Walking the wall around Girona.

Father’s Day saw us in Teesside putting out 101 fires for the family whilst we were supposed to be packing for Spain. Eventually, we got everything sorted convinced everyone they would survive a few days without us, and we made our way to Newcastle Airport.

When we last stayed overnight at the airport, it was the Doubletree, which was incredibly disappointing, because they were out of cookies when we arrived and the next delivery (What?! For those prices, one can reasonably expect fresh-baked.) was after we checked out. This time, we stayed at the much less posh Britannia. With lower prices come lower expectations, but we really weren’t expecting a bunk bed to be jammed up against our bed, creating a prison vibe with its safety bars. I’m all for making the most of a small space, but I also like to walk around a room, rather than sidle around or climb over furniture.

On our way in, we had seen the restaurant roped off section of the lobby, and decided to take our chances at the gas station. A wise choice, I suspect. Also, I got to hear the guy in front of me ask for jah-la-pee-nos on his sub. It’s the little things in life.

We had a 6:30AM flight. Fortunately, Newcastle Airport is much easier to deal with than Manchester, and Jet2 had sufficient staff working to keep everything moving smoothly. When we arrived in Spain, it was even better—there was no passport control or customs, just baggage claim and out the door. EU FTW!

Inside Girona Cathedral

Girona Cathedral

Craig had made detailed plans, as usual, for maximum enjoyment of our time. However, he made one small error. He thought Girona was a five-hour drive from Malaga airport, but it was actually more like seven hours. It’s a nice drive, so I didn’t mind, but I did feel bad for him, since we couldn’t share the driving.

We had booked an apartment in Montjuic with a terrace, but when we arrived, we were put on the ground floor, and our apartment was missing some things. So, we were moved (to another ground floor apartment) and over the next twelve hours, he brought us a fridge (with someone’s Coke still in it) and a washing machine (still wet from use). The guy was very friendly, and when we would go out in the morning, he would already be at work and he’d still be at it when we got home each evening, but the apartments really weren’t ready to be let out.

Fortunately, we didn’t go to Girona for the apartment. We went there for a soccer final. Which was sold out. We drove to the stadium early on the day to get tickets and when we found someone who looked like they could direct us to the ticket office, he just started laughing.

On to Plan B: hiking. We drove to Montseny Natural Park and hiked a bit of the GR 5. It was poorly marked in parts, and we got lost and ended up walking along the road to get back to the car.

With a map like this, how could we get lost?

With right way/ wrong way signs, how could we get lost?

Eek! A snake!

Smiling through the pain.

The next day, we drove to Baza where we stayed in a cave. It was in a “neighborhood” of natural caves, but this one was clearly purpose built. Fine by me. We had a wood-burning stove inside and a built-in grill outside, so we grilled every evening and then had a fire inside.

This cave isn’t ready for guests yet.

The cave hotel came with a dog.

I would have been perfectly happy to laze around the cave. It was cool inside, and there were chairs to lounge in around the pool. The owners had a very friendly Alsatian who had a rock game he like to play: I would kick the rock and he would chase it. If I took too long, he would pick it up and drop it at my feet. He also made it clear that it was a kicking game, not a throwing game. I kind of wanted to take him home with us.

The dog teaching me to play his rock game.

Lazing around isn’t on Craig’s to do list. So, we drove to Granada for a second division soccer match. We were able to find the stadium with the help of our phones (thanks Blue Dot!). The club shop sold us two tickets for €10 each. We later read in the paper that there was a two-for-one offer.

Since we were in Granada, there was only one way to while away the afternoon until match time: tapas. We wandered from pub to pub having a Diet Coke at each. Apparently, in these times of austerity, that doesn’t rate a free tapa. Only two of the four pubs gave us a snack. They were delicious and filled us (me) up, so I shouldn’t complain. One was a pork loin open-faced sandwich and the other was chicken fried whole baby squid. Sounds yuck, tastes yum.

On our final full day in Spain, we drove to the nearby Baza National Park for a short hike. When we arrived, the information center was closed, so we found a circular path, and set off.

It was an easy walk and the path, leading to a lookout point, was well marked. However, it was very sunny and too hot for Craig, so despite only walking 4-5km, we didn’t look for another path when we got back to the starting point.

