Driving through this mountainous country with its dark 20th century past was certainly challenging (private cars have only existed since the early 1990s so driving techniques could definitely improve…), but also fun, inspiring and uplifting. It does, after all, have a dire reputation, one of corruption, criminal gangs, prostitution and drug-smuggling. Some of the Albanians we hear about in the UK may be involved in these – but no one ever mentions the charming, welcoming, hardworking ones we met back home.

For those who don’t know much about Albania’s past, its history offers an exotic mix of cultures – from Illyrian to Ancient Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman. Wedged between Kosovo and Montenegro to the north, and the sunnier climes of Greece to the south, with southern Italy within spitting distance across the Adriatic, Albania is a unique and rich hybrid. That mix comes out in the obscure language, sprinkled with Greek, Italian and double dots, in the delicious food and also in religion, as here you find Islam and Orthodox Christianity rubbing shoulders in harmony. At last!

The historical name I love most is that of King Zog, the clan chieftain who, in the 1920-30s, ruled this slip of a country, now with 3 million inhabitants. He even crowned himself as he had not a drop of royal blood. Then came World War II and Mussolini. From then on, Albania entered a dreary, repressive period under the ruthless dictator, Enver Hoxha. After being abandoned by Russia, he was then propped up by the Chinese, and proceeded to imitate their mindless, destructive Cultural Revolution.

Over 2000 churches and mosques were destroyed, some 200 Muslim and Christian clerics were murdered, atheism became the (non) religion du jour and private property was confiscated. Cut off from the rest of the world like North Korea, Albania staggered on but lost thousands of people to emigration – headed for freedom. Poverty ruled. All change came in the 1990s when, with Hoxha dead (in 1985), the population were able to take over. Elections finally brought in the Socialist Party, still in power today.

But all that seems far away when you wander through Butrint, a lush, wooded peninsula in southern Albania where a sprawling archaeological site goes back to the 8th century BCE. We spent a magical morning here following overgrown trails through wild vegetation that led to Ancient Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman structures. I shivered to hear that apparently even Virgil visited the port of Butrint – oh so ancient. As we explored, we came across a 3rd century Roman theatre (above) then a 6th c baptistry where a mosaic floor lay concealed by sand to prevent deterioration in the hot sun (below).

After admiring the rhythmical arches of an early Christian basilica (6th century), we took a wrong turn and found ourselves practically in the sea – but what a beautiful sight, with swallows swooping, cocks crowing and masses of fragrant wildflowers. There were plenty more old stones in Butrint, but the most revealing was a small museum, perfectly set out in a section of a Venetian castle. Here, Greek and Roman statues, pots and tools filled in the gaps of what we’d just seen.

More ancient still was the site of Byllis, further north – even less visited as it lies high on a hilltop up an excruciatingly rough, potholed, unsealed road. Only the foolhardy, a pair of Dutch tourists and ourselves attempt it – and it took half an hour to cover about 7km…But it was so worth it to find this vast site with sweeping views over the River Vjosa winding through the valley below. Illyria has always sounded mythical to me – so what a shock to actually see its old city walls, foundations of houses, the old agora, or public area and a theatre. The wind blew, clouds scudded above us and it felt distinctly like time had stood still some 2500 years ago.

From here – on to Berat, in my next post

The beach resort I knew well in its early days was Kovalam, now built up and mainly overrun by travellers intent on a cheap seaside holiday with curries and smoothies thrown in – oblivious to the ambient culture. Then came Varkala, less developed and a favourite with cool cucumbers into hip eateries, comfortable resorts with pools and fast-fix Ayurveda treatments. And of course the peaceful backwaters around Aleppey (today called Alapuzzha) are firmly etched on most tour-operators’ itineraries – with houseboat transport and/or attractive, upscale accommodation.

So, was there anything else within spitting distance of Kochi / Cochin, launch-pad of my trip (see my post on the Biennale)? I lusted after a few nights by the sea. Scrolling down a map my cursor ended up hovering over Mararikulam (aka Marari Beach), a small coastal place about 45km to the south. Perfect! It suited my lack of time, energy and budget as apart from a couple of upscale resorts (not my thing) there appeared to be dozens of homestays. Eventually I opted for one with two decent en-suite rooms plus outdoor space that suited my travel companion and myself. Being last minute, a lot of the nicer-looking places were booked. What seemed to be the only hitch was that it was a few kilometres south of the main Marari enclave – in fact it was the little known, little scripted Thumpoly Beach (above). Yes, I like anything obsolete!

The location turned out to be a boon. Two and a half enjoyable hours of tuk tuk from Kochi finally landed us at the gate on a quiet, residential street connecting the main road (useful bus-service ahoy!) with the beach, just a few minutes’ walk away.

Amid the lush vegetation was a handful of little grocery-shops cum tea-shops, perfect for a cup of chai and a chat, plus a Christian shrine (in an area where Hindus, Muslims and Christians live peacefully side by side). Also, oh joy, right on the sand was a simple open-air restaurant (Uncle Tom’s) that at night was festooned with twinkly lights. This turned out to be run by our homestay owners – so as VIPs we were of course served the fattest, freshest red snappers.

A moonlight investigation of a sign pointing down a side track brought us to another option, the more upscale French hotel, La Plage, where waiters welcomed us to their laid-back restaurant right beside the waves.

So with chai and dinners sorted, next came the swim. Oh woe, those waves could be crushing – an ongoing problem of the breezy Arabian Sea from Kovalam to Thumpoly. When the sea whipped up in late morning, I was churned as if in a washing-machine, without being tumble-dried. But I survived, and periods of relative calm invited swimming and floating. And, bliss, only one other foreign couple came to ‘our’ beach, bookended by breakwaters of rocks and where, amazingly, chairs and umbrellas were provided by the new restaurant.

