Day trips from Madrid

While you are touring the castle, pause to remember one of its most famous occupants, the countess who, while in Peru, was cured of a fever by native medicine prepared from tree bark. She brought the remedy back with her, introducing quinine to Europe. The tree's bark is named chinchona in her honour

A horseman walks towards the plaza, Chinchon

Are you visiting Madrid? In the space of one day, you can make a triangular trip to three of my favourite places - to the earthy and atmospheric little town of Chinchon, to the Bourbon elegance of Aranjuez, with its lush gardens and powder-pale palace and, finally, to imperial Toledo, the biscuit-coloured city of El Greco set high on an ochre hill.

I have travelled the triangle in all seasons but if you have a choice, late spring or early fall is best. You can go by train, but if you do so, you'll miss Chinchon, which is a bit off the beaten track. It makes a piquant contrast to the other, grander places. So plan on renting a car for the day. It's just as easy to rent a car in Madrid as it is at home. If the day promises to be hot, take a swimsuit as well as your road map. Both Chinchon and Aranjuez have inviting pools to splash in - and Aranjuez goes one better, with a lazily flowing river, very popular during the summer with the Madrid crowd.

You'll want to leave early, around 9 am, just after the morning rush hour has subsided. You must exit the city on the A3, the main road to Valencia. To get to it, drive down past the Prado museum on the Paseo del Prado until you reach the great Arch of the Emperor Carlos. Here, you swing left, following the sign which says "Valencia". The Valencia road starts out as a multi-laned expressway but soon narrows to a two-lane highway. The city disappears behind you as the sunburned hills of the Castilian plateau surround you.

About thirty minutes down the road, you'll come to a village called Villejo de Salvanes - and the turn-off (it's clearly marked) for Chinchon. The road, though paved, is rougher now, as you head into olive-groved valleys, past vineyards and grazing goats. Chinchon is about thirty minutes from the turn-off. You come upon it quite suddenly, when you reach the top of a rather steep hill; now you must look for and follow the sign which leads you down, through narrow streets, to the Plaza Mayor, or main square.

Plaza Mayor, Chinchon

Chinchon's main square is just what every visitor to Spain hopes for, with multi-tiered balconies, painted dark green, jutting out from whitewashed old buildings which surround the cobblestoned plaza. In the shadows of the lower balconies are bars and shops and cafes; you'll arrive in time to have a mid-morning cup of coffee and, if you're hungry, a plate of fresh-cooked shrimps. If you are here during the bullfight season, the square will be festooned with red and gold banners and the cobblestones will be covered with sand, behind a sturdy wooden barricade. Chinchon is an important town on the bullfight circuit.

Dominating the square and, indeed, the town, is a church of honey-coloured stone, its main facade alive with darting swallows. Use it as a landmark as you start to explore the town. In any event, you won't get lost, for Chinchon is a small place. An hour of relaxed strolling will be enough for sightseeing.

The castle, Chinchon

You should first walk up the steep hill from the square to the castle of Chinchon. Here, the aniseed liqueur named for the town and popular all over the country is distilled. The castle is a grey and rugged shell, straddling a hill overlooking the town. The former domain of the counts of Chinchon, it offers you a fine view of La Mancha country: hills that stretch to the horizon, with thousands of neat rows of silver-grey olives. While you are touring the castle (it's open to the public from llam to 4pm) pause to remember one of its most famous occupants, the countess who, while in Peru, was cured of a fever by native medicine prepared from tree bark. She brought the remedy back with her, introducing quinine to Europe. The tree's bark is named chinchona in her honour.

After visiting the castle, wander along the narrow streets and look at the old houses, some painted white, others of weathered stone, often with carved family coat of arms. On such a stroll- actually, I was in search of a lady bullfighter who lived, I had been told, at a certain address - I discovered a bar-restaurant should not miss. From the street, it is quite unpretentious, just a high wall and a glimpse of garden and a sign, Meson Cuevas del Vino. When you enter, the garden becomes a courtyard, green with vines, pink with oleander.

The Meson was, originally, a warehouse where olives were pressed for their oil and grapes for their juice. Today, the place is a series of interconnecting salons, with whitewashed walls, high ceilings, massive wooden beams and the original pressing equipment. A line of huge terracotta wine casks, autographed by visiting celebrities, leads you from one dining room to another- and hundreds of tables welcome the visitor with bright red and white checkered tablecloths. Here, you can sit and munch the ripe black olives of the region and enjoy the pungent chorizo sausage. If you'd care to taste the local vintage in a unique setting, you descend into the caves beneath, where the same huge casks line cobwebbed walls. These dark caverns have been used for wine storage for centuries; the timeworn stone steps, guttering candles and musty dampness contribute to its mysterious ambience. There's a small admission charge to the caves below, which covers the cost of your glass of rioja. It's money well spent.

Aranjuez (pronounced Aran-hweth) is a few miles away, about twenty minutes by car. You'll drive through harshly beautiful rural country, passing on the way a quaintly named village, Villaconejos (Rabbitville) which is just a few mud-coloured houses, a massive mud-coloured church and local women, in black, sitting in the shade. Soon, on the horizon, you'll see an oasis of green, vivid contrast to the brown and yellow hills you have just passed through. Aranjuez is a Royal summer retreat on the River Tagus. If your day has gone according to plan, you'll
arrive here in time for lunch, which means grilled river trout and hot buttered asparagus, followed by delectable local strawberries, preferably at a riverside restaurant. The strawberries of Aranjuez are famous throughout Spain and they're shipped by the carload to Madrid every day during the season.

The river at Aranjuez: upstream for bathing, downstream for the palace gardens

Before you leave Aranjuez for Toledo, be sure to see the palace and its gardens. Built by Spain's Bourbon kings in the classical style of the early 18th century, it has impressive rooms and salons, a sweeping staircase, Brussels tapestries and a Porcelain Salon that's a fantasy in chinoiserie. The palace is set in a formal garden which adjoins an island garden, the latter somewhat overgrown and gone to seed which seems typical of the country's Royal gardens. But this unkempt quality is charming, in its own way. A small entrance fee is charged for both palace and garden. Allow an hour to see both.

