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In search of the perfect paella
From the Daily Mail
There is only one meal that makes a trip to Spain complete: paella. As far as the British are concerned, this mixture of rice, chicken and seafood, with the odd bit of veg thrown in, is Spain's national dish.
But in a land where regional gastronomy is taken very seriously, Spaniards wring their hands at this notion.
For true paella comes from Valencia - everything else is just rice.
Paella is by no means a fast food. It takes a minimum of 30 minutes to cook one properly. So I went to Valencia to discover its secrets.
Outside Spain's third-largest city is La Albufera, a freshwater lake which is now part of a national park.
Here, at the end of the 7th century, the Moors introduced irrigation to cultivate Spain's first rice paddies.
Today, they cover a vast area of this coastal plain, stretching 35 kilometres south of the city.
'This is the place where paella was born,' said my guide Juan Llantada.
'When the farmers stopped working the fields for their midday meal, they added whatever they had to the rice - rabbit, duck, snails and green beans.'
Today, there are more than 300 varieties of paella - pronounced 'pah-ay-yah' - which is actually the name of the shallow pan in which it is cooked.
Travel Guide: Spain
Walking back to happiness
Forgive me if I spend the next few paragraphs out of breath.
You see, I'm approaching 8,500ft in the Pyrenees and while I'm Edmund Hillary at heart, I am Buddha in body; the spirit is indomitable, but the flesh is... well, there's just too much of the flesh.
It was all so deceptive at the beginning. We had started in France, in part of the old nation of Catalonia, sauntering across meadows of yellow gentians, through cool pine woods and into a valley rising gently towards Spain.
It was mid-June. A week ago, one side of the valley had been puce with azaleas, the other golden with broom.
Now there were wild geraniums and Pyrenean lilies with curly yellow petals. Way above us, ranged the mountains, hard, sharp peaks on which snow still lay in patches.
We picnicked on bread, chewy mountain ham, brie, and country wine.
After that life changed. From a world of wildflowers the landscape turned mean. Gone were the buttercups and bilberries, around us now were harsh falls of scree.
The broad stone path had narrowed to a rocky culvert; the river that came tumbling past us in the valley was now a meagre stream. And instead of the calm forest we were now on a grizzled skinhead of mountainside.
The gradient had been ratcheted up to precipitous and the air was sapped of oxygen. My thighs were stretched like bungee cords and my lungs stuffed with pebbles.
At last, the mountain relented and flattened out in a snowfield at the top of the col. We were at 8,727ft, and had crossed the border into Spain. It had taken six hours to climb from 'bonjour' to 'buenos dias'.
In another two hours, we had scrambled down steep scree on the Spanish side to arrive at Nuria, a ski station.
Sore and tired I might be but I had survived to embroider the tale. Over a beer, Thierry, our French guide, put the day into perspective.
Our route was an old smugglers' trail. You name it, someone had smuggled it: tobacco and alcohol in the 19th century-Allied prisoners of war escaping occupied France in World War II.
Travel Guide: Spain
Isle of contrasts
Los Cristianos is a small town in which you can have a relaxing peaceful holiday or a lively one. There are plenty of cheap, good-quality restaurants and bars where you can pay as little as £3.50 for a three-course meal.
The beaches all have clean white sand, and offer watersports if you wish. There are also weekly markets where you can buy local crafts and there are plenty of places to visit around the island.
Two miles up the road is Playa de Las Americas, which is very lively but a bit like Blackpool in the sun with its clubs and dirty streets. These two towns are completely opposite to each other and you will find the more sophisticated in Los Cristianos, whilst the lager louts club it up in Las Americas, which is also a lot more expensive - you could pay up to £5 for a drink.
Travel Guide: Spain
Love it or hate it
Well, after returning from two weeks in Tenerife, it make me wonder.
Firstly, how can people go back year after year and secondly what is exactly the attraction?
The only reason we went is because of a cheap deal through work but I would not go again.
Tenerife is dull, culture-less and simply England in the Sun. Don't get me wrong Los Gigantes (where we stayed) was lovely and quiet but the rest will be easily forgotten.
We hired a car for four days and by the third day we had run out of places to go and see.
To anyone thinking about Tenerife, you will either love it or hate it.
Sun worshipers who like chips with everything will love it. People who like to explore and like to go somewhere with different cultures to England, think carefully.
Travel Guide: Spain
Tenerife revisited, the good and the bad
Having been to Puerto de la Cruz about 30 years ago, I was disappointed to see how tacky it's become. A last-minute booking had turned up a self-catering deal in Las Galletas, which was quiet but unremarkable.
I hired a car and set out to rediscover the island. Puerto didn't come up to my memories of it, but on the other side of the island Santa Cruz is still a pleasant working town, good for shopping and for mixing with real Canarians.
Las Canadas National Park is still the highlight of this island for me, with its lunar landscapes and imposing Mount Teide. You'd be mad to miss the chance to come here - and it's much better to drive yourself and take your time than go on an organised trip.
Los Gigantes - massive cliffs that drop sheer to the sea - always impress and it's a good place to stop for coffee. La Orotava is still well worth a visit with its graceful old houses, some with beautifully carved wooden balconies. There's a fine craft centre here, too. Driving the one-way system here can be a bit confusing, though.
All in all, Tenerife still has plenty to recommend it - not least the great year-round weather.
Travel Guide: Spain
On top of the world
From the Daily Mail
This is it: I'm going to meet a horrible end. The car lurches around hairpin bends, its wheels inches from the edge. The sky and sea revolve like a three-dimensional Cubist painting, whirling and dizzying. If I'd have been doing anything other than driving, I'd have closed my eyes and prayed.
When, 20 agonising minutes later, I reach the village of Taganana and the road levels out, I gaze up in disbelief. It had been like driving down a 1,000ft-high vertical wall.
Getting off the beaten track on the Canary Island of Tenerife requires, above all else, a good head for heights. Other essentials include a decent map, a sense of adventure and a desire to escape the crowds. The last is understandable. A sizeable chunk of the Canary Islands' eight million annual visitors spend their holidays on Tenerife, and the majority of them squeeze into the twin towns of Playa de las Americas and Los Cristianos on the south-west coast.
These custom-built resorts are oft-maligned. But once you accept that there is virtually nothing Spanish about them - in Playa de las Americas, it's easier to find a pint of bitter than a plate of paella - then you can appreciate their advantages.
The gently sloping beaches are great for children. There's a staggering range of bars and restaurants, and prices are low. There is entertainment for everyone, too: from ultra-cool clubs, cabaret shows, British and Irish theme pubs, to sports bars and aquatic parks.
But out of town, behind the massed white cubes of apartment blocks and hotels, lies the extraordinary volcanic landscape that gives Tenerife its special character and its name. In ancient island dialect, Tenerife means 'snow-capped mountain'.
In the centre of the holiday island is the volcano of Mount Teide - at 12,198ft it is the highest point in Spain and a national park. A winding road leads up from the coast, passing tiny villages of whitewashed houses, with wild flowers forming splashes of colour on the bare brown landscape. In the distance, the high-rise apartments of Playa de las Americas look as though they have fallen out of a child's toy box.
Travel Guide: Spain
Tar-ific, if you like it breezy
The wind is the first thing that strikes you about Tarifa, a tiny city a few miles west of Gibraltar. It never seems to stop blowing. Day or night, rain or shine, the wind howls across the city like a banshee.
The reason is simple. Tarifa is the point at which the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic, the southernmost point of the Iberian peninsula - less than 10 miles across the straits from the coast of Africa.
From the crumbling ramparts of the city's tenth-century walls, you feel as if you can lean out and touch the Rif Mountains of Morocco.
Its geography means it is the very point at which the poniente - as the Spaniards and the Moroccans call it - the harsh west wind, blows in off the Atlantic to clash head on with its opponent, the east wind from the Mediterranean, the levante.
Sometimes one wins, sometimes the other, but the battle never ceases. In the past, the raging air brought this unaffected, proud little port at the tip of Europe an unenviable reputation - it had the highest suicide rate in Spain. The winds blew so fiercely that some inhabitants simply couldn't bear it. But that was before windsurfing.
Now the very winds that sometimes intimidated the local population have attracted thousands of young people, making Tarifa Europe's premier windsurfing site, and acknowledged as one of the three best in the world.
You have only to walk down the Batalla del Salado towards the gate of the castellated Moorish city to see the impact the sport has made. There are no designer boutiques, but there is X-Trem and White Surf, Hot Stick and Wild Wind, Pirates and Big Fish - all designed to sell you the wetsuit of your dreams and the sail to go with it.
The bars and hostels are packed, summer and winter, with young people drawn to the intense delights of the big waves on the Playa de los Lances to the west.
Many of the surfers fly into Gibraltar, walk across the border and take a taxi along the coast to Tarifa, perfectly happy to use a borrowed board when they get there.
No matter how you get there, however, the talk in the most of the local bars is about wind speeds, and the rougher the weather the better.
Travel Guide: Spain
Your very own castle
State-owned hotel chain. Four words guaranteed to strike fear into the heart of any holidaymaker. With good reason, too.
Those images of mile-long concrete bunkers on the Baltic coastline and cockroach-ridden tower blocks in downtown Tirana are enough to make you cancel that trip abroad and head for the safety of the Cornish Riviera.
Communist prison - sorry holiday - camps are a thing of the past, of course, but one state-run operation which pre-dated Eastern Europe's highly-organised leisure facilities is still going strong.
Spain's chain of Parador hotels celebrates its 75th anniversary this year. Founded by a king and developed under a Fascist dictator, the Paradors have boomed in recent years by cashing in on a reputation for good food and service, great prices and unbeatable locations.
Alfonso XIII knew what he liked and clearly didn't worry about what it cost to get it.
He was also the 20th century's most regal hotelier. Before his subjects kicked him out and formed their short-lived republic in 1931, he built the magnificent luxury hotel in Seville which bears his name.
More importantly, he was the force behind a new type of hotel, the Parador, which loosely translates from the Spanish as 'stopover'.
Alfonso's love of hunting was decisive in siting the first one in the Gredos mountains west of Madrid. The king wanted a hunting lodge - and he got a 30-room hotel where his pals could join him in the thrill of the chase.
Alfonso packed his bags for good only three years later, but his ethos lived on to develop tourism in areas of natural beauty or in ancient cities, using old and historic buildings or new ones erected in distinctive regional style.
As a state-run enterprise, Paradors were heavily subsidised. With money no object, centuries-old and new buildings were stuffed full of antique furniture and paintings and their doors thrown open to the public.
Travel Guide: Spain
Vino? Si señor, but not on its own
Cruzcampo, San Miguel, Estrella Damm. It's not a long list, but it's as far as many people get in a Spanish bar. More's the pity, because whatever the merits of a cold beer on a hot summer's day, Spain's range of drinks - alcoholic or otherwise - is varied and worthy of exploration.
The language barrier and a tendency to stick to what they know are two reasons why many visitors look no further. But anyone who hankers after a pint of bitter or a glass of chardonnay is missing the point.
Spanish drinking culture is complex - and very different from that of Britain. Spaniards don't leave the house with the intention of having a skinful.
In Spain, drinking is a social adjunct; you go out to meet people, to eat and talk, and liquid refreshment is just a part of that process.
Consequently, different types of drink 'belong' to different times of day.
In a country where the smallest, scruffiest bar serves coffee which makes Starbucks' best seem like dishwater, there's only one drink for the morning.
How you take it is another matter: with milk; without; with a little milk; with brandy; even with a strong spirit (aguardiente) on the side.
Beer isn't considered alcohol in Spain. You'll find it listed with the refrescos (fizzy soft drinks). And though Spanish drink-driving laws are now in line with the rest of Europe, half the customers at motorway services happily nestle a bottle of beer, even if they're sitting beside a police officer.
Most Spaniards prefer draught beer to the bottled variety. It's cheaper and you can select your quantity - anything from a cañita (around a third of a pint) to a tubo litro (a big, big glass).
Lunch is the most important meal of the day, and can last for hours, even during the working week. The vermut culture involves meeting for a pre-lunch drink.
The choice isn't limited to vermouth though. Vermut can mean a sherry, a gin and tonic, a beer, or an orange juice. It exists mainly as a way to ease yourself into the food marathon which will dominate your day.
Travel Guide: Spain
Sweet Jerez
From the Daily Mail
What a difference 1,000 miles makes. I was sitting in a flamenco bar in Spain crowded with young people, all drinking ... sherry.
Behind the bar bottles of Croft and Sandeman, Domecq and Harveys, Tio Pepe and Gonzalez Byass stretched as far as the eye could see. In England, nobody under 50 would be seen dead with sherry in a bar at 1am.
You cannot spend five minutes in Jerez, home of sherry, without realising it is not just extremely drinkable but extremely sexy.
In the hands of a dark-haired senorita a glass of sherry looks a lot more fetching than a half of lager.
Jerez de la Frontera is a medium-size town in Andalucia. Even without the lure of its famous product, the town would warrant a visit.
Battered buildings, the stone mellowed with age, betray Moorish and Christian influences.
The labyrinth of narrow streets is beguiling. Motorcyclists career past, disturbing cats, while quaint-looking shops exude exotic smells.
After dark there is a hint of Arabian Nights, with long shadows stretching across the plazas.
No visit to Jerez would be complete without a tour of one of the bodegas where the sherry is produced. Seeing the old wooden casks stacked floor to ceiling, scenting the rich aroma wafting through the bodega, is a true feast for the senses.
You also learn a lot. What, for example, is a catador? Not a moggy who fights bulls, but the man who tastes the sherry. Slurper in chief.
Vincente, the catador at Sandeman, has been slurping sherry or 40 years. Watching that learned nose hover over a glass was an education.
Travel Guide: Spain
Sun, sea and San Sebastian
The notice in my hotel room was a little disconcerting. 'In San Sebastian it's more than likely you will need an umbrella,' it read. 'Ask for one at the reception desk.'
I knew from previous visits to the Basque country that the weather - cold, wet and grey one day, clear, bright and sunny the next - could be unpredictable.
As it turned out, I was lucky. The next morning the sun was beating down from a cloudless blue sky as I walked along the promenade overlooking La Concha beach, an expanse of golden sand set in a stunning natural bay.
Behind the beach, the creamy white Belle Epoque cafes line the Paseo de la Concha.
It's easy to see why San Sebastian has been a favourite holiday destination for the Spanish ever since Queen Isabel II decided to establish her summer court and government here in the 1850s to escape the stifling heat of Madrid.
I wandered past the small harbour, filled with fishing boats painted in the green, white and red colours of the Basque flag, and into the narrow, traffic-free streets of the old town, la parte vieja.
Here, tiny, old-fashioned shops selling shoes, leather goods, books and mouthwatering cakes jostled for space with dark bars, their counters groaning under the weight of bite-sized snacks of fish, meat and tortilla speared with toothpicks onto thin slices of crispy bread.
These pinchos are a speciality in the Basque country and in San Sebastian there is a keenly contested annual award for the best one.
A good place to kick off a pinchos-trail is the Plaza de la Constitucion in the centre of the parte vieja.
The square used to double as the city's bullring and balconies are hung with flowers and the occasional banner demanding the release of ETA prisoners held in jails around Spain.
I made my way across the palm-fringed square to Bar Astelena for a pre-lunch drink. Shouting above the din created by a crowd of young Basques at the bar I ordered a pincho of hake covered in onions and a glass of txakoli, a young 'green' wine traditionally poured into wide tumblers from a height of 3ft or so to generate a refreshing fizz.
Travel Guide: Spain
Summer fun for all the family
The idea of taking 14 families who have never met, and putting them together in a group of apartments that share the same swimming pool, tennis court and play area for a week sounds like a potential recipe for disaster.
My husband and I usually try to get as far away as possible from other people, particularly other Brit tourists, while on holiday.
The idea of being cooped up in close proximity in a Spanish 'holiday hamlet', which operator Brittany Ferries describes as being 'popular' with the English, filled us with foreboding.
Not only would we be cheek by jowl with strangers, but our boisterous children, Tom, six, and Olivia, three, would need to be on best behaviour if we were to avoid being tagged the 'neighbours from hell' by the other guests.
On arrival, my husband John muttered 'This is going to be ghastly' as he counted the number of sun-loungers and realised there were not enough for us.
A purple-faced grandfather was resting his gouty left foot on the only spare lounger and we didn't have the courage to ask him for it.
'Things can only get better,' I whispered as, going to bed that night, we listened to the sounds of neighbours arguing and yet another family apparently disco-dancing on the wooden floor above our heads.
We were lulled to sleep by the whimpers of an insomniac Spanish toddler in yet another apartment but who seemed to be in the same room as us.
But things did get better. After breakfast the next day, there was a knock on the door and in came two little Scottish girls holding a football. 'Can Tom and Livvy come and play?' asked the older girl, Flora.
Husband John and I looked at each other. The grounds were safe; not even our two could escape over the 10ft-high stone walls which the night before had seemed like a prison, and now offered freedom.
Travel Guide: Spain
Savour the flavour
From the Daily Mail
Tapas are those little plates of edible goodies, to be enjoyed along with a glass of wine or an ice-cold beer.
Together with the siesta and Penelope Cruz, they are are possibly Spain's greatest contribution to human happiness.
The word tapa comes from the Spanish for 'lid', referring to the saucer placed on top of your wine glass on which was traditionally served a complimentary morsel of ham or cheese.
Over the years the saucer has been replaced by a small flat terracotta dish.
The simple offering has developed into a miniature plateful of deep-fried calamares, prawns with garlic and chilli, ham croquettes, kidneys in sherry, and a hundred other variations on the theme of savoury snacking.
The tapa has become a respectable branch of Spanish cuisine, practically an art form. Along with paella, serrano ham and seafood, this is what every foreign visitor to Spain wants to get their hands on and their teeth into.
Yet the genuine tapas experience is not always easy to come by. As with a lot of deeply-rooted foreign customs, it helps to know the lie of the land.
Why? The idea of nibbling on something savoury along with your drink is as old as the hills. Because, as every drinker knows, a little something salty helps the booze go down and also stops you getting tipsy quite so quickly.
The tapas habit is a perfect expression of the relaxed Mediterranean lifestyle. For those who enjoy the pleasures of casual grazing rather than sitting down at 8pm for a serious three-courser, this may be the ideal food.
Travel Guide: Spain
Stinging nettle diet
From the Mail on Sunday
Nettle and sphagnum moss soup?' asked Manuel. I gave him a vaguely affirmative prehistorical grunt and took a sip. It was almost edible . . . if you had no sense of smell and pretended that your taste buds hadn't evolved yet.
I had another mouthful of boiled-up Spanish sedge and river silt. I coughed and spluttered and went 'Uggh!' Manuel smiled from beneath a thick, vivid green moustache. 'Spoken like a true Neanderthal!'
Manuel Luque is a professional archaeologist and director of Paleorama, which offers the world's first fly-drive 'Stone Age' holidays.
Anatomically modern time travellers blessed with moderately impressive cranial cargo can now enjoy prehistoric breaks and very uncivilised full-board facilities as well as the most basic amenities imaginable in a riverside field near Burgos in northern Spain.
They have to make their own meals and because it is illegal to hunt in Rioja, the menu is predominately vegetarian. Our ancestors might have been expert hunters but they also had enough brain power to realise that lichen and moss are far easier to catch than game.
But before you can cook your Palaeolithic lunch, you must make a fire. So for about half an hour I collected laurel leaves and fallen fir needles before being shown, for another hour, how to ignite them by rubbing two twigs together and swearing a lot.
The dress code was relaxed. Fox has never been my favourite fabric. Deerskin has never suited me, either. I have always found it difficult to achieve a smart but casual 'professional' look in a rancid pelt. So my host let me cover myself in modern leisurewear. He explained the rationale as I stirred our churned mud entree.
'Everything must be validated by archaeological data. That's why we don't insist on animal skins. No clothing has ever been found. We can only guess what our ancestors ate.
'We try to reconstruct the past from what we have found. We reproduce the prehistoric experience according to received archaeological truth. We don't run around with big, bushy beards bashing animals with clubs. We want to look beyond that stereotype.' He pronounced his chicken hedgerow casserole ready.
'This is hands-on archaeology,' he said, ladling the Pleistocene glop into a home-made animal hide bowl. 'I want people to relate to their ancestors, their lifestyles and their achievements.
'Far from being a beast, Palaeolithic man was innovative and highly adaptive to his environment. Stinging nettles were an important part of his staple diet. He made soup as well as soap out of them.
Travel Guide: Spain
Holiday fun for the family
From the Daily Mail
The fact that Spain remains by far the most popular destination for British holidaymakers is not surprising: it has the coast, character and climate, it's excellent value, and is only a couple of hours away by plane. In fact, the main problem with Spain is that it is such a familiar destination that it's sometimes too easy to fall back on the obvious choices - the Majorcan resorts, Benidorm or the Costa del Sol.
But there are plenty of alternatives which have just as much going for them in terms of sun, sand and value for money, but which don't dominate the pages of the tour operators' brochures. Here's my selection:
Hot tips
The up-and-coming Costa to watch out for is the Costa de la Luz - the stretch of coast to the west of Gibraltar, facing out towards the Atlantic. It has some of the best, sandiest and least developed of all the country's beaches, and is popular with the Spanish themselves, though more British and German tourists are discovering its scattering of relaxed resorts.
Among the best are Conil de la Frontera, Los Canos de Meca and Zahara de los Atunes. Be aware, though, that because most of the beaches face into the prevailing wind, it can be blustery, and you need to be careful of the surf which rolls in from the ocean.
The other summer destination growing rapidly in popularity is the Canary Islands. For years, they have been thought of as ideal islands for winter sun or an early/late season break. But they are just as good in summer - hotter, of course, but the temperatures are kept in check by cool Atlantic breezes.
Tenerife and Gran Canaria are now too developed for many people's tastes. Lanzarote is a perennial and reliable recommendation because of its good beaches and low-rise resorts, but even here development work continues apace. So if you want to escape a little, try an alternative island - especially Fuerteventura, and the smaller island of La Gomera.
Travel Guide: Spain
Classic charms of Spain
Spain is a classic holiday destination - with good reason. Paul Richardson comes up with some suggestions for your type of holiday.
BEST FOR FAMILY BEACH HOLIDAYS: MINORCA
For years, the island of Minorca was the Cinderella of the Balearics. While earning its living mostly from tourism, it has never sold itself as hard as its neighbours.
Building has been kept under control, with low-rise developments the norm. Binibeca Vell, an imitation of a traditional fishing village, is a brilliant example.
Minorca has some of the best and least spoiled coastline in the Med. Those on the south coast - such as Son Bou and Punta Prima - are sheltered and civilised. Cala Galdana, in particular, is a glorious arc of sand with calm, shallow water.
Beaches in the north are a little more exposed and breezier, but even more unspoiled. Son Saura Nord has shallow water and beautiful dunes; Arenal d'en Castell is popular and lively; and Cala Morella, though only a little way off the beaten track, is virtually unvisited.
Almost all, apart from the most inaccessible coves, are family-friendly. Even the more developed Cala Galdana and Cala n Porter keep things on a human scale.
And unlike the Costas, if the adults have a craving for culture, there is plenty to see in the delightful towns of Mahon and Ciutadella.
BEST FOR WALKING HOLIDAYS: ASTURIAS
The Principality is not that well-known to the British, but is destined to become popular as back-to-nature tourism hits the big time.
Asturias is rainy, rugged and beautiful. The coast is a little like Cornwall: all fishing villages and stormy seas. Inland is one of the Iberian peninsula's major mountain ranges, the Picos de Europa, home to wolves, bears and eagles.
Best places to stay are the network of Casas de Aldea (village houses), often found in picturesque mountain hamlets where the clocks seem to have stopped somewhere around the 18th century. The locals are friendly and hospitable, though their sense of humour is famously gruff.
The local food is as far from the typically Spanish norm as you can imagine. Cider is a speciality, as is the powerful blue cheese Cabrales. After a trek through the mountains, fabada (bean stew with meat and sausages) will set you up for a mega-siesta
Winter is not the best time to walk in this wilderness - the rain and snow may get you down. Asturias is at its best in late spring.
Travel Guide: Spain
Beyond the Costas
Guaranteed sunshine and good value - these are the things that prompt British holidaymakers to charge off in such huge numbers to Spain every year.
Last year 13 million of us went, mainly to soak up the sun, but also to make the most of the food and wine, stunning scenery and culture of this most passionate of Mediterranean countries.
Our old rival for colonial power has, in many places, become colonised itself; not least by the British, who have retired to sunny apartments on the Costa Brava and Costa del Sol.
Spain's monumental cathedrals, architecture - and art produced by masters Goya and Picasso - rival the finest in Europe.
But, as a result of eight centuries of rule by the Moors, Spain also became the meeting ground of Latin and North African cultures.
Here, we focus on the five Mediterranean regions most popular with British summer visitors, starting with Andalucia and Valencia.
But while the Costas might look similar in holiday brochures, regional differences are strong, reflecting their roots in the old Spanish kingdoms through dialect, cuisine and cultural traditions.
Travel Guide: Spain
Beyond the beach
We live by the seaside, so our idea of a real holiday is somewhere well away from the cawing of gulls and the drone of waves.
At least once a year, we yearn for an invigorating whiff of exhaust fumes and the sheer luxury of pavements.
For most British holidaymakers, Spain tends to be a seaside destination: the Costa del Sol, the Costa Brava, Alicante, Benidorm, Marbella and so forth.
These may be just what the doctor ordered for sea-starved Britons (though I have given Marbella a wide berth since reading that Robert Kilroy-Silk has a house there), but I was always more drawn to Spain's interior, to those smaller cities that encircle Madrid - cities with romantic, swashbuckling names, jam-packed with vowels, like Salamanca and Segovia, Cordoba, Plasencia and Toledo.
The reaction of most people when we told them that we were going to tour the interior of Spain with our children in a car which has no air-conditioning was to throw up their hands in horror.
But there is much to be said for open windows, not least that the noise of the wind acts as an effective sound-block against the complaints of the children in the back.
And even in the height of summer, Spain is only really blisteringly hot from around noon to 5pm, a period anyway much more suited to having lunch, swimming in a pool or lying in the shade.
Outside these times, motoring around the countryside can be a real joy, not least because, compared with Britain, the roads are so empty.
We crossed with our car from Portsmouth to Bilbao - a crossing of roughly 34 hours - and, quite unexpectedly, a complete delight.
Everyone is allotted a cabin, so at breakfast-time you don't have to climb over hungover backpackers surrounded by fag ends and beer cans when going to the cafe.
Travel Guide: Spain
Barcelona's sunny back yard
From the Daily Mail
Lola, a Spanish, sooty-eyed seven-year-old, adjusted her acid green feather boa and gyrated self-consciously through the main square in the pretty Spanish seaside town of Sitges, just south of Barcelona. Behind her marched a troupe of pre-school 'devils', red horns stitched into black berets, the youngest happily prodding Lola's behind with his felt-covered pitchfork.
Pancake Tuesday in Sitges and everyone was in carnival mood. Even the formidable assistant in Fontanals charcuterie had transformed herself into a dancing queen. Beneath a canopy of cured ham joints, Maria's glittery eyebrows and star-studded cheeks sat at odds with her white overalls - but then, she reasoned, only glitter would outlast a night of hard clubbing.
The children's parade, a charming prelude to the libidinous troupes who were later to sashay along the Carrer de Parellades - Sitges's main drag - was drawing to a close. By midnight the town would be packed, its cobbled streets an impromptu dance floor, the music non-stop until dawn.
During carnival, Sitges wakes from its winter slumber with a vengeance. Barcelona night owls join the locals for an uninhibited and mammoth party - though nobody quite matches the excesses reputedly enjoyed by Casanova, a guest of the town's carnival back in 1769. Not even Salvador Dali, it seems, though he, too, clearly favoured Sitges's fun-loving atmosphere.
Photographs of the mustachioed surrealist enjoying a swim in the sea line the walls of L'Estrella, a 19th-century patisserie in the narrow Carrer Major, though it is hard to imagine this larger-than-life Spaniard sitting in such dainty surroundings. There, beneath painted cherubs flitting across a tiny domed ceiling, locals linger in one of two raspberry-pink salons over chocolate cake and cortado, the Spanish equivalent of an espresso with a shot of milk.
Travel Guide: Spain
Wonderful atmosphere
We passed through Seville on our way back from Portugal, by which time it was too late to stay any longer than a single night. What bad planning!
Had we known, we'd have arranged to spend more time there. The atmosphere in the evening was absolutely terrific.
I can't remember all their names, but there are squares, or plazas, dotted all over Seville, with cafes and restaurants spilling out on to the streets. There are many churches that we would have liked time to explore and some really beautiful architecture, exhibiting a strong Moslem influence.
The bullring is fantastic to look at. Seville is well known for its bullfighting history.
We didn't have anything booked but, after eating on the patio of one of the little restaurants, we found an old hotel in the centre of town. We were a few floors up, and the tall windows in our room looked out over a small plaza.
Being August, it was pretty hot, even late at night, so we had the windows open wide all night, but the shutters pulled to. What a wonderful experience!
We fell asleep to the muffled sounds of late-night conversations out in the square, charming rather than irritating.
Travel Guide: Spain
Seville got to her
My girlfriend, a woman of principle, would come to Seville only on one condition. 'You promise not to take me to a bullfight,' she said.
I have never made an easier promise. It was like taking a pledge not to strangle puppies.
Ah, the fickleness of women! Just three hours after getting off the plane, she was plucking winsomely at my sleeve. 'Darling, how do you feel about going to the bullfight tonight?'
Seville had got to her. It was all I could do to stop her buying a flamenco dress and singing arias from Carmen.
You cannot move in the city without reminders of its most infamous pastime.
Bullfighting posters adorn every tapas bar. Shop windows bulge with matador costumes. Middle-aged men corner you in bars and try to show you the scar they got running with the bulls at Pamplona. You sit down to a meal in a restaurant and a waiter recommends the 'bull's tail'. It is like a disease.
But five minutes of bullfighting on television, X-rated and nauseating, ensured that we would not contract it. We did visit the museum of bullfighting at the handsome 18th-century Plaza de Toros. It was simultaneously gruesome and hilarious.
Having spurned the bullfight, we had dinner in a lively restaurant near the cathedral. There was no English menu and the staff spoke only Spanish but I thought I knew enough, just, to get by.
Wrong! Having ordered, we thought, squid with garlic, artichokes, spicy lamb casserole and a jug of sangria, we got meatballs, salted cod, grilled chicken and a bottle of mineral water. Very nice, too - though I did send the water back.
Travel Guide: Spain
Exploring Seville
Giggling, deep male voices were coming up fast behind me. I turned to see a gang of twenty-something Spanish men wearing polka-dotted, flamenco-frilled aprons over jeans and T-shirts.
After filing through a cobbled square past amused diners at La Cueva in the old Jewish quarter of Santa Cruz, they ducked silently into a quiet, dimly-lit bar.
This was a stag night, Seville-style, with the groom identifiable from the others only by his mantilla and a slash of red lipstick.
Their restraint was impressive; it may have been early evening but somehow I couldn't see them whipping out handcuffs, downing pint after pint or emulating their rambunctious British counterparts.
Like its inhabitants, Seville is a mature, gracious city.
Earlier that day, on a two-and-a-half hour flight from London, my travelling companions were rather different from those one might traditionally associate with southern Spain.
A sedate bunch boarded the plane: retired couples in panamas, bankers carrying golf clubs, honeymooners and trendy families with offspring answering to Noah, Nancy, Pandora and the like.
Yet the serenity of Seville is thanks, in part, to these cultural tourists who wield their cameras respectfully and leave, while the sun, sex and sangria masses descend on the Costas.
Apart from the soothing sound of cicadas, sparrows, and guitar music in tapas bars, noise levels are disarmingly low.
Ten minutes from the airport, Santa Cruz houses the most treasured monuments, such as the Hospital de Los Venerables, a 17th-century home for elderly priests, which has a restored baroque church.
Travel Guide: Spain
Pilgrim's process
From the Mail on Sunday
My heart skipped a beat as the ambulance pulled up alongside our motorhome on the desolate road to Portomarin in northern Spain. And my worst fears were confirmed as the driver lifted out the bicycle on which my wife had ridden away minutes earlier. Oh no, she had had an accident.
I gasped as she emerged unharmed but drenched, seconds after the bike. Just down the road it had poured. It was a repeat of a student holiday in the Orkneys when, similarly soaked, she and two friends had been rescued by a mobile library.
There were times when we really appreciated having a hot shower, cooker, heater and loo with us out in the wilds. This was one of them.
We were following the El Camino de Santiago, the way of the apostle St James, which has taken pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela since 813 AD, when it was the most important shrine in the Christian world after Jerusalem and Rome. In the 11th and 12th centuries, half a million pilgrims a year walked the 1,000-mile route, marked by scallop shell symbols. An Order of Knights was created to guard them.
Today's pilgrims set out mainly from Paris, Vezelay, Arles or Le Puy. Our first point of contact with it was to be Roncesvalles in the Pyrenees. Having taken the overnight ferry from Portsmouth, we drove out straight into the Bilbao rush hour. In glorious sunshine I ached for a sports car on the four-hour journey to Roncesvalles. A sensible motorhome virgin would have tried a UK weekend, not driven across two Michelin maps-worth of Spain.
At the La Posada inn, where old photographs show pilgrims in the snow carrying crosses on their backs, duck with apple, red peppers and prunes was just over £5. No pilgrim ever ate better.
Travel Guide: Spain
Great for families
I went to Salou in September last year and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
I was staying in the centre of Salou and the beach was a 10-minute walk from my apartment and the theme park Port Aventura was about 15 minutes by bus. I would highly recommend this resort to families.
Travel Guide: Spain
Quixotic Spain
For very many years I used to indulge myself in a Walter Mitty dream that one day I would take a year off to go to Salamanca University, to read Don Quixote and perfect my Spanish.
As time passed, I held its dreaming spires in my mind's eye, came to Spain many times, but somehow never made it to Salamanca.
It is, of course, out on something of a limb - 130 miles across an exposed plateau westwards from Madrid.
This spring I finally made it. Auspiciously, my wife and I started with a night at the Ritz in Madrid. It was in redemption of a promise of 10 years ago when I was thrown out for not wearing a tie at lunch.
Things have moved on, and ties are no longer mandatory in the Ritz. With this relaxation possibly something of its original cachet has gone too.
Nevertheless, the Ritz remains one of the great hotels of Europe. Its position is unbeatable, on the edge of the verdant Retiro Park with the Prado and the new Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum on either side.
That exhilarating Castilian zing in the air, the chestnuts all in blossom, mid-April was the perfect time to be there. After a morning gazing at the El Grecos, Velasquez and sinister Goyas in the Prado, we set off with a carefully prepared route card for lunch at Avila, midway to Salamanca.
But disaster struck. Because of some visiting potentate, the police had set up their desviaciones and we became horribly lost.
After an hour of wandering we ended up in a park full of scantily-clad and podgy tarts, uninterested in setting a lost Ingles on the right road.
At last a saintly young motorcyclist led us, with true Castilian gallantry, well out of his way to set us on the road to Salamanca.
Travel Guide: Spain
Luxury on the Costner del Sol
From the Daily Mail
Get this. My sister Steph and I were lounging by the hotel pool and I was just remarking that the guy strolling on the rose terrace looked like Kevin Costner and - oh, my God! - it was Kevin Costner - We whipped off our nose shields, switched on our brightest smiles and for the next three hours held our stomachs in and our chests out in the hope he'd glance our way. He didn't.
Our hotel, the fabulous Son Net, was full of surprises. For a start, it's only half an hour by taxi from Palma airport, lying up in the terraced lower slopes of the Galatzo Mountains, overlooking the village of Puigpunyent.
It is so grand, elegant and tasteful we could hardly believe it actually was in Majorca, an island we'd always associated with boozed-up Brits who wear Union Flag swimwear and sing The Birdie Song. In fact, my impression, as I travelled about the island, is that Majorca, in general, has 'poshed' itself up most impressively, probably in a deliberate effort to deter holiday hooligans.
Son Net, for example, is all rustic beams, stone-flagged floors, vaulted ceilings and restored interiors of stunning opulence. The walls are hung with Hockney, Chagall and Warhol originals. There are pure linen sheets on the antique beds. The marble bathrooms are so sumptuous that I could happily have stayed in mine all day, pampering myself with fluffy white towels and exotic bubble baths.
Then there's the pool - 100ft long, very deep and overlooking the olive and orange terraces of Puigpunyent. Swifts and swallows swoop squeaking over the glittering surface. As we lazed on our deluxe sunbeds we witnessed the latest in poolside cool. A German couple were sunbathing at opposite ends. Her mobile phone rang - and it was him, phoning to ask her to bring him the Factor 30 because he was too hot to move. (Another revelation ... these days, Germans use mobiles, not towels, to bag their sunbeds.)
It's the cool thing at Son Net to wander about wearing your white towelling hotel bathrobe, which made us feel as if we were in some sort of exclusive sanatorium. And at any moment, a nurse might pounce.
Travel Guide: Spain
White knuckle, without the ride
From the Mail on Sunday
You don't actually ride anywhere on the new Temple of Fire ride at the Port Aventura theme park. But in this custom-made Spanish resort you do get quality for your cash.
Following the new fashion, the Temple of Fire attempts to terrify the socks off you not by flinging you around in a rollercoaster but by a series of stunning special effects. Visitors fall foul of an ancient curse and are plunged into an impressive fire storm complete with corpses suddenly rising from murky depths. Everyone is suitably terrified.
I tried it out last week, but I first visited Port Aventura six years ago, a week or so before the place opened. Planned by Anheuser-Busch, Port Aventura, some 60 miles south of Barcelona, had some wild white-knuckle rides, especially the ferocious Dragon Khan roller-coaster. But also impressive was the elaborate theming and the attractive landscaping.
Now part of Universal Studios, Port Aventura looks even better than it did six years ago. It is efficiently managed and spotlessly maintained with an imaginative selection of restaurants and shops.
Business is booming, proving the old adage that it pays to invest - in travel, quality is everything. And with admission priced at £16.30 for a day ticket for adults and £12.24 for children aged five to 13, it certainly offers excellent value for money.
The smart style of Port Aventura stands in contrast to the sadly down-at-heel feel of the nearby resort of Salou, wherein recent years apartment blocks have predominated. From a distance it looks pleasant enough - the resort's main feature is a wide, palm-tree lined promenade that leads to a lovely sandy beach.
But on second glance, the promenade, like the resort itself, with its 'traditional English' pubs and boisterous Dutch bars, is rather shabby.
I stayed at the Blaumar hotel - the rooms are like mini-apartments with cooking facilities and fridges. It was a perfectly fine three-star hotel, and yet - And yet, the essence of a good holiday is to stay in an attractive resort where you feel comfortable and relaxed - and Salou felt a mite too tacky.
This isn't Salou's fault. It's been badly used by the package holiday business, created at a time when we wanted one thing - but now we want another.
Nearby Cambrils, however, has largely been spared the worst excesses of tourist development. Now, however, it has hooked the attention of the major tour operators, who will be keen on more construction. In other words, Cambrils may soon go the way of Salou.
Travel Guide: Spain
Majorca turns the other cheek to reveal its charm
From the Daily Mail
Say you're off to Majorca and most people imagine packed beaches, roasting bodies and late-night congas round the streets of some of the liveliest resorts in the Mediterranean. But you don't have to travel far inland to find a different side to Europe's most popular holiday destination. A few miles from some of the biggest resorts is a tranquil landscape of twisted olive groves, centuries-old pine forest and dramatic mountains.
There is great variety, too: Majorca is a large island and those heading for the peace and quiet of the interior have many options. Where to base yourself, and what sort of accommodation to book depends on what you want from a holiday.
But there's little to challenge the region around Pollensa town in the north of the island. It's best to avoid the area between the town and coast, which becomes flatter and more developed the nearer you get to the resort. Instead, head to the south-west of the town, where old stone farmhouses have been carefully restored and converted into comfortable self-catering villas, often with swimming pools.
Prickly pears, orange and almond trees grow in the gardens. The Sierra de Tramuntana foothills which run along the north-west coast of Majorca, rising to more than 4,000ft in places, make a stunning backdrop.
From this area, the coast is still easily accessible for beach trips. A few miles away lie the small sandy coves at Puerto de Pollensa, Cala San Vicente and the vast sweep of sand at Alcudia Bay. It's also an easy day trip to explore the dramatic headlands or travel north to the Formentor Peninsula.
Another advantage of staying here is that you are within a short distance of Pollensa town with its delicious bakeries, bustling market and cobbled streets. It's a great place to visit at night when the main square comes alive with outdoor bars and cafes full of families enjoying the cool, evening air.
Travel Guide: Spain
If my son can try to balloon around the world, then I'll walk across Spain's highest mountain range
From the Mail on Sunday
The telephone pealed on my 75th birthday. A friend was ringing to invite me on a walking holiday. 'Me, walk?' I exploded. 'Where?' 'The Picos de Europa,' she replied, 'a long rugged range of mountains in northern Spain.' These dramatic mountains, with their deep river canyons, rise steeply from the Atlantic coast, where we would end the walk.
Well, I may still play the odd round of golf, even tennis, but mountain walking? Somehow it had never seemed an option. However, if my son Richard can fly a balloon from Maine to Ireland and from Japan to Canada - crossing three quarters of the world - it would seem somewhat feeble to turn down this invitation.
But a spot of advice was needed, so who better to ask than my 21-year-old grandson, Ned. After all, he has completed a triathlon and the London Marathon and just been awarded the Duke of Edinburgh gold award. 'Gran, you'll need Gore-Tex walking shoes, Second Skin and by the way, don't give up for a blister or two - remember they're only skin deep!' Am I crazy? I leave my cosy home at 6.30am on a cold and blustery morning.
The two-hour flight from London to Bilbao went all too quickly. The sun was beating down as we climbed into our taxi. It drove us west for two-and-a-half hours from industrial Bilbao to the Picos National Park where, with its lush pastureland, meadows and woodland, the Picos Mountains were forever looming in the distance.
Cows and sheep grazed either side; there weren't any other cars or tourists. We were staying mostly in Asturian casonas - village inns with traditional cooking. What joy to have found this truly natural paradise without having travelled too far.
But the following day was to be one of serious walking for me: four-and-a-half hours. Nervously I donned my boots. With haversack slung and walking stick held firmly, my walking companion, Julia, and I set off from the village of Besnes. In the hot sunshine we climbed from 250metres to 400metres where we looked down the Garganta (throat) del Cares, a seven-mile gorge with craggy ridges and jagged limestone summits either side.
Enviously I watched four white-wing-tipped eagles and two griffin vultures soaring on the thermals while the Cares River gushed below. After two hours we came across an old brick shed selling cold drinks - a welcome stop! In my enthusiasm I retied my new boots too tight and the left one rubbed on the ankle for the next two-and-a-half hours.
Each bend in this narrow track offered a spectacular view with the river flowing on through the canyon and not another soul in sight, other than three mountain bikers struggling below. I was limping now, thanks to my boots. Even Ned's Second Skin did not help, but, remembering his instruction not to give up, I trekked on.
Travel Guide: Spain
What a dazzler
Minorca makes Majorca and Ibiza look like Blackpool on a dreary day, A brilliant place for a holiday!
Travel Guide: Spain
Peace and quiet
If you like peace and quiet, this is for you. Lovely beaches. We went in August and this is our third time. We've stayed in the north and the south, both are nice, but maybe the south has a slight edge as it's nearer to places, but that's all. It's easy to drive on the island, too.