Best of all were the fishermen, constantly coming and going. First thing in the morning, there they were untangling their nets to pick out the (rather small) catch. Later we watched them set off into the choppy waves on their precarious boards for another session – then, towards sunset, they would squat on the sand to watch the sun slowly sink into the horizon. Mindfulness on the beach.

For our last night we decided to move up the coast to the main hub of Mararikulam, fully expecting a far greater choice of food and a buzzier ambiance. Not so! The endless, boringly straight stretch of sand had one long row of sun-beds and umbrellas plus plenty of bodies, but only two unreliable eateries, clearly spoiled by the sheer numbers of tourists. We were told most people dined at their homestays but luckily we did find a wonderful place just back from the beach, Coffee Temple (below) run by a savvy Indian with a wife and home in Budapest – of course! The food was excellent but otherwise it was all change; here we were back in tourist-land, far from our friendly tea-shops and smiling Keralan neighbours.

Yet there were the fishermen again, picking through their nets with their families, this time under the stars. Although serendipity had worked and Thumpoly won out, the soul of Kerala was still there.

Finally, a few statistics for anyone interested. Kerala’s population now tops 33 million, a harmonious mix of roughly 50% Hindu, 25% Muslim and 20% Christian – plus a few others. The Marari area is visibly dominated by Christians (whose Keralan community goes back to the 1st century) whose massive, freshly painted, often kitsch churches at every corner. made useful landmarks cum bus-stops. And a major coup for Kerala’s long-running Communist administration is the 94% literacy rate, the highest in India – compare that to the northern state of Bihar where literacy is 63%.

Then there’s the ease of transport, as with the regular train service from Ernakulam (Cochin), you can rattle south through Marari and Varkala to Trivandrum, the Keralan capital and gateway to Kovalam beach, in 4 hours (beware though the frequent delays). Ticket prices are rock-bottom – it’s about £1.50 / $2 for the entire journey. Not high end but perfectly acceptable – and fresh air all the way! And there’ll always be a tuk tuk – wherever you happen to be…

Most exhibitions take place in Fort Kochi, the atmospheric peninsula and heart of Dutch, Portuguese and British colonial history attached to burgeoning modern Ernakulam where the population has now hit 3 million. On the peninsula, relics of the Malabar Coast’s spice trade, its distressed colonial warehouses, seem virtually to tip into the waters of the Arabian Sea constantly plied by ferries, fishing-boats and cargo-ships.

Installations and video art, in my view, were far more arresting than paintings and graphics, and harmonised brilliantly with their often peeling backdrops. Indian social politics played a major role, echoed by the works of the foreign artists – perfect for the Indian state of Kerala which has long been ruled by the Communist Party.

The kernel of the Biennale is in the grounds and colonial setting of Aspinwall House, a grand old Victorian building on the tip of the peninsula offering peerless views over the harbour, and with those photogenic Chinese fishing-nets just a short walk away. Nearby stands Pepper House, a stunning old warehouse that was also filled with artworks – though less impressive.

At Aspinwall House the vast courtyard hosted several installations – from Santha KV’s trailing ribbons of handwoven fabric attached to a mango tree, above (whose leaves were much loved by roaming goats) to the Water Temple of Beijing artist, Song Dong (below) where glass panels came complete with paints for personalised graffiti by any passer-by.

Best of all though for a foodie like me was Keralan artist Vipin Dhanurdharan’s outdoor community kitchen – a project to encourage shared cooking and eating. Whenever I stopped by for an occasional cuppa I was offered a delicious sampling of a dish whipped up by a volunteer. Kerala’s ongoing Communist sympathies must lie behind this brilliant community project. In fact the Communist Party headquarters are just across the road, so I couldn’t resist a snap of that either; Che and Fidel would have approved.

Fort Kochi Communist Party HQ

At the very back of Aspinwall House on a terrace overlooking ferries, fishing-boats and distant harbour installations, was Sue Williamson’s evocative installation of cotton shirts hanging on a line, each one inscribed with the identity details of a slave from the Malabar Coast (Kerala’s spice coast), echoing her stirring installation inside referencing 300 years of slavery in South Africa, her home country.

Upstairs, in a soaring hall, Heri Dono’s Smiling Angels from the Sky, was composed of 10 winged creatures, part aeroplane, part god, suspended above the viewer, optimistically smiling into the future, and a clear reference to wayang shadow-puppets of Indonesia, Dono’s home country. Push a button and they winked and blinked playfully – I really loved this piece.

Tracking down art in Fort Kochi is a pleasure as it leads to endless discoveries of the city itself – even across the water at the majestic Durbar Hall in Ernakulam. Best of all were the part hidden exhibitions which formed Collateral, a fringe event dotted around the streets and cafés, some of which were in Jewtown, near Fort Kochi’s synagogue. Most striking here was Rajesh Kulkarni’s ethereal and obscure installation, Thought (below), where terracotta vessels threaded onto wires filled a stunning space – a reminder of those little chai cups once used by vendors on Indian trains, so much more ecologically friendly than the plastic ones used today.

Equally moving were the personal accounts of descendants of people caught in the horrors of Partition, another of Britain’s political shames, when Muslims and Hindus were forced to abandon their homes to suit a random new border drawn between India and Pakistan. This exhibition (below), curated by Manisha Gera Baswani, took shape in large panels of photos and moving stories, suspended in yet another artfully abandoned building.

There was plenty more – but suffice to say, if you can’t get there in time this year, make sure you put Kochi / Cochin in your diary for 2021, sometime between December and March, when the 5th Biennale will take place. It’s exciting, stimulating, a key to the city and only costs 100 rupees for two days (that’s £1 – or $1.30)! A bargain and a pleasure.

One characteristic of Almeria is its close connection with North Africa across the strait. In the days of Al-Andalus it was the main port for exports to the Middle East, but today, other than the odd cruise-ship, it mainly sees ferries from Algeria and Morocco which dock daily. Many passengers end up working in the infamous invernaderos or polytunnels (plastic greenhouses – see pic below) that blight the landscape westwards and northeastwards. These environmental scars suck up precious water resources and scatter shreds of plastic sheeting into the sea and soil – hardly sustainable or ethical. Yet they are also the main financial resource of the province, and northern Europe wouldn’t survive without their vegetables. I won’t start on the abysmal working conditions.

