Europe Travel Stories

Olympia, Greece: Catching the First Games

by Chris Millikan

For twelve wonderful days, the newly inaugurated Carnival Freedom drops us at alluring Mediterranean ports steeped in glorious times past…and docking at Katakolon, Greece is no different.

This sleepy seaside town of 600 residents overlooks the silvery Ionian Sea; her crystal- blue waters sorely tempt us, begging my hubby and I to dilly-dally along white sugar-sand beaches.

Tiny shops brimming with robust red wines, pungent cheeses, gourmet salad spices and golden olive oils lure others…but, the home of the first Olympic games waits, just thirty minutes out of town. Nowadays, travelers like us flock there by the thousands…following in the steps of ancient Greeks who’d journeyed from far and wide every four years.

Setting the scene for our personal pilgrimage, we browse in the Archaeological Museum, a marvelous treasury of archaic sculptures and friezes uncovered at the site, including the renowned barefoot goddess Nike: ‘Winged Victory.’ Although she is without arms or wings, we appreciate her immense grace and inspiration for athletes.

Then, along with fellow Olympic wannabees, we gather around Astra who guides us through the classical site, explaining, “The Alpheus River still runs through Olympia, which lies in this lovely valley in the western Peloponnesus.”

Shaded today by spreading dusty-green olive trees and Judas trees bursting with delicate pink blossoms, this momentous spot is lush and luxuriant, unlike other archeological sites we’ve visited. Though excavated during the mid-19th-century, this beautiful sanctuary has never been ransacked.

She continues, “In antiquity, Olympia wasn’t a town, but a sacred Sanctuary of Zeus…which doubled as the location for early athletic competitions.

As a deified shrine of elaborate temples, priests’ dwellings and public buildings, Olympia enclosed many Greek art treasures: monuments, altars, theaters, statues and offerings of brass and marble…including a row of 12 treasure houses.

And dedicated to the powerful Macedonian dynasty, the magnificent circular Philippeum was begun by Philip II, King of Macedonia but completed by Alexander the Great. The Leonidaion guesthouse provided lavish accommodations for important foreign guests and officials during their visits.”

Olympia spreads along the foot of the Hill of Kronos. Weaving in some mythology, the guide explains how Zeus fought and killed Kronos the God of Time, entombing him in this little hill. “It’s just possible that the games first began with people paying their respects at the tomb of Kronos,” she twinkled. I wonder…

Dedicated to Zeus and open to all male Greeks, the first games were officially held in 776 BC. Women were not allowed to enter this sanctuary either as participants or spectators until much later. Those trying to sneak in were thrown from a nearby rock.

During this five-day contest, enemy city-states were bound by a hallowed truce; peace reigned. Instead of war, athletes battled in sport: wrestling; chariot and horse racing; pentathlon, (wrestling, discus, javelin, long jump and running)…and pancratium, a fierce form of boxing.

At that time, splendid crowns of wild olive branches were enough to immortalize victors, families and cities for decades…unlike today, where winners expect lucrative endorsements…

Throughout the celebrations, writers, poets and historians recited their works to large audiences while leaders resolved differences through discussion…and merchants profited greatly. “Maybe our modern Games are similar after all,” I chuckle…

Although little remains of her magnificent buildings, marble ruins over 2000-years-old still inspire awe.

The massive brick workshop where Athenian sculptor Pheidias built his masterpiece still stands, identified by discovery of tools and terra-cotta molds. His Temple of Zeus had been most celebrated as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: his gargantuan ivory-and-gold statue of Zeus, a scepter in his left hand, winged Nike in his right, sat upon a carved ebony-and-ivory throne atop a pedestal 20 meters high.

Dedicated to Hera, wife of Zeus, the Heraeum was positioned next door. The large, richly ornamented building originally made of wood contained an inner cella that enclosed the huge sculpted figures of Hera and Zeus, the deities.

The sought-after garlands prepared for victors had awaited presentation on a marble table in this temple; a fire burned throughout these celebrations, reminiscent of the fire stolen from the gods by Prometheus.

That iconic flame has been a part of the modern games since 1928. Dressed as priestesses, eleven women in flowing white gowns kindle the Olympic torch here at Hera’s temple, the sun’s rays concentrated by parabolic mirrors.

And since 2004, the sacred lit torch has been relayed throughout the world, burning in the host city until the closing ceremonies officially concludes events…

Parading through the tunnel-like entrance to the Olympic stadium sparked great excitement as we spill eagerly onto the field dating back to the 5th-century BC. Here, the start and finish lines of the original sprint track survive. On the stadium’s southern slope there had been a stone platform for the judges and opposite, an altar to Demeter.

Ragged lines of proper athletic types, as well as groups of puffing others like my hubby, time themselves racing across the 120-meter distance. The rest of us clap and hoot enthusiastically.

Then, this stadium had seated up to 45,000 wildly cheering spectators rooting for god-like participants at the peak of physical prowess, their bodies sleek with oils. Fortunately for us, or maybe unfortunately, nobody this day mimics the nude athleticism of ancient Olympia …

As we leave this revealing archeological site, Astra observes, “Eventually, the Romans moved into Olympia…and in the first century AD Nero, the most infamous Emperor of them all, had a luxurious villa built here…”

Nowadays, expense and controversy seriously obscure the historic spirit of the Olympic games. But after daytripping to where it all began, we see that much existing in modern games is rooted in the days of antiquity, centuries ago at Olympia.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance writer Chris Millikan who lives in North Delta, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C. on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos:
1: In the Spring, pink blossomed Judas trees shade much of ancient Olympia.
2: The Temple of Zeus once housed one the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
3: Olympia’s stadium running track once held 45,000 spectators.

If You Go:
Carnival Cruise Ship Freedom provides both admirable accommodations and comfortable transport to this isolated southern point of the Peloponnesian Peninsula. To review its complete itinerary, contact: www.carnival.com

Christmas in the Arctic

by Kathryn Lemmon

The Yuletide connection lured me to the Arctic Circle in December. In northern Finland, pure white snow is measured not in inches but in feet. It’s a place where reindeer herds thrive and Lapland traditional clothing is vibrantly elfish in color and style.

I found the possibility enticing. Unless you’re a scientist, you can’t get much closer to the North Pole. It wasn’t a tough decision, sign me up!

If you’re looking for an unconventional holiday and once-in-a-lifetime experiences, hop a plane for Helsinki. The Arctic Circle is a convenient one-hour flight north of Helsinki and there’s no need to bring bulky clothing—but more later.

Finland is a small nation of just over 5 million people and about 200,000 reindeer, give or take a Rudolf or two.

