Classic Travel Adventures

2011-06-21T12:18:00.008+10:00

To Shiraz

In love's great ocean, whose calm shelter's shore

Must he forever leave, whose soul is bound

In farthest quest, life's wonders to explore.

For years, I have been inspired by these lines by Hafiz, Persia's greatest poet; certainly my own life has been a never-ending quest, life's wonders to explore. And here I am, at last, on my way to to Shiraz, in Iran, the city of Hafiz who lived, loved, died and is buried here.

It is high summer, and hot. I'm on the road from Chalus, in North Iran, to Tehran. My friend Mahboub is driving, and it is 9am as we leave the Caspian coast and approach the mountain ranges that form a barrier between the green and humid north and the drier region to the south - those seemingly endless ochre plains that stretch all the way down to the blue Persian Gulf.

This road is known for three things. For its appalling accident rate - just two lanes, one in each direction. For its extraordinary mountain and ravine landscapes, which change around every bend. And for its "singing tunnel" not far before you pass the huge dam near Karaj that helps provide Tehran with its water supply. Youthful travellers passing through this tunnel open windows and cry out in unison in the darkness, eeeeeehhhhhh! It has become a fun tradition.

The Iranian government has decided, however, to do something about the road toll, and you can see, now, to your right as you pass through the mountains, gangs of workers (imported from China) creating what will be a wide super highway. When it's completed, the three hour journey will be reduced to one hour and will be much safer.

The route south changes from green to brown

Whatever the present dangers, however, it is a dazzling driving experience. Not far out of Chalus, we see, growing from the mountain side, out of an almost perpendicular rock face, camphorwood evergreens. For most of the journey, a river runs alongside the road, deep in a ravine. The mountains are a constant presence, changing form, texture and colour around every bend in the road.

We stop at an open mountain bluff to buy uncooked walnuts grown here and later, look for some shade to have a cup of tea. It's not green and cool any more; the clouds have disappeared, the green has gone, the sun is high in a blue sky, and the rocky peaks that surround us change as we pass by from rose pink through gritty grey to dusty parchment. Just outside Karaj, a secondary road swings off to ski slopes which are carpeted in deep snow in winter, attracting affluent ski buffs from the upmarket houses and apartments in North Tehran. It has been, every inch of the way, a fascinating ride.

Stopover for fresh walnuts

Eight lane highway from Tehran to Isfahan, Persepolis and Shiraz

We switch now to another highway stretching south. Big green roadsigns are in English and Farsi throughout Iran, which helps the visitor. Later that day, after driving over 300km through monotonous rural landscapes, passing fields of sunflowers, melon stalls, lonely mosques, herds of goats, ancient mud-walledcaravansaries and solitary mountains casting huge shadows, we reach the city of Isfahan.

En route in the heat: sunflowers, grapes and goats

Isfahan (also spelled Esfehan) is Iran's third largest city, and was, for a time (between 1050 and 1722) the capital of Persia. It is famed for its Islamic architecture with many beautiful boulevards, covered bridges, palaces, mosques, and minarets. As the Persians used to say, and maybe still do, Esfahān nesf-e jahān ast (Isfahan is half of the world).

It is night now, and time to take a look at the famous bridge, not far from our hotel, golden against the dark sky thanks to excellent floodlighting. Locals tend to gather and promenade here and we encounter, in the shadows under one of the arches, a group of students playing and singing - an impromptu concert for passers-by. This bridge was built to provide access from one side of the Zayande River to the other, but water was damaging the foundations, so it now stands high and dry.

Isfahan: the bridge at night and shaded gardens next morning

Next morning, it's time to look around. We wander through beautiful gardens, past splashing fountains, to Chehel Sotoun, a pavilion in the middle of a park at the far end of a long reflecting pool. Built by Shah Abbas II to be used for his entertainment and receptions, twenty slender wooden columns support its handsome mirrored entrance, and the interior overwhelms as a dark rose-coloured dream, with paintings in the Persian miniature style depicting historic scenes - receptions, banquets, battles, victories, defeats and more. These vivid fragments of Persian history are complemented with more aesthetic floral compositions which celebrate the joys of life and love. A small kiosk close to the pavilion entrance sells video and book souvenirs of this astonishing gallery of art, and, close by, archaeologists dig for lost treasures, believed buried in the ground long ago, during military attacks by unfriendly forces.

Chehel Sotoun, at night; wall painting detail

We are here on Friday, and as we walk now into the huge Naghsh-e Jahan Square, we listen to the loud-speakered call to prayer as it echos off the walls of the covered bazaar which surrounds us on all sides. Black-robed women scurry towards the mosque and a group of young basij arrive on motor bikes. Everywhere we look, people are responding to the call. The square, as long as a polo field (which it once was) is filled with worshippers making their way to pray. We stand in the shadow of the Ali Qapu Palace and look up. Here, on the upper galleries, Shah Abbas and his entourage would sit and watch the polo players as they thundered over what was once grass, far below.

Isfahan: Naghsh-e Jahan Square; the Shah's palace

It's time now to get out of the hot sun and explore the Grand Bazaar, which dates to the 11th century and totally surrounds the square. Inside, shops extend in all directions and it is delightfully cool. Large circular openings in the ceiling allow hot air to escape and provide ventilation. If you are visiting, be sure to look for sweet shops (Iranian candies are delectable), vendors of carpets and copperware and also for the workshop of a gentle, silver-haired craftsman who paints miniatures on camel bone. They are reasonably priced and his workmanship is exquisite.

Miniaturist at work and his painting on pearl shell

Isfahan's covered bazaar: rugs, carpets and camel bags

Eight km west of the city centre, the Atashgah is a Sassanid-era archaeological complex located on a cream-coloured hill of the same name which rises about 210m above the surrounding plain. Up top lie the remains of Zoroastrian fire-temples. Other buildings include what may have been storage rooms and living quarters for priests and affluent pilgrims. Radiocarbon dating suggests that the construction was pre-6th century in an Isfahan before Islam.

Visitors, including young children, are scampering up to the top with mountain-goat agility and I decide to give it a try. I am fearful of heights but think, they're not having any problems, why should I? I get three quarter ways up, look down and freeze on the spot. Mahboub, my buddy, takes my camera to the summit for the pictures I should have taken. I finally make it back down to the ground, feeling rather foolish

Isfahan: the Atashgah - slippery slopes and fire temples

The road to the tomb

Early next morning, we set off due south, stopping en route at the tomb of Cyrus and close by, the ancient ruins of Persepolis. Cyrus was King of Persia, reigning from 559 to 530 BC. A Zoroastrian in religious belief, he founded the Persian Empire which embraced all previous civilised states of the ancient Near East, expanding to include most of Southwest Asia and much of Central Asia, from Egypt in the west to the Indus River in the east. It was the largest empire the world had yet seen. Cyrus liberated Hebrew exiles from bondage in Babylon and is admired for his contribution to human rights, politics, and military strategy by both Eastern and Western civilisations.

Cyrus the Great; his tomb at Pasargadae

The details of Cyrus's death vary but his last resting place is beyond question, and I am here now, mid-morning on a scorching day, admiring the simplicity and, yes, grandeur of the sandstone memorial at Pasargadae, just off the north-south highway. It is, understandably, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. When Alexander the Great invaded Persia, he made a point of stopping here to ransack the tomb, leaving the king's body but taking the gold which enclosed and protected it. So Cyrus sleeps on, relatively peacefully, except for tourists. In 1971, the Pahlavi Shah celebrated the 2500th anniversary of the founding of the Persian monarchy by Cyrus, with a lot of fanfare. His excesses were much criticised within the country and led to his ultimate downfall.

Not far from Cyrus' tomb, and just 70 km from the city of Shiraz, Persepolis was capital of the Persian Empire during the Achaemenid dynasty (ca. 550-330 BCE) and is today a World Heritage Site. Mahboub and I drive there now, down a long corridor of evergreens planted for the anniversary celebration. The area was investigated during the 1930s by French archaeologist André Godard. What remains of the city are striking; the military quarters, the treasury, and royal residences offer the visitor treasures including the Great Stairway, the Gate of Nations (Xerxes the Great), the Apadana Palace of Darius, the Hall of a Hundred Columns, the Tripylon Hall and Tachara Palace of Darius, the Hadish Palace of Xerxes, the palace of Artaxerxes III, the Royal Stables and the Chariot House. It is late afternoon but the sun is still very hot as we walk around, examining splendid bas reliefs, cuneiform engravings and great carved bulls and lions among the lengthening shadows. I'm happy to see the Faravahar symbol of Persia, those outspread wings carved in the golden stone on the palace of Xerxes. Alexander the Great came here with his troops in the year 330 BC, and his arrival was followed by looting and destruction.

Persepolis: Faravahar symbol

Persepolis: nobles and warriors in golden stone

Sadly, some Islamic fundamentalists in contemporary Iran have had the same idea, viewing Persepolis a symbol of the country's idolatrous past. In 1979, after the fall of the Shah, Ayatollah Khomeini's right-hand man, Ayatollah Sadegh Khalkhali, tried to demolish Persepolis by bringing bulldozers to the site. Fortunately, he was stopped by the provisional government, and today Persepolis has become a defining feature of Iran's cultural heritage, and is a major source of income from tourism.

We drive now the short distance to Shiraz, through gathering darkness, and enter the city past the Qur'an Gate. Shiraz is circled by mountains and has been a regional trade centre for more than a thousand years. The city was the capital of Persia during the Zand dynasty from 1750 until 1781 and is known as the city of poets, wine, flowers and nightingales.

The best-known of those poets, Hafiz, was born here in 1315 and from a very early age proved to be precociously literate. At a young boy he successfully memorised the Koran, which is why he later called himself Hafiz - the word is used for someone who learns the holy book by heart. At the same time, the young poet was introduced to great Sufi writers like Rumi and Saadi; these were to become major influences and the poems of Hafiz would have a profound effect on Persian life and culture.

It could be said that Hafiz was a mystic in love with love. In his maturity, he wrote hundreds of poems which expressed an ecstatic longing for union with the divine. His poetry made him famous but not always with the ruling Muslim orthodoxy. Twentieth century translators, like Gertrude Bell, introduced him to Western readers. Hafiz died aged 69 and his much-revered and visited mausoleum is located in the Musalla Gardens of Shiraz (referred to as Hāfezieh).

A Shazari greets us at the bazaar

Shiraz: the citadel of Karim Khan

Our time here is limited, but we do get to visit the famed Shiraz bazaar and many of its sublime gardens (Eram Garden is quite special). But most of our time is spent in the handsome stone citadel, the Arg of Karim Khan, built in 1766-7 during the Zand dynasty and located at Shohada Square in the centre of the city. Until recently it was used as a prison, but today it is a museum operated by Iran's Cultural Heritage Organisation.

There's much to see behind those 3m thick stone walls. In a huge courtyard, hundreds of citrus trees soak up the sun. Inside, I spend a lot of time in a photo gallery, and then go to the quarters of Karim Khan himself. Paintings on the walls and ceilings have been carefully restored, and the bathing area is wonderfully indulgent and handsomely decorated as befits a royal residence. The finest architects and artists laboured here and it shows.

Patterns of old Persia inside the king's domain

It's time to go, but first we return to the citadel's museum and stand and admire wax figures in a tableau representing Karim Khan and his court. Light flooding in from a stained glass window behind us warms our backs and turns us all the colours of the rainbow. I can't think of a better way to say Khoda Hafez (Farewell) to this prince of cities in the heart of modern Iran.

Karim's court in wax; magic rainbows as we say Goodbye

2011-05-14T21:13:00.023+10:00

New Zealand's Taupo Trail

...silica terraces gleam wedding-cake white against azure water pools and close by,

boiling water explodes into the air, releasing clouds of steam that drift up into the sky

I am in Wanganui, a mid-autumn day, the sky is blue and the wide river shimmers in the early morning sun as it flows past the city and down to the sea. My friend and guide Edvaldo and I are about to head for Lake Taupo, four hours northeast in what seems to be the geographic centre of New Zealand's North Island. We are en route along the Taupo Trail — my label, not NZ Tourism's — starting here on the west coast and ending on another coast, to the north, facing the Bay of Plenty. It promises to be a green delight all along the way.

New Zealand's North Island landscape draws visitors from everywhere

The first thing I notice as we drive through rolling hills and lush pastureland is what I now think of, looking back, as "the hedge effect". I saw this from a distance, flying down here from Auckland yesterday, but up close it is an absolute delight — the kind of neatness I saw years ago in Switzerland - with fields divided by hedges as diverse as a narrow row of tall evergreens or a long line of pampas grass, whose feathery plumes wave to us as the car rolls by. It's an endlessly shifting scene that seems designed and landscaped to impress. And this ordered neatness doesn't end with these handsome dividing barriers. Bales of hay are placed in neatly ordered rows; sheep are dazzling white against green fields (compared to the grubby grey sheep one sees in Australia) and groups of Holstein cattle create stunning black and white tableaux against the hills and pastures that flash by on either side of the road, until we arrive in Taupo.