Instead, we drove 14km into Baza and just wandered around town (after a refreshing Diet Coke with extra ice). The buildings in the old town are lovely. As a bonus, the town’s small size pretty well insured we couldn’t get too lost. Unfortunately, all the shops close from 2-5PM, and we arrived at 1:45. So, after we strolled around for a while, we headed back to the caves and grilled up some lamb for dinner. A relaxing end to a relaxing week.

This is Peveril Castle. All of it. And you have to climb a massive hill to get there.

Three nights out could normally tide us over for months, but fate conspired to keep us out late three nights in a row, in three different cities. After two nights of Ian Hunter, it was time for something a little more low key: British Sea Power.

They were performing a live soundtrack to the documentary From the Sea to the Land Beyond at the Sheffield International Documentary Festival. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much. From Craig’s description, it would be instrumental versions of older songs with beach scenery playing onscreen.

That is what it was, but it was really good. The director (editor?) went through decades of archive footage and pieced together a cohesive film showing everything from kids playing at the beach to WWII training. The live music complemented the swooping/ soaring visuals nicely. And of course, there were plenty of clips which would be good conversation starters in class. I’ll just keep that in my back pocket for… someday.

On the way, we stopped for a quick look at Peveril Castle overlooking Castleton (and pretty much the rest of the Peak District). It wasn’t much, as castles go, but has a lovely view. There is also far more information about the history of the castle and its former inhabitants than a lot of the castles we’ve visited.

On a clear day…

On this particular afternoon, we were stopped by some geography students. I thought I was being very helpful, giving detailed, considered answers. Craig told me I was holding them up and then pointed out groups of kids here and there copying each other’s forms. Live and learn.

Ian Hunter Leamington Spa 14 June 2013

Ian Hunter is getting on, so any show could be his last, really. With that in mind, we did something that seemed a bit more in keeping with being a Belieber or Directioner (yes, I can thank my teaching career for knowing those terms, and who they are referring to)– we went to back-to-back Ian Hunter shows, despite them being in two totally different places. 

He was getting ready for the Isle of Wight Festival, which may have a more inspired name, but I can’t be bothered to Google it. I can tell you that you have to take a ferry to get there, and sometimes the weather is terrible, even by English standards. I wasn’t too interested in that, but a couple of days in scenic towns seemed alright, so off we went.

First stop: Holmfirth, best known as the setting of Last of the Summer Wine, which Craig assures me was good in the early years. I’ll take his word for it, as it really hasn’t stood the test of time. We stayed at a little pub on the side of a stream, which despite being as least as picturesque as that sounds, we managed to not take any photos. 

No old men sliding down the hills in washtubs, but still pretty good.

As we walked to the town center for the show, we took about fifty photos of the landscape and the horses which seemed to be the pet of choice in the area. That, or the farmers had tiny farms with one horse each.

We arrived early enough to claim center balcony seats with no one in front of us. Billy Bragg likes to joke that no one goes to hear him sing. Ian Hunter could give him a run for his money in that regard, but it was a good show. He played all his hits (or at least all the songs that I knew) and no crap. Morrissey, are you listening?

Ian Hunter Holmfirth 13 June 2013

The next morning, we were actually in pretty good condition, and decided to hike from Magdale to Deer Hill Reservoir. In our usual way, we started off by walking two miles in the wrong direction. Sorted out by the magical iPhone blue dot, we managed to walk three miles in the correct direction before it started raining. Plan B: have a snack in Sid’s Cafe and catch a bus back to our car. 

Where’s Ivy?

Plan B successfully accomplished, we hit the road for Leamington Spa and Ian Hunter. We got to the show early, but not early enough to grab one of the few tables, but we managed to sit in the VIP section. Eventually, everyone who didn’t have a pass got kicked out except for us. There were only a handful of “VIPs”, and we were off to the side, and they left us alone. I guess Craig looks like he could be a VIP…

The show was good, but since it was for all intents and purposes a rehearsal, it was largely the same as the previous night’s setlist. Fortunately, it was a good setlist. As seems to be par for the course, he didn’t include the song I wanted to hear. Once again, he singed off with All the Young Dudes and Goodnight, Irene and we were off to bed with an early start for Sheffield (City on the Move!) planned.

A warm summer day on the English coast.

One thing I love about England is the plethora of well-marked trails. Sure, Korea is covered with mountains covered with trails, most of which are well-marked, but England has trails everywhere. Whether you are in a rural or urban area, you can generally find a marked trail and probably a book detailing more information than you would ever want or need about it.