The people are lovely and friendly and I wish I could afford to buy out there. Family-wise, it's a little too quiet for older teenagers, maybe.
Travel Guide: Spain
Marbellous!
Until recently, Marbella came pretty near the top of my list of places to avoid, along with pubs boasting giant-screen TV, restaurants where the owners harass you at your table, nightclubs with red rope barriers and so-called 'boutique' hotels.
I'd been to Marbella once in the mid-Seventies and again in the early Nineties and - so I thought - had seen more than enough of Spain's answer to Monte Carlo.
Unless I wished to spend my retirement playing golf in a striped shell suit, or was on the run from some major crime, I couldn't imagine ever returning.
I changed my snobbish mind-set about Marbella three years ago, after desperately seeking a short break for wife, nine-year- old daughter and self to escape the bleakness of Britain just after Christmas.
The best available was at a hotel in Estepona - not quite the dreaded M-word, but a few kilometres along the coast. To our surprise, we all loved it.
The January sun was hot enough for us to sit on the beach, even swim in the hotel pool. Despite their long exposure to the British character, all the people who looked after us were utterly charming.
And, as we found with Monte Carlo, it was possible to have a low-key, not-that-expensive family holiday while the super-rich and mega-paranoid pursued their own affairs on a higher, or lower, level.
Perhaps the nicest moment was seeing in the New Year in Marbella's pretty (yes, really) and unspoilt (I kid you not) town square.
We joined a crowd of locals to drink sweet Spanish Cava and watch fireworks burst beyond the orange trees.
Though regarded as a British enclave, especially favoured by those fleeing the consequences of bank robbery or international fraud, Marbella is a polyglot community.
Travel Guide: Spain
Mallorcan holidays fit for stars
In our celebrity-obsessed world it's only natural to ask: What have Boris Becker and Elle MacPherson got in common? Both seek peace in Mallorca.
Yes, Mallorca (or Majorca to use the more common spelling). The Balearic bliss-out is on offer to the south and west of the island, not in the fabled high-rise resorts to the north.
These breaks are not cheap but afford a chance to holiday like a star.
For a sample of the Mallorcan idyll you could always start with La Reserva Rotana, a 17th-century country manor house hotel, 45 minutes from Palma.
As you would expect of a haven that lodges stars and the very well off, it requires some clever map-reading to find, along dusty and rutted roads.
The reward: a home-from-home set in 500 acres of a working farm - and an 18-hole golf course.
One of the delights of La Reserva Rotana is its slightly roguish, septuagenarian owner, Juan R Theler.
The hotel's drawing-room is adorned with heads from his big game shoots. And once dismounted from his motorbike, he'll tell you how he left Switzerland at 40 to find freedom in Mallorca.
His well-stocked bodega with its clarets and Spanish reservas perfectly complement the long, warm dusks.
To contrast with the rural paradise of La Reserva Rotana, there's the Cala d'Or Hotel set on the south-west coast.
It boasts its own little beach cove overlooked by a tree-shaded terrace - a great place for the family.
Travel Guide: Spain
In search of Real Mallorca
From the Mail on Sunday
As a little treat for myself, I fancied a few days in the sun. Not too far away. A couple of days in a nice quiet hotel by the seaside, followed by a couple of days in a town, ending up with the treat itself. I was going on my own, so I could be totally self-indulgent.
Guess what I did first? Find the hotels? Book the plane? Nope. I got out the fixture list for the Primera Liga, Spain's top soccer league.
Spain enjoys the best football in Europe at the moment, so all its teams are worth watching. And several good clubs are based in popular holiday resorts, places more associated in British minds with sun and sea than soccer.
Three in particular - Las Palmas in the Canaries, Malaga and Mallorca - are very handy for Brits who want a holiday and also to take in a game.
For about 30 years, it's been the other way round. Everybody who goes to Arsenal or Spurs knows that each week hundreds of Scandinavian fans come over on special trips for a long weekend, to do the shops, the shows and the footer.
You see them clambering out of coaches, watch them buy shirts from the club shops, then hear them shouting in unison. If sometimes not very well. It was Norwegian fans shouting 'Gooners' for Gunners which made the native Arsenal supporters adopt it.
I opted for Mallorca. They've recently been doing the best of the holiday resorts (they finished last season in third position, ahead of Barcelona, and earlier this month beat Arsenal in the European Champions League).
Mallorca is also pretty easy to get to. If you go charter it can be hell. Palma airport has the worst record for delayed planes. But I went by scheduled service on British Midland. Well, it was a treat.
Even better, I found myself sitting behind Claudia Schiffer. I recognised her at once, as someone I recognised, but wasn't absolutely sure of her name. Then I saw her picture next day in Mallorca's Daily Bulletin with Boris Becker. No, not coming out of a cupboard. She was kicking off a charity football match.
On arrival at Palma Airport, I caught Michael Douglas and Catherine Thingy-Jones leaving. They have a home on Mallorca, as do many other celebs, such as Richard Branson. In his case he has a posh hotel, La Residencia, and some posh villas.
Travel Guide: Spain
I say Madge-orca
From the Mail on Sunday
You say My-orca, and he says M e e -y o r c a. Meanwhile, I must be the last man alive to still insist on calling it Madge-orca.
I persist in this pronunciation partly in memory of an adorable great aunt of mine who lived on the island of Mallorca, or Majorca.
We used to stay with her every summer and I never heard her pronounce it any other way. 'After all, one doesn't call Paris Par-reey, or Florence Firenzay or Spain Espagna does one?' she would say, and I have never seen any reason to disagree.
But sticking to it tends to undo any conversation, because no one likes to correct you. This leaves a black hole where the subject of the conversation should be. 'We're going abroad for a week,' I would say before we set off.
'Anywhere nice?' 'Madge-orca.' 'Oh . . . yes. We went to My-. We went to, er, there the year before last.'
'Where? Madge-orca?' 'Yes, My-. Yes, that sort of thing.'
And so on. Anyway, my pronunciation seemed doubly appropriate, as we had chosen Majorca for very English reasons: we wanted to slob out in the sun, with a tennis court and a swimming pool and a restaurant all within arm's reach.
The island of Majorca offers, needless to say, much more than just a sunny slobfest: from the air, it is clear that the tourist developments of the past 40 years have really affected only the 19-mile stretch of the Bay of Palma, leaving most of the rest of the island as hilly and green - or verdant, as they say in the travel brochures - as ever.
And it would be perfectly possible to visit Majorca only for its history: Chopin and Sand lived in the monastery at Valldemossa and Robert Graves spent most of his adult life in Deia; meanwhile, beyond the lager'n'chips zone, the old part of Palma is full of elaborate and beautiful architecture, including the huge hilltop cathedral, 500 years in the making, with interior decoration by the young Gaudi.
Travel Guide: Spain
Waxing lyrical in spa heaven
My history with Mallorca goes back a long way. I used to go there to visit Lynne Franks, the Empress of PR.
No, Absolutely Fabulous is not all about her - but there were elements of her behaviour when I went to see her there that would certainly have indicated that it was.
Each summer Lynne used to hold a pagan moon dance at her villa in the village of Deya - gatherings of old, heathen hippies with huge, frizzy hair and those wide, inane grins they all have.
I recall much drumming and Lynne naked in the Jacuzzi with her very young fakir boyfriend. He wore the nappy and had the turban on his head and he would lie down and make us cover him with heavy stones. Then a volunteer would hack at the rocks, breaking them but not him.
He ate fire, walked on broken glass and, I imagine, was great in bed. Lynne would dance naked, swim naked and I always thought: 'How brave.'
Near her villa stood the La Residencia hotel and I fell in love with the place the moment I saw it. It lies in a lush valley with jaggedly dramatic mountains on all sides, which you gaze at from a pear-shaped, turquoise pool, surrounded by white umbrellas.
The rooms are on all levels of the hotel, with balconies that give you a view you can only gasp at. The rooms are modern and cool, with tiled floors, hand-carved, four-poster beds and bathrooms so big you can jog in them.
The hotel, rather than being intrusive, makes the landscape even more beautiful. Behind it are olive groves where you hear the constant tinkling of goat bells. On the other side, a cluster of earth-coloured haciendas lines Deya's tiny streets that wind up and up the hill to the church on top.
It really is the stuff of fantasy, as are the nearby beaches, lined with cliffs and dotted with open-air seafood restaurants.
The village inspired the English poet Robert Graves, who moved here to write and surround himself with his band of muses. Isadora Duncan was one, and a whole tribe of intellectual Bohemians followed her to this tiny paradise. Something of this atmosphere remains.
Travel Guide: Spain
Spain without a plane
From the Daily Mail
Birds do it, bees do it, I'm not sure about educated fleas, but one thing is certain - my sister won't do it. Fly, that is. Trying for years to persuade her that air travel is safer than driving to Safeways has been useless. She's still a one-woman no-fly zone.
But the time had come. . . she had to see Majorca. As far as my family is concerned, it's the most beautiful island in the Med, so if we were to get Diane there, it would have to be the old-fashioned way. After all, train and boat had been good enough for Majorca's most celebrated British resident, the poet Robert Graves, who went to live there in the Thirties and stayed for the rest of his life.
We set out to prove that even aerophobics can make it to the island that has since then become today's most popular holiday destination. My wife, Angela, and daughter, Kate, refusing to join in the spirit of adventure, insisted on flying. My sister Diane and I booked the train from London to Barcelona, and the ferry to Palma.
It takes a day-and-a-half by rail, with some spare time to look around Paris or Barcelona. If you're going to do it this way, you can't hurry. One of the delights is to see the country you're passing through, talk to its people, eat its food and not be sealed up in a flying cigar tube with a plastic tray of limp salad and tons of duty-free booze. So here's how to get to Majorca without wings.
STAGE 1, LONDON-PARIS: Robert Graves never had the advantage of Eurostar, of course, which whisks us from Waterloo to Paris's Gare du Nord, swooping headily through northern France. A perfect run. Arrive 7pm, in plenty of time to cross to Gare d'Austerlitz by Metro, a short-enough journey with no changes.
Travel Guide: Spain
How to enjoy this jewel of the Med with a tacky reputation
From the Mail on Sunday
The British love affair with this Balearic island shows no sign of wilting- more than a million of us will holiday there this summer. Yet for many who visit - and for plenty who decline to do so - Majorca means little more than crowded beaches and English bars. TONY KELLY has been visiting the island in summer and winter for several years and has written or contributed to several guidebooks to Majorca (which the Spanish call Mallorca). Here he shares with us some of his personal recommendations for how to get the best out of a Majorcan holiday.
Best hotels
Majorca has witnessed an explosion of 'country house' hotels in recent years, offering five-star luxury in spectacular settings. Richard Branson's La Residen-cia in Deia led the way but it has now been challenged by Son Net, a 17th century manor house above the mountain village of Puigpunyent. The lavish rooms are all marble and hand-carved furniture, and the poolside terrace looks out over orange groves. In Palma, Palacio Ca Sa Galesa is a delightful British-run hotel in a renovated palace near the cathedral. Guests help themselves to afternoon tea and homemade cakes, and in the evening free sherry is put out in the lounge.
Best restaurants
Sa Tafona, in the Son Net hotel, features expensive new Mediterranean cuisine, such as monkfish with pig's ears, in the tasteful setting of a restored olive press. For something more down-to-earth, seek out Majorca's cellers, traditional restaurants offering hearty portions of old-style Majorcan dishes. Celler Es Port, in the resort of Port de Soller, does a wonderful dish of stuffed aubergines and roast shoulder of lamb. For real Majorcan atmosphere, try Celler Sa Premsa in the back streets of Palma, where the wine comes out of a tap in the wall. Go after 10pm to see it at its best.
Best family resort
Port de Pollenca, in the northeast of the island, attracts a wide mix of ages and nationalities and is perfect for families. Set in a bay surrounded by mountains, it is big enough to have a good choice of restaurants and bars but small enough to have avoided the high-rise developments elsewhere. Pine trees lean into the sea along the beachfront promenade, a great place for an early evening drink. Beyond the harbour, the main beach stretches into the distance and is big enough never to get too crowded.
Quiet beaches
In summer you're never going to be alone, but it's not that difficult to escape the crowds- especially if you hire a car. Skinny-dippers should head for Es Trenc on the south coast, an idyllic beach backed by sand dunes which has long been popular with nudists. The lack of restaurants and facilities here means that it rarely gets crowded, except at weekends. Other peaceful spots are the small coves along the east coast, such as Cala Mondrago near the resort of Cala d'Or, and Portals Vells, reached by a drive through the pine woods from Magaluf.
Biggest surprise
Palma is one of the most civilised cities in Spain, with a fine Gothic cathedral, an atmospheric old quarter, and pedestrian shopping streets hiding all manner of treats, from hanging hams and sausages to hand-carved olive wood and handmade shoes. Most people take one look at Palma on the bus from airport to hotel and never return. But you are really missing out if you don't spend a day here.
Travel Guide: Spain
Deliciously lazy days
From the Daily Mail
As I sat on our villa terrace on the outskirts of town, there didn't appear to be any other houses, just hills stacked up behind me. And yet, from nowhere, children's voices echoed, one squealing more excitedly than the rest, as if riding a rollercoaster. I looked out over the citrus orchard and opened another bottle of Cava.
For four summers, my wife, two children and I had adventurously holidayed beyond Europe - the U.S., the Caribbean, Kenya and Mexico. But my wife had had enough. 'I want somewhere no more than a two-hour flight away, that isn't muggy, and where their night isn't our day,' she said. That sounded like Majorca to me.
Driving through the countryside from Palma airport, it felt like coming home. My first foreign holiday was to Spain, and I can't imagine tiring of the place.
That first evening, we strolled along the promenade at Port de Pollenca. At eight o'clock the nightly paseo was already in full flow, and restaurants and cafes vied for business. By day, those Britons whose migratory path leads them back here each summer can simply stake a claim to a spot along Pollenca's endless beachfront. Or take a short pine-clad drive east or west to smaller bays.
Our neighbours from home were staying ten minutes away in Cala Molina. This was their fifth summer in the same villa, a five-minute walk from the beach. Why do they keep going back? 'Because we're never disappointed,' was the answer.
Though the beach was crowded, there were rocks to jump off, fish to poke faces at through snorkles, and a bar for the parents to sit in the shade while ordering Cuba Libres. 'Simple pleasures!' - was how my neighbour summed up the addiction.
Travel Guide: Spain
Taste of Tapas dancing
From the Daily Mail
Madrid is the highest, greenest and sunniest capital city in Europe. If that's not temptation enough for a long weekend, it also boasts a greater concentration of bars than any other city in Spain.
But where do you start? Ideally, with someone in the know. In my case, Carmen, a friend and Madrilena (resident of Madrid) who has refined the tapas bar crawl to an art form.
She says the key to Spain's capital lies not in its looks - a fascinating fusion of medieval alleyways, Germanic spires and Baroque follies - but in its bars and cafes. These have been the pulse of Madrid's intellectual and social life since the 19th century.
My tour begins on a Thursday night in the first bar we see. It doesn't look promising. A pig's haunch, trotter intact, sits on the counter. Undeterred, Carmen asks for pan y tomate con jamon.
Slices of barely-toasted bread come rubbed in tomato and olive oil and topped with rough- cut, sweet ham. It dissolves in the mouth.
'This,' Carmen announces, 'is ordinary. Now we go in search of extraordinary.'
Tapas in Madrid has undergone a renaissance thanks to some imaginative chefs and attractive venues.
La Taberna de los Cien Vinos is one such new-wave bar. The big, beamed room heaves with young Madrilenos clustered around plates of colourful little pinchos - bread with toppings.
We ask for a selection and get a platter bearing a sumptuous mosaic of salt cod, foie gras, smoked salmon, roast lamb, smoked cheese, black pudding, guacamole and prawns. At midnight, we head to our beds, fit to burst.
Outside, Madrid gears up for the evening ahead.
Travel Guide: Spain
Is this the cultural capital?
Madrid is more probably the cultural capital of Spain than Seville, if there is such a thing.
It has the Prado and the Reina Sofia for art (pictures include Las Meninas and Guernica - probably the most famous paintings in the world after the Mona Lisa). There are also a number of lesser-known museums, the Sorolla, for example, and a thriving opera, contemporary art and concert life. It has the only cathedral completed in the 20th century.
Within an hour of Madrid you have: El Escorial - the palace as tomb, Toledo - which has El Grecos lying all over the place, Segovia - huge Roman viaduct, Aranjuez, er, concierto de Aranjuez, Alcala de Henares, birthplace of Cervantes, and Chinchon with its statue of the woman who gave us the G&T,
Seville has even less in terms of culture than Granada or Cordoba, although superficially it is more attractive. It's also full of pickpockets.
Travel Guide: Spain
Party the night away
Myself and five other friends aged between 17 and 21 partied the nights away in the main holiday resort of Puerto Del Carmen and it was the best two weeks of holidays I have every experienced.
I would recommend this resort to anyone because the resort has hundreds of bars and night.
Although Lanzarote may be portrayed as a family island I can definitely say that there were places there for everyone and the night clubs were excellent!!!!!
Travel Guide: Spain
Dark land of the winter sun-seeker
From the Daily Mail
For good-value winter sun it's hard to beat the Canaries, and harder still to beat Lanzarote. It might not have quite the nightlife of Tenerife or Gran Canaria, and there's no doubt the harsh volcanic landscape is not to everyone's taste, but Lanzarote's beaches, resorts and atmosphere make it my pick of the Canary Islands.
It has attractive, low-rise, whitewashed developments and the beaches are good, with soft sand and plenty of space in the bigger resorts. There are some wonderfully unspoilt strands in the south of the island, and spectacular, wave-battered bays in the north-west. Inland is just as pretty - with a handful of traditional villages, and in the north some impressive mountains and caves. Here's my island guide . . .
Puerto del Carmen is the largest resort on the island, stretching for several miles behind a wide expanse of soft (though rather greyish) sand which has plenty of room for all-comers. With by far the liveliest nightlife on the island, it appeals mostly to younger people and families with teenagers.
In the evenings it fairly hums, and the atmosphere is young and loud. The Centro Atlantico, right in the middle of the promenade, is where most nightspots are clustered. If you like a bit of life, but don't want to risk being kept awake into the early hours, look for accommodation around the old port at the southern end of the resort and on the cliffs beyond that. There is a more restrained atmosphere here, and some good fish restaurants.
Playa Blanca has long been my top choice for a family holiday in the Canaries. The resort has three sandy bays backed by an attractive seafront of cafes, restaurants and shops. It's particularly appealing to young families - baby buggies are a common sight. A big choice of self-catering accommodation stretches back from the beaches.
But note that Playa Blanca might be becoming too popular for its own good. To meet demand, building work continues on its outskirts so it's worth checking with your tour operator that there is no work going on near where you'll be staying.
If you are feeling adventurous, about a half-hour's drive down rough tracks from Playa Blanca are the wonderful sandy bays at Papagayo. They are sheltered, unspoilt and uncrowded (although more and more people are getting to know about them). Take your own food and water.
Costa Teguise is to the north of Puerto del Carmen, and more exposed to the wind. This is another extensive resort. Overall, the standard of accommodation is very good, but I don't rate the beach as highly as others on the island, and some parts of the resort, especially those a little inland, can seem soulless. However the windsurfing is excellent so it's popular with the surfing and sailing crowd.
Travel Guide: Spain
Victory sealed at last with a kiss
From the Daily Mail
This was more of an experiment than a holiday. Taking a sulky teenage daughter away with her demanding four-year-old brother would be difficult enough. But for this family, the tensions resulting from our daughter Maria's four-year battle with anorexia have been known to go off the dial. Where could we go for a relaxing, safe, family break? The island of La Palma in the Canaries provided the answer.
Living day-to-day with the illness places impossible demands on any family. Holidays are not a rest, but an extended endurance test. I would not have taken the risk if Maria had not recently made a good recovery. Her twin sister Katy, also once a sufferer but now well, had given us hope. Going on holiday again with Maria seemed worth a try.
Our son, Joseph, seemed blissfully unaware of my anxieties as he helped me pack for our week-long trip to the smallest, and least-known, of the Canary Islands. 'Is Mawea coming with us?' he asked delightedly. It seemed a good omen for family bonding.
I could not have chosen a better location. Although all our family (except Joe) had been to Tenerife before, La Palma was completely different, and, from a parent's point of view, more enticing. Not only was it extremely wild and beautiful, but there was a distinct lack of high-rise hotels and trashy souvenir shops that have so marred the rest of the Canaries. But what would Maria make of it?
We had come at just the right time of year, with vivid purple, fuchsia, and red flowers filling the terraces. The parador itself, complete with pool, gymnasium and sauna, was a cool and stylish traditional Spanish building, with stunning views of the harbour and the island's capital, Santa Cruz de la Palma. I liked it, and so did Maria. 'It's great - like a posh retirement home,' she said.
We decided that the formality and public glare of the dining room was probably not the best idea for our first night, and chose the mix-and-match of room service instead. This turned out to be a lot of fun, with Joseph running wild in his pyjamas as a procession of friendly waiters arrived bearing plates of smoked ham, salads and local fish.
The bread was newly-baked, with a slightly sweet taste that was absolutely delicious. We all sat in our twin-bedded room happily picnicking off the floor. Afterwards I realised that, for once, food had been a pleasure and not an ordeal. Everyone had eaten what they wanted with relish. I went to bed wishing every day could be like that.
Travel Guide: Spain
The man from the Ministry
From the Mail on Sunday
Night-clubbing is a risky business. You spend years hunting the 'it' place of 'now', only to find afterwards that you paid a fortune getting into 'that' dump of 'then'.
So what good news for clubbers to hear that the disco organisation Ministry of Sound has tracked down the elusive 'it', fortuitously to a hotel it owns.
Ministry has opened the Bahia in San Antonio, Ibiza, the first 'clubbers' hotel' with 'non-stop action'. I've witnessed many hotels becoming clubbers' hotels with non-stop action, but in the old days they called the police.
But now, with clubbers a market force - 1.5 million of them alone buy holidays to Ibiza each year - the Bahia could become the hotel of the future.
Already it is one of the world's first digital audio hotels with MP3 music players in every room, its own Internet radio station and more sci-fi experiments planned.
I had been expecting something that looked like a disco, with a neon bar, a light-up floor and a Japanese economics student dressed as Boy George passed out in the corner.
The Bahia looks like what it is - a converted German family hotel, more Moat House than Studio 54.
However, assuming that the vast pulling power of the Ministry does summon hordes of alarmingly dressed youngsters and the world's most overpaid disc jockeys to parties at its poolside bar, 'it' could happen here.
And if you have only to lean over your balcony to join in, that's luxury. As 'the hotel of the future', the Bahia is being used as a test site for futurist gadgets.
Travel Guide: Spain
My haven on isle of sin
From the Daily Mail
The announcement of my imminent departure to Ibiza engendered a number of responses. Most took the form of mild disdain. 'Why on earth do you want to go there? It's supposed to be awful.' Others cracked lame jokes about 'doing' drugs and dancing the night away in a trawl of the clubs that have made this island so notorious.
Hardly the sort of thing for a respectable 34-year-old with three children under seven. Only one person gave me encouragement - a friend who had lived on Ibiza for two years and for whom the very mention of the place conjured the fondest memories. She assured me that, for family holiday, her island would not let us down. And it didn't. In fact, I now have a six-year-old son whose vision of heaven on earth is a small beach on the rugged north-east coast of Ibiza.
For all its sins, Ibiza has countless saving graces. On the one hand, there's the tackiness of mass-market tourism - crude architectural 'holiday' developments, mile on mile of inflatable crocodiles and sleazy bars posing as Ye Olde English Pub. On the other hand, there is a gloriously serrated coastline, punctuated by small, generally sandy coves, and there is inland Ibiza - quite mountainous, yet with swathes of fertile, deep red soil, and pretty rural villages like Santa Gertrudis and San Carlos.
Our personal saving grace came in the form of 15 flower-filled acres, at the centre of which stood an elegantly rambling country house, known to most as Can Lluqui but, to my fickle children, quite simply as 'home'.
We had taken the villa option for a number of reasons, primarily for space and privacy. I was tired of worrying whether noisy children were ruining someone else's holiday and loath to spend another week with one, if not all, of them in my bedroom. How many times, too, have I ordered costly children's meals, only to see them shunted away, untouched?
Supermarket shopping in Europe is infinitely more exciting than a trip to your local Sainsbury's and it is by far the cheapest way to keep your children adequately fed and watered. In Ibiza, the main supermarket is so technologically advanced that you can pay for your shopping in your own national currency, and even in those strange things called euros.
'Home' was larger than we needed - parts of the garden remained undiscovered and we never quite got to grips with the outdoor bar or barbecue. But the hammock, slung beneath a natural canopy of bougainvillea and hibiscus, and the swimming pool became the focus of our attentions. Our days fell into a fixed pattern of mornings at 'home' by the pool, and afternoons on the beach - a different one each day, of course.
And therein we discovered that the real joy of Ibiza is its size - no journey took longer than 45 minutes in the car. In the south-west of the island, not far from 'home', we enjoyed our afternoon at Cala Vadella, regretted our trip to the overcrowded Cala Tarida and were delighted by, though not entranced with, Cala d'Horte - hailed incorrectly, in my view, as the loveliest beach on Ibiza.
My advice is to head north, where the landscape mutates from parched, rocky insignificance to sensuous, pine-clad loveliness. The drive to the picturesque cove at Cala Xaracca gave us our first taste of northern pleasures and although the beach was stony there were shells aplenty to keep the children occupied for hours.
Travel Guide: Spain
Fantastic family fun
Our apartments in Playa d'en Bossa were fantastic value for money - the location for the family perfect, set right on the beach. Lots of activities for the kids and adults alike - beach volley ball, jet skis etc. Lovely clean pools and, although within close location to the shops and bars, it wasn't noisy at night. The small town has lots going on at night, fun bars for the kids - street artists and spray painters like you've never seen before.
Hair braiding and local jewellery are also on offer and lots of very reasonable restaurants - my firm favourite is La Paloma, who do fantastic breakfasts and meals. On our last evening we went the full hog and had starters, mains and huge ice creams with sparklers - the lot for my family of five came to about £50 with drinks, free lollies and vodka liqueurs. I would fully recommend the location to anyone looking for a good-value holiday with children in mind.
Travel Guide: Spain
Hot-foot through secret Spain
From the Mail on Sunday
Spanish tinned food is not something you would want to write home about. Nor Spanish beds. Nor Spanish road signs, for that matter. But we did have a good walk, my wife and I - about 60 miles in all through the Andalucian mountains.
What with El Nino doing the decent thing by way of keeping the sierra still verdant in June and the holiday organisers having our luggage sent on from hotel to hotel to await us at the end of each day, it seemed as civilised as route marching over rugged mountains gets.
But it had its hairy moments. We got lost on a mountain for about an hour. It would have to happen when my wife had just slipped on a rock and pulled a muscle. I was reading The English Patient and my mind was racing. Ahead we could see a big black cave.
I thought: 'This is it. Wife stays in cave with sprained ankle watching the enormous eagles circling overhead while I stumble on for help.' Wife thought that because she had the only anorak I would probably expect to stay in the cave while she stumbled on for help.
But most of the time it was hay fever wot did me in. I followed my wife on her ten-mile-a-day treks, blinded by stinging eyes and sneezing that stopped and started according to the pollen count of the wild flowers.
We were in Grazalema National Park, a mountainous chunk of Andalucia an hour's train journey due north from Gibraltar. You should really go in March to early May before the countryside gets the leathery look of your dusty boots. We went in June and offered a prayer of thanks to El Nino and the unseasonal rain and cool weather that had kept in bloom the flowers and plants which by rights should have died a month before.
Reds, soft yellows, gold, purple, blue, white and cream all spread across the meadows and up the hillsides. I cannot name the plants. That is for my wife, the planter and gardener. I know daisies and poppies and there were lots of them, but much more besides.
Sierra de Grazalema is in that part of Spain known for its white hillside villages where the Moors lived. It radiates out from Ronda, a cliche of an Andalucian hill town the charabancs visit from Torremolinos, Fuengirola, Marbella and Estepona on the coast.
We didn't see any tourists in the mountains. There were plenty of goats, several head of cattle, a few pigs, far too many barking dogs, lots of singing birds and once or twice a fellow human being. We liked it that way.
Travel Guide: Spain
Beyond the Alhambra
No sooner had I pointed out the Plaza de Toros than a uniformed man on a moped pulled alongside the car, flipped up his helmet visor and gesticulated for us to wind down the window.
'Are you lost?' he asked. We nodded. 'Pull over,' he ordered. 'I'll help you.' I know, I know. If the uniform had been bogus and he'd pulled a knife, it would have served us right. Except that pinned to his breast pocket was a Tourist Information badge - which thankfully was genuine.
As he pored over a map, indicating the pedestrian-only zone encircling the city centre, he explained that in Granada a fleet of information officers scour the streets for tourists to assist.
The Alhambra was our principal reason to visit Granada. The red fortress, which stands atop Sabika Hill in the Sierra Nevada, is recognised as the most important medieval citadel in the Western world.
There is no 'must-do' tourist agenda here, so visits to the Sacromonte and the Federico Garcia Lorca Museum (he was executed during the Spanish Civil War), and the chance to potter about ancient chapels and convents, were an added treat.
What our helpful information officer omitted to tell us was that while the Alhambra appears to be a breezy stroll from the central Plaza del Carmen, it isn't. There are plenty of buses and taxis going up there, but we zig-zagged up the road to the summit.
Once inside, the maze of fortresses is mightily impressive, looming over Granada to the south and the Sierra Nevada to the east. Centuries of fortifying, intricate masonry, sculptures and ornate paintings meant meandering in and out of the complex took most of the day.
The chance to study Granada from a height draws most tourists to the outer walls of the Alcazaba. Below sits the cathedral and to the west is the Albayzin, the whitewashed old gipsy quarter, where residents still talk of going 'down' to Granada, so precarious is the descent.
Looking down on a jumble of Seventies blocks alongside monuments such as the Cuarto Real (a 13th-century royal retreat), the city is an architectural shambles - which isn't surprising: the Romans, Iberians, Barbarians, Berbers and Moors all left their cultural marks.
Granada has an unpretentious, careworn appearance, and its half-hearted infiltration by tourists has yet to make any real impact on its centre. Perhaps the relaxed atmosphere is due to its thriving student population of 60,000.
Travel Guide: Spain
Hot but not much more
It's mid-December in Europe. When you get off the plane you brace yourself for that chill wind, and the best bit is... it doesn't hit you.
Gran Canaria is, undeniably, a safe bet for winter sun, and you can see the attraction in that.
It's just a pity that its best feature is really its only one, and obsessed as Brits are with it, it's not really enough to entertain most people for a week.
Gran Canaria is described as a continent in miniature because of its varied landscape. Really, it's more like two nations; the fertile north - in which the Canarians live and work - and the arid, concrete-covered south where the tourists holiday without a drop of Spanish food, culture, language or passion.
If sun and sand are your only drives, then you can happily spend a week lazing on a sun lounger.
Indeed, families are well-catered for - with a number of fun attractions and plenty of activities. For the independent traveller, it's a complete disaster.
We struggled to keep ourselves entertained, and our only rescue, the mountains, were frustratingly inaccessible. It's worth hiring a car and climbing the snaking passes through the stunning mountains to find where the Canarians are hiding.
But, be warned, the roads are not for those with faint hearts and low fuel.
Certainly worth a visit are Teror in the north, Puerto de Mogan on the southern coast, and the Maspalomas dunes. The rest of the southern coast is charmless and under construction.
Cheap package bargain, yes. Satisfying holiday, no.
Travel Guide: Spain
Where we are forever young
From the Daily Mail
There is a white Andalucian village in the Ronda hills where our four children will be forever teenagers. It has no disco, no nightclub or even a piano bar.
There is nowhere to buy CDs or hire a Vespa, and no internet cafe.
The closest beach is nearly an hour away. If a girl were to walk along one of its steep little streets in a bikini, old men would goggle and old women in black would spit in the gutter.
Describe this place to your average 16-year-old and tell him this was where the family planned to spend the summer holidays and he would look at you aghast, as if you were sentencing him to a fortnight in a retirement home.
The idea of a family holiday in itself is pretty off-putting at that age.
Yet mention the name of this village to our son, now 18, and his three older sisters and their faces light up, as they have done for the past dozen years or so, ever since our first holiday in Gaucin.
It was partly to do with the house we rented, a few miles outside the village. It had ceiling fans and an ice-making machine.
The Sevillan tiles, the miniature Alhambra patio and the giant oak front door made it feel as though Casa Gandolfo had been there for a hundred years, though it was actually the same age as our eldest daughter.
It was partly to do with the pool, which was not blue and rectangular but greenish and irregular and surrounded by rocks, like a mountain lagoon. There were underwater lights for night-time skinny-dipping.
Maybe even the views down the valley to the old town of Jimena de la Frontera and its ruined Moorish castle contributed to the romance.
Travel Guide: Spain
Don't tell the others
The beach I'm standing on is somewhere on the wild, wave-bashed Costa da Morte.
Quietly, I'm gloating over the fact that I've got here first. Even the Germans don't seem to have discovered this one.
Traba beach - hidden away off the main road between the idyllic Gallego fishing villages of Laxe and Camelle - is a reminder of what Spain was like before mass tourism arrived.
It boasts an unbroken one-and-a-quarter mile curve of fine white sand, set after perfect set of translucent turquoise-tinted breakers, and a backdrop of rolling green hills unblemished by holiday condos and cheap paella joints.
Welcome to the costa the tour companies forgot about.
OK, to tell the truth I am not totally alone. Behind me, sitting on the dunes eating their lunch - protective white overalls unzipped to reveal combat jackets - about 50 young Spanish army recruits are taking a break from a task they never envisaged.
For the past three months they have been helping clear up the damage caused by the 14,000 tonnes of highly toxic crude oil that spilled out of the tanker Prestige last November.
The spotless state of Traba today, less than eight months after the first slicks came ashore, says a huge amount about the tireless work of the Spanish army and the thousands of volunteers who came here from all over Spain to clean up the mess.
The Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, extends in a heavily indented curve between the Galician cities of La Coruna and Santiago de Compostela.
In ancient times this most westerly corner of Europe was known as Dutika Mere - the region of misfortune.
Pilgrims once trekked here to see what was then considered to be the end of the world - Finis terrae in Latin or Fisterra in the local dialect - and the entire area is littered with the remains of Swabian and Visigoth backpackers.
Unfortunately, Columbus's discoveries rather killed off the 'World's End' T-shirt trade and Spain's most rugged coastline simply became renowned for its lighthouses and the ships that failed to be warned by them.
Travel Guide: Spain
Finding culture on the Costa Blanca
If you thought the Costa Blanca offers nothing more than tawdry towerblock hotels and egg and chips culture, think again.
Because Xabia (pronounced Havea) and the surrounding areas, with their Moorish influences and moreish cuisine, could not be further from the stereotype in style and substance.
Staying at the resort's four-star El Rodat hotel, the beauty of Spain's Valencia district is on your doorstep and waiting to be explored.
If you crave the quiet life, the hotel has its own pool and being within a mile of the beach is far enough to escape the throng but close enough to walk.
Its chefs cater for all tastes and the H'anoa, the hotel's signature restaurant, serves a blend of refined European and traditional Spanish cuisine.
Xabia, on the Costa Blanca's south-east tip, is the perfect base from which to explore the region.
The town boasts a wide range of restaurants, bars and local markets serving traditional Spanish food and beaches to rival many on the Mediterranean.
A trip to the mountain town of Guadalest provides a great visual introduction to the Valencia region's history.
The site was chosen as a strongpoint to fend off Moorish raiders in the middle ages and many of buildings have been preserved in their original state.
Higher areas are accessible through a cutting in the rock, highlighting how the town was able to fend off raiders.
The church area and look-out posts at the top of the mountain provide stunning panoramic views of the surrounding countryside and coast.
The historic beauty spot offers a wide selection of shops and restaurants serving authentic Spanish food.
Returning down the hillside affords the opportunity to taste a host of dishes at the Nou Salat, including the chef's speciality traditional paella with garlic mayonnaise.
The Costa Blanca's expansive coastline of beaches and beauty spots extends along and beyond the town of Xabia.
Travel Guide: Spain
Lively lava landscape
From the Daily Mail
When you first land at Lanzarote airport, you could be forgiven for thinking the pilot got rather ambitious, and diverted to the moon. The landscape of this Canary Island is unique, a skyline stuffed with volcanoes.
There are vast seas of black rock and lava, of scrub and heathland dotted with whitewashed houses clustered against the severity of the surrounding countryside.
Lanzarote is the land where nature lost its temper, where volcanoes exploded and lava surged through the island for six long years, 250 years ago, and created a landscape little changed, even now.
None of this is what Lanzarote is known for, however. Lanzarote is burger bars, black beaches, bargain basement. It's cheap 'n' cheerful, chips 'n' chicken nuggets.
For heaven's sake, anywhere whose name rhymes with 'grotty', is doomed before it starts.
Yet this perception, both unfair and roughly accurate, is what makes Lanzarote fascinating. It mixes the incredibly stylish with the insufferably naff; sophisticated architecture and ambitious projects with downmarket, low-rent, high-return developments.
One of the best examples of this is in Costa Teguise, location of the Gran Melia Salinas hotel, one of the island's most luxurious.
This is the kind of hotel where chambermaids pop in to puff up your pillows and rearrange your towels every time you leave your room.
Five restaurants within the walls of Gran Melia Salinas and not a chicken nugget for love nor money. Two minutes away, though, you can't get anything but.
Travel Guide: Spain
The Costa del Solitude
There is something almost unbearably melancholy about the Costa del Sol in the winter, when the brilliant blue of the summer sky turns pewter and winter drizzle dampens the palm trees.
Call me idiosyncratic, but I prefer it in winter.
For me there's a heart-rending, wistful charm to the slick wet cobbles of the towns along the southern Spanish coast when the rain is pouring down and tables, covered with puddles, stand stacked up outside the cafes.
The local inhabitants may have to wrap themselves in their overcoats and brandish their umbrellas, but they also seem more relaxed, more themselves, when there aren't thousands of tourists swamping them.
Take Marbella, a town I've come to know and love over the years.
This month I sat in one of my favourite restaurants - the beach club of the excellent Hotel El Fuerte, on the Playa del Venus, the city centre's smartest beach - and watched the seagulls scavenge for bread on the dark sand as the drizzle swept in from the Mediterranean.
There may not have been any breathtakingly beautiful young women desporting themselves topless on the Playa's sun loungers, in fact the loungers were all stacked away.
But in their place were ladies walking their dogs, mothers taking their children to a cafe and elderly couples strolling arm-in-arm.
There was compassion in the air of the sort there never is during the furnace months of July and August.
In the Plaza de los Naranjos, a film of water coated the oranges already hanging from the branches, and the old ladies wore supermarket bags on their heads to protect their hair.
You get more of a sense of the town that Marbella really is, rather than the one that the tourists think they know.
For example, you'll find the pastry shops and cafes as full on a December day as they would be in the summer, but packed with locals rather than tourists, spending a wintry afternoon in animated conversation. They would never dream of going to such places in the summer.
Travel Guide: Spain
Roque star of the Costa
From the Mail on Sunday
As well as the 'Costa' (a strong pound has made property very affordable) and the 'Sol' (reputedly 350 days a year), the other big attraction of southern Spain for the Brits is now golf. The signs on the N340, which runs from Gibraltar to Malaga, have been amended accordingly: below Costa del Sol they have added Costa del Golf. This just in case you hadn't noticed the dozens of courses, which have become part of the landscape like remnants of green carpet thrown down in a desert.
Thousands of retired Brits now sip their sangria at the 19th hole and, if they are nostalgic for the UK, they can go and sit in a jam on the coastal freeway, which will remind them of the northbound M1 on a Friday night.
Given that no one in our family can tell a seven iron from a putter and resorts such as Estepona, San Pedro and Alcaidesa (spreading, mock-Moorish urbanisations with cranes standing around like grazing giraffes and gritty, unattractive beaches) hold little appeal, we came clean and owned up to the children that, along with buckets and spades, guidebooks had been packed and some sightseeing was on the agenda.
We drove north from San Roque, where we were staying, looping round the mountain roads until the Rock of Gibraltar and the coastline of North Africa were distant specks. At the point where the children had given up hope that there was anything at all to see, Ronda came into view, impossibly perched on the top of a cliff.
Ronda is one of the better known 'pueblo blancos', so named because they are whitewashed in Moorish style. It is probably the most spectacularly positioned town in Spain, split by a dramatic gorge, the Tajo, with the two parts of the town joined by an 18th-century bridge spanning the 300ft drop.
As we wandered down the main street, we caught glimpses of the pale yellow Andalusian landscape at the end of little alleyways. It was as if we had climbed to the 25th floor of a skyscraper and were looking down on the rest of the world.
Travel Guide: Spain
Nelson's Trafalgar is a triumph for Spain
From the Daily Mail
Well it's certainly nothing like Trafalgar Square,' muttered the stout lady from Sevenoaks. Joan and her husband Bill were looking out to Cape Trafalgar - the rocky headland that juts into the Atlantic Ocean off the southern coast of Spain.
This is where Nelson fought his last and greatest victory, in 1805. While Joan chatted to me about her holiday plans on this, the unspoilt Costa de la Luz, Bill scanned the lighthouse gates for a memorial to the great seafarer's triumph. He found none.
I peered at the restless sea, imagining the British admiral pacing the quarterdeck, giving orders to the captains of his four frigates to fire against French and Spanish fleets, and, as he lay dying, thinking loving thoughts of Emma, Lady Hamilton.
Were he alive today, Nelson would surely have recognised this stretch of sun-baked southern Spain. Endless arcs of fine, white sand, often backed by pillowy banks of dunes, tiny fishing villages with Moorish castle ruins and simple, bleached cottages can have changed little since the early 19th century.
Even the tuna fishing industry still plays a significant role. In neighbouring Zahara de los Atunes, the crumbling walls of the sea-facing Almadraba castle, built by the Dukes of Medina, was once a depot for tuna fishers.
Today's fishermen employ more modern methods for catching and canning, but the fish is not just exported; scan the menu at the Grand Sol, the pretty two-star hotel opposite, and tuna figures prominently.
And many of the cars parked beneath the orange trees on Calle Sanchez Rodriguez bore the Malaga registration plate - evidence that the Costa de la Luz remains primarily a Spanish secret. It is easy to see why.
Here are untouched beaches and superb sands - at Zahara, a broad, talcum powder-soft strand stretching for 12km - and all within an hour's drive from the crowded resorts of the Costa del Sol. But tranquility comes at a price. This is the Atlantic, and so the sea is cooler, and the winds can be rough.
For Tarifa, at the tip of Spain and the first stop on the 100km coastal stretch that runs as far as Cadiz, these winds are a positive boon.
This is wind-surfers' paradise: a dusty, dreary town which hosts year-round competitions. On a clear day you can look across the Atlantic swell and the wind-surfers' colourful sails, all the way to Africa - a short boat ride south.
Travel Guide: Spain
The Costa del Dali
From the Daily Mail
Long derided as the spiritual home of the straw donkey and bucket-and-spade brigade, the Costa Brava, that stretch of fading resorts between Barcelona and the French border, is in danger of becoming fashionable again.