Green, green, green: en route from Wanganui to Lake Taupo

This is my first visit to New Zealand, and I'm as interested in its history as I am in its visual impact. I know, for example, that the ancestors of the Maori people were Polynesian, arriving in Aotearoa, the "land of the long white cloud" by boat, probably around 1350 AD but a lot of this history is still the subject for debate. These Polynesian settlers arrived to discover the Moa, a large flightless bird, which is now extinct. The word Maori in its first usage meant the original people; when white European pakeha settlers arrived, it became an adjective to describe the people and their culture.

There is a museum here in Taupo, next to the Information Centre, which is the perfect place to get to know the region and its history. Afterwards, I visit Wairakei Terraces, not far from town, which offers the visitor not just extraordinary thermal sights but also an opportunity to experience Maori custom and culture, participate in a traditional welcome, explore a Maori village and watch carvers, weavers and tattooists at work, enjoy traditional Maori cuisine and listen to Maori song, dance and haka.

Wairakei Terraces - heat under your feet, steam rising to the sky

The geothermal activity here, most extensive in the country, is mind- blowing; silica terraces gleam wedding-cake white against azure water pools ranging from warm to hot and close by, boiling water explodes into the air, releasing clouds of steam that drift up into the sky. It's a stunning sight, and this "heat beneath your feet" is linked to the adjacent Wairakei Geothermal power plant which very cleverly generates electricity from the continuous supply of super heated energy drawn from deep inside the earthʼs core. Take a tour if you have time.

Craters of the Moon is a one-hour walk that's wheelchair accessible

Close by, the Craters of the Moon walk (about a hour over a slightly raised timber walkway which means it is wheelchair-accessible) takes you to a different thermal experience — less dramatic, perhaps, but no less impressive. It's a relatively easy walk to view bubbling craters, mud pools and steam vents. Along the way, you'll see ground-hugging plants that have adapted to thrive in the hot, steamy conditions. The walk is open 364 days a year.

Back in Taupo, we drive past a wide expanse of dark blue water that's white-capped now; a strong breeze whips up the action, disturbing even the golfers who stand at lakeside trying to lob golf balls onto a floating pontoon "green" — a seemingly lunatic occupation even in placid weather. But they appear to be having fun. This huge trout-filled lake (surface area 616 sq km) is the largest in New Zealand; it was created over 25,000 years ago after a massive volcanic eruption and there have been eruptions since, one of which, in the year 180, gave Roman and Chinese citizens some spectacular sunsets. The volcano is currently considered dormant, not extinct.

There are lots of walkers getting exercise today; the lakeshore makes a fine promenade. I take time to explore the town, which is neat and clean — why should I be surprised? — and very upmarket, with lots of stylish boutiques and eateries (wonderful kebabs here!) Taupo attracts over a million tourists a year from all over the country — and all over the world— so I see lots of motels, hotels and guest houses. The area has a temperate climate, with day temperatures ranging from 24°C in January to 15°C in July.

I head for the Hilton Lake Taupo which sits astride a hill overlooking the water and the mountains in the distance, several of which are snow-covered. This is the region's only 5-star hotel, and the view from my room offers me all I could wish for and more. Facilities here include tennis, pool, spa pool, sauna, steam room and a fitness centre; when it's time to eat, Bistro Lago is the place to be. It's all very luxe and the town is a walkable distance away, if you're feeling energetic. Later, I'll stay at the Auckland Hilton, which echoes the Taupo style in a more dramatic way as it juts 300m out into the harbour from Princes Wharf, like a ship setting out to sea. Close to city shopping and ferry terminals to surrounding islands and bays, this contemporary boutique hotel offers what the Hilton brand offers to visitors in most parts of the world— attention to detail and a sense of "coming home". Who could ask for anything more? (And, before I forget, the best taxi driver in New Zealand services Auckland Airport. His name is Joseph. His number is 021 056 8025).

Hilton Lake Taupo (above) and Hilton Auckland: great water views

Just behind Taupo township, Huka (foam in Maori) Falls thunders out of the Waikato River and is one of the most visited and photographed attractions in New Zealand; water volume is often enough to fill two Olympic swimming pools per second! There are viewing platforms so you can experience the full watery drama of the falls.

We head northeast now, via Rotorua, to Whakatane, which is sometimes known as the birthplace of Aotearoa; it was here that the great Polynesian navigator Toi te Huatahi first landed. Rotorua is, of course, a well-known geothermal region, but what I have seen in Taupo — all that bubbling, gurgling, steaming and boiling — is enough for this visit.

So we drive on, as the afternoon shadows lengthen, through pine forests and rolling green countryside, past lakes, past a tall Maori "lucky" tree, past little farms with feijoa fruit for sale to Whakatane, a peaceful fishing port looking out onto the Bay of Plenty.

The road from Taupo to Whakatane

Feijoa: a sweet 'n sour fruit that grows abundantly here

The remains of the first Maori pa — or settlement — can be found on the highest point of the Whakatane Heads; it is known as Wairaka Marae —marae being a Maori sacred place. Two centuries after Toi te Huatahi came here, another great Polynesian fleet arrived bringing with it the kumara plant (orange sweet potato) which became the staple diet of the Maori throughout New Zealand, and today is a popular vegetable.

With magnificant beaches and bays, Whakatane enjoys a reputation as one of the three sunniest spots in the country. Many of the activities for the visitors centre on the water. Yet the town also gives ready access to other unique attractions in the area. From Whakatane, visitors can take a scenic flight over volcanic White Island, or experience the haunting beauty of the Urewera National Park, the largest protected native forest in New Zealand's North Island.

The sun is setting now, as we arrive at one of several pier-based fish restaurants — simple, practical, accessible and inexpensive. The one we choose is called Wally's On The Wharf (Wally being a friendly cockatoo who sits outside in a cage.) The fresh catch is marked on a blackboard. I choose snapper and it comes with a generous portion of fries; the fish was fresh from the sea, probably caught a few hours ago. It's delicious. Boats moored close by rock gently as we sit and munch, some canoeists paddle by, the water turns gold as the sun sinks on the horizon. It is, truly, the perfect way to end a journey along the Taupo Trail.

Check for fresh fish eateries down on the pier at Whakatane

2010-11-18T10:30:00.027+11:00

North From Narita

Kashima Jingu's sacred forest is immense and dense, filled with cedar, oak, maple and fir.

I wander along cleared walkways, stopping often to listen to birdsong - the musical chirrup of nightingales interrupted by the deep cackle of crows

Japan's Three Waterfront Cities are a well-kept secret

It's high summer in Japan and I'm in Itako City, looking out at a vast expanse of irises in bloom - blue, purple, mauve, pink and white - like a sea of flags or, more appropriate to this occasion, like a dazzling scattering of confetti. Appropriate, for soon we shall see a bride, in a traditional white wedding kimono, moving ever so slowly through the flowers, along a pathway towards the river. She nods, smiles, bows, acknowledging the crowd that has waited for her and the ripples of applause that greet her. She passes me and moves, with her parents, towards a waiting boat.The solitary boatman, with a long oar, pushes out onto the grey-green water, to more applause. And, within minutes, boat and bride are out of sight. I think: can it be possible, this serene scene, just thirty minutes from the roar of take-offs and landings at Narita,Tokyo's international airport?

Itako is one of three linked towns northwest of Tokyo, bordering the Pacific Ocean. Japan is hot and humid in summer but the ocean's proximity often brings cooling breezes inland to the Three Waterfront Cities. I'm here to see what many Japanese are familiar with but which are, to Western visitors, undiscovered secrets. Itako is famed for its Ayame (Iris) Matsuri festival, which I am now admiring. Neighbouring Kashima attracts visitors to its ancient Jingu shrine and a sacred forest a'twitter with nightingale song and Sawara, not far away, where willow reflections dance and quiver on the surface of its meandering canal, offers what is, for me, the quintessential Japanese waterscape.

So here I am in Itako, enjoying the festivities. There are many iris gardens in the region but the ones

I see are the most accessible. Approximately one million irises - 500 different species - luxuriate here,

Massed blooms on display at Ayame Matsuri festival in Itako

Costumed boatlady in Itako will take you for a ride down the river and back

nourished by river water. The festival is held each year when the iris bloom - from the end of May to mid July, and entrance to the festival is free.The wedding walk I see dates back to the Edo era, when the river and canal system was essential not just for commerce but to help the locals get around - to go shopping or to get married. What was once a necessity became, in time, a tradition and now a tourist attraction. If you are in Tokyo at the right time of year, try to get here Saturday or Sunday, at 11am or 1pm. Join the waiting crowds, munch a snack from one of the many food stalls and help send the bride on her way.

There's more to do and see here in Itako. I enjoy the 12 Bridge Boat Tour; a local boatwoman, in colourful costume and straw hat, happily (and energetically) rows me downstream past more irises. It's a relaxing ride. Later, I decide to take a close look at the Choshoji Temple, established in the 12th century by Samurai warlord Minamoto-no-Yoritomo. After years of neglect, the temple was reconstructed and today it nestles in the centre of a leafy garden, enhanced by a bell-tower whose bronze bell is both ancient and

The ancient bell in its tower at Choshoji Temple, in Itako

The priest in charge of this Shinto treasure greets visitors

culturally important. The shrine's resident Shinto priest is most welcoming, offering me not just the shrine's history but a steaming cup of green tea and a home-made sweet shaped like an hydrangea.

On now to Kashima - the local train will get you there in about ten minutes. Kashima Jingu Shrine is a five minute walk from the railway station. I get there about midday and I'm hungry. I spy a restaurant alongside the entrance to the shrine and I'm soon munching soba noodles with chicken. Then, through the huge granite torii (a traditional Japanese gate, usually wood, found at the entrance to a Shinto shrine) and up an avenue of gigantic red cedars to the bright vermilion gate through which I finally access the shrine complex.

Kashima Jingu itself, handsomely decorated with golden motifs and shaded by redwoods hundreds of years old, was established in 660BC and ranks as one of the country's oldest and most important Shinto shrines - a cultural and religious treasure in a land filled with treasures.

Kashima Jingu's decorative facade

Giant cedars have been shading the shrine for centuries

I'm invited to take part in a Shinto ceremony. I kneel behind two priests wearing white and aqua robes, listening to them chant. I hear the deep throb of the drum at the end of the short service. I wonder if the spirits in the forest are listening. I hope so.

Later, close by, I chat with a group of charming Japanese ladies who have volunteered to serve complimentary tea to visitors under a shady marquee. I visit the museum next to the chattering ladies to see a collection of weapons, including Japan's oldest chokuto or straight sword. Then it's time to walk into the surrounding woods, past a group of tame deer. Kashima Jingu's sacred forest is immense and dense, filled with cedar, oak, maple and fir. I wander along cleared walkways, stopping often to listen to birdsong - the musical chirrup of nightingales interrupted by the deep cackle of crows. This is, for me, a time of quiet enchantment.

Visitors enter Kashima Jingu's forest and (below) dumplings for sale at Mitarashi Pond

Not far away, down a steep slope, is Mitarashi Pond, considered holy and therefore used as a purification (misogi) site. I drink the cool water of the "spirit spring" and follow this up with a skewer of hot dumplings. Made from mochiko (rice flour), they are enjoyed year-round.Three charcoal-grilled dumplings on a single skewer - one red (red beans), another yellow (eggs) and the third green (green tea). A favourite nibble all over Japan.

Back now, to the station, for the short ride to Sawara, located in Chiba prefecture and, since 1951, an integral part of Katori City. Like Itako, Sawara dates back to the Edo Period (1603-1867) when it was a prosperous port town trading daily via its river systems with the growing capital of Edo (present-day Tokyo) to the south. Handsome old warehouses still line the picturesque canal and you can take a boat ride to see the sights if you have time.

Old houses in Sawara overlook the canal (above) which intersects the town

I walk along the canal, pausing to admire the reflections of willows in the water and looking for the worn stone steps which tell me that goods were once loaded and unloaded here - soy sauce, perhaps, and most certainly sake, for there is a brewery here that still makes this famous rice-based liquor. I later go to see it, but this year's rice harvest is still growing in the surrounding fields, so the brewery is silent. Today, these stone steps by the canal serve as seats, not just for me, as I pause and reflect, but also for weekend artists.This is such a peaceful place, with its distinctive architecture and tranquil water.