You can visit Finland anytime in early December as I did, to experience Yuletide traditions and still be home for the actual holiday. The city of Rovaniemi, Finland, lies at the Arctic Circle. It’s not as far-flung as you might imagine, having the northern-most McDonald’s restaurant in the world.

Prior to my departure I saw a segment on television about Finland. As it turns out, the President is a red-headed woman with a resemblance to TV personality Conan O’Brien. The American talk show host made quite a to-do about the likeness. O’Brien met with her and made all manner of jokes about it on national TV both here and there. Fortunately, the Finns have a sense of humor.

From Helsinki, Finnair will whisk you quickly to Rovaniemi, where the airport runways are lined by stately, snow-heavy pine trees. Stepping off the plane, I got an anticipatory chill, knowing I was so very close to crossing the Arctic Circle.

In Rovaniemi, the arctic is one big playground and snow a source of pleasure. Remote or not, standard tourist hotels and restaurants provide all the amenities we’ve come to expect.

My hotel, the Rantasipi Pohjanhovi, offered free computer access in the lobby. Finland is very progressive when it comes to the computer age. Modern tech made it possible to keep up with events back home.

Still wondering about the proper gear? Lapland Safari’s, a major tour company in Rovaniemi, provides all the warm clothing necessary for an arctic adventure. They realize most travelers either don’t own it or would rather not lug it so far. I was outfitted head to toe, by folks very familiar with combating cold temperatures.

All the gear remains in your hotel room to be used as needed, which is just about anytime you set foot outside the door! I loved my “loaner” wool hat and thick wool socks. The wool hat, when combined with the snowmobile suit hood kept my head toasty warm.

This tour company sits immediately next to the Rantasipi. Most of the activities mentioned here were arranged through Lapland Safari’s.

We visited a reindeer farm and rode like the jolly old man himself on a reindeer sled. Bumpy! As the sled had space for two, I was paired with a young man from Spain. He was enthralled with all the white stuff. Though our communication was limited, there was plenty of laughing and smiling. The sled ride did not involve flying over rooftops, I’m sad to report, we stayed attached to terra firma.

We had several hours set aside for Santa Claus Village, a white wonderland, constructed partially of snow buildings and ice sculptures. Tall ice obelisks glowed blue and green, illuminating the afternoon darkness. I kept noticing a group of youngsters in the 7 to 12 age range, wearing matching outfits.

They dashed around the village, in an organized fashion so I can only assume they were part of the staff, or perhaps staff off-spring. Their duties appeared to include sledding, playing in the snow, laughing and generally creating a festive feeling. It had the desired effect.

Snowmobiling is an important part of any visit to Rovaniemi. The trails are cut through more pristine, snow-covered pine trees. Acre upon acre of perfectly sculpted snow, without any imperfections is a pleasure to behold. The temperatures cause the snow to cling tenaciously to even the tiniest tree branch.

I took a spill off my snowmobile into the snow, head first. Between loud guffaws, I reminded myself I was sitting in a snow bank in the arctic. Talk about an out-of-this-world sensation! While riding, we could see the moon sitting on the horizon to our left and the sun on the horizon to the right.

Every winter local residents build an igloo and other buildings collectively called Snowland. Like kids during the first significant snowfall, the men find the urge to build with snow and ice irresistible.

At Snowland I had a warm and tasty dinner in their igloo with steaming hot mushroom soup and a mild white fish as the main course. But even better than the food was the experience itself and the lifelong memories it gave me.

By April, Snowland melts away, to rise again the next December.

The Arctic Center and regional museum of Lapland, called Arktikum is a five-minute taxi ride from the hotel. How have indigenous people survived in this often harsh environment? What exactly is the line on the globe labeled the Arctic Circle? Arktikum explains it all.

While in Arktikum be sure to check out traditional Lapland clothing. It definitely resembles that of Santa’s elves with bold blues and bright red; even shoes with curled up toes.

Although we weren’t able to see the Northern Lights, due to cloud cover, they can be visible in December.

A journey to the arctic around Christmas time is no secret to travelers. I met people from Spain, Singapore, England and some happy honeymooners from Holland.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Kathryn Lemmon,who lives in Unionville, Indiana. Contact here at her website www.kathrynlemmon.com

Photos by Finnish Tourist Board:
1: Young Lapp boy in traditional costume. Finnish Tourist Board photo.
2: A reindeer munches on lunch. Finnish Tourist Board photo.
3: Inside an igloo in Northern Finland. Finnish Tourist Board.

For more information:
Helsinki: www.gofinland.org.

Enjoying the Heart of Spain – For Free

by Darlene Foster

Imagine waking up each morning to fresh mountain air, dew glistening on terracotta-tiled roofs and the melody of Spanish songbirds.

Imagine wandering well-kept, lush grounds, as picturesque as a pastoral painting, a pond to contemplate by, a welcoming pool, shady trees and sunny meadows.

Spending eight days in this remote and little visited region is where I had the opportunity to experience the real Spain. The best part was that I was able to enjoy these superb four-star accommodations, nestled in the verdant Spanish countryside, for free!

As I threw open the shutters of my own cozy chalet that first morning, I had to pinch myself to make sure I was not dreaming, or perhaps died in my sleep and gratefully woke up in heaven. For heaven on earth this resort, four hours west of Madrid, certainly was.

I had come to this surreal spot as a participant in a program called Pueblo Ingles. All I was required to do to enjoy this marvelous place at no cost, was speak English all day to Spanish speaking professionals who wished to improve their communication English.

That was not difficult for me, as I love to talk. For anyone who is outgoing, enjoys making new friends, learning about another culture and spending time in Spain – Pueblo Ingles is the perfect program.

You are responsible for the cost of your flight to Madrid and your accommodations there. A bus will pick you up in Madrid the following morning and four hours later, you will be at a resort near La Alberca, nestled between the mountains in the province of Salamanca, where you will have the experience of your life.

If you are lucky, you will sit beside a Spanish-speaking participant on the bus and start to learn about the region and sites along the way. I was fortunate to sit beside Bruno, a business consultant, who explained to me as best as he could that the orchards we passed grew a special fruit just for the pigs.

Apparently, by eating this fruit the pigs produce a highly valued ham, renowned in the region. It wasn’t until later I learned that the special fruit are what we call acorns.

After waking up and realizing you were not dreaming, each day began with a fabulous buffet breakfast to please any palate. Chocolate filled croissants piled high, wedges of Spanish Tortillas, exquisite hams and cheeses from the local farmers, fresh fruit, creamy yogurts, fresh baked bread, toasted or not, with the finest olive oil drizzled over or, for the brave, spicy Spanish tomato sauce, and the smoothest coffee I have ever tasted.