Part of the reason is Salvador Dali.
The eccentric Spanish surrealist artist, who was born and lived most of his life in the region, bequeathed his memorial museum to the town of Figueres.
It's now the second most-visited museum in Spain.
Along with Cadaques, a former fishing village where Dali lived most of his life, Figueres has been quick to cash in on the connection with the area's most famous native son.
There are touches of Dali everywhere: Dali cafes and bars; a Dali statue overlooking the seafront in Cadaques; a Dali sundial on the façade of a local hotel; even a 'Dalicattessen' in Figueres.
Dali's mystique has given Figueres and the northern Costa Brava a new cachet. It's not just about sun and sand any more; it's about art, too.
Figueres entertains tourists by the coachload to visit the surreal Teatre-Museu Dali, a fantastic fortress-like, reddish-ochre building topped with rows of the artist's trademark eggs.
Many then make the pilgrimage to Cadaques, 30km away on the coast.
Just outside the town, in the village of Port Lligat, is the Casa-Museu Dali, where the artist and his equally eccentric wife Gala lived from 1948 until her death in 1982.
The house, built over the remains of a pair of fishermen's cottages, is topped with yet more eggs.
Travel Guide: Spain
Pining for the hills of the Costa Brava
From the Daily Mail
At 9pm, the Costa Brava's Tamariu beach was still busy with children playing volleyball or careering after each other into the sea.
A huddle of five middle-aged male Catalans flexed their mahogany bodies attempting to stiffen flagging pecs. Old friends, they prodded each other and laughed at their age-ravaged decline.
In another corner, on the boules court, six compadres were hotly contesting the final stages of their world championship.
Meanwhile, the sun was in retreat, creeping across the beach and up through the three-storey, stylish huddle of white buildings that fringed the tight bay, blazing through the pink crags and up through the pine forest.
We were sitting on a bar terrace in the prettiest of the densely pine clad, plunging coves that moved a 20th-century Catalan poet to dub this coastline 'Costa Brava' - the 'Rugged Coast'.
We chatted easily amid the Babel of holidaying languages. Fifty yards away, an 8ft-high diving board projected from the rocks above the sea; two hours earlier we were leaping from it with all the other kids, sharing in the general Esperanto of screams and whoops.
The day had been what you go on holiday for: shuffling from cafe to sandy beach to boules court to beach to rocks to alfresco restaurant and back again. Exhausted, we returned to our villa - a five-minute drive away.
All day the gibbous moon had hung impatiently in the sky. Finally, it was its time. Mars turned up along with a couple of early stars. Then, a few constellations put in an appearance and soon it was a street party.
Millions of miles beneath them, we were enjoying a party of our own in the villa's floodlit pool, two families who seem to have known each other for ever, with no nasty personal habits left to discover - seven of us sharing the pool, snorkelling gear, inflatable boat, supermarket grilled chickens, and those stars.
This year, we managed two whole weeks of summer holiday and were therefore a little more generous with the days, squeezing in several sorties from our Tamariu base.
Travel Guide: Spain
Nice walk but where did we get those hats?
From the Mail on Sunday
My wife Linda and I have been on several walking holidays, so we knew what we had signed up for with this trip.
They are lovely ways of getting away from everything - you leave your tiny village inn in the morning and, with just a small rucksack containing your lunch and a book (and in my case a radio on the off-chance of being able to pick up Radio 4's The World At One) you walk along way-marked paths through empty countryside, seeing no one all day.
By the time you see your destination village in the late afternoon, you feel like a character in a Thomas Hardy novel: coming over the crest of a hill into a village of about 200 inhabitants, you feel as if you've reached Sin City, chockfull of temptations for the flesh - look, a cake shop and, oh my God, a discount shoe store!
You round off the day with a nice soak in the bath and then go downstairs with a confident step for your dinner. And you can eat and drink all you like because you feel in an obscure way that you have earned it.
This particular walking holiday was in Catalonia, Spain, but we assumed the basic pattern would be the same as anywhere else abroad: your luggage is taken daily by taxi from hotel to hotel while you walk along ancient pathways, so your dirty underpants get to travel in air-conditioned luxury while you have to hoof it.
Transferring from the airport shuttle train to the Gerona express at Barcelona Sants station, we got a reminder that the Catalonian capital is not a place to drop your guard when a too-helpful stranger in the guise of lifting my wife's case on to the train tried to also lift her purse from her handbag. He should have known better than to try to dip a girl from Liverpool's Scotland Road since all he got was an elbow in the face and a hernia from her suitcase full of philosophy books.
That was the last bit of danger of the week, though. All the resorts we visited were warm, welcoming and very safe.
Travel Guide: Spain
My blind date with a frisky Andalucian
From the Mail on Sunday
Spain has always been a good destination for holiday romance. I had my first one on the Costa Brava at the age of 14. Now aged 40, I had not expected to repeat the experience.
This time, though, the object of my passion was a horse, a beautiful Andalucian who was my constant companion for a week of thrilling riding in Catalonia. It was not, however, love at first sight. On arrival at Can Jou - a remote riding centre cum 15th-Century rural inn - the owner, Englishman Mick Peters, assured me that he carefully matches his clients with their horses.
When I first set eyes on my blind date, she was manically scraping her hoof on the yard. I wondered which traits he had focused on for me. Neurotic? Nervous? At that moment, I was certainly the latter. I hadn't seen a display of such passionate flamenco since Joaquin Cortes stamped his stuff at the Albert Hall and I wondered if I could handle the Spanish temperament.
Mick assured me that Elsa's behaviour wasn't sinister, it simply reflected that she was 'forward-going' - a horsey expression for fast, willing and eager. All these things she turned out to be, and neither of us ever looked back, except to admire the views.
Her impatience simply showed her desire to set off on our 130-mile journey, six days of spectacular trail-riding from the mountains to the sea and back again. A group of ten (English, German, Dutch and one American) rode for a week into the rugged area of the Pyrenean foothills known as Alta Garrotxa (Garrotxa meaning 'land difficult to walk upon'), along the edge of a spectacular gorge and eventually to the open plains of the Ampurdan region known for its rare birdlife and lush vegetation.
We galloped at full pelt through the surf of the long and sandy Bay Of Roses and, to complete the circle, made our way back through rolling fields and woodlands to the oak forests of the Garrotxa.
There was a tremendous variation in pace. One minute we would be ambling along, enjoying the scenery andante. The very next, when the call 'Galope!' went up from our leader, we would be hurtling along.
Sometimes we would simply have to get off and walk - and when you are riding for seven hours a day, this can be more than welcome.
Travel Guide: Spain
A walk through the thunder mountains
To begin at the beginning: 11,000 years ago the last and biggest Catalonian volcano erupted in the heart of the unstable Garroxta region in north-eastern Spain.
Towering and sizzling over its humped neighbours, El Croscat rose to 2,578ft, then cooled, solidified and slept.
The centuries clothed its flanks with chestnut, holm-oak and aromatic grass then eventually the dormant cones were dotted with golden stone Romanesque churches and walled towns dozing in the sun.
In 1982 the Catalan authorities decided to stop the mineral excavations that had been nibbling at the volcano. Instead it was tidied up until it appeared to have been cut open, with a large slice removed like a piece of pie, demonstrating what a volcanic cone looks like inside.
So now you can stand in a surreal, V-shaped arena looking at layers of rock and ash in stripes from black on the outside to red at the heart, just as if you had stepped into a cutaway diagram.
Husband Paul and I had walked a great many miles over rocks to look at this. It was worth it. There were many prettier landscapes on our 50-mile meander across this wild corner of Spain but none so arresting.
Our walk had begun well north of the volcanic Garroxta region, up in the high foothills of the Pyrenees.
We slept the first night 3,000ft up in a gorgeous medieval village called Mollo.
This is one of Inntravel's newer expeditions, leading across country with few British tourists and fewer English speakers. As usual they book you a chain of inns, supply a file of maps and directions and a taxi to transport the serious baggage.
It is softie backpacking: you carry only your picnic, water, first aid, compass, waterproof and whistle - but you need good boots and enough nous not to end up on the wrong side of the mountain.
Your reward for getting it right is a very good dinner, often with mouthwatering Creme Catalan (custard made by angels).
Travel Guide: Spain
In search of the Paradors
From the Daily Mail
The sound of water splashing over stone woke me. In the courtyard of the Castillo de Siguenza, a fountain gurgled in the early morning light. From my room - tiled floors, dark-stained wood and heavy linen drapes - I could see the terracotta roofs of medieval Siguenza beyond the castle walls.
Downstairs, two suits of armour stood beside a table laid with a solid Spanish breakfast of meat, eggs and cheese. All this was mine for less than the price of a medium-range hotel room at home.
Spain's paradors are one of tourism's great success stories. Government-run, they form a countrywide network of distinctively Spanish accommodation. Some, like the 12th-century Castillo de Siguenza, are historical buildings; others are more modern. But all share the qualities of comfort and character rarely found in chain hotels.
My fly-drive itinerary had brought me north of Madrid to the region of Castile. Set on the high meseta, Spain's vast central plateau, Castile was once the geographical and spiritual heart of Spain, presiding over its Golden Age (Queen Isabella, Columbus's patron and founder of the empire, came from here) and its subsequent decline.
It's a dramatic land of ruined castles, towering cathedrals, half-abandoned villages and crumbling cities crammed with the relics of former glories.
Paradors can be booked in the UK, but in a region where few people speak English, a few phrases of Spanish is a good idea, as is a decent map. More importantly, you also have to adapt to the notion of Spanish time. Lunch is the main meal of the day in rural Spain.
Don't expect a light snack on the dot of one o'clock. At the dusty town of Soria, I checked into the Parador de Antonio Machado, a well-run place with splendid views over the hills, and set out in search of food.
At 3.30pm I was the first person in the restaurant in the town plaza. By 6pm I was still working my way through a menu del dia that began with sopa castellano, a heavy concoction laced with garlic, with an egg broken over the steaming bowl. I progressed through two meat courses, cheese and dessert, accompanied by a steady flow of red wine. And the price of this banquet? Little more than £9.
Travel Guide: Spain
The rain in Spain
By the time the massive 2,000-passenger ferry, the Val de Loire, slipped out of Plymouth Sound accompanied by half a dozen playful porpoises, I was feeling distinctly uneasy.
I had lost count of the number of times well-meaning friends, on hearing of our plans to sail to Spain rather than fly, had sucked the air in through their teeth and, gazing at me with pity, said that the Bay of Biscay was notoriously rough.
'Take sea-sickness pills and plenty of whisky,' one advised. 'Don't give the children anything to eat before the crossing - you'll be mopping it up later,' another cheerily commented.
We opted for the ferry from Plymouth to Santander, in Cantabria, north-west Spain, for a number of reasons: we wanted to have our own car, to avoid the expense of car hire in Spain, and to stuff ours full of cheap Spanish wine on the return voyage.
Neither of our children - Olivia, three, and Tom, six - likes flying, and having melted on southern Spanish beaches in previous years, and been crushed by the tide of holidaymakers that swarm to the Costas, we decided to try the cooler and less crowded beaches of the north.
The sea when we crossed, I am pleased to report, was wonderfully calm, and the children slept like logs in their bunks.
The disadvantage was the amount of cash I had to part with during the 24-hour crossing.
Our party of four easily spent more than £100 on food and children's entertainment, including £16 for us to see the film Ice Age in one of the ship's two cinemas.
On the return voyage, battle-hardened as we were, we kept the cost down by bringing vast quantities of bread and cheese with us, and kept the children under ship arrest so they could not spend our money in the arcades.
After arriving in Santander, we headed west to Asturias through a countryside of rolling green hills, backed by the stunning mountains of the Picos de Europa.
Travel Guide: Spain
A guide to the islands
From the Daily Mail
GRAN CANARIA
Not the biggest of the Canaries; it just feels that way when you try to negotiate some of the busiest streets of the capital, Las Palmas.
Most visitors find themselves in one of the purpose-built resorts in the south of the island and fortunately most stay there for the duration, apart from the odd trip into town.
The secret to getting the most out of Gran Canaria, then, is to hire a car and get away from the maddening throng.
While the island can be circumnavigated in a day, it's more fun to push north to explore some of the typical old settlements or into the mountainous centre to visit villages such as Artenara, perched at 1,200m, pausing for lunch on the terrace at the Meson de Silla restaurant to admire its stunning views.
But even those who fail to make it that far from the sun-lounger usually manage a glimpse of Las Palmas's most distinctive stretch of sand, the amazing desert-like dunes of Maspalomas. And no, that camel train crossing it is not a mirage; it's a tourist attraction.
LANZAROTE
A favourite with generations of British tourists, Lanzarote takes pride in its extraordinary volcanic landscape. Black ash becomes a manicured garden, jagged tiny peaks a carefully tended rockery, while the lunar landscape of the island's Mountains of Fire is its most popular natural attraction.
Arrecife is the main town, Puerto del Carmen the principal tourist resort.
Both used to be small fishing ports and, though they attract crowds these days, there are still boats in their harbours and good fish restaurants to visit after the evening passeo.
Those of a cultural disposition should enjoy the troglodyte home and surreal art of Cesar Manrique; those who prefer the seaside will find the best beaches in the south of the island, along the bumpy tracks beyond Playa Blanca.
FUERTEVENTURA
For many people, this is little more than a windy desert just 50 miles from the Sahara. The upside is that at least the sand is good and the windsurfing is among the best in the world.
Corralejo in the north is the best-known resort and is good for families.
One of the highlights for day-trippers is a jaunt inland to Betancuria, founded in a fertile valley in 1405.
However, the best beaches are in the south, particularly the magnificent stretches on the Jandia peninsula.
You will need a four-wheel-drive car to reach the loveliest stretches, such as Playa de Barlovento.
On the way back north, stop for a meal at one of the restaurants in the traditional fishing village of Las Playitas.
Travel Guide: Spain
Another sherry, Mr Bond?
Cadiz is used to insurgents, though it's a safe bet that this is the first time an invasion has been led by the world's most stylish secret agent and a beautiful woman clad in a stunning bikini.
Bond has been to this south-western corner of Spain and the city may never be the same again. Never mind that Cadiz acts as a stand-in for Havana in the 007 movie, everyone knows where the sequences were shot.
The whole of Spain looked on as Hollywood fever swept into town in the spring. But what was supposed to be a few days' simple shooting for Die Another Day turned into two fraught weeks as the normally reliable Andalucian weather refused to cooperate.
The Fifties Cadillacs sat in front of the Campo del Sur's pastel-coloured houses as the crew waited for the rain and fierce winds to abate. And when they did, Halle Berry, fresh from her Oscar success with Monster's Ball, was rushed to hospital after debris from a smoke grenade flew into her eye.
A swift operation later, she was back at the seafront - and the highlight of many a local's decade, never mind year, had arrived.
This was the moment when Ms Berry strode out of the surf on to the city's La Caleta beach wearing only an exquisitely cut orange bikini, a diver's knife and the sultriest of looks.
Forget Pierce Brosnan. Bond may be the worldwide brand which gets punters through the cinema doors, but this is the scene which will live in the memory from Die Another Day.
If Cadiz is expecting an invasion of tourists on the strength of this supporting role, it's long overdue. The great Moorish cities of Andalucia - Seville, Cordoba and Granada - have for years drawn visitors while the oldest settlement in Europe has been ignored.
Set on a narrow peninsula where every square inch of land is built on or grassed over, Cadiz has a different feel to the rest of southern Spain.
Its heyday in the 17th and 18th century brought grid-style town planning, elegant urban mansions by the score and leafy squares every couple of hundred yards.
Travel Guide: Spain
Stay down the farm in Majorca
From the Mail on Sunday
What did your last holiday in Majorca sound like? The tinkle of empty lager cans on concrete? The raucous cries of squabbling families on the beach? Night choruses of Y Viva Espana?
Mine sounded different. Cockerels, distant donkeys and goat bells punctuated the day. Crickets, frogs and Scops owls took over after dark. In a week, I managed to avoid heavy traffic, drove only once through household-name seaside resorts and never got caught in a crowd, save at sprawling Palma airport.
From previous trips I knew Majorca was beautiful. This time I discovered just how beautiful. Even George Sand, the cross-dressing French writer whose miserable winter here with the tubercular Chopin is well documented, later ached to see again its enchanted landscapes.
Driving up towards Valldemossa, where in 1838 she, her children and Frederic rented cells in the Carthusian monastery, I too was beguiled by the terraced hillsides with their carob and almond groves, leaning palms and cascades of bougainvillea.
Valldemossa is too full of dappled streets, appealing cafes and shops not to attract attention, but it isn't over-egged and there's lots to see - the Sand/Chopin quarters, a 17th Century pharmacy and a modern art collection whose Miros and Picasso drawings inspire great T- shirts.
The village where I stayed was more one-horse. In fact, Binibona was one-donkey. Even friends with a villa in Majorca said, 'Where?' It did take a bit of finding. Along roads sometimes barely the width of my hired Fiat Uno, I was swallowed up by the folding foothills of the Serra de Tramuntana, to arrive simultaneously at the hamlet and the front door of my agritourist hotel.
Agritourism is on the up in Majorca. Time was when the second sons of big landowners, palmed off with ostensibly less valuable territory by the sea, made a killing in Majorca's tourist boom. Today, the elder sons are cashing in, reinventing their grand but faded fincas as upmarket hotels.
Finca Binibona was anything but faded. The just-completed sister hotel of Ets Albellons further up the mountainside, it had spacious rooms, Jacuzzis and an indoor as well as outdoor pool.
Workers finishing the garden were still audible as I sunbathed - oops, there goes another JCB - but this was a small price to pay for being among a handful of pampered first guests.
Travel Guide: Spain
Forget the rucksack
A name can make all the difference. That's why Spain's small hotels are unlucky, as far as British visitors are concerned, to be classed officially as 'hostales'.
It translates into English as 'hostels', and we all know what that means. At best, youth hostels with teenage backpackers in dormitories singing rugby songs.
At worst, temporary accommodation for the homeless. Certainly nothing suitable for eight comfort-loving friends, all in late middle age, who forayed into northern Spain in early summer.
Each couple in our group had taken responsibility for a share of the reservations. For my part I had stuck strictly to three-star hotels.
So when our more adventurous travelling companions announced that they had booked us into three hostales, all in the centre of large cities, I was quite alarmed.
Did they know what they were doing? Would we be safe in our beds? Would there be clean sheets and hot water? Or would the places be infested with bed-bugs - as I had encountered on my first visit to the area, as a student more than 40 years ago?
The last easyJet flight from Stansted arrives in Bilbao at around 9pm, and renting two cars takes time, so it was past 10pm when we drove from the airport.
It takes about half an hour to get to downtown Bilbao, but add to that a frustrating hour nosing our way through the narrow streets of the old city, negotiating what may be the world's most complicated one-way system.
Several times we were only yards from our target, the Hostale Estrella, but there seemed no way of penetrating the maze until, with the help of a policeman, we arrived close to midnight.
Like many hostales, it is on an upper floor of an apartment building, in a street of shops and restaurants. Few have lifts, and we had to carry our luggage up a steep flight of stairs to get to the reception desk, and up another to reach our rooms.
Travel Guide: Spain
Exquisite food and very modern art
Not so long ago, the prospect of a weekend in Bilbao would hardly set the pulse racing.
A centre of heavy industry, the city was blighted by pollution, traffic chaos and unruly, sometimes violent, Basque nationalist demos.
Most guide books didn't even bother to mention the place.
Now, whole tomes are written about the city and tourists flock in their thousands, many to see the celebrated Guggenheim Museum building and its acclaimed collection of works by Picasso, Klee, Pollock and others.
A sparkling Sir Norman Foster-designed metro has transformed Bilbao's transport system, and other projects, from new bridges across the River Nervion to a soon-to-open maritime museum on the site of the old docks, add to the sense of a city on the up.
Although not exactly racing, my pulse was beating above the norm as I started my tour of Bilbao at the Guggenheim, or el goog as locals call it.
A gently glowing titanium hulk, the museum looks like a futuristic liner. The interior - swooping curves, walkways and huge glass walls - is impressive, too.
The Guggenheim ethos is unrelentingly 'modern' so, along with more conventional pop art works, you'll also be confronted by a stack of huge white plates, a giant mannequin and three basketballs floating in a tank of water.
If that's your bag, you'll love the museum; if not, you'll do a fair amount of head-scratching.
I was in the second camp, but the plates did remind me it was time for lunch. Walking through the compact city centre, where small, dark bars were heaving with wine-sipping businessmen, I stumbled on the Cafe Iruna, a 100-year-old bar decorated with attractive glazed tiles advertising alcoholic drinks.
After a glass of chilled dry sherry, I queued for the skewers of lamb sizzling on a grill. The soft, buttery meat was exquisite, and I was tempted to rejoin the queue.
Travel Guide: Spain
Superb food in Benidorm
Excellent holiday June in Benidorm. My wife and I can thoroughly recommend the Hotel Victoria. First class service, superb food, immaculate standard and within easy reach of all amenities.
Travel Guide: Spain
Plenty of choice
In November 2000 my husband and I booked a seven-night HB holiday to Benidorm. We had never previously been there and were rather dubious, as Benidorm seems to have a reputation for noise, loud discos, mob trouble etc. We stayed in a hotel named The Gala Placidia.
We had an excellent holiday. The beaches are wonderful, there is plenty of night life and day life but you can also be quiet if you wish. We would recommend it to anyone. We would also like to thank Teletext as that is where we booked. We had wonderful flights from Birmingham International Airport and we were able to also get great flight times. Very many thanks to you all. we are just in the process of booking holiday number two this year as the cost is cheaper than with the travel agents, we can afford another holiday.
Travel Guide: Spain
Has everything for you
We have been to Benidorm for the last three years. The best way to visit Benidorm is to firstly get a good hotel. We recommend The Diplomatic, the food is very good but it is not for the younger end.
Benidorm has changed over the years, the old town is all paved and safe to walk or shop. There are good shops there, and cafes, and the beaches are cleaned every night.
I also recommend The Lemon Express with free-flowing champagne and, for a good night out, The Benidorm Palace with its great dancers and laser show.
Try it - it's got everything for you in Benidorm.
Travel Guide: Spain
Plenty to do for everyone
There's plenty to do in Benidorm for all ages.
For families and children there is Aqualandia - a large waterpark which is a five minute drive from the centre of Benidorm, which has rides for all ages.
There is also Terra Mitica which is the new theme park in Benidorm and is one of the the biggest in Europe. There's also Mundomar, a sealife centre that most kids will enjoy.
There are plenty of places to eat with at least one restaurant on every block including familiar fast food chains such as McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut and Burger King.
At night the city comes alive, there are loads of different types of entertainment - from family pubs to excellent nightclubs in 'the square'.
Places such as Hippodrome, Bahamas, Sinatra's, Chaplins, Red Dog and Top of the Pops are recommended bars in Benidorm and there is music to suit every style.
Most bars stay open till 7am though the bars start to get quiet at 5.30am. Everybody is very friendly, including bar staff. It is only the big clubs such as KM, KU and Penelope's that you have to pay to get into and this is usually because they have big name DJs on.
The beaches are fantastic, Levante being the most popular. There is also plenty to do such as hiring pedalos and water slides into the sea.
Wherever you go in Benidorm you are sure to find something to suit your needs and if you can't find anything, speak to people around your hotel that have been there a week or so, they will be more than happy to pass on any information and may be able to point you in the direction of something that will make your holiday - whatever your age.
Travel Guide: Spain
The golden mile
From the Daily Mail
Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca once described Las Ramblas as 'the only street in the world that I wish would never end.'
He was, as millions of visitors have been over the years, entranced by the colour and vitality of the mile-long Barcelona thoroughfare along which life is played out like a non-stop carnival.
Lorca was shot dead by Nationalist partisans after the coup of 1936, when he was only 38. Tragic, but at least one did not have to disappoint the old boy - towards the end of the 20th century his beloved Ramblas was benighted by flagrant drug dealing and non-stop hustling. So much so that the millions of visitors pouring into Barcelona each year were advised: 'Mind how you go.'
But after hosting the 1992 Olympic Games, the city eventually claimed it had cleaned up its act.
I wasn't too sure, especially after a friend had his pocket picked on a Metro escalator. Another friend also warned me of the bag-snatchers who linger along the pedestrianised boulevard, built on the dried-up bed of a river than once ran from the Collserola hills to the sea.
So with my wife and seven-year-old son, I took a plane to Barcelona to find out for myself by walking the Ramblas - actually five separate streets, joined like a string of sausages - from top to bottom, during the day and in the evening.
The plan was to reach the harbourside Monument a Colom, at the top of which Christopher Columbus stands. As a plan, it did not enthuse the seven-year-old. A mile is a long way, he complained, as we strolled out of the Playa de Catalunya, the huge square from which the Ramblas runs south.
So after, at most, 100 yards, we stopped at the Canaletes iron drinking fountain, a sip from which, legend has it, will guarantee one's return to the city.
Travel Guide: Spain
Picasso's city
From the Mail on Sunday
Surprisingly, Barcelona doesn't make a lot of what must be its most internationally renowned former resident - Pablo Picasso.
True, there is a celebrated museum dedicated to his work, but there are no plaques marking the buildings where he lived, studied or worked, no heritage trail for visitors. And the only guidebook available locally, Guia de la Barcelona de Picasso, has not been translated into English.
Of course, Paris is the city most readily associated with Picasso, and rightly so, because it was there that he lived during his most significant years.
But it was in Barcelona that the 20th Century's greatest artist came of age and attended art school. It was here too that he witnessed the street scenes that would etch themselves in his memory and inform the ground-breaking work of his cubist period.
For me, the most useful guide to Picasso's Barcelona is the first volume of John Richardson's definitive A Life Of Picasso (Jonathan Cape, 1991), which devotes 142 well-illustrated pages to the period and bothers to mention all the relevant addresses.
It was from this book that I learned Picasso moved to Barcelona with his family in September 1895, a month before his 14th birthday, and didn't leave until he was 21, although he did make long visits to Madrid and Paris.
During these years the family lived in the narrow streets close to the port. Their first apartment was on Carrer Llauder (number 4) and then they moved to Carrer de la Merce (number 3), but their home is now demolished.
While officially remaining at home, Picasso also rented a series of studios which often doubled up as overnight accommodation.
One of these studios, on Carrer Nou de la Rambla (number 10), was conveniently next to the Eden Concert, a disreputable cabaret venue that was a favourite night-time haunt of his. It is directly opposite the then newly built Gell Palace, a private home designed by Gaudi, although Picasso was never a fan of his. He wouldn't be pleased to know that the Eden Concert is now the Gaudi Hotel.
Travel Guide: Spain
Adventures in Barcelona
From the Daily Mail
So, what are we going to do in Barcelona, then? It's just a city, isn't it?' It was the question I had been dreading, posed as only a 13-year-old can - with an implacable sulkiness that in international diplomacy would amount to a declaration of war.
Going on holiday with two teenage boys is a challenge, if it's not to be a nightmare. Patrick, 16, has suddenly declared himself an artist, uncertain only whether his future lies in painting, sculpture or architecture.
Time, I thought, for him to discover Barcelona, city of Gaudi and Picas. Unfortunately, if not entirely unpredictably, his younger brother, Oscar, thought that the idea of a cultural holiday held all the appeal of a broccoli burger.
'We're, er, going to look at buildings, er, and, maybe, um, a few museums,' I told him, eyes shut in a vain attempt to avoid the laser glare, 'and then, em, maybe, no, definitely,' I caved in, 'we'll find some nice beaches.'
It was a compromise that at least managed to get us as far as the airport. The only benefit of going on holiday with teenagers is that you don't have to worry about arriving late. An 11pm al fresco supper made summer in the city seem tolerable, as, initially, did the next morning's stroll down Las Ramblas.
Barcelona's celebrated tree-lined avenue with its bird sellers, mime artists and the magnificent fresh fish, fruit and meat market, La Boqueria, is the best welcome to the old city.
Turn off at any point and you are sucked into the labyrinth of narrow, winding medieval streets around the ancient cathedral. This imposing, squat building is a remarkable example of 14th-century Gothic architecture fused with late 19th-century neo-Gothic. But it was midday, hot and Oscar was getting bored. Even Patrick was not as impressed as he ought to have been: this was not what we had come to see.
Travel Guide: Spain
The Picos of perfection
From the Mail on Sunday
Funny how you can overlook a whole lump of Europe. I knew virtually nothing about Asturias. Who does? A rugged little principality on the north coast of Spain, it looks not at the gentle Mediterranean or the blue Atlantic but northward at Biscay and throws steep, spiky mountains up from its heart into a troubled, eagle-haunted sky.
These are the Picos de Europa, named by sailors for whom they were the first sight of their home continent. We were bound into their heart to walk some 50 miles across mountain passes and high valleys to the sea.
We had flown in to Bilbao and been met by a beaming driver who spoke no English but mimed local information as he sped westwards along the darkening autovia through Santander and Oviedo. 'Chemical Plant' was a particularly striking mime, with one hand still on the wheel.
He dropped us at the hotel at Cabrales and even on that first night we heard a murmur of voices speaking something that was not Spanish: the local tongue, Bable, cherished by a people as remote and spiky as their mountains.
That reminded me that I did know one thing about Asturias, because I once shook hands with the gorgeous, long-lashed Prince Felipe, heir of King Juan Carlos and Prince of the Asturias. He was visiting the Prince of Wales. Clearly, we have the beginnings of a pan-European agreement here: a reigning monarch's heir shall always be made prince of somewhere small, ruggedly mountainous, faintly stroppy and with a difficult language.
We had two nights in Cabrales so that we could choose one of two spectacular warm-up routes. There is either a famous ravine walk along the Cares, the Divine Gorge, or a shorter but steeper hike to Bulnes, the most remote village in Western Europe, its nearest road two hours down a rocky track. Since they are building a funicular railway, we headed for Bulnes to share its last summer of isolation.
It was hot. We stumbled along, averting our eyes from ravines; once a donkey picked its way disdainfully past us between two panniers loaded with cheese. They make Cabrales cheese out of a mixture of goat, sheep and cow's milk or any two of the above and you are warned always to eat it last thing in a meal because you won't taste anything else for 12 hours afterwards.
Higher and higher wound the track, round a peak then down precipitously to a stream, where we splashed our steaming faces. Then up again until at last we saw houses in the high distance and made for them, only to find we had taken the wrong fork, by way of the heights where rubbish-bags are gathered neatly in open spaces to await the helicopter.
Eventually, as we sat with a lemonade at the Bulnes bar, the stillness was abruptly shattered by rotors and a few villagers ran down the alleys to greet two old people returning by heli-taxi to tearful embraces. We felt like intruders.
Travel Guide: Spain
Going green for a touch of the high life
From the Daily Mail
They call Asturias 'Green Spain', and now I know why. Or so I told myself as our car wrapped itself queasily round the last mountain bend and I caught sight of my face in the driver's mirror. It was the colour of cabrales, the best local cheese.
Could those be vultures floating on the thermals above the 3,000ft gorge? They were and, what's more, welcome to come for me at any time.
Prone to vertigo, I am also given to inconvenient optimism when it comes to holidaying in high places.
It's all in the mind, I assure family and colleagues long resigned to peeling my trembling frame off heights ranging from the top of the Eiffel Tower to the rigging of a tall ship.
The summit of my ambition is one that does not have to be prised from my white-knuckled grasp. The Cares Gorge, cutting like a chain saw through the Picos Mountains of north-west Spain, looked enough to daunt the stoutest heart.
One of Europe's last true wildernesses, the Picos thrusts a bristling, dragon's crest range between the Atlantic and the sunny Spain of most visitors' experience. Our path, originally built to service a hydroelectric scheme, clung to the side of a drop so sheer that at times the glacier-mint river, hundreds of feet below, vanished under our feet.
A mind-boggling feat of engineering, the track snakes for more than seven miles through dripping galleries of rock, across fields of scree and past thickets of stunted holm oak, hiding caves where local shepherds still mature their cheeses.
Across the gorge, the Atlantic clouds responsible for Asturias's greenery rolled above the sunlit opening on a gothic melodrama. Wild goats balanced on unlikely looking ledges; eagles dared; waterfalls tumbled to where the first colours of autumn pooled in the hollows of the chasm.
How had I let my eyes stray for even a second off the nearby cliff wall, and the reassuring boots of the walker ahead? There is only one word for this gorge. It's gorgeous and, hey, I was enjoying myself.
Travel Guide: Spain
The secret Spain
When Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston made a grand tour of Andalucia some months ago, they had a dozen people in tow.
Not lackeys to sort out hair appointments and the like, but a dozen, irritating long-lensmen tracking their every move.
The newly-married lovebirds were (somewhat resourcefully) forced to do the sights of Seville, Granada and Cordoba late at night or first thing in the morning when the paparazzi were still asleep.
By day they rested and caught up with their sleep in what could be Spain's most exclusive hotel.
Nestling on the edge of the wild Sierra de Tejeda, an hour from the coast and equidistant between the trio of great historic cities of Spain's most enchanting region, Hotel La Bobadilla has long been the retreat of Europe's royalty and A-list celebrities.
No wonder why. Set in a 1,000-acre estate and up a long, winding two-mile private drive, the hotel has an enormous kidney-shaped pool, riding stables, beauty parlour, hunting rights and even its own church for a quiet reflective moment - or perhaps a wedding (the hotel has a marriage licence)!
Staying in the enormous King's Suite - where the likes of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman and the King of Spain (on many occasions) have luxuriated over its 15-year existence - the couple spent the day sunbathing by the pool, reading and eating in the hotel's trio of restaurants.
'Sometimes they just wanted complete privacy and would eat dinner at 2am in the main square,' offered the friendly night man.
They certainly didn't need to leave their suite which, with two bedrooms, private garden, roof terrace, Jacuzzi and two living rooms, was bigger than the average holiday villa.
My friend Linda and I weren't afforded such £500-a-night luxury, but our rooms were still large with views across rolling olive groves and woodland to the distant hills - they once sheltered republican guerillas who fought Franco's Civil Guard well into the Fifties, two decades after the end of the civil war.
Travel Guide: Spain
An off-beat corner of Spain
The minute you land in the Basque country, it's clear that Spain's northernmost tip has its own distinct personality.
The Basque language - said to be the oldest in Europe and unlike any other - appears alongside Spanish at Bilbao's swanky chrome and glass airport. Even the weather system is different.
Summer, so far, is the wettest in years but there's plenty more reasons to go than tanning.
The region has three provinces: Bizkaia, Gipuzkoa and Alava.
Bilbao, 90 minutes from Stansted, is capital of Bizkaia and home to spectacular modern art museum the Guggenheim, guarded permanently by a huge, wonderfully kooky puppy-shaped flower statue by US artist Jeff Koons.
Vitoria-Gasteiz in Alava is the Basque capital, and pretty spa town Donostia San Sebastian is Gipuzkoa's trump card.
San Sebastian is an hour by road from Bilbao airport and absolutely essential visiting on a Basque country trip.
Lovely La Concha Bay, framed by a sandy beach, has a resident dolphin called Pakito, a good child-friendly aquarium and thalassotherapy spa La Perla.
Out and about, the 17th-century baroque church of Santa Maria del Koro, tucked into one end of Calle Mayor, is one of the town's most interesting sights.
A 41m-high statue of Christ looms over La Concha Bay, San Sebastian - an eerie sight lit up at night. In Plaza Trinitate, boys play local ball game pelota with their hands in a green walled open-air court. Liquor shops (bodegas) and tapas bars line streets.
Travel Guide: Spain
Life on board the Sinfonia
Jane MacDonald, bingo, ballroom dancing and glasses of warm sherry all flashed through my mind as I packed for my 10-day Mediterranean cruise.
What on earth had I let myself in for? Having never been on a cruise before, I figured it would a be a great way to get some winter sun and escape this dreary London winter. But now I was starting to have my doubts. Was I about to spend the next week and a half on an ocean-going retirement home?
My girlfriend tries to reassure me. "This is going to be great, I know loads of people who've been on cruises and they loved it," she said.
"Who?" I replied.
"Er, my grandparents..."
You see my concern.
We're travelling with Italian-owned MSC Cruises' Sinfonia, sailing from the Italian port of Genoa. Our flight from Heathrow takes us to Milan and the waiting coach whisks us through some impressive mountain scenery on our way to the bustling port city.
On arrival the ship is decked out to the nines and the welcoming committee point the 1,500 passengers to their respective cabins. This ship has four tiers of cabin, from the inside windowless dorm to the luxury balcony cabin with en-suite bathroom - thankfully, we're in the latter.
Our top deck cabin is a real treat. Double bed, sofa, TV, minibar, safe, walk in wardrobe, and spacious bathroom - in fact, all the luxuries you'd expect to find in a high end hotel. I'm genuinely surprised just how smart our accommodation is. Visions of bunks and a tiny porthole vanish.
The welcome meeting in the ship's theatre is, as all announcements are, in several languages. The majority of the passengers on this cruise are elderly Germans, so it's hard to get a feeling for people's first impressions of their home for the next ten days. My stilted German can just about cope with asking the way to Berlin - discussing the ins and outs of a marine-based holiday is a bit beyond me.
As the ship's horn sounds and we set sail for our first port of call, Barcelona, I decide to head down below and explore the bowels of the Sinfonia.
On deck 11, there's a fully equipped gym, sauna, and massage centre. I take a quick look at the tread mill and decide today is definitely more of a massage day - well you can't work out on travel-weary legs, now can you?
The Balinese massage is around £40 for half an hour. A little steep perhaps, but I reckon cruising is all about self -indulgence so I book myself in.
Fully refreshed from my invigorating rub down, I decide to see what the ship has to offer in the way of entertainment. There's an onboard casino, cinema, outdoor pool, table tennis table, theatre (with a variety of evening shows), mini golf, a basketball court plus several in-cabin movie channels offered. During my time at sea I'll give all of these a whirl, but first of all we've got to eat.
You can feel many things on a cruise - seasick, homesick and hungover but hunger won't be one of them. Food flows almost 24 hours a day. There's the main breakfast sitting (or you can have continental breakfast in bed). Then there's the mid-morning buffet, a huge lunch, mid-afternoon tea, the main evening dinner and then finally, and if you're really greedy, the midnight buffet.
I have to admit the first main meal of the cruise was pretty disappointing. My beef was like leather and the vegetables were all but puréed. My girlfriend and I feared for the remaining 10 days - perhaps like so many all-inclusive deals, the food was plentiful but poor.
My fellow diners agreed and listening to their mutinous talk, I thought the chef had better buck his ideas up. We were to sit with the same 10 people for every meal on board, and I feared things could get pretty nasty if the grub didn't improve.
So after a night at sea and a day seeing the sights of Barcelona, we were ravenous and ready to give the chef a second chance. And we weren't disappointed. Much to our relief the food was considerably better. A delicious prawn risotto followed by a succulent salmon steak hit the spot.
Travel Guide: Spain
Basqueing in San Sebastian
The one question on my mind as the airport-bound bus pulled out of San Sebastian into the misty Basque mountains was, with this being my umpteenth trip to Spain, just why hadn't I made it here before?
On previous trips I'd experienced Valencia's mouth-watering cuisine, Andalucia's spectacular coastlines, as well as Barcelona's provincial charm and sophistication. Yet this elegant old city, nestled up near the French border, has all three.
The French certainly haven't been missing out on the action, vastly inflating the 180,000 population each summer. But in a country where one in three foreign visitors is British, it is baffling why so few of us visit this captivating city.
Perhaps the climate puts people off - it is more Atlantic than Mediterranean, meaning the sea is a tad cooler and the sun less intense. But if you're visiting in July or August, it's considerably more comfortable up here than in the sizzling south.
The complicated Basque language could be another reason, but the vast majority of speakers are bilingual, as are all signs and menus. So you can still get some use out of that Spanish phrasebook.
Of San Sebastian's three city beaches, shell-shaped La Concha is the centrepiece. Protected from the sea by a wooded islet, it is widely considered to be one of the finest urban beaches in the world.
La Concha has a distinctly old-fashioned charm, protected from the raised promenade by iron barriers, and there's not an unsightly high-rise or neon-lit bar in sight.
If you're among the horde of afternoon sunbathers, do keep an eye out for any incoming tide - a day didn't pass without seeing another unsuspecting bather and their possessions get a soaking.
Although Donosti Tours run hourly buses throughout San Sebastian, which you can hop-on and hop-off as often as you wish, save yourself the cost of a travel pass and trade the flip-flops for a pair of walking shoes.
A leisurely stroll through the narrow-streets of the old town - Parte Vieja - down to Eduardo Chillada's Wind Combs structure on the opposite end of the beachfront, takes no more than a couple of hours.
From there, reward yourself with a journey on the old-world funicular railway to the top of Monte Igueldo. A low-key amusement park for the children and panoramic views of the coastline await you at the summit.
Travel Guide: Spain
Opening up Aragon
Cheap airfares are steadily opening up more regions of Spain, in addition to old favourites like Andalucia, the Costas, the Canaries and Balearics.
Since last autumn, Ryanair has been running a regular service from Stansted to Zaragoza, capital of the Aragon region. On the border with France, its Pyrenean landscape offers mountain vistas, steep ravines and nature reserves filled with birds and wildlife.
Aragon is composed of three main provinces - Huesca, Teruel and Zaragoza. Their natural beauty is complemented by a rich Moorish heritage, evident in the many museums, monuments, cathedrals and churches.
A spectacular base for a recent trip was the mountain village of Alquezar, dating back to the ninth century. Increasingly popular with travellers to the region, it has retained its cobbled streets and character, with newer developments sensitive to its history.
Birdwatchers who can tell a kite from a kestrel are increasingly drawn to Aragon's national parks. A recent four-day tour clocked up sightings of 109 different species. They ranged from cormorants to storks, whose distinctive huge nests are a feature of many urban areas.
Highlights of the tour were sightings of the bearded vulture or lammergeier (named after the German for lamb vulture), black woodpeckers and the reclusive wall creeper.
At Casa Boletas de Loporzano - the vulture's house - at Santa Cilia del Pantano, innovative new projects allow visitors to observe bearded vultures and other birds of prey up close.
Guides specialised in ornithology can direct you to the areas offering the best chance to spot rare species.
One of these is the Ordesa National Park, in the Huesca region of Aragon, which is designated a World Heritage Site by Unesco. Dominated by the 3,555-metre-high Monte Perdido, it is home to bearded vultures and golden eagles, among other birds.
Travel Guide: Spain
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The rice is the key: only short-grained rice works. It acts as a flavour conductor to transfer the taste of the other ingredients from the pan to the mouth.
Eight varieties are grown, but bomba, the most absorbent, is highly prized.
The Spanish eat paella at lunchtime, never at night. In the country it is cooked outdoors over a wood fire, particularly on Sunday afternoons for family gatherings.
'Smoke is another ingredient,' Juan said. 'It gives the rice a lot of flavour. That is why we prefer the wood fire.'
We head back into Valencia's old quarter to La Riua, a charming family-run restaurant and a local favourite.
A small room at the back of the kitchen has six large gas-ring burners and paellas of various sizes on the go.
I squeezed in to watch owner, Pilar Lozano, cook a traditional paella. She put oil in the pan and stirred in finely ground saffron, salt and red pepper.
When the oil was hot she added a few pieces of chicken and rabbit on the bone, letting them brown slowly.
Next came chopped garlic and grated tomato pulp, then a few flat green beans and plump lima beans, called garrafon.