The result of this Maghrebi influx is a line-up of shops and restaurants facing the port which cater to new arrivals. At Restaurante Marrakech (below), I had a chat with Mohammed who has just taken over the management. Fresh lavender-tinted paint, a TV tuned permanently to football, shiny plastic tablecloths – it all looked spick and span, open daily from 6 a.m. (for the first ferry) till 11pm. On the menu are classics such as fried fish, couscous and beef tagine at unbeatable prices (7 – 8 euros for a main), though the alcohol-free drinks options of Coca Cola, Fanta or mint tea are less inspiring.

I’ve said it before (read my post on Secret Andalucia), the city’s greatest highlight is it spectacular alcazaba (fortress) that has watched over the port for 1100 years. It’s little known internationally, but should be for its scale, grandeur and sweeping views; any visitor to the city would be mad to miss it – despite the panting climb. From the ramparts, you look down over the flat roofs of the Medina district – a word harking back to its days as the original Moorish town.

The flat roofs may look North African, but in fact they are the result of a succession of devastating earthquakes in the 16th century and also of bombing by German planes during the Civil War, both of which contributed to the loss of traditional architecture as well as lives. And you can add to that the extreme poverty of much of the 20th century which led to many houses falling into ruin.

Today the last working-class barrio is La Chanca, on the western flank of the alcazaba. It’s home to a large immigrant community, as well as a few gitanos – and this wonderful pigeon-fancier who paints his feathered friends to create a ‘leader’ – so he told us.

As you walk towards or back from the fortress, down a side-street you’ll spot a sign for Al-Medina, a Moroccan tea-room and cosy restaurant that spills out into an alleyway full of plants. It’s been going for 15 years, a family affair run by father, daughter and son who take huge pride in their immaculate restaurant. Authentic Moroccan food includes lamb couscous, kebabs, spicy harira soup, delicious tagines and a tempting list of fresh fruit juices and teas. It makes a perfect shady spot at high noon.

Otherwise, Almeria’s offerings focus massively on seafood – you just can’t escape it, as this southeastern corner of the Iberian peninsula is blessed with a swathe of Mediterranean packed with fish. If you descend into the bowels of the food market, you’ll find mouthwatering displays of our piscine friends (though not as varied or abundant as those of Cadiz market or Santiago de Compostela’s). Large red prawns (gambas rojas) from Garrucha feature strongly, and reappear on many a restaurant menu – they’re a local favourite though pricey due to a limited fishing area. Like the castle, don’t miss out and make sure you suck the heads which are full of juice.

One good (budget) way to sample them, along with other seafood, is inside the market on the ground floor where chirpy Inmaculada at Café Express will fry or grill whatever you bring her (cleaned by the fishmonger) for a flat rate of 6€. The same system works outside at the back of the market at Café Habibi where they’ll  cook up meat, fish, shellfish and/ or veg for 1 – 2 people for 5€. It’s a great system at a generous price – and both places serve beer and wine too.

Tuna, swordfish, langoustines, anchovies and red mullet are almost as common in the market, however in bars they have strong competition from… yes, that old chestnut – jamon! This pic above shows Casa Puga, Almeria’s oldest bar dating from 1870, that trades on its age rather than quality these days. That said, it has an inviting interior for a copa + tapa if you dodge the dangling hams. As elsewhere in Almeria, the first tapa comes free with your chosen tipple, while anything more you pay for. Until your second drink that is. For more addresses, read my post on Almeria’s top tapas. bars

Casa Puga is in Calle Jovellanos (above), the tapas hub of Almeria’s old town which unfolds into a network of tight winding streets. Search a little and you’ll find the welcoming Bodega Las Botas (below), similarly adorned with hams. Here I indulged in those choice red prawns, simply grilled and sprinkled with coarse salt, followed by a half racion of delicate red mullet. Perfect with a chilled Verdejo.

Seafood heaven for me at least – before the Mediterranean is completely depleted. And for once I managed to bypass the jamon, leaving it for another destination, another day in Andalucia…

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And finally – here’s the llisticle I was researching in Almeria for The Guardian

https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2019/feb/05/10-best-tapas-bars-restaurants-almeria-spain-andalucia

Doing the deal My American publisher and I ‘signed’ the deal at a London supper club with a gentlemanly (or in my case womanly) handshake later confirmed by a contract. Then followed my investigation into how to fund the research on the ground in Andalucia. Even if I have a house there, that doesn’t mean I can just pop down the road to the nearest restaurant for recipes, because my idea was to cover the entire span of this diverse region – slightly larger than the island of Ireland and about 400km east to west with a lot of mountains in between.

So I needed a rental car and accommodation which, finally, after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, the Spanish Tourist Office agreed to fund – though severely constricting my time. No siestas! Over many long years of writing travel-guides to vast countries like India, Mexico and Indonesia I’ve been used to agonisingly tight schedules, yet this time it was different.

In fact by the time I had finished the first research trip I was totally bushed, hardly sleeping due to the angst of getting through the next day. When I meet people and tell them what I do – “food and travel writing” – they unanimously respond “oh how wonderful! lucky you! my dream job!”. Ha ha, if only they knew!

Andaluz endorsements from the best – gratefully received

On the road There I was tearing across the eastern and central parts of Andalucia, negotiating city traffic, one-way systems, twisting sierra roads and tight underground parking, sometimes covering two restaurants in a day, meeting chefs and restaurateurs (therefore on my best diplomatic behaviour – in Spanish), interviewing, noting down recipes, then styling dishes ( I admit that’s probably the least impressive aspect of the book), photographing – and yes, eating! Let’s say tasting, as my appetite was stretched to its limit. In one case I had to do an entire shoot of six dishes in an hour due to the imminent opening of the restaurant to the public; in another, the chef didn’t realise I wanted to take photos, so the dishes weren’t ready. Yet another kept changing our rendezvous time according to how many diners were in his restaurant that afternoon. Whatsapp thus became a vital tool.