The beautiful Royal palace at Aranjuez

There are two roads from Aranjuez to Toledo - the fast N400 and a narrower, more circuitous route. Better to take the former (it's only 53 kilometres) because you have much to see this afternoon. Toledo is much written about, much visited - and for good reason. You could spend an entire day here, two for that matter. But if your time is limited, it is possible to see the city's most important sights in an afternoon. On my first visit, I did. Be warned, however. If you're driving a rented car, avoid Toledo on a holiday or a Sunday. Parking is impossible.

Toledo: the city on the hill; a view from up top to rooftops and spires

The city's site is incomparable; it rises from a deep gorge, a great golden vision of stone walls, thrusting steeples and terracotta rooftops. The city is old, going back to Roman times. It is a Royal city, much favoured by the Catholic Monarchs. And it is an ecclesiastical city, seat of the Spanish primate. You should see, first, the cathedral, a Spanish Gothic masterpiece, constructed over three hundred years. This treasury of religious art is renowned for its transparente - a hole in the roof which beams light onto the altar and which is decorated with both fresco and sculpture. To see the work of El Greco, the painter who lived and worked here, go beyond the cathedral (the way is well marked) to the Church of Santo Tomé. Here, in its original setting in the south aisle, is the painter's powerful Burial of the Count of Orgaz. A few steps beyond this church is the Casa del Greco, the 16th century Toledo house which is reputed to be the painter's onetime home. Whether it is or isn't, the layout and design of house and courtyard is most interesting. In the museum here, you can see El Greco's portraits of Christ and the Apostles. And close by is the El Transito synagogue, built in the 14th century, which features handsome mudejar decoration on its upper walls.

View to the river from the city; El Greco's masterpiece

In the late afternoon, make your way back towards the Alcazar, which stands on the slope, overlooking the river. This fortress, which harks back to the days of the Cid, dominates the city and has been damaged and restored many times, the last occasion after its siege and shelling during the Spanish Civil War. See it, and the nearby Santa Cruz Museum, if you have time. Originally a hospital, Santa Cruz has a fine facade; among the many fascinating items on display inside is the giant battle pennant of Don Juan of Austria.

As the sun goes down, you'll want to end your day with a leisurely meal - maybe some perfectly roasted suckling pig at one of the city's numerous four star restaurants. Afterwards, you head back to Madrid on the N401 highway. The 71 kilometres pass quickly until, suddenly, out of the darkness, the glow of Madrid rises to greet your return.

Green Galicia

Santiago! This sanctus in stone, surrounded by softly rolling hills, has been a magnet for centuries. Pilgrims wearing the cockleshell emblem of St James (after whom Santiago is named) have been braving these same hills (and the brigands who once roamed them) since medieval times

Santiago cityscape

Quick. What images does Spain evoke for you? Vast ochre plains. Oranges, roses, blood and sand. Flamenco passion. Yes, Spain is all of these. But green and misty? Never.

But Spain is green - a lot of it. The rain in Spain falls mainly up in the Northwest, blown in from the Atlantic and trapped behind the mountains which separate the green from the brown. Here, in Asturias and Galicia, is a pastorale more akin to Wales than Iberia. This is an unexpected region of lush green hills and valleys, richly historic and with independent ways. It is a land of soft speech, soft horizons and a memorable cuisine that owes much to the sea. You can never fully know Spain until you have travelled this way.

Pasture and cemetery, Galicia

My journey to Galicia started, as most Spanish journeys start, in Madrid. My friend at the Spanish Tourist Office mapped out my route in advance, so that I'd be sure to see the best of the north country and he arranged parador accommodations, too. All I had to do was pick up my car at Madrid's Barajas airport and head for the highway, for the drive north.

On your first day, you'll drive north from the city on the N VI, the La Coruna expressway, until you reach a place called Benevente, 260 km away. It's a good road, so if you leave at a reasonable hour, you'll arrive in Benevente in time for lunch (which never starts till 1 pm in Spain). Follow the sign to the local parador for lunch; it's set up on a hill with a view over a river and woods. Much of the countryside around Benevente is flat and grain elevators are much in evidence. Lunch over, you have another 120 km or so, through interesting country (including one spectacular section, close to Benevente, where the terrain is vivid terracotta). You're on the road to Orense now, with your first stopover coming up at Verin. The parador here is close to the little town; you'll see it long before you reach it, for it sits on top of a high hill, almost in the shadow of a restored castle. There's a pool here, surrounded by beautiful gardens, so you can splash about and cool off after your drive and enjoy the panoramic views. At dinner, you can watch the sun set behind a mountain ridge that is, in fact, Portugal.

Before you leave next morning, be sure to spend an hour exploring the old castle of Monterrey, with its square 15c keep, three defensive walls and exquisite 13c church. It played an important role in the Spanish-Portuguese wars, and occupies a commanding position overlooking the plain below. An old caretaker will let you into the church - and if you're in luck, the fig trees will be bearing ripe fruit to take with you when you go.

On this, your second day, you continue your drive west, bypassing Orense and taking the N541 to Pontevedra. You'll cross a mountain pass, so keep your camera handy. With this barrier passed, you have left the more familiar tawny Spain behind you and have entered the green world of Galicia. Pontevedra is an old, slightly down-at-heel port city set at the mouth of a ria, or coastal inlet. Spain's west coast has many such rias, and you'll be visiting one tomorrow. For the moment, look for the parador down by the bridge; it was once a noble mansion and its dining room serves delicious food. Your menu will have all the regional specialties - try caldo gallego, local soup made from salt pork, white beans and turnip greens (which you'll see growing in vegetable gardens all over Galicia). The local mussels and shrimp are worth tasting, too. They come to your table fresh from the ria, just a few minutes away. And, of course, you'll wash all this down with the famed local vino de ribeiro; the red is dry and full-bodied, the white straw-coloured and fruity.