I decide to stay overnight in Sawara, and a local ryokan makes me comfortable with its tatami, futon and sliding paper panels that offer a water view. Dinner that night at Kittei is a surprise and a delight. This restaurant, in a beautifully converted 120-year-old house set in manicured gardens, offers Japanese-French cuisine that brings, I'm told, diners all the way from Tokyo. Owner/chef Yoshizuka Yoshio trained in Lyons with legendary chef Paul Bocuse, one of the fathers of Nouvelle Cuisine, and after returning to Japan opened Kittei in 2001. Next day, just before I return to Narita, I discover another restaurant, Mujian, that serves classic French food prepared by a friendly and knowledgable chef. I am astounded and reminded that 5-star dining is not limited to great cities; here in Sawara, off the beaten track and almost unknown to English-speaking travellers, are dining experiences to savour long after your visit ends.

I walk slowly back to the station after visiting the museum dedicated to local hero, Inoh Tadataka (1745-1821) who surveyed and mapped the whole of Japan on foot. Long before GPS technology, he measured distances by the length of his stride, putting the nation, quite literally, on the map. I just wish I have more time - and that I'm here during a summer or autumn festival, when huge floats (and crowds) take to the streets. So I do the next best thing - visit Sawara's Float Museum, where the magic is stored and dreams put away for another day.

IF YOU GO Transit passengers: an alternative to Tokyo

Is your bag checked through to its final destination? Take a small overnight bag as carry-on luggage, enter Japan via immigration at Narita Airport, take a day trip/overnight trip to the waterfront cities close by, return to Narita Airport, check-in to onward flight, go through immigration and board flight. Easy.

TWO RECOMMENDED ITINERARIES

Itako - Kashima and/or Sawara Morning arrivals - One night visit Day 1 Take the Rose Liner bus service from Narita Airport to Itako. (30 minutes) (Nine departures daily between 7:30am and 8:45pm) Arrive in Itako mid-late morning and spend the day sightseeing. Overnight in Itako. Day 2 Take the train from Itako to Kashima Jingu (10 minutes, 200 yen). Spend the morning at Kashima Jingu and sacred forest. Return to Itako by train. Take Rose Liner bus to Narita Airport for evening departure.

Itako - Kashima Evening arrivals (arrival before 7:30pm) Two night visit Day 1 Take the Rose Liner bus service from Narita Airport to Itako. (30 minutes) Arrive in Itako late night. Overnight in Itako. Day 2 Spend the day in Itako. Overnight in Itako Day 3 Take the train from Itako to Kashima Jingu (10 minutes, 200 yen). Spend the morning at Kashima Jingu and sacred forest. Return to Itako by train. Take Rose Liner bus to Narita Airport for evening departure.

For information about festivals dates, accommodation and the latest timetable and fare information, check with JNTO at travelinfo@jnto.org.au

2009-11-10T14:07:00.066+11:00

Iran's Caviar Coast

...a joyous and spontaneous moment:

a group of Kurdish youths, arm in arm, dancing to music
from their car parked close by.

Caviar Coast? Well, it used to be. But those salty black pearls from the Caspian Sea's sturgeon are in short supply these days, as overfishing depletes its numbers. There are still fishing boats bobbing about in North Iran's major port, Anzali, but these days it's Russian freighters that see most of the action, as they arrive to dock and unload steel reinforcing rods for Iran's expanding construction industry. You can see this in Anzali itself as houses disappear and apartment buildings rise in their place.

Anzali port with rocky breakwater; steps to waterside park

I'm in Iran, visiting friends. I'm here at an inauspicious time, right after the post-election rioting that made Tehran, temporarily, a dangerous place to be. And the weather is hot. It is mid-August. In the central part of the country, it's a dry heat - but keep in the shade if you can. In the north, on the coast, the humidity can be enervating

Stop to buy dates from a roadside stall

It's 8pm in Anzali, a few days after I come to the coast. I switch on the TV. Every channel lets me know that Ramadan has arrived. Bearded, turbaned clerics with grey faces recite the Koran and take part in Islamic ritual. The timing is precise: as the sun sinks behind the Western horizon, families can at last enjoy an evening meal, after a day of fasting. Ramadan is more closely observed in the great cities further south - Shiraz and Esfehan in particular - and lasts for one month. Each day, the devout must rise before dawn to eat, go without food all day and break their fast at magrib (sunset) prayer time with a meal called iftar. Sunni or (in Iran) Shia may continue to eat and drink after the sun has set until the next morning's fajr prayer call. The fast is an act of personal worship in which Muslims seek a raised awareness of closeness to Allah.

Anzali is a bustling city, even more bustling on Saturday when its open-air market welcomes locals to stalls offering fresh local produce, chickens, ducks, fish, herbs and spices. Fabrics on sale float from high hangers in the breeze. Everything is available, with the Made-in-China label ubiquitous, as it is everywhere else these days. And it is really difficult to get from one part of the city to another, as cars make the journey an agonizing bumper-to-bumper experience. Oh, well. There's a lot to look at while you wait. Including huge billboards displaying portraits of local soldiers lost in the Iran-Iraq War. No matter where you go in Iran, these memorials are a permanent reminder of sacrifice.

En route to Masouleh: two local soldiers memorialized in Fuman

Flag over grave salutes a fallen Anzali warrior

Anzali market: fish from the Caspian; sour cherries and limes

The Caspian is a huge inland sea, the largest enclosed body of water on earth with a surface area of 371,000 square kilometres. It has no outflows and is bounded by northern Iran, southern Russia, western Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, and eastern Azerbaijan. It is very deep and slightly salty, about a third of the saltiness found in seawater. Its name derives most probably from ancient Sanskrit, Kashyapas.

Splashing about in the Caspian; boat rides for a few riales

The Caspian I get to see up close and personal is about five minutes from my friends' house. I see a stretch of grey sand, and, from time to time, small waves came crashing in. Other times, it is quiet and flat. The water doesn't seem very clean, but locals and visitors who come in droves from the dry south certainly have fun, emerging from their little tents to paddle and splash about until a zealous official with a whistle calls them from the water. There are rip tides here; a local youth was pulled out by such a rip and drowned during my stay. And if you look out, far out, you'll see lots of tiny black specks on the horizon: those Russian freighters making their approach to the Anzali docks.

Sunset over the Caspian

Turn around from the sea and there, behind you, are the mountains. The Alborz Massif is not far from Anzali, about an hour's drive, and it rises to about 1000m or so, even higher in some places. We drive one day up into the mountains, wild and fresh and green, jungle-dense sometimes or open and rural further on. Around one bend, we experience a joyous and spontaneous moment: a group of Kurdish youths, arm in arm, dancing to music from their car parked close by.

Kurdish boys dance by their car

Densely timbered mountain vista; sweeping green slopes further on

Ten minutes further on, we stop for kebabs and fresh-baked bread. Smoke drifts up from burning barbecues, lambs are slaughtered tactfully out of sight and then hung on display. Cars arrive, filled with hungry travelers. More cars arrive. Business is brisk and lots of riales change hands. The fresh lamb kebabs are served to us on long skewers, sizzling, delectable.

Lamb kebabs sizzle at a mountain stopover

Another day, another road, to a different part of the Alborz range. We're in Talesh country. The people here are ethnic Talesh, mountain people, who raise sheep for wool and meat. They speak Talesh. They also speak Gilicki, the language of the North. And they also speak Farsi, the major language of Iran. We're off to visit a fabled village, Masouleh, a thousand years old and over a thousand metres above sea level. It rises up the side of a timbered mountain and a plunging waterfall nearby feeds a gurgling stream that passes the village.

En route: rice farmers at work; an ancient timber-and-mud house

Masouleh

When we arrive, mist is moving in, blanketing the surrounding slopes. Masouleh is heritage-listed and much-visited because its architecture is unique. Its two-storey houses are coated with yellow clay (so you can see them in the mist) and not only have they been built into the mountain but are interconnected, one on top of another. Courtyards and roofs both serve as pedestrian areas, linked by stairs. You can't drive a car in Masouleh. You just park in a special area and walk. Up and up and up. Surrounding a central plaza are places to eat, shops and bakeries. I came away with hand-knitted bed socks, still smelling of freshly clipped mountain wool.

Masouleh shopping plaza; fresh bread, baked as you watch

Further along the coast, to the east, I come to stay in the city of Chalus (or Chaloos) more up-market than Anzali and the city that links directly, via an amazing mountain road, to Tehran. One day, we visit Lake Valasht, taking the Tehran road and turning off onto a side road after about half an hour. The journey offers us spectacular views and the lake is blue and beautiful, but like many parts of the north, strewn with garbage left over by visitors. Iranians who travel within their own country really do need to clean up their act.

Lake Valasht, about an hour from Chalus

Chalus also has many reminders of the Shah regime. Estates left by fleeing military officers and government officials are here, their gardens overgrown, the houses mouldering. The estate of the Shah's last wife, Empress Farah Diba, is here, too - a lonely, sadly shuttered mansion surrounded by palms and lush gardens. She can never return.

And Chalus has a great ride to the top of the mountain which backs the city. I get into a cable car and off we go, higher and higher, as the city shrinks beneath us, surrounded by rice farms, and the Caspian shimmers in the distance. One thousand metres up, the heat and humidity disappear. It's noon, or thereabouts, and from loudspeakers set high and hidden in leafy green foliage, the sound of the Call to Prayer echoes and re-echoes off huge grey granite boulders, edged with moss. It's cool, shaded, serene. And even better as a cloud descends and mist rolls in.

A family relaxes as the mist rolls in on the mountaintop

This is Iran's North - the Caspian region that stretches west to east. The caviar has all but disappeared but to be here is still an indulgence, to be fondly remembered from afar.

2009-11-04T12:24:00.030+11:00

Abu Dhabi: a dream made real

...it's a city of parks and gardens; you don't need to drive into the desert
to find a green oasis. The oasis is here.

At night, it looks like a dream from the Arabian Nights, as it rises, moonlit, from its desert landscape; by day, in the merciless sunlight, its glistens wedding-cake white, as its classic domes and minarets reach for the sky above. This is the spectacular new mosque that not only defines Abu Dhabi, its home, but also Mid Eastern Islam.

With its Moorish archways and classic Arab minarets, the mosque is huge - its main prayer hall designed to accommodate up to 9,000 worshippers. White marble predominates in the exterior courtyard and inside the main building. Sinuous floral designs, in coloured stone and pearlshell, inset into white marble floors and pillars, are visually thrilling. The world's largest hand-made carpet is here, made in Iran and measuring 5,627 m2 (60,570 sq ft). It weighs 47 tons. And if you look up, as you will, there it is: the world's largest chandelier - a 10m x 15m over-the-top dazzler.

The Sheikh Zayad Mosque: a dream in white marble

Inside the huge prayer hall; the main chandelier; floor inlay detail

I am in Abu Dhabi briefly, staying at the ultra luxe and perfectly positioned Hilton, one of three Hiltons in the city. It overlooks the Corniche, the city's seaside promenade and the golden sand of its private beach. The hotel has a fitness centre, three pools, three tennis courts and a luxurious spa. Be sure to dine at the Hilton's Le Terrazza restaurant and there's live music at the Jazz Bar. The city centre is just ten minutes away and if you're in the mood for shopping, head for Marina Mall. It offers everything you seek - and then some.

Abu Dhabi Hilton: luxury, comfort - and its own private beach!

Abu Dhabi is the capital of the United Arab Emirates and it lies on a T-shaped island jutting into the Persian Gulf from the central western coast. With a population approaching one million, the city is the home of the Emirati Royal Family and important government offices. Affluent and forward-looking, the city is more Westernized than many other Arab cities and although it's one of the world's largest producers of oil, it is currently diversifying its economy through investments in financial services and tourism.

Satellite view of Abu Dhabi; the city skyline; architecture that dazzles

Qasr al-Hosn is the oldest (1761) building here; before oil was discovered in 1958, fishing, pearl diving, camel herding and growing dates typified the region's economy. It became a tribal confederation in the 18th century. A hundred years later, the Abu Dhabi and neighbouring Dubai tribes parted company and today the two cities are friendly rivals. The visionary Sheikh Zayed became Abu Dhabi's ruler in 1966 and he was instrumental in the creation of the United Arab Emirates. After his death in 2004, his son Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan became the hereditary ruler of Abu Dhabi (UAE)

Etihad is fast becoming one of the world's leading airlines

Abu Dabi is hot. I am here in August, en route to Iran. Out at the airport, transferring from one Etihad flight to another (this is Abu Dhabi's national carrier, recently voted world’s leading airline by more than 180,000 travel industry professionals from over 175 countries) stepping outside was like stepping into a blast furnace, as the wind whistled in from the desert. Cooler weather prevails between November and March, so plan your visit accordingly. But don't worry. All of Abu Dhabi is air-conditioned. This city of broad boulevards, lined with palms, is also one of the cleanest I have ever seen. And it's a city of parks and gardens; you don't need to drive into the desert to find a green oasis. The oasis is here.