So when it came to the second research trip, I was a lot wiser and paced myself better. Yet there’s always something. In this case it was a puente – or long holiday weekend, when restaurants have not a minute to deal with a food-writer. Subsequently, on regular trips to my house, I managed to squeeze in a few more restaurants – though, oddly, by then I actually missed the adrenalin rush of the frenetic research trips.

Cooking the book Once I had started writing, I realised I had an editorial issue, namely that there would be four threads winding through the book. My starting-point was an investigation into what remains of the 800 years or so Muslim rule of Al-Andalus, therefore historical; secondly I wanted to paint a picture of contemporary Andalucian cooking in typical restaurants; thiirdly I wanted to interweave travelogue to give a sense of a personal journey across this magical land; and fourthly I needed to introduce my own story – because why should I, an Englishwoman, be writing about Andalucia?

Hardly straightforward. However this can of worms turned out to be a godsend, and ultimately led to a riveting (I hope) book which works on several levels – from the three separate introductions (The Andalusian Kitchen – then and now; Al-Andalus – a brief history; Andalusia and Me) to the three travel diaries inserted between the regional breakdown (East, Centre, West) and finally portraits of 20 or so cooks/ restaurants. And of course there are recipes – over 100 – which needed massive fine-tuning by me and by the copy-editor and oe or two re-shoots.

Production Luckily I was entirely responsible for all photography and the US-based designer was open to my comments and suggestions. However production was an agonizingly s-l-o-w process, mainly due to my publisher, Interlink, being a small independent who juggles a lot of books at once with a tiny team. This meant Andaluz occasionally had a siesta in the pipeline. I have huge admiration for my publisher’s staying power, his many stunning books and unique vision but at times I confess I thought the book would never see the light of day.

Fiona Dunlop at soft launch of Andaluz

But it did! Now at last the hefty 304-pp book is out there in glorious technicolour and I can safely say I feel proud of it. I also greatly  respect the publisher for producing such a high quality book. Last week a ’soft launch’ party was held in London at the swish and funky h Club in Covent Garden – organised and sponsored by SpainNOW, a London-based Spanish arts festival headed by the charismatic Antonio Molina-Vazquez. After I had read extracts – on food, history and my own story – nearly all the books sold. Meanwhile wine, chat and tapas flowed: how very andaluz!

So in the end – to steal the words of the Michelin guide – it was worth the journey.

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Reviews (so far…)

Andaluz – A Food Journey through Southern Spain
By Fiona Dunlop  304p. illus. Interlink, $35 (9781623719999). 641.59468

“Both cookbook and travelogue, this homage to the land of the Arabs and Berbers reveals mouth-watering and educational excursions into the region’s little towns and the kitchens of local professional chefs and home cooks. A little history adds to the mix, as British author Dunlop (Mexican Modern, 2013) explains how eight centuries of Moorish rule (from the eighth to the fifteenth century) defined southern Spain’s personality, culinary and otherwise. Glorious color photographs alone beckon; what differentiates this 100-plus recipe collection are its origins in the cafes and restaurants of Andalusia, relying on chefs to contribute the best of their best. No one will be disappointed. Both unique and familiar fare populate the pages: gazpacho, caramel bread pudding, lemon cake, and seafood paella; falafel with beet tahini, hummus, and pickles; a fig and almond roll. Chef profiles are featured in tandem with restaurant descriptions; who could resist, for instance, a table in the middle of a bullring, or a chat with an 80-year-old preparing marinated turkey. Includes notes on regional specialties, like iberico ham and black pigs, and an annotated list of the featured restaurants. A true work of art—and love.”
—Booklist (starred review)

Andaluz: A Food Journey Through Southern Spain – Fiona Dunlop. Interlink, $35 (304p) ISBN 978-1-62371-999-9

“Dunlop (The North African Kitchen) shares the culinary culture of Andalusia—an autonomous region in the south of Spain—in this glorious, lushly photographed cookbook. She organizes her cookbook by province, and includes brief biographies of a few notable cooks. Beginning with the east—which ranges from coastal Almeria to mountainous Granada—Dunlop serves up a butternut squash soup with almond and bacon, topped with a poached egg, as well as ‘lasagne’ of filleted fish, in which marinated mackerel is layered with rice paper and ajo blanco (a puree of almonds, pine nuts, sherry vinegar, and sunflower oil). From the center—Cordoba to Malaga—comes grilled asparagus with pine nut and cumin sauce, and quail baked in pomegranate sauce. And from the west—Seville to Cadiz—Dunlop presents a mushroom and blue cheese omelet, marinated Iberian pork with raisin couscous, a skirt steak macerated in orange with spelt and pickles, and a confit of pork belly apricots, prunes, dates, and orange (Angeles Sanchez, who contributed the recipe, ‘loves the contrast between the fattiness of the pork belly and the acidity of the sour orange’). Desserts are welcomely subtle, such as spiced fritters with honey and coffee-roasted dates with labneh. Ingredients are easily accessed and instructions straightforward. Dunlop delights in this inviting Spanish cookbook.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Timed to coincide with the publication of my latest book, Andaluz – a Food Journey through Southern Spain, it took us to five of the 20 featured restaurants. The chefs who contributed recipes were of course delighted to see the result in print which is really my ode to Andalucia, in blazing colour and over 300 pages long.

Malaga port where the tour kicked off

From Malaga, comfortably installed in our little orange bus, my clients and I cruised along the coast to Almeria then circled inland via Guadix to Granada, with the snow-capped Sierra Nevada constantly visible. Our last leg took us west to Antequera and finally back down to Malaga, a total of about 600km (375 miles) in six days. It worked perfectly, giving us enough time in each place as well as a riveting kaleidoscope of Andalucia’s landscapes – from coast to desert to mountains.