The “work” of communicating in English began at the breakfast table where two English and two Spanish participants were seated together. The first breakfast was awkward as the Spanish tried to keep up with the various English accents – Canadian, American, Australian, British and Welsh.

Lunch and dinner comprised of two equally delicious homemade three-course meals, served by a most accommodating staff, complimented with a carafe of local red wine. We shared stories, experiences, idioms and culture with the Spanish-speaking participants as we ate.

In between meals, we conducted one-hour one to one lessons while going for walks, making phone calls, relaxing by the pool, or discussing business practices; all in English of course. The only rule was no speaking Spanish.

By the end of the 8 days, the Spanish were able to follow our conversations quite easily. One gentleman from Pamplona, said he was starting to dream in English.

A short walk from the resort took us to the enchanted medieval village of La Alberca where we were magically transported back to the 15th century.

We followed the narrow cobblestone streets that wound their way past wine cellars, stone watering fountains, huge wooden doors, houses built the year Columbus sailed and shops with the famous expensive hams hanging in the windows.

The cathedral with a stork nest perched on top and a stone pig on the steps was intriguing. When we asked about the meaning of the stone pig, we were told that legend said if a young couple touched the testicles of the pig, they would soon be blessed with a baby. Most of us quickly backed away.

Bright flowers spilled out of windows and balconies. The older folks, dressed in the local costume, nodded solemnly as we passed by. One elderly citizen hung over her flowerpot-strewn balcony and watched us intently as we invaded her village.

I had fun choosing a set of castanets and a package of saffron from a local vender to take home. Our visit included a medieval feast at The Cathedral restaurant and a chance to try drinking wine from a wine skin without spilling it all down our front! The Spanish proved to be much better at it.

Every night at the resort there was entertainment that made us laugh so our sides hurt and dancing until the wee hours for those who were able to keep up with the fun loving Spanish. Thank heaven for the tradition of siesta.

From the moment we arrived at our destination, until the tearful goodbyes eight days later, we shared many interesting stories and conversations.

The warmth, sense of humour and eagerness to improve their English of the Spanish participants, made us feel right at home and taught us so much about life in Spain. Amazing friendships were formed, much laughter shared and wonderful memories created to keep for years to come.

Some people enjoy the experience so much they return repeatedly. I am sure I will be one of them.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Darlene Foster who lives in Delta. A suburb of Vancouver B.C.

For more information:
Pueblo Ingles has two other locations in Spain besides La Alberca. To learn more about this program check the website at www.puebloingles.com/

Photos by Darlene Foster:
1: Overview of the buildings and the meadows beyond.
2: The La Alberco town square.
3: A view of some of the houses built in 1492.

Petrified Pompeii – A City Frozen in Time

by Caroline M. Jackson

“Mt. Vesuvius is not dead. It is a scaring presence…. like a bomb!” whispered Marco, our Italian tour guide, as our bus climbed up the narrow highway overlooking the Bay of Naples.

En route to the well-preserved ruins of Pompeii, I puzzled over the fact that the Pompeians, unlike Marco, had not considered the volcano to be a threat.

In 20 AD, the city dwellers had been assured by a renowned geographer that Vesuvius was extinct. Later, in 62 AD a powerful earthquake hit the area, but everyone still remained unconcerned. Then, in 79 AD, the volcano exploded sending ash and burning cinders twelve miles into the sky.

Over the next three days Pompeii was covered by a layer of hot mud, dust and rocks up to a depth of six metres. Life came to a dramatic halt and approximately three thousand citizens out of a population of twenty thousand died. Because of its street grid system, fortunately, many people were quickly able to evacuate the city.

At first, just like a bad dream, everyone wanted to forget Pompeii. Eventually, however, with the passing of centuries, excavations began in 1748. Today, eighty-two percent of this petrified city is accessible to visitors who, like myself, are thrilled to tour these ancient ruins.

As my husband and I disembarked from our coach, we huddled around Marco awaiting instructions for our three-hour walk around the historic site.

Having heard about people suffering from sun exposure due to lack of shade, I was relieved that it was drizzling. Also, the rain made it easy for me to identify my group by their colourful umbrellas whenever I lagged behind the flock.

With three million people visiting this 164-acre site every year, and professional guides trying not to overlap groups, it would be very easy to become a lost sheep.

On occasion I would be bending one ear towards Marco while my other ear would be listening to a description of the same site in German, Italian or Spanish. Whenever this happened, Marco would expertly herd us along to another location.

Walking along rain-slicked stones was a challenge in itself and I was amazed to watch some visitors in flip-flops, while others teetered along in spiky sandals.

The planners of Pompeii were much more sensible when it came to pedestrians. Giant stepping stones enabled residents to cross the street without getting their feet wet or soiled, open flushing being the order of the day, since sewer systems were either uncommon or non-existent.

Marco also pointed out small white pieces of marble that lined the main road. These acted as cats’ eyes reflecting moonlight or lamplight when darkness fell.

Over the next couple of hours we visited the highlights of this once prosperous port city with its impressive forum, theatres, temples, sports facilities and public baths.

One sumptuous mansion of twenty-seven hundred square feet, complete with atrium and pond, accommodated an extended family.

Because Romans had a fear of blank spaces, every inch of the walls had been plastered and painted over with bright, vivid colours. Looking at one of the frescoed dining rooms, it was hard to believe we were viewing a work of art painted more than two thousand years ago.

One of the most gruesome, yet fascinating, sights is a collection of plaster casts of people who died during the eruption. Corpses buried under compressed, hardened layers of ash resulted in a hollow space around the skeleton where the flesh had decomposed and melted away. Archaeologists had the brilliant idea of pouring liquid plaster into each of these cavities, thus obtaining realistic casts of Pompeians as they tried to flee from the fiery holocaust.

Our tour ended all too soon, and I realized I would have to return another time to see the artifacts from Pompeii at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples.

As we drove down to Naples, or Neapolis as Marco called it, I glanced back at the most active volcano on the European continent. Since its last eruptions in 1906 and 1944, it has now been classified as “dormant”.

I prayed that it would continue to sleep at least until our Celebrity cruise ship pulled out from its berth in Naples.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes the travel writer and photographer team of Caroline and Hamish Jackson, who live in North Vancouver B.C. View their website at www.crestlynn.com.

Photos by Hamish Jackson:
1: Stepping stones across Via Dell’Abbondanza in Pompeii.
2: Visitors examine plaster cast of a victim in Pompeii.
3: Tourist throngs at the Basilica in Pompeii

Les Gorges du Verdon: Not Your Tame Provence

Story and photos by Antonia Malchik

I had imagined Provence as beautiful, gently refined, and hypnotic. I planned on spending four days there stupefied with food and wine, rolling through the purple visage of lavender fields. Instead, I found a harsh, vertically-defined landscape.