Rias on the Galician coast

In truth, there's not really much to see in Pontevedra, apart from a few churches and the local museum. So, on your third day, head across the bridge and look for the road to El Grove- it's the first on the left at the end of the bridge. This road hugs the ria's shore line and you'll see many typical Galician sights on the way. The surface of the ria, which reminds many of a Norwegian fjord, will be silver, broken here and there by an armada of black pontoons. Under these pontoons, trailing deep into the water and unseen to the visitor's eye, are long ropes, thickly encrusted with mussels. In the little villages you pass, look for stone grain warehouses, called horreos. Some are plain, some ornamented - but all are built the same way, on stone stilts, so they're above ground. And all have slabs set at right angles to the stone supports, to prevent rats from sneaking up to steal the ripening corn.

Horreo and Galician countryside

When you reach El Grove, park by the statue which honours local fishermen and walk the length of the pier. This place is well-known throughout Spain for its harvest of fish and shellfish. The day I was there, I watched, fascinated, as families busied themselves on little fishing smacks moored to the pier. Some were peeling mussels off ropes and sorting them for market, others were off-loading slithering sardines into flat boxes of crushed ice. The local ladies were clopping about in wooden clogs, curiously ridged at sole and heel, the gulls were wheeling and crying overhead, the whole place smelled wonderfully salty and fishy. It was great fun. When you've seen all the sights, drive on around the coast until you reach the main road, the E 50. From the turn-off, Santiago de Compostela is only a few minutes away.

Santiago! This sanctus in stone, surrounded by softly rolling hills, has been a magnet for centuries. Pilgrims wearing the cockleshell emblem of St James (after whom Santiago is named) have been braving these same hills (and the brigands who once roamed them) since medieval times. Kings and princes and paupers have made their way over mist-wreathed roads to get here and stand before the silver casket containing the saint's remains. His bones were discovered in a field here, with a guiding star shining brightly in the sky. Thus, campo de estrellas or field of stars, shortened over the years to Compostela. Santiago de Compostela is a place of pilgrimage, as venerable as Rome or Jerusalem. You'll drive through a maze of streets, guided by signs (look for Hostal de los Reyes Catolicos) until you finally reach the great plaza in front of the cathedral. Here you'll find not only the cathedral but also your hotel, a 5-star wonder because - well, everyone deserves a treat like this at least once!

The cathedral, Santiago de Compostela

The Hostal de los Reyes Catolicos was founded by the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella as a pilgrim inn and hospital. It is vast, with four inner patios, each named after an apostle, and a magnificent carved Plateresque entrance. Restoration of the building by the Spanish government has been impeccably accomplished; the place is the last word in comfort and style and yet it maintains the mood of its historical past. From here you can easily explore Santiago - its narrow streets (which are even more beautiful in the rain), its shadowed stone arcades, its many churches and its towering cathedral. In the latter, be sure to see the Portal de la Gloria, carved in the 12c and a masterpiece of creativity. See, too, the silver casket of St James, placed in a niche under the High Altar. And for a grandstand view, climb the marble steps behind the altar; you can peer over the shoulder of the great carved, gilded head of St James onto the scarlet robes, guttering candles and kneeling congregation below. If you are here in a Festival year, you're in luck - fireworks at night and a cathedral spectacular (see video below). Santiago is a university town, and inclined to be moist So I wasn't at all surprised when my afternoon stroll took me past several Fabricas de Paraguas, or umbrella makers.

Spend your fourth day here, because there's so much to do and see. You can spend the morning of day five here, too, if you like. But in the afternoon, pack your bags and drive the short distance north to La Coruña. There's no parador here in this elegant Galician seaport, but there are many good hotels. I stayed at the Finisterre, which I can recommend. It's reasonable and it offers you a stunning view of the harbour and the city.

A foggy day in La Coruña

La Coruña, or Corunna as it is sometimes called, is Galicia's capital city, with a population of close to 200,000. Its history is closely linked to Spanish sea power; it was from La Coruña that the armada of Philip II set out after his first fleet was destroyed near Cadiz. Built on a rocky inlet, encircling a natural harbour, the city is best known for its sweeping Avenida de la Marina and the tall houses with glazed balconies which line it, overlooking the water. The sight of all this glass turned to flame by the setting sun is unforgettable. In La Coruña, I was reminded of San Francisco, or Sydney. It's a handsome place, architecturally rather un-Spanish. Its most distinctive landmark is a ancient lighthouse, the Hercules Tower. Seventeen hundred years after it was built, it still functions.

On your sixth day, it's time to start thinking about the trip back to Madrid. I suggest you take the N VI back to Benevente, where you stopped for lunch, and stay overnight in the parador. Or stay in Leon, a little further to the north, where you can see the cathedral with its glorious stained-glass windows. The green of Galicia is behind you now; once you've crossed the sierra, the sun starts to bronze the surrounding countryside. On your seventh day, you'll have a relaxed drive back to the capital, stopping in Segovia for lunch and arriving in Madrid in time for dinner.

In the steps of Santa Teresa

Teresa was witty, articulate and always practical, with a great gift for organization. She was indefatigable in following her purpose, personally founding seventeen convents and finding time to write her "celestial doctrine" which is a dazzling triumph of the spirit

Rocky ramparts, stone walls: Avila

As you approach Avila, over an arid and windswept plain, grey granite outcrops thrust up here and there out of the frost-burned earth. This is the high country, where scattered flocks of sheep nibble sweet-scented thyme, where maple clumps shiver in the fresh breeze and where wolves still prowl the outskirts of tiny villages whose houses are fashioned from the stones which lie scattered everywhere. Teresa of Avila often bounced along this countryside's rutted roads in a covered wagon with her nun companions, coming and going in the single-minded pursuit of her reforming passion. She, too, would have seen what you are about to see, as your car approaches Avila. There, around the bend, are the massive stone walls of what is the highest cathedral city in all Europe, walls which look today as they must have looked when they were first built back in the 11th century. The walls dominate the city and the meseta which surrounds it. The most perfectly preserved example of medieval fortifications to be seen anywhere, they bristle with bastions and towers and battlements. The town formed part of a second line of defense (with Salamanca and Segovia) against the Moors to the south and was named after the Knights of Avila who helped recapture Cordoba, Jaen and Seville from their Muslim occupiers.