Neatsville: green and clean; the desert beyond

I have just a few days here, so I make the most of my stay. The city tour, for starters, gives me a close up look at that changing skyline - plus a visit to a Gold Market, where you can purchase not only gold but exquisite jewelry. I could have gone out into the desert for a 4-wheel drive adventure that includes falconry, dinner and belly dancing (the latter was not on the menu; it was Ramadan) but I opted for dinner on a dhow, a converted fishing vessel. Our delightful Egyptian host served up six delicious courses including lobster and lamb, as we watched the brilliantly lit city skyline glide past, reflected on the black water. The dhow was air-conditioned and prettied up in pink.

What I notice immediately here in Abu Dhabi is its cultural diversity. Most of the inhabitants are expatriate workers from India, Pakistan, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Somalia, Nepal, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, the Philippines, the United Kingdom and various countries from across the Arab world. The native-born population are Arabic-speaking Persian Gulf Arabs who are part of a clan-based society. The Al Nahyan family, part of the al-Falah branch of the Bani Yas clan, rules the emirate and has a central place in society. Representing this amazing cultural mix are two people I meet during my short visit. One is Humnath, the Nepali concierge at the Hilton, efficient and charming. The other is equally charming white-robed Emirati airport safety officer Saleh Al Hosani, who is also a date farmer. I meet him in the date market and he tells me about (and lets me taste) the many different date varieties he produces.

Date farm; make a date for Abu Dhabi's Date Market

What makes Abu Dhabi interesting, for me, is not just what is here now - a dramatic skyline that changes from month to month and a splendid new Formula One car racing circuit - but what is planned for the future. And the future, in Abu Dhabi, is tomorrow, not next year. What was once a sleepy settlement of palm-frond huts and Bedouin encampments has, in the planning stage or underway, four museums, a performing arts center and 19 art pavilions designed by celebrated architects like Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid and Jean Nouvel. Just one component of a $27 billion residential, office and hotel development planned for Saadiyat Island (Island of Happiness), the 670-acre cultural district's Performing Arts Centre will house five theatres – a music hall, concert hall, opera house, drama theatre and a flexible theatre with a combined seating capacity for 6,300.

New Performing Arts Centre

Abu Dhabi is now, more than ever, a gateway not just to the Arabian desert but to the world. Stopover for a day or two on your way to someplace else - remember, the FIFA Club World Cup UAE will be held here from 9-19 December. Or come just to see and admire this exciting desert metropolis.

2009-03-05T10:44:00.024+11:00

A road less traveled

Suddenly, we hear the crack of fireworks down below, and these shimmering explosions light up the river and the rocks. White smoke from firecrackers drifts like a cloud up and over us. And then, just as suddenly, it’s over.

Festival time in Takayama

Most visitors to Japan linger in the big cities - Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka - and for good reason. There’s so much to see and enjoy there. But on Japan’s main island of Honshu, there is a road less traveled, virtually from coast to coast, through thickly wooded mountains up to the northwestern shoreline. Here is Japan with a difference, and here are some unique experiences you will always remember.

So let me be your guide. We’ll start in one of those cities - our route is easily accessible from them all - and head towards Gifu prefecture, in central Honshu. Gujo Hachiman is out first stop, a small township at the foot of a mountain. We are here in early autumn, festival time, and the streets seem busier than usual.

Walk the streets of Gujo Hachiman or find a rickshaw man

One of this town’s major attractions is Iwasaki Sample showroom where you can watch demonstrations of wax food creation, so that’s where we head first. Lifelike wax food is an art form in Japan and you’ll be aware of it not long after you step off the plane and walk past a restaurant or into a shopping mall that specializes in food. All those plates cunningly displayed - all that food that looks ready to eat - is fake, and it mostly comes from Gujo Hachiman. A local, Takizou Iwasaki, started experimenting (by dropping hot wax from a candle onto water) in the early 1930s. First flowers, then food - a wax omelette. Since those early days his output and his business has boomed. Iwasaki has created not just an art form but an industry. Food samples for 80% of Japan’s restaurants are made here.

Walk around his demonstration/display facility and you’ll see how far this art has come. Loaves of bread, ice cream, glistening fish, slices of beef, shrimp, crab legs, spaghetti, cakes, fruits, salads - it’s all here. Such delicious deception. I learned how to make tempura shrimp and also a heart of iceberg lettuce. For the latter, just a pool of white wax, melding to a pool of green wax. The wax floats atop warm water, then it’s pulled under the water to form a sheet of green and white. I take this out, carefully scrunch it up into a ball, and finally add another sheet of green to what I already have in my hand. A fast dip into cold water, a sharp knife to cut through - and, magically, I have my lettuce. It looks just like the real thing, crisp and cool and ready for the salad bowl. You’ll be amazed (see video below)

Fresh mountain water cascades in channels down every street

Later we’ll explore the town on foot. Like many towns and villages in the region, particularly those situated close to mountains, Gujo Hachiman has a constant supply of fresh water which comes direct from the mountain to narrow but deep cement gutters; the water flows swiftly through these on both sides of each street. And the water is used on a daily basis by householders who live beside the streams. At set times, rice and vegetables are washed before cooking. At other times, clothing is washed and rinsed. The water is cool and clear and drinkable. So as you walk around the streets, past shrines, shops, gardens, restaurants and private homes, be sure to look where you walk. For a visitor like me used to signs warning that water is polluted, this is such a refreshing change. Pure, clean water. Rushing past you, everywhere you look!

On this day, as the evening draws in, more and more people fill the streets, especially down by the river. It’s a noisy river, splashing and frothing over rocks and pebbles. When darkness falls and the lamps come on all over town, hundreds of locals in colourful kimonos head down to the river to gather mostly by the bridge. Suddenly, we hear the crack of fireworks down below, and these shimmering explosions light up the river and the rocks. White smoke from firecrackers drifts like a cloud up and over us. And then, just as suddenly, it’s over. We move with the crowd up a lamplit alleyway to the town square, where local singers and musicians tune up and the people here to celebrate begin a slow, rhythmic dance. Everyone seems to know the traditional steps and arm movements. This dancing, along with the fireworks, is an integral part of the Gujo Odori festival, and if you are here, on a night like this, you’ll be transported to a different time and place, becoming a part, if only for an hour or so, of quintessential Japanese ritual. It’s great fun.

Gujo Hachiman is best explored on foot. To help you find your way around, there’s a Tourist Centre where you can purchase a two-day “visitor passport” which gives you unlimited access to many of the town’s tourist attractions, including museums, for one low fixed price, about half of what individual admissions would cost. A walk around town will take you about two hours, and you can always relax for a bit by the Yoshida River which flows through the town’s centre. There are many temples and water walkways and small museums including the Gujo Hachiman Hakurankan Museum which documents the town’s history and offers you everything you need to know about of the festival you’ve just witnessed.

We’re heading now for Takayama, north and east of Gujo Hachiman. It’s about an hour away by car, but you can follow this route by bus. This is an ancient town, with classic traditions, including a festival which brings ornately decorated floats onto the streets. And taking pride of place on the outskirts of Takayama is the Festival Floats Exhibition Hall which displays not only the floats but also larger than life copies, extraordinary in their beauty and complexity. Expensive, too. Each one cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to create, from the gold leaf ornamentation to the traditional figures which sit atop some of them. The museum is more than just a museum - it is a dramatic light show, using draperies and projections to add visual drama to your visit. Lifesize animatronic drummers stand silently watching you as you move from one float to another, then suddenly, surprise! they turn and bang on huge drums behind them. The exhibition showcases the town’s colourful pageantry in a way you’re not likely to forget. A visit takes about an hour. If you’re here in March, July or November, you might even get to see the floats during festival time, parading with much noise through the town.

Many Edo-era houses remain in Takayama, especially in the Sanmachi area. See these, along with the markets, which open in the early morning on a street by the river. Local farmers bring their produce here to sell. The Kusakabe Folk Museum is worth a visit, too. It’s an old Meiji merchant’s house. And if you have time, the Yoshijima Heritage House, originally a sake brewery, is a wooden wonder - especially its huge cedar sakabayashi (sake sign) which hangs under the eaves.

Not far from Takayama, try to see the Hida Folk Village, which offers the visitor a close up look at life as it was. Here you’ll explore thatched-roof houses and see traditional everyday tools along with crafts like lacquerwork, weaving and dyeing, straw objects and sashiko quilting. And try to see, if you are here in spring, the state-designated natural monument, the Garyu Cherry Tree. Some of its branches sweep close to the ground, looking a bit like a dragon’s wing (Garyu means “lying dragon” in Japanese). This extraordinary tree (Prunus pendula form. ascendens) is 1,100 years old, with branches 30m long and 20m high. In full bloom it is a breathtaking sight.

The Garyu Cherry Tree is an 1,100 year old national treasure

Tunnel vision is more than a medical condition in Japan. There are 743 expressway tunnels in Japan, 555 of them on the island of Honshu - with a combined total length of 522,732m. For anyone who has travelled within the country, along its expressways - and especially those going from one place to another through the mountains which form a north-south barrier across Honshu, these tunnels are an essential part of the country’s sophisticated infrastructure. The older, roundabout roads still exist, of course, but now you can get there quickly, so you have more time to look around. The route we’re taking now, to Kanazawa via the heritage listed mountain village of Shirakawago, follows the newly opened Tokai Hokuriku Expressway, with 21 tunnels, including a very long one, the Hida Tunnel. At 10,712 metres, it’s the second longest tunnel in Japan and it seems to go on forever. But as we speed through mountain after mountain, tunnel after tunnel, we really do save lots of time. And when we get to see Shirakawago, we appreciate the time saving those tunnels offer us. This village is very special.

Shirakawago is a small farming community located northwest of Takayama in the Shogawa River Valley, nestling in the shadow of the Hakusan Mountains which divide Gifu prefecture from Ishikawa prefecture, where we’ll soon be headed. It’s a typical mountain village, yet it’s also atypical, because it has preserved many of its historic wooden farmhouses built centuries ago - and by doing so, has become a World Heritage site. The best of these farmhouses are huge, rising some three or four storeys high, with massive wood beams and pillars supporting roofs of thick straw thatch, high and steep, like an inverted “v” and called, in Japanese, gassho-zukuri, “hands held together in prayerful attitude”. There’s a house here you can visit. Wander around its large open ground floor and up the stairs to see herbs and red peppers hanging to dry and silk worm equipment and spinning wheels. Silk production along with rice farming were (and are) mainstays of the local economy, augmented now by tourism. Shirakawago is no museum piece. It’s a living, breathing village.

So I wandered around, had a snack at a village restaurant, and eventually crossed the river via a long, narrow bridge to the other side, where tourist buses gather around a busy information centre. Shirakawago is a fascinating place, utterly peaceful, a visual dreamscape. You can stay if you want, but be warned: in mid-summer it’s hard to get accommodation because of visiting Japanese who arrive from bustling cities for the peace and quiet. And be warned, too, that when winter arrives, so does the snow - heaps and heaps of it!

Now it’s time for me to go to Kanazawa, which is the thriving capital of Ishikawa prefecture, located in the centre of Honshu’s western coast. We’ll pass through more tunnels, of course, until we leave the mountains. Largely ignored by Western tourists, the city is inland, but not far from the Sea of Japan, and it’s an important stop on our cultural corridor. When we reach Kanazawa, the first impression is of striking contemporary buildings, including the city’s major rail terminal, a dazzling architectural landmark.

Kanazawa’s rail terminal is a contemporary masterpiece

Kanazawa has been called the best-preserved major Edo-period city in the country - and fortunately it managed to escape Allied bombing during World War II. Amid all the modern buildings, tucked away in the centre of the city, the old samurai district has been lovingly looked after, with street after street of residences that once housed warriors. You can visit one of these, take off your shoes, walk about on tatami flooring and admire a secret garden with ponds filled with enormous koi. A samurai, in full military regalia, stands inside a glass case to greet you as you enter. And, in a different part of the city, the geisha district, with its distinctive wooden teahouses, offers you another, quite different view to the past. Just as elegant and as atmospheric as the one you’ll see in Kyoto.

Teahouses line the streets in Kanazawa’s geisha district

Kanazawa has something for everyone, from its vast museum of modern art to its world-famed Kenrokuen Gardens atop a hill overlooking the city, once the private preserve of the head of the powerful Maeda clan. But a smaller, more intimate garden also deserves your attention here. You’ll find it at Gyokusenen, home of the Nishida family, where you can sip green tea and admire an ancient garden. It rises up a small incline (there’s a busy urban street behind its rear walls, but you’d never know) and it is perfection, with its trees, shrubs, waterfalls, ponds and resident wading bird, which gives visitors a wary look as it slowly reconnoiters the water for tasty tidbits.

The Kenrokuen garden offers one of Japan’s most admired landscapes

The Nishida family garden: tranquility in the heart of the city

Kanazawa can get cold in winter and heavy snow, swept in by Siberian winds, is not uncommon here and along the coast. So best plan your visit to this part of the country when the weather allows you to see what you want to see in relative comfort. But remember: summer can be both hot and very humid. Choose a season that offers you either trees in bloom or falling leaves.