This was not the France of gentle postcards and feast-filled guidebooks. This was Haute Provence, the 1900-square-kilometer Geological Preserve where gorges sliced through crazed mountains and made driving a roller coaster adventure.

We’d driven up 200 kilometers from Nice. Ian, my husband, had little experience driving a manual car, so the tiny-engined Opal Corsica was in my terrified hands. A narrow highway cutting through dark mountain passes, the road constricted even more to sidle through long tunnels. I couldn’t get used to the French idea of treating the highway as a single lane, moving to one side only when a car came the other direction.

When we finally arrived in Castellane, I pulled the handbrake with a weak, shaky jerk. As I recovered enough to look around, white-knuckled fear left and simple admiration remained. The tiny town guarded the entrance to the Gorges du Verdon, (also known as ‘Grand Canyon du Verdon’) a gorge 21 kilometers long, the Verdon River racing along the bottom.

An ancient church brooded high on a cliff top overlooking Castellane’s center, a place of colorful shuttered buildings that I never would have heard of if it hadn’t contained the only available hotel rooms in July. And we were lucky to get those.

“This place is packed,” grumbled Ian the next morning. I’d dragged him out without enough coffee, insisting that fresh air would wake him up. Dutch, German, and French tourists on elongated summer holidays strolled and raced (depending on age) to the cliffhanging, fenced-in scenic overlook.

The view tumbled 700 meters to a glacier-blue river that wound through the gorge, on its way from one dam-made lake to another, both out of sight. While kids squeezed through the fence to hang out over the shrubby cliff, I stood well back, safely against a boulder. I could deal with heights; it was just my knees that dissolved.

The magnificent view wasn’t what we’d come to see. A steep trail ran from the parking lot where we left the car, down to the river, along its bottom, and back up again at the other end. We backtracked to the trailhead, hidden among trees and shrubs that blocked any view, but the other tourists also disappeared.

Halfway down, Ian and I tucked ourselves under a rock overhang and ate the Brie, baguette, and mandarins I’d bought that morning. A pair of slim, muscular men powered up to us from below. They’d hiked into the gorge from the opposite end.

“Very nice,” said the younger one in German-accented English, running his hand through stubby brown hair. “Nice spot. You go all the way?”

“No,” I said. “We started too late.” In the cool, clear morning, it had been tempting, as always, to swing sleepily by the scenic overlooks and drive on to a soporific lunch, but Verdon had views that could only be seen on foot.

“Plenty of time,” they said when we asked if we had time to walk along the river bottom. “It’s not so late.” The two men hefted their packs and powered back uphill. We, lazy and office-worker soft, lumbered downhill more slowly.

When we arrived at the river some time later, tourists popped up again, younger and fitter than those at the top of the gorge. Teams of active twenty- and thirty-somethings huddled around a lumpy, boulder-filled area that served as a beach and picnic spot. They cheered as the rest of their companions body-surfed down the rapids.

The Verdon River, which was dammed, could rise several feet within seconds, guidebooks warned; these adventurers could only traverse it in guided groups. The water cooled my feet before we entered the tunnels and quiet trails that snaked alongside the river.

Between hiking and sleeping, Castellane’s minor distractions were sufficient, although it had limited attractions for the culture-seeker. Its little restaurants were few but excellent, a cliché of French cuisine. “Twelve manner snails burgundy” and “Cobblestone of Sandre to the white butter” turned out to be exquisite, melting morsels, easily translatable to the palate if not into English.

The day before we left, we hiked up to the lady of Castellane, the eighth-century church on the cliff, Notre Dame du Roc. Its ancient path wandered up the backside of a mountain through the ruins of a monastery.

“Imagine,” I puffed, as I scrambled on the steep slope, “having to trek up here every day, carrying supplies and trying to push a donkey along.” We reached the top with our hearts pounding.

We looked out over the cliff’s view, a vista I could appreciate a good distance from the edge. Castellane, shuttered by mountains, its only outlet along the narrow road or the escape of the river, looked even smaller from above.

No, it wasn’t what I had imagined I would find in Provence. Its rugged beauty was more rewarding by far.

The only disappointment was the lack of lavender fields. Little shops and roadside kiosks sold the requisite lavender seeds, lavender honey, lavender pillows, and pictures of the purple fields, but we had to drive a long way through the Geological Preserve to find just one small, entrancing lavender field bordering a stone house.

“We should grow lavender like this,” said Ian. “Hundreds of them.” I looked at him. We lived in wetlands. Only water grasses grew easily by our house. Lavender, like all Mediterranean herbs, needed lots of sun and well-drained soil. This sunny purple field, preserved in a photo, would have to do. But its importance as a symbol of Provence had dwindled for me, buried under the extreme mountains and gorge-defined roads.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Antonia Malchik, a freelance travel writer living in upstate New York.

Photos by Antonia Malchik:
1: Overview of the town of Castellane.
2: The Lady of Castellane, an eighth century church atop Notre Dame du Roc.
3: Our camera records a memory of Lavender fields.

More Information

How to Get There: In Canada, flights to Paris are routed through Montreal or Toronto; it’s then a short hop to Nice, which is the closest major airport to Les Gorges du Verdon. From the US, the cheapest flights to Paris are from the East Coast. To include the Geological Preserve in a tour of Provence, you can also fly into Marseille. Provence is best visited in a car. There is little or no public transport. Castellane is about 200 km from Nice, through Cannes.

Where to Stay and Eat: The Hotel du Commerce in the main square is the most up-market hotel. We stayed at the Grand Hotel du Lamont, basic but cheap at about USD40 a night.

Europeans often stay in campgrounds just outside of town. However, speaking to a few of them, I found that our hotel was slightly cheaper, and they complained of poor-quality fast food at the campsites. Altogether, it’s nicer to stay in town and walk to dinner.

Hotel du Commerce has the best restaurant in town (without Cobblestones of Sandre), worth a celebratory night out. La Main a la Pate on the main square serves three excellent, cheap meals a day. Since the town is small, it’s easy to walk to the bakery, the small supermarket, and the several restaurants for your noshing needs.

What to Do: The tourist information office just off the main square has ample hiking maps and information about reaching trail heads by a local hiking bus. To cool off, the dam-made Lac de Castillon is just over the valley from Castellane, and has designated beaches.

Parts of the Verdon River are accessible to canoeing and rafting groups, subject to the dam’s activity at the time. You can also go rock-climbing and horseback riding. All information is at the tourist information office.