We decided to check out the Cumbrian Coastal Path, since we were staying nearby. So, early one Sunday morning, we parked up at the Maryport promenade and started walking to Allonby. The roundtrip would be roughly ten miles– a nice, gentle hike on flat land.

Well, the CCP is sign posted. However, this portion of the path is either promenade or overgrown plants and grass. Clearly, it will not be giving the Hadrian’s Wall walk a run for its money.

If the council doesn’t have a lawnmower, surely they can find some sheep.

It was nice enough scenery, but cutting a path through brush gets old fast. We stopped in Allonby for Sunday dinner at the pub (along with the rest of the town, it seemed) and turned around.

Allonby! Just in time for Sunday dinner.

We often break long paths into multiple trips, but I think I’ll just read Ruth’s blog for an account of the rest of the Cumbrian Coastal Path. If people going on long walks impresses you, Christian Nock is also walking the entire UK coast, but without stopping. His blog is really a collection of links to newspaper articles about his walk, but you can also donate to help homeless vets there.

Neck and neck to the finish line.

We were staying at my in-laws’ caravan in the Lake District for a few days and casting about for things to do, when Craig saw an irresistible notice in the local newspaper. It seems that hound owners and enthusiasts get together to check out each other’s young. They call it the Bitch Produce. Excellent. We were in.

This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo… er, bitch produce.

We drove to nearby Frizzington the next day for the 10-mile race. Unfortunately, having only been to greyhound tracks, we were ill-prepared for this sort of dog race. Everyone else was properly kitted out with wellies and binoculars, because the spectators stand on top of a muddy (it’s England, after all) hill and watch the dogs in the far, far distance.

I’ve circled the dogs. They appeared farther away in real life.

We did have a little cash to lay bets, so we ignored the mud and just moved around the hill following the old men’s cues. For the record, all of my bets were on winners, but Craig only placed money according to my guesses once. So, we walked away with £25, which covered our entry fees with enough to spare for a couple of ice creams. Win!

Craig, ignoring my fine picks.

We should have heeded the omen.

Once we got past the sheep, who were clearly trying to tell us to just turn back, we parked up at a pub/ camping ground and made our way past several enclosures full of sheep toward the mountain. Unbeknownst to us at the time, those few minutes were the last bits of clear weather we would enjoy.

The fog is just starting to creep in.

The path began with a gentle climb, and I was feeling like my walking poles were a bit over the top, like I was one step closer to turning into one of those Korean hikers I mocked for wearing $1000+ worth of gear to hike up a 200m high hill.

Soon enough, I understood why Craig had wanted to bring them. The path quickly grew steeper as the stony dirt became loose gravel. Not my favorite combination at all. As I gingerly made my way up the hill, trying not to slide/ tumble down, Craig regaled me with the story of a previous trip up Great Gable which entailed basically being stuck at the top in the cold rain. Lovely.

Eventually, we reached the top without breaking any bones and were rewarded with a lovely view for miles around lucky not to physically bump into any other hikers. With the weather continuing to worsen, our plans for a nice picnic at the top devolved into a quick couple of photos and an even quicker snack.

Apparently, there are magnificent views from the top of Great Gable.

As we hurried back to the car, we passed a man carrying a bicycle. Then another. I stopped the third and learned that the four of them were riding coast to coast to raise money for GOSH, the UK equivalent of St. Jude’s. I guess they thought donators weren’t really getting value for money if they didn’t include any mountain peaks.

Obligatory shot of Edinburgh Castle

As I’m writing these posts, I’m realizing just how far behind I am. In June (six months and one week ago), we went to Edinburgh pretty much immediately upon our return from Iceland to see Billy Bragg. We decided to make a trip of it, and stayed three nights at the Lochend Apartments.

It was about a 30 minute walk from the CBD, but that’s fine, because the CBD is mostly just full of tourists. The distance from the center also meant that for the same price as a chain hotel room, we got a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen and washing machine. That’s my kind of trade off.

While we were there, we also decided to go to the US Embassy, so I could get extra pages put in my passport. I could have gotten a new passport with my married name and nothing but blank pages, but we didn’t think we had ten days. HAHAHAHA! Oh, well, live and learn.

A little slice of America: gripy government workers with short hours.

The embassy was an entertaining way to while away a morning, if you have absolutely nothing to do. There were three people, including myself, there for “citizen services”, but one woman (of the three staff visible) carped for about an hour about how we should really be going to the London office, because none of us were Scottish residents. Apparently, that ratio of one staff person per passport was too much for her to handle.