We’ll leave Kanazawa now, and head for the Noto Peninsula, which is not far away, facing the sea. A favourite of Japanese tourists escaping to the seaside, this area has something quite special - a ryokan where you can stay overnight, in a style you will not be expecting.

The classic Japanese ryokan recalls its Edo past, offering travelers a roadside inn of understated simplicity - you’ll get a small room featuring tatami matting (tatami is closely woven rice straw), a simple meal, a communal bath (often from a nearby hot spring) and a yukata (robe) to slip into after you’ve soaked in the warm water. In Japan today, Western style hotels dominate major city skylines, but you can find the less pretentious ryokans on the city’s periphery if you look carefully. Some are quite inexpensive, costing a visitor what you’d expect to pay at the local Y - as little as $40 a night. Others, in the mountains or by the sea, are larger and more expensive. All, however, try to maintain the traditional ryokan ambience - the simple style that separates them from Hilton-esque excesses.

Ryokan Kagaya looks out to sea

All except one, that is. It’s located in the Wakura Hot Springs area - which has been, for at least twelve hundred years, one of the best known resorts in the country. Local legend has it that the springs were discovered by a traveling priest who saw an injured crane bathing its wing in the warm spring water. Since those faraway days, Wakura has attracted many visitors and there are many places to stay, but the ryokan I discover, facing the bay and beyond to the sea, was in a class all its own. The Kagaya, with its 263 guest rooms and Vegas pizazz, puts on the ritz.

Vegas glitz lights up the Kagaya interior

When I arrived, young attendants in kimonos came racing out to form a welcoming guard of honour. They giggled and bowed and waved a greeting as I entered the ryokan. Inside Kagaya’s huge lobby, with its expansive water views, a young musician was entertaining visitors. A traditional Japanese melody? Not at all. She was playing Stephen Foster’s “Oh, Susannah”. In this instance, however, it wasn’t “a banjo on my knee”, but rather a 13-string koto, which sounds a bit like a harp. Not far from her, framed pictures of the Japanese Emperor visiting Kagaya spoke silently but eloquently of royal patronage.

The Kagaya greets a visitor in classic Japanese style

Kagaya ryokan does everything on the grand scale, from the guest rooms to the conference, banquet and entertainment facilities you find on four levels. There are several theatres, including one specially designed for Kabuki. There’s a razzle-dazzle disco, although, interestingly, I’m told Japanese guests rarely dance. There’s a huge conference/banquet room that can accommodate (by sliding back doors) up to 440 diners. When I peeped in, a banquet was being prepared for a large group from Taiwan. Small, short-legged tables, carefully spaced apart, were being set with painstaking care by robed attendants; each table had its small mat (sitting cross-legged is de rigeur) and on each mat, a fan. On another floor, a large room, like something out of Versailles, illuminated by natural light and glittering chandeliers, stands ready for wedding ceremonies. But a recent earthquake broke some glass, so weddings are out until the damage is repaired.

200 tables ready for a delegation from Taiwan

On the ryokan’s main floor, I wandered through a shopping arcade, exploring the small shops and stalls, admiring the beautifully packaged products. You can buy anything you want here, from designer labels to pastries created by an award-winning chef, who has his own museum in Wakura. And of course, the Onsen - hot springs experience - is close by. You can slip into your yukata, go to the springs, soak to your heart’s content and then return to your room for dinner.

The Kagaya features ryokan simplicity, 5-star comfort

Walk on through the lobby towards the sound of water and you’ll think you’re in a cruise ship. This is where the glitz is, as glass-walled elevators, lit up like Christmas trees, glide upwards into the ryokan’s atrium to the guest floors above, and this is where entertainment beckons - the night I was there, it included a Vegas style show - lots of legs, lots of feathers - in one room while, out by the fountains, a Mexican trio pounded away with La Bamba.

Later, after all the noise and glitter, I rode in one of those elevators up to my room to sleep. My room, or rather my suite, for that is what is was, had an entrance vestibule which led to my bathroom and a view to the darkening sea. On a different level, I had a large living room with separate dining area, including a table and four chairs (dinner is served, as it is in all ryokans, in your room, unless you make other arrangements) and a bedroom, its long narrow mirror covered with red fabric (bad luck and not good form to see yourself in a mirror). A comfy futon is put into this room before you sleep. Sliding wood and paper doors separate these rooms and, of course, tatami covers the floors. Guest rooms here are ryokan-traditional, but designed for five star comfort. Expect to pay from $250 and up - and up - depending on availability and the season you visit.

A fisherman’s wife displays last night’s catch

There’s lots to do and see here on the Noto Peninsula. Wajima is the main city, not far away, and you’ll enjoy its fascinating morning markets (wives of local fishermen have last night’s catch on display) and its noisy Taisai lantern festival, which is held in mid-September. Kiriko Lantern Museum showcases these magnificent floats - some 15m high - and portable paper shrines. Also worth discovering in Wajima is the local lacquerware showroom; this craft is a specialty of the area.

The Kiriko Lantern Museum. Festival nights are noisy and great fun

Wajima lacquerware is exquisite but better bring your wallet

My journey of discovery along Japan’s cultural corridor is now over. If you’d like to share my experience, you can get more information about these stopovers along the way, how to get from place to place, what to see, where to stay - and how much the experience will cost - by visiting Japan Tourism at www.jnto.org.au

2008-10-24T13:12:00.017+11:00

Amor de Dios, Madrid

...dust, perfume, tobacco smoke, and the rat-tat-tat poundings of a hundred heels, echoing and re-echoing through the building

Maximiliano, Madrid

In the heart of Madrid, not far from the Prado, is a narrow street called (beautiful name!) Amor de Dios - the love of God. Handsome old buildings flank the street; once merchant residences, they today host cafes, antique shops, bars and restaurants. One of the oldest of these buildings, originally a palacio for a noble family, was used until a few years ago as a flamenco practice studio. One entered through a small door, which was set into a pair of massive doors, tall enough to let a coach pass through. Inside was a vestibule, on either side of which were large rooms with pale painted (and mirrored) walls and high ceilings. In here, the noise of Madrid traffic died suddenly away, to be replaced by the evocative sounds of guitar, castanet, footwork and cante hondo. My memories of Estudio Amor de Dios are of dust, perfume, tobacco smoke, and the rat-tat-tat poundings of a hundred heels, echoing and re-echoing through the building - even down the narrow stairway into the dimly lit basement. Here, deep deep down, under a low curved ceiling, red brick walls disappeared into darkness, a coffee machine sputtered and, at small tables, dancers and friends sat and gossiped. And who do we meet here, way back when?

Ciro sits in a corner, laughing; short, lean and lithe, his gimlet eyes dart from one person to another, as he is joined by his friend, the vivacious La Kangura. Several gypsies, with slick black hair and dark bedroom eyes, chat to the redhead Lolli who runs the cafe. The few dangling lightbulbs cast long shadows. Maria Magdalena comes in from a lesson upstairs, with her ever-present cane. This stout stick is her trademark. She uses it when she teaches, pounding the floor with it, thump thump thump, to mark the beat as the assembled skirts before her swirl in a dazzling rainbow of colour. That's it, that's right, she calls to the class. Eso es, eso...

Ciro in performance

Ciro and Nina at Amor de Dios

Louisa, La Kangura

There's a guitarist sitting opposite you, strumming his guitar. He's from Japan, and the ash on his cigarette, balanced carefully on the table, grows longer and longer as he carefully plucks the strings. Elke appears; German, statuesque, glamourously Wagnerian, a flamenco dancer known locally as La Vikinga. Roberto Amaral is here. A dancer from Los Angeles, he relaxes today in the little cafe after practicing his bulerias. He flies back home soon.

Nina is here, too, ash blonde, articulate, gregarious - originally from London and now very much a Madrileña, at home in her attico apartment in the city after youthful years following the bullfights (and bullfighters). With her is Maximiliano, from Canada and before that, Australia - lean, dark, passionate, just back from touring with festivales de españa and filming with Mariemma in Aranjuez. Now he'll check out new choreography for his flamenco group, Los Hispanicos, back in Toronto. And Veronica (if she wasn't sleeping in after a late night tablao) arrives with a smile, a story and with a bagful of vegetables for tonight's dinner, just purchased from the local market. Hola! Que te pasa?

Maximiliano and (below) Veronica

Amor de Dios was always a memorable mix of cultures and languages, and now it has gone - all that noise, all that dust, all that colour, all that drama - to a new location, happily keeping its name as a reminder of the ambiente it offered us in abundance.

2008-09-10T10:49:00.009+10:00

永平寺 Eihei-ji: Temple of Eternal Peace

Established in 1244 by Kigen Dōgen, Eihei-ji, Temple of Eternal Peace, is one of two main temples of the Sōtō sect of Zen Buddhism - and Japan's most active meditation monastery since the late 16th century. It's about 30 minutes by bus from Fukui, which is close to the western coast of Honshu and it is home to about 50 elders and 250 black-robed trainees.

Arrive early, if you can, especially during the warmer months when crowds of visitors come.
You'll pay ¥900 for the complete tour, you'll carry your shoes with you in a plastic bag and you'll do your best to get out of the way of the young novices who always seem to be busy doing something - moving from one building to another, climbing stairs, ringing gongs, thumping drums, chanting. Sometimes there's noise, more often there's not. All you'll hear, if you're there at the right time, is the sound of silence.

This serene community, built entirely of wood and connected by covered walkways, is set on the slopes of a mountain, surrounded by cedars. As I discovered recently, to my delight, it's moss-green in summer, serenaded by cicadas and rippling water. In winter, snow arrives to transform the complex into a glistening white mountainscape.

For any visitor to Japan, Eihei-ji is an unforgettable experience.

2007-12-14T11:07:00.001+11:00

Danzón!

The couples dance as if in a trance, moving slowly to the rhythm, seldom speaking.
It's fascinating to watch.

I have visited Mexico three times. One visit was really just a tentative toe over the border, across the Rio Grande in mid-summer, from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros - its name improbably borrowed from Spain's patron saint, Santiago Matamoros, St James the Moor Killer (I don't recall my history books talking about Mexican involvement in Spain's expulsion of the Moors). My overwhelming impression was of dust, diesel fumes and decay. On another occasion, I flew in to Mexico City for a brief visit. The diesel fumes were still here, but the city, buzzing busy as a beehive, dazzled with graphically stylish facades and silvery skyscrapers. I munched ripe melons in the zona rosa, communed with mummified monks (Mexico's obsession with death is on display everywhere) and puffed my way to the top of the ancient Aztec pyramids on the city's periphery. I came home armed with pottery and glass and paper-mache, primitive but beautiful. I have them still.

Girl in toyshop, Zona Rosa

Campesino waits to cross the street

University facade

Piñata

Zona Rosa cafe

Diego Rivera mural detail

Shop facade, Zona Rosa

Mummified monk

Atop the pyramid (no that's not me!)

Later, much later, I came back to Mexico, this time to discover what I had previously missed: danzón! In Córdoba, every Thursday afternoon, in the large plaza by the cathedral, the band arrives, brass instruments reflecting the sun. A few oom-pah-pahs later and couples, mostly middle-aged, move closer and the dancing begins. Danzón has its origins in Cuba, where it is very popular, and it is now part of the cultural scene in many parts of Mexico, especially in the state of Veracruz. The couples dance as if in a trance, moving slowly to the rhythm, seldom speaking. It's fascinating to watch. As the sun sets, the band departs and the dancers take their leave. They'll be back next Thursday.

In the luminous city of Veracruz, on the Gulf coast, I watched danzón with delight once more. It was late afternoon, dusk had arrived and large black birds were settling down with much cackling in the almendra trees which shade the park by the plaza. As the band tootled and the lights flickered on, the dancers were slow-moving shadows on the darkening square. Danzón! Mexican magic. And you're invited.

2007-12-11T16:03:00.001+11:00

Shikoku

If you're here, as I am, in autumn, strings of bright orange persimmons will be hanging to dry in the sun—a dazzling counterpoint to all those dark cedar beams, sliding paper doors and pine-shaded walkways. All that is missing from this dream is the sound of a shakuhachi flute floating in from the garden.

It is mid-morning on the island of Shikoku and the mountains beyond the small fishing town of Iyo, where I am staying in a tiny wooden house, change from sun-drenched green to shadowed blue haze and then, around the next bend, to green again as we speed along the expressway, through a dozen tunnels, towards Uchiko. This is the mountain town that the Japanese government deems extra special, and protects with heritage orders. Mitsu is with me. My architect friend wants me to see the other Japan, the hidden world that the centuries have barely changed, away from the gleaming steel and glass of the big cities. We pass a sign that warns of wild boars which roam free in the mountains. "There are deer here in the mountains, too" Mitsu says, "and deeper in the mountains, small bears." I look up and see, terraced on surrounding slopes, small farms, with neat vineyards and orchards. "Kiwi fruit" Mitsu tells me, pointing to a property. "Strawberries grow here, too - and persimmons, grapes, pears, peaches and apples. This is November. The apples are ready to be picked."