First stop in Malaga was, naturally enough for foodies, the Mercado de Atarazanas, one of Spain’s most mouthwatering covered markets, not quite as extensive as Valencia’s but easily on a par with Santiago de Compostela’s. Forget Barcelona’s Boqueria, now overrun by tourists.

Frigilliana – big views and exotic flavours

After veering inland to Frigilliana, a picture-postcard pueblo blanco, we had lunch at a restaurant with arguably the best terrace views in Andalucia, where we lapped up November sunshine and views to Africa, The inspired, highly creative lunch with Middle Eastern accents easily matched the panorama.

In Almeria our enjoyment started at its majestic, sprawling Alcazaba (fortress), Europe’s second largest Islamic monument after the Alhambra. But of course food was soon back on the agenda, this time with us in the driving seat. Our tapas class led by the cheerful Mariela and her husband kept us on our toes but was also huge fun, spliced with glasses of Rioja and plenty of time to devour our creations. Here’s the chef inspecting our mini-pizzas with anchovies – delicious.

One of the greatest blights in the province of Almeria is its unavoidable polytunnels in which fruit and veg are grown year round, tended by underpaid and exploited African immigrants. These blanket an endless stretch of coast and even creep close to the Cabo de Gata Natural Park – one of our side-trips which took us to visit a hugely talented potter in the crafts village of Nijar.

We recovered at a simple beach chiringuito where we indulged in heaps of ultra-fresh seafood for which Almeria is famed. Sweet little clams and juicy Garrucha red prawns, a renowned delicacy, kicked off before we dived into this luscious arroz caldoso de marisco – a soupy seafood rice-dish. A killer.

Next ‘secret’ feed was south of Granada in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.. After a very informative visit to an organic olive-oil press and guided EVOO tasting, we bumped down into the valley to a local venta (typically Andalucian, ventas hark back to the days of roadside inns serving wholesome home-cooking). This one was truly hidden in a beautiful riverside setting.

Still blessed by autumnal sunshine, we sat at a garden table to indulge in a pork-fest, a meat instilled in Andalucia’s DNA ever since the Inquisition. Homemade morcilla, salchicon and chorizo were followed by a humungus board of grilled lamb and pork – carving skills fully tested (pic below). The side-dish of migas is also typical; meaning ‘crumbs’, it is left-over bread, broken up then fried (roughly) with peppers. chorizo and garlic. And yes! Another tasty main course materialised, this one of sloppy rice, chicken and spare ribs. By now we were nearly under the table.

Not surprisingly, this homely restaurant turned out to be incredibly popular – we later discovered at least 150 people eating inside at gargantuan family tables (it was the weekend); high decibels and not one tourist in sight. But the coup de grace was yet to come. Presented for dessert with a platter of fried egg and chips, boiled eggs and a potted mint plant, we were flummoxed. In fact no- o. Every item was sweet in this brilliantly executed display of trompe l’oeil desserts. The ‘chips’ incidentally were fried slices of apple, the earth of the mint plant a chocolate sponge. Ole!

Granada of course had far more classic though equally memorable joys, notably lunch at the Alhambra parador and dinner in a beautiful carmen of the Albayzin with peerless views of the spotlit monument.

On the road to Antequera, another ‘secret’ experience involved tasting Europe’s only organic caviar at Rio Frio, a little known sturgeon farm, and being informed about production. After two teaspoonfuls each – we went to heaven.

Next – organic honey made by Manolo at a beautiful, wild, private cortijo in the hills behind Archidona. Then came another unusual lunch – flagging by now – and, much later, a wonderful farewell dinner in the idiosyncratic bull-ring restaurant (another contributor to my book) of Antequera.

Replete, we bowed out and staggered back to the Parador.

Maybe the above tempts you? Remember there was plenty of non-foodie interest too, like guided tours to Almeria’s magnificent Alcazaba and to the incomparable Alhambra, meeting chefs, a demonstration by an accomplished ceramicist in his workshop, visiting a cave-house and museum in Guadix, buying cookies from cloistered nuns, the Andalucians themselves and of course intelligent and fun fellow guests.

So have a look at the detailed itinerary with Toma & Coe, sign up and see you in June!

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Read more of my thoughts on the tour and on my book in this interview in SUR
yet more on me and the book in The Local – Spain and in the Olive Press

And yes, Manger Square really exists, the hub of churches, convents, cafés, shops, a mosque and taxis. If only Bethlehem’s taxis had meters, life for the independent traveller would be easier – these yellow saloon-cars are adept at rip-offs, so beware. The opposite is the case with the services, shared taxi vans for longer trips, where an exact fare is charged. And any street-vendor will smilingly hand you a taster of their specialty  – for free. Swings and roundabouts.

Mosque of Omar & Syriac Church beyond

Church of the Nativity at night

I love the way the Mosque of Omar faces the Church of the Nativity across the square – two faiths watching each other without animosity (here at least). During the day, troops of Christian pilgrims bussed down from Jerusalem throng in the plaza beside the church, before squeezing inside through a tiny archway – quite the opposite of the grandiose portals of European cathedrals. Most are eastern European (often Russians) and Asians, though some Western Europeans too.

Once inside, they fill the beautiful nave between columns and lamps, oblivious to the surviving Crusader mosaics high above, all focused on seeing the manger – an underground cave where ancient Canaanites once held fertility rites. When I came here ten years ago it was easy to visit – this time I don’t bother.

Instead I go to the Milk Grotto (named after a drop of Mary’s breast milk, said to have coloured the cave walls – another quirky myth!) to see another cave, another fertility cult site. Down steps, I find a cosy, vaulted space containing several shrines and small groups of worshippers who await their turn to sing their faith. As I arrive, four  young people in Biblical robes are singing Silent Night a cappella – it’s incredibly movingly. They turn out to be German – with that shining light of belief in their eyes.