After a lengthy wait, my passport was taken off me and I was told to return several hours later. Sticking one booklet inside of another booklet and affixing it is time-consuming. Suddenly with a bit of time to fill, we decided to to for a walk.

Arthur’s Seat from the bottom.

Arthur’s Seat is a nice little hike, if you want to feel like you’ve done some exercise, without actually really doing any. It’s only about 100m high, and you are rewarded with 360° views of Edinburgh. The down side is that about a thousand other people will be there, too, and the path is only 1.5 people wide.

Arthur’s Seat from the top. This is the angle that doesn’t show all of the tourists around us.

As it was conveniently located nearby, Arthur’s Seat fit the bill. At the appointed hour (the embassy has very short hours for dropping off/ picking up passports), we retrieved my passport from the guard– apparently peeling off backing and sticking the pages in had tuckered out the actual staff.

All that was left for us to do was head over to Queen’s Hall for Billy Bragg. I tried to find the set list, but… it wasn’t on the first page of Google. At any rate, what I can reliably report six months on, is we had good-ish seats and he played a bunch of new songs, most of which I quite liked, as well as all the old ones you expect to hear. In other words, a great show.

Billy Bragg, Queen’s Hall, 3 June 2013
(I said good-ISH seats. )

This must be the uncool part of the Blue Lagoon.

The morning after Withered Hand and Thorir Georg, I woke up feeling rough, having had a bit too much cheer the night before, but we were on the road to the Blue Lagoon just after 10. We arrived by 11, and it was clear even from the parking lot that this is a tourist trap.

Pictures of the Blue Lagoon are clearly all taken facing away from the sauna, café, restaurant, and gift shop. It’s like a mall that happens to have a lake outside. Entry is about £30 if you need a towel. There are many other extras, such as a robe and slippers, but we weren’t interested. We put the mud on our faces and relaxed in the hot water, but, really, it’s just wastewater from a power plant, and there are hot spring pools all over the country.

Me, in the most exclusive wastewater pool in the world.

We paid an extortionate amount for a mediocre cup of coffee before driving into Grindovík, so Craig could watch a soccer match. At 6˚ C, it was too cold for me, so I hung out at a pizzeria. Once again, I didn’t hear any Icelandic. Everywhere we went, we heard lots of English and German, but very little/ no Icelandic. Next time, we’ll have to find out where the locals go.

Even the locals needed to warm up at half time.

After the game, it was finally time for some hiking. We (Craig) had found an 11-mile trail starting in Grindovík in our (Craig’s) pre-travel research. Unfortunately, we had the little problem of getting back to the car, so we just walked two hours out, and turned around.

The directions to spot the beginning of the hike weren’t clearly written, but we saw a marker and followed it to a good place to park. All along the way, the markers were closely spaced and often next to cairns, so they couldn’t be missed. My kind of hike. The walk was flat (another plus for me), but there were hills all around.

Craig and three cairns. Even we couldn’t get lost with markers that close together.

The ground was moss-covered lava and was either extremely spongy or sharp and crunchy, with very little in between. It really does look similar to the moors, but even more otherworldly, because of the texture and complete blackness of the ground. Despite the flatness, it was hard on my knees because the crunchy areas were basically loose gravel. The “gravel” was just lava instead of another kind of rock.

Sunday morning, we were on our way north to Grundarfjörður by 8AM, so Craig could watch a 4^th division game. The scenery was beautiful: mountains, craggy fields of moss-covered lava, lots of horses, some sheep, flocks of seagulls, and a lone puffin walking down the street. That was the only puffin spotted the entire week, and I missed it, because I was looking at a (completely run-of-the-mill) house.

How can they watch the ball with scenery like that?

The 2.5-hour drive followed the coast, but we only saw a few towns. Two-thirds of Icelanders live in Rekjavik, so the rest of the country is isolated and sparsely populated. Grundarfjörður is a whale-watching destination, but we could only find one place serving lunch on a Sunday in the high season. We paid over 5000 KR for a light lunch, further reinforcing my belief that only tourists go to restaurants. Again, the only other language I heard was German.

Monday was a busy day, so we had another early start. We drove to Kerið, a small crater lake, then to Geysir, followed by Gullfoss, before finally arriving at our second apartment, in Laugarvatn, a small town which seems to exist because of its location in the Golden Circle.