Persimmons dry in the sun, Uchiko

Like most travelers who come to Japan, I first explore the fabled Osaka-Kyoto-Tokyo circuit to the north, in Honshu. But I am determined not to miss, as most visitors do, the rustic tranquility that Shikoku offers. This is the smallest and least populous of the four main islands of Japan. Mountains that run east and west divide Shikoku into a narrow northern subregion, facing the Inland Sea, and a southern part bounded by the Pacific. Most of the 4.5 million inhabitants live in the north and its larger cities are located there. So I extend my stay and fly down to Matsuyama, an easy one hour flight from Tokyo. It's in Ehime prefecture, which straddles the northern coast of the island. And Ehime has a lot to offer— Seto Inland Sea National Park with islands of various sizes that are visible from the coast, Omogokei gorge with towering cliffs and waterfalls and Mt. Ishizuchi, the highest peak in western Japan.

Pilgrims, Shikoku

After the Honshu razzle-dazzle I've just seen, the peace here is palpable. Matsuyama seems unhurried and infinitely gracious, with its lake-fringed parkland, ancient castle, quaint tramways and popular Dogo-onsen Hot Spring, a public bath and an important cultural asset. At night, I stand and watch the kimono-clad patrons of Dogo-onsen stroll about under lamplight, turning the area into contemporary kabuki, or so it seems to me.

Matsuyama city (above) and Dodo-onsen Hot Spring

Iyo is a 30 minute train ride west from Matsuyama along the coast. Here, too, is serenity on smaller scale. I live for a few days Japanese-style, sleeping on tatami, munching soba noodles, okanomiyaki (a delicious cabbage omelete) and grilled eel. I wander about, taking in the local scene— fishing smacks that creak and sigh on blue water, roadside artisans who chip away at marble to create gods and monsters, traditional wooden houses that cast long shadows on cobbled streets, and—one whisper-quiet afternoon— a tiny woman in grey who, unaware of my presence, approaches a shrine by the sea. She stands silent, claps her hands, communes with her ancestors. And then, just as suddenly, she is gone.

Street scene, Iyo

So up we go now, into the mountains which rise behind Iyo, to Uchiko. Founded in 1271, this small rural community grew into a village serving the local farmers. By the Edo Period (1603-1867) the village had become a town and later, during the Meiji Period (1868-1912) wax and paper production became important to the local economy. At the Kami-Haga residence and Wax Museum, easy to locate on the main shopping street, you go back in time. Here, wealthy wax merchants lived and created wax products, like candles. I wander, shoeless, through the house, and later observe how wax was made—I even see wax berries hanging from a sumac, or wax tree. If you're here, as I am, in autumn, strings of bright orange persimmons will be hanging to dry in the sun—a dazzling counterpoint to all those dark cedar beams, sliding paper doors and pine-shaded walkways. All that is missing from this dream is the sound of a shakuhachi flute floating in from the garden. Shikoku, by the way, is pilgrim-country and many Japanese come here to trudge from temple to temple (there are 88 altogether, one in Uchiko) wearing traditional attire—woven hat and leggings and a stout cane. Watch for them.

Kami-haga house facade; display in wax museum; house interior; shadowed paving stones in the garden

Not far from Uchiko, Ozu offers another glimpse of old Shikoku. If it's summer (June to August), you're in for a treat. After dark, you can sit on a houseboat that floats on the river, drink warm sake by torchlight and watch black-robed fishermen use tethered cormorants to catch fish. A bird swivels and disappears into the dark water, and suddenly – splash– there it is, with a sliver of silver wiggling frantically in its beak. These smart birds receive a lot of loving care and are just like members of the family, which must be why they live around three times longer than their wild brothers and sisters.

Cormorant fishing, Ozu

East of Matsuyama, in Tokushima Prefecture, lies the Iya Valley, and if you have time, you might want to visit this mist-wreathed region of wooded mountains and silent valleys, strung about with vine bridges (steel cable is artfully hidden under the vines) and dotted with thatched farmhouses that date back centuries. It's not the easiest place to get to, and, alas, concrete and electric pylons have intruded, but there are bus services and places to stay, including Chiiori House, made famous by Alex Kerr whose love affair with Old Japan (and anguish at the New) is detailed in his book, Lost Japan. Kerr's first view of Iya— "rivers were tinged with emerald, and the towering cliff faces looked like carved jade" are enough to entice me there, when I return, as I must, to Shikoku.

Vine bridge, Iya Valley

2007-12-11T10:49:00.000+11:00

Blue Sky. Red Desert. Silver City.

...the producers of Mad Max (and many other movies) came here to use the sweeping red panorama as a backdrop. It is magnificent. A seemingly limitless horizon - you can almost see the curvature of the earth from this vantage point.

It's high summer, 1883, out in the hot red desert country in western NSW, as a miner from Cornwall, one of many here (because of their mining skills) carefully and painstakingly drills a hole, slowly turning a steel bar while his partner wields a heavy hammer. It’s slow and painstaking work, in this era before power tools - turn, hammer, turn, hammer - until the hole is deep enough. Now the miner takes black powder - gunpowder - and lights a fuse. Quickly, he retreats to a safe place and waits till he hear a dull thud and the sound of splitting rock. The rock pieces that fall away gleam in the candlelight. Packed into that rock, waiting to be crushed and smelted, is silver.

Miners at work in Silverton circa 1895

The miners, strong and tough, earn 7/6d per week. The young boys who help, some as young as 14, earn 1/3d. Life is hard. Water comes by horse and cart and costs a shilling a barrel. Lunch underground is bread and jam. There's a working smelter up on a hill, to separate the minerals from the rock, and scattered all around are small rock-walled dwellings with canvas roofs to house hundreds of miners - along with the inevitable ladies of the night. This was a place called Silvertown, later Silverton, and this mining venture marked the beginning of activity and exploration that would see, a few years later, major ore discoveries close by - and the rise of what was to become a thriving mining community and a significant Outback city.

The red desert that surrounds Silverton

It's high summer, 2007. I'm here, same spot, about to see and explore what remains of the mine, today called Day Dream Mine. Caretaker Beth is my guide. She gives me a belt with battery, a helmet with a spotlight attached, and down we go, into the remains of the mine to try to get a sense of what it must have been like, way back when. Outside, the sun blazes high in a blue sky, but down here, in these narrow corridors chiselled out over a century ago, it is cooler. The Cornishmen worked here by candlelight. Such huge effort, such primitive tools, so long ago. But Beth assures me the effort was worthwhile. Our spotlights pick out silvery glitters in the rock above our heads. The rock mined here, the silver it ultimately produced, returned handsome dividends for the mine owners: $10,000 in the first year alone - a fortune in today’s dollars.

The entrance to Day Dream Mine; the approach to the mine

The red earth I see all about me when I finally climb out of the mine contrasts quite dramatically with what I saw earlier that morning, as my CountryLink train raced past neighbouring Menindee, on the Darling River, which supplies much of Broken Hill’s water needs. Days ago, heavy rains had inundated the region, and already golf-course green grass covered the ground as far as the eye could see. This was causing much excitement among the local animal population - feral goats were nibbling and then dashing away as the train approached. Sheep, too, came close to the track, flocks of emus danced about in celebration and kangaroos anticipated a tasty meal before the sun rose high in the sky. It was an enthralling sight.

Kangaroos shelter from the midday sun

And then, after a relaxing and comfortable trip, we reached the end of the line - Broken Hill, popularly known as The Silver City, and set at one end of the Barrier Range, 48 km east of the South Australian border. The city sits 304 m above sea level and has a population of about 22,000. Although mining created Broken Hill and is the source of its wealth, it is also an important centre for pastoralists, many of whom have huge sheep properties. Millions of wool-producing Merinos are protected from dingos by a 600km fence.

Before coming out here, I’d researched the region, and as I wander around, I discover that history is a tangible presence, above the ground and under it; it permeates the countryside as far as the eye can see. The vast semi-arid desert, dotted with blue-grey saltbush, truly beguiles. For 30,000 years, the Willyama people lived here, until the arrival of explorers like Charles Sturt who noted, in 1844, a “broken hill” in the diary of his journey. Sturt was followed by settler-pastoralists (including two sons of novelist Charles Dickens) and in the early 1880s by prospectors. When valuable minerals were discovered, miners came in their thousands and a syndicate was formed to lay claim to the area. What had been discovered was beyond their wildest imaginings - a massive lode containing silver, lead and zinc, an orebody shaped like a boomerang, 7km long and 220 m wide. Head frames, powerhouses, workshops and winder houses went up along the top of the ridge that held the lode and lower down, on the slopes, smelters were constructed. The syndicate became The Broken Hill Proprietary Company and ”the broken hill” in northwest New South Wales became one of the world’s main suppliers of lead and silver, setting the stage for a new start to Australian industrial development.

But I’m still in Silverton, and before leaving, I look around the atmospheric old “ghost town” that squats in the dust - isolated yet an integral part of the Broken Hill experience. The famous pub is here, a cafe and some art galleries (there are many artists resident in the region) along with two restored churches. Don’t be surprised if a camel strolls by - you can even enjoy a sunset camel ride if you feel so inclined. Not far away, you can look towards Mundi Mundi Plain, to a view you’re not likely to forget; small wonder the producers of Mad Max (and many other movies) came here to use the sweeping red panorama as a backdrop. It is magnificent. A seemingly limitless horizon - you can almost see the curvature of the earth from this vantage point. The pub, incidentally, has pictures from various movie productions on display along with other classic Australiana.

The old hotel, Silverton; "Mad Max" country

Thirty minutes back along the road and I’m in Broken Hill. The first thing that strikes me is how similar the city centre is to many others I’ve seen in country Australia - Bathurst immediately comes to mind. The same wide streets, angle parking, classic old buildings, unhurried atmosphere, friendly greetings. Pubs, too. Many are ancient, including the Palace Hotel (1889) with its long verandahs casting welcome shade and cast-iron balustrades. It featured in the movie, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

But as familiar as it looks, Broken Hill is different, because it backs onto a massive grey-black wall of rubble and smelted leftovers, maybe 100m high. It runs the length of the town, and leaves the visitor in no doubt as to what Broken Hill is all about. Up top, a handsome restaurant called Broken Earth gives me great food and a grandstand view of the city. And after I order (Tuscan burger with marinated eggplant and roasted peppers) I walk the few metres over to the city’s Miner’s Memorial, where hundreds are listed and recalled - names, dates and cause of death. It’s a sober reminder of the perils underground, and up here, overlooking the mines and the city, an appropriate place for quiet remembrance

Smeltered leftovers rise high behind the old Palace Hotel

Mining back in those early days was tough, conditions were often dangerous, wages were low and fat profits went into the pockets of the syndicate. It’s not surprising that the emergence of a strong union movement - and industrial action - is woven into the tapestry of this city from its very beginning. Strikes were common. A strike in 1892 to protest the use of scab labour saw union leaders imprisoned. Many strikes were to follow, up and into the new century, culminating in a work stoppage in 1920 that would make life better for the miners.

Today, the industry is constantly changing; the 3,000 miners needed to extract ore has been trimmed down to just 600, thanks to computerized equipment. You can see the action at Delprats Underground Tourist Mine. It’s a 2-hour tour, deep in the bowels of the earth. You descent in a cage, just as the miner’s do, with your helmet and spotlight. Go south on Iodine Street, cross the railway tracks and turn right following the signs. Tours are held at 10.30 am weekdays and at 2 pm on Saturdays. You should arrive 15 minutes before the tour starts.

I am in the old Trades Hall now, a graceful building featuring stained glass, a fine polished wooden staircase, union banners and memorabilia - and a huge banquet hall, with a handsomely decorated ceiling in pale green. Here, the history of Broken Hill comes to you not with a whisper but a defiant shout. On the walls are portraits of union officials cleverly created in crushed stone, in display cases are rows of buttons worn with pride by men long since gone to their rewards. The hall was built from 1898 to 1905, for the Barrier Industrial Council, which was an amalgamation of eighteen unions. Its foundation stone was laid by the father of Federation, Sir Henry Parkes.