Here in Avila, the Castilian climate is at its most extreme. Summers are hot, winter six chill months long. It is an austere and a fascinating place, whose people are subdued and somehow secretive, as if those massive walls shut out lightness of heart and laughter. All summer long, its cobbled streets echo with the footsteps of visitors who come from the corners of the earth to pay homage to the woman who made the town famous. In so doing, they get to see a place that is unique in Spain, a place where Catholic piety is petrified within the precincts of its enfolding stone walls.

Santa Teresa de Avila

Avila is an easy 111 km drive from Madrid; you can leave the capital in the morning, have lunch and see the sights of Avila and nearby Alba de Tormes, where St Teresa is buried, and be back in Madrid in time for dinner. The route I prefer is via El Escorial, but for anyone visiting Avila for the first time, the approach to the town is important - so I'd recommend taking the N6 - the La Coruna expressway- from Madrid to the Avila turn-off, about forty minutes down the road. This way, you'll approach Avila from the east; your first view will be of those great walls, a landmark in this "tierra de cantos y santos", this land of stones and saints. Park your car by the wall and make your way though a gateway in the wall and up a narrow street to the cathedral. With its squat belfry, you'll not miss it. It stands atop a rise, dominating the square in front of it and the surrounding town.

The cathedral of Avila is built of the same granite you see in the walls; its eastern side is, in fact, a part of the wall's ramparts. Its exterior is austere, but inside, it's a gothic delight, filled with light, unlike so many dark Spanish cathedrals. The first thing you'll see is a vast, elaborately carved screen, atop which stands a carved Christ, with arms outstretched in benediction. The cathedral's interior walls are faced with unusual stone, piebald patches of red and cream, rather like strawberry-vanilla ice cream. It sounds strange, but the effect is quite beautiful. In dim corners and side chapels, the Knights of Avila lie, white marble effigies in armour, asleep in the stillness. Whenever I am here, I always see, in my mind's eye, the small figure of Teresa, kneeling on the cold stone, surrounded by her Carmelite sisters. This redoubtable lady, whose mystic leanings caused her to tangle with ecclesiastical authorities from time to time, went on to the final triumph of canonization. Today, she is one of the most loved saints of the church.

Inside the cathedral

Teresa was born in Avila in 1515, of a good and prosperous family. At 18, she joined the Carmelite Order and for years lived the relaxed and social life that prevailed in monastic orders at this time in Europe's Catholic history. But at the age of 40, something happened that changed her life, turning it in a different direction. She chanced upon a statue of Christ that someone had inadvertently left in her path and, at this moment, experienced an intense mystical vision which transformed her forever. She reformed the Carmelite Order, successfully reestablishing hitherto lax discipline, gaining converts and travelling from one end of the country to the other to open branch convents for her new Carmelites, who were known as Discalced, or Shoeless, because they wore sandals, instead of shoes. Teresa was witty, articulate and always practical, with a great gift for organization. She was indefatigable in following her purpose, personally founding seventeen convents and finding time to write her "celestial doctrine" which is a dazzling triumph of the spirit.

A cathedral filled with sunlight

A young priest, 27 years her junior, Juan de Yepes y Alvarez, became friend, confessor, confidant and champion of the little nun. He, too, followed her path of mysticism, often visiting her in her cloister where they'd talk - and meditate - the day away. He was to become a major mystical poet; his "Dark Night of the Soul" is an epic cry of despair at human frailty and the need for communion with God. Teresa's letters to this man are famous, as are her other writings and her autobiography. For Teresa of Avila and the poet-priest who was to become St John of the Cross, these meditative dialogues produced a spiritual exultation, an "ecstasy of Divine love". The old town is permeated by the memory of Avila's twin saints and their times.

Juan de la Cruz

From the cathedral, walk through the main square (if you're lucky, it will be market day and you'll pick your way through piles of green vegetables and squawking chickens) to the Convent of St Teresa, built in the 17th century on land Teresa's parents owned. Here, a chapel marks the site of the house where she was born. This self-effacing woman probably wouldn't appreciate the baroque grandeur, the statue of her wearing an ornate golden crown or the sight of her finger, covered with rings, preserved as a relic in the sacristy.

Market day in Avila; a donkey on the city's outskirts

Not far away is the Convent of the Encarnation, the convent Teresa entered as a young woman and where she remained until her vision - and her reforms. For a few pesetas, you can visit this place and see where she lived and worked. The first convent Teresa founded - the Convent of San Jose- is worth a visit, too. There's a small museum here. And if you have time, try to see the monastery of Santo Tomas, beyond the walls. Here lies Prince Juan, the only son of the Catholic Monarchs, who died at 19 and who lies under a handsome carved memorial.

After lunch, you'll want to travel on, in the steps of St Teresa, to the little village of Alba de Tormes. Follow the road past the walls until you reach the signpost which points towards Salamanca. The road to Salamanca takes you through more rocky hills and then down onto sweeping plains. The turn-off to Alba de Tormes is about 80 kms away, the village a short distance further. It's a sleepy little place, hot and dusty in the summer, with a palm-lined plaza where you can sit in the shade and sip something cool. At the bottom of a steep hill, the wide river Tormes flows on to Salamanca and Portugal.

Teresa's last resting place in the convent chapel, Alba de Tormes

In the Carmelite convent here, Teresa's life came to an end. As she was failing, a sister approached her to ask if she'd rather end her days in Avila, the place of her birth. "Have you no place for me here?" she replied, practical and unassuming to the end. And so, in 1582, she died. You can see the cell where the end came, in the convent at Alba de Tormes, and in the convent church, you can look up to the special place above the High Altar where a green marble casket holds her earthly remains. The real tragedy happened later, in 1622, when she was canonized. Her body was exhumed and dismembered to provide relics, buried again, exhumed again, buried again, again exhumed. The funerary stones from successive tombs can be seen here in a chapel of the convent church where she finally found peace.