After adding two deep ladles of stock, she turned up the fire. Finally, when it was bubbling furiously, she poured a row of bomba rice down the middle and spread it evenly over the pan.
'Once you've spread out the rice, you never stir it again until the paella is finished,' Juan explained.
Olive oil and tomatoes
In World War I, whole villages filed over the mountain, as young men, anticipating conscription, decided they were Catalan rather than French and decamped to live in Spain.
Thierry's grandfather had smuggled motorcycles and a truck into France. I had struggled with a day pack.
More humiliating still, runners used to race over the pass. The fastest time was four hours. And that was there and back.
My crossing the Pyrenees was one day - and easily the most arduous - from what could be a month-long walking holiday.
The walk was originally an idea to mark the new millennium: a four-week walk, one week of which is accounted for by rest days.
You stay at inns with your luggage being spirited on to await you in the next night's bedroom.
InnTravel, the York-based company that came up with the idea, was surprised by the number of people who took it up. So now it has strung together four individual walks to make one long trail.
It starts in the Cerdagne, in France, and ends 250 miles later at Cadaques on the Mediterranean. After crossing the Pyrenees, the route wanders through the Garrotxa.
This is a holiday that runs its fingers down the grain of the land through which it passes, its rises and falls, its textures, sounds and scents.
As the daily route instructions change so does the landscape, from the pinewoods of the Pyrenees it moves to the hazel and beech woods of the volcanic Garrotxa and then the olive groves and vineyards near the coast.
We picked our way across hillsides wrinkled with ancient terraces, through deep gorges and over old stone bridges; we marched along clifftops, up forest paths and down mule tracks.
The tastes change, too. In France, it was foie gras and wild boar; in Spain, country cooking just as good produced dishes such as rabbit casseroled and lashings of pan catalan, coarse bread soused in olive oil and tomatoes. And beans.
The village of Santa Pau is bean capital of Europe. Every year on the feast of St Anthony (January 17) they hold a bean feast - literally.
New bean recipes are showcased in the central medieval arcade, one dish per arch, delicacies such as bean muffins and bean sorbets. Up to 5,000 people attend the festival each year.
Santa Pau may also be one the windiest villages in Europe. I think I am getting breathless again.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Details from InnTravel, Hovingham, York YO62 4JZ. (http://www.inntravel.co.uk tel: 01653 628811)
Coffee culture
On a Sunday morning during my visit, the church bells were ringing in the village of Vilaflor, where black-clad grannies sat outside their houses selling lace they had made themselves. A few miles away, dusted with snow and glinting pink and gold in the sunshine, was the magnificent symmetrical cone of Teide.
Hardy souls can walk up it; others catch a cable car to the summit - though this involves a two-hour queue at each end. Either way, it strikes me as a foolish idea because Teide looks its best from below.
I left the somewhat tetchy cable-car queues and headed north to the town of Garachico, once the most important port on Tenerife in the days when the Canary Islands were a staging-post between Spain and her colonies. Columbus sailed past there in 1492; many of the town's merchants accompanied the conquistadors on their New World adventures and returned as rich men.
But a series of spectacular disasters - floods, epidemics, fires, a volcanic eruption and finally an earthquake - nearly destroyed Garachico. Today, it is a forgotten backwater of high-sided buildings and cobbled streets. On a terrace overlooking the water I ordered coffee.
This is no simple task in the Canary Islands, where the locals are even more obsessive about their coffee than in the rest of Spain. The Rolls-Royce of Canarian coffee is the giant barraquito, with two types of milk, a shot of alcohol, a slice of lemon rind and a sprinkling of cinnamon. The waiter who brought mine served it with the flourish he might have reserved for a dish of caviar.
Parachutes and wind buggies
On one winter's night recently I found myself in the Hurricane Hotel, five miles west of the city, trembling as the rain lashed against the wooden shutters and lightning crashed in the night sky.
But the party of 15 windsurfers were not in the least intimidated. They loved every minute of it - and so did the party of five late-twenty-somethings on a hen weekend. The following morning their good humour was justified.
The day dawned sunny and blue-skied, and while the young women rode along the miles of empty beach on Andalusian mares provided by the hotel's stables, the young men hit the beach like a flotilla of brightly coloured boats.
The Hurricane isn't the only hip windsurfing hotel in the area. Not far along the same beach there's one called 100 Per Cent Fun. But it's 0 per cent fun during the winter - it's closed.
The windsurfers - and their cousins who experiment with parachutes and wind buggies, not to mention the plain old-fashioned surfers who also turn up - give Tarifa a hippie feel reminiscent of Newquay.
There are a lot of T-shirts that would not have been out of place in San Francisco in the Sixties when everyone wore beads, and flowers in their hair. Maybe one reason is that Morocco, with cannabis ever available, is 35 minutes away by one of the new ferries that slip out of Tarifa's harbour each day.
But whatever the reason, the city reminds me of another of those southerly extremities in the world that attract bohemians - the Baja of California.
The Spaniards stand slightly aloof from these young visitors, bemused by their energy and iconoclasm.
Tarifa remains one of the most Moorish cities in Spain. It was the first to be invaded - by Tarif Ibn Malik in 710, an expedition that paved the way for the invasion of the country by the Moors the following year.
The evidence of that Moorish past is everywhere, from the castle walls that surround the oldest parts of the city, the narrow streets, to the remains of the tenth-century Alcazar.
Grand old buildings
To the Spanish, Paradors have always been a source of pride: a more than acceptable window on the tourist world.
To foreigners, they represent the chance to step inside a culture and literally taste a different way of life, at reasonable prices.
Executives from the smart, corporate hotel chains - themselves far cheaper than their British counterparts - must read Parador tariffs and gnash their teeth.
Prices in the three- and four-star hotels range from £40 to just more than £80 for a double room, though a few select hotels, such as those in Granada and Santiago de Compostela, cash in on their location with higher prices.
Though the spread of the chain throughout Spain and the Canary Islands is wide, there are three main clusters of Paradors.
Those in the north - the Basque country and Galicia - tend to be housed in grand old buildings. They are mainly found in old cities or mountain villages: in all of them, seafood is a speciality.
Further south, a band of Paradors sweeps westward from Madrid, across Castile and Leon and into Extremadura.
These are the haunts of weekending Madrilenos, as the residents of the capital are known. As a result, the level of sophistication is all they - and we - expect.
This is a hard land, traditionally the area which spawned ambitious Conquistadors forced by poverty to try their luck adventuring in the newly discovered Americas.
Their legacies endowed religious houses and enabled the newly ennobled knights to buy properties beyond their dreams and, again, guests at Paradors profit as a result.
The third major concentration is in Andalucia. While the Paradors of Jaen, Carmona, Ubeda and Arcos occupy historic buildings, many more are modern - particularly those along the southern coast.
Purpose-built hotels have their advantages, of course, not the least of which is situation. The gorge at Ronda, the Atlantic off Cadiz and the mountains of the Cazorla Natural Park are three examples where that old property maxim - Location! Location! Location! - has been applied.
Whatever the view, though, the experience of staying in a Parador is at its best in the more historic properties: some of the modern ones aren't especially the most attractive buildings in Spain.
The grandeur, the outsized antique furniture, even the waitresses' regional attire all sit well in 15th century surroundings.
These are also the most popular, so booking ahead - even out of the summer season - makes sense.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
They can be booked by contacting the hotels directly, by calling the central reservation office in Madrid, (tel: 0034 91 516 66 66), or leave your name and address on the answering machine at Keytel International (tel: 020 7616 0309).
Mixing wine and soft drinks
The Spanish are justifiably proud of their wines. Regions such as Rioja and Rivera del Duero are among the world's finest producers, but there has been a vast improvement in everyday wines, too.
What you won't see is groups of locals sharing a bottle. They don't as a rule like to drink wine without food.
The exception is sherry. The fortified wines produced in and around Jerez, in south-west Andalucia, can be pale as straw or dark as amber, with tastes to match. And they lend themselves easily to any time of day or night.
Sherry ranges from the bone-dry fino to the deep, rich, sticky Pedro Ximenez, and there's a variety to suit every taste in between.
Fiesta time is when sherry comes into its own. At the ferias or town fairs everyone drinks fino or its close relative manzanilla. The danger here is that a long evening's partying can turn into an even longer morning's hangover, so the solution is rebujito - a sherry spritzer.
Mixing wine and soft drinks is commonplace in Spain. Everyone knows about sangria, that downfall of so many tourists. Locals prefer a simpler version: the red wine spritzer or tinto de verano. It's not as awful as it sounds, and it does hit the spot in the summer heat.
Other regional specialities are better bets. Brandies have a long history in Spain - Aguardiente comes in dozens of varieties - and Spanish gin has a more herby flavour than its British counterparts and is a third of the price.
We might look aghast at a Spaniard adding coke to his late-night whisky, but when the measure fills half the glass, you need something to slow down your alcohol intake.
Collapsing in a heap would never do for a self-respecting local. And if he did, he'd miss the rest of the night and that fantastic, glutinous, hot chocolate as dawn breaks on the way home.
Sherry before, with and after lunch
I had assumed that sherry-making was an ancient art handed down unchanged from generation to further generation. Not a bit of it.
Although they have been making sherry here for centuries and exporting it to Britain since the days of Shakespeare, traditional practices have been refined by modern scientific developments.
In a vineyard on the outskirts of the town I was surprised to see tiny blue capsules among the vines. They contained pheromone and, by making flies feel confused about their sexuality, had proved an effective pesticide. I assumed it was a wind-up, but was assured it was true.
With mountains to the north and sea to the south, Jerez enjoys a varied climate. Even in spring, the fields were bone-dry and there was a faint heat-haze above the vines.
Men pottered through the vineyards before repairing to the bodega for lunch and a siesta. I thought I had earned a siesta myself, but first there was lunch - six-courses at a restaurant called Bodega La Andana.
We drank sherry before, with and after lunch. In the town that gave the world this nectar it would have been a sacrilege to drink anything else.
Travel facts:
Buzz has direct flights to Jerez from Stansted four days a week. For details, telephone 0870 240 7070 or visit http://www.buzzaway.com. Tours of the Sandeman bodega cost about £2.50.
Spectacular summit views
In the mid-1990s I had a Spanish girlfriend who lived in San Sebastian. Whenever I visited her I always made a point of climbing Monte Urgull, the hill above the parte vieja which juts into the sea across from the towering Monte Igueldo on the other side of the bay.
The views from the summit are spectacular, while, on the northern side of the hill, a cemetery contains the graves of the British soldiers who died in the Basque country fighting in the First Carlist War of 1836-37.
After an evening spent over-indulging myself in pinchos and more txakoli, I walked the length of La Concha the next morning to the second most popular of the four beaches, Ondarreta, to meet my ex-girlfriend, Mila, and her young daughter, Leire, at Cafe Ezeza.
Beyond the beach, at the foot of Monte Igueldo, we joined a gaggle of art students admiring Eduardo Chillida's sculpture Peine de los Vientos ('the Comb of the Winds'), one of the most celebrated works of modern Spanish art.
I thought Leire might enjoy the rickety-rackety old funicular up the mountain, but it was closed for descanso semanal - a midweek day off for workers which, according to a Spanish version of sod's law, always falls on the day you visit an attraction.
Instead, we took a taxi to the new Chillida Museum, a park boasting more than 40 of the sculptor's massive iron, stone and marble pieces. Leire enjoyed herself hugely, running across the daisy-covered grass to embrace one giant sculpture after another.
Back in the city, we headed for Mila's favourite restaurant, Meson Txubillo near Ondaretta beach, to feast on grilled squid, cod in parsley sauce, a succulent cheese and tomato salad and, yes, yet more txakoli.
Later, as we said our goodbyes, the breaking waves were given an attractive silvery edge by the afternoon sun. Forget that umbrella, I was beginning to wish I'd brought my swimming trunks.
Now cleared of the minor pollution following the break-up of the Prestige oil tanker in November last year, San Sebastian's beaches are back to their magnificent best.
The jewel in the crown, La Concha is a magnet not only for bathers but also for walkers, joggers and sports players.
Beyond La Concha, Ondaretta attracts more of a family crowd, while surfers make a beeline for Gros on the east side of town.
Because of San Sebastian's popularity with the Spanish, and more recently the French, hotels fill up quickly.
At the top end of the market, the five-star Maria Cristina radiates Belle Epoque opulence, while the four-star Hotel Londres has superb views of La Concha. Cheaper options include the three-star Hotel Europa in the town centre.
If the sun shines you really can't fail to enjoy yourself in San Sebastian. And if it rains? Well, you can always while away a few hours in the Basque museum in the old San Telmo monastery or get a close up view of sharks, conga eels and sting-rays in the aquarium.
Alternatively, you could simply make an early start on those irresistible pinchos.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Easyjet flies from Stansted to Bilbao http://www.easyjet.com tel. 0870 6 000 000.
Children's paradise
With nothing else to do, I went for a swim. 'New here, are you?' asked Helen, a pink mother-of-four from the Home Counties. 'The children run the place here. Nothing left for the grown-ups to do except swim, sunbathe and get sozzled.'
She was right. It was like some kind of children's paradise from a Gerald Durrell novel.
The families had brought some 30 children aged up to 16, and the older ones, away from their computer games, happily organised fun in the warm sunshine. It was like having a free babysitter.
Within the walls of the old orchard, the children spent days chasing lizards, stalking grasshoppers, catching butterflies and confusing columns of ants by bombing them with ice cream.
Even though apartments had TVs and videos, there was too much to do outdoors.
When they were bored pursuing the wildlife, there was football on the half-size pitch, scrumping from the peach and apple trees, and toy boat races in the swimming pool. By the end of the week, they were as brown as berries.
Home Counties Helen was right about the grown-ups, too. We were blissfully unencumbered and although we avoided the gin and tonic sessions with the purple-faced 'colonel', we spent many happy hours drinking 'Fino' and cider while listening to the children playing.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Apartamentos Las Nieves holiday hamlet, near Llanes in Asturias, is operated by Brittany Ferries. Contact www.brittanyferries.com tel 0870 5360360 for more information.
When to eat
When? If there's one thing about Spanish life that foxes the British, it's having to adjust to a timetable in which lunch is often eaten as late as 3pm and dinner at 11pm.
Many's the time I have turned up in a restaurant at 10pm, fighting hunger pangs, only to find I am the first person in the place.
How do the Spanish do it? Answer: they fill the spare time, and the yawning spaces in their stomachs, with tapas.
You see them at midday in the Bar Giralda in Seville, nibbling idly on a plate of olives or a bowl of fried almonds as they lean on the bar sipping their first fino sherry of the day.
As the clock ticks round to 2pm, they might order another round of drinks and a tapa or two, say a serving of Manchego cheese and a few pickled boquerones (fresh anchovies), or a heaped platter of deep-fried baby squid with a squeeze of lemon.
The classic tapas moments are before lunch and before dinner - say from 1pm to 2pm and from 7pm to 9pm.
Traditionally, the tapa was meant as a prelude to the main meal. But it is now increasingly common for the tapa-crawl to become the meal in itself.
Equally, a slice of cheese or a plate of olives might be something you fancy at another time of day, perhaps with a midmorning Coke or a late afternoon beer after a hard day's sightseeing.
Cave painting for beginners
'Our breaks are all about learning about primitive technology and appreciating the ingenuity of our ancestors. And what we were like before we turned ourselves into helpless parasites of technology.'
Guests at the £150 five-day camps can visit the famous Palaeolithic remains at Atapuerca. And during your stay at Paleorama you learn essential Palaeolithic skills. You make your own accommodation - primitive tents for four - and your own bread out of pulverised plant roots. There are classes in reedboat building. A beer tent is the only concession to modernity.
There are also classes in rudimentary rock 'knapping' or flaking, and beginners' cave painting. It takes three seconds to char the end of a branch for charcoal work but five days to make coloured paint from ochre. It takes years to be able to paint a really realistic aurochs. I stuck with stick people.
There were a dozen of us pretending to be resourceful tail-less proto-hominids. I was the only non-Spaniard. However, being British and more cold-adapted, as well as being short and stocky and having a strong brow ridge and a big broad nose, I quickly felt at home.
'Making a weapon took ages, too,' Manuel explained as, enjoying his role as the dominant man, he demonstrated to his cavemen and cavewomen how to make a primitive bow and arrow.
First, an animal shinbone must be grubbed out and the tendons removed and desiccated. The flint arrowhead is then shaped and tied to the shaft using the animal tendon or horsehair before being hardened in the ashes of a fire. Bow springs were made from willow.
The word Neanderthal, I found out after travelling back 200,000 years, comes from a valley near Dusseldorf where human remains were found in 1856. 'Neanderthal has become a derogatory term. They are much misunderstood,' Manuel told me. 'As humans go, they were a success story. Before the more socially advanced Cro-Magnon man came from Africa with his abstract thought and took his land and his food.'
Bustling beaches and inland hideaways
Fun in the Sun
Brash and bustling Benidorm needs no introduction, and is fine if you like the buzz and the enormous beach, but if you prefer something on a more human scale, try Javea, a little further up the coast. This has long been my favourite Spanish mainstream resort, with a lovely sheltered bay, lively promenade and attractive port and old town - and all backed by lush orange groves. It is particularly suitable for families looking for good-value villa accommodation (though you may have a short drive to the beach from your villa).
Menorca is not the most scenic of the Balearics, but it does have some of the best beaches - wide, safe and sandy - plenty of good-value, family-oriented accommodation, and two attractive ports - Mahon and Ciutadella - for days out and sightseeing.
Finally, of all the big Costa resorts, Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava has to be the most attractive. The beach, which slopes quite steeply towards the sea, is enormous, even if the sand is a little coarse. But what makes the place special is the headland at the end of the bay, where the medieval fortifications look out over the modern resort which has grown along the back of the beach. Tossa has managed to retain what most other Mediterranean resorts lost long ago - some real character.
Peace on the beach
If you prefer things a little quieter, three other Costa Brava resorts are excellent bets. In fact, in some ways they remind me more of small Greek resorts than anywhere in Spain. The prettiest, tucked around a small beach at the back of a deep bay, is Tamariu - it's too quiet for teenagers, but perfect for young families, with a neat little promenade, a handful of small cafes and restaurants, and a few fishing boats pulled up on the sheltered sand.
Further along the coast, Calella de Palafrugell is bigger - a series of lovely sandy coves between rocky headlands and backed by an attractive low-rise resort. Just around the headland, Llafranc is similar in size, neatly laid out, with an attractive main square - both are great options for a civilised family holiday.
Just a short ferry ride from Ibiza and its wild nightlife, Formentera is another world. Much the smallest of the four main Balearics, its ragged coastline is blessed with some wonderful sandy beaches, much of them deserted, or at least free from the crowds you'll find just across the water. This is the kind of place where you'll find yourself hiring a bike rather than a car, and where you won't have to leave your towel out to keep a space on the beach.
The countryside
Majorca is Britain's favourite overseas holiday destination by far. But while most people come here for the resorts, the island's wonderful mountains and rolling plains are some of the most beautiful landscapes in Spain. You can enjoy them either on a touring holiday, or by booking a converted farmhouse or villa and using it as a base. The best area for this is the countryside around Pollensa - a gorgeous old town which dates back to Roman times. It is just a short drive from the sea and the best of the mountains, yet wonderfully peaceful.
Meanwhile, on the mainland, the north coast of Spain is attracting more British tourers, who put their cars on the ferry either to Santander or Bilbao and head off along the coast, or inland to the spectacular spiky peaks and green valleys of the Picos de Europa.
Finally, if you really want to get off the beaten track, try Don Quixote country - the great open plains of Castilla-La Mancha to the south of Madrid. Here, you will still find white-towered windmills, medieval fortresses, and, beyond the open vistas of the lowlands, the pine forests and almond groves of the Sierra de Alcaraz.
For foodies and history buffs
BEST FOR FOOD: BILBAO AND SAN SEBASTIAN
Spain has as many cuisines as it has regions, but the one that takes the prize for excellence is the Basque country.
Partly thanks to its proximity to France - Biarritz is just an hour from Bilbao - the food has a sophistication that is sometimes lacking in the rest of Spain.
The cities are famous for their restaurant scene - San Sebastian alone boasts three three-star Michelin establishments (Arzak, Akelare and Martin Berasetegui).
But the best thing about eating out in the Basque country are the pintxos (pronounced pinchos): miniature morsels nibbled with drinks - a kind of Basque version of tapas. The pintxo scene is concentrated in the old towns of Bilbao and San Sebastian.
When it comes to a sit-down meal, tasty local dishes to look out for include bacalao a la vizcaina (cod in a sauce of peppers and tomatoes) and marmitako (fresh tuna and potato stew).
First-class raw materials are a strong point: you'll find fantastic seafood, fine vegetables, excellent meat and game, cheeses, wild mushrooms and wine from Rioja.
There is a restaurant for everyone - from gastro-temples such as Gaminiz and Zortziko in Bilbao to the humblest lunch place, where the menu may come to no more than a tenner for three courses including wine.
BEST FOR HISTORY: MERIDA (EXTREMADURA)
Spain heaves with history. Every one of the country's hundreds of old towns and cities has a story to tell. The problem is deciding which to listen to.
First, decide which historical period interests you most. Seville, Cordoba and Granada are terribly Moorish; Barcelona is good for Gothic architecture; while Valencia is strong on the Baroque.
But if it's Roman history you're after, head for Merida, the capital of the Extremadura region, and a treasure trove of well-preserved remains including Roman villas, a circus and forum, a temple of Diana, and an amphitheatre in which a Festival of Classical Theatre is held every summer.
Merida (Latin name Emerita Augusta) was the capital of the Roman province of Lusitania. The city's Roman Museum is housed in a superb new building designed by Spanish architect Rafael Moneo.
Andalucia
ANDALUCIA
WHY GO? For all the sizzle of the Costa del Sol, backed by awesome mountains. Despite over-development, this accessible coast is a British favourite, from touristy Torremolinos to well-heeled Marbella.
Our most sensual images of Spain come to life in Andalucia - graceful flamenco dancers, dashing caballeros on horseback, daring matadors in the bull ring.
This was the heart of Moorish Spain, with the Alhambra palace the grandest of the Arab monuments.
Undulating fields of sunflowers, vineyards and olive groves rise into stark mountains. Picturesque white towns cling to rocky hilltops.
Ronda, the most dramatic, is split by a deep river gorge. To the west lies Jerez, famous for sherry, a perfect accompaniment to the coast's excellent seafood. The nearby Costa de la Luz is a growing resort area on the Atlantic coast.
MUST-SEES: Marbella; Malaga's Alcazaba palace, castle and the new Picasso museum; Nerja's Balcon de Europa promenade; the Alhambra at Granada; Ronda and the White Towns; Seville's cathedral, Giralda and Alcazar palace; the Mezquita (mosque) at Cordoba. Gibraltar is just west of the Costa del Sol.
DRAWBACKS: Petty crime rages in Seville; car crime in Malaga. Costa del Sol's main road, N340, is an accident black spot, and the new motorway has high tolls in summer.
HOTEL: El Castillo de Monda, Malaga 29110. Atmospheric hotel in a restored Moorish fortress, in a village near Marbella. Tel (00 34) 95 245 71 42.
RESTAURANT: Casa Luque, Plaza Cavana 2, Nerja. Tel (00 34) 95 252 10 04. Delicious Andalucian cuisine served in the courtyard or the sea-view terrace.
GETTING THERE: EasyJet (0870 600 0000)
TOUR OPERATOR: Spain At Heart specialises in Andalucia. Tel: 01373 814222. http://www.spainatheart.co.uk
Brilliance of the Paradors
Unlike some modern ferries, which are little more than McDonald's-on-Sea, this one has acres of room on deck, with plenty of deckchairs, a spot from which to spy passing whales, and even a giant chess board.
We stopped at Bilbao to see the newish Guggenheim Museum, which, far from being, as advertised, the world's greatest modern building, looks a bit like an awkwardly shaped Christmas present ineptly wrapped in tin foil, the ungainly big brother of the Sydney Opera House.
We had decided to break our trip to Segovia with a night in Burgos, a city about which I knew nothing, though there was something about its name that I found slightly off-putting.
In fact, it is a gem: we stayed in Meson Del Cid, which overlooked a beautiful small square, the Plaza de Santa Maria, the glorious cathedral, one of the most ornately austere in all Spain, looming over our dainty balcony like a somewhat severe aunty staring into a doll's house.
Just outside Segovia, with a fantastic view of that hilltop city, we stayed in our first Parador. Paradors are state-owned hotels, often in historic buildings.
By some miracle, their nationalised status seems to offer only advantages: they are grand and luxurious, but, unlike similarly-starred British hotels, notably unsnooty.
The Segovia Parador is a spacious, modern building, with vast public spaces and a swimming pool set on a large lawn with a fairytale view of this small city, with its Roman aqueduct at one end and its extensively towered and turreted Alcazar at the other.
In many ways, Segovia is best seen from a distance: once you're actually in its dark, narrow streets, you will find it either pokey or intimate, depending on your mood.
The brilliance of the Paradors was brought home to us in Toledo, where we stayed in a privately-owned hotel overlooking the city which had so little character it came as a surprise that it had no airport attached.
Its swimming pool was so crowded and cramped that to enter the hustle and bustle of Toledo in the full heat of the sun felt positively refreshing.
Architectural marvels
Sitges has long enjoyed a link with artists. You can find early Picassos in the airy, sea-facing Cau Ferrat museum and plenty of evocative turn-of-the-century views of Sitges by Santiago Rusinol, the painter who made the town his home.
Walk along the palm-lined promenade which stretches from the central honey-coloured parish church to the stately residential quarters of Vinyet and Terramar, and the town's artistic sensibilities are equally evident in an extraordinary range of architectural gems.
No high-rise hotels there; instead, facing the sands of one of the many beaches - Platja de la Fragata - are jolly-looking holiday villas embellished with ornate carved balconies, castellated roof tops and peppermint-coloured shutters. There is even an elaborate gilded sundial to brighten the facade of a one-star hostel.
Further west and the prom widens into a sand-free walkway where rollerbladers cut a swift route towards the quieter beaches of Terramar, the summer villas now seriously grand, their cream-coloured curving verandahs like the stately prows of ocean-going liners.
Part of this architectural richness harks back to the days when locals - the rum baron Signor Bacardi among them - sailed off to the likes of Cuba. They built summer palaces on their return, some in the style of Havana mansions, others mirroring the Art Nouveau fad for eccentrically decorative facades.
Moorish and Christian styles combined
In the background, spectacularly floodlit, the great bell-tower of the cathedral rose above the city.
La Giralda, as the tower is known, was once the minaret of the Moorish mosque, which preceded the 15th- century cathedral. As we discovered, it really is a stupendous building.
Everything is constructed on a heroic scale, from the silver candlesticks in the sacristy, taller than a man, to the 8ft-high bronze figures supporting the coffin of Christopher Columbus.
But every column, every stained-glass window, every side chapel, was exquisitely crafted.
Next stop was the Reales Alcazares, a 14th- century palace in which, again, Moorish and Christian styles combined to stunning effect.
Although it boasted some fine rooms, notably the domed salon de embajadores, with its gorgeously carved wooden ceiling, it was the walled garden that seduced the eye.
Just yards from the traffic-congested streets, a haven of pure peace had been created, with tree-lined paths, sunspangled fountains and a profusion of spring flowers.
Creepers entwined themselves around crumbling statues. A black cat slept under a magnolia tree. There was a scent of lilac and orange blossom.
Cumbersome, not beautiful
Dominating the city is the cathedral La Giralda, the largest in Europe, which is built on the site of a 12th-century mosque.
Expect a queue, set aside at least an hour to look round and check out the shop for Seville marmalade and azulejos (vibrant, glazed ceramic tiles peculiar to the city).
Cumbersome rather than beautiful, the sheer magnitude of the interior, with treasures including the Tomb of Christopher Columbus, is overwhelming.
But mobile phones ringing and a tourist buzz make it the least likely place to pray, which somehow defeats the point.
Outside, the blistering heat - which is why Seville is referred to as the 'frying pan' - lasts well into October so don't envisage whizzing around.
Pace yourself by stopping at Flaherty's behind the cathedral, one of hundreds of cafes and bars, where a pint of draught Guinness is £2.60.
If you've started out late, horse-drawn carriages from Plaza de Los Reyes or an on-off bus tour are ideal. This costs £7.
On arrival at an especially beautiful place, panic usually sets in that there is not enough time to see the copious number of essential sites.
Yet, without hyperventilating, Seville can be explored effortlessly in three nights, with leeway to chance upon tiny chapels, dappled courtyards and gardens.
I was pleased not to have overlooked the Hospital de la Caridad, said to have inspired Don Juan, or the Real Alcazar, home to Spanish royalty for seven centuries.
The Moorish tiled and carved arched salons; the orange tree terraces, patios and ornate gardens take at least half a day to wander round.
Perils of parking the Peugeot
The Pamplona ring road is modern Spain and helped us to reach Puente la Reina, where, on an ancient bridge, you can imagine the footfalls of the souls tramping across. A winding but beautiful stretch of the N111 takes you through Viana, where Cesare Borgia died, and into Logrono, the capital of the Rioja winemaking region.
Checking into the riverside campsite was painful, despite my phrase book, and I struggled in torrential rain to connect the mains power. An adapter was needed, despite contrary information in the UK. However, thanks to a detailed vehicle handover by Auto-Sleepers, which loaned us the Peugeot Pollensa, I was able to switch on the home's 12-volt supply instead. The site's loos were immaculately clean, but had neither paper nor soap. Back to the house on wheels with its fully equipped but small bathroom.
We were starving, but our bad organisation meant we had no food. We went out for a meal at 10.30pm. Thank goodness they eat late in Spain. Parking the Peugeot so that it didn't block the street outside the restaurant was tricky. I finally docked it across two spaces with the bike rack extending over a wall. By then I didn't care if the police towed it away.
The next day was dry and we weren't tired thanks to the large and comfortable bed. We even went cycling into the old town for bacon rolls and coffee in the square. Setting off on the next leg of our trip, much of the 200 miles to the beautiful city of Leon passed in an 80mph blur of golden corn on a huge plain.
We glimpsed Burgos, the home of El Cid, and the nearby monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos, whose monks had a hit record with a Gregorian chant in 1984. Pilgrims walking towards Leon have the N120 on one side and a motorway on the other. Horrible. Our hillside campsite, on the other hand, was so quiet it made your ears hurt.
Lessons for British drivers
There are two lessons here for British drivers.
One is that, with the vast sums of Euro money being spent on new motorways, maps have simply not been able to keep up with them, let alone their numbering.
Secondly, once behind the wheel, Spanish drivers today seem infected by a kind of relentless machismo, driving as if in the bullring and making Spanish roads about the most hazardous in Europe.
Arriving at Avila, late and flustered, we ate happily at El Almacen, a restaurant that - keeping its light under a bushel - is about as hard to find as Madrid's M40.
It faces the famous 11th Century city walls, built to keep the Moors at bay. (Inside Avila's walls there is, disappointingly, little of three-star note.)
After another hour of driving across an empty, featureless plain of wheat, we suddenly saw the spires of Salamanca floating in the distance.
As quickly as we could, we ditched the rental car and walked into the centre of Salamanca (a car is an embarrassment; almost all streets are pedestrian ways, and distances are small).
We started at the bottom end of the town, across from the Roman bridge, at the university.
In the Middle Ages Salamanca university vied with Oxford and Bologna for the first place in Europe. Law and theology were its specialities.
When Cervantes studied there in the 16th Century, it had more than 7,000 students and 60 professors.
Then the decline of Imperial Spain set in, and with it the decay of the university. When one 18th Century professor applied for the Chair of Mathematics at Salamanca he discovered it had been vacant for 30 years.
Holiday hideaway
Puigpunyent looks like a one-street town, a line of houses each with its own dusty dog dozing in the road. But again you'd be surprised. One evening, a five-piece band struck up on a stage outside the town hall, and the entire village - and its dogs - turned out to dance. Grandparents, children, teenagers, some rattling castanets, all whirled and twirled, doing fancy footwork and a lot of flamenco-type clapping.
The village has a charming small restaurant, Ses Cotxeries, specialising in local dishes at bargain prices, and another called The English Rose, which serves roast beef, Yorkshire pud and gravy on Sundays and, unsurprisingly, is popular with expats.
On a day when Steph and I managed to drag ourselves away from the pool, and the diminishing possibility of another glimpse of Kevin Costner, we booked a tour with hotel guide Francesc (every bit as dishy as Kevin, incidentally, and conversant in eight languages).
We zigzagged into the hills, past pine woods, orchards and a grove where lemons and blossom were in full bloom and the ground was a carpet of scarlet poppies. We drove for 30 minutes to the lovely seaside town of Soller, packed with dignified Spanish gents enjoying morning coffee in the square. We bought rustic pots and found a delicatessen selling stuffed aubergines and crunchy pizza slices (coca) that were unbelievably delicious.
Later, we drove through the famously laid-back village of Deya - once the place to go, but now a rat-run for speeding hire cars, its narrow main street ruined by commercialisation. Many of the houses have become holiday homes. The poet, Robert Graves, who lived, worked and died here, must have been turning in his grave, which we visited in the exquisite small cemetery at the top of the hill.
Puigpunyent, on the other hand, is as yet undiscovered. At Son Net the peaceful walks and garden take your breath away. When I mention that Lauren Bacall and the King of Spain were recently spotted (separately) in the hotel restaurant, you'll get some idea of how up-market the place is.
But, being a simple soul, the best part of my trip (apart from seeing Kevin Costner) was when Francesc took us to see some of the oldest trees on the island and, going way beyond the call of duty, rescued a baby bird that had fallen from its nest, by shinning up into the massive, gnarled olive branches.
The sun shone, we munched our coca, drank local vino blanco from the bottle and listened to the chirp of cicadas and the dry rustle of olive leaves. Who could ask for more?
Orange groves in the high hills
If you prefer mountain scenery to beaches, head instead for the north-west area around Valldemossa, Soller and Deia. The winding roads and precipitous drops are not for the fainthearted, but you'll have stunning sea views. The vertiginous, rocky landscape has largely prevented modern development and a tour of this area feels like a glimpse into another century.
Valldemossa, famous for links with novelist George Sands and pianist Frederic Chopin (who stayed here in 1838), is a terrific spot. Soller, a small town built largely of 18th-century houses, lies in the foothills and is a good place to stay if you are keen to explore the Tramuntana on foot.
There are plenty of circular walks, as well as a scenic three-hour trail from Soller to Deia with stunning coastal views. There's a beach of sorts at Port de Soller - a long low-rise stretch of cafes, shops and hotels round a sandy bay.
From here you can visit Biniaraix and Fornalutx, honey-coloured, stone-built inland villages swathed in orange groves. Deia is one of Majorca's prettiest villages. It lies high in the hills, made famous by the poet Robert Graves, who is buried there. Fruit, almond and olive orchards frame the town. From the twisting through-road and most of the houses, you get giddy views of the rocky coast.
The countryside on the east of the island is less dramatic. But you can still find charming spots. Vineyards and almond groves back the resort of Porto Cristo and there's beautiful undulating farmland around the town of Felanitx - known for wine-bottling and ceramics. From this area you can easily visit the small coves around Cala d'Or, Cala Ferrera, Porto Petro and Cala Figuera.
Mission impossible?
Four hours had passed before we crossed a bridge to the left-hand bank, then recrossed to go through a narrow, dark tunnel to reach the dam close to Cain, our destination. At that moment the heavens opened and it was off with the dark glasses and on with the macs.
Then the thunder and lightning began, but at last the few houses of Cain came into sight. How relieved I was to find other walkers having their picnic lunch. While they were laughing and joking, I slunk off to the village shop where - among the groceries, post cards and walking sticks - I found a cheap pair of trainers. Anything was better than those damn boots!
As we explored the area, we came across a shepherd having trouble driving his large flock into his truck. 'Quick!' I called to Julia, 'he needs help!' Hobbling and waving my stick, we managed to get all but two into the truck, when one shot back out followed by the rest. We realised shepherding was not our forte.
At the charming casona in Alevia, Senora Sanchez welcomed us to a hot bath, a drink and a three-course dinner. That night, two musicians friends of our hosts gave us an impromptu little show. The soprano sang while she plucked the strings of her harp, with her husband playing various wind instruments including a 'gaita' (similar to our bagpipe).
However, soon the disco outside lured us to join the fiesta in the square - an annual event in the last week of September. We found children dancing wildly, the grannies in their wicker chairs proudly watching their grandchildren. There wasn't a tourist in sight. Now gloriously tired, we drifted back, and so to sleep in our comfortable casona.
Courage, Mrs B! Don your boots, gather your haversack - we're off! From Alevia, we took the walking notes and map and wended our way up farm tracks and paths. Higher and higher we climbed, puffing and panting.
There was barely time for me to look back as I tried to keep up with Julia. Wild crocuses, mushrooms, blackberries and orchids covered the hedgerows. With anticipation of the sea beyond we pressed on. Suddenly the clouds descended. Oh, for a nip of brandy! But Senora Juez's welcome at Villaneuva was warm, and again we tucked into a three-course, home-cooked dinner. Contentedly tired, we crept off to bed.
Leaving sleepy Villaneuva with its wooden balconies and handful of dogs, we made our way through other villages down towards the sea. An enchanting walk took us through woods of sweet chestnut, beech and oak to the trout farm at the source of the River Puron.
From the little hamlet of La Pereda we strolled down to the bustling port of Llanes, through hamlets, fields and over the old railway line. With sandy coves and a rugged coastline stretching beyond, we sat on the sea wall eating our picnic. In one of the cider bars we joined the locals, who pour the cider from a great height and gulp it down in one, before passing on the glass to their drinking companion.
Now well relaxed in the warm evening, we decided to cheat as time was running out - and so were my legs. We took a taxi back to our hotel to enjoy our final gastronomic feast of delicious local produce.
An echo of the trendiness
Property prices, once so miraculously low, now equal - and often surpass - the most inflationary southern England hotspots.
It would be less than honest to portray this as a centre of harmonious or sensitive architecture.
The coast road between Marbella, San Pedro and Estepona must have some of the most perversely ugly and ill-matched residential and commercial blocks ever misconceived by money-mad man.
On a high bluff stands the summer residence of Saudi Arabia's King Fahd, a replica of America's White House (only with tighter security, locals say) whose front lawn after dark displays a giant scimitar picked out in lights.
Last year, His Majesty spent a rumoured $6 million per day on his summer break, renting something like 600 Mercedes limousines for the use of his court and entourage.
But, amid the billionaire kitsch, Marbella still has an echo of the trendiness it used to enjoy in the Swinging Sixties, when figures such as Jackie Onassis and Brigitte Bardot would regularly be seen bopping in its discos and Rolling Stone Brian Jones sunned himself on its beach.
In those days, no resort in Europe was smarter than the Marbella Club Hotel, founded and personally run by the celebrated Prince Alfonso von Hohenlohe, an Austro-Spanish blueblood who can claim to have invented the Costa del Sol almost single-handedly.
Returning last month for another sun-seeking short break, we stayed for three nights at the Marbella Club. Though the winter sun proved more uncertain this time, the only possible word for the treatment we received was princely.
The layout is unusual for a hotel - a compound of self-contained villas, bungalows and apartments, embowered in lush, tropical foliage which, even in midwinter, has a fragrance that lifts the soul.
We stayed in a bungalow named Julieta (next door to one called Romeo) which had two master bedrooms, two bathrooms and a private walled garden.
After one look, Jessica, our daughter, suggested we sell our London home and move in permanently.
Peacocks and karaoke My Way
Tranquillity is assured at Sa Posada d'Aumallia in Felanitx, if the plaintive cries of the resident peacocks don't trouble you.
The only threat to salubrious self-indulgence is the lawn sprinklers, which tend to explode to life at odd moments with drenching effect.
However, the Marti Gomilia family do lay on a very personal service, dinner serenaded by Andres Marti at the piano.
It's only right that if you're looking for a holiday fit for celebs that you lunch or dine at the most exclusive, yet discreet, places in Mallorca.
French chef Gerard Tetard's exquisite creations at the Hotel Ses Rotges, in Cala Ratjada, are best enjoyed on its al fresco, bloom-draped patio.
Mid-town sounds from beyond a high wall fill the air, such as karaoke versions of My Way... over and over again.
Not far from Felanitx is the 13th-century Hotel Rural Sa Galera, a great showcase of Balearic style.
Dinner is best outside on the terrace in the dark of night. Should the conversation dry up a bit the bats above put on an aerial display.
It's worth mentioning that the hotel is close to the better beaches: Es Trenc, Cala Mondrago and Cala Llombargs. The sedate might prefer the great pool.
For more information on Mallorca's 29 "hotels with character", check out website: http://www.reisdemallorca.com or see your travel agent for details.
Sample hotel rates: Standard double room at La Reserva Rotana is about £89.50 a night. At Sa Posada d'Aumallia a double costs £82 a night.
GB Airways runs daily services to Palma de Mallorca from £129. For reservations call 0845 77 333 77.
The quality call it Mallorca
Many people have the wrong image of Mallorca, imagining it is all like Magaluf, overrun by lager louts, people wearing tattoos and little else. And that's just the girls. In the main, that lot go to Majorca. The quality prefer to call it Mallorca.
I asked Magic of Spain to find me somewhere suitably Mallorcan to stay. Not La Residencia. Been there, very nice, but I found the dining room a bit stiff and fancy, especially on my own. I was booked into a hotel called the Cala Sant Vicens, in a little seaside resort of the same name.
It's in the far north, an area I had never been to, and it turned out to be terrific. A 38-room, family-run, Relais & Chateaux hotel with excellent service, quietly luxurious. I'm not usually impressed by Relais & Chateaux. To me it means pricey and poncy. But this was so relaxed and friendly.
I loved staying there, not least because I felt young. The average age must have been around 70. Mostly English county types, so refined. And energetic - going off on long walks, bird watching, exploring the coves and coast. Some of the walks are a bit tough and rocky, even for a youngster like me.
When I walked over the hill to Port de Pollenca, I had intended to walk back, but my little leggies were so tired I took a taxi.
Port de Pollenca, with its long narrow beach and panoramic bay, was probably very attractive at one time, but the water looked a bit yucky and the tourist shops rather tatty.
I was much more delighted by Pollenca itself, which is inland, a perfect little Mallorcan town, unspoilt by tourism, with its old city well preserved. It has a Roman bridge, lots of medieval buildings and a fine museum.
Despite my poorly legs, I climbed its famous 365 Calvary steps up to a little church. All the locals told me they were famous, so they must be. Almost every settlement in the world I have ever been to boasts something famous, whether it's pork sausages or a pencil factory.
All tourists to the far north visit Formentor; I went to a sort of long rocky headland, undeveloped apart from one famous hotel, the Hotel Formentor. Yes, I had heard of it, a grand hotel, opened in 1929.
An unpricked conscience.
But we were determined to put all this rich, varied, etc etc, culture behind us; we wanted to stay somewhere far away from the twin demands of crowds and culture; in short, somewhere we could loaf around with an unpricked conscience.
We chose the expensive five-star Hotel Formentor, on the northeast tip of the island. During its 71 years in existence, the Formentor has accrued quite enough history of its own. Winston Churchill, the Duke of Windsor, President Bush and even Haile Selassie have stayed there, and so too have the Dalai Lama, Charlie Chaplin, Audrey Hepburn, John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Laurence Olivier and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
In its most recent brochure, the hotel includes a handwritten message from Michael Douglas ('So pleasant and quiet. Thank you for a lovely stay') and another, in an impenetrable Spanish hand, from Placido Domingo.
