The Globe - via NASA

Inside the Travel Lab has been travelling around travel blogs recently.

Sharing Travel Experiences picked up Beneath the Deep Blue Sea on dolphin and whale watching for their March monthly roundup.

Travel Titbits put Inside the Travel Lab on their list of “The Best Travel Blogs.”

The luscious Velvet Escape ran my travel piece on Seville and published an intriguing list of magical travel experiences from travel bloggers in 50 words or less. My entry described the Devil’s Throat on the border between Argentina and Brazil but check out the whole page to read some really moving and surprising entries.

Inside the Travel Lab also has its own new Facebook page - have a look and let me know what you think.

 If you hate all of this and just want to read my longer travel articles then you can do that here. Read, enjoy and happy travelling – at home or on the road.

Torchlight zig-zagged across the car and we huddled in the backseat.

“You are English,” said the policeman. “And yet you say you want to go to Pegalajar.”

“That’s right,” said MG, our driver. “My friends here – they want to pick olives.”

“They want,” he lingered over the words, “to pick olives?”

The Secrets of Pegalajar

Here in Jaen province, olives mean business. Big business. Field upon field of olive trees ripple over the mountains, lines of wizened silver trunks rising up and down with every bend in the road. Spain produces between 40 and 45% of the world’s olive oil, so I was prepared for a huge commercial operation. What surprised me, though, was the discovery that many families still grow their own olives. A field here and there.  A grove somewhere else.

The policeman tries again. “Why Pegalajar?”

“Ah,” MG grins, gesturing at the car. “My wife!”

She leans forward and beams – and so does the policeman.

“Good evening young lady,” he says, rechecking his paperwork. “I believe I know your mother.”

Pegalajar, it seems, is a small place. The policeman wonders how a man from England attracted such a fine woman from such a fine region before waving us on our way.

As we leave, he chuckles to himself. “They want to pick olives!”

It all started with the police check last night.

Picking olives, while a full time occupation for many, has also become something of a family chore. Farming is as fickle as ever and many young people now study, train and prepare for professions away from the countryside. Yet the family plots remain, the work must still be done.

Around Pegalajar

The next morning, fortified by thick coffee and cake, we drive further up into the mountains, blessed by a blue sky and clear air. It has rained this year in Andalusia. Rained and rained and rained and rained, then without respite, it rained some more. Riverbanks have burst, households have sprung leaks and laundry has grown suspicious damp-related fungus.

For the olive harvest, though, rain has spelt disaster and many of the mountain roads are still closed off. As we squelch along the mud tracks, plantation owner Mr X explains that December is usually the busiest month. It is now February and almost every tree still hangs heavy with fruit.

Some trees vibrate as we drive past, olives dropping onto the floor like jelly beans spilling out of a child’s party plate. The machine that makes this happen, a small hook on the end of a metal pole, is as high tech as it gets. Most olives get beaten out of the tree with a stick.

Me. Getting it Right Every Time.

We watch for a while, then get to join in the fun. The idea is simple, the execution a little more slippery. The trees stand on a steep side of land, and our feet slide around on the rain-infested earth. It turns out that there’s more than one way to hit a tree. Get it right and a flurry of olives land in a speckled halo around you. Get it wrong and you hit your co-workers, break the tree or get pelted by a faceful of olives.
Luckily, I passed through the entire day in a perfect state of precision and grace.

There’s more than one way to hit a tree.

After raking the earth, leaves and olives together, the collection is heaped into a trailer. Mr X walks around with a ghostbusters-type machine, a reverse hoover that usually blows the olives into a pile.

It doesn’t work today, however. The mud captures everything.

At the Melgarejo factory, a large hole in the ground swallows it all- sticks, mud, olives and leaves. Many of the conveyer belts are empty.

“Bad weather,” shrugs  Mr X. “Most winters, this never stops.”

The factory staff look bemused at our quartet of wandering foreigners, gazing up at the machines. That’s the nature of travel, I suppose. One person’s mundane chore is another’s fascination, or is it the other way around? I watch, rapt, as olives wiggle and tumble through the machine’s dark ridges and pockets until they line up, scrubbed, clean and in formation like schoolchildren in a class photo.

Olives

The air smells like tapenade, a slippery sheen of black paste on the floor. I was disappointed to learn that you can’t eat fresh olives, that they need at least a year to marinade. Jaen olives aren’t destined to be nibbled, however. Their value, their product lies in the gallons and gallons of olive oil that have earned the nickname liquid gold.

Hungry, we pass into the next area, where the crushing begins. Like fresh compost, the black mulch tumbles through metal funnels to become a fountain of thick mustard-yellow oil. From black to yellow through a quick silver press.

Their value lies in the gallons of olive oil – the liquid gold.

Under instruction, I slip my finger into the warm flow and taste its slightly sticky content – a smoothie of freshly chopped grass and warm water.

Filters then transform the vats into the clear, syrupy liquid that rushes into the bottles that shunt, twist and zip along the conveyor belt in an almost perfect dance. In contrast to the mayhem of the factory, the storeroom stretches on in metallic, clinical quietness, the stainless steel cylinders dwarfing us in size.

Liquid Gold

We have a small tasting – a selection of green and amber liquors that have won prizes across the world. They taste strong, firing off a peppery flame at the back of my throat. I force a smile at my host as I wonder whether or not this is the start of an allergic reaction.

Fortunately, it’s not and I make it to the small, polished shop alive. Gazing at the gold-embossed boxes and brochures, it feels dreamlike to remember that today started by hitting a tree in the mud, though the ache in my shoulders and the dirt on my shoes back up my story.

As we leave the factory, another vehicle pulls up with the next batch of olives. I hang back for a photo, overhearing the conversation between factory worker and farmer.  The latter looks confused.

