At the very least, I left with a new respect for Spain’s greatest 20th century painter.

For more: See Salvador Dali’s Celebrity suites, Part 3 at the Hôtel Maurice in Paris.

The post Finding Dali: Celebrating the Best of Girona appeared first on Traveling Archive.

My wife Anne and I had been in Barcelona many years ago and knew even then that we had only scratched the surface of the available cultural richness offered in the Catalan capital. We had leisurely strolled the famous Ramblas, a pedestrian area that links the waterfront with the city center where itinerant Tango dancers twirl, tarot readers ply their craft and innumerable vendors offer traditional merchandise.

Adjacent to the Ramblas is La Boqueria, the public market that is a riot of colors, smells and energy. Yes, it can be crowded and a challenge for someone in a wheelchair at times, but to tour a site that has been in operation since 1217 and offers such an extraordinary range of goods it is well worth the effort.

During our previous time here we had explored what we could of Antonio Gaudi’s crowning achievement, the Sagrada Familia. As impressive as it was then, we were astonished to see that so much progress has since been made and though wheelchairs still face some obstacles we were able to enter the sacred confines and appreciate the noble space. Note: It is advisable to visit closer to sunset to fully appreciate the sun’s rays through the magnificent windows.

Our exhibition was held at the Museu Maritim, a marvelous museum on Barcelona’s vibrant waterfront that details the rich maritime history that signaled Spain’s early contributions to navigation, exploration and shipbuilding. Also along the waterfront is a vast promenade that people using wheelchairs can easily maneuver to soak up the Mediterranean atmosphere and marvel at the private yachts in the harbor.

Our hosts offered excursions and we gladly boarded sightseeing buses to explore the ancient areas of the city. It was wise to start our wheeling tour at the top of the pedestrian areas and save us the trouble of struggling uphill. A very exciting outing was to the Penedes wine region and we were delighted to take in the countryside and tour an historic winery and savor the fruits of their efforts.

Enormous paper mache puppets of historic Spanish figures and families of acrobats who constructed human towers six people high also royally entertained us.

Public transportation appeared to be readily available and had we extra time we would most assuredly have visited the Picasso Museum and the Miro Foundation as well as the esteemed cathedral among other sites.

Alas, we did not have that luxury but were excited to take the early train to Paris the following day. As train stations go Barcelona’s can be as confusing and stressful as any and we were relieved to attract the attention of a station assistant who ushered us to the proper queue and made sure we got on board. Some minor confusion required me to temporarily occupy a space between cars until a following stop where I could be resituated into a proper space. We had purchased our train tickets well in advance for a reasonable sum but required a last minute ticket for our companion and were fairly aghast at the price hike for late tickets. The 5-hour trip traversed scenic fields and factory installations, small, rural towns and distant horizons. By the time we arrived at the Paris station we were rested and eager to begin the next phase of our journey.

We would only have a few days to take in what we could and thankfully we had been here many years before and had already ascended the Eiffel Tower and strolled the Champs Elysees. Anne would make sure her niece experienced those landmarks and I made sure that I would see every treasure within the Louvre and nearby Musee D’Orsay. And here I am very pleased to report that consideration to those in wheelchairs has been maintained at a high level. There is no waiting in line, admission is complimentary and even the Mona Lisa has a rope line that wheelchairs have special privilege of accessing. Other portions of the Louvre are difficult to access on account of retrofitting lifts but the staff is available and the map of the galleries is probably necessary to avoid getting lost among the treasures.

A very wise piece of advice that we had learned earlier was again in effect. Knowing that wheelchairs are first allowed into the Musee d’Orsay, we arrived before opening and were inside before anyone else. We immediately ascended to the top floor where we enjoyed breathtaking work by the Impressionists, Symbolists and Post Impressionists before the crowds of the day appeared. The museum café offered delicious meals and a welcome break from studying the masterpieces and we were fortified to see the remaining works before exiting to a drizzly and traffic congested city. Being April, we had expected as much and exercised patience as we maneuvered curb cuts and waited patiently at crosswalks.

We happened to be in Paris for Easter Sunday and took the opportunity to be in attendance at a service at Notre Dame Cathedral. We were ushered in privately and allowed to come forward to take part in the sacrament. The very moving ritual was heightened by the magnificent interior and the notes of the choir seemed to echo the angels. Afterward, I had enough time to roll to the newly refurbished Picasso Museum and was very pleased to see that extra care has been taken to assure access and again received complimentary admission.

Our apartment was only a few blocks from the Louvre but not nearly as accessible as advertised. We managed to traverse a steep threshold and narrow doorway but I was still obligated to sleep on the fold out couch since I couldn’t wedge through the bedroom door. We will take extra care in the future to measure my chair’s dimensions and recommend a portable ramp be on site.

My first time on the Chunnel to London went smoothly enough and we were glad to have purchased these tickets well in advance also as the sticker-shock for our companion was even more severe than the ride up from Barcelona. I was surprised to be served lunch with beverages and offered amenities usually reserved for first class and we arrived in London in good cheer indeed. The London cabs are some of the most accessible in the world with a short ramp that makes loading a snap and so abundant that we never failed to acquire one when needed.

Since our niece only had one precious day before her return to work, I laid back at our hotel, the Doubletree in Chelsea while they got tickets for the hop-on hop-off sightseeing bus and saw as much of the city as possible. The ticket also included a cruise on the Thames that Anne took the following day while I was immersed in the study of artworks at the National Gallery. The overground station was barely a half block from our hotel and was easy enough to access. We purchased Oyster Cards to facilitate entry and made good time getting to the sites we had planned. After visits to both the Tate Britain and Tate Modern and the wonderful artworks at the Courtauld Institute we were about as saturated with culture as we could be.

Anne had heard that a rooftop garden in one of the newer skyscrapers offered free admittance and spectacular views from the observation deck. Well, not exactly. 20 Fenchurch Street is referred to as the Walkie Talkie on account of its curious shape and does indeed have a marvelous view from a large 2-story lounge with abundant plantings and a fine dining area. Admission is free but advance tickets are required and only available online. We were able to charm the attendant to allow us admittance and would’ve been sorely disappointed had they a strict policy since Anne had pushed my chair a few miles along the Strand by then.

It was a fitting conclusion to a remarkable journey. Feeling on top of the world and relishing the combined memories of magnificent artwork and architecture, engaging with colorful and helpful people, sampling regional cuisine and being entertained by traditional performers. I am deeply grateful to my wife Anne, whose unending patience and good humor made the journey a delight and we were pleased to offer one another a special toast in celebration of our very good fortune.

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