However, the key requirement in a luxury hotel is space. The Formentor has it in abundance. Behind the hotel there are mountains populated only by goats, rosemary bushes and flakey scree. To the left there are a good half-dozen tennis courts, benevolently presided over by a brilliant coach called Tolo.
In front there are gardens the size of parks, home to a pleasingly decrepit crazy golf course and filled to bursting with lemon trees and primary-coloured plants. These gardens also contain two swimming pools, one warm and big, the other cold and even bigger. At the end of the gardens there is a long, sandy beach touched by a translucent blue sea.
Looking out to sea, one of the friends we had gone on holiday with said: 'I wonder if we could hire a pederast to ride on?' I suggested that, all things being equal, a pedalo might be more accommodating.
Luxury takes only a matter of minutes to get used to. Staying in a well-run luxury hotel like the Formentor is like employing an invisible Mary Poppins: you leave your room untidy and you return, seconds later, to find it spick-and-span with cushions miraculously plumped, pyjamas folded, towels replaced, beds turned down, fridges restocked.
And the Formentor adds many little magic tricks all of its own: lying beside the swimming pool, for instance, you can mumble: 'A club sandwich and a bottle of white wine, please' to a passing waiter and - hey presto! - in five minutes they will appear, and all you have to do in return is give him your autograph.
Alas, on the very last day, these autographs will equally mysteriously resurface in a great pile stapled to your bill: but part of the art of staying in a hotel is to live as if there will be no last day.
A high-octane level of eccentrics
The cafes are filled with a high-octane level of eccentrics. Old frizzle-haired ex-muses, smoking pipes, wearing tie-dye kaftans, listening to whales mating on headphones. I overheard a conversation: 'You see this table. Think of it as your consciousness!' All hippy-speak and acid brain-burned-dialogue - I find it high entertainment.
Everyone but everyone is a wannabe artist. Some of it is brilliant, some my hamster could do with a little paint on his claws.
Anyway, back to the hotel. In the early days, the owner, Virgin boss Richard Branson, would be master of ceremonies around the pool. If he felt you needed to swim, he would throw you in. But, to his credit, if he felt you needed to eat, he would take you to the restaurant and buy you lunch.
He also taught each of my children to swim with a unique method.
When my son Max was five, Richard told him to take off his floaties and get in the pool. He waved £10 at him and said if he could swim across the pool, it would be his. Max had never had a swimming lesson in his life. I was terrified.
But Max must have inherited some of my Jewish genes. He swam, God knows how, and got the cash.
Richard did the same thing with my daughter Madeleine. She wouldn't swim right away, so he launched her in the air, like a plane, to set her off. She got £20 to get over the trauma. Richard signed the banknotes and we had them framed as the children's swimming certificates.
So when I went back to the La Residencia after many years of absence, I thought surely it would have fallen from its unbelievably sexy standards. To my surprise, however, not only has it not changed, it has got better.
It has a spa now. When I went for my weekend I was ill with flu. I thought if they could cure me with their detox programme, then it had to be good.
I had been ill for four weeks, so I presented quite a challenge.
Up on the hill, still filled with the sound of those goat bells, there's now a state-of-the-art gym and indoor pool. I got a yoga teacher who knew how sick I was so didn't make me do the usual yogic kissing of your own behind from both directions.
She relaxed me and made me do breathing exercises to visualise my fever away.
Rambling in Barcelona
STAGE 2, PARIS-BARCELONA: A bit of hanging around at the station, which is not the greatest, waiting for the 9.40pm sleeper to Port Bou just over the border in Spain, where in the morning we are to change onto a Spanish Talgo to Barcelona. We have booked a Wagon Lit, but are told they are 'en greve', i.e. on strike. And they call it the British disease. However, we are to sleep in the Wagon Lit, but there is no catering on the train. My sister dashes back to get some sandwiches.
We leave Paris at dusk in rain and thunder, but at 7am wake up in Narbonne. The landscape has changed into a Van Gogh painting of tall thin trees, vines on the hillsides. We manage to dash off the train to get a wonderful French coffee. The rest of the journey is magical, with the Mediterranean sparkling on the left, and the Pyrenees misty on the right.
The train arrives on time in Port Bou, and we wait for the Spanish train to Barcelona. It, too, leaves and arrives on time and by noon we are in Spain's second-biggest city. Now we face a vital question - is there a Left Luggage? In most British and French stations they have been closed down for 'security' reasons. I don't believe it is beyond the wit of man to devise a secure left luggage service.
But full marks to Barcelona Sants station, there is a 'consigna'. There was also one at the ferry port, we discovered later. So we have a luggage-free five hours, plenty of time for a tapas lunch on the boardwalked waterfront, refurbished for the 1992 Olympics, and a walk up La Ramblas, with a diversion into the most colourful and prolific fish and vegetable market I have ever seen.
STAGE 3, BARCELONA-PALMA: The ferry is due to leave at 5pm and we check in at four after recovering our bags. It's a ten-minute taxi ride from the station to port, which is at the bottom of La Ramblas, though you could take the underground.
The 'fast ferry' which takes just under five hours, is not quite as quick as it claims, and reaches Palma at 10.30pm after a calm crossing and a stunning view of the Majorcan mountains in the dusk as we approach. We dock in the dark to be met by my wife and daughter, and spend a sybaritic week at my favourite Majorcan Hotel, the Bon Sol in Illetas.
I'm even looking forward to the return journey home. And my sister now feels the whole of Europe is open to her. With a bit of planning, it probably is.
Entertainment off the beaten track
Best bars
For tapas, those little Spanish snacks which so easily turn into a meal, head for La Boveda, in the busy Llotja area of Palma. You can eat standing up at an old wine barrel, or take a seat on the outside terrace at the nearby Taberna de la Boveda (same menu) in summer. Try pimientos de Padron, deep-fried chilli peppers from Galicia, with a plate of cured ham and paamboli - bread rubbed with tomato and drizzled with olive oil. After dinner, stroll around the corner to Abaco, Palma's classiest cocktail bar. Opera plays and fountains tinkle as you sit on a sofa surrounded by antiques, sipping cocktails by candlelight in a 17th Century mansion.
Fun for the kids
Majorca is a children's paradise, with water parks, crazy golf courses, dolphin shows and a drive-round zoo - and your holiday rep will be only too happy to sell you organised excursions to any of these. Nothing is quite as much fun, though, as the toy-town ride on an antique train from Palma, hooting and whistling as it chugs through the mountains before making a roller-coaster descent to Soller. Here, pick up the Orange Express tram for the journey down to the port, where you can have lunch by the harbour, spend the afternoon on the beach or take a boat trip around the rocky north coast to the pretty cove at Sa Calobra.
Best walks
Serious hikers will head for the Tramuntana Mountains, where the air is scented by numerous wild herbs and the views over the north coast are spectacular. For a gentle stroll, it's hard to beat Palma's waterfront at dusk. Fishermen sit beside the har-bour mending their nets, the trendy boardwalk bars start to fill up, and as you head back towards the city the cathedral appears, rising out of the old city walls through a forest of palm trees, its golden sandstone lit up by the late afternoon sun.
Best markets
Forget the Thursday market at Inca, full of tourist coaches and dubious bargains, and make for Sineu, in the very centre of the island. The Wednesday market here has been going for centuries and is the best place to catch the flavour of rural Majorca. Weatherworn farmers haggle over the price of sheep, the bars are packed with locals drinking coffee and brandy at 10am and slabs of salt cod and bags full of squirming snails are sold alongside buckets of olives and strings of tomatoes and garlic. Also worth visiting is the Sunday market in Pollenca. As well as the fresh produce in the main square, don't miss the art and craft stalls in the lanes behind the church.
Unusual holidays
Several former monasteries now offer simple accommodation in the old monks' cells.
My favourite is the Ermita de Bonany at Petra, where you sleep in a whitewashed cell, have the option of a cold shower and wake to a private view of the sun rising over the Majorcan plain. Other places are more comfortable, but none is quite so atmospheric.
Tapas and the Tramontana Mountains
While Cala Molina was heaving, a 20-minute drive away beyond Punta de Manresa we found a pebbled bay inhabited by just two Spanish families. The following day, we discovered another quiet bay beyond the mobbed beach at Formentor. And we still managed to spend plenty of time hanging about our Pollenca villa and its pool.
Most evenings, we ate on our villa terrace under the stars. On one occasion, we ate at a seafood restaurant in Port de Pollenca; on another we sat in the charming main square of Pollenca. On another, we discovered a wonderful tapas bar behind the square at Cafe-bar Centro.
It was not far from this square that Pollenca market was held each Sunday. Here we stocked up on fresh bread, dusky plums, tomatoes the size of footballs, gerkhins and ladies' fingers.
Towards the end of our stay, I ventured into the Tramontana Mountains alone. After 17 coiling miles, I arrived at a mountain valley in which nestled the Balearics' most famous monastery and place of pilgrimage, Monestir de Lluc.
From the monastery, the road climbed a further 30km until it plummeted to another valley and the market town of Soller, where I caught a tram to the port. There, I lunched memorably on a dorado fish served with wild mushrooms, artichoke and tomatoes. For entertainment, I watched children throwing each other off a raft into the bay.
By the time I got back to the villa, the day was as good as done and I wondered if the family had strolled into town for an aperitif. Guess what? They hadn't moved from where I'd left them.
10.30pm for dinner?
Friday starts robustly. Lhardy in Carrera de San Jeronimo has been cosseting customers-since 1839 with its trademark savoury pastries and fragrant consomme.
Thus fortified, I head to the Prado, Madrid's great museum. Stuffed with riches, it is best tackled in more than one visit.
Time for lunch: I pass a bar serving plates of fried pigs' ears, a local speciality. I can't quite face this, and duck instead into the vast Museo del Jamon, next door to Lhardy's, for jamon Iberico (sweet-cured ham) in a croissant.
Carmen's rendezvous that evening is alarmingly late. Who meets at 10.30pm for dinner?
Her favourite fish restaurant, Ribeira Do Mino in Calle Santa Brigida, is packed with locals guzzling shellfish in a fug of cigarette smoke, each table heaped with pink prawn shells and crab claws.
After eating, the form is to head on to a club, but I plead exhaustion - it's 1am. Manana, insists Carmen, we go to dance.
Saturday starts late with a little shopping on a street specialising in cheap designer shoes and unusual boutiques: Calle Augusto Figueroa, a bohemian part of town. I snap up a pair of black boots for £30.
That evening, Carmen takes me to see flamenco at Taberna Casa Patas - raw, passionate, noisy; the real thing. So where are the tourist hordes? 'Barcelona and Seville', thinks Carmen.
There is only one place for a nightcap in this insomniac capital: the Chocolateria San Gines in Pasadizo de San Gines, a Madrid institution since 1894.
Here, you clean up with hot chocolate and crispy batter churros before turning in - or heading out to work, as the case may be. The opening hours say it all: 1am-7.30am, Tuesday to Sunday. The next day I spend recovering, strolling through rooms full of fabulous Goyas at the Prado (free on Sunday).
Madrid is still buzzing on Sunday night. Carmen and I stroll to El Tempranillo, a suave, old-meets-new bar, for mouth-watering tapas (porcini mushrooms in garlic and olive oil, plus a glass of tempranillo, £3).
Four or five more bars follow. It's 1am and the pavements are still busy. Madrid, like no other, is a city that knows how to live.
And for the weekending visitor, it's pure adrenaline.
TRAVEL FACTS:
Magic of Spain offers short breaks to Madrid, tel: 08700 270400.
Surreal experience
What sights should you see? Cesar Manrique's House is a 'must-see'. Lanzarote owes its attractive, low-rise, whitewashed developments to Cesar Manrique, a local boy who made good in the Fifties as a surrealist international architect and sculptor.
When he returned to the Canaries in the Seventies, he was so shocked at what was happening on the other islands that he became the driving force behind a set of strict new planning laws that kept the island's traditional styles and restricted development to no more than a few storeys high.
Manrique's surrealist house is built half underground and half cut into the rock. It's a weird sequence of subterranean rooms, passages, stairways and courtyards. He also designed the Mirador del Rio, a cliff-top lookout with great views the north coast.
Timanfaya National Park: Come here, in the heart of the island, for a coach tour round the still-active Timanfaya volcano. The coach takes you on a circuit around the weird landscape of black ash and steaming lava. There hasn't been a really big eruption since the 1730s when it blew its top and swamped half the island in molten rock. Just pray it doesn't happen again while you are there.
February is a good month to escape the British weather and a good time to be in Lanzarote. It's carnival month and most of the resorts and villages hold fairs and processions. Lanzarote has pretty good weather all year round. In winter temperatures peak at around 68-70f with five or six hours of sun a day, but it can be windy. Playa Blanca, in the south, is the warmest, most sheltered and sunniest part of the island.
A drive around the island is an excellent day out whether you hire a car (cheap) or take a coach tour. You'll see how the barren, black volcanic landscape of the south gives way to greener mountain scenery in the north. And there are some great picnic spots including the rocky, white sand beaches of the north-east coast.
Don't miss the quiet inland villages with their traditional Spanish architecture. The prettiest are Haria in the north, with its own oasis of palm trees, and Teguise, the old capital, with quiet back streets and a lovely museum in the 18th-century Palacio Spinola.
The north-west coastline has some spectacular views and gorgeous-looking beaches, but don't be tempted to swim unless you know exactly what you are doing and have taken local advice. Beaches such as Playa Famara have fierce rip tides and lethal undertows if you venture into the water.
Land of the dinosaurs
The following morning I awoke to the sounds of Maria playing with Joe by the pool. Later, we took a leisurely drive down to Santa Cruz which at first, in the morning light, resembled a modern Brazilian city, full of waving palms, white blocks and glass. It was only as we came into town that I realised this was an illusion.
Turning a street corner we found ourselves in the old part of the capital - with cobbled, steep paths, flower-filled squares and innumerable shrines to the Virgin Mary. Here we shopped in the local market for tomatoes, cheese, olives and more bread, before setting off to find a road to the rainforest high in the mountains above us.
Travelling north to Puntal-lana, Joseph announced, importantly: 'Mind, Daddy. I saw a boulder sign saying rocks might fall on us.' He was right - a heavy stone struck the roof of our hired car within seconds.
When we finally reached the rainforest at Los Tilos the atmosphere was magical - silent and almost sinister in it's brooding intensity. Joe shouted excitedly: 'We've come to the dinosaurs. Careful, or a dackla-daurus might get us.' Our guide maps did reliably inform us not of impending death by dinosaur, but that the forest extends for 30 miles into the island, and that it is almost impossible for walkers who stray from the paths to be found.
At exactly that moment I lost sight of both my children. Hearing their voices, one teasing and the other growing ever more squeaky by the second, I realised that sound travels deceptively in the rainforest. Joseph and Maria were ahead of me, following a mountain stream, not behind as I had imagined.
That night we discovered we had come to La Palma at the same time as the carnival, an annual celebration of processions, dancing and general enjoyment extending over several days and including a children's funfair, fireworks, and a final afternoon where everyone throws talcum powder over each other.
Joseph was joyous at the sight of other children dressed as bees, sheep, tigers and elephants parading through the shadowy streets. By far the winners were a pair of solemn toddlers dressed as Dalmatians and riding miniature motorbikes. I turned to see how my daughter was enjoying herself, and was rewarded with a huge smile.
Over the next few days we discovered just how much there is to do on La Palma if you enjoy swimming, walking and taking your offspring to dangerous places. Driving south of Santa Cruz via the Montes de Luna, we discovered the volcanoes of Teneguia and San Antonio, which last erupted in 1979. Needless to say, my small son had to stand on the edge and peer into it, while my daughter refused to go near, and sat in the car playing CDs on her headset instead.
On the way back, taking the mountain road through Mazo, we discovered an old windmill surrounded by a small, but intensely-coloured, rock garden and successfully converted into a craft workshop. Finding blue coral bracelets for Maria and myself and a wooden boat for Joseph made this a triumph.
On our last night at the parador we were all so relaxed I nearly missed noticing that the waitress had served Joseph a gin and orange by mistake. I only fully realised how well the holiday had gone when Maria came back to the table, pink and pretty, telling us she had just been kissed by the waiter. The experiment had been a success.
More than piped muzak
Affable IT boss Nick was pale after spending months in the hotel's control room operating on the heart of the beast, a Rio Digital Audio mothership computer. It feeds clubbers' music into the MP3 players in each room. I think.
I tried to impress Nick by talking about 'burning' music via computer, but only embarrassed myself; I was hopelessly dated and should have been 'ripping' years ago. I stopped the conversation before someone told me Eminem didn't live in my radio.
Nick has extraordinary plans for holidaymakers. If futuristic gadgets at Bahia are well received, hotels may one day offer Nick's 'web pads' with your room key and palm-sized digital TVs that can download movies to watch by the pool. You could even survey footage live from clubs and restaurants, so you can inspect the evening beforehand to avoid recriminations.
It isn't like you have to be there any more. Nick says: 'The music from parties can be ripped on to your Nike MP3 player and taken to the beach the next day.'
Walking into the rooms themselves I felt pangs of nostalgia. I would have given anything to have stayed in a place like this when I was a junior raver.
There was no football graffiti in the wardrobe, the rooms were airy and spankingly clean - with the all-important kitchenette enabling you to spend the last two days living off economy spaghetti in air sauce. There wasn't even a fat man nobody knew locked in the bathroom.
By the bed my MP3 looked like a fancy hi-fi and summoned the Ministry back catalogue, very loudly. I promptly tried to unscrew it from the wall only to discover that, as it was actually connected to the mothership, it didn't have a single CD in it and I had to screw it back in.
Unfortunately, short of being a drug dealer's moll, I couldn't have afforded the Bahia. During the clubbing season, these suites are £364 - £484 per person per week self-catering, and you're being asked to share 4-6 with one bathroom.
Fine, if you've given up bathing along with food, but clubbing sends you home with hair like bunches of damp Marlboros. And £484 is a lot to sleep on a sofabed.
Admittedly, Ibiza will always be expensive unless you are a fabulous-looking 18-year-old girl convinced that an elderly tycoon's wife does not understand him (when she invariably understands him rather well).
But traditional package holidays do it cheaper. So will the atmosphere of 'it' make Bahia worth the money?
Child's paradise
But it was at Cala San Vincente that my son found his paradise. Although there were bars and hotels galore, they were all quite inoffensive for a change, and numerous families pitched along the sand. So what made it special? Perhaps it was the piercing blue sea, or the size of the waves that had us screaming in merriment. Perhaps it was the cliffs, or the view - or perhaps, simply, that it was the end of our holiday and Britain loomed.
Our days were so long that evening meanderings were kept to a minimum. Our first expedition to Eivissa town, for dinner, gave us a swift lesson in what not to do. A stroll along the harbour-front took us past endless stalls selling lacy knickers. Kama Sutra T-shirts and saucy posters for the forthcoming clubbing season were on display.
My three and one-year-olds, thankfully, showed little interest; the six-year-old's eyes were on stalks. The subsequent sight of my vast dish of paella, bristling with all forms of delectable seafood, had their appetites quashed within seconds. An expensive mistake.
Our second visit took the more sedate approach of a walk through cobbled passageways of Dalt Vila, Eivissa's medieval 'old town'. Pizzas and gazpacho, though pricey, proved a better decision.
While on a journey into town, we took a wrong turning and found ourselves at one of Ibiza's most concentrated areas of tourism -Platja d'en Bossa. As I studied the route out, the beady-eyed boy in the back spotted the towering tubular slide of Aguamar - one of Ibiza's two waterparks. Oh, the things you do for love. There were people there for whom Aguamar was clearly the raison d'etre of their holidays.
We soon gave up on the increasing length of queues and decided to go 'home', satisfied in the knowledge that the Ibiza we had discovered was a world apart from this one.
Our journey was neither speedy nor stress-free. The only direct way to the island is by charter flight. But these depart at the most inconvenient times of day or night, and are usually subject to the longest delays. With one child, I might have considered it; with three, it was out of the question.
Scheduled services require a change of plane, usually in Barcelona or, in our case, Majorca, an airport I am hard-pressed to praise. The signposting is abysmal, entailing long queues at the information desks, and the ground area so vast that passengers are required to walk for miles between departures/ arrivals halls and the planes.
We had a two-hour wait in Majorca on our way and five hours on our way back. Door to door, the journey took the best part of ten hours each way, which is crazy when you consider Ibiza is only two hours away.
Great little escape
We also thought we'd like the idea of being the only guests in the hotels, as we often were - until we saw what the waiter put in front of us. It became clear why you don't see Spaniards in hotels. Presumably, having fresh salads, olives and fruit at home, they don't want to poke at a pile of chips, saw through a tasteless chunk of dry meat or fish and eat overcooked French beans from a tin, the choice of foreigners trapped in their packaged, prepaid, full or half-board accommodation.
There was one sensational exception. At Benaojan village, where the walk begins and ends, there is, by a stream, a small hotel called the Molino del Santo. It has won all sorts of awards and hoteliers come from across Spain to see how they do it.
Its success is the setting, its gardens, its charming decor, the service and above all its food - a free-ranging menu of tons of fresh local produce. If you happen to be stuck in Gibraltar or the Costa del Sol, the Molino del Santo is a great place to escape for the weekend.
While we are on food, I would like to introduce the Grazalema macaroon, a coconut delight offered with breakfast on our second day. It was the only unpackaged food we came across outside Benaojan and we bundled them into our knapsack for elevenses.
After tinned dinners the next local difficulty was the bed. Having seen iron bed frames used as gates or fencing in paddocks throughout the Sierra de Grazalema - the sight took me back to my New Zealand childhood 40 years ago - it occurred to me that local bed manufacturers set their specifications to agricultural requirements rather than to human needs.
This would explain why, when you move about in a hotel bed, you are forever banging your head. I'm not especially tall, yet the bed frame always seemed too short or the wooden head board too thick. This penchant for unexpected torture may be a hangover from the Inquisition. How else to explain a traffic speed limit sign plonked in the middle of a narrow pavement for unsuspecting pedestrians to crash into? That's how I marched out of Benaojan on day one nursing a bruised head.
The walk lasted six days and through Grazalema, Zahara de la Sierra, Prado del Rey, El Bosque, Grazalema and back to Benaojan. Getting there is fun. We flew into Gibraltar, walked across the frontier into Spain, took a taxi to the railway station at San Roque and caught the Cadiz train to the mountains.
You are in a part of the world where the man behind the ticket counter puts on a different hat to become the station master and another one to become the signalman.
I called out the villages as the train stopped: Caballeros. Salida. They seemed charming names. 'Don't be ridiculous,' my wife snorted. 'That's the men's lavatory and the exit sign.'
Far from dozy
After the Alhambra, we headed for the 15th-century Renaissance cathedral, to catch the sunset bouncing through stained glass in the high ceilings and on to the bright, whitewashed walls.
In the shadows of the cathedral in Plaza Bib-Rambla are some excellent dress and shoe shops, and places to eat - I tried a local dish, tortilla sacromonte (a local variation on Spanish omelette), and a delicious bizzocho aleman (a hefty almond cake).
I had naively anticipated the cobbled old streets to be frozen in an idyllic past, and my camera was ready to snap gossiping widows dressed in black, their faces as wizened as olive tree trunks.
In reality, Granada was far from dozy, with everything from olive oil factories to combine harvesters working the fields, and a regional airport, it had a progressive air.
In search of a more scenic retreat, we drove south for 45 minutes - where, tucked in among the knobbly hills of a thousand-acre estate, is the Hotel La Bobadilla.
With its whitewashed hacienda and 16th-century chapel, somehow it has managed to pull off the informal Moorish village look without seeming cutely over-designed.
I scanned the guest book and noticed an abundance of anniversary and wedding guests (it hosts an incredible 66 Japanese weddings a year).
Guests who had brought dogs were walking out in the almond tree orchards, the dogs trying to snuffle out wild rabbits. Without another house for miles around, birdsong was the only sound.
The greatest compliment for La Bobadilla came from former Python Michael Palin.
'I would never recommend this place,' he announced to a horrified manager, before adding: 'I don't want the British coming here.'
Sorry, Mr Palin.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
The Mediterranean Experience offers breaks at the Hotel La Bobadilla tel: 020 8445 6000
Invasion of the Range Rovers
But the main reason the children were smitten, I think, was their strong sense of the Spanishness of the place. They closed their eyes to the fact that Gaucin was already beginning to be invaded by Range Rovers.
They shut their ears to the fruity accents of the Etonians in the nearby villa (now the property of Lord Parkinson).
What the girls looked out for instead was the simmering admiration of the village boys. What they heard was the tonking of sheep-bells in the morning and the lilt of Sevillanas being sung in the bars at night.
As for my son, he was a bit young for all that in those days but he was entranced to find himself sharing his bedroom with geckos.
Over the years, the lure of the village grew stronger. I knew what to expect.
One balmy Spanish night on a pre-Gaucin holiday, I had discovered that our eldest daughter, then 16, had slipped out at 3am, leaving a pillow-and-beach-towel dummy in her bed.
I tracked her down to a seedy nightclub and had to lever her from the arms of an indignant national serviceman.
At least in Gaucin there was no nightclub, I comforted myself, and the young couldn't get there unless I drove them. How estupido could I be?
The consequence, of course, was that I spent my evenings as a mini-cab driver, while the boys I'd see in the market next day became bolder and bolder with their knowing winks and whistles.
Huge colonnaded square
Totally exposed to the depressions rolling off the Atlantic, the region suffers rainfall figures that are more Eire than Espana.
The tourist season runs only from June to the end of August - a fact that has clearly put off the developers - and anyone coming here should expect basic accommodation, local cuisine, chilly swimming temperatures and a complete absence of internet cafes.
This is Galicia and the locals are as proud of their Celtic roots as they are of the fishing industry that has suffered so many times from so many ecological disasters.
Like the Basques and the Catalans, the Gallegos see themselves as a part of Spain that isn't Spain. TV movies on local channels are dubbed into Gallego.
Schoolchildren have to learn most subjects in Gallego and Castillano.
Menus in many restaurants are often unintelligible even to those fluent in Spanish.
Eating in one such establishment just off the Praza de Maria Pita - the huge colonnaded square in the heart of La Coruna's old town - I get around the language problem by simply asking for a portion of the mouth-watering dish sat on the bar.
Galicia is considered by many to be the gastronomic capital of Spain. It certainly has the best bread in the country, the tastiest potatoes, the most flavoursome tomatoes and the best white wines.
La Coruna certainly doesn't have the picturesque charm of Santiago, but its medieval quarter is lovely, its fish market one of the wonders of the food world and its excellent new aquarium offers a pertinent reminder of why single-hulled oil tankers need to be banned.
Smug in the knowledge that I now know where the salt in the sea comes from, I head off south-west towards Fisterra.
After a day of discovering virgin beaches such as Traba, I stop for the night at the lovely fishing village of Camarinas.
Ideal for long and short breaks
Other resorts within easy reach of Xabia include Calp and Moraira and a short ferry trip from Xabia to Denia opens up a town with excellent shops, restaurants, architecture and beaches.
The 18th century church of Asuncion and the town hall are two examples of what the resort has to offer.
If morning hunger takes you in Moraira, seek out the Restaurante La Sort for a 10-dish traditional Spanish breakfast including tuna, omelette, red fish, patatas bravas, sardines and tomato salad.
If you want to see more than the small resorts, the area's capital Valencia is about an hour's drive from Xabia.
Boasting an ancient city centre and the Lonja, a 15th century silk exchange and World Heritage site, it also has a host of museums and galleries.
Alicante, to the south of Xabia and Castellon, further to the north, are cultural centres in their own right and deserve to be explored.
The Costa Blanca has opened up from the bog-standard package holiday and "Brits abroad" culture of years passed.
Its 100 miles of beaches, historic towns, mountain scenery and traditional cuisine makes it the perfect place to holiday with family or friends.
Peaceful Xabia and its surrounding area is a superb choice for both short breaks or long stay holidays and a base from where you can venture off the tourist trail.
British Airways operates flights to Valencia and Alicante from major British airports including Gatwick and Manchester for about £150 return. Budget airlines also operate services to Alicante.
Prices at the El Rodat hotel in Xabia start at around 100 euros per night for a double room and around 220 euros for a grand suite. Flights can be booked at the same time as reservations.
For further details on bookings for El Rodat contact Open Holidays on (01903) 215 215.
Volcanic inspiration
Across the road from this laid-back luxury sits a huge plastic tent-shape structure, home to Tex-Mex and pizza restaurants, where the bar is in the shape of a large boat, and a two-piece band (who look spookily like the Mitchell brothers) segue effortlessly from Waltzing Matilda into a little light Bach and the sunburnt diners tuck into fajitas and fried chicken.
It is a world away from the tasteful glamour of Gran Melia Salinas - where women in Chanel glide around the dance floor to the salsa tunes and Beatles covers - yet everyone seems to be having an equally good time.
The classy side of Lanzarote is due, largely, to the generous and gifted Cesar Manrique, a Lanzarote-born artist who has been involved in designing most of the tourist attractions on the island.
His touch is everywhere - from the subtly curved cafe at the Mirador del Rio, which commands stunning views to the neighbouring islands and across the Atlantic, to the little devil who welcomes you to the Timanfaya National Park; from the caves that can be explored to the cactus garden he created in a disused quarry.
Those who live in Lanzarote have grown to love their volcanoes -Manrique built his house among the heat-seared rock, hollowing out living spaces under the surface - the ultimate bachelor pad with leather sofas and lava-blackened walls.
Nature is king on Lanzarote - and nowhere is this more obvious than in the Timanfaya National Park, where fields of black rock stretch as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the sweep of volcanic craters and the occasional struggling cactus, desperate to inject a drop of colour into the monochrome moonscapes.
The volcanoes are dormant now, but their power remains on show; a guide will pour water into a hole that shoots out as steam ten seconds later, and the chef in the Manrique-designed restaurant cooks his chicken and sausages on a grill that sits over an open hole that tunnels down to the molten rocks below.
There's plenty about Lanzarote that is unique, but equally there is plenty that seems horribly familiar. The seafront English pubs offer Strongbow and Stella and are dotted with TVs showing Man United v Arsenal.
At Puerto del Carmen there is even a bar called Ye Olde Spanish Inn. But, contrary to popular belief, the beaches are long and sandy and, though they may be crammed with sunloungers and the whitewashed streets may lack a certain atmosphere, they are ideal for a cheap week in the sun.
Spain at its best
Marbella's old town has been spared the worst concrete architectural excesses of the tourist boom, and the narrow alleyways remind you of Venice when it's raining.
In the Plaza de la Iglesia, for example, the beautiful church of Nuestra Senora de la Encarnacion stands as proud as ever in the drizzle.
Originally built in the 16th century, it was remodelled 300 years later, and has a remarkably fine tower, which you can actually look at when there aren't hordes of tourists jostling your every move.
At the splendid Town Hall, the Ayuntam in Plaza de Los Naranjos next to the tourist bureau, watch the ordinary Spaniards going about their business - rather than the business of making what money they can out of the tourists.
This is Spain at its best: dignified, proud, and complex - a country that is never easy to understand, but which repays the effort if you care to look beyond the glitz.
The Marbella Club and the Casino may still be open, but by the winter the sheikhs and their yachts have gone, taking with them the bright young things with their convertibles, gold jewellery and bleached blonde hair.
The average maximum temperature a visitor can expect in Marbella in the wettest months of December and January is 17C, and in the rain it's more likely to be 13C, while the minimum is usually around 9C.
This compares to an average of 30C in August, and the thermometer often gets up to 40C.
The Spaniards who retired here for the sun and the expatriates, many British, emerge from their small apartments and reclaim the town as their own.
They may be joined by the occasional group of brave visitors taking an off-season trip (in the hope that the weather is going to be kind).
Such travellers will also discover that the Costa del Sol can be attractive without the Sol. Hotel prices fall by as much as 20 per cent in the winter, while the motorway toll drops by a half.
Discovering the Moors
But it was not just the topography of the place which provided excitement for the children in Ronda. It was there, just over 200 years ago, that Pedro Romero (who slew nearly 6,000 bulls in his lifetime without receiving a scratch) developed a new style of bullfighting in which the equestrian was replaced by the unmounted bullfighter.
We visited the bullring, one of the oldest in Spain, and wandered round the colourful museum which displays the matadors' fabulous Goyaesqe knickerbockers and jackets, bright pink capes, bandilleras (the darts which are thrust into the bull's back) and swords used for the kill.
Beneath the understandably furious gaze of some massive bulls' heads, which the children had trouble believing were real, we looked at black and white pictures of Spanish royalty and celebrities and spotted one of Orson Welles, apparently a big fan of this brutal sport. We then wandered around in the blazing, dusty heat of the ring, now able to imagine the scene and the roar of the crowd, but quite thankful that there was no corrida that day.
Before leaving this compact little town, we visited the 15th-century Mondragon Palace. This Moorish residence is built around a series of little gardens and 'patios' - a word which was then used to describe an internal courtyard where the inhabitants sought shade, rather than the paved terraces where we British optimistically wait for the sunshine at home.
We read up about the Mudejar style: the word literally means 'those permitted to stay' (referring to the Moors who were not kicked out after the Christian reconquest of Spain), and describes the distinctive and exotic style of architecture which is so characteristic of this region. Before we crossed the children's boredom threshold, we also had time to pop into the town's main church, Santa Maria La Mayor, which still retains the minaret of the 12th-century mosque which it replaced.
Another, much smaller but almost as improbably positioned little pueblo, is Castella del la Frontera, a few miles from the coast and just off the road to Ronda. The old village lies within the castle walls and is perched on top of a huge rock with a spectacular 360-degree view of national parkland and, from the ramparts of its castle walls, we watched birds of prey swooping and diving above the cork oak trees below us.
Though now mostly inhabited by German hippies and stray cats, Castellar remains much as it has for hundreds of years. In the village bar we noticed that even the back wall of the room was still simply the bare rock of the mountain.
Of picnics and cobbled streets
More peaceful is neighbouring Bolonia. On this hot Sunday, a handful of Spanish families were setting up picnics on spotless sands. And from Las Rejas cafe, a meeting point in this ramshackle village where rooms to let stand next to simple villas, the mournful wail of a Flamenco love song vied with the laughter of children. They were waiting to see if the village donkey would get into Beatriz's pastry and provision shop.
At the far end of Bolonia stand the impressive remains of Baelo Claudia, a town famous in Roman times for its salted fish and 'garum' - a vitamin-rich paste made from fish entrails. The ruins include a charmingly small amphitheatre facing the sea, sturdy marble pillars and instantly recognisable forum.
Joan and Bill were based at Conil de la Frontera - a pretty seaside resort 40 minutes east of Bolonia. Conil resembles the Torremolinos of decades past: fishermen's whitewashed cottages next to family-run hotels, bucket and spade shops, quintessential Spanish tapas bars and not a sky-rise in sight.
On their recommendation, I stopped here for lunch, wading through a large, freshly cooked Spanish tortilla and tuna salad, all for a mere £3. Like many fish restaurants and snack bars in Conil, Casa Manolo faces the handsome, palm-lined promenade. This is the busy holiday face of the resort: a walkway stretching towards the wide sandbank at Fontanilla beach.
There is plenty of beach, too, surrounding the peninsula that comprises Cadiz. It is a breezy refuge in summer from this big and busy seaport, often credited as the oldest city in western Europe.
Cadiz was also the launch-pad for those famous expeditions to the Americas in the 16th century.
The bleak salt marshes and grim modern suburbs that herald the approach to this city belie its true nature. But once you are through the Puerta de Tierra, the ancient gateway to old Cadiz, things start to look up. Cobbled streets lead you past ice-cream-coloured town houses fronting the dazzling Playa de la Victoria - voted last year as the best city beach in Europe.
Further on, the harbour shelters elephantine cruise ships, battered trawlers and Canaries-bound passenger ferries.
Bizarrely theatrical furnishings
There are rococo camels in the grounds and a swimming pool apparently modelled on the Alhambra in Granada.
The interior is much as the artist left it, with heavy, ornate candelabra and bizarrely theatrical furnishings.
The third stop on the Dali tour is the Castell Gala Dali, a Gothic castle the painter bought for his wife in the village of Pubol, 30km south of Figueres.
Decorated with the usual Daliesque eclecticism, it boasts cement elephants, classical tapestries and hundreds of portraits of Gala who, incidentally, is buried in the crypt below.
That the Dali mystique is fuelling a new tourist boomlet in the region is ironic.
When he was alive, the artist campaigned to spare Cadaques and Port Lligat from the excesses of mass tourism.
But the Costa Brava has long been tourist country. It was invaded first by sun-starved Brits in the early 1960s.
The Costa Brava's advantages were that it was hot, cheap and the easiest bit of Spain to get to.
Tourists would be decanted straight from overnight coaches or lumbering prop planes on to the beaches of the burgeoning resorts of Lloret de Mar and Roses.
Jet passenger planes changed all that.
A lounge on the lounger
The first, for the youngest family members, was to the waterpark Aquadiver at Platja d'Aro with its liquorice-twist water slides.
The next was a trip to a castle museum devoted to Salvador Dali and his wife and the muse Gala, in the medieval village of Pubol.
As my daughter Larne spent endless hours trying to imitate the bizarre world of the Catalan master for her GCSE art coursework, we adults enjoyed a three-course local banquet with wine for the princely sum of £12 at the restaurant next door.
On another occasion, my wife and I enjoyed a romantic lunch on the terrace of the supremely elegant inland Mas de Torrent restaurant, while the rest of the gang played on the long beach at Llafranc.
Mostly, however, we simply 'hung out', allowing heat and relaxation to seep into every pore, creating a sloth that even workaholics would find hard to resist - a lounge on the lounger, a snooze through the blister of the afternoon, then a wander along some beach bars in one of the cluster of nearby perfect bays.
I first visited the Costa Brava in 1967 when working in a bar further south, and a love affair of the head and heart began, culminating in a sojourn in Catalonia in 1990.
There have been many other visits since, for the Costa Brava is one of the great seducers, with a beauty and drama impossible to resist or tire of.
At each new visit, as I reach the coastal clifftop and stare down through 700ft of tumbling Mediterranean pine to the sparkling jewel-like sea in its coronet of honey-coloured rocks, my heart sings.
For all along the Costa Brava there are wonderful family-run hotels, fantastic medieval inland villages, a corniche to put all others in the shade, castles, museums and a water park.
The great cover-up
Our first day's walking turned out to be tougher than we had bargained for: It was hot and humid and the sun beat down with such intensity that to prevent sunstroke Linda and I were forced to buy insane straw hats from the very limited stock in a souvenir shop. Mine wasn't too bad in a retired dentist from Abingdon sort of way, but Linda's was the sort that a Catalan hill farmer might put on his least-favourite donkey.
We were also carrying sticks as the walking notes had been full of dire warnings about vicious dogs that might need to be beaten off (these never appeared, though a duck did look at us a bit funny). So, thus attired, we walked along the rocky path from beautiful sandy cove to beautiful sandy cove past crowds of happy families and beautiful, sybaritic undressed young people.
In our mad hats, swinging our staffs, my wife and I looked like some weird sort of sweaty Amish folk who had chosen to stagger about in the blazing heat of the Spanish sun, perhaps on some sort of pilgrimage to Saint Ivel, the patron saint of processed cheese.
Still, we did eventually reach our hotel for the night, having given many happy people a really good laugh - we did not pass that way in vain.
We knew what we had to do first thing in the morning - buy some less stupid hats! Luckily there was a shop on the beach which had hats that would have been borderline cool if they hadn't had 'Costa Brava' written on them, so thus tastefully equipped we set off around the next bay with Tennyson on our lips: 'I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.' Good holidays make you feel like that.
You were never more than an hour or so from some sort of civilisation: as the coastal path dipped down to little seaside resorts every couple of miles, you could stop for a coffee or a snack whenever you felt like it. These resorts had lots of Spanish tourists in them, but also lots of English families.
One of the hotels we stayed at, The Aigua Blava, was particularly popular with quite an old, middle-class English crowd. It was luxurious and extremely well run by a charming and efficient staff (incidentally, the head waiter looked disconcertingly like John Birt, just stepping down as Director-General of the BBC - we wondered if this Spanish idyll was his retirement plan).
This hotel was the sort of place where a couple's bottle of wine was marked with their room number because they'd be making it last for more than one night. Linda and I had a good laugh at the thought that any bottle of wine would last more than an hour on our table, never mind two or three days.
The view from 17 hands
For one part of the journey, we followed a section of the GR11, the trail which takes you from the Atlantic in the west to the Mediterranean in the east. Some stretches were so precipitous that we had to lead our horses along paths which seemed hardly wide enough for the average biped, but the horses ' surefootedness was impressive and they carefully picked their way down - all 17 hands of them slipping and sliding to the foot of the hill.
Just one of the ten lost a shoe on the way and we all waited patiently while the ever-resourceful leader produced a blacksmith's kit from his saddle bag and reshod a reluctant mare, a good 13 miles from the nearest village.
Unexpected events continually lent a sense of adventure - we were in experienced hands, but would we get to our destination before dark? If a trickling brook had swollen into a full-scale river, it had to be crossed; if a field had been occupied by bulls, it had to be passed through; and if a herd of wild-looking horses appeared in the forest, the frantic, head-tossing reactions of our own horses had to be contained.
If you can take long hours in the saddle, it's the ideal way to enjoy the scenery. Not only does the extra height make the views seem even more panoramic, but the pace means you appreciate the almost hour-by-hour changes of vegetation as you move from one altitude to another.
From the wintry scent of the pines and hellebores at the top to the pure summer of lavender, broom and cistus midway and the more exotic bamboo and rice as you came to the flatlands - each day brought a different floral menu. The horses enjoyed the changes too - a mouthful of rosemary one day, a feast of buttercups the next.
Eating played an important role for us riders. From dawn till dusk we worked up an appetite and ate, well, like horses. It wasn't just the hours spent in the saddle which made us hungry - it was the grooming, hoof-picking and tacking-up in between which meant that you earned every meal.
I would sometimes cut breakfast short knowing that it would take me at least ten extra minutes of gentle persuasion to get Elsa to open her mouth long enough for me to force-feed her with her bit.
Time-poor puffers
An hour out from Mollo, puffing uphill, we had the first surreal experience: cattle conversing with an echo. The golden bullocks in front of the farm called Mas Costa were bellowing furiously - from across the deep, wooded valley.
The echoes came back clear and weirdly amplified. Every time it happened the animals would look mildly startled, then repeat the complaint in endless conversation with a phantom herd.
We watched for a while, then marched on into a thick woodland of beech and birch, maple and wild cherry, eyes darting anxiously for the next splash of red-and-white paint on a rock or a tree confirming we were on the track.
We are not very intrepid. Inntravel know their market perfectly - romantic but time-poor puffers like us who want to be alone on wild tracks, ford streams, gasp up mountainsides and see boar but flinch at the thought of sleeping in a dank bivi-bag or arriving in a village to find no beds.
We trudged along a dried riverbed and rocky paths. We saluted grave old churches, staging points on the old pilgrim route from the East towards Santiago de Compostela; we reared in amazement at enormous, exotic mushrooms and crossed wonderful high meadows full of clover and rare flowers.
This is a region of microclimates: plants and trees are halfway between Alpine and Mediterranean, which gives an odd sense of dislocation - here's a pine, a holmoak grove and lavender, oops, no, fruit trees now and suddenly an olive, oops again, we're back in the Alps with starry flowers.