Reims, France: A Champagne High

by Justin Jangraw

A bubbly liquid runs through the veins of the French in the Champagne-Ardennes province and the heart pumping it is Reims. Reims is the epicenter of Champagne production for the world. In fact, Champagne worldwide is only created in this small French province. Anything else is sparkling wine.

The province of only 1.3 million people produces over 45 million bottles of Champagne most years. Two thirds of these are exported across the globe, the remaining stay in France. Of those bottles that stay in France, a third of them never leave the Champagne-Ardennes province. That’s a large alcohol content for a little over one million happy men, women, and children.

My wife, her parents, and I joined in the constant Champagne fueled celebration over a long weekend stay in Reims. Even Sunday nights along the pedestrian zone ring with sounds of toasting glasses and French conversation.

In early October over 40,000 locals vacate their regular jobs in the cities and move into the vineyards. They work alongside thousands of travelers and migrant workers to pick the grapes for the year’s harvest.

Tradition and local law enforce that Champagne grapes are picked by hand to avoid breaking the skin on Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier (dark) grapes. This ensures that all Champagne will maintain its clear color when bottled.

For centuries, the harvest has been a time of celebration in the Champagne-Ardennes region. Villagers gather in the vineyards to pick grapes while refreshing themselves with bottles of prior years’ harvests. Every night is a celebration worthy of a bottle of Champagne.

Luckily, the locals welcome out-of-towners to help with the picking. Travelers can work in the vineyards for a modest wage and full accommodation during the season. The work is extremely hard labor and often for long hours. However, with one or two liters of wine to maintain the mood you will finish with a few good stories, better French, and a few Euros in your pocket.

Before electricity and climate controlled rooms, storing wines for long periods of time was a bit more difficult. In fact, you had to dig a cave; a huge one, under your property. In and around the Champagne-Ardennes there are over 250 kilometers of these tunnels and man-made caves.

Our favorite is Champagne Martel G.H. & Cie which operates a small set of caves. This Champagne House is few blocks away from the tour bus circuit and boasts a more intimate experience.

The tour through the caves was informative and also interesting – an odd mix. The House treated the three of us to a private tour. The walk and three sample glasses of Champagne cost less than a beer at the local pub. Each of us walked away with a general understanding behind the bottling and history of Champagne. Further, it’s a cheap way to taste a few moderately expensive glasses of Champagne.

Renting a bike is an excellent way to see the real Champagne region. More rugged travelers often follow the “Route Touristique du Champagne” through every village between Reims and Epernay.

It is about 35 hilly miles to Epernay while coasting and cursing through the beautiful vineyards along the Montagne de Reims. From Epernay the route continues along the Marne River all the way back to Paris by way of three more 35 mile legs which weave through Chateau-Therry and Meaux.

Each small town offers its own special attractions and many places to rest for the night. Maps and other information on the “Route Touristique du Champagne” are available from most Tourist Information centers in the area. The information desk outside of the Notre-Dame Cathedral in Reims can supply you with a map.

The Drouet d’Erlon Square in the center of Reims is the heart of the city. Notre-Dame is only a short ten minute walk away and the large pedestrian zone square is full of outdoor cafes and small hotels.

After a day of wine tasting, relaxing in an outdoor café along the Drouet d’Erlon Square is a perfect conclusion. Compared to most European cities, hotels along the square are relatively cheap.

We stayed at the Hotel Continental located directly on the square within thirty seconds of ten different cafés and across the street from a public parking garage. The hotel has three stars but the comfort is first class and the location is splendid.

For dinner, we always stayed close to the hotel. Any of the numerous cafés along the street offer fine menus and great people-watching. Remember, the French eat dinner late, so if you are looking for a meal at five or six all of the tables may be empty; but they should still serve.

On a Sunday night, the tables began filling up around 8 or 9. After a full course meal and three bottles of wine, we discovered it was past midnight, on a Sunday, and the Square was still packed with locals and a few tourists.

The Champagne-Ardennes region of France offers many attractions not seen by your average traveler. If you are a tired tourist in Paris looking for a few days break, a roughneck adventurer looking for a nice bike trip, or a wine connoisseur looking to experience Champagne at its home; Reims is a pivotal stop on any French journey.

About the author:

Justin Jangraw a freelance travel writer/photographer who currently lives in Germany..

The photos by Justin Jangraw:
1: Inside one of the tradional caves used for champagne storage
2: Champagne bottles stored top down.
3: A corner of the building showing the Martel sign.

Pharaohs in the Piazzas: Uncovering Egypt in Rome

by Rick Millikan

While rolling our baggage from nearby Termini Train Station, my wife Chris and I contemplate a dream come true: visiting Rome’s regal ruins and gorgeous gurgling fountains. And then…we stumble onto Egypt.

Passing an obelisk in the Piazza della Repubblica befuddles us; to our surprise, it once embellished Rome’s Temple of Isis, an Egyptian goddess of fertility and motherhood.

Checking into Hotel Zara, I’m now surmising our hotel was named after the biblical Pharaoh Zara. Accommodated so auspiciously in the historic heart of Rome, we get ready to stroll into intimate discoveries planning to return by bus wearier but wiser to the “Luxor-ious Zara.”

Seeing us swoop downstairs, the desk clerk chirps, “Buon Giorno!” and with a flourish presents a city map, circling popular sites in black.

Proceeding down busy Via de Quattro Fontane, we encounter its four namesake fountains. Here toga-clad Romans frozen in marble adorn each intersection corner.

This elevated crossroads offers a unique panorama. Looking southeast, we spot Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, to the southwest Quirinal Palace, residence of Italy’s president and to the northwest, Basilica Trinita del Monti, our first destination.

Down a blackened brick sidewalk, we arrive astonished as another obelisk rises beside Basilica Trinita del Monti. A first century emperor commissioned this obelisk’s creation and had it grace Sallustian Gardens near the Temple of Diocletian. Over a millennium later Pope Pius VI placed it here.

Buying raspberry and chocolate gelatos at a piazza refreshment van, we savor our dribbling treats descending the famed Spanish Steps.

Pausing upon its wide deck, we admire pink, purple and white-blossomed bougainvilleas framing this grandiose stairway that flows downward between mustard-colored and orange-hued blocks of four-storied buildings. Art students sit sketching its majestic symmetry.

Minutes later we’re in sprawling Piazza del Popolo, where the centerpiece is still another towering obelisk.

Pope Sextus had topped this one with a cross and installed it here. Emperor Augustus had first appreciated these hieroglyphic clad monuments, shipping two red granite obelisks from Heliopolis to imperial Rome. Originally he had this Ramses II obelisk erected at the Circus Maximus, with seating for 150000 spectators.