Facade of the old Trades Hall

Broken Hill is a surprisingly green city. For this, the locals owe much to a local named Albert Morris, who lobbied (in the 1930s) for a protective reserve around the town to keep dust storm damage to a minimum. And, helpful to a visitor like me, plaques at regular intervals offer capsule histories of streets and sites. These wide thoroughfares are named mostly for minerals or chemicals or for Broken Hill bigwigs. It’s easy to find your way around, and there are plenty of good motels, cafes and restaurants to make your visit comfortable and carefree. When you arrive, I suggest you head first to the local Visitor’s Centre and pick up a map to assist you on your walking tour of the city. The brochure gives details of important buildings and heritage sites like the museum with its display of old locomotives, railway machinery and minerals, or Australia’s first mosque, built in 1891 for Muslim camel drivers from Afghanistan and India, or the Royal Flying Doctor Service headquarters. There’s a Driving Tour map, too, called The Silver Trail - get one, rent a car and you’ll get to see what I saw.

It’s time now to head for Broken Hill’s many art galleries. The late Pro Hart heads the list, of course. The famed artist’s gallery features a remarkable collection of Australian works - Albert Tucker, Arthur Boyd, Norman Lindsay, John Perceval, Charles Blackman, David Boyd and Fred Williams. A room is devoted to works by William Dobell. Pro Hart was born in Broken Hill in May 1920 and he worked underground as a miner before before devoting his life to art. He loved to collect vintage cars, including Rolls Royces (one is covered with his artwork). The three-storey gallery is at 108 Wyman Street, open 9-5 weekdays and Sunday afternoons.

No visit to Broken Hill would be complete without a visit to the Silver City Art Centre and Silver City Mint - and, later, as the sun sets, to the sculptures in the Living Desert. The Art Centre, at 66 Chloride Street, contains a superb collection of art along with hand-crafted jewelry pieces in silver. This gallery is home to The Big Picture, which is an understatement if ever there was one. In a specially designed space is the world’s largest painting on canvas, 100 metres long and over 12 metres high, stretched in a circle around you. The painting features the landscape of the region, along with local animals, reptiles and birds. Painted by Peter Andrew Anderson, it was opened to the public in 2001. It is a breathtaking accomplishment.

Painting and jewelry on sale, Silver City Art Centre

The Living Desert (and Sculpture Symposium) is on the northern outskirts of Broken Hill, along Nine Mile Road. Its 2,400 hectares contain aboriginal sites, a regeneration reserve and panoramic views from rocky outcrops. On one of these are twelve huge sandstone sculptures, carved by artists from around the world, including indigenous Australians. They are monumental, majestic and perfectly complement the site’s natural beauty, especially as they catch the setting sun. Stand in the silence, watch a wedge tail swoop high in the sky, marvel at this pristine landscape as shadows lengthen and dusk arrives. I can’t think of a better way to conclude a visit to Broken Hill and Australia’s accessible Outback.

View to the Pinnacles from The Living Desert lookout

http://www.visitbrokenhill.com.au

2007-06-20T14:15:00.002+10:00

The Road to the Taj

The road to the Taj is a road well traveled, by man and by beast. It's a road that teems with life from sunrise until well after dark. Humanity lives and works and chatters and cooks and eats and drinks and laughs and bargains and gossips and sells and buys (among the more mentionable things) on each side of this road, which usually bakes under an unforgiving sun. At the end of this road, the Taj promises a glimpse of utter tranquility, this monumental and mysterious memorial, this dream in gleaming white marble.

We enter through the gardens, a woman faints in the heat and is quickly surrounded by saris...and there, there it is...

2007-05-11T11:30:00.002+10:00

A Taste of Taiwan

Speeches followed, and then it was time to push the button and bring that great pig to life. The ceremony was accompanied by massed drummers - an exhilarating theatrical performance. A last triumphant shout and the boar appeared out of the darkness in a rainbow of colour as fireworks exploded in sky above. Pure magic.

Festival decorations, Taiwan

Like many Australian travelers I'd never really given much thought to Taiwan as a place to visit. If I thought of it at all, it was in a political context. Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalist government fleeing the mainland in 1949 as Mao's Communists took over, the sabre rattling and uneasy peace that followed. Today, Taiwan’s leaders are much less confrontational and, with a recent visit by the country's newly-elected president to Beijing, rapprochement of some kind seems likely.

So I knew a bit about the politics. But did I know anything about the island that lies 160km off China's coast? Very little. That was about to change.

Taiwan is about half the size of Tasmania with a population much the same as Australia's. Its people speak Taiwanese, Mandarin and a variety of aboriginal languages. There was significant migration from Fujian province in mainland China in the sixteenth century, followed by incursions by the Portuguese (who called it Ilha Formosa, Beautiful Island), the Dutch, the Spanish and most recently - until 1945 - Japan. For a time it was a haven for pirates. Although native Taiwanese (who are mostly ethnic Chinese) remain a majority, the island's demographic profile changed irrevocably when millions of immigrants from the mainland arrived in the late 1940s. The nine main tribes which made up the island's indigenous population have been submerged but remain a vocal group and a reminder of ancient times. The country has a dynamic economy, exporting electronic and computer goods, textiles and clothing to its major trading partners - the US, Japan and China (via Hong Kong).

I flew into Taipei aboard a brand new China Airlines Airbus 330, with symbolic plum blossom decorating its tail. It was a smooth flight from Sydney direct to Taipei - lots of new video bells and whistles, excellent food, friendly service. The jet was full, because it was Chinese New Year, the time for family reunions.

And being New Year, it was spring in Taiwan with blossom out, or mostly out. I hadn't realized that the island is sub-tropical and the humid heat, especially in the south, was a surprise. Taipei, the country's capital, was spruced up for the celebrations - and first glance at this modern city reminded me of Osaka, in Japan. This initial impression was reinforced when I went shopping.

During my week in Taiwan, I got to see "the other China", learn something of its history, and marvel at its geographic diversity. Although it's the mainland that most people think of when they plan a China visit, Taiwan has many secret pleasures which set it apart from Big Daddy on the other side of the water. Here are some of them.

Taipei trio

There's much to do and see in this busy yet laid-back metropolis, which is like many prosperous Asian cities. Here are three stand-outs to put on your must-see list.

—When the nationalists arrived here, they came not only with 600,000 soldiers but also China's national art treasures, which are now housed in the impressive National Palace Museum in Taipei. These had been protected on the mainland when the Japanese invaded by moving them west, and they now had a new home. These artifacts, many from the Forbidden City in Beijing, provide the perfect introduction to classic Chinese art and culture. The collection includes paintings, sculpture, calligraphy, porcelain and jade pieces that are breathtakingly beautiful. The famous jade cabbage is here. The National Palace Museum, which sits on the side of a wooded mountain on the city's periphery, has been expanded and its souvenir shop is well worth a visit before you leave.

—The importance of the military to the island's security (jet fighters are a constant presence) is evidenced in the city's Military Martyrs' Shrine - a memorial to all who died in various expeditions and campaigns. At the imposing entrance gate, specially trained young soldiers stand guard - spic and span, ramrod straight, still and silent as statues. These honour guards, from all three services, change every hour from 9 thru 5, and it's an impressive ceremony, choreographed with military precision.

Nightscape with Taipei 101

—Taipei 101 is, for now, the world's tallest building, 508 metres, 101 floors - and, whew! you reach the summit in the world's fastest elevator. I visited the building on a bleak day, so my view was interrupted by passing clouds and mist, but I saw enough to make me go weak at the knees. It's a long way down to those rooftops. Several floors in the lower level atrium offer the visitor upmarket shopping, and by upmarket I mean Tiffany and its kin. Take your wallet. Taipei 101 is the place to go for a skyhigh experience - and on a clear day, as the song goes, you can see forever.

“Call me Venerable”

Located in Kaohsiung, south of Taiwan, Fo Guang Shan, which means Buddha's Light Mountain, is the largest Buddhist monastery - and the largest charitable organization - in Taiwan. The Zen order was founded in 1967 by Hsing Yun, a Chinese monk, to promote Humanistic Buddhism and make it relevant in the lives of people everywhere. The Master is an old man now, and he lives here, but I didn't see him.

This huge complex on many levels has shrines, hotel accommodation, school, offices - and it's home to hundreds of Buddhist monks and nuns. I arrived in the afternoon and was pleasantly surprised at the room I was offered - it had an ensuite bathroom, a comfortable bed, even a TV. This is not luxury accommodation by any means but you wouldn't look for or expect that at a monastery. Soon after I settled in, I had a chat with "call me Venerable" Bhiksuni Chuehmen, an English-speaking, brown-robed nun who arrived here from Singapore about twenty years ago and who has risen through the ranks, if I can put it that way, to become an official in the order's international outreach. She was quite a character, an ever-smiling source of esoteric information, her dark eyes sparkling with passion and humour behind glasses with round wire frames. I was encouraged to go take a look around the monastery's gardens, up as far as the gigantic Buddha which beams beatifically from the hilltop to the local population below. As the weather looked threatening, I took her advice. I wandered along terraced walkways, under festive lantern decorations, past regiments of gold-painted buddhas (I stopped counting when I reached 270 - or was it 370?) until I reached the top and the towering 40m high Buddha. Then the rains came, a torrential downpour that had me racing for cover. Fortunately, I was able to coax a young boy with a large umbrella to shepherd me back to my quarters.

That night, the rain stopped and the Venerable took charge again and I got to ring the monastery's huge bell, practice calligraphy and meditate. From the moment I arrived until late at night, the monastery and its gardens echoed with the sound of chanting from hidden speakers. That sound, melodic and repetitious, remains with me. Visitors can come here for a night or a week or longer, enjoying the strict but tasty vegetarian cuisine and taking religious instruction if they wish. This Chinese Mahayana Buddhist monastic order is now established around the world - even on a hillside near Wollongong, NSW.

Light up the night

I arrived for Chinese New Year, so my timing was perfect. The major Taiwan cities now take it in turns to host the spectacular Lantern Festival (also known as Shang Yuan Festival) and this year the event was held in Chiayi, an hour south of Taipei on the smooth-as-silk High Speed Train and not far from Tainan. The city authorities put on quite a show, and if you are planning a visit to Taiwan, and are ready to be enchanted, do so at this time of year.

A huge area was set aside for the festival and when I got off the bus in the afternoon, people were arriving in their thousands. In the daylight that remained, I saw decorative lanterns everywhere - from simple paper lanterns to giant gravity-defying constructions. Lanterns, lanterns everywhere - lanterns that looked like birds and fish and beasts and people and ships and airplanes - many crafted by schoolchildren and entered in competition, others created by artists or by corporations. And in the centre, surrounded by this colourful cavalcade, stood a massive 5 story-high boar, tusks and all, symbolizing the newly arrived Year of the Pig.

When it was finally dark, the lanterns lit up the night in dazzling display. But the best was yet to come. Surrounded by police escort, the country's Prime Minister and then its President arrived. Speeches followed, and then it was time to push the button and bring that great pig to life. The ceremony was accompanied by massed drummers - an exhilarating theatrical performance. A last triumphant shout and the boar appeared out of the darkness in a rainbow of colour as fireworks exploded in sky above. Pure magic.

Aboriginal adventures

The Formosan Aboriginal Culture Village, in Nan-t’ou, central Taiwan, is a theme park with a difference. Ignore the razzmatazz rides which lie in wait to trap the unwary and head for the skyway which will lift you up over gardens and woods and up to the top of a mountain. You'll see thatched villages below as you ascend - and you'll be taking a close up look at these when you get off and start your walk down back to the Village entrance gate.

The major Austronesian-related tribes are all represented here, so you can see what they looked like, how and where they lived. The Ami, Atayal, Bunun, Paiwan, Puyuma, Rukai, Saisiat, Shao, Tsou and Yami - each tribe with its own distinctive dress and customs. Their languages are related, yet different and their traditions of weaving, song and dance are popular in contemporary Taiwan. Physically, I have read, the indigenous people resemble Filipinos - particularly the facial bone structure - but I also thought I saw, as I watched them dance, reminders of the North American Indian. Maybe it was the feathers.

The houses you'll explore are fascinating - and halfway down the mountain you'll get to see a special display of song and dance. It's colourful and lively - and surprising. Surprising, because on an island that seems overwhelmingly Chinese, here, suddenly, is a window into a world that's very different. A world that’s still here, preserved for you to experience and enjoy.

Butterfly bouquet

Forget Formosan Village's "European" garden, which is colourful, manicured kitsch, but head for the amazing Orchid Plantation in Houbi, Tainan County. Started by an orchid enthusiast a few years ago as a tiny one-man nursery, Orchid Plantation is now a large operation, exporting to the world and specializing in the exquisite Butterfly Orchid. I've never really been an orchid fan, viewing them as cold and trifle pretentious, but I have to admit that the display in the greenhouses here are positively jaw-dropping in their perfection and variety. The visitor goes from the baby nursery, where hundreds, thousands of tiny green babies peep out at you from bottles, to preschool, thru primary and then to graduation - gorgeous, massed blooms ready to be shipped.