Kerid Crater. I think it was formed by a penny dropped from a helicopter.

Kerið was indeed quite small. We (and everyone else we saw) had a quick look and were off again in about five minutes. If it weren’t right on the way to Geysir, it wouldn’t be worth seeking out. Even being on the same road, it’s just a good chance for a quick stretch of the legs before continuing on.

Geysir is actually two geysers: one big but irregular one, and one smaller one which spouts at 8-10 minute intervals. We arrived just at the tail end of an eruption from the smaller one, so we watched the water bubble for 5-6 minutes before the next one.

If you spray yourself with water as you pan from left to right, you can feel like you were there.

It sprays water about 20-30 feet high, then the water is sucked down before a second blast. We thought that was a pretty good show, so we decided not to stand around in the cold hoping the big one happened to erupt while we were there. Last on the agenda for the day, Gullfoss is the biggest waterfall in Iceland. It’s not very high, but it has a lot of water and flows through a deep crevice. Live’s video, Heaven, was shot there.

Interesting factoid: the Hvítá River, which Gullfoss is part of, was once privately owned. There is a memorial at the falls of Sigríður Tómasdóttir, the former owner’s daughter, because, legend has it that she threatened to throw herself into the falls if plans to build a hydro station went through.

It’s really much better in real life.

No one was threatening suicide while we were there. The entire day was sunny, but with freezing gale-force winds, which made standing around being sprayed with water pretty unpleasant. In warmer weather, we probably would have stayed a bit longer at each site. As it was, we had a quick look, took some photos, and headed for cover.

On Tuesday morning, Craig was finally able to sleep in. The places we stayed weren’t furnished with blackout curtains, so Craig was up and moving by 4AM at the latest most days. We had a very lazy morning, and we finally got moving and started walking around Laugarvatn Lake after lunch. Within 15 minutes, the land had turned marshy. Stepping ankle-deep in icy water ended the walk for me. So, Craig went to a women’s football game in Selfoss, and I lazed around the apartment wishing we could get more than four channels on TV.

On our last full day, we headed back to Reykjavik by way of Þingvellir, the historical ancient meeting place of Icelandic chieftains. It’s a massive rift valley where tectonic plates meet. You can walk along it from the top or bottom. We chose the bottom, and walked along for about 45 minutes. The busloads of tourists all stayed topside, so we had the valley to ourselves.

At the bottom, far far from the tour buses.

In the end, the path petered out a bit and became more difficult to maneuver than I felt like dealing with, so we found a good place to scramble up, and continued following the path until it started raining. We turned back to the parking lot and went up to the top to get a good view of the waterfalls.

As hikes go, it wasn’t much, but it was a good end to our trip. We got to see a place of both historic and geologic significance and enjoy it away from all of the crowds. My only gripe is that there were so many people with tripods set up that we had a hard time getting a decent photo of our own. So, here’s a picture of an underground house we walked past.

The house would be much harder to spot, if there weren’t a flag on top of it.

So, everyone crawled ahead to the single agent checking the regular line, until the “last minute” call for each flight was given, then all passengers for that flight would move to the two lines for agents checking late passengers. That’s right– there was one line for “on time” passengers (basically, everyone when they arrived) and TWO lines for “late” passengers (pretty much all of the same people, but 90 minutes later).

Once our bags were finally checked, we were ushered through a fast track security line. I’m sure the security staff enjoys having to rush and have multiple fast track lanes because Easy Jet can’t be bothered is too cheap to schedule enough desk staff. Security cleared, it was a mad dash for the plane, as increasingly dire warnings were announced over the PA system. Well, Craig and I ran, anyway. Other people stopped to pick up some breakfast along the way.

Things went much more smoothly in Iceland, presumably since EasyJet had nothing to do with immigration or customs. Well before 9AM, we were in the arrivals duty free stocking up on beer and wine. That’s right, there is an arrivals duty free. You will pass all kinds of departure duty free, but the staff will politely redirect you with their perfect English.

The 45-minute drive to Reykjavik was a great introduction to the Icelandic landscape—its rugged and similar in appearance to the moors, but is actually moss-covered lava.

It was beautiful, and I couldn’t wait to go for a hike, despite the cold, gloomy weather. However, we were there for a music festival, so first things first. We spent the day in Rekjavik, and after dinner, we walked to the Kex Guest House for a pre-festival open (free) show. When we bought our tickets, we didn’t realize the first night would be free, so we really could have gotten a one-day pass for half the amount, since we weren’t planning to attend any more shows until the last night. Live and learn.