Milk Grotto a capella

Shops in well-trodden central Bethlehem sell anything from olive wood crucifixes to gleaming icons (no doubt a hot ticket with Russians), to statues of Mary, Hebron pottery, leather and keffiyehs. Dodging persistent shopkeepers becomes an art, particularly when heading up Manger Street from the square to reach the cornucopian farmers’ market. This I visit again and again to admire the fresh, gleaming produce – pomegranates, avocados, fragrant herbs, radishes, oranges, limes, eggplants – and daily hub bub.

Beyond the market, up more steps (Bethlehem demands stamina), I follow the twists and turns of Pope Paul VI Street to Cinema Square, a stretch of the Old City where shops sell fish and dates from Gaza, glittering gold jewellery and even press olives into oil in front of you (below). There’s plenty of garbage and graffiti too, making it local and authentic, far from the shiny tourist tat surrounding Manger Square.

However temptations come with the visit: Mine is to head into the desert to see Herodion and Mar Saba, both ancient, spectacular monuments. After hard bargaining, I negotiate a round trip by taxi with waiting time at both sites for 170 shekels (about £36 / $47). Probably not a bad price.

HERODION / HERODIUM

Herodion (Herodium) comes first, about 20 minutes’ drive beyond the upscale neighbourhood of Beit Sahour, a towering mountain-palace built by King Herod in around 20BC. In a typical anomaly of the West Bank, I now find myself in Israel, its flag flapping in the breeze at the top, and pay a 29-shekel entrance fee to a grumpy guard.

Luckily taxis can park close to the summit which leaves a 10-minute or less climb to the palace ruins. Within the encircled site, Herod’s reception hall is visible, as well as Corinthian columns, a bathhouse, a synagogue and ongoing excavations. Far-reaching views from the brink reveal a bleached universe stretching to infinity studded with Israeli settlements, kibbutz and Palestinian villages. Here in this 2000-year old fortress, I find myself completely alone, lost in the millennia – in high contrast to the bustle of central Bethlehem.

Herodion, large cistern

Equally extraordinary is the network of tunnels that riddle this artificial mountain. As I descend staircases which circle down through the gloomy interior, I pass huge cisterns dug out to feed the palace. Blinking in the sunlight on emerging, I continue round the side to see a small amphitheatre and, allegedly, Herod’s tomb. Another myth? Who knows, this is the “Holy Land” after all. What isn’t a myth is the occasional roar of Israeli fighter jets overhead keeping an eye on the Jordanian border.

Lower Herodion

MAR SABA

After admiring the bathhouse and colonnaded funeral complex of Lower Herodion at the base of the hill, it’s on to Mar Saba, far to the east. Now we really enter the Judaean desert of rolling, rocky hills and striated cliffs sliced into canyons by wadis (river-beds), an arid terrain that stretches to the Dead Sea and Jordan beyond. Now I understand why it’s also dubbed a wilderness.

After negotiating a twisting track we come to this incredible, remote monastery (above), clinging to a cliff overlooking the Kidron river. Originally 5th century, over the years the monastery went through countless highs and lows, expanding and contracting, losing St Saba’s body to the Crusaders but recovering it from Venice in 1965. Much of the jigsaw of buildings was restored by the Russians in the 19th c, so it looks quite fresh. I’m told less than 20 monks now live there – II wonder for how long.

Being Orthodox, women aren’t allowed in, so I resign myself to climbing an opposite hill to a stone tower with bird’s eye view of the complex. Photos spell out its beauty, but being there with a gaggle of monolingual Russians in head-scarves and long skirts makes the experience other-worldly and memorable. My photos give an idea of Mar Saba, but can’t communicate the majesty of its setting. nor the immensity that surrounds it.

HOSH AL SYRIAN

Back in Bethlehem’s atmospheric old city, I return to my cosseting boutique guest-house, Hosh Al Syrian, a beautiful Ottoman building of terraces, stairs and patios that was once a guesthouse for Syriac pilgrims.

Hosh Al-Syrian Guesthouse

In my vaulted room, one window opens onto a broad external staircase descending through this ancient, legendary and labyrinthine town. Collapsed on my bed, I listen to chirping sparrows, the chatter of schoolchildren passing by, the tolling of church bells and the haunting call of the muezzin. Bethlehem feels alive – and I feel very comfortable within it. The only problem for the Palestinians – and it’s a big one – is the wall.

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Read more of my blog posts on the West Bank, Palestine and the wall here: – Palestine’s top chef, Jerusalem, the strength of Palestinian women, Jericho, Hebron, Ramallah’s new Palestinian Museum, the separation wall, the olive harvest

Also my post on Bethlehem’s top restaurants for CNN.com and my piece in the Financial Times on the harvest & Palestinian olive oil

In Your Middle East on Nablus  and on the archaeological site of Sebastiya

From Bethlehem it’s an easy ride by ‘service’, those snazzy egg-yolk yellow vans (in fact shared taxis) that career around the arid hills of the West Bank. I love the way the seven passengers solemnly and silently hand their shekel fare one to another to reach the driver in front – who, one hand on the wheel, digs around for change with the other.

Once I’d tracked down the Bethlehem terminal, bizarrely hidden on the upper floor of a shopping-mall (pic above), it was go go go. The service soon filled up, zipped out of Bethlehem onto an Israeli controlled road & some 40 minutes later we entered Hebron. The first sight on its outskirts was vast fields of grape-vines, one of the area’s hallmark products along with figs, dairy produce, glass and pottery – as well as tons of limestone from surrounding quarries. The walls of the old city are its best advertisement.