I turned up the end of my trousers at one point to avoid some serious mud and, two hours later, on a hard roadway, was puzzled by a chirruping coming from my nether garments.
I unrolled them and about 50 tiny grasshoppers tumbled out, cursing. I must have taken them miles out of their way.
Ruined cottages and farmhouses spoke eloquently of the depopulation of rural Catalonia and only very few sprunced-up ones suggested the holiday-cottage set from Barcelona.
We ate our lunch on a bank of thyme (pricklier and less romantic than it sounds), then found the road to Beget after a spirited discussion about whether we should walk along it and get to a bath as fast as possible, or take the woodland track high over the river.
Paul won, the hearty bastard. We climbed. Beget was a welcome sight but all its golden stone charm and towering church - even the sight of our marble bathroom and faithfully waiting luggage - were not as beautiful as the bottle of Estrella beer on the pub table.
Valleys of sunflowers
Heading north, a network of largely empty roads takes you through countryside with a desolate, windswept look. Villages cling to the rugged countryside like broken teeth. But the landscape has an unmistakable grandeur.
Every so often I breasted the top of some blustery ridge and descended suddenly into a valley of sunflowers, a burst of gold. And running through the heart of the region was the River Duero, whose waters provide Castile with some of Spain's best wines. The banks of the Duero are lined with small towns where the arrival of a foreigner is still something of a rarity.
Fifty miles west of Soria I chanced upon the village of San Esteban de Gormaz and found myself in the middle of a fiesta. Crowds milled around, bottles in hand. I fell in with a crowd, and we moved around the town, drinking from botas - wine skins held at arm's length, angling a thin stream of wine into our mouths.
Brass bands competed with the fizz and bang of firecrackers. A dense crowd swirled around in the Plaza Mayor to the accompaniment of paso dobles played by swaying musicians. I arrived at the parador in Soria just in time for breakfast.
Half a day's drive to the west is Segovia, famous for its Roman aqueduct, an eerie silhouette looming high above the town. The walled stone city also has a fairytale Alcazar, or palace; a masterpiece of turrets and crenel-lated battlements where our Charles I once dined in 1632 'on certain trouts of extraordinary greatness'.
Segovia has kept its culinary tradition. Its tapas bars are among the best in Castile. The food is delicious, but be careful how much you order - especially after a Spanish lunch. A porcion is a mouthful; a racion is half a plateful, almost a meal in itself.
Segovia's parador is an impressive, modern structure with a swimming pool, sauna and many other facilities. It is a perfect base from which to explore an area dense with history.
Unspoilt rural wilderness
A two-hour drive takes you into unspoilt rural wilderness: a 19th-century time warp where farmers wearing wooden clogs hand-scythe their grassy meadows for the cows they still bring into the downstairs of their homes during winter.
The beaches of north-west Spain are exquisite. Each one we visited was a perfect crescent of white sand enclosed by dramatic rocky cliffs.
But the real revelation to us was that they were practically deserted. With no jostling for space, we spread ourselves out comfortably, built massive sandcastles and played football on the wide, empty expanse.
Our favourite of the many beaches we visited was called, rather unpromisingly, Poo, which is near the wonderful old harbour town of Llanes, in Asturias. During the summer it is almost perpetually in 'fiesta'.
Every night for a week, the children watched, wide-eyed, as a parade of bagpipers, drummers and dancers entertained them with their homage to a local saint responsible for the plentiful fish stocks around their coast.
In the mountains of the Picos - a short drive from the coast - we saw eagles, hawks, falcons and vultures, although not the rare Cantabrian bear which still lives here in isolated pockets.
A word of warning: this part of Spain is not called the Costa Verde - 'The Green Coast' - for nothing. We had four days of rain out of 14, and a further two, although not wet, were chilly and grey.
Choose a self-catering villa or apartment rather than a hotel, as you may well go stir-crazy cooped up in a hotel room. Also choose your villa well.
You need a big indoor space for the endless games you will inevitably be playing, and a tumble drier is essential.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
The Plymouth to Santander service runs twice-weekly from March to November. Expect to pay about £1,000 for an average cabin for four people plus a car. http://www.brittanyferries.com tel 0870 5360360.
Travellers Way (tel: 01527 559000) has houses in Asturias and Cantabria.
Casas Cantabricas (http://www.casacantab.co.uk tel: 01223 328721) specialises in self-catering accommodation on this coast.
La Palma, La Gomera and El Hierro
LA PALMA
The most tropical and fertile of the Canaries, La Palma, the Green Island, has arguably the best-looking landscape. This is not a place for beach lovers - there are only a handful of black beaches round its shores. Rather it attracts nature lovers looking for some peace and quiet on one of the least-visited islands.
Top on their list of attractions is the great Caldera de Taburiente, a massive, beautiful volcanic crater, which is ideal for hiking.
The town of Santa Cruz has a wealth of old colonial atmosphere and architecture, as well as a lively seafront promenade of cafes and restaurants.
The main draw in the north of the island is the town of San Andres, which is the home of the island's most sacred spot, its 17th-century church.
LA GOMERA
A favourite destination with walkers and hikers, with trails criss-crossing its 370 square kilometre area, La Gomera is, in shape, like a great volcanic meringue pie, with peaks and troughs and an indented crusty coast.
An immensely fertile land, with a thousand different shades of green on every slope - pale young vines, darker banana plants and everywhere the dread-locked silhouettes of date palms dancing on the jagged horizon.
Accommodation options are limited to a couple of hotels and smaller guesthouses, and there's little to attract the beach lover. Instead, the island draws a loyal following from visitors who appreciate its laid-back ambience and a certain innate quirkiness.
La Gomera's best hiking is in the Garajonay National Park at the heart of the island.
EL HIERRO
Definitely a getaway-from-it-all destination - as long as you don't mind the fact that there's not very much when you get there. It's more of a day-trip island really. Once you have admired the view over El Golfo Valley, visited the old church in the capital Valverde, there is not much left to do except to stand by the lighthouse at Orchilla, once the most westerly point of the known world.
A half-discovered city
What made this coastal city wealthy was Seville's misfortune: the Guadalquivir River silted up and the monopoly on trade with Spain's territories in the Americas was transferred downstream.
It was a different tale in the 19th century, as the precious metal seams dried up and the Americas gained their liberty.
Strategic importance didn't help either. Cadiz has been bombarded by Moors, Britons and Frenchmen many times down the centuries, but there was little will and less cash to repair the damage after the Napoleonic Wars.
The salt air, too, has been working away at the limestone houses for hundreds of years and no amount of paint and patching can halt the process. But that slightly run-down air adds to the romance of a half-discovered city.
You can walk along any of the rod-straight streets in the old town, confident that your view of the sea at the far end won't be blocked by traffic or tourists. And there are plenty of undisturbed spots even in the city's main playground - the Parque Genoves.
Equally, solitude isn't hard to leave behind. On the Victoria and La Caleta beaches which fringe the city, locals sunbathe and stroll in the still-warm November sun. Teenagers and young couples congregate near the cathedral and along the Campo del Sur.
Over in the Plaza Espana, an older generation holds sway. Pensioners pick their way across the busy roads to meet beneath the Monumento a las Cortes.
The locals, gaditanos, claim this tribute to the liberal constitution, framed in the city as early as 1812 - and then suppressed by the rest of Spain for more than 150 years - is the only statue in the world topped by a book.
Cadiz is the provincial capital of sherry country. Jerez, the city which gave the drink its name, is a few miles inland.
This city came to prominence at the same time as Cadiz, thanks to the English taste for the products of its vast bodegas.
The Ermita de Betlem
Michelin-quality Mallorquin food was served on tables strewn with olive leaves, and I drank good local wine with the starry-sounding label of Jose Ferrer. Majorca is only 37 miles across, so you can get anywhere from Binibona within an hour.
Port de Pollenca, on the north coast, was 35 minutes, the monastery of Lluc even less, and the spectacular route across the Serra peaks from Formentor to Banyalbufar do-able in an afternoon.
Saving that for later, I headed east to Bethlehem. The Ermita de Betlem, a sanctuary hidden in the rocky heights above Arta, played hard-to-get. I almost disappeared up my own exhaust pipe in Arta's tortuous one-way system, but the following seven-mile stretch was idyllic, and the Ermita itself a haven of solitude - a simple church at the end of a cypress-lined avenue.
Skirting dizzying views of the Mediterranean below, I retraced my tyre tracks and went down to Colonia de Sant Pere where, by a sandy beach with five people on it, the Playa restaurant beckoned. Its prawns with garlic - or, as served in Majorca, garlic with prawns - were done to perfection.
On the whole, the effort needed to reach out-of-the-way bays keeps them deserted. Places like Cala Pi (south-east) and the stunning Cala Figueres (south-west of Palma) call for zig-zag drives and sometimes a scramble down precipitous paths.
That's the way you get to the tiny white arc of Platja d'es Coll Baix on the Cap de Menorca, yet it's within spitting distance of Miami-like Alcudia. A really good map is a must.
Meanwhile, back at Finca Binibona's pool, who needs a beach? No sand to shake out of the towel as the last wash of sunlight vanished from the peaks above. Mountain air redolent of warm, earthy scents filled the evening and cicadas performed in stereo.
Invited to try the cooking at sister-establishment Ets Albellons, I wended my way through arthritic olive trees to its candlelit terrace for gutsy bean soup and crackling-crisp pork loin. Rustic, as opposed to Finca Binibona's refinement.
For me, the essence of Majorca is in these rural hideaways, especially those set amid the red soil on the leeward side of the Serra Tramuntana. Moscari, Selva and Caimari, with their rough-hewn nooks and crannies, their sleepy squares and churches with sundials.
Binissalem, where the jewel of Scott's Hotel and its flower-filled patios sparkles behind a townhouse frontage; Santa Maria del Cami, the big ceramics centre, where a huge market is held on Sundays.
Budget deals
Even in late-dining Spain we had missed the chance of a proper meal, but the receptionist directed us to a nearby bar still serving sandwiches and tortillas.
The rooms were plainly decorated but adequate, with TV (Spanish only), air-con and an en suite bathroom with full-size bath.
We were spending only one night in Bilbao. Next morning we drove to the other end of town to visit the extraordinary new Guggenheim Museum, designed like a ship.
After lunch we headed west to Torrelavega, near the caves of Puente Viesgo, their walls covered with fascinating prehistoric depictions of wild animals.
The Torrelavega reservation was one that I had made, and it turned out to be in a characterless three-star hotel, with the dubious distinction of being the only place on our 10-day trip where the breakfast orange juice was not freshly squeezed.
From there we headed south to Salamanca, famous for its Renaissance buildings, Roman bridge and ancient university. Also worth visiting is the Museum of Art Nouveau and Art Deco, overlooking the bridge.
The centrepiece of Salamanca is the glorious 18th-century Baroque Plaza Mayor. We had plenty of opportunity to explore it because our hostale was right alongside, close enough to be named after it.
Because the Hostale Plaza Mayor is in the heart of a lively city, we feared that our rooms would be noisy until the small hours; but in fact the hostale stretched far into the rear of the building, and our sleep was undisturbed.
The rooms were the smallest of the three hostales we stayed in, with showers rather than baths; but they were comfortable and well cooled. A decent continental breakfast was served in the cafe on the ground floor.
At 60 euros per double room, the Hostale Plaza Mayor was half the price of the four-star Gran Hotel a few yards away. No doubt the rooms at the Gran are bigger, but surely not twice as comfortable.
Before choosing a hostale, bear in mind they have a sort of ranking system - ours were two-star, one from the top. If they cost less than 40 euros, they may be a bit dodgy.
Piles of savoury snacks
Instead, I headed off to the Calle Ledesma, a street packed with bars and busy restaurants advertising three-course set-price lunches, including a bottle of wine, for under £10.
Basque food is reckoned to be Spain's best, and my meal in Bar Atseden (thick fish soup, perfectly grilled hake and a creme caramel pudding) lived up to expectations.
The rest of the day was spent in the old part of town, the Casco Viejo, on the east side of the river, where highlights include the grey stone Santiago cathedral, an old-fashioned museum devoted to Basque culture and a large Art Deco covered market.
It is also the centre of the city's nightlife, and at around 7pm most of Bilbao seems to descend on these dimly lit streets: first, for the traditional early evening stroll, el paseo, then to attack the piles of savoury snacks or pinchos laid out on the counters of the neighbourhood's bars.
There are any number of cheap pensiones in the Casco Viejo, but most visitors prefer the greater comfort of the city-centre hotels.
The towering four-star Hotel Ercilla, 10 minutes from the Guggenheim, provides superb views of the city.
Other conveniently located hotels are the five-star Carlton, favoured by Ernest Hemingway and top bullfighters, and the three-star Barcelo Hotel Nervion.
It would be a mistake, though, to spend all your time in the city centre. Near the Areeta metro station, 20 minutes out of town, is the imposing 19th-century Puente Colgante or 'hanging bridge' over the Nervion.
A cable car ferries passengers and vehicles to the sleepy suburb of Portugalete, allowing free passage to tall ships without the rigmarole of raising the bridge.
Continuing to the end of the metro line, the clean beach at Pleintza fills up with locals at the weekend but rarely figures on the Bilbao tourist trail.
It should - there aren't too many European cities where you can unroll your beach towel and slip into your swimming costume within half an hour of leaving a world-famous art gallery.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Easyjet flights to Bilbao - go to http://www.easyjet.com or call 0870 600 0000.
The Hotel Ercilla (tel: 0034 944 705 700). The Carlton (tel: 0034 944 162 200). The Barcelo Hotel Nervion (tel: 0034 944 454 700).
A cage full of budgies
On a very hot day, the water was tepid. The seven-year- old said 'yuk', but perked up when I told him the fountain was a favourite meeting place for celebrating fans of Barcelona FC - Barca - who rank third in his affections after Arsenal and Manchester United.
The fact that he was wearing a Barca shirt, bought on a trip to the stadium the previous day, may have had something to do with this.
Then, while skateboarders jousted with the traffic on the thin strips of road that flank the pedestrianised walkway, we entered a world full of colour and excitement.
First, street entertainers, including a Spanish didgeridoo player and a man tooting on pipes of Pan while his dog, dressed in hat, jacket and bow tie, panted quietly at his side.
Then, stalls selling caged birds of every hue, plus hamsters, tiny tortoises, guinea pigs, chinchillas, goldfish and a lonely-looking chicken.
A group of fellow British tourists, obviously unschooled in the cavalier attitude of the Spanish towards animals, paused, horrified, before a cage crammed full of budgerigars.
'There's one at the bottom, dead,' shrieked a woman. A budgie at the bottom stirred. It was alive, but not in the best of health.
Next, the renowned flower-sellers of the Ramblas, a profusion of colour - but, as in many modern flower markets, little fragrance - splashing the pavement just before our discovery of the Marcat St Josef, a cavernous hall with a high vaulted roof that is alone worth a ramble down the Ramblas.
Built between 1836 and 1840, the Boqueria, as it is known locally, is a gourmet paradise: stall after stall overflowing with fresh vegetables, meat, fish and bread.
Sausage and salami hang above chiller cabinets groaning under the weight of chickens and pigs' trotters, and sides and joints of red meat - enough to feed an army.
The artist's playground
Picasso and his family moved to this area of the city because it was close to the art school, Escola de Belles Arts de Llotja, where he was enrolled as a student and his father was a teacher.
The Llotja remains, but in a sorry state. The former stock exchange of Barcelona (the art school was on the second floor) stands empty and surrounded by builders' fences. There are no signs to indicate its illustrious past and I had to stop a pedestrian to ask if I was in the right place.
The area surrounding the Llotja became Picasso's playground. The narrow streets of the Barri Xino, then Barcelona's red light district, were filled with drunks, drug addicts, sailors and beggars. This was where he developed his interest in low life as a subject for his art and also his fascination for whores.
One of these streets, still there, was Carrer d'Avinyo, and it was the women he met here that would later become the subject of one of his best-known works - and one of the key works of 20th Century art - Les Demoiselles d'Avignon.
There don't seem to be any brothels in Carrer d'Avinyo today, but there is an air of menace. It's easy to feel like a stranger who is lost and the faces of the locals let you know that you're walking off the beaten track.
The one public building in the street is closed up and the walls daubed with red paint.
When he wasn't partying or painting, Picasso loved spending time in La Rambla, the tree-lined main thoroughfare that leads to the sea. Now that almost every big city has its area dedicated to clowns, mime artistes, painters, jugglers and musicians, the novelty is somewhat diminished. The one difference in La Rambla is the stalls that sell animals packed into small cages.
My Spanish-speaking daughter asked one vendor how he would like to live in a cage. His answer was that the animals liked to live this way.
Artistic and architectural masterpieces
After a relatively sullen lunch, therefore, we hit the nearby Picasso museum. The great Spanish artist was born in Malaga but his family moved to Barcelona when he was 13 and lived there until his early 20s.
Housed in three linked medieval palaces, the museum has a remarkable display of early Picasso drawings and paintings, showing the precocious power of his teenage work and illustrating the development of cubism.
Our own budding artist was enthralled and sibling arguments of the 'anyone could do that stuff' variety were happily restrained. It was not without some trepidation, however, that we set out on the 'great Gaudi expedition' to tour the work of the world's most eccentric architect.
First stop was Parc Güell, reached by a metro journey and a trek on foot, only made tolerable by several ice cream and iced beer stops. When we got there, however, in early evening sunshine, (almost) all of us agreed it was worthwhile.
Designated a World Heritage site by the United Nations, the 'park' was built between 1910 and 1914 as an experimental 'garden city' on the heights above Barcelona.
The few bits that were finished, however, are not so much Milton Keynes as Willy Wonka: from the bizarre enamel and sandstone 'gingerbread houses' by the gate to the cavernous market hall of 84 deliberately crooked pillars supporting a great balcony with organic shaped seats and a stunning view over the city.
From just about anywhere, the most outstanding feature of the Barcelona skyline is the towers and cranes above Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece. But that was for the next day.
With Oscar reluctantly curious after the Parc Güell, we set off first for the two spectacular art nouveau Gaudi houses in the Eixample district, thankfully within walking distance from our hotel on the busy Gran Via.
The Casa Batlo, all green mosaic and curved ironwork, looked faintly reptilian: like a chameleon pretending to be a house. In contrast, the Casa Mila looks like something out of the Flintstones. It came as no surprise to any of us, therefore, to be told that it is locally nicknamed 'la perdrera' - the stone quarry. This eight-storey flat block is all curves and rounded corners.
Finished in 1910, Gaudi gave it a prescient stamp of the 20th-century: an underground car park. But it is climbing up to the roof which most impresses the casual visitor. The huge chimney pots of cracked porcelain twisted like Mr Whippy ice cream topped with a cross are large enough to play hide and seek behind. Even Oscar is too old for that but something about the inspired insanity of it all suddenly won him over. Particularly when we had such a clear view across the roofs of the loopiest Gaudi extravaganza of all.
Climbing up to the land that time forgot
Next day we woke stiffly to a morning of rain. Low, foggy cloud obscured yesterday's bright mountains. We were unsure about what would happen on this, our first itinerant day. There are two pedestrian routes from Arenas to Besnes - you can walk ten miles along the back lanes, skirting the Juan Robre range, or you can go over the top.
The high walk, however, had baffled many visitors during the summer because bracken - the curse of under-grazed mountainsides - ran riot last year. This obscured the rarely used path and caused numerous visitors to lose their way.
Lars and Sarah Nilsson, who run the Tahona de Besnes, the next inn, spent many early evenings worrying about lost guests. So while the waymarking is being sorted out - with luck by this year - the tamer, low route is recommended. We, however, had the offer of personal guidance over the top from the Nilssons.
Together we stared at the mist. 'We might as well try . . .' said Lars. So up the hill they led us, pausing occasionally to gasp at the wreathing cloud which was now beneath us, now all around in a clammy blanket. It clung to the rock faces and boiled around high peaks. Even watching our feet there was plenty to see: bright autumn crocuses springing purple everywhere, orchids struggling through bracken, huge slugs with orange go-faster stripes, weird frogs and cockroaches, even a dead vulture chick.
Overhead, vultures and an eagle wheeled. We came on to an open rocky place, crossed it and, abruptly - feeling the thin, dizzy air at 3,000 feet - found ourselves in a hidden meadowland that lies, unsuspected, under the peak of Cabezo la Garcia. It is the sort of place where you expect a dinosaur to emerge from a cave or a pterodactyl to hover overhead. We sat silent and awed on a log to eat our lunch and rapidly became cold and shuddering in the mist.
We wrapped up, ate up and crashed on round the top of the mountain. Holes, crevasses and the occasional precipice kept us alert; more vultures wheeled. Great holm-oaks would suddenly rear, unlikely, from the most arid and unpromising bluffs. Once, the mist lifted and we saw shimmering high ahead of us the Penamellera, the peak of honey, looking exactly like the mountain in the Paramount Pictures logo. A tiny, odd-looking, brown cow glared at us, chest-deep in bracken.
Then for two hours we weaved down, down, down to Caraves. Sarah had mentioned that there was a way to avoid the last hour and a half of the eight-hour walk by getting a lift from Miguel the beekeeper in his four-wheel-drive. In the last hour of the descent the idea of Miguel had become irresistible.
We found him in a golden stone alley in Caraves, surrounded by a clutch of old people joshing happily about the English lunatics coming over the big hill. Miguel began tearing up plastic bags to stop our muddy trousers mucking up his upholstery and I caused immense mirth among the old ladies by taking off my waterproof overtrousers. 'Adios, pantalon!' they cried.
Walking on the high side
As a fairly green walker - that's green as in hopeful, but actually rather less gung-ho than I like to tell myself - this sort of independent holiday offers a real sense of achievement.
Each walk is graded according to difficulty and safety, as well as how scenic the route is. The notes that accompany each trek are the product of reliable research. For all its drama, the Cares Gorge path averages about 7ft wide and is trodden by hundreds of weekending Spaniards, enchanted to find in their own country a place of such lushness, drama and summer cool.
'We never knew Spain had anything like this,' said the two students from Madrid we encountered en route.
Coolest of all, as far as I am concerned, is the fact that my luggage magically appeared at the end of each day's efforts, in a series of casonas, or charming country inns. We woke each morning to cockcrow and cow bells and slept to the creak of broad chestnut floorboards settling to the cooler temperatures of the night.
True, not much sleeping went on the night of the fiesta in Alevia, when the village square filled with a clutch of teenagers and their grannies, the latter boogying sedately in flowered overalls.
Our meals reflected the same sense of place. Wild mushroom pate at Besnes, cheese croquettes and deep fried corn bread at Alevia, a tuna casserole in Villa-nueva, and exquisite grouper at La Pereda fuelled my flagging energies from the Picos right to the sea.
Both near and far
We opted to tour on mountain bikes provided by the hotel and set off on a well-signposted hiking track towards Archidona, a pre-Roman settlement 18 km to the west.
It was an eye-opening ride. Amid dusty fields, full of wild flowers, butterflies and rare birds, dozens of peasants toiled a living from some of the country's poorest earth.
A man rode a donkey down one dusty track, making a vision from another century.
Asking directions, despite their friendliness, was not easy. The Andalucian dialect made for difficult conversations.
English was certainly not an option round here, and my journeyman Spanish struggled.
One stubble-chinned labourer told us literally: 'Archidona? It's both near and far!' as he pointed loosely to the south east.
When pressed exactly where, he simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
But thankfully after an hour or so Archidona began to loom like a white flash at the end of a fold in the landscape.
A town of 8,000 people, which was already thriving when the Moors arrived in the eighth century, it proved to be completely tourist-free.
All white walls and centring on its charming octagonal main square, the town was an intriguing mix of Phoenician, Iberian, Roman and even Syrian architecture, as well as a formidable hilltop fortress and monastery.
Part of the recently inaugurated Route of Washington Irving, another clever Spanish Tourist Board ruse, based on the 19th-century American writer, who toured the area in 1829, there was plenty to gander at, particularly in the main square where we stopped for a delicious lunch.
Dine on fine wine and culture
Pro-ETA graffiti is daubed across house fronts and an archaeology museum in the pleasant old town section of Basque country capital Vitoria-Gasteiz.
ETA, the separatist group responsible for five car bombs in southern Spain last month, is frowned upon by 90% of Basque residents, according to government tourism officials.
Despite the slogans, the area scattered with 15th-century buildings seems calm.
The Basque country prides itself on its food - 15 Michelin-starred chefs work in San Sebastian.
Seafood, cod (bacalao) and meat dishes laced with olive oil and sweet desserts are staples of the region's diet.
Copious white bread rolls replace rice and pasta in restaurant meals.
Local txakoli wine comes in straight glasses. Crianza reserva and gran reserva are older, better versions.
Tapas, either tiny pinchos or larger raciones, cost from about 60p each.
Culture is equally important to the Basque people, and Bilbao isn't the only place for museum lovers.
At Chillida-Leku Museum outside San Sebastian, striking steel sculptures by local artist Eduardo Chillida tower over a manicured, tranquil park.
The new Artium Museum in Vitoria-Gasteiz has pieces by Orlan, who alters her looks regularly by plastic surgery, and Fournier Playing Card Museum in the old town is surprisingly interesting.
Night owls should delay visiting until local holidays end in August - streets are empty in July, despite bull-running fiesta San Fermin in nearby Pamplona. Before, it's ideal for families and close enough for a laid-back weekend.
Budget airline Go flies daily from Stansted to Bilbao from £63 return. See www.go-fly.com
Stopping off in Casablanca
A couple of days into the cruise and after a stop-off in Casablanca, we were both really enjoying our life on the ocean waves. An invite to dine at the captain's table and a healthy win at the roulette table helped persuade me that this cruising lark could be pretty good fun.
In fact if you just want to kick back, enjoy some winter sun and see the odd bit of scenery then a cruise is a pretty smart choice. It's essentially a floating hotel with great views. My only real gripe as a Brit among mainly German passengers was the entertainment. The evening shows were a bit too Butlins for me - think Eurovision meets the local amateur dramatics society. And the sole English-speaking movie channel had only one film on a day.
The afternoon entertainment included quizzes, vegetable sculpture shows (I kid you not) and Mr and Mrs Games. It all seemed a little downmarket to me - but perhaps made more sense if you're in your sixties.
Crossing the Atlantic to the islands of Tenerife and Madeira gave us our first bit of rough weather. For two days and nights, the ship was rocking and rolling, making it pretty hard to get a good night's kip.
Thankfully, this soon passed but it did expose the downside of cruising. If it's rough then you spend a lot of time in your cabin and if you've only got one movie channel, it can get a little tiresome.
On the return leg and back in the Med, the seas were thankfully as flat as a pancake. The sun was breaking out and lying on the top deck catching some rays, my faith in cruising was restored. My waiter was on hand to top up my gin and tonic and my nose was buried in a good book - this was what sailing was all about.
If you're planning on taking a cruise then I can thoroughly recommend the MSC Sinfonia. It's clean and well kitted out, the cabins are smart and comfortable and best of all the staff are friendly and accommodating.
* Special offer: Highlights of Spain & Morocco cruise on board Sinfonia is priced at £699pp, based on two sharing an inside cabin. For reservations, call 0870 850 4883 or see www.msccruises.com
Food for the stars
Only once the sun goes down - they eat late out here, remember - revel in the delights of what is Spain's mecca for gourmets (San Sebastian boasts the highest number of Michelin stars per square metre on earth).
If you haven't got money to burn, the good news is the tapas bar owners take their food just as seriously. The popular Bar-Patio de Ramuntxo in the Gros district serves up delightfully simple plates of cured meats, local chorizo and salted fish, each costing 2-5 euros.
The trusting bartenders in the Basque don't keep tabs for each table, so do keep a mental note and tell them what you've had when you come to leave. If your Spanish is as bad as mine, this will often involve money waving and pointing at other people's tables, but it's all good-natured with the amiable staff.
From regal seafront hotels to bohemian, family-run guesthouses, San Sebastian has a high standard, if rather insufficient, range of accommodation.
The four-star Hotel de Londres e Inglaterra is the city's most exclusive lodgings, with double rooms overlooking La Concha beach costing up to 200 euros a night.
Holidaying on a smaller budget, we stayed at the elegant Pension Amaiur Ostatua, less than a five minute walk from the beach in the Parte Vieja. A double room here costs a more affordable 53 euros a night and a family room 85 euros.
If you're planning a visit to San Sebastian in the summer months, book accommodation well in advance. The moment the thermometers hit meltdown in Madrid, the "completo" signs go up all over town as the capital's residents head north to cool down and check out the city's prestigious events.
The San Sebastian Jazz Festival is now in its 40th year and runs from mid to late July. This year's International Film Festival runs from September 15-24.
San Sebastian is an excellent base to explore much of Spain's Basque country. Bilbao's state-of-the-art Museo Guggenheim is an hour's drive away, as is Pamplona, where those with a bit more bravado can run for their lives from the bulls each July.
- You can fly directly to San Sebastian via Madrid or Barcelona. Alternatively from London Stansted you can fly with easyJet to Bilbao, and Ryanair to Biarritz, both less than an hour's drive.
Feeling inspired? Book a holiday.
Getting out and about
If ornithology isn't your thing, the region's great outdoors has more on offer. The canyons of the Olvena, Alquezar and Rodellar areas present climbers with a challenge, with trekking, horse-riding and fishing among less taxing options.
Or take the winding corkscrew route along Anisclo Canyon for the views. But drivers be warned - its sharp bends and narrow passing range aren't for the faint-hearted.
And for other interests, there are specialist companies catering for devotees of adventure sports such as white-water rafting, caving and paragliding. The Sierra de Guera national park also boasts examples of man's very first artistic endeavours, with over 60 prehistoric cave paintings
Don't forget the luscious food either. Aragon caters for the gourmet. Its goat cheeses, the stew ajoarrieros (comprising cod, eggs and garlic) and longaniza pork sausage are justly famous. So too are guirlache, an almond and caramel nougat, and pastillo de calabaza, or pumpkin pie, which are aimed at those with a sweet tooth.
The region's Somontano wines now also include a fine organic merlot - Rocal 2004 - in their range after lengthy research into perfecting organic vinification.
And just to make a holiday even more tempting, low-cost airlines have cut the cost of a break to northern Spain.
Ryanair's one-way fare from Stansted to the Aragon capital of Zaragoza starts at 99p before taxes and even at peak season is no more than £24.99. Hotel prices also compare favourably with the UK - a room in a good standard hotel starts from around 50 euros (£34) per person a night.
Trekking and adventure holiday packages are also reasonable. The price range is huge depending on length of stay, time of year and type of activity. See online operator avalancha.org for examples.
For the most comfortable temperatures and the chance to avoid peak prices and the crowds it's best to visit in early spring and autumn. But be prepared - it's not always sunshine from dawn to dusk. Heavy storms can break out suddenly, so layer your outfits and pack some waterproofs as well as the sunscreen.
- Feel inspired? Book a flight to Spain.
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| | | | Worth the wait
'You let it simmer for 18 minutes, until all the stock is absorbed, then leave it to rest for five minutes before serving.
'Some restaurants try to speed things up by finishing the paella in the oven, but the correct way is to cook it slowly on the fire,' Juan said.
It was worth the wait, and all the more delicious for knowing it was cooked the right way.
The next day I took the train south to Alicante, also part of the Valencia region but with its own provincial rice specialities.
La Darsena restaurant overlooks the marina and has 147 rice dishes on its menu.
After having gorgeous starters of fat, red prawns and lobster, I tucked into arroz negro or black rice.
Squid ink gives it its colour, and this one was laced with the tastiest octopus I've eaten.
For my next paella I headed to Nou Manolin in Alicante's old quarter. Downstairs it is an old-style tapas bar, with hams hanging from the ceiling and a boisterous crowd of locals.
Cesar, the chef, cooked me an outstanding seafood paella made with prawns, clams, calamari and tiny sweet beans.
As he showed me round his kitchen, pointing out the glistening fresh seafood and meats, and the special round dark red peppers used in paella, I concluded that the final secret is top quality ingredients, and the pride of cooking paella the traditional way.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Iberia Airlines fly to Valencia (http://www.iberia.com tel: 0845 601 2854).
Donna stayed at the four-star Hotel Husa Dimar in Valencia (tel: 00 34 96 395 1030) and the four-star Melia Alicante in Alicante (tel: 00 34 96 520 5000).
Coming 'round the mountain
The drive along Tenerife's uncrowded north coast is one of the loveliest in Europe. There are glorious sea views on one side and, on the other, tantalising glimpses of Teide, from which deep ravines, or barran-cos, radiate like the spokes of a wheel. It is also a journey of small surprises.
La Oratava is a mountain town whose cobbled streets are lined with 17th and 18th-century houses decorated in the classical style, with fretted woodwork outside and cool and leafy courtyards within. I bought a wood carving from a girl dressed in traditional costume, and asked her if the souvenirs were made on Tenerife.
'No, they come from China,' she replied. Well, at least she was honest.
But if you can't escape tourism completely on Tenerife, you can at least be selective. Tiny Playa de las Teresitas had red sand imported from the Sahara, and there is a half-moon bay fringed by towering cliffs. A radio was playing guttural Spanish folk songs, in which the word 'Habibi' featured prominently. It is Arabic for 'Darling' - a reminder that the Canary Islands are closer to Morocco than to mainland Spain.
This stretch of coast has strong British associations, too. It was there, 200 years ago, that Lord Nelson had his arm amputated after being hit by a cannon ball during the Battle of Santa Cruz. Nelson may have chanced his arm (and lost), but I tested my nerves on the descent into Taganana. The switchback ride to the most remote corner of the island was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
Taganana is a collection of white cubes lying in a secluded valley. I drove through town to Playa de Roque, a fishing village listed on my map as the end of the road - but the road kept on. Finally, a few miles further, it came to an abrupt halt at the village of Benijo - little more than a cluster of stone houses on a bluff overlooking the sea.
Amazingly, for such a small, far-flung place, Benijo had a wonderful restaurant. I sat at one of El Mirador's half a dozen outside tables and lunched on papas arrugadas - potatoes with a spicy sauce - and fish cooked local-style: grilled and then fried in garlic.
The food was delicious, the crisp local wine just right, and it was a perfect winter's day - sunny but not too hot, breezy but not too cold. What more could anyone want? Best of all was the comforting thought that I was back where I belonged - at sea level.
Hundreds of huge windmills
The coastline from Tarifa westwards towards Vejer, and then Conil de la Frontera, is steeped in history. On the beach at Bolonia, for example, are the remains of the second century BC Roman town of Baelo Claudio.
Three centuries later it was so important it was granted self-governing status by the Emperor Claudius for providing fish sauce, garum, one of the staples of the Roman kitchen.
You can visit the ruins today if you drive towards the beach and look out for the tiny green signs.
When I did, I came across a young bull walking down the centre of the road towards me - this is after all regarded as the best bull-rearing area in Spain - without an apparent care in the world.
While I hesitated, the bull skipped over a broken wire fence and back into his own paddock. You wouldn't find that on the Costa del Sol, just 60 miles to the east, over the mountain at Algeciras, where the hundreds of huge windmills bear witness to the power of the winds.
But then this part of Spain, known as the Costa de la Luz, hasn't discovered mass tourism yet. There is a rumour that this is about to become the next hot European travel destination, but that wandering bull proves it still has a long way to go - even if the marketing men are trying to call it the Costa del Windsurf.
How and where
How? The tapas of the day are usually displayed in a chilled cabinet on the bar.
There may also be a menu for perusing on the tables. (The term raciones, by the way, refers to a larger version of the same dishes - useful if you are a large party.)
The cabinet is unlikely to show a complete selection of available tapas, however. There may be dishes that need to be prepared from scratch, and these are called tapas de cocina (kitchen tapas).
When making your selection, be sure to keep an eye on price - especially as many bars in Spain don't take plastic.
The tapa used to be offered free with your drink (it still is in some rural areas and provincial cities). But bar owners cottoned on to the fact that their customers were gorging themselves for nothing, and a small fee began to be charged.
It now averages 60p - though the price varies hugely, especially for luxury seafoods and renowned hams such as Jabugo.
Whatever you order, it will invariably come with a little basket of bread (refilled whenever you run out) and a fork per person. The Spanish custom is to leave your fork resting downwards on the edge of the plate when not in use.
Where? Some cities are better destinations than others. Madrid, the culinary as well as political capital of Spain, has a fantastic variety of tapas bars.
Barcelona has a less distinguished history of tapas cooking, but is catching up fast. The great Andalucian cities of Seville, Cordoba and Granada are also happy hunting grounds, particularly for fine hams and cheeses.
In the Basque country, tapas are known as pintxos, and usually consist of a bread topped with anything from stuffed red peppers to mushrooms in garlic.
Not ugly cretins
The son of an engineer, Manuel studied archaeology at Madrid University. He became fascinated by the subject as a child after reading Mika Waltari's historical novel, The Egyptian.
'This is my attempt to popularise and humanise a subject which I am so passionate about,' he said. 'The common image of archaeology is of people on their hands and knees excavating for bits of pottery. Museums are like prisons with glass separating the artefacts from the viewers.
'We try to teach our guests about a vast and forgotten period of human evolution. Neanderthal man survived for 270,000 years. Civilised man has been around for only 7,000. Our prehistoric-camp participants usually only see nature in terms of shapes and colours.
'When they leave they realise nature is full of resources. They see their forefathers in a new and admirable light. Not as dirty, smelly, ugly cretins. They learn to respect their specialist skills.'
He looked at my handiwork. 'That's not a bad shoe,' he said. I stared at him incredulously. 'Actually it's a soup bowl.'
Travel facts For further information call Paleorama (00 34 947 430 473 or fax 00 34 947 430 484) Pza Pablo Garcia Virumbrales, 09199 Atapuerca, Burgos, Spain. Spanish Tourist Office, 22-23 Manchester Square, London W1M 5AP (020 7486 8077). Go operates a daily flight from London Stansted to Bilbao. Call 0870 607 6543 or visit http://www.go-fly.com
For clubbers and for peace
BEST FOR NIGHTLIFE: IBIZA
You are probably sick and tired of hearing the name of Ibiza. It has become a byword for debauchery and drug-fuelled excess, but for nightlife, the island still rules the roost.
Yes, it has its naff side. And yes, it's not what it was. The scene has lost much of its freshness and friendliness and the domination of British club promoters has taken away from the charmingly cosmopolitan social mix.
But there is still no place like it. A night in the bars in Ibiza town's atmospheric Sa Penya district is an eye-opening experience in itself. Clubs such as Amnesia, Es Paradis, Pacha and Space are pleasure domes on a massive scale.
But Ibiza nightlife is about much more than nightclubs. For those who know how to find them, there are parties on beaches, in private houses, on cliff tops and in caves. After-hours venues open at 8am and after-after-hours venues kick off when the after-hours places have closed.
Ibiza never stops. It is simply having too much fun for that.
BEST FOR TRANQUIL: GALICIA
This lush corner of north-west Spain hit the headlines recently as a result of the spill from the oil tanker Prestige, which has blighted the magnificent beaches of Galicia.
But don't let that put you off one of the loveliest and least-known parts of the country. Galicia has gently rolling hills, chestnut woods and a traditional way of life.
The locals speak Gallego, a halfway house between Spanish and Portuguese. The landscape is dotted by stone granaries called horreos, which stand high on stone pillars to keep out the rats.
There is masses to see, from Romanesque churches and bucolic villages to historic towns such as Santiago de Compostela (capital of the region), Lugo, Vigo, Ourense and La Coruna. A highlight of any tour is the great granite monastery of Oseira (near Ourense).
The best bets for accommodation while touring are the rural hotels (often in converted country houses or pazos) and working farms open for business as agroturismos.
Valencia
VALENCIA
WHY GO? For some of the best beaches in Spain. The Costa Blanca, or White Coast, has long, golden sand beaches, small pebble coves and rocky inlets ideal for diving and snorkelling. Known as the Levante, this region has some of the most fertile land in Europe, lush with orange, lemon and peach groves, vineyards and irrigated rice fields.
Spain's most famous dish, paella, was created here. Inland are rugged mountains with sculpted peaks, ideal for escaping the crowds.
Valencia stages some of the country's wildest fiestas, from the tomato-throwing spectacle at Buñol to mock battles between the Moors and Christians and to huge bonfire festivals (las fallas) where giant papier-mache caricatures are put to the flame.
MUST-SEES: Valencia, Spain's third largest city, with its splendid cathedral and Fallas Museum; Alicante's castle and palm-lined Explanada de España. Benidorm's Playa de Levante, perfect sand backed by a sweeping promenade; the old towns of Javea and Denia; the view from Peñon de Ifach at Calpe; the mountain fortress village of Guadalest; Elche's palm forest; Orihuela's medieval churches.
DRAWBACKS: The best beaches are packed top to tail in high season; nightlife noise in Benidorm.
HOTEL: Hotel Consul del Mar, Avenida del Puerto 39, Valencia 46021. Restored 19th-century mansion, furnished with antiques and hydromassage baths. Good restaurant. Tel (00 34) 96 362 54 32.
RESTAURANT: La Darsena, Muelle del Puerto Explanada d'Espanya, Alicante. Great spot for paella and rice dishes, on the harbour. Tel (00 34) 96 520 75 89.
GETTING THERE: Go, tel 0870 607 6543.
TOUR OPERATOR: Magic Of Spain, tel 08700 270400, http://www.magictravelgroup.co.uk
An easygoing light and grace
Toledo itself is best known as the home town of El Greco, and it is impossible to set eyes on it without seeing it through his peculiarly bendy and elongated vision.
Most spectacular of all is El Greco's The Burial Of the Count Of Orgaz, in an annexe to the church of Santo Tome: the soul of the unfortunately named count is being received into heaven by all sorts of saintly bigwigs, while, down below, members of the Spanish aristocracy look on with varying degrees of indifference.
Taking children on holiday is always a matter of barter and compromise. Before our holiday, I decided that if we always stayed within reach of a swimming pool, this would give us a licence to drag them round cathedrals and art galleries from time to time.
This just about worked, though their spirits sank whenever the word 'church' was mentioned and they were never happier-than when sighting the exit sign in an art gallery.
Their indifference to masterpieces was at its most exasperating in the Mesquita in Cordoba.
It was the most extraordinary building I have ever been in - part mosque, part cathedral, the whole bizarre creation full of columns and arches stretching as far as the eye can see.
In the end, I came to believe that the best compromise is to spend time sitting in a cafe in the main square of any great city: in Cordoba, we ate and drank and eavesdropped while our children drenched themselves in the maze of fountains spouting straight from the ground, while every evening in Salamanca we ate and played cards in the stupendously beautiful main square. This way, everyone was content.
Of course, the food tends to be a bit overtly touristy in these main squares, but then this might come as a welcome relief after the indigestibly real lumps of gristle and innards served in more authentic backstreet restaurants.
If I were to revisit just one city in Spain, it would have to be Salamanca: it has an easygoing light and grace that is uncommon in Spain, and is almost entirely constructed from a light golden sandstone, which makes it glow at dawn and dusk.
It also has a pleasantly cosmopolitan quality, having been home for nearly 800 years to one of the most famous universities in the world.
But even the more minor towns have much to offer.