Our walk continues toward the great Tomb of Emperor Augustus, a massive round brick structure. We note two obelisks were uncovered at its entrance and now stand in front of Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore and Quirinal Palace.

Proceeding under shady sycamores along the Arno River, we contemplate its many eras of commerce.

On the opposite shore rises Rome’s ornate Justice Building, sporting bronze and marble statuary, mighty Castel San Angelo and the shimmering green copper domes of St. Peter’s Basilica. In the distance, rusty-hued ruins sprawl across Palantine Hill. Augustus had built his magnificent palace there high above the Roman forum and Circus Maximus.

A darkened archway leads us through antiquated buildings into the sunny Piazza Navona.

Long a bustling marketplace, its extensive size and oval shape suggests its historic origin, a Roman circus. Al fresco restaurants now fill the air with spicy aromas; skillful artists and artful boosters sell their wares around three ornate fountains. Attracted here to admire Bernini’s Baroque masterpiece, we discover his beautiful Fountain of the Four Rivers surrounds the pedestal of yet another obelisk.

Emperor Domitianus had ordered this obelisk created at Aswan with hieroglyphs depicting a goddess presenting him a Double Crown.

Shipped to Rome, the obelisk once stood before temples, the grand chariot race stadium and ultimately the Apian Way. Found broken over a thousand years later, Pope Innocentius X restored and re-erected it in his Piazza Navona neighborhood commemorating his election. Bernini fashioned a bronze papal dove for its apex.

Winding through narrow unmarked streets, we hope to arrive at the Pantheon. But we’re soon lost…and hungry. Luckily, a budget sidewalk café appears.

Pointing to illustrations on the menu, a raven-haired Cleopatra soon delivers cold beers and crusty Marghareta pizzas. We toast that Naples pizza maker who honored Queen Marghareta with his savory creation. His delicious pizza proclaims the colors of the Italian flag: saucy tomato red, leafy basil green and mozzarella white. “Viva Italia!”

Replenished and reoriented, we find the Pantheon nearby. Converting this ancient pagan temple into a basilica, Christians have long marveled at its immense dome.

And yes! Just outside, Pope Clemens XI had installed an obelisk…this time crowned with a star and Christian Cross…soaring atop a dolphin fountain. Credited to Ramses II, this red granite obelisk was one of two once flanking the ancient Roman Temple of Isis.

Next morning, a bus carries us to the Vatican.

Like most visitors, we’re there to experience its sensational Museums displaying a huge treasury of artwork, including Michaelangelo’s extraordinary ceiling fresco in the Sistine Chapel.

Entering between two immense colonnades topped with rows of marble saints, we walk toward the huge statues of St. Peter and St. Paul. Above us towers St. Peter’s Basilica, its own roof lined with white stony apostles.

We’re on holy ground… feeling wholly comfortable with the monumental pillar amid St. Peter’s Square. Uncovered nearby at ancient Caligula’s Circus, Pope Sextus had resurrected Rome’s second largest obelisk here, like all the others, pointing straight to heaven.

Of thirty obelisks worldwide, only seven remain in Egypt while thirteen still adorn Rome.

Shuttling homeward, we chat about a return to see the seven obelisks we missed, including the world’s largest from Karnak Temple now standing in front of Palazzo Laterno in Piazza di San Giovani.

We’ll also visit Rome’s marble-faced 30-meter high pyramid built in 12 B.C. to entomb Caius Cestius.

In our few days here, we learn the grandeur that was Rome…was often Egyptian. And there’s nothing like a Roman holiday that includes a bit of Egypt!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Rick Millikan who lives in North Delta, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos:
1: This obelisk was once located at Diocletian’s Temple. Now rises above the
Spanish Steps. Chris Millikan photo.
2: Rome’s first shipped obelisk graces the Piazza Populi. Rick Millikan photo.
3: Rome’s second tallest obelisk stands majegstcally in St. Peter’s Square. Rick Millikan photo.

Beyond the Glitz of St. Moritz

by Caroline M. Jackson

Glitzy St. Moritz is renown as one of the world’s top ski destinations but when its snowy mantle has melted, summer visitors can also enjoy the ambience of this mountain resort. Located in the southeastern canton of Graubunden, a snowball throw from the Italian border, our scenic train journey from Zurich airport took less than four hours. On arriving at the train station we discovered St. Moritz is really a twin resort: St. Moritz- Bad (Spa) by the lake and St. Moritz-Dorf (Village) where the Jet Set sleep and party after schussing down the ski slopes.

To our chagrin, we found our hotel was in the Dorf, a fair hike up from the lake. With a cocktail of jet lag, suitcases and the thin mountain air, my Scottish husband was easily persuaded to spring for a taxi.

Ensconced in Hotel Hauser, we sat by the window and drank in the majesty of the mountain panorama set before us. In the plaza below, we watched Japanese visitors disgorging from luxury coaches and quickly donning their warm ski jackets. Even though the area averages 322 days of sunshine each year, an altitude of 6,000 feet means the air can remain quite cool even in June.

Refreshed, it was now time for an evening stroll. Our footsteps took us past a chic coffee house with chairs covered in sheepskin rugs. A nearby confiserie with the most exquisite pastries and chocolates prompted us to find a light meal.

With my trusty guidebook in hand, we walked half way down from the Dorf to the Bad and enjoyed an inexpensive meal in the Co-op Supermarket restaurant. From here, we enjoyed a lovely evening stroll around St. Moritz See. On the return journey, I lost my husband to the imposing Waldhaus am See hotel which claims to have the world’s largest whisky bar.

The next morning it was time to leave town and by chance we stumbled upon the St. Moritz Design Gallery, an elegant pedestrian passageway with a very long escalator connecting us down to the train station. After purchasing a baguette, local cheese and a delectable Swiss pastry at the station delicatessen, we set off to explore the countryside.

A local bus took us alongside a necklace of alpine lakes to the town of Maloja which stands sentry to the mountain pass leading into Italy. From here we enjoyed an idyllic hike through the valley and up to a fortress, a perfect location for a picnic.

In the afternoon we took the advice of the tourism office and caught a funicular up to the Muottas Muragl viewpoint. From a height of 2500m we saw St. Moritz and the chain of lakes stretching along the Engadin Valley floor.

A highlight for me was a solitary walk along the mountain paths which zigzagged down to the River Inn. I thought I was all alone until suddenly I came face to face with a farmer who was leading her cows to summer alpine pastures. I couldn’t believe she had walked up such a steep slope but after a lot of sign language and a little German, she explained she had taken a few days to make the journey.