For a town of about 160,000 inhabitants, easily dwarfing Bethlehem’s 40,000, Ramallah’s 60,000 or Nablus’ 130,000, Hebron feels small. And it has a problem, religious of course for this is the ‘Holy” Land. Hebron is ancient, going back 6,000 years, the first capital of King David according to the Bible, and allegedly the burial site of the Prophet Abraham plus a few others – at the Tomb of the Patriarchs. Even King Herod left his mark, building a hefty wall to enclose the tombs. This makes it Judaism’s second holiest city after Jerusalem, one of Islam’s four holy cities and a significant Christian one too. A tough role to play in this fraught, divided region.

After endless clashes and killings following the 1967 Israeli occupation of the West Bank, in 1997 the city was divided in two – Israeli control for its 800 or so settlers and Palestinian control for the 160,000. In reality, Israeli control permeates the entire city, and in 2015, during the explosive ‘Third Intifada’, checkpoints and soldiers were everywhere – along with killings, beatings and general harassment. Schoolchildren had to be accompanied for fear of settler attacks – and still are; the Quakers do a great job here.

It’s too complex and heart-wrenching a story to go into further (nor is it one-sided, as Jewish blood was spilled by Palestinians too) but on this sunny October day Hebron feels peaceful, also desperately poor and run down – as in this street of semi-ruin below.

Of course I immediately head for the old town, a beautiful Mamluk and Ottoman labyrinth of twisting lanes, vaulted arches, stairways and towering limestone houses, all studded with shrines. Much of it has been impressively restored in the last 20 years – and yet… A few kids run past me, the occasional old man shuffles by or a woman in a hijab carries her shopping – but otherwise it feels deserted. Rare open doorways reveal repair shops. spilling out dusty electric fans, microwaves, vacuum cleaners and anything else remotely repairable. A sign of hard times – and also impressive recycling.

I stumble across a ‘Visitors Centre’ with a Palestinian dozing in one corner and, at least, very good maps. I had come without a guide-book, so this was welcome; my repeated refrain of ‘where’s the Al-Ibrahimi mosque’ in Arabic was getting tired.

Through a turnstile checkpoint manned by gun-toting Israeli soldiers, I at last come to the imposing Al-Ibrahimi mosque, source of so much friction and blood over the centuries. The Mamluk entrance stairway (below) is spectacular yet inside, once again, the place is semi-deserted – incomparable to the hordes thronging the nave of Bethlehem’s Church of the Nativity (2 million tourists so far this year).

A few Palestinian women, an imam, a couple of men – that’s it! I am amazed, but also seduced by the sobriety of this mosque and its soaring arches. Not too much glitter for once.

From here I plunge back into the old city to explore the souq and its wares – what remains of it. Because here I’m confronted by dozens of shuttered shops, row upon row of them. Only one short stretch is animated and open for tourists, Al-Shuhada Street. But where are the shoppers? I’m almost alone, certainly among only a handful of foreign visitors.

And here I come to Hebron’s notorious flashpoint between Palestinians and Israeli settlers. The latter have been moved into the houses towering above the bazaar into which they have a habit of tossing garbage, urine and other niceties.. The result is a wire mesh and sheets of corrugated iron – and depressed shopkeepers. “What have we done to deserve this?” cries one when he sees me taking photos. And, naturally, they plead for sales.

Further on I’m relieved to come across a few pottery shops, and a row of food-shops. Appetites at least survive, whether for jars of freshly churned butter, tubs of spices or trays of k’nafeh, that addictive Palestinian sweet.

Butter, Hebron

Then surreally, I see a horse tethered to a shutter, a hair-dryer abandoned on a café chair (the café of course empty other than a few young men playing pool at the back) and a kind of cave-shop selling and sewing animal skins – presumably bought from Bedouins in the nearby desert. The plight of the Bedouins offers yet another abysmal record of human rights abuse in the West Bank – and another story.

Hebron is like a theatre-set with no actors. A tragedy. I buy a goatskin, spices, pastries, another pair of earrings that I don’t need – and head back to Bethlehem. I have now seen Hebron, and shan’t forget it.

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Find out more on Palestine and the West Bank in my other posts: – Palestine’s top chef, Jerusalem, the strength of Palestinian women, Jericho, the new Palestinian Museum, the separation wall, the olive harvest

Also my post on Bethlehem’s top restaurants for CNN.com

And my piece in the Financial Times on harvesting olives for Palestinian olive oil

In Your Middle East on Nablus  and on the archaeological site of Sebastiya

The surrounding landscape of furrowed sandstone and clay formations is spectacular, very Far West and in fact Indiana Jones was filmed here along with dozens of lesser known movies, now lost to oblivion. Although the entire population of this country town numbers barely 20,000, Guadix proudly claims to be the European capital of cave culture. Nowhere else has such an extensive network, winding through craggy outcrops deep into the hills.

This Barrio de las Cuevas (Cave district) is where about 4,000 people inhabit some 2000 cave-houses (the figures change depending on who you’re talking to). They even have their own church dedicated to La Virgen de las Cuevas (Virgin of the Caves). Originally a modest hermitage, it was completely rebuilt in 1962, but if you explore the back of the church you find a succession of whitewashed passages and caves leading to the original shrine, where a late 17th c painting of the troglodyte Virgin surveys all.

Cave district church – La Virgen de las Cuevas

One fallacy is that this is a ‘gypsy’ quarter. Wrong. It’s thought that the first inhabitants came here after Granada, the last bastion of Moorish Spain, fell to the Castillians in 1492. As moriscos (Muslims forcibly converted to Catholicism) became persecuted, then rebelled in 1568, many fled from Granada and the Alpujarra mountains to this Guadix cave area. Their predicament worsened in 1609-14 when the moriscos were ordered to definitively leave Spain. Those who were desperate to remain or couldn’t afford to leave, took refuge in caves – and stayed. And there you have it.

To one side of the church, steps lead up to a mirador (look out) – not to be missed. On the way up you will undoubtedly meet José, a gnarled, middle-aged gentleman who hovers outside his cave-house, serves cold drinks & waves you inside. “No cost!” he mutters genially, though there’s a large basket for propinas (tips). It’s only a two-bedroom version but is nicely kitted out, with a large dining-living area for family gatherings. I particularly liked the splash of a red flamenco dress, pictures of the Saint and a vintage 1970s TV – all adding to the sense of a personalised time capsule.