The Wies-Dachau Experience

As I retraced my steps back to the car, I spotted a plaque set low in the pathway and I crouched to read the inscription. It said, in Hebrew and German, "with thanks for my dear father, Marcel Zuszmann, murdered by the Nazis, 11 June 1913-18 April 1945"

Entrance to Dachau and a gate's cynical message

In March, 1933, with the stroke of a pen, Heinrich Himmler established Germany's first concentration camp in the little town of Dachau, nine miles northwest of Munich. Up until this time, Dachau had a reputation for being a quiet and unassuming little place with vaguely artistic overtones and a history that stretched back a thousand years. But after Himmler's edict, Dachau would never again be remembered for its rustic charm. Today, despite a cheerful sign opposite the main gate inviting the visitor to see the "other", more civilized Dachau, only one image remains. Just hearing the name is enough to bring to mind a grotesque news clip of the 1940s, with its endless line of crushed humanity.

I was travelling in these parts and felt compelled to visit the camp - a combination of respect, remembrance and, I confess, insatiable curiosity. I wanted to see what a concentration camp actually looked like; Dachau, the prototype for all the others, was close by, and I took the time to see it. I'm glad that I did, although the experience was far from pleasant. As it happened, I had that very morning been visiting the famous church at Wies, an hour or so out of Munich to the west. I was thus able to experience, in a single day, the ultimate contrast between the sacred and the profane. That these two places, so close and yet so far apart, could have existed at the same time is, surely, one of the imponderables of our times. If you are in this area, I recommend you consider doing the same thing. The Wies/Dachau experience is both uplifting and profoundly moving; the day will stay with you long after the more oom-pah-pah aspects of your Bavarian trip are forgotten.

The church at Wies, Wieskirche, is justifiably famed and yet many people touring in the south miss it in order to view the better known Oberammergau, or the atmospheric konigschlossen - Royal castles - close by. But to miss Wies church is to miss perfection, a marriage of the purest light and rococo extravagance that, experts say, outshines all others in this part of the world.

A snack en route; "the church in the meadows"

To get to Wies, you leave Munich on the E61 and drive the fifty km to Landsberg. Here, you turn south, following the #17 until you reach the signposted turn-off for Wies, just past the little town of Rottenbuch. It's a very pleasant drive, through rolling pastureland, with a silvery, meandering river to look at en route- and plenty of roadside restaurants to take care of your appetite with hearty Bavarian fare. Allow a couple of hours for a leisurely drive, an hour in Wies to see the church and the surrounding village. The church was commissioned to be a pilgrim church in der wies, in the meadows - which is exactly how it is situated. Built by a craftsman called Dominikus Zimmermann between 1746 and 1754, the exterior is deceptively ordinary as you approach it through fields filled with grazing cows - just a white box in the distance, with a white tower on one side. A crowd will undoubtedly be gathering when you arrive, for people come from all over the country to see this exquisite interpretation of Bavarian rococo.

Rococo dazzles with a golden glow

When you step inside, the interior dazzles with its simplicity and style. Walls that glisten wedding-cake white enfold you and tall, leaded windows illuminate with a soft, clear light. Zimmermann's use of austere white provides the perfect setting for the church's rococo decoration - columns, balustrades, carved wooded statues, gilded stuccos and frescoes gleam like jewels. The place reminded me of a medieval prayer book, whose white parchment pages were adorned with rich, gilded illustration. Over all, Zimmermann has created a serene sense of space; one's eye is drawn upward, after the golden rococo feast below, to a dome as blue as the sky and to frescoes portraying Christ Returned in Glory and the Last Judgment.

The towering, overpowering altar at Wies church

As we stood, in quiet awe, a boy soprano sang, accompanied by a single violin, high above and behind us in the organ gallery. The packed church was hushed as the pure notes of Ave Maria echoed around the nave. Perfection. It's not surprising that Zimmermann became so attached to his masterpiece that he decided to stay on after its completion. He lived in a little house, next to the church, until his death ten years later.

From the church at Wies, I drove back to Munich - and to Dachau. The road to the camp leaves from the northwest section of the city; it's not a main highway, but it's a good road, and well marked. If you'd prefer to go by train, they leave Munich leave regularly. When you get to Dachau station, you must get a Dachau Ost bus. For a small fare, you'll be delivered right to the camp's main gate. The camp is open every day, from 9am to 5pm.

When I reached the town of Dachau, I took a wrong turning or perhaps misinterpreted a sign. In any event, I found myself in a parking lot at Leitenberg, the great, grass-covered hill which rises close to the camp. 7,500 prisoners, from almost every nation in Europe, are buried here. They died just before the liberation.

I walked alone up over the hill. There was a light breeze and the trees overhead whispered as my steps crunched on gravelled pathways. There are no headstones here, no memorial - just a tall, wooden cross and mass graves, fringed with well-groomed shrubbery. It's a quiet, melancholy place. As I retraced my steps back to the car, I spotted a plaque set low by the pathway and I crouched to read the inscription. It said, in Hebrew and German , "With Thanks For My Dear Father, Marcel Zuszmann, Murdered By The Nazis, 11 June 1913-18 April 1945."

A poignant reminder of terrible times

Built on the site of an ammunition factory, Dachau camp is large. Surrounding it is first a high wall, then an inner barbed wire fence, then a deep ditch. Watchtowers survey the scene. As I walked in through the gate, I wished for a grey sky, hovering clouds, mist. This blazing summer day didn't seem quite right, somehow. My first impression, once inside, was of a vast parade ground. When I checked with the camp map, I discovered that this empty space was once covered with prisoners' barracks. An avenue of poplar trees in the centre marks what was the lagerstrasse, the main roadway between the barracks. Each of these thirty barracks was built to accommodate 200 prisoners, but by the end of the war, up to 1,600 of them were jammed into each plain wooden structure. After the war, the barracks were pulled down, but one has since been rebuilt so that today we can see the conditions the prisoners had to endure and the wooden racks which served as beds for people- and lice.