Her physique reminded me of the paintings I had seen earlier in the local Giovanni Segantini Museum. This local artist brilliantly portrays mountain life as it was in the 19th-century. On looking at the countenance of this fresh-faced cow herder, I pondered on the fact that so little had changed.

Next on our itinerary was an exciting daytrip aboard the red Bernina Express bound for Tirano in Italy. The route wends its way through corkscrew tunnels and tracks around an amazing circular viaduct.

As the train hauled itself up to the top of the Bernina Pass we passed Lago Bianco, a milky-green colored lake created by glacial melt water. Surrounded by an other-worldly landscape, I watched a group of hikers disembark at the highest point, then completely vanish into an enveloping mist.

After passing the Palu Glacier, a stunning tablecloth of shimmering ice suspended between two mountains, the whining brakes alerted us to the fact we were now on a downhill journey into Italy.

The majestic glacial landscape was now replaced by hillsides draped in terraced vineyards and valleys lined with palm trees. The sing-song names of towns spoke for themselves – Poschiavo, Campocologno and our final destination, Tirano.

This lively town is situated in a spectacular river valley. The piazzas were awash with holidaymakers and locals enjoying pasta and exotic dishes of gelato under colorful umbrellas.

Trying to avoid the crowds, we walked in the opposite direction along a cool avenue lined with Lombardy poplars.

Soon we reached the famous Renaissance-style church of Madonna di Tirano in the Piazza Basilica. Built in 1515, its cool, dark interior was a welcome contrast to the heat of the noonday sun.

Being the sole visitors, a friendly volunteer gave us a personal tour of the church’s elaborate interior of frescoes and ornate statuary. Before returning to the station we spent a leisurely hour walking through the old part of town with its narrow streets, cobbled courtyards and frescoed buildings.

All too soon the red Bernina Express hove into view and we would once again zigzag through the Alps on our homeward journey to St. Moritz.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Canadian freelance travel editor Caroline Jackson, who lives in North Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Hamish Jackson
1: Hikers enjoy spectacular views while hiking in the Muottas Muragl.
2: The Waldhaus am see, St. Moritz. .
3: The Madonna di Tirano church, in Tirano Italy.

For more information: http://www.myswitzerland.com

Ceský Krumlov: The Bohemian Jewel in Europe’s Glittering Crown

by Tom Douglas

The child in all of us yearns for a magical land where we can hide away from all our cares – places like Camelot, or Brigadoon, or Shangri-La., or Ceský Krumlov.

Ceský Krumlov? Graced with a name that to the North American ear sounds like a suppressed sneeze, this medieval town in the South Bohemian area of the Czech Republic often catches the first-time visitor by surprise, arousing a feeling of wondrous awe.

Our tour bus had arrived from Prague long after dark and, filled to the gunwales with rich Czech food that consisted mainly of dumplings, dumplings and more dumplings, I somnabulated through the hotel check-in, handing over my passport and signing the registration card by rote.

Thirty seconds after the inevitable tussle with the plastic passkey to my room, I was sound asleep, a trail of travel-weary clothing leading from the doorway to the duvet-covered bed.

Next morning, I stepped out into the large square in front of my hotel – and almost hyperventilated from an intake of breath that started at my toes.

I was standing in one of the most beautiful spots I have ever encountered. Ceský (pronounced Chess-Key) Krumlov was everything the guidebook had promised, and then some.

For starters, the skyline is dominated by a fairytale castle right out of Walt Disney’s boyhood dreams. And the town itself is situated inside the horseshoe shape of a double bend in the meandering Vltava River.

No matter which way you turn, you’re not much more than a stone’s throw away from the lulling sounds of slow-moving water. No wonder I’d slept so well the night before.

The bend of the river is partly responsible for the town’s name. Krumlov stems from the German phrase “Krumme Aue”, which translates as “crooked meadow”.

Ceský (meaning Bohemian) was tacked onto the name to differentiate the town from its counterpart, Moravský (Moravian) Krumlov, located in the southeastern part of the country.

As I started strolling along winding, narrow cobblestone streets that have swallowed up townsfolk and visitors alike for more than 800 years, I continued to marvel at the picturesque sights that greeted me around every corner.

Spared the devastation of the myriad wars that have flared up every few decades in this neck of the woods just north of the German-Austrian border, Ceský Krumlov seems suspended in time.

More than 300 buildings date as far back as the 14th century – their era identified by their Gothic (pre-AD 1400), Renaissance (1400 to 1600), and Baroque (1600 to 1750) facades.

The town in fact has such historical significance that UNESCO declared it a World Heritage Site in 1992, ensuring that no rapacious development will turn it into a condo and casino wasteland nicknamed “Vegas on the Vltava.”

Happily, however, the good burghers of Ceský Krumlov recognized the importance of orchestrated tourism as the old ways died off.

They allowed the innards of many of these heritage buildings to be renovated into hotels with modern-day facilities, charming cafés and pubs, elegant restaurants and quaint little shops that sell everything from suits of armour to wooden toys to profuse offerings of garnet and amber jewellery.

There are so many fascinating buildings in the Inner Town that it would take several days to take them all in. High on my list, not surprisingly, is the 400-year-old Eggenberg Brewery.

This complex of huge red brick and plaster buildings features an enormous beer hall where typical Czech cuisine (did I hear someone say dumplings?) can be washed down with one or more of the five types of beer produced on the premises.

In fact you’ll need a bracing flagon or two of Eggenberg Pilsener to numb your delicate senses as your next stop takes in the massive St.Vitus Cathedral.

During a guided tour you’ll hear how this patron saint of Bohemia was boiled in oil by some rather nasty folks and how his writhing in agony later became the secular name for chorea, a disease of the nervous system – aka St. Vitus’ Dance.

On visiting a refurbished warehouse, admirers of Vincent Van Gogh will discern similarities between the tortured Dutch artist and Egon Schiele whose talents attracted the attention and patronage of Gustav Klimt, a prominent member of Vienna’s Art Nouveau movement.

Schiele, born in Tulln, Austria in 1890, spent much of his time painting – and raising the ire of the local citizens – in Ceský Krumlov, his mother’s birthplace.

Schiele was finally run out of town after the locals got fed up with his penchant for living with a mistress and enticing innocent young girls to pose as his nude models. Like Van Gogh, Schiele died at a relatively young age – although not of a self-inflicted gunshot wound but in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918.

And, like Van Gogh, Schiele’s talents were little appreciated until after his death. Today, the Egon Schiele Art Centrum features a permanent exhibition of his work as well as short-term showings of other 20th century artists.

Saving the best for last, I made the climb up to the Ceský Krumlov Chateau, said to be the largest castle in the country outside of Prague.