We were there to see Withered Hand, but the opening act, þórir Georg, was really good. I tried to buy his CD after, but he didn’t have any. Neither did any of the local music shops. BTW Reykjavik has an astounding number of music shops. I guess people still buy CDs in Iceland. But I digress.

Thorir Georg, apparently banned from Reykjavik music shops.

Eventually, Withered Hand came on. He played with a full band, including Pam Berry, from a 90s group I’d never heard of: Black Tambourine. The new songs were great, but six months on (yes, I’m behind), the album hasn’t been released, although it should be out in the spring.

Withered Hand and Pam Berry

After three days tooling around the country, we headed back to Reykjavik for the second Withered Hand show. We arrived early, so had a drink in the “Irish pub” next door, for 1000 KR each. Aside: someday, I will visit Ireland. I do not expect a single pub to bear any resemblance to the “Irish pubs” found in the rest of the world, despite most of those pubs looking virtually identical to one another.

Drinks consumed, we went to get our wristbands. There was no record of us, but since it was the last show of the festival, the guy let us in. So, we could have attended both shows without paying anything at all. It all seemed to be done on a shoestring, so I guess we did our part by being honest.

Dan (Withered Hand) and Pam came in and got drinks while Craig was at the bar, so he looked over their shoulder at the set list. He told them that I would be upset that Love in the Time of Ecstasy wasn’t on it, but they just gave me an apologetic (poor loser) smile on their way upstairs.

They didn’t revise their set list on my account, but it was a good show, and I really like the new songs. So, next spring, I should be able to buy them. And I will, even though I’ve already gotten live versions off Youtube. (Don’t tell anyone.)

My overall impression of Iceland is that it is a pretty great place. If I ever have the chance to live there, I will jump at it, high prices and cold weather be damned!

For one, there’s knitting. Lots of knitting. Even men knit. I know other men knit, but even Franklin Habit isn’t as cool a name as Þórgnýr Thoroddsen. In fact, so many people knit, that hand-knit Icelandic sweaters can be had for very reasonable prices, even from the souvenir chains. I settled for some Lopi wool (okay, not the softest stuff) which I will eventually knit into a lopapeysa. I know, Freyja isn’t the most challenging of lopapeysur, but I know myself, and stranded knitting is not my thing.

Yarn bombing, Reykjavik style.

There is also so much hand knitting, that you can score yourself a major deal at the Red Cross, or any other used clothing store. I was too cheap to splash out 25,000KR on a new sweater, but I did get a used one for 4,000KR. That’s less than we paid for a lunch of soup and coffee for two!

Hand-me-down hand-knit lopapeysa!

Bargain hunter tip: the Red Cross outside of the CBD has lower prices and a better shopping experience. As in, it (unlike the other location) does not resemble Filene’s Basement. Both locations are on Laugavegur: 12 and 116. Here are some other second hand shops in Reykjavik.

The Reykjavik Red Cross where you won’t get in a slap fight over a sweater.

While you are walking up to the good Red Cross, you can stop in at the Phallological  Museum. It’s a bit pricey (1000KR, I think), but it was raining, so it seemed like a good way to spend thirty minutes waiting for the weather to clear. It is surprisingly informational, but some of the displays are a bit odd– home decor fashioned from foreskin, anyone?

Horny old goat

Another bargain hunter tip: stay in an apartment. It’s about the same cost as a hotel, but you have cooking and laundry facilities. Food is seriously expensive in Iceland. That 4,500KR lunch was not atypical. At one place, we paid 6,900KR for a bottle of wine that cost 7,000 won at Emart.

Caviar disguised as toothpaste. Approximate cost: $1 bajillion.

I’m sure there are hidden gems serving delicious food at reasonable prices, but we didn’t come across any of those. In fact, everywhere we ate, all we heard was English and German being spoken, even in little towns far from the usual tourist spots. It really seemed as if restaurants existed for the tourist trade, regardless of how out of the way they may be.

You can also bring in 4kg of food, 3l of wine, and a 12-pack of beer. We did not know that, and were flying Easyjet, so it didn’t really matter, so we did our shopping at the baggage claim duty free. It doesn’t really sell food, other than the usual assortment of chocolate, though.

We saw the sights, hiked, and watched soccer, but I’ll save all that for next time.