We only found ourselves Plasencia, for instance, because Cacares was booked up, yet it turned out to be a delightful town, curiously cosy, with a lovely arcaded, sloping main square and a stunning parador, set in a renovated palatial old building with ceilings so high that one half expected to spot clouds floating overhead.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Crossings by P&O Portsmouth (tel: 0870 2424 999) to Bilbao. Information on paradors: Keytel (tel: 020 7616 0307
Tapas - the ultimate hangover cure
But Sitges today seems like a town divided by both its buildings and its beaches. If you want to rub sunburned shoulders with hordes of Spanish families, head for the informal beaches fronting the old town. For something more sedate, try the quieter Platja de St Sebastia in the east, or the spotless stretches facing the residential quarters of Terramar and Vinyet.
Inland from there you are lost in a maze of weekend mansions for rich Barcelonans. The manicured lawns, high security gates and barking Alsatians are worlds away from the bustle and fun of the old town.
All life centres on the narrow streets of the old town - the Carrer Montroig, Ier de Mayo and the Carrer de Parellades. Hip young locals hang out in the airy Montroig cafe, nursing their hangovers over chokingly-strong coffees, looking ruefully in the direction of Bunker, the happening club across the road where but a few hours previously their choice of beverage was something altogether stronger.
Others prefer to eat their way out of hangover misery - and at Eguzki, the cosy Catalan bar and restaurant in Carrer S. Pau, you can feast on a whole range of montaditos (the Catalan equivalent of tapas), from hot chorizo sausage to salt cod fritters, for next to nothing.
The bill is calculated from the number of toothpicks left on your plate, each pick having once secured the montaditos to its slice of bread. My bill for seven delicious snacks, a glass of cava (Spanish champagne) and a cortado came to just under £5.
A cluster of villages
Like all great cities, Seville is a cluster of 'villages', each with its own character. At lunchtime, we crossed the Guadalquivir river and ate al fresco in Triana, the old gipsy quarter.
No grand palaces here: just simple vernacular architecture. But the rows of whitewashed houses pulsed with life: women in black dresses sat in doorways peeling tomatoes and gossiping with neighbours; flamenco music boomed out of tapas bars.
The Barrio de Santa Cruz was another area rich in atmosphere. It is the oldest part of Seville and used to be the Jewish quarter. Some of the streets are so narrow that they are impassable by car, but that rabbit-warren quality gives the area its charm.
We turned left, right, right again, found we were back where we started, tried a different turning, ducked down a side-alley, turned left, then right, then emerged into a sumptuous little square, with the jacaranda trees in full bloom and the lights of a restaurant beckoning in the corner.
In the distance, was the faint sound of cheers from the direction of the bullring.
My girlfriend pricked up her ears, like a war-horse at the sound of a bugle. But I had no trouble keeping her on the straight and narrow. Seville is one of those cities that really does have something for everyone.
Travel facts: Magic of Spain. Tel: 08700 270400, or visit website http://www.magictravelgroup. co.uk.
Sipping chilled sherry
Waving fans (£3 from street stalls) is as common among the women here as sipping chilled sherry; so don't be shy to adopt them for flicking away pesky flies.
As for dispensing of my euros, I looked at enough silk shawls, (from £20) and plates to snap up as los regalos (gifts) for relatives, but cute leather bags and strappy sandals remained impossible to find.
At Bar Citroen, just before the grand red-bricked tiled buildings of Plaza de Espana, you can eat an omelette or paella under an awning, listening to the banter of locals.
Shamefully, I'd assumed most Spaniards breezed through English so learnt a smattering of phrases on the plane. If I did rattle off a sentence, I then had no comprehension of the reply.
Do take a phrase book as menus are often only in Spanish, but unlike French waiters, less disdain is shown if you stutter an order for a sandwich.
After lunch, Hemingway fans may be able to stomach an afternoon at the bull-ring, the Real Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza, built in 1760.
It is alleged to be the most beautiful in the world, with a white and ochre façade and marble columns inside.
I couldn't bring myself to go in, so wandered across to the bronze statue of Carmen, whose character worked in the tobacco factory in Seville.
Every moment of a languid day is drawn out here. With lunch eaten between 2pm and 4pm, followed by a siesta, dinner is any time after 9pm, so the city stirs only after 11pm.
In Spanish there is even a word - madrugada - describing midnight to dawn.
Strolls along the Rio Guadalquivir are a nightly pastime and here, beside the 13th-century defensive lookout, Torre del Oro (Tower of Gold), hour-long boat cruises (£8) run until 11pm.
The temptations of El Camino de Santiago
Next day we headed through Astorga and Ponferrada to Lugo. The quickest way is via the new A6 and twisty NV1, but visiting Cebreiro's 9th-century church involves side roads with precipitous drops. Legend has it that a German pilgrim lost in fog in the Valcarce valley was saved by following the sound of bagpipes, known locally as the alala, played by a Cebreiro shepherd. We found happy-clappy American Christians barbecuing burgers and singing.
En route to Lugo, there are many signs to tempt keen walkers. The ten miles from Fontria to Pedrafita do Cebreiro was a six-hour hike, with 22 shrines to look at on the way. Our Lugo campsite was near a huge bridge. Many Spanish roads spring across deep gorges on elegant bridges - from the elevated position of a motorhome it was frightening.
After dinner we relaxed, but then you have to fold away the table and assemble the bed, while very aware that you haven't washed up or read a line of the five books you brought. The Pollensa needed more oddment space. It was easy to drive, providing you respect its weight when cornering. But satellite navigation would have been useful, too, especially to indicate streets which were too narrow for your vehicle.
With Santiago now close, we again meandered off the theoretical route and my wife was tempted back on her bike. There are some lonely parts with colourful wild flowers. A stretch of the ancient road, paved with granite blocks, survives near the village of Leboreiro, with its simple medieval stone houses. We were savouring a cuppa nearby when I found myself jostling for my pear tart with some passing cows.
The Cathedral of St James's in Santiago is ornate, spectacular, huge and well worth the journey. Its spiritual dimension remains, despite the commercialism: donations that light timed electric candles, logoed mugs and cufflinks. Hundreds of people queue to kiss St James's robe, file past a casket said to contain his remains and put hand and head on a pillar as they offer prayers.
Among other sights in this mystical city not far from Finisterre, the edge of the western world, is the Museo das Peregrinacions, which houses the 12th-century Codex Calixtinus - a guide for the route and possibly the first ever travel guide.
The following day, as we started back, there was an unspoken sadness that travelling the Camino was over, but, arriving on the coast near Candas, we celebrated with champagne. We had set too tough a schedule, but then that made it more of a pilgrimage.
Early Renaissance ceiling
Despite this decline, the university has been marvellously well preserved. The facade dates from 1534, with an immense profusion of exuberant Renaissance ornament.
Carved on flat stone surfaces, the style is peculiar to Salamanca and northern Spain and is described as 'Plateresque'.
The Spanish term means 'silversmith-like' - which says it all; its rich intricacies resembling the delicacy of a silversmith's work, but also clearly owing much to Moorish influence.
There seems to be hardly an inch of Salamanca which is not decorated with this exquisite work.
Above the university's main gate smiles down a large medallion of the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, who drove the last Moors out of Spain in 1492. At one side sits a frog, an omen of good luck.
Inside is a large courtyard on two storeys, with lecture halls on the ground floor. Here the great 16th Century humanist Fray Luis de Leon held forth.
The students' rough wooden benches look hugely uncomfortable, and I begin to wonder if life here would have suited me.
Upstairs is the magnificent library, dating back to 1254 and boasting 50,000 rare books. Across the way is the Renaissance rector's office, across another ornate courtyard housing the 'Lesser Schools'.
In here is a rare early Renaissance ceiling depicting the Cielo (Heavens) de Salamanca, or all that was known of astronomy in 1480. (Though a heresy at the time, the teaching of Copernicus was first recognised at Salamanca.)
But where are the students? Have they all taken refuge from the ogling tourists?
As the afternoon sun hits the honeysuckle yellow stone of Salamanca, a magical golden glow suffuses the whole city with its warmth. It is the memory most visitors carry home.
Impressive celebrity list
The place still has an impressive celebrity guest list, including Pierce Brosnan, Liz Taylor and David Beckham.
But even to non-celebs like us, it offered the same easygoing atmosphere that the Spanish seem to know is the total opposite of hotels in the UK - sumptuous breakfast served until eleven each morning - ditto buffet lunch until four each afternoon.
The service was so attentive as to border on telepathy. When my wife ordered an after lunch cappuccino, it came with a gold-wrapped chocolate in the saucer.
The faintest flicker of envy on Jessica's face was enough for the maitre d' to bark an order and a waiter to hurry over with four more chocolates on a saucer.
'How could we possibly have spent so many centuries at war with these people?' I asked my wife more than once. 'Just think how much more useful it would have been for Sir Walter Raleigh to discover the Costa Del Sol instead of tobacco.'
Marbella offers a choice of restaurants reflecting its polyglot community. One - evocatively named Los Bandidos - even advertises 'French and Swedish cuisine'.
Our favourite is Villa Tiberio, a comfortingly traditional Italian place (pink tablecloths and Amaretti biscuits) whose proprietor, Sandro Morelli, used to own Barbarella's in West London. Villa Tiberio is the only place in the world where Jessica will finish a big plate of spaghetti al pomodoro to the last strand.
But there's also masses of good cheaper eating. Try Picasso on the marina in Puerto Banus, a large, always-busy place (under English ownership) where you can get a pizza and a beer for less than 10 euros (£6.83).
The main disappointment will be for those seeking the dubious thrill of spotting major UK crime figures hiding out in Marbella.
Since Spain cottoned on to extradition, most of the chief celebrities from the former 'Costa del Crime' have fled to safer locations.
However, you may still run into smaller fry around the resort's many British bars and sports clubs.
One such former hard man is fond of recounting how he took part in the UK's first armoured-van robbery where entry was gained by chain-sawing a hole in the vehicle's roof.
He describes how, before the robbery, he and his co-conspirators visited its intended scene and left a ladder in readiness for them to climb on to the van.
But when they arrived the next day to set up their ambush, they found the ladder had been stolen.
Which just goes to show, he says, how dishonest some people can be.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Wentworth Travel has packages with a stay at the Marbella Club Hotel with flights from Heathrow or Gatwick, plus transfers to and from Malaga. For more details, contact http://www.wentworthtravel.com tel: 01344 844 622.
A shiver of pride for a football fan
There's a really well-known viewpoint on top of the Formentor cliffs - it's shown in all the tourist literature, so that proves it. It did turn out to be pretty stunning, and overrun with parties of tourists, all with their camcorders, all being stunned.
I walked up to the highest point, did my gaping, then stopped to buy a postcard at a souvenir stall. The bloke in charge was wearing a Real Madrid shirt. This was a surprise. I had been led to believe that Mallorcans identify more with Barcelona, the club, and with Catalan, the language, rather than Madrid. When he turned round, I saw on the back of his shirt the name 'McManaman'.
Now call me an old fool, sorry, young fool, but as a football fan I felt a shiver of pride. That here, on a remote cliff in this foreign land, a British player should be so honoured.
At this very moment, back in Japan, there are probably folks showing their films of the Formentor heights and puzzling over the name McManaman.
And so back to Palma. Just a 50-minute taxi ride. Looks longer on the map, but the road up the middle of the island is now excellent.
I was booked into the 133-room Hotel Nixe Palace, just outside Palma at Cala Mayor, the best place they could find me. I hate big hotels. The staff were so offhand, compared with Cala SantVicens. When I checked in, I was left to find my room, take my own bag, find out how to open the door, work out the lights, the safe. Yes, I should be capable of all that by now, but hotel rooms have their secrets, as do we all.
It was directly on the beach and I did grow to like the hotel better. It was handy for Palma, with the number-three bus stopping outside. Only 175 pesetas, about 70p, into town.
Palma's bus service is clean, cheap and efficient with clear maps displayed at most bus stops.
On previous trips to Mallorca, I'd only seen Palma from the airport. That seemed enough, with all the traffic and hotels. I'd never been aware that there was an old city. Its cathedral is one of the wonders of the Mediterranean, perched high over the harbour, with enormous flying buttresses.
I was also charmed by the Arab baths, more bijou in scale. And by the harbour. On my first trip in, I walked back to the hotel along the seafront, which was a mistake, as I ended up on a ring road.
The old city is mainly traffic-free, with hidden cool squares, mysterious alleys and busy narrow streets, filled with shops and cafes. I was reminded of Venice.
Incapacitated by luxury
As time went by, I found myself steadily growing incapacitated by luxury, so that by day five I was beginning to resent having to walk down the few steps to the swimming pools, rather than be carried on a sedan chair, or at the very least a donkey.
The Formentor's dining rooms are a touch municipal, with rather stark overhead lighting, but the food itself is very good indeed with a great range of fish and plenty of rich Majorcan stews teeming with white beans.
Breakfast is a particular masterpiece, with eight different breads and heaven knows how many fruits, cheeses, juices and meats. Greedy pigs and skinflints could well stock up for the whole day, particularly if they came dressed in a jacket with a poacher's pocket.
Though the Formentor is tasteful, it is not over-bearingly so, and it has welcome pockets of vulgarity. In the evenings, a band would strike up Carpenters' medleys and we would all sit there sipping our umbrella-laden planter's punches and mouthing the words for Jambalaya.
I am ashamed to say we even joined our children in creating a conga line around the dance-floor before conga-ing them up to bed.
TRAVEL FACTS:
Details from Castaways on 01737 814383.
Buried me in mud
She was a genius. I knew she was a great yoga teacher just by looking at her - nothing on her had been affected by gravity. When you can't tell if they're 25 or 65, it's always a good sign. She left me feeling as good as new.
They then buried me in mud, not something I like to do in real life but it, too, made me rise from the dead. Ironic, though, that you're covered in dirt to feel alive again.
It isn't actually dirt - it was marine seaweed by Thalgo, but it looks like dirt.
A facial followed, in which they smeared about 20 different creams into my face. I had always thought this sort of treatment was a con, but afterwards I looked at myself in the mirror and said, 'My God, Miss Wax, you're beautiful.'
I glowed, I was young. When I got back to London I was a dog again, but there... even I would have married me.
I also had to get into a thousand-jetted Jacuzzi filled with algae. I cooked in it like I was part of a grotesque bouillabaisse, but again I felt better, so who am I to bite the hand that bathes me?
Ed, my husband, went for a massage - twice. This was unusual since he never bothers with them at home. He went the first time and told me the masseuse was a genius: he had to go back.
I decided I'd better go and see what all the fuss was about. Surprise, surprise, she looked like Bo Derek when she was young. Men are so predictable.
Let us not forget El Olivo's, the hotel restaurant, still my favourite in the world. The walls are rough stone, in the centre is a rustic olive press and you sit in enclaves surrounded by gigantic, wrought-iron candelabras dripping with melting candles.
From the high-domed ceiling hangs an iron chandelier with hundreds of candles. Even if you're alone, it's romantic. And the food is an orgy of tastes. I wanted to elope with my lobster.
So on the plane back to London, I was healed. I was radiant. And now I'm back to work and I'm sick again and miserable. It's sad to think that only luxury can cure me. An indictment of my shallowness. But true.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Magic of Spain (020 8241 5019) has packages at La Residencia. For further information on La Residencia or bookings, call Limited Edition by Virgin on 0800 716 919.
No welcome drinks
Phil, the likeable head of fun for Ministry holidays, says: 'We're not like tour companies - we don't do welcome drinks or try to sell you all-you-can-drink party passes with the coach thrown in.' That's true; they sell you no-drinks-at-all club passes with no coach thrown in.
The club pass is the same price as admission on the door, but may possibly get you into a VIP area, discounts in certain shops and your taxi fare refunded if you drink in a certain bar.
You get a discount on further club admissions, but by then you'll be exhausted and have lost your left shoe. And a free Ministry coach would be a positive advantage, helping cut down on the high number of pedestrian deaths outside clubs.
Ministry has faced criticism for cashing in on Ibiza's club scene, once a cheap, knockabout affair. I still remember the outrage when one club-owner had the front to charge a shocking £8 admission.
Now Ministry's night at the club Pacha is around £30 to get in, and drinks are, shall we say, to be nursed.
'Pacha isn't cheap. A Vodka Red Bull is £10,' admitted Ministry's PR Rhiannon, speaking of the feted clubbers' craze, a cough syrup-flavoured stimulant that 'gives you wings', though not in a useful way.
'And a bottle of wine is £9, but so worth it.' Unless it was bottled by an enormous white rabbit with a pocket watch, I doubt it.
Less flamenco than rock-music
We always went down to the fiesta in Jimena. This was the true Andalucia, I'd say, though to be truthful it was less about gypsies and flamenco than rock-music and San Miguel.
As our three daughters grew older, their interest in the excursion switched from riding bumper cars to attracting the ogles of the slim-hipped local youths.
Let's face it, Spaniards are simply more romantic than the Brits. My second daughter made friends with a handsome Gaucin barman who not only presented her with a wristwatch but for months afterwards wrote letters to her in London enquiring politely: 'Is your heart still free?'
The magic has lasted. The girls, now in their 20s, have all had spells working or studying in Spain.
Last summer we responded to their teen nostalgia by having another holiday in Gaucin, where the village lads now had moustaches.
Our son went off to Corfu with a bunch of mates. He had the ultimate horrific teenage holiday, which included waking up drunk and naked on the beach, being ripped-off by the travel rep and attacked by the local police.
He wished he'd come with us, he said. He might have forgotten the geckos, but he was surely remembering the girls in their flounced flamenco dresses at the fiestas in Jimena.
TRAVEL FACTS:
The closest airports to Gaucin are Gibraltar and Malaga. CV Travel (tel: 020 7591 2800) has villas in the area. For alternative accommodation visit http://www.andalucia.com/gaucin/home
Barrage of fireworks
As I pull up next to the harbour, a deafening barrage of fireworks is creating puffs of white smoke over the hills above the town. 'We're celebrating San Juan, our patron saint,' explains the owner of La Gaviota, a guesthouse just off the sea front. I am the only resident.
I like Camarinas. It's the sort of place where you find yourself waking up the next morning, with black-stained teeth (thanks to a dinner of squid-inked paella) and a bad hangover (thanks to San Juan and too much aguardiente, the local grappa-like spirit).
After a few strong coffees I head off to visit the nearby village of Muxia, scene of some of the worst pollution from the Prestige spill.
Down at the end of a promontory sits the sombre 18th-century Santuario de la Virgen de la Barca, once an important site of Galicia's pre-Christian animist cults, and down below it you can see the huge granite rocks that were thought to have sacred powers.
Unfortunately, they were not powerful enough to fend off the black deluge. Two men in space suits are cleaning the huge boulders with high-powered hoses. It, is, however, the only trace of oil still to be seen.
Finally, I make it to Fisterra on the sort of day that would be ideal for filming an advertisement for Fishermen's Friends.
Rain is blowing sideways across the sky and at one point while driving over the headland to reach the westernmost point in Europe, I end up in the middle of a cloud.
Suddenly dropping out of the mist, I find myself looking down on the famous lighthouse suspended on a giant canvas of raging surf and angry sky.
It is a sight to make you feel extremely humble but also totally invigorated and, as I watch a small fishing boat being thrown about like a toy boat in a Jacuzzi, I am absolutely certain of one thing.
The Costa da Morte is best experienced from land rather than sea.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Brittany Ferries (08703 665333) sails twice a week between Portsmouth and Santander.
British Airways (0870 850 9850) has flights to La Coruna (via Madrid).
Iberia (0845 6012854) has daily flight between Heathrow and Santiago de Compostela.
Hertz (08703665333) has offices in Santander, La Coruna, and Santiago de Compostela.
Richard Neill organised his accommodation through www.expedia.co.uk (0870 0500808).
Peer beneath the surface
But it's not just the savings that make Andalucia so attractive in the winter. It's also the mood.
In Puerto Banus, for example, where yachts as big as cruise liners moor during the summer, and the harbour cafes fill with 'sailors' anxious to demonstrate the loudness of their voices and the depth of their pockets, the town takes on a less frenetic - more matter of fact - air in the winter.
The restaurants are redecorated and the satellite TV salesmen do a roaring trade.
Estepona, too, where the housing developments crowd down towards the Mediterranean, becomes a gentler, friendlier, place when the sun is not so fierce and the tourists are no longer demanding endless plates of paella.
The locals can slip down to the seafront to eat swordfish and drink fino without feeling swamped.
There is something mesmerising about Spain in the winter, particularly the Costa del Sol. Seaside towns out of season are wonderful places; they have an atmosphere that is quite different from any other time of year, a sense of mystery that summer visitors will never understand.
For me, that's what makes the Costa without the Sol a place to be treasured rather than ignored.
It may seem melancholy, but if you peer beneath the surface, you will discover the heart of Spain itself: and you will never do that on a brilliant day in July.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Thomson Holidays offers seven nights at the Hotel Fuerte Miramar from £479 per person in the winter (£619 in the summer), based on two adults sharing a twin room with bed and breakfast. Price includes return flights and private taxi transfers.
Surfing the Spanish waves
The big excursion from the coast was to the capital of Andalusia, Seville. Though it was perfectly manageable as a day trip, with all the principle sights close to the city centre, it would probably take a week to do it any justice.
Here, too, we enjoyed the legacy of Moorish culture: the Torre del Oro (Golden Tower), the Reales Alcazares (the royal residence) and elements of the Cathedral which, having been built on the site of a mosque, retains some significant Islamic parts.
The Cathedral is the biggest Gothic building in the world and the sheer size of much that's inside is enough to keep the average Guinness Book Of Records-hungry child quite happy. For example, you'll find the World's Biggest Retablo (the carved screen behind the altar), which is almost 115ft high, and the massive sarcophagus of Christopher Columbus, held up by four awesome statues.
The place, however, which scored top marks for children and parents, was Tarifa, the most southerly town in Europe. Here we had history (a 10th-century Moorish castle), geography (clear views of Morocco and the Atlas Mountains) and, not just the opportunity to use buckets and spades on the five spectacular miles of pale sand, but the added thrill of a wild, translucent sea.
This time it wasn't the biggest, but the best: the best windsurfing beach in Europe, where the winds from the Atlantic blow into the Mediterranean. On the day we visited, there were not just windsurfers, but old-fashioned surfers standing high on the waves, in true Bondi Beach style. At last, we'd found the perfect beach - with not a golf buggy in sight.
Art Nouveau mansions and gladioli
And away from this bustle, the Barrio del Populo, the city's oldest quarter, reveals a tangle of tiny alleys sheltering simple houses, crumbling Art Nouveau mansions and old-fashioned stores. Here, traffic noise is exchanged for the shrill fluting of swallow song, and sheets of calico suspended from the rooftops and billowing like the sails of an ancient galleon, give welcome shade for the traders below.
Neighbouring Plaza de las Flores - where the air is thick with the odour of roses, waxy lilies and blemish-free gladioli, is a must. You can stop off at Las Flores Freisuria - a Spanish-style fish and chip kiosk where battered calamares and prawns are superbly fresh - or whet your appetite in the fabulous food market, where stalls piled high with ripe cherries, cheeses, sausages and even tiny live snails, attract a regular crowd.
The rooftops of Cadiz are particularly distinctive. Moorish-looking turrets from which the locals would keep watch for ships returning from the Americas, include the Tavira Tower, the highest lookout in the city. There is a fun 'camera obscura', too, projecting a brilliant moving image of the surrounding neighbourhoods, from a line of washing flapping in the breeze in the old quarter to a distant boat chugging across the harbour.
Further down the coast, new resorts are rising from the flat, marshy wastelands. Our own hotel, the new Melia Sol, was set in Sancti Petri, a barely developed holiday haven next to Conil.
It's one of a handful of attractively designed low-rise complexes that include hacienda-style villas and smart cafes. Thankfully, there seems little danger of these new developments mirroring the high-rise mistakes prevalent in neigh-bouring Costa del Sol - but then this is Spain's best kept secret.
Tree-lined promenade
By cutting the flying time to the Costa del Sol, holidaymakers could jet off to beaches in the far south of the country, where it was even hotter and just about as cheap.
So in the 1970s and 1980s, while the south of Spain was buried in vast resort hotels, the Costa Brava languished.
This was no bad thing: though it would be stretching a point to call the Costa Brava unspoilt, it has been a forgotten part of the Spanish coast.
Figueres is a provincial market town, with an old-fashioned central Rambla, a tree-lined promenade and pavement cafes, for the evening paseo (stroll).
Cadaques, on the coast, can be reached only from Figueres by one winding, narrow, mountain road.
Otherwise, travellers get there by boat from Roses.
Partly because of its isolation, and its position in a narrow cove surrounded by hills, it was never concreted over with hotels and holiday chalets, and it retains the whitewashed charm of a little Spanish fishing village.
The local fishermen, though, are now in a distinct minority. Today, Cadaques is a stylish, slightly raffish tourist resort with artistic leanings - apart from Dali, Picasso, Magritte and Bunuel spent time there.
Cobbled lanes lined with boutiques and art galleries lead up to the church of Santa Maria at the top of the town.
In the 1960s it was known as the 'St Tropez of Spain', and attracted middle-class bohos with artistic sensibilities.
They, or at least their children, still return here.
Chicken in chocolate sauce
Then there is the Sunday market at Palafrugell, delicious Ampordan cuisine - a bizarre but superb mix of fish and fowl, sweet and sour, that reaches its climax in the lobster with chicken served in a chocolate sauce - and incomparably pretty beaches fanned by a cobalt-blue sea.
A drink on the terrace of the Parador at Aiguablava, followed by dinner at the lighthouse restaurant on the cliffs at Llafranc, will provide you with two of the most indelible memories and views of any holiday you've ever taken.
Not all the Costa Brava is quite so exquisite, however. In its southern stretch, a concrete slick spreads its way towards Barcelona.
The area to head for is the necklace of beaches strung around Begur - Calella de Palafrugell, Llafranc, Tamariu, Aiguablava and Aiguafreda.
Waking one morning and staring out from the balcony towards the pine-blanketed hills, my eyes finally settled on the villa pool beneath.
Scattered around it was the detritus of another successful day - the inflatable boat bobbing along the water unskippered like the Mary Celeste, oars, a ball, snorkels, masks, flip-flops, and towels abandoned where they fell.
It looked like a typhoon had blown through overnight and deposited the flotsam on our shore.
It's hard to imagine a better shore to be washed up on.
Travel facts:
Paul Gogarty and family booked their villa through specialist Vintage Travel (01954 261431).
Was Carlos the one with the wig?
The hotel obviously attracts lots of loyal customers who come year after year. Earwigging on the quartet of fiftynine-somethings at the next dinner table, we discovered their entire conversation seemed to consist of the doings of the waiting staff. 'Look at Angel over there working so hard, where's Joachim this year?' 'Oh, he's gone to Tossa De Mar to run a bar with Pablo and Carlos. You remember them, they worked here till two years ago.' 'Was Carlos the one with the wig?' 'No, that was Jose, he's at the poolside snack bar now.'
I found it unnerving to be able to understand the conversation of the people around me. Generally, in the places where Linda and I holiday there are no other English people, and as we speak no other language part of our relaxation is to pretend those around us are not exchanging the usual banalities but are talking in an elevated fashion about Flaubert and Sartre (though in reality they're probably only talking about Flaubert and Sartre if they're running a pub together in Tossa De Mar).
The hotel on the last day - the Mas de Torrent - was ludicrously luxurious. We had a wonderful suite, with its own terrace. We lunched in a very glamorous tent affair and dined in the 16th Century dining room. The front drive of the hotel was lined with the guests' cars: Mercedes, BMWs and Range Rovers.
And yet it is a measure of the genuine civility of the Catalans that they didn't look askance at us when we lurched up in reception, covered in sweat and dust waving dangerous sticks about, dressed in shorts, hiking boots and, of course, our mad hats.
Rustic simplicity to real luxury
Breakfast might be a perfect white dome of fresh goat's cheese with bread and some fig jam, or just as likely some freshly picked tomatoes and cloves of garlic. For lunch each day we would stop in a grassy glade, with the horses tethered and their saddles drying out in the sun, and take it in turns to use a Swiss army knife to hack a piece off the cheese which was passed around between us.
With a few olives, some bread, fruit and generous amounts of red wine it was the perfect meal and after just one such picnic this group of strangers felt like old friends.
Accommodation was varied - from small, cell-like rooms in the almost forgotten village of Albanya, to the rustic simplicity of a 10th Century rural residence near Peralada, and the more luxurious hospitality of El Central in Darnius - where the hotel's own boat had that very day brought in the raw ingredients for a superlative fish soup as well as the plump dorada which we feasted on that night.
There was plenty of time for contemplation, with nothing but the crunch of metal on a gravelly path to break the silence. At other times there was sheer exhilaration, with lengthy gallops that took your breath away.
I owed both to the strength and stamina of Elsa and after a week of her company it was hard to leave her behind. A gentle hack in damp Home Counties woodland was going to seem so tame.
I remember thinking it in 1974, but this time I mean it. I will return - wild horses won't keep me away.
A secret valley
The second day's walking leads right into the heart of the Alta Garroxta and, after a gentle amble along a riverbank, the track rears up for a couple of punishing miles on rocky tracks in dense woodland, the sweating effort relieved occasionally by glimpses of the deep Hortmoier valley below.
When it flattened out the scene was wide, wild and beautiful: a secret valley with steep sides and a tumbling river.
You can't walk in remote Catalonia without being reminded of its long history of fights for freedom.
Long before its desperate struggles in the Spanish Civil War, there were others. We saw the precipitous cliff called El Salt dels Liberals, off which Liberal soldiers in the 19th Century wars were thrown to their death for challenging the conservative Carlist dynasty.
Half an hour later we glanced up to see the Castel de Oix, shimmering above the hot path. It was built in the 15th Century to quell a peasants' revolt against feudal dues.
We limped into Oix village to find the Hostal de la Rovira, where a small, wiry man paused from shouting Catalan into a phone to show us to our room.
He gave us a large shot of home-brewed pastis which, he assured us, was 'no comercial'. Too right it wasn't. We drank it at a gulp and passed out cold for the two hours 'til dinner.
We wrecked ourselves on Day Three. The task was to nip over two passes - a footling 2,230ft and 1,706ft - heading south out of the Alta Garroxta towards the true volcanic zone.
We started very bouncy, enjoying the cool, overcast weather, and roared up to some fabulous high views towards villages which clung to clifftops.
Then we scuttled down through scented woods - the soil here is poorer, which makes the aromatic plants thrive - and it was like a full aromatherapy treatment delivered on the hoof.
Beyond a base of pine were wild lavender, mint, thyme, chives and juniper (it really does smell of gin).
We were drunk on it. However, after going down a long way we began to dread the next ridge and nearly opted to sneak off to the invisible main road and hitch to Olot.
Avila's medieval charm
I drove east to Avila, often called the world's best-preserved city. Wandering around inside the city walls is like walking through the Middle Ages, as you pass through a labyrinth of cobbled streets flanked by high stone walls; ancient churches glittering with icons, and a main square with some of the best cafes in Spain.
Service here is a world away from the commercialism of the Costas. The waiters in Avila's plaza are in no rush to serve you. Relax and enjoy the wait. The traditional barrier between Castile and the rest of the country is the Sierra de Guadarrama range. I crossed it on my last morning, climbing through dense pine forests threaded by streams.
As the road descended, there in the distance lay Madrid, sweltering in a heat haze, chockfull of noise, shops and traffic.
I had planned to spend a few hours in the capital, but instead headed straight for the airport. After the quirky peacefulness of Castile, Madrid seemed to belong to another world.
Seafood is the staple
Just along the coast is Sanlucar de Barrameda, home to manzanilla, a drier, lighter, saltier version of fino.
And across the bay from Cadiz is El Puerto de Santa Maria, from where tens of thousands of barrels of sherry have been exported over the years.
Cadiz is nothing if not supportive of local industry. Sherry drinking is a near-religious experience throughout the region, and aficionados sniff and sup their finos with all the expertise of a Bordeaux wine taster.
Of course, seafood is the staple of this great port, and for the cost of a soggy, pre-packed sandwich in Britain, you can sample the finest prawns, fish and squid Europe has to offer.
Calle Zorilla, off the Plaza de la Mina, is a good example. Aurelio, Gaditana and Meson Cumbres Mayores are just three of a dozen tapacerias in a couple of blocks.
Aurelio also has a good value seafood restaurant. La Caleta restaurant, on the busy Plaza de San Juan de Dios offers relief for those tired of seafood, but the city's top restaurants stick to local produce. El Anteojo, on Calle Apodaca, has dishes and prices to match its stunning views over the Atlantic.
The restaurant at the Parador Atlantico offers similarly breathtaking views. In the old town, the Hotel Francia y Paris is smart and quiet and on Playa de la Victoria, you can walk out of the Tryp La Caleta hotel onto the beach, or stroll into the historic centre.
Wherever you stay, you'll find the gaditanos are welcoming, and love nothing more than an open-air party. It's no coincidence that their 10-day carnival is the best and wildest in Spain.
That's the thing about Cadiz. It has a way of charming those intent on invading, persuading them to return. Now, when did Ms Berry say she'd be back?
TRAVEL DETAILS:
The nearest airport to Cadiz is in Jerez, 32km away. Buzz flies from London Stansted http://www.buzz.co.uk tel: 0870 240 7070. Car hire from Jerez Airport http://www.alamo.com tel: 08705 994 000.
Accommodation: Atlantico Hotel (tel: 00 34 956 226 905) Duque de Najera. Regio II (tel: 00 34 956 253 008).
Elevenses at Fornalutx
Being lumbered with the soubriquet 'prettiest village' could have been the ruin of Fornalutx, yet both it and Biniarix, on the back road to gorgeous old Soller, would give the best in Provence a run for their money.
Having left until last the grand tour on the C710, via the lakes and the island's highest point, Puig Major, I reached Fornalutx in time for elevenses of fresh oranges sold on the street by a bulbous señor, looking rather like an orange himself.
Once the coastal extravaganza begins, west of Port de Soller, it's hard to keep your eyes on the road. I failed to spot the artists' colony of Lluc Alcari while admiring the scenery, but stunning Deja, home for many years to Robert Graves, was unmissable in every sense.
Ironically, the celebrated writer's tombstone in the tiny cemetery on the hill is almost illegible. Looking across at Richard Branson's monumental five-star hotel, La Residencia, I idly wondered what the author of I, Claudius would have made of the Virgin emperor's palace.
And so to Palma. Not the airport, but the heart of the old town, where a web of streets surrounds the great Gothic cathedral. Few who lie pinned like bats to the beaches of Palma Nova or Magaluf ever venture here, yet it is sheer delight, full of cloistered convents, baroque mansions, tiled cafes and last-word interiors shops.
As for the glittering interior of the cathedral, with its Gaudi-decorated Royal Chapel, it puts many more famous ecclesiastical exclamation marks in the shade.
Palma has all the ingredients for a perfect winter city break, yet it's not generally on the winter-city list. From now on, it's certainly on mine. And Binibona is only 40 minutes away . . .
Travel facts: Travel's Simply Spain 2001 programme offers country hotels in Majorca, including Ets Albellons. Finca Binibona will be in the brochure next year. For reservations call 020 8541 2208. Scott's Hotel, Binissalem, is not on a tour-operator package. Tel 00 34 971 870100 or visit http://www.scottshotel.com Fax 00 34 971 870267.
Fishing villages
In Segovia, a couple of hours drive south-east, we were staying between the city's two principal attractions - the castle, or Alcazar, at the western end, and the Roman aqueduct that straddles the eastern entrance to the city.
Segovia's Hostale Fornos was the most delightful of the three we stayed in. It's housed in an art nouveau apartment building, with a characteristically sinuous flower pattern etched into the polished, wooden street door.
The rooms, some with balconies, are large, cool and charming, and decorated to a standard that would not disgrace the most elegant hotel.
The en suite bathrooms are spacious, too. The hostale does not run to breakfast, but there are plenty of cafes nearby.
After the trauma of driving into Bilbao, in Salamanca we put the cars in an underground car park (14 euros a day each), while in Segovia our receptionist phoned a professional car parker to come and take them away for 11 euros a day each (in Spain, car parking is a burgeoning new service industry).
After Segovia we drove back north to spend a few days exploring the fishing villages on the Atlantic coast, between Bilbao and San Sebastian.
Returning on the easyJet morning flight, we could reflect that, thanks to taking a chance with the hostales, we had indisputably done northern Spain on the cheap. It just hadn't felt like it.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Hostale Estrella, Calle Maria Munoz 6, Bilbao. Tel 944 164 066. Hostale Plaza Mayor, Plaza del Corrillo 20, Salamanca. Tel 923262 020. Hostale Fornos, Calle Infanta Isabel 13, Segovia. Tel 921 460198
easyJet flies twice daily between Stansted and Bilbao. http://www.easyjet.co.uk. British Airways flies to Bilbao from Gatwick, (http://www.ba.com). Iberia flies from Heathrow to Bilbao. Tel 0845 850 9000.
P&O runs a car ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao. Info: poferries.com. Tel 08705 202020. Brittany Ferries goes from Plymouth to Santander. Tel 08705 360 360.
The street that never sleeps
And, for anyone whose taste buds are galvanised by the sights and the smells, the Quim bar, right in the heart of the Boqueria, offers drinks, delicious tapas and more serious dishes, such as meatballs with cuttlefish, a Catalan specialty.
We emerged back on to the Ramblas opposite the Museu de l'Erotica, which boasts erotic art and photographs.
We pressed on to Gran Teatre del Liceu, Barcelona's famous opera house. It is famous because it has twice burned down - the last time in 1994 - and been renovated, and in 1893 was the target of an anarchist bomb that killed 20.
Across the Rambla is the Cafe de l'Opera, a bustling favourite of the singers and ballet dancers from the Teatre, and a place to pause and ponder life and death.
Further on, close to our Port Vell destination, a narrow street leads into the Playa Reial.
The centre of the drug trade not so long ago, this is now a peaceful square with restaurants, a fountain and ornate iron lamps topped by winged helmets - the work of Barcelona's most famous son, the Catalan architect Antonio Gaudi.
We had only scratched the surface of this magnificent street, so that evening, I jogged alone down the Ramblas.
As the sun sets, the magic begins to evaporate - whatever the authorities say, the sidestreets are still no place to linger in the black of night.
But in the early morning or the heat of the day, all human life and much more parades in a captivating sideshow on a street that really never sleeps.
TRAVEL FACTS:
British Airways (0845 77 333 77) flies from Gatwick to Barcelona. Four-star hotels range upwards from £100 per night for a double room and breakfast, depending on the season. Excellent lunches or dinners with cost wine start from £30 for two.
Insights from a Japanese tour guide
Picasso's intellectual life was nourished at Els Quatre Gats (3 Carrer de Montsio), a tavern modelled on the cabarets of Montmartre. Besides food and drink, Els Quatre Gats offered poetry readings, art exhibitions, puppet shows, lectures and musical evenings.
For a short time it even had its own magazine. Catalonian revolutionaries hatched plots at this focal point of Barcelona's bohemian fringe while poets and painters discussed the newfangled modernism.
Picasso made portraits of some of its prominent habitues and they were exhibited there in February 1900 in what was his first serious exhibition. Els Quatre Gats closed in June 1903 and didn't reopen as a cafe until 1978.
Both the exterior and interior today look remarkably unchanged. A copy of Ramon Casas's El Tandem still dominates the bar area and the restaurant is surrounded on three sides by a narrow gallery lined with dining tables for two. There is a choice of three-course set meals for 2,200 pesetas (£8).
Naturally, the heart of all things Picasso in Barcelona is the Museu Picasso (15-19 Carrer de Montcada).
Although there are some works from his old age, the bulk of the Barcelona exhibition is from the time he spent in the city and traces his development from wide-eyed teenager painting boats through serious student getting to grips with the human form to confident young artist finding his subject matter in the brothels, bars, cafes, cabarets and bull rings.
Frustratingly, the exhibits are described only in Catalan and Spanish. My most interesting insights were picked up from a Japanese tour guide speaking in English to a group of Chinese tourists.
Once Picasso left Barcelona for Paris in 1904 he never again spent any extended time in Spain.
This wasn't because of any lack of passion for the country, but because of political repression.
'He came to love Barcelona and would continue to do so until his dying day,' writes John Richardson in his biography. 'The life of the city - La Rambla, El Paralelo, above all the Barri Xino (was) evoked in his later work more than any other place.'
Travel facts Kirker Holidays (020 7231 3333) offers a range of short breaks to Barcelona.
The most exotic building on earth
The Sagrada Familia - officially the 'penitential temple of the Holy Family' - is, quite simply, the most exotic building on earth. Or rather, most exotic building site.
Begun in 1883, it may yet see its third century under construction. Nothing else can make you understand what it was like to visit Salisbury or Canterbury cathedral 600 years ago. Most of the church, including the vast central tower and four around it, has yet to be started, but the eight towers already completed soar like organic alien rocketships topped with strange red and yellow nodules.
The 'Nativity Facade' completed by Gaudi (who lived on site for 16 years before he was run over by a tram in 1926), seems to have grown organically like a coral reef accidentally shaped into human - and angelic - forms.
In stark contrast, the 'Passion Facade', finished in the 1980s is all bleak modernism, yet still somehow befits the building as an organic, growing entity.
Best of all, most of the completed work is accessible. You can climb, or take an elevator, up the towers, then run, or teeter, down spiral staircases with vertiginous views down their hollow cores, and across flimsy suspended stone bridges that seem to defy gravity (and inspire both awe and nausea simultaneously).
It is hard to think of a better advert for architecture. No sterile unfinished monument this, but in the words of our most improbable convert, 'the gobsmackingest adventure playground on the planet'.
High praise, indeed.
From limping to luxury
The Tahona was bliss: a converted village bakery, smelling of old wood and good food. Our host demonstrated how to drink rough Asturias cider: you have to pour it from a great height, spilling large quantities ('outdoors, because it stains floors very badly') in order to oxygenate it. We ate wild mushrooms in fierce Cabrales sauce and made an attempt on a sinister regional pudding called fried milk. Don't ask.
Next day was cloudy, but dry. We set off, climbing gradually. We ate our tortilla and peaches over a sweep of rocky valley and then sweated uphill to a ridge at 1,500 feet and the village of Alevia.
The curiosity of these trips is that one moment you're wading, sweaty and exhausted, through churned-up mud on a forest track and clambering over rocks in slimy boots; half an hour later you're in a drop-dead elegant inn, redolent of cool, dark, lacy Spanish chic, in a hot bath, looking at a clean, fluffy, towelling robe. Then you're reunited with your heavy suitcaseful of unguents and foot-sprays.
Refreshed, we took an evening stroll. We were seeing the far side of the Penamellera now and beneath it the Picos landscape spread out, from the shining little towns to the grey, rugged heights. The moon came out, and a scatter of stars.
We sat in the lonely little bar on the main square, drinking small glasses of white wine kept in a sherry-cask. The casona fed us bean stew with hunks of chorizo in it and rice pudding with cinnamon, and we gazed at the moon awhile and fell asleep.
Breakfast was crispy bacon and Senor Sanchez Benito's proudly presented speciality, tortitos - little fried corn-cakes the size of 10p pieces. I put blackcurrant jam on mine and, refreshed, made for the next climb.
Alevia had seemed vertiginously high, yet an hour after leaving it, it was a toy village far below. At last we came to meadowland again, a plateau of cool grass and autumn crocuses far above the world where golden cows solemnly rang us out of the Picos landscape with their sweet bells.