“English,” the first shrugs. “Wants to pick olives.”

Córdoba, in Andalusia, has an unusual cathedral. Unusual in that it was built within a mosque. Not on the former grounds of one, or as an adaptation of one, but actually totally and utterly in the middle of one.

The gilt-edged dome shoots up from within a cavernous area of low-lit arches, a labyrinth of more than 850 granite, jasper and marble columns.

It’s certainly these arches, that dome and the history of the Mezquita that dazzle first time visitors, yet Córdoba has an eye for detail everywhere.

This PhotoFriday, inspired by Delicious Baby, I thought I’d celebrate Córdoba’s overlooked artistic success – its unusual doorways.

I’m playing with experimenting with technology today at Inside the Travel Lab. So here’s a cool photo from the island of Miya Jima (Shrine Island) in Japan to keep you entertained while I meddle with connections to Inside the Travel Lab’s Facebook Page.

Back soon…

The Globe – via NASA

TravelPod have been compiling their list of the web’s best travel blogs – and guess what? Inside the Travel Lab is right there in the thick of it.

 “Well thought out and beautifully written accounts of travel destinations around the world.”

“If you’re a thinking traveler, you’ll love Abi’s style.”

As chosen by TravelPod, the web’s original travel blog

So, which travel blogs do you think are the best?

Els Roures

Berguedà, a tiny county in northern Spain, prides itself on its mushrooms.

I first discovered them in the mountain restaurant Els Roures, an enormous wooden refuge with red-and-white checked tablecloths, the odd stuffed animal on the wall and, crucially, an open log fire to thaw out frozen limbs after trekking outside.

When the snow melts away, Berguedà collects wild mushrooms – delicate, chestnut-brown clumps that apparently sell for up to 45 euros/kilo. Worth puttting the effort in to find a few…

Sadly, however, I visited Berguedà in the cruel depths of winter and had to content myself with sitting by the fire, sipping hot chocolate and enjoying these delicacies rather than scavenging through the forests to find them for myself.

Els Roures served mushrooms in cannelloni, mushrooms with sausages and mushrooms in a rich stew, each with a strong, slightly smoky taste that reminded me of porcini. What really made me sit up and take notice, though, was the mushroom liquor – some sort of home brew involving vodka, apple juice, sugar, salt and – of course – mushrooms.

Mushroom Vodka

The verdict? Wild mushrooms in food – great, floating in a shot glass – not so much!

Disclosure: My visit to Berguedà in all its mushroom glory was paid for by the Catalunya Tourist Board. Editorial control – all mine, as always. Read more about food from around the world at Wanderfood Wednesday.

The Taff Trail

The Taff Trail

The Taff Trail strides through the valleys of South Wales, taking in castles, countryside and what has been optimistically described as “industrial archaeology.”I’ve strolled, cycled and even rollerbladed along its path, although I’ve never made the complete trip from the capital city of Cardiff through to the town of Brecon.

Skeleton Leaves - The Taff Trail

This photojourney travels through part of the Cardiff section, near Llandaff. 

One thing that I feel British cities do particularly well is to create and maintain a sense of wilderness, even deep within their urban spaces, as though the city wrestles with the forces of nature over one simple path.

 In Tokyo, New York and Paris, I found parks so manicured that they gave the impression that they’d rounded up Mother Nature and shipped her off to a nursing home.

Not so the Taff Trail.

Happy St David’s Day!

Spices for Sale

Colours for Sale

In Morocco, the colours dazzle.

Marketplaces, in particular, fire up my photoreceptors faster than I can manage to take photos.

Nearby Treats

Yet in Essaouira, a windswept town facing the Atlantic Ocean, I think I can spot a bias.

In Essaouira...

...the colour is blue.

In Essaouira, the colour is blue.

Head over to DeliciousBaby’s Photo Friday for more travel photos from around the world.

Volver (pronounced something like bol-BARE) stars Penelope Cruz as a woman dealt a harsh hand in life. Following a teenage pregnancy, both her parents were killed in a fire and she’s ended up married to a crazy, lecherous pig. And that’s just the start.

We meet Raimunda (Cruz) with her sister, Sole, and daughter, Paula, as they clean gravestones – a tradition that apparently even the living perform on their own future burial spots.

Within a few days, her great-aunt dies, her sister sees ghosts, her husband molests her daughter, who then kills him in self-defence. As her world unravels, Raimunda somehow manages to hold it all together in a remarkably engaging and entertaining way.
Volver is a little bizarre – but it just about clings to reality. It’s full of vibrant colours and characters and explores loyalty, determination and relationships: mothers, sisters, daughters, friends and, er, ghosts.

Volver as a Guide to La Mancha, Spain.

Pedro Almodóvar, one of Spain’s greatest directors, travels back to his homeland of La Mancha with this film. Volver contrasts the city life of Madrid against the more conservative countryside. It’s great for hearing traditional music and the rhythm of Castilian Spanish, as well as for gazing at the tiled walls and entrance halls of great Spanish houses.

As Almodóvar said, “Volver is a tribute to the social rites practiced by the people of my village with regard to death and the dead.”

“Volver is a tribute to the social rites practiced by the people of my village with regard to death and the dead.”

Intrigued, I asked my Spanish friends about preparing your own grave.

Luis, from Seville, shrugged. “Exaggerated, but basically true.”

Copacabana

It’s not a flashy photo but I love this shot from Rio, Brazil. I was walking between those iconic beaches, Ipanema and Copacabana, when I saw this man looking away from the sea and gazing instead at the busy street life just beyond the beach.

I don’t know him and he didn’t seem to be with anyone, but the similarity to the sculpture was spooky…

For more travel photos, check out Photo Friday on Delicious Baby.