Barbed wire, powerful lights - and the camp crematorium

The camp museum, in a building which originally housed the camp kitchen and laundry, presents very graphically the rise of Hitler Germany, the spread of camps throughout occupied Europe, "the final solution". It is an intensely moving experience to walk through the museum and see the well-documented evidence of Nazi brutality. Haunted faces stare back at you from grainy black-and-white blow-ups; there, inside a glass case, a striped prisoner's uniform, muddy and threadbare and over there, in another glass case, the records of families who have disappeared forever. A theatre shows a film, in several languages. It should be seen, if you have the time. The camp, with its three memorial chapels (the one built by the Roman Catholics a dramatic oval of stone topped by a crown of thorns) is an obviously sincere attempt to present the truth. It is a fitting reminder for future generations of what happened here.

When you leave the camp, you will take with you, as I did, a strange feeling of unreality. Just beyond the main gate is the busy road, a gas station, school children prancing happily, a man selling ice-cream. The sudden change of scene is odd, for you can still see the white-grey ash ground into cracks on the crematorium's concrete floor, the wall pitted by machine gun bullets, the gate with its cynical slogan, Arbeit Macht Frei, work sets you free. Over 200,000 people were registered here at Dachau and the deaths of 32,000 of them are recorded. But many came- and died - unregistered, so the actual death toll will never be known.

You turn from the contemporary scene. There is the hill of Leitenberg, rising from the Dachau plain like a great, green tombstone. The most beautiful memorial of them all.

Tapa-hopping

There were shouts, olés and a ripple of applause. Then another figure emerged from the gloom - Christ, carrying his cross, a superbly carved figure with real shoulder-length hair, borne by eager bearers

An economico in Madrid

Just around the corner from the apartment where I lived in Central Madrid is a bar, one of a dozen in the immediate vicinity - and my favourite stopping-off place for a glass of wine and a nibble. For nibbling is what the Spanish love to do, at just about any hour of the day or night. It's a great Spanish pastime, a culinary tradition and probably the main reason so many Spaniards, lean in their teens and Twenties, get a spare pneumatico round their middles soon thereafter.

The irresistible villain? The tapa. Tapa means "lid" in Spanish and originally it was a piece of bread placed on top of a drink to keep the flies out. Today it's a tidbit, served hot and cold in bars and bistros from the green north to the sunburned south in a bewildering and mouthwatering variety. A visit to Spain is incomplete without some tapa nibbling.

Actually, the tapa scene has changed. What was once handed out free along with your drink - a small sampling of something tasty to sharpen your appetite - has now become a more generous ración, or portion, which you pay for. There are some purists who decry this transition, but others - including many tourists keeping a close watch on their budgets - welcome it. It's quite possible, in fact, to spend a convivial evening in any Spanish town doing nothing but nibbling and skipping the night-time meal altogether.

You can do this in style or in great simplicity. My neighbourhood bar is typical of the majority in Madrid. It's called an economico. Elsewhere, it would be called a working man's cafe. It was usually filled when I passed it in the morning and when I arrived home at night. I would look through its glass windows to neon lights illuminating a smoky haze, see people at the pinball machine, by the jukebox or talking animatedly in groups. I'd elbow my way into the throng, over to where the short order cook stood in his little niche by the window. As the waiter called out tapa orders, the cook worked swiftly, chopping up pulpo (octopus), sepia (cuttlefish) and riñones (kidneys).

Usually, I ordered cuttlefish. The chef would place six ripe black olives before me - something to go on with - and reach for the slick white cuttlefish, chopping it deftly into little pieces and scattering the pieces onto a sizzling black hotplate. He would then reach into a wooden box for salt, which he'd sprinkle onto the cuttlefish, then douse them with a mixture of olive oil, crushed garlic and crushed parsley. They'd sputter and sizzle; the aroma was delectable - I can smell it now.

With a swift, sure movement of the spatula, he'd turn the cuttlefish again and again, forming little patterns on the hotplate. Then, just before serving them up, he'd squirt the cuttlefish with lemon juice. Thus my evening's nibbling began. I'd sip my wine and, using toothpicks provided, pop each browned and succulent morsel into my mouth. One ración cost (then) a little over a dollar. Cuttlefish and kidneys (which are cooked the same way) are still my special favourites at this bar. The octopus is boiled, then chopped up with a special dressing. It's good, too. Check the recipe below:

Tapa-hopping in Spain can yield memorable moments. I remember one Easter evening, a friend and I decided to go to the Plaza Mayor, in Madrid, to watch the procession. We heard trumpets in the distance and then a band tootled its way into the dark square, followed by a torchlit Madonna, held aloft, bedecked with flowers and jewels. There were shouts, olés and a ripple of applause. Then another figure emerged from the gloom - Christ, carrying his cross, a superbly carved figure with real shoulder-length hair, borne by eager bearers. Someone in the crowd sang a saeta, a highly individualistic song of tribute, to more applause. And then, suddenly, the procession and the people were gone. We were almost alone in the plaza, deciding it was time for a snack. On one side of the square, we discovered a cellar bar run by Galicians from the seafood-centred northwest. The raciónes served here were delicious. We chose Panadas de Mariscos - small Galician pies filled with shellfish, something like Cornish pasties. And we washed down our tapas with Vino de Ribero, also from the North, a wine as red and as thick as blood.

By far the tastiest kidneys I have ever nibbled are served in a little bar opposite the cathedral in Seville. Go to where the carriages wait for tourists and you'll find it. You can sit at a sidewalk table and watch the horses clip-clop by.The kidneys they serve, riñones al jerez, are simmered in sherry, and they're incredibly good. Be sure to try them, here or elsewhere. When you get home, try making them yourself. Here's how you do it - the recipe I coaxed from the Seville chef:

Saute sliced lamb or calf kidneys, a chopped onion and a clove of minced garlic together in a cup of olive oil, over a high flame, for about a minute. Add a cup of sherry and simmer, covered, for 3 minutes. Serve at once. Serves 4.

In Chinchon, a small town near Madrid, I have idled away afternoons nibbling huge black olives and sweet, pungent chorizo, a highly seasoned pork sausage, listening to the roar of the bullfight crowd in the distance. The place to look for here is called Meson Cuevas del Vino, a onetime storage facility for wine. Here, in a whitewashed, wood-beamed warehouse, you can eat a full meal or, if you prefer, you can linger in a large bar, strung with chorizo and carpeted with sawdust. Before you leave, see the wine caves below. For a small admission price, you'll receive a glass of the local tinto, a pleasant red, and sip it in dark, cobwebbed caverns filled with huge earthenware casks, straight out of Ali Baba.