Up on the terrace, sweeping views take in the pockmarked landscape, while looking back at Guadix (over a farmyard complete with donkeys and hay-bales) you see the heavily restored 11th c alcazaba (fortress) bristling with crenellations, and the cathedral, a massive 16th-18th c hulk, part Renaissance, part baroque. Behind unfold the corrugated ridges and gullies of the ‘badlands’.

Guadix alcazaba and cathedral

In the last 20 years or so, cave-houses have become rather desirable investments, although when I slept in one of the pioneering cave-hotels back in the 1990s, I found it distinctly claustrophobic. In my hobbit-like room, nothing moved, not a breath of air, not a sound, nada – and no natural light. This total stillness and silence may be relaxing for some but I yearned for bird chatter, the whisper of a breeze and the glimmer of dawn. Today Guadix has a plethora of cave-hotels – search and you will find!

Nonetheless there are plenty of advantages, one being how easy it is to enlarge your home (just dig further into the rock or build out in front), the other being the constant temperature throughout the year, meaning you don’t need air-con or heating. That leaves the cave-dwellers with extra cash for tiled floors, fully fledged kitchens and bathrooms, cars, finials and gates. Back in the day, I remember the cave district of Cuevas del Almanzora (in the province of Almeria) peppered with burglar alarms and TV aerials. There were no visible alarms here – maybe that Cave Virgin is a reliable protector.

So where else in the world can you see such a way of life? Coober Pedy, in the sweltering desert of South Australia, has a huge underground network, now mainly hotels and lacking the quaintness and age of Guadix. In Turkey’s magnificent Cappadocia, most of the cave-houses are now swish hotels and restaurants (I slept in one years ago – when snow blanketed the surreal landscape outside & it stayed toasty inside). In southern Tunisia, Matmata’s cratered landscape is riddled with Berber cave-houses, mostly abandoned when 1960-1970s policies forced their inhabitants to move to new towns. I remember once sipping tea there in a derelict, hilltop cave with a Berber farmer who, every day, trudged up from his modern apartment below to make tea in his former home. Old habits die hard.

However it’s northern China (the Pingyao area in Shanxi province) that, predictably, has the most impressive tradition of cave-dwelling of all, a habit that goes back 5,000 years: three million people (yes!) are said to still live in them. On my list.

Like most of western Ireland, West Cork is stunningly scenic – a succession of rolling hills, verdant pastures, streams and woods (similar to Kerry, minus the huge rocks – read my post about the Ring of Kerry). In fact you get lulled into such a kind of visual apathy for beauty that the car brakes no longer screech for photo-ops. As we neared the coastal Gulf Stream the scenery became gentler and the vegetation increasingly sub-tropical – with the odd palm tree thrown in. It’s not for nothing that fertile West Cork has become the leader in Ireland’s food revolution.

Legend has it that Bantry Bay is where the first inhabitants of Ireland landed many millennia ago – followed much much later (around 1600), by the English. The big attraction? a sheltered harbour and shoals and shoals of tasty pilchards. Fishing fortunes were rapidly made and the entire area became home to a cohort of Anglo-Irish landowners, many of whom still have properties here.

In search of our b&b, our rental car of course overshot the designated landmark but we eventually found the turn-off. Here a track wound down to a placid river – above, photographed in morning light. The deserted, sylvan setting was only marred by a trail of 20 odd abandoned cars (ranging from Mercedes coupés to rusting vans, plus the odd canoe and horse-box) lining the track – plus a yurt.

These surreal garden accessories, in complete contrast to the idyllic setting, definitely spelled alternative, with a hint of recycled living. In fact we later learned that the abandoned carcasses belonged to the b&b owner’s father who had bought them to re-sell at profit – clearly not much of a business mind there.

At the end of the track, at the foot of a cliff, we came to a circular stone building right beside a spectacular pool and waterfall – just as it said on the tin. In contrast to the car-strewn approach, the house turned out to be fairly normal, other than a wizard figure in the bathroom. However our hosts, a tall, genial Irishman and his attractive, sparky wife, admitted that they hadn’t seen any leaping salmon this year – huge disappointment.

So after admiring the perfectly framed pool and falls (above), we set off again to Bantry itself in search of Guinness, traditional music and seafood…the riches of the bay. Down near the harbour, the intimate Fish Kitchen turned out to have exactly what we were looking for – fresh crabmeat salad and Bantry Bay mussels – and a nearby pub provided the follow-up fiddles. My companion Mel was happy.

Next morning, I found myself up bright and early – so a pre-breakfast prowl around the property was in order. Crossing the stream over a makeshift bridge, I then discovered what the name Famine Ruins actually referred to: a soaring, derelict stone building wreathed in creeper. It was quite ethereal in the morning sunlight filtered through towering trees. Inside though it felt distinctly eery.

I penetrated further, ducking under an archway, to find myself in what must have been a vast hall. Today it’s lyrically overgrown – an Irish version of Ta Prohm, that iconic temple at Angkor strangled by liana and twisted trunks.

Behind I emerged beside the stream to creep along a rock and peer into a glassy pool fed by a waterfall. Flat, mossy stones led to yet another torrent of water injected by that magical morning light and surrounded by dense vegetation, before I came to the mother of them all, crashing down the hillside from the viaduct above.

No salmon, but plenty of falling water and a glimpse of an evocative ruin that I later discovered had seen several lives, from tannery to brewery, mill – and finally a workhouse during the horrendous Irish Famine of the 1840s. These ‘institutions’ were seen as yet another injustice imposed by the English overlords, and at the height of the famine hundreds died inside them.

So, instead of leaping salmon. here I was looking at a slice of hidden, horrifying history – luckily soothed by torrents of falling water. Far more memorable than a bungalow.