The Celtic fringe
After the first day's challenge of the gorge, much of this walk took us through gentler alpine country, where sheep and cow bells sounded from a rumpled quilt of little fields seamed with tumbledown stone walls.
As we crossed the ridge above Alevia for a first glimpse of the sea, the greenery took on a familiar tinge: brambles and bryony tangling among bracken and heather below chestnuts and coppiced oaks.
We had plainly arrived on a Celtic fringe. Asturians go fishing, play bagpipes, get rained on and drink cider, the latter poured with gusto from a great height to give it more fizz.
'It's everything I love about Britain rolled into one small place,' said Michael Frankham from Kent.
During his third trip to the principality in as many months, he admitted to being completely smitten: 'The little rocky coves are perfect for bathing. The magnificent mountains and beautiful farming country remind me of the Sussex Downs. Cow bells and cow smells. Mmm.'
I liked the differentness of Asturias, too: I had never before eaten a green walnut off a tree, seen the source of a river, bursting fully formed from a mountainside, or forgotten to feel either dizzy or disgruntled when plastered to the edge of a precipice by torrential rain.
'Welcome to Grin Spain,' said one hotelier. It must have been my face.
A building to marvel
A delicious selection of tapas - calamares, lamb stew and local speciality, migas (crumbled bread in a pork sauce) - washed down with ice-cold beer, came to just £10 for two, proving that, despite the arrival of the euro, Spain can still be delightfully cheap.
We cycled back along a more direct, but nonetheless scenic, route, taking in one of the area's main topographical features - the Pena de las Enamorades (lovers' rock) visible for miles around.
The next day we drove into the nearby town of Antequera, which shares Archidona's curious mix of architectural styles.
An unpretentious and animated place, among its monuments and clutch of fine churches, the best is the elegant 17th-century San Sebastian church in the square of the same name.
With its striking brick steeple, decorated with carved angels, it was a building to marvel at.
Next morning we were on the motorway bound for Marbella and the Costa du Golf, less than an hour away. I was not particularly expecting to enjoy my last day here.
But it was incredible the difference it makes staying at a hotel regularly patronised by the stars.
Set amid some delightful gardens - a riot of bougainvillaea, clematis and palm trees - Marbella Club has a very secluded and tranquil feel, despite fronting onto Marbella beach.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Abercrombie & Kent offers packages to La Bobadilla and the Marbella Beach Club. Details on http://www.abercrombiekent.co.uk or call 0845 0700612.
GB Airways reservations: http://www.gbairways.com tel: 0845 77 333 77. Special deals are available for five nights or more at La Bobadilla, particularly off-season.
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| | | | Classic tapas
Classic tapas: The basics: Aceitunas (olives); almendras (almonds); patatas fritas (crisps); banderillas (pickled onions, chillies and olives on a cocktail stick).
Cold tapas: Boquerones en vinagre (anchovies soused in vinegar, with garlic and parsley); ensaladilla rusa (cooked vegetable salad with mayonnaise); tortilla de patatas (Spanish omelette).
Hot tapas: Croquetas (croquettes, usually ham or chicken); albondigas (meatballs in sauce); patatas bravas (sauteed potatoes with chilli-tomato sauce); calamares a la romana (deepfried squid rings); pulpo a la gallega (octopus slices with olive oil and paprika); chipirones (baby squid); habas con jamon (broad beans with ham); pinchitos morunos (spiced pork kebabs); gambas al ajillo (sizzling prawns with garlic and chilli).
Drinks: Una cana (a draught beer); un botellin de cerveza (a bottle of beer); un vaso/una botella de vino tinto de la casa (a glass/a bottle of house red wine); un fino (a dry sherry); una jarra de sangria (a jug of sangria); un vermu (a vermouth); una clara (a shandy).
Useful phrases: Que hay para picar? (What is there to snack on?); Un poco de eso (A little of that); Un trozo de ... (A piece of ...); Una tapa de jamon (A tapa of ham); Un platito de almendras (A little plate of almonds); Mas pan (More bread).
Places to eat: Madrid: Cerveceria Alemana, Plaza de Santa Ana 6; Taberna Angel Sierra, Plaza de Chueca; Las Bravas, Calle Alvarez Gato 3.
Barcelona: Bar Pinotxo, Stand no. 66/67, La Boqueria market; Txampanet (Bar Esteban), Calle Montcada 22.
Sevilla: Bar Giralda, Calle Mateos Gago 1; El Rinconcillo, Calle Gerona 47.
Bilbao: Cafe Estoril, Plaza de Emilio Campuzano 3; Xukela, Calle Perro 2.
For culture and mountain scenery
BEST FOR CULTURE: BARCELONA
If the Catalans weren't a bit iffy about being considered Spanish, one might say that Barcelona is the cultural capital of Spain.
After its triumphant Olympic year in 1992, the arts have flourished as never before.
The Liceo opera house reopened two years ago after a disastrous fire; classical fans will love the artdeco concert hall, the Palau de la Musica Catalana; and dance music freaks from all over Europe flock to the SONAR festival in June.
For all-round culture, the summer GREC festival is one of the world's most eclectic and energetic arts-fests.
Lovers of painting and sculpture are spoiled for choice in with the Picasso Museum, the Museu d'Art Modern, and the MACBA, in a dazzling white fortress in the heart of the scruffy Raval district.
Last year was Gaudi year, and the Catalan architect's most famous buildings, such as the Sagrada Familia, the Casa Mila and Parc Guell, were swamped with tourists. This year might be a clever choice for a quieter visit.
BEST FOR MOUNTAIN SCENERY: ALPUJARRAS
When the British writer Gerald Brenan first pitched up in the Alpujarras in 1919, he found a society still living in the Middle Ages and a landscape of mountains and rivers that he thought the equal of anything in Spain. The society is now more prosperous, but its beauty has remained largely intact.
The Alpujarras is a long range of mountains running from Granada and the south coast towards Almeria. In winter, thick snow covers the mountains above 3,600ft.
Trekking, climbing and kayaking are popular pastimes in the Alpujarras, as are hunting, fishing and hang-gliding. A good base might be the small town of Orgiva, the region's charming capital, with its famous Thursday market.
Barcelona and the Costa Daurada
BARCELONA AND THE COSTA DAURADA
WHY GO? One of Europe's most enjoyable cities with enough culture to keep you busy for a fortnight, but the nearby beaches and towns of the Costa Daurada make a pleasant escape from the city.
This year Barcelona pays tribute to its great modernist architect, Antoni Gaudi, whose eccentric buildings are city highlights. This stylish city is still famous for avante-garde design. It is also brim-full of fine galleries and museums, including those dedicated to Picasso and Joan Miro. Equally appealing is a stroll along the famous Ramblas to the waterfront or wandering through the medieval streets.
MUST-SEES: Gaudi sights: Eixample district, with buildings by Gaudi and other modernists; La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's unfinished cathedral; Palau Güell and Parc Güell. The Old Town: Gothic cathedral La Seu, Picasso Museum. Montju'c hill: Museu d'Art de Catalunya, Fundacio Joan Miro.
Outside the city: The monastery of Montserrat in its stunning mountain setting; Sitges, an attractive town and lively beach resort; Tarragona's impressive Roman remains.
DRAWBACKS: Petty crime is high; significant drug problem in the seedier parts of the city.
HOTEL: Claris, Carrer de Pau Claris 150, Barcelona 08009. The city's top hotel. Five-star deluxe service, rooms decorated with objets d'art. Elegant restaurant. Tel (00 34) 93 487 62 62.
RESTAURANT: Casa Calvet, Carrer Casp 48, Barcelona. Memorable dining in a striking Gaudi building. International cuisine. Tel (00 34) 93 412 40 12.
GETTING THERE: EasyJet, tel 0870 600 0000.
TOUR OPERATORS: Cresta Holidays. Tel 0870 161 0900, http://www.crestaholidays.co.uk
Sardines in pink kimonos
And if tasty low-cost snacks such as these put our own fast food to shame, so too does the local train network. With Barcelona just 25 minutes away, a proximity which makes sense of Sitges as a sort of sun-drenched back yard for city dwellers, it seemed madness not to do some sightseeing. Sounds of Schubert serenaded us on our route to town, and Rachmaninov, a palliative perhaps to the stresses of commuting, on our homeward-bound journey.
In a couple of hours I had strolled down La Rambla, the colourful walkway where fire eaters and mime artists jostle for space with flower sellers and stalls of caged songbirds, and explored the Barri Gotic - the medieval quarter dominated by its impressive Gothic cathedral.
On the lookout for edible souvenirs, I popped into St Joseph market, an enormous covered food hall where mounds of dull red pimentos and dried chillies stand alongside stalls selling huge mangoes and fat strawberries. You can order a batido - a made-to-measure fruit shake from any combination of fruits on sale - not cheap, but delicious.
On the fish stall, suspended from miniature fishing rods, hung silver-flecked sardines dressed in pink paper kimonos and cocktail umbrellas, ready for the bizarre pre-Lenten practice of 'burying the sardine'.
Back in Sitges they were busy preparing for the 'burial' of the Carnival King, a ceremony marking the end of winter festivities and the start of the lull before the Easter tourist invasion. It was late afternoon and along a deserted strip of sand walked a lone clown, his makeup smudged and orange wig in disarray.
Apart from the bark of a retriever chasing some seagulls, the town was uncharacteristically quiet. But, then, even the most hardened party animals need time to rest - at least for a while.
An atmospheric place
A hotel outside the centre of Seville is preferable - it is cooler, the air is clearer and views stretch beyond the huddle of the medina.
Ten minutes away, in the village of Sanlucar la Mayor, Hacienda Benazuza once belonged to the Crusading Order of the Knights of Santiago.
Looking across dusty olive groves to Seville, this is an idyllic spot. Standing in a cobbled courtyard, the ancient castellated whitewashed and ochre house and chapel has only 44 rooms.
For such an atmospheric place, it was without a hint of mustiness. With dark salons, a discreet restaurant and bar leading off a scarlet-walled courtyard, it's the sort of place you'd snap up on winning the lottery.
Counting trees as I wound through secret walkways in the gardens, I nearly got lost: carob, fig, jasmine, lemon, lime, orange and palm.
Past terraces and tiled fountains, the poolside restaurant, Alberca, is a canopied, Moorish tent festooned with cushions and drapes.
Here, a tapas lunch of garlic prawns, lamb, ham and the finest tea this side of Marrakesh was £14.
Any preconceptions about Seville have been quashed. To my surprise, there were neither signs of ostentatious wealth nor rundown quarters.
Gipsy women may have tried to press lavender upon me, but to be honest, I had unfairly braced myself for grimy streets, lame dogs, beggars and senors flogging single red roses in every restaurant.
Proud and well-preserved, Seville is far more romantic than most tourists will anticipate.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
The Mediterranean Experience (http://www.themed.net tel: 020 8445 6000) offers breaks at the Hacienda Benazuza including return flights from London Gatwick to Seville with GB Airways, return private taxi transfers to/from Seville airport.
Soaring domed tower
From the university we move on to the New and Old Cathedrals. Built in the 12th Century, a time when most of the great Gothic cathedrals of Europe - Notre Dame, Saint-Denis and Chartres - were born, the modest Old Cathedral speaks of a poor Spain struggling to emerge from Moorish domination.
It crouches beneath the opulent New Cathedral, which has actually stolen half its nave. Started in 1513 but not completed for 200 years, the New Cathedral reeks of the ill-gotten wealth in gold and silver that had begun to pour in from Latin America.
Its soaring domed tower is Salamanca's main landmark, but we preferred its humbler predecessor.
Within it, and particularly striking, is the Virgen de la Vega, a 12th Century effigy studded with precious stones but with the cool, modern face of a Catherine Deneuve - described in the guide as 'one of the most admirable jewels in all of Spain'.
Nearby is a tomb topped with strange winged centaurs, and a bearded lord and rounded lady, bearing aloft a font in delicate gilt iron.
To the east, we stroll down to two adjacent cloisters, that of San Esteban and the Convent of the Duenas (or chaperones).
Each has its own private stork's nest aloft a tower, some 6ft across and helpfully supported by the municipality in an ironwork structure.
Storks must be the patron bird of Salamanca; in the evening they flap lazily down to feast on the students' mascots, the foolish frogs in the River Tormes.
From both convents you can see in different aspects the great tower of the New Cathedral.
The beautiful two-storeyed 16th Century cloister of the Duenas is decorated with fabulous beasts and humans drawn from Dante's Divine Comedy.
No aggression between fans
Match day in Spain is traditionally Sunday at six o'clock. Great timing. By then, on a long weekend, you've done the cultural bit, been to the beach, the sun is going in for the day, yet it's too early to start stuffing your face.
Real Mallorca were playing Zaragoza. If it had been Real Madrid or Barcelona, I would have booked my ticket in advance (a company in London called Liaisons Abroad will do it, and deliver the tickets to your hotel). But I set off early all the same, taking the No 3 bus into town and the No 8 out.
Just as well I was early. A little guidebook I'd bought, Essential Mallorca, published in 2000 by AA World Travel Guides - which otherwise I found very useful - gave the wrong stadium. The club has moved to Son Moix (pronounced Mosh), on the other side of the ring road. Luckily, it was on the same bus route but further out.
It's a council-owned stadium, spanking new, all concrete, all-seater, open on three sides. The tickets ranged from 2,500 to 6,000 pesetas, about £10 to £24. Cheaper than Spurs, Arsenal or Chelsea. The programmes were free, a nice surprise, but they're small, like little booklets.
An hour before kick off, there were only two little stalls outside selling hats and scarves. Inside, I failed to find the club shop, though I was told there was one. Judging by my Mallorcan experience, Spain might be tops for footer but low down in the league for ripping off the fans.
It was all so civilised, clean and unthreatening. The food stalls inside the stadium were positively twee, with gaily decorated wooden wheelbarrows selling pizzas and ham pies at 450 pesetas (£1.80) each.
When the match began, there was a bit more atmosphere and excitement. About 1,000 hardcore Real Mallorca fans, out of a total crowd of some 20,000, sang and waved flags all the way through. On their own. There was no reply from rival fans. Then I realised there were none. That's another reason why going to a game in Spain is so pleasant. There is no culture of away support, so no aggression between fans.
But there were far more tourists than I expected. I met five lads from Essex who'd got a taxi from Magaluf, leaving their girlfriends on the beach. Then two coachloads who were on a Thomson holiday. There were also lots of Germans.
I even met three Russians, all rather merry. When I asked which team they normally supported they said Spartak Vodka. They turned out to be staying at my hotel and invited me to their room that evening to discuss Spartak Vodka, but I declined. Probably would still have been there.
I talked to a club official later who estimated that 15,000 out of the 20,000 crowd were home fans and the rest tourists, mainly from Britain and Germany. It's a growing trend, he said, with some organising their hols round a game.
I'd thought the footer hol was my idea. But they are obviously better organised than I thought.
At Palma Airport, on leaving, I came across the club shop 'Sa Botiga del Mallorca'. I was able to stock up on such essentials as a team photo and a club mug. Far better than bringing back a silly straw donkey.
TRAVEL FACTS:
Details from Magic of Spain on 020 8241 5135 (reservations) or 08705 462442 (brochures) or visit http://www.magictravelgroup.co.uk. Football tickets for all Spanish clubs can be bought in advance from Liaisons Abroad in London, tel: 020 7376 4020.
Buzz with a like-minded bunch
So what does Ministry offer its young clientele? According to Phil, 'a really nice buzz with a like-minded bunch. Stylish people in stylish venues serving proper Smirnoff, not some local vodka.'
Given that according to one report superclubs take £35,000 over the bar every weekend, I'd like a cherry on top too. You are also paying for the word Ministry.
'People know they're getting a respected brand,' said Rhiannon.
We went out to the clubs. Bahia's location is good, a cheap taxi ride away from clubs such as Pacha, Es Paradis and the legendary birthplace of 'chill-out culture', the Cafe Del Mar.
Pacha is a fun club, with candlelit corridors and different parties in nooks and crannies, although not for everyone.
Rhiannon told us about Pacha's terrace bar 'where a bottle of champagne is £250, where Helena Christiansen and the Sultan of Brunei drink and you expect to spend £1,000 a night'.
I put it to her that this was horrible. She put it to me that it wasn't.
The futuristic, experimental side of Bahia is wonderful. In the meantime, clubbers have to wait to see if Ministry delivers enough to justify the price.
If the right people arrive, you will definitely be bang in the middle of an 'it'. Whether it's the 'it' will be revealed on Friday.
Either way, you'll be able to go upstairs to bed. And as every clubber knows, that's worth a fortune.
Travel facts Clubber's Guide Holidays on 0800 0159 551. A guide, MisGuided Ibiza, has been published by Ministry of Sound and is available from bookshops at £7.99.
The bohemian chic
The other resorts along the northern Costa Brava, Roses and Llanca and Port de la Selva, never quite acquired the bohemian chic of Cadaques.
Developed to serve the package holiday crowd, they aspired to provide fun family beach holidays, with food and wine thrown in.
These days, in their faintly dated way, they have an easy-going appeal.
Some may miss the five-star resorts and chic clubs of the Costa del Sol, but for slobbing out on the beach or by the pool, you can't beat the Costa Brava.
And, of course, if you get tired of the sun and sand, there's always the Dali cultural trail.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Getting there: Ryanair (http://www.ryanair.com tel: 0871 246 0000) flies from Stansted to Perpignan in France. Perpignan is 30 minutes from Figueres.
Buzz (http://www.buzzaway.com tel: 0870 240 7070) flies to Gerona, 30 minutes from Figueres.
Restaurants: Ampurdan, Antiga Carretera de Franca, Figueres. Duran, Carrer Lasauca 5, Figueres.
Must see: Teatre-Museu Dali, Placa Gala-Salvador Dali, Figueres.
Avoid: Empuria-brava, a massive development of near-identical holiday homes surrounded by canals on the Bay of Roses.
Hotel: The Ampurdan is one of the most pleasant in Figueres. Outside Cadaques, the Hotel Port Lligat is a peaceful, two-star hotel.
A romantic volcano
Paul's puritanical streak triumphed and we climbed onward. And so did the merciless sun.
We fell into weary, confused panics about the perfectly clear directions (When is a T-junction not a T-junction? How long should you walk north, hoping that the path will swing south? When they say a broken-down wall, how broken? Do a couple of mossy stones count?).
Well, we were tired. We should have built in a rest day, as sensible walkers do. And, while Catalan rural maps improve year after year, it is barely a decade since they stopped being military secrets, and an over-reliance on aerial photographs means that paths vanish when they go through woods.
Still, as long as the notes define the occasional farm or ruin by name, I find that old ladies feeding chickens are very good at pointing.
By the time we got down the long, long hard final road into St Joan we could only shake our fists, puce-faced, at the spectacular waterfall and dial for a cab with trembling fingers (the notes recommend the bus, but we missed it).
It took us the few minutes into Olot, a business-like town rebuilt after an earthquake and dotted with urban volcanoes, Dali-esque green humps among the buildings.
We fell into hot baths, gasping. Next day, reader forgive us, we cut out half the prescribed five-hour walk and took a taxi up to the Croscat. A girl should be fresh to meet a volcano.
The cutaway Croscat was startling enough, representing the logical conclusion of the scientific mind ('if you want to see what makes it work, take it to pieces').
If you want a romantic volcano, though, Garroxta can also oblige. Fifteen minutes away you can climb to the rim of the Volca Santa Margarida and see that, deep in its heart, alone in the circular crater, lies a 12th Century church dedicated (so the guidebook says) to the saint who tamed the dragon lurking below.
North Yorkshire with attitude
Actually, we were held up for quite some time by major stock movements. Two young boys were driving the cows northward over the pass and one with her calf refused to join in, but stood licking the wee beast for half an hour in our path. Unwilling to split the herd and cause more confusion, we sat and watched and took a long, last look at the Picos and the Mellora.
Following the herd of cows we were ambushed by another moving herd, this time of half-wild horses and foals. So we stopped for them, too. A few muddy minutes onward we came on a great flock of sheep and in the distance saw the sea. It stretched bright-blue along a great sweep of coast far beneath us: we had a new landscape and new air, warm and salty. Glancing back, our old mountains were just a small patch of spiky grey behind the bowl of high green.
At the foot of the pass, in a bar in Noriega, we found Formula 1 on the TV, being taken very seriously. I limped in for restorative coffee, was blown flirtatious kisses and politely returned them. Only Spaniards can make a perspiring woman in large boots and a backpack feel like Carmen.
The casona in Villanueva was in the grand hidalgo style, with great, solemn, wooden beams. In the morning, we were given a lift to a dairy near Pie de la Sierra and climbed up into a wood and round a detour to the strange source of the river Puron, which shoots out of the mountainside as a full-fledged torrent. There followed a punishing climb, during which I decided never again to take a walking holiday.
I reversed this decision once we came to the moor. It was worth everything: a high, wild, solitary moorland hidden between the peaks at 2,000 feet. We were among gorse and heather, scattered with tiny, bright-blue flowers on flat, sandy tracks, high up in another world.
We were a full hour crossing this rolling expanse, from one hillock to the next, for all the world as though we were in Suffolk - except that glancing sideways there were great vertiginous drops beneath us and peaks alongside. It was North Yorkshire with attitude.
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| | | | For pretty villages and what not to see
BEST FOR PRETTY VILLAGES: MAJORCA
It may be one of the most popular destinations for sun-and-sea, but head inland from the resorts and you're in a different world.
The other Majorca is rural and stubbornly traditional. At the centre of the island is an area known as Es Pla (the plain) where villages such as Santa Eugenia, Alaro and Sineu still conserve much of their rustic charm. Binissalem is also worth a detour for its wines.
But the dreamiest villages are to be found among the mountains of the Sierra Tramuntana. From south to north, we have Banyalbufar, Valldemossa (famous for its monastery) and Fornalutx.
Further north are Lluch Alcari, a picture-postcard hamlet overlooking the sea, and the queen of them all, Deya.
This is one of the loveliest villages in Spain, and one of the most expensive, since Richard Branson built his super-luxury hotel La Residencia here and Michael Douglas moved into a palace nearby.
AND WHAT NOT TO SEE
Catedral de la Almudena, Madrid: Most cathedrals have something to recommend them. Not this one. Madrid didn't have a cathedral at all until 1993, and it would have been better off without this ugly grey monster in fake Renaissance style.
Village bullfights: Whatever your opinion of the corrida, at least at the big rings in Madrid or Seville the matadors are professionals and the animals more or less efficiently dispatched.
Out in the countryside, it's a different story. In some villages, the bulls are stuck with darts, pushed into the sea, their horns set on fire, and a whole series of tortures committed for 'entertainment'. Avoid.
Tourist flamenco: Latin passion and fire are all very well. But when a fat, sweaty housewife is lifting her frilly skirts in your direction, while her husband bawls away out of tune in the background, it may not seem such a good idea.
The only truly authentic flamenco you're likely to find is in Madrid, Cadiz, Jerez and a few other Southern towns. Anywhere else, you might as well not bother.
Northern Catalonia
NORTHERN CATALONIA
WHY GO? In the days before package tourism, this was the prettiest part of the coast. Away from the sprawling resorts you can still find the towering cliffs, shady coves and pretty little beaches that gave the Costa Brava its name - the Rugged Coast.
It runs up to the French border, with pleasant fishing villages and low-key resorts further north. In its cuisine, its traditions and most notably in its separate language, Catalonia is distinctly different from Castilian Spain.
Since the Franco era, it's re-emerged as a prosperous and autonomous region. Inland are fine medieval towns, national parks and scenic walks in the Catalan Pyrenees.
MUST-SEES: Walled city of Gerona, its cathedral and medieval streets; the wonderful Salvador Dali museum at Figueres; the medieval town of Besalu; the whitewashed artists' colony of Cadaques; the ancient Greco-Roman site of Empuries; the resort of Tossa de Mar with medieval walls.
DRAWBACKS: Catalan, the dominant language can vary greatly from Castilian Spanish. Road signs and communication with locals can be hard.
HOTEL: Hotel Santa Marta, Playa de Santa Cristina, Lloret de Mar, 17310. Spacious rooms, traditionally furnished, set above a beautiful bay. Tel (00 34) 972 36 49 04.
RESTAURANT: Es Moli, Carrer Tarull 5, Tossa del Mar. Tel (00 34) 972 34 14 14. Superb Catalan cuisine served in the romantic courtyard of a windmill.
GETTING THERE: Buzz, tel 0870 240 7070.
TOUR OPERATORS: Simply Spain, tel 0208 541 2208, http://www.simplytravel.com
Almost perfect symmetry
One prosperous-looking cherub with puffed-up cheeks appears to be gazing in awe at the opulence of the cathedral.
Enough of churches. We walk up the Rua Mayor in ardent pursuit of tapas, passing on the way the elegant Casa de Conchas, home of a rich knight who, in 1514, proliferated his walls with plateresque scallop shells, symbol of Spain's most famous place of pilgrimage, Santiago de Compostela.
At the top of the street one literally bursts out into Salamanca's greatest attraction, the Plaza Mayor.
In one of the many open air cafes that fringe the plaza we settle down to a plate of delectable Serrano dried ham, enjoy what has to be the most beautiful square in all of Spain, and observe cheerful Spanish families having a merry time.
Packed with tourists, it is hard to visualise the sombre black and white colours when the square was used as a bullring in the 19th Century.
Completed in 1755, when Spain was already well on its downward path, it is utterly magnificent.
In almost perfect symmetry, arches and colonnades support three floors of sculpted windows and delicate ironwork balconies, all in the same golden stone, and shutters to match - dazzling in the peerless spring sunshine.
Above each arch a medallion depicts the kings and grandees of Spain, from the legendary El Cid to Cervantes, and the Duke of Wellington who wrested Salamanca from Napoleon in 1812.
At the top end of the Plaza stands the City Hall, from which engagingly tinny bells sound out the hours. It is an incredibly lively place, especially in the evenings at tapas time - possibly this is where all the students have got to?
That night we dine in a noisy tapas bar near the Plaza, Casa Paca. I have tender roast kid (one of Don Quixote's favourites, though disapproved of by my wife on ethical grounds) and a particularly delicious form of watercress from the Rio Tormes that flows below the city.
Truly wild country
Two hours beyond the volcanoes lies Santa Pau, a walled town, tiny and perfect with alleys and cloisters and a fabulously ornate Gothic church. But it is perfect in a very European, living way, unlike the National Trust-ish heritage stuffiness that would mark it out in Britain.
You see a wonderfully ancient carved and pillared stone window - but hanging outside it on a rack were two pairs of children's shellsuit trousers and some T-shirts.
Here is a facade of golden antiquity but at every inhabited window is a cheap, green, plastic roll-up blind, because someone lives there and that is what they want.
The effect is definitely pleasing. So is the bar in the square and the Rossbiff of Pig Fillet at the restaurant Cal Sastre and the coin-operated, light-up Nativity scene in the church.
With difficulty we retained enough grip on ourselves after the final Muscatel to nod understandingly through our landlady's late-night tour of the sepia photographs of the sastre - the tailors - who made her family's fortune and then remade it in hotels after 1945.
There was a further 2,000ft ridge to climb to the north of us, the Serra del Torn, more puffing and scrambling and another wild, silent, roadless valley where the only signs of life were the rooting-holes and vast, piggy wallows of the wild boar that swarm the place.
We flopped in a wide, generous old inn at Can Jou, where Inntravel riding holidays are run by a cheerful Irishman called Mick and his beautiful Catalan wife Rose, and watched the riders come home as the dusk crept across the golden distant Pyrenees.
We had covered a great arc of truly wild country on our own two feet, lost the modern world for days on end and been inside a volcano. What more could you ask?
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Inntravel (http://www.inntravel.co.uk tel: 01653 629010) offers independent walking holidays from the Pyrenees to the Garroxta. Luggage is transferred daily and maps are provided.
In remembrance of things past
From the starkly, elegantly modern Posada de Babel we had only an hour's amble next morning to the dozy port town of Llanes. We took tapas and more cider (poured from a vast height, mainly on to the paving stones) at a waterfront sidreria and reflected on the new country we had crossed.
It is still remote, this mountain land, still itself. Incomers had ruefully explained to us that Asturias had hardly any written property records before the 20th-century, operating on word of mouth. Old ways of life go on: the cheesemaking in the hills, the lonely farms and villages doing the round of seasonal work unselfconsciously.
Even where there are smart holiday homes for Madrid business people you see other lives: old people laying out potatoes, threading onions and garlic for winter, the hay being turned and brought in. Nothing is pressed on the tourist; there is no touting or cheapening. You take Asturias as you find it, go home and remember.
I shall remember the trees, the birds, the gorse and heather, the autumn crocuses, the silence of the moors and the constant music of the cowbells, the horses galloping on the high bluffs. I shall remember the rocks - how hard on the feet they are and how treacherous to the knees, but also how they turn up in ancient casonas, jutting casually from walls as shelves or steps, as if the mountain itself had elbowed into the houses. I shall remember the dim, siesta darkness, the honey and olive oil that you drip on the dark bread, the rice pudding-
Mind you, I shall try to forget the fried milk.
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| | | | Balearic Islands
BALEARIC ISLANDS
WHY GO? Away from the booming resorts, the Balearics offer a more tranquil cocktail of sun and scenery. Majorca, the largest, has a diverse and beautiful landscape; a mountainous interior, lovely old villages and charming coves.
The capital Palma and walled Ibiza Town have attractive old quarters.
Minorca is a rural island of rolling hills and woodlands, with prehistoric monuments. The stately port of Ciutadella and the capital Mao (Mahon) are attractive, unspoilt towns with good restaurants.
Tiny Formentera is the place to get away from it all, with long, quiet, sandy beaches.
MUST-SEES: Majorca: Palma's cathedral and mansions; hilltop village of Deià; monastery of Valldemossa; view from the lighthouse at Port de Soller.
Ibiza: Ibiza Town's Dalt Vila, walled old city and world heritage site; unspoiled beaches east of Sant Carles; the white-sand beaches of Formentera, 11 miles offshore.
Minorca: Mahon harbour; grand buildings of Ciutadella; the beach at Cala Turqueta.
DRAWBACKS: Higher prices than the mainland in summer; expensive inter-island ferries. Each island uses its own dialect of Catalan.
HOTEL: Read's Hotel, Ca'n Moragues, Santa Maria 07320, Majorca. Beautifully renovated 16th-century villa in peaceful countryside near Palma, with grand mountain views. It also has an excellent restaurant. Tel (00 34) 971 14 02 61.
RESTAURANT: Cana Juana, Carretera Sant Josep, 10km from Ibiza Town, on Sant Josep road. Ibiza's best restaurant, serving Catalan specialities in a 240-year-old villa. There is a superb wine list. Tel. (00 34) 971 80 01 58.
GETTING THERE: EasyJet, tel 0870 600 0000.
TOUR OPERATORS: Individual Travellers Spain, tel 08700 773 773, http://www.indiv-travellers.com has beautiful Majorcan villas and farmhouses.
Hideous block of flats
Casa Paca was so pleasant we returned the following evening; while for lunch the next day we chose the Valencia - offering a tasty Castilian cocido, or stew of every ingredient imaginable, accompanied by lots of light local rose from the nearby Duero.
If I have a complaint against Salamanca, it lies in its dreadful parador, and what the planners have done to ruin the approaches to this glorious city.
Many Spanish paradors are most attractive, and superbly sited. Salamanca's is an eyesore, the kind of hotel you'd find in the Soviet Union in the Fifties, with the same lack of charm and staffed by the same kind of surly personnel.
From it, what should be one of Spain's great panoramas is marred by a hideous block of low-rental flats, and beyond it is a busy dual-carriageway running alongside the river. Both could have been built elsewhere.
With her artist's eye my wife was outraged; given to precise language she wondered 'what kind of an ******* of a city planner could have done this?'
And Salamanca is supposedly protected by UNESCO as a world cultural heritage.
Alas, this kind of mindless depredation is something one encounters all too frequently in today's Spain.
In the Sixties, a combination of need and greed led to the progressive ruining of her Mediterranean coastline; now, even though new-found Euro prosperity has removed the need, tragically the lessons seem not to have been learned, threatening jewels like Salamanca.
One last detour, and another shock; on the way out of Salamanca we stop at the battlefield of Los Arapiles where, in July 1812, Wellington trounced Napoleon's Marmont, and his 50,000 men.
Contemplating it, one marvels at the miracle whereby Wellington was able to bring, and supply, a vast army out of Portugal over this bleakly inhospitable, empty countryside - and then fight in 19th Century uniforms in the heat of an Iberian midsummer.
Salamanca was one of the decisive battles fought by Wellington, clearing the French out of northern Spain; yet, apart from one small obelisk nothing, not even a signpost, marks the site of the battle.
Would someone please inform His Grace, the Eighth Duke?
*Alistair Horne's Seven Ages Of Paris will be published on October 24 by Macmillan, £25
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| | Destination Guide : Spain |
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| | | Viva Espana |  | Why go on holiday to Spain?
More than 40 million foreigners go to Spain each year, drawn by the good climate, relaxed people, sandy beaches, historic towns and good food and drink.
How much does it cost?
Spain is still relatively cheap. As a general guide, 14 nights in Minorca in June, flying from Gatwick costs around £459, and a return flight from Heathrow to Madrid in June costs from £160.
A three-night spring break to Barcelona with flights and hotel is from £350 and a seven-night package with flights and self-catering accommodation in Benidorm on the Costa Blanca is from £245.
For a basic double room in Ibiza expect to pay around £30 per night, and £40 in a mid-range hotel in Madrid. All these prices may vary considerably depend on the season and availability. Car hire costs about £10 a day.
When should I go?
Ideal months are May, June and September (April and October in the south where it stays warmer longer), but there's decent weather most of the year round.
July and August are the busy months, when temperatures in the south can be sweltering.
The best festivals are mostly concentrated between Semana Santa (Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter Sunday) and September/October.
*Feeling inspired? Book a break to Spain.
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| | | Amazingly diverse | | What should I do when I'm there?
Spain is amazingly diverse. Geographically, all of the regions are different. In Andalucia, for example, you could ski in the Sierra Nevada and later the same day recline on a Mediterranean beach or traverse the deserts of Almeria.
There are tracts of beautiful mountains to explore and some spectacularly rugged stretches of coast between the beaches.
Culturally, the entire country is littered with superb old buildings, from Roman aqueducts and Islamic palaces to Gothic cathedrals. And almost every second village has a medieval castle.
Include the Balearic Islands and the picture varies still further.
What are the cities in Spain like?
The capital, Madrid, is a largely modern city. The medieval city of Toledo bristles with monumental splendour; Gaudi's Barcelona is cosmopolitan and forward-looking; and Santiago de Compostela is a splendid pilgrimage.
Seville (home of the flamenco) is exciting; Granada is the gateway to Andalucia with its stunning Alhambra palace. The tourist resorts of the Costas are, well, tourist resorts.
What are the festivals like?
Festivals take place year-round and though some are religion-based, they are all colourful, noisy, crowded and fun. Even small villages have at least one. Semana Santa parades happen nationwide, but are biggest in Seville, Malaga, Cordoba and Toledo.
In April the Moros and Cristianos parades in Alcoy near Alicante and surrounding areas stage "battles" between the Muslims and Christians.
The festival for which Spain is best-known is the Sanfermines in Pamplona in July, with the running of the bulls through the streets.
What's Spain like for walking?
With large tracts of wilderness, Spain is brilliant walking country. Some wonderful areas are easily accessible for both short walks and long treks.
Outstanding mountain areas for trekking are the Pyrenees in Aragon and Cataluna, the Picos de Europa, the Sierra Nevada and Alpujarras valleys in Andalucia and the Serra de Tramuntana on Majorca.
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| | | Fantastic nightlife | | Where's good for nightlife?
Take your pick! Spain has some of the best nightlife in Europe, with wild and very late nights (some Spaniards don't even think about going out until midnight), especially on Fridays and Saturdays.
Even the smaller cities have very lively scenes. Ibiza is, of course, renowned for being one of the clubbing capitals of the world. Rave on!
What's the food like?
With rich seafood and plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, you'll always eat well in Spain.
Tapas is the ideal way to eat for people who like different tastes. Order a small dish of whatever grabs your fancy - boquerones (pickled anchovies), tortilla (Spanish omelette) and almejas (baby clams) to name but just a few.
At restaurants, paella, bacalao (cod), and fabada (bean stew) are all worth trying. Veggies are less-well provided for, but Spanish fruit and veg are wonderfully fresh year-round, so salads are a good bet.
What should I buy?
Spain produces attractive and reasonably priced handicrafts sold at craft shops, weekly or daily markets in villages and towns, and excellent flea markets (rastros).
Pottery has many regional variations and is cheap; rugs, blankets and clothes are plentiful; leather goods are rising in price but you can still find a bargain. Gold, silver, wood and basketwork are all worth buying.
What is there for children to do?
Apart from the beach, there are plenty of playgrounds in the towns, and in many places you can find excellent special attractions.
These include amusement parks (two to mention are Catalunya's Port Aventura and Seville's Isla Magica), aquaparks, boat and train rides, child-friendly museums, zoos and aquariums.
In Almeria province, north of Benahadux, kids will enjoy the three Wild West town sets which are open as tourist attractions, including Mini Hollywood, which also features a deer reserve.
Tourist office
Spanish National Tourist Office, 22-23 Manchester Square, London W1M 5AP. Tel. 020 7486 8077. Brochure line: 09063 640630 (60p per minute).
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| | Fact File : Spain |
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| | | Spain | | Did you know?
Antoni Gaudi, Spain's most famous architect and the brains behind Barcelona's eye-catching Sagrada Familia church and Parc Guell, was born in 1852 in Reus, Catalonia.
Language
Catalan, although everyone speaks Castilian Spanish too.
Visas
Not required for UK citizens.
Getting there
Direct scheduled flights to Catalonia's capital Barcelona and budget flights to Girona near the region's Costa Brava.
Flying time from London
Two hours.
Getting around
Buses are good and often cheaper than the train, though less regular in country areas. There is a good network of coach routes in Spain. They are generally comfortable and also cheaper than trains. Pre-book at weekends.
Currency
Euro.
Costs
Prices vary greatly, but as a rough guide: bottle of beer 75p, bottle of local wine from the supermarket £2-£4, a 24-exposure film for your camera £3.50, moderate three-course restaurant meal £6-£8, litre of petrol 60p, short taxi ride (about 3kms) £2-£3.
Weather
May to early October are pleasant just about everywhere along the region's Mediterranean coast. July and August are the hottest months with daily averages of 28C/82F. The wettest months are September and October.
Time difference
One hour ahead of the UK.
International dialling code from the UK
00 34.
Voltage
220V AC.
Opening hours
Large supermarkets and department stores Monday-Saturday 9am-9pm; other shops and businesses 9am-2pm and then 4.30/5-8pm. Banks Monday-Friday 8.30am-2pm, Saturdays 9am-1pm (some not on Saturday in summer).
Health — before you go
Spain has a reciprocal health agreement with the UK. Make sure you have an EHIC health form (from post offices).
Health — when you are there
The fierce heat in Spain's cities can reach 35C (95F), so drink plenty of water and be sensible about exposure to the sun.
Warnings
Very occasionally, people may attempt to short-change you so, without being paranoid, keep an eye on your transactions.
Emergency
Police, Tel. 091. British Embassy, Calle de Fernando el Santo 16, 28010 Madrid, tel (34 91) 7008200
Customs
Drinks after dark are as popular as tapas before lunch.
Pets
You may bring your pet to and from Spain provided you have the correct documentation under the Pet Travel Scheme. This takes some time to set up, so see your vet.
Tipping
Service charge is included in restaurants, so tipping is a personal choice: 5% is plenty, or odd change in cafes and bars.
Tourist office
Spanish National Tourist Office, 22-23 Manchester Square, London W1M 5AP. Tel 020 7486 8077; brochure line, 09063 640630 (60p per minute).
Did you know?
More than 60 million foreigners a year visit Spain.
Language
Castilian Spanish throughout; Catalan, Basque and Galician in some regions.
Visas
Not required for UK citizens.
Getting there
Direct scheduled flights to the capital Madrid, Barcelona, Malaga and Palma de Majorca; charters to other destinations.
Flying time from London
Two hours
Getting around
Internal flights are expensive. Buses are good and often cheaper than the train, though less regular in country areas. There is a good network of coach routes in Spain. They are generally comfortable and also cheaper than trains. Pre-book at weekends.
Currency
Euro
Costs
Bottle of beer 75p, a film for your camera £2.50, moderate meal £5-£8, litre of petrol 45p, short taxi ride £5.50. All prices are approximate.
Weather
Averages 15-36C (59-97F) in the south, 5-28C (48-84F) elsewhere. Spain has a very diverse climate - Galicia is cool and damp, for example, while Andalucia is hot and dry. In general, you can rely on pleasant to scorchingly hot temperatures everywhere from April to early November. Snow in the mountains starts as early as October.
Time difference
One hour ahead of GMT
International dialling code from the UK
00 34
Voltage
220V AC
Opening hours
Large supermarkets and department stores Monday-Saturday 9am-9pm; other shops and businesses 9am-2pm and then 4.30/5-8pm. Banks Monday-Friday 8.30am-2pm, Saturdays 9am-1pm (some not on Saturday in summer).
Health - Before you go
Spain has a reciprocal health agreement with the UK. Make sure you have an EHIC card (from post offices).
Health - When you are there
The fierce heat in Spain's cities can reach 35C (95F) - so drink plenty of water and be sensible about exposure to the sun.
Warnings
Very occasionally, people may attempt to short-change you so, without being paranoid, keep an eye on your transactions.
Emergency
Police, Tel. 091. British Embassy, Calle de Fernando el Santo 16, 28010 Madrid, Tel. (34 91) 7008200
Customs
Drinks after dark are as popular as tapas before lunch. In summer, many city dwellers make trips to the taverns in the villages just outside the city, known as ventanas sevillanas.
Pets
You may bring your pet to and from Spain provided you have the correct documentation under the Pet Travel Scheme. This takes some time to set up, so see your vet.
Tipping
Service charge is included in restaurants, so tipping is a personal choice: 5% is plenty, or odd change in cafes and bars.
Tourist office
Spanish National Tourist Office, 22-23 Manchester Square, London W1M 5AP. Tel. 020 7486 8077; brochure line, 09063 640630 (60p per minute).
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| | Available rental properties in Spain |
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| |  | | YOUR PERFECT HOLIDAY AT GRAN VISTA
A 3 bedroom air conditioned house located in the Gran Vista complex - Gran Alacant. 4 Swimming pools, 2 Tennis courts, 24h internet, etc...
|  | | Duplex Villa 1 Anfi Tauro Sea Golf Gran Canaria
Eco chic styled Villa. Marble tiled, air conditioned, jaccuzi, luxury specification in a sea, golf and mountain setting. 115m2 Living +52m2 Terraces
|  | | Inland Luxury detached villa
3 bed 2 bath villa with private pool set in 2 acres of land. Fantastic country and mountain views, peaceful but very near to the town of Novelda. Full British Sky package TV
|  | | 3 bed Villa A/C & private Pool.
Detached Villa, Pool, A/C & Heated, 3 bed, 2 bath, Brit TV, DVD.15 mins from Alicante airport.5 min walk to shops pubs & resturants.5 mins to Beach.
|  | | Apartment, Chueca, Madrid
Fully renovated cosy apartment in the heart of Madrid. Just off the main shopping street of Gran Via less than 10 min walk to Sol.
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Holiday Rentals in Spain |
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