Back in Madrid, stroll along the Avenida de Pintar Rosales, a broad and handsome tree-lined street in the expensive side of town, near the university. Along the full length of the avenue, set under the sidewalk chestnuts, you'll find al fresco bars - the perfect place to spend an hour or two on a hot summer day. The nibbling's fun, too!

Ernest Hemingway, when he lived in Madrid, used to frequent the Alemana on the Plaza Santa Ana. It's a very atmospheric bar, a combination of macho and Art Deco - the perfect place, I think, for after-Prado nibbling (the Prado museum is just down the street). I used to come here for sweet, smoked Serrano Ham, and for plump pink shrimps which go so well with a chilled dry sherry or a beer.

There are so many bars, so many different tapas and raciónes to choose from. One bar I recall offered a mind-boggling variety - ham chunks with red peppers, tortilla (potato omelette), kidney in white wine, chicken livers in meat sauce with egg slices, salt cod with a Basque sauce, tuna pies, stewed quail, tripe stew, snails in hot sauce, baby eels, squid in its own ink, pigs feet, clams with parsley, mushrooms with garlic, stewed partridge - the list went on and on, thirty two different snacks altogether. It has probably gone now, but there will be many others to take its place. The simpler cafes, like my little neighbourhood bar, won't have a selection like this; they'll usually offer only about a dozen choices, with daily specials. Look for the tapa menu as you pass by. It will be painted in white on the window or, inside, on a mirror somewhere. And keep a little Spanish dictionary handy to help you decipher what's what. That way, you won't order baby eels when what you really want is an omelette!


VideoJug: How To Make Octopus Spanish Style

Larger-than-life puppets!

There are puppets and there are puppets and then there are the Bunraku puppets you find in Japan - almost life-size, in spectacular costumes and manipulated (by virtually unseen hands) with style and panache. Be sure to see them when you arrive in Japan. You can see them here, too:




For links to information about Japan, go here.

The Gardens of Kyoto

Some of the world's most beautiful gardens await you in Kyoto. Spring, summer, fall, winter- there's always something to touch your heart. But as the old cliche goes, pictures speak louder than words:




For links to information about Japan, go here.

Japan Links

Yokoso! Welcome! to Japan!

VISA REQUIREMENTS
Here are the rules for foreign visitors
http://www.iexplore.com/world_travel/Japan/Visa+and+Health

MONEY
Check here to find out what your money is worth against the Japanese Yen
http://www.xe.com/ucc

CUSTOMS & CULTURE
Here's what you need to know about Japan before you get there
http://www.japaneselifestyle.com.au/culture/culture.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_Japan
http://www.thejapanfaq.com/FAQ-Primer.html
http://www.explorejapan.com


WHERE TO STAY
Your choice- plush city hotels or simple Japanese ryokan
http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e2025.html
http://www.japaneselifestyle.com.au/travel/japan_accommodation.html
http://www.japan-zone.com/new/accommodation.shtml

CUISINE
From simple snacks to sushi to sukiyaki to shabu shabu!
http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e620.html
http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e2035.html
http://www.amphi.com/~psteffen/fmf/food.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_cuisine


LANGUAGE
Learn a few phrases. Listen (in the third website listed) to the sound
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_language
http://www.cnfj.navy.mil/phrases.html
http://japanese.about.com/blpod.htm

SEASONS
What's the best time to visit Japan?
http://friendsandfamily.jetsetjapan.com/travel-tips.html
http://gojapan.about.com/od/japanweatherclimate/Japan_Weather_Climate_in_Japan.htm

WHEN TO GO - FESTIVALS
Time your trip to see something special
http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e2063.html

HEALTH
What if you get sick in Japan?
http://www.iexplore.com/world_travel/Japan/Visa+and+Health

GUIDED TOURS
Make life easy if you don't have much time
http://gojapan.about.com/cs/travelagencies/a/japantours.htm

SHOPPING- BEST BUYS
Japan has a huge selection of things to buy - all beautifully wrapped!
http://gojapan.about.com/cs/tokyoshopping/a/shoppingintokyo.htm

RAIL TRAVEL
Get a Rail Pass. And don't forget to ride the Bullet Train!
http://www.japan-guide.com/e/e2018.html

Sunlit Safari

When I lived in London, I twice went out to East Africa, where my parents were living at the time, to safari from Nairobi through Masai country to Tanzania, passing Mt Meru, Mt Kilimanjaro and Arusha. My destination was Dodoma, in Central Tanzania, and later, Dar es Salaam, on the coast. My two visits have left me with many memories - taking tea with a Kikuyu family in their mud-and-straw hut, its ceiling blackened with soot from the interior fireplace; visiting a leper colony, where women happily pounded corn; discovering an old graveyard where German soldiers sleep (Tanzania was part of German East Africa before World War One and these unfortunates, all young, were swept away by Blackwater Fever); roadside chats with Masai; hyenas wakening me as they rummaged through garbage cans at my parents' house; and, unforgettable, a visit to Lake Manyara National Park, where the lake turned pink with flamingos before my eyes and a sleeping lion yawned at me just metres from the car and then ambled away. East Africa is a special place, and all the time I was there, I had this overwhelming sense of deja vu, a kind of race memory, a feeling that "I have been here before."

East Africa has changed in the intervening years. Economies have crumbled, corruption has taken its toll, AIDS has impacted once healthy communities. And yet, and yet. The country remains as it was, with its great Rift Valley, sunlit plateaux, resourceful vegetation, teeming animal population and infinite sense of space. I loved it. You will, too.