This huge complex features a magnificent ballroom haunted by the ghosts of formally attired revellers of centuries past as well as a baroque theatre with a revolving auditorium where international music festivals are held annually.

As happens with many of the really impressive vacation spots in the world, the first visit to Ceský Krumlov leaves you with the feeling that you’ve only scratched the surface. As my tour bus began its reluctant trek back to reality, I found myself vowing to return to spend a week or more in this enchanting town where time truly does stand still.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Tom Douglas a military author and freelance travel writer who lives in Oakville, Ontario.

Photos by Tom Douglas:
1: The Vitava River meanders through the Medieval city of Cesky Kromluv
2: There’s another breath-taking site around every corner of the city
3: If you have room, you can bring home a suit of armour

For more information: www.czechtourism.com or www.czechairlines.com

Summer Days in Southern Spain – Road Trip Highlights: Three Cities, One Week

By Chris Millikan

From the quaint balcony my husband, daughter and I surveyed Malaga’s vital seaport, founded on the Mediterranean by seafaring Phoenicians in the 7th-century. Below, handsome plumed horses on sunset city tours pulled turn-of-the-century carriages along tree-lined esplanades. Our summer road trip to historic highlights in three of Spain’s southern cities began at the Palacio, a traditionally furnished old-town hotel.

Not far from an unearthed first-century Roman amphitheater near the hotel, we wandered the 10th-century Alcazaba-ruins. Winding along its pathways and lingering in breezy courtyards, we imagined living in this ancient Moorish castle just like the powerful Ferdinand and Isabella once did.

Today, spreading orange trees and purple bougainvillea shade remarkable grounds overlooking the busy city below. Within, museums outline a riveting past: the Archeological Museum features Phoenician, Carthaginian, Greek, Moorish, Arab and Christian influences, ancient pottery in the Ceramics Museum.

Before breakfast next morning we discovered the renaissance majesty of Malaga’s famed 16th-century cathedral, prominent in this cosmopolitan city. Immense, the Cathedral of the Incarnation took over 200 years to build. Several magnificent naves enclose relics of long-dead clergy; decorated choir-stalls still impress. Fondly nicknamed La Manquita by locals, one of the ‘one-armed lady’s’ towers remains unfinished to this day.

Across the plaza the humble house where Pablo Picasso was born is now a popular museum filled with his earliest works. Despite leaving the region as a child, he continues as Malaga’s most celebrated son.

Lingering over freshly squeezed orange juice, savory ham and cheese croissants and pungent café con leches, sleepy Sunday streets awakened to another glorious morning, typical along the sunny Costa del Sol. Soon heading for Seville in our rental-car, countryside panoramas of yellow sunflower fields and dusty olive groves shimmered along the superhighway for several pleasing hours.

A pit-stop picnic with frosty orange-flavoured sparkling water hit the spot before we continued on into the beautiful city where six centuries of kings held grand court, Columbus docked at the river-port and Bizet’s mysterious Carmen rolled fat cigars in the factory now housing the university,

Our daughter quickly spied the signposts pointing to our hotel in Seville’s historic district. After much jockeying, my hubby maneuvered us into an underground space the size of a postage stamp. Abandoning the rental there during our stay, we easily walked everywhere, often along picturesque one-way streets designed long ago for horses and buggies.

A city block in size, Seville boasts the third-largest European cathedral following St. Peter’s in Rome and St. Paul’s in London.

With flying buttresses and age-old holy treasures, the famed Cathedral of Seville replaced an enormous mosque in the 14th-century. Court of Orange Trees and pinkish-brick Giralda-tower are the only Moorish-era remnants left.

Long attached to the magnificent stone structure, that single minaret has become a familiar monument. Scampering up its 35-story bell tower just before sunset afforded superb city overviews.

Intricate iron screens fronting a line of secluded chapels, paintings by Goya and Murillo and 15th_century stained glass windows highlighted solemn gothic interiors. As well as the chapel entombing Spanish royalty, Columbus himself rests in a massive, elaborately gilded sepulcher.

A 14th-century royal residence just to the north, the marvelous Reales Alcazares is home to King Carlos and Queen Sofia who reside in the same richly ornamented private apartments where Isabella and Ferdinand had received Columbus on his triumphant return from America.

Near the Alcazar’s walls, tiny plazas in Barrio de Santa Cruz shimmer whitely in the sunshine. Once a ghetto for Spanish Jews, the little upscale balconies now trail bougainvillea and crimson geraniums, shading the narrow medieval streets below.

Stopping for plates of mouth-watering tapas and chilled sangria at a legendary sidewalk taverna, we were delighted that Cervantes, de la Vega and Lord Byron had ‘hung out’ at Las Escobar in their day, too, perhaps soaking up the ambiance of the pretty streets or people-watching just like we loved to do.

Fascinated by the many white washed homes carved into dry golden-brown hillsides for miles along the autovia, our final destination was the last stronghold of Moorish Spain.

We breezed smoothly along…until exiting directly into Granada’s sweltering, snarled gridlock. Fortunately for us, a grinning elderly senora redirected us onto a ring road freeway circling around the city into the romantic old sector where Spain’s grandest monument stands majestically on a rocky hill above the Darro River.

Built over many centuries for defense, the fabled Alhambra’s magical gardens, fortifications and lavish palaces evolved into a magnificent stronghold.

The first to expose its fascinating mysteries to the world, Washington Irving researched his book, ‘Tales of the Alhambra,’ while living in its open-air rooms with lacey walls and delicate colonnades, carved cedar-wood ceilings and sweeping courtyards shimmering with fountains.

Together with elaborate gold inscriptions and highly decorative blue-tiled-arches it still enchants hordes of visitors to this day.

Powerful sultans carried out their domestic lives in luxurious Court of the Lions, harems strictly guarded by trusted eunuchs. Over in the splendid Hall of Kings, entertaining diversions amused sultans and dazzled their guests.

Sauntering through glorious gardens and shaded courtyards filled with splashing fountains at nearby Generalife, it was so easy to imagine royal households spending long, hot summers in cool retreat at this gracious summer palace.

Exotic revelations disclosing beguiling 13th-century lives so different to our own wrapped up extraordinary summer discoveries.

Back on the autovia we returned full circle to Malaga after exploring three historic Spanish cities, remembered still.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Canadian freelance travel writer Chris Millikan who lives near Vancouver, on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos:
1: The walls surrounding Malaga’s Moorish Alcazaba. Chris Millikan photo.
2: The tower of Seville’s cathedral. B.J. Cooper photo.
3: The graceful Courtyard of the Lions at the Alhambra in Granada. B.J. Cooper photo.