Top: young Masai warrior Below: candelabra tree en route; German graves, Kilimatinde; leper women, Kilimatinde; my lion at Lake Manyara; Mt Meru; Lake Manyara National Park at sunset

The Waterfall in the Mountain

It's a cool, exhilarating, deafening experience; you come away with the roar of the falls ringing in your ears, the smell of water on stone in your nostrils and gleaming beads of mountain water in your hair

My campsite in Grindelwald

Before you see the waterfall, you hear it - a muffled growl, coming from somewhere in the mountain ahead of you. You walk up the pathway, alongside a brook lined with trees, dappled with light and shade. You think to yourself, Hey, here's the water from the waterfall, but where are the falls? That watery growl persists, but as you round the bend, there's nothing to be seen, except a high steel door set into the base of the mountain.

Chalet, midsummer; Jungfrau

Here in Jungfrau Country, in the heart of Switzerland's Bernese Oberland, spectacular scenery awaits you: frosted peaks, alpine meadows, placid lakes and, always, chalets ablaze with scarlet geraniums. The region extends from Interlaken's lakes southwards across lush green valleys and glistening snowfields, with Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau - each over 13,000 ft high - dominating the tranquil scene.

I was here (in summer) back at my favourite alpine town, Grindelwald. This time, I decided to camp, rather than head for one of the delightful and hospitable chalets. Camping is fun - and inexpensive. My campsite cost me just a few Swiss Francs per night. I was therefore able to stay longer and spend more on other things, like the train trip to Jungfraujoch. So I pitched my tent in the shade of a gnarled old apple tree, had a hot shower at the clean facility provided and set out to explore. Situated just outside Grindelwald, the campsite was surrounded by mountains; those closest towered over my tent like green ramparts, while the others, in the distance, glistened white in the afternoon sunshine.When evening fell, the distant Eiger and Jungfrau peaks turned pale pink and then disappeared in the twilight. A stillness descended over the valley, the mountain air sharpened and all around me, lamplit tents glowed orange and amber in the darkness. Camping out in Switzerland is a great way to save money. It's a heart-warming experience everyone should try at least once.

I had come back to Switzerland to visit two places I'd previously missed - Jungfraujoch and Trummelbach Falls, the region's remarkable cascade-in-a-mountain. Trummelbach is just beyond Lauterbrunnen, about 13 miles from Grindelwald on the Interlaken road. En route through this rich pasture country, you'll see, on your right, the famous Staubbach Waterfall. Unlike hidden Trummelbach, Staubbach leaps into the air for all to see, from a terrace 1,000 feet up. This "tail of a pale horse ridden by Death in the Apocalypse" as Lord Byron poetically described it, is a beautiful sight, plunging down the mountainside to disappear in a fine spray before it hits the ground. A short way further on, you'll see the sign welcoming you to Trummelbach Falls. Park your car in the area provided, perhaps enjoy a cup of coffee in the little coffeeshop and then walk up the pathway to the falls.

The entrance to Trummelbach Falls

That high steel door turns out to be an elevator to take you up and into the mountain, so that you can view Trummelbach as it crashes down a steep and twisted fissure in the rock, forcing its way through eroded potholes. A series of fenced galleries, some so dark they have to be lit
by electric light, allow you to view this unique cascade as it gushes its white and frothy way into the great well at the bottom of the falls. At times, you'll be able to look out from the gallery to the sunlit pastures outside. Occasionally, in the darker recesses of the falls, a shaft of sunlight will poke through to illuminate hardy alpine flowers clinging to a rock. The galleries take you around corners and up stairs to different levels. It's a cool, exhilarating, deafening experience; you come away with the roar of the falls ringing in your ears, the smell of water on stone in your nostrils and gleaming beads of mountain water in your hair. Trummelbach Falls can be visited from April 1st to October 31st, from 7 am to 7 pm, for a small admission fee. Allow about an hour to see everything.

Cow relaxes on high meadow; Jungfrau train passes by

Everyone who comes to the majestic Jungfrau region and who has to price of a ticket makes the trip to the top of the mountain. Jungfrau's railway was completed in 1912, an extraordinary engineering feat - and the trip has been much written about, for good reason. From Grindelwald, the ascent, over lush pasture dotted with grazing cows, is enchanting; the valley and town fall swiftly away, becoming, ultimately, just a green handkerchief sprinkled with red confetti, backed by a mauve and grey mountain. The ascent is dramatic and yet, as you head for the sky, you can reach out and almost touch the placid Swiss cows whose bells clonk drolly in the mountain air. Soon, you reach the halfway point, Kleine Scheidegg, 6,762 feet up. This mountain resort, which stands isolated on a ledge above the Grindelwald Valley, is a ski centre, with excellent accommodations. Here, after a brief pause, you change trains for the final ascent up through the Eiger to Jungfraujoch.

Eight hundred fifty feet further up, at Eigergletscher, the train pauses once again so that you can view the sweeping panorama. Now the jaunty little red and yellow rack train moves more slowly, as it enters the 4 mile tunnel cut through the heart of the Eiger. Inside the mountain, two stations have been hewn out of solid rock, one at Eigerwand (9,400 feet) and the other at Eismeer (10,357 feet). Both offer the traveller magnificent vistas, the latter through solid plate glass windows, which look out over the icefields. Finally, the train pulls into Jungfraujoch, at 11,336 feet the highest railway station in Europe.

At this height, the experience and the view is, quite literally, breathtaking. It's like being in a stationary airplane. You're in a mauve, white and silver world, with views, broken by snow-capped peaks, extending hundreds of miles in all directions. A scientific research station as well as a tourist centre, Jungfraujoch offers summer skiing, an ice palace, dog sled rides and (you'll be hungry by now) a pleasant restaurant. The day I was there, the fare, which included Goulash Soup, Bratwurst, Entrecote Steak and Spaghetti, was as international as the customers who ordered their snacks in half a dozen languages. The restaurant is anything but Four Star, but it's fun - and reasonable.

On top of Jungfrau, it's a cold, white, glistening world

The day I visited Jungfraujoch, I even took my little dog with me - paying a child's fare! One of the happy things about Europe is the sight of family pets travelling along with their masters. They are catered to, and accommodated with panache. The sight of pets on mountain trains is not unusual, but as far as I could see, my little chum was the only animal atop Switzerland's premier mountain that day. And no-one gave her a second look.