Blooming beautiful at Orchid Plantation

Marvellous munching

In Taipei: Din Tai Feng is one of few restaurants in Taipei that has earned not only local, but global recognition for its delicious food; Time magazine called it one of the top 10 restaurants in the world. Walk inside and note its bustling lack of pretension. In a central section, behind a window, a dozen cooks busy themselves rolling the dough and creating the dumplings, mostly pork filled, and steamed to perfection. Din Tai Feng is always crowded - arrive at the wrong time and you'll stand in a queue out in the street. Open 10.30am-2pm, 4.30pm-8.30pm Tue-Sun.

In Tainan: the Five Cent Driftwood House is a cavernous, baroque restaurant from Taiwanese designer Xie Li-xiang who creates fanciful spaces combining driftwood, recycled materials, pottery mosaic and lots of glass. To walk inside is like walking into a fairy tale; you half expect to see Red Riding Hood sliding down a banister and a wolf prowl outside amongst the cinnamon trees. The food is equal to this magical environment. Don't miss it.

LaLu on the lake

Lots of fine hotels in Taiwan, but there's nothing to compare with LaLu, which looks out over Sun Moon Lake. From afar, it doesn't look like anything out of the ordinary, but when you walk up through its gardens and into its entrance plaza, you know you're in for something quite special. Designed by Singapore-based Australian architect Kerry Hill to complement the beauty of the lake, LaLu is an all-suite hotel (there are private villas, too) with tariffs to match. Its dramatic simplicity and style - along with ultraluxe facilities and an awe-inspiring view - make it the place to head for if you’re in the mood to celebrate perfection and don't mind lashing out just this once.

LaLu Teahouse overlooks Sun Moon Lake

Villa at LaLu has its own private garden: ultraluxe

Sunset at Sun Moon Lake

Sun Moon Lake offers dreamlike vistas everywhere you look

Sun Moon Lake was a favourite of Chiang Kai-shek. He often came here on holiday, and always stayed at the original LaLu. The day I was here, the lake was blue under a grey sky, thanks to limestone in the water. The surrounding mountains were wreathed in mist. I took an hour-long boat cruise, stopping at a temple and a small island sacred to the original inhabitants. Great drifts of ginger lilies seemed to float on the water, their roots providing shelter for baby fish. On a faraway peak, a pagoda stood silhouetted against a pewter sky. Located in the geographic centre of the country, home to the Shao people, Sun Moon Lake is an unforgettable Taiwan dreamscape.

Mountain high

Taiwan's highest mountain is Jade Mountain, or Yushan, nearly 4,000 m high, but the more accessible Alishan National Scenic Area is a mountain resort and natural preserve located in the mountains of Chiayi County in Taiwan. Originally settled by the Tsou aboriginal tribe, the area contains timbered wilderness, small villages, waterfalls and hiking trails. The area is very popular and Alishan Mountain offers Aaah-inspiring sunset views, Oolong tea and wasabi plantations - and fireflies, March thru June.

Sunrise over Alishan

I visited Alishan on an overcast day. 2,500 metres up, the air was crisp and cool, and mist hovered over cedar slopes. I wandered about, inspecting great moss-covered stumps that the years have hollowed out like caves. Then it was time to take the little mountain train down the mountain. Built by the Japanese to help move timber to the plains, the train offers the visitor panoramic views as it chugs its way down gorges and through tunnels. The terminus is a little village called Fencihu where you can shop for local goodies and meet the Lunch Box King who operates a takeaway restaurant. With his twinkling eyes and wispy white beard, he looks like a character straight out of Chinese opera. Expect mist in the mountains. It adds to the atmosphere.

Shop till you drop

Taipei at night: Shihlin Night Market is close to downtown and sells everything from pet puppies to Portuguese egg tarts. It's a fun place with market prices and you can nibble as you shop.

Taipei by day: Sogo is a huge department store and its shining green tile exterior is a local landmark. Here you can find the best in just about everything (the kids are really well served), restaurants, a multi-floor food court with an astonishing variety of beautifully presented and packaged goodies (shades of Japan) - even presentation packs of the Oolong tea I saw growing back on Alishan Mountain. You'll love it.

http://www.taiwantourism.org

2007-03-28T12:18:00.000+10:00

Sydney's Macquarie Towns

In 1857, one traveller reported, “the poor horses were tried to the utmost by the deep ruts...and hollows of mud. A large load of hay was capsized in the centre of the road and by the side of a hill, a dray full of grain had also upset.”

Chain gang at work

The road to Windsor and beyond is steeped in history, and it echoes, as other Sydney roads do, with a convict’s cries. “Many a tear did I shed”, wrote one, “when contemplating upon my hard fate.” And hard it was. In summer heat or winter sleet, the men of the road gang shuffled along, dragging their clanking leg-irons, cutting and hauling sandstone, sweating in their stained yellow uniforms. Travellers did their best to avert their eyes. “The thought of how awful a crime had led to this disgraceful punishment made me positively dread passing a band of the miserable wretches,” one lady wrote, reaching, no doubt, for a perfumed handkerchief.

Governor Macquarie was in charge of the colony in these early years and it was he who was instrumental in putting Windsor and its neighbour Richmond on the map—which is why they are known today as the Macquarie Towns. In 1794, the first 22 settlers arrived in the Hawkesbury Valley area to plant seed and farm their 30 acres and help feed the growing little community in Sydney Town. But getting here was difficult, through dense bushland, so by 1828, over twelve hundred men toiled in the gangs to connect the Port Jackson settlement to the new agricultural hinterland and then, via the mountain barrier which had been crossed in 1813, to the western plains. The area in and around Windsor, to the northwest and almost in the blue barrier’s shadow, became, quite literally, the colony’s first frontier and many local families can trace their origins back to this pioneering era. It’s an hour’s drive from Sydney today, but in those days, it was a 16-hour trip by wagon, costing seven shillings and six pence, with an overnight stopover at Kelly’s (now Kellyville). Later, a faster passenger service was introduced; 4-horse coaches left Windsor each morning at 5am, arriving in Sydney at 10am, with four changes of horses along the way. But the journey could still be a problem. In 1857, one traveller reported, “the poor horses were tried to the utmost by the deep ruts...and hollows of mud. A large load of hay was capsized in the centre of the road and by the side of a hill, a dray full of grain had also upset.” The arrival of a railway made all the difference, cutting the time for the trip to just two hours.

Fortunately, Francis Greenway was not among those convicts sweating it out on the roads. By this time he was free and making a name for himself as an architect in the new colony. The glorious Georgian buildings that can be seen in Sydney today, like Hyde Park Barracks, are Greenway creations, and so, too, is the great church he designed for the settlers in Windsor. St. Matthew’s Church (1817-1820) is still in use today and in its churchyard lie 26 First Fleeters. A walk around this churchyard is a sometimes poignant and always evocative experience, for here you can see, engraved on stone, the birth of a nation. In fact, many of the churches in this area reflect the tranquillity (and perils) of another age. Beyond St. Matthew’s, you’ll discover Ebenezer Church, the oldest church building in the country, built of stone by local settlers in 1809; St Matthew’s Roman Catholic Church, Windsor, completed in 1840; St Peter’s Church of England, Richmond; St. John’s, Wilberforce and St. James, Pitt Town; St. Andrew’s Uniting Church in Richmond and more. In some, small churchyards provide eloquent testimony to the lives of the local gentry (and occasionally, rogues) who have long since gone to their rewards.

St Matthew's Windsor; a pioneer's grave in the churchyard

Here in Windsor, there’s much to see. Start in Thompson Square (Andrew Thompson was a convict and later a magistrate—his was the very first grave in St Matthew’s churchyard) and visit the Museum and Information Centre. The museum houses a fine collection of militaria and the Information Centre has local records. Next to old Windsor Court House, which has many historic associations. Mary Reibey, transported to New South Wales in her youth for horse stealing and later freed to become a property developer of considerable affluence in the Sydney Rocks area, was found guilty here, in 1817, of an assault on one of her debtors!

Windsor Courthouse; John Tebbutt

Close to the court house you’ll find John Tebbutt’s Observatory, which you can visit —and you can eat here at Tebbutt’s VII restaurant. Tebbutt lived his whole life in the Hawkesbury district. He was born on the 25th May 1834 in Windsor and was educated by local parsons. During his lifetime, John Tebbutt became one of the world’s most accomplished amateur astronomers. A gentleman farmer by occupation, astronomy was his passion—and for nearly sixty years he continued a remarkable astronomical career at his observatories at Windsor. He discovered the Great Comet of 1861 and Comet Tebbutt of 1881, observed the Transit of Venus in 1894 and conducted many meteorological observations. Two of his observatories built in 1879 and 1894 were built to house his telescopes and journals and both still stand on the Tebbutt property, adjacant to the house where he lived, which he built in 1845, surrounded by his fields and close to the confluence of South Creek and the Hawkesbury River. Tebbutt was elected a Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society in London in 1873 for his contribution to astronomy. During his life he published numerous booklets, reports and journals and kept rainfall and flood level statistics. He died on the 29th November 1916, aged 82 and was buried in St. Matthew's churchyard. To honour his many achievements, the International Astronomical Union renamed a lunar crater on the moon in 1973 and for a time he appeared on the Aussie $100 note.

Floods were often a problem in the area

And always, close to the action, is the river. Once an important route for transporting produce to market in eighteenth-century Sydney (the trading boats used to dock at the wharf below Thompson Square) the wide Hawkesbury meanders past the town and has been a source of pleasure—and occasional flood terror— since the early settlers arrived. The river was central to the lives of settlers in Windsor, Richmond and other villages here. It flows past Richmond, too, which is just to the north of Windsor, and, like Windsor, a Macquarie Town with many historic old buildings abd it is surrounded by farms and horse studs. Richmond Air Base is here; the original airfield was at Ham Common, now Clarendon, where, in 1912, a Parramatta dentist, Bill Hart, opened a flying school. This school was subsequently taken over by the NSW Department of Technical Education in 1916 to train pilots for WWI and the location shifted to the present Richmond site in 1923. On the periphery of the region you’ll find St Albans and Wiseman’s Ferry. The Settlers Arms Inn at St Albans, built in 1842 has been restored as a popular drinking hole and is once again attracting visitors. Northeast of Windsor is Ebenezer; its Uniting Church has been serving Presbyterians since 1809 and is still holding services every Sunday at 8am. On the same grounds is the Schoolmaster’s House built in 1817 which is now beautifully preserved as a museum. Pitt Town and Wilberforce are close by, the latter being named a Macquarie Town in 1810. The village here has the oldest timber cottage in Australia still standing on its original site— Rose Cottage, built in 1811—and the old Tizzana winery is also worth a visit. Built in 1887, this superb sandstone building is a local treasure.

The river at Windsor; the river at Wisemans Ferry

The best way to conclude your visit to the Macquarie Towns in the Hawkesbury Valley? Maybe a visit to Wisemans Ferry, on the region’s outer limits. In 1817, Solomon Wiseman constructed his residence, Cobham Hall, now the Wisemans Ferry Inn. He later established what is today the oldest operating ferry service in Australia to supply provisions to the convict workers on
the Great North Road. Solomon was notoriously harsh with the convicts in his employ but he was also a man of vision, lobbying the government for a road through the area that would link Sydney with the Hunter Valley. The road was built and a ferry joined the two sections together. Wiseman was given exclusive rights to ferry passengers across the river. Thus Wisemans cable ferry was born and Solomon operated it until the government bought him out in 1831. It is the oldest ferry service in Australia.

2007-02-24T11:11:00.001+11:00

Hall of Remembrance, Yad Vashem

Yad Vashem, Jerusalem

Atop a hill overlooking golden Jerusalem, Yad Vashem brings us face to face with the Holocaust and the millions who perished during the Nazi era in Europe. It is a profound and poignant place, both beautiful and terrible, lovingly created so that we never forget the unforgettable.

A stunning new museum, mostly underground, replaces the one I visited, presenting the story of the Shoah from a unique Jewish perspective, emphasizing the experiences of the individual victims through original artifacts, survivor testimonies and personal possessions. At the end of the museum’s historical narrative is the Hall of Names - a repository for the Pages of Testimony of millions of Holocaust victims - a memorial to those who perished.

A boxcar donated by the Polish government at Yad Vashem

Boxcars arrive at Auschwitz

In the new Hall of Names, Yad Vashem

Yitzhak Perlman returns to Cracow

Simon Srebnik returns to Chelmno

2007-02-08T23:34:00.000+11:00

Dreamtime Country

In this part of the country you'll see Ghost Gums, with their gleaming white trunks; with any luck, a parrot, like some feathered rainbow, will scream at you from the branches and high in the sky, a wedge-tailed eagle will swoop, in lazy circles, looking for a tasty tidbit

The vibrant colours of the Australian Outback

Years ago, when I was living in Melbourne, I came to know a genial character who was known as Bill "Nugget" Morton. A chunky, balding man in his sixties, Morton was a spinner of yarns, a teller of tales. Back before the First World War, he'd ridden his bicycle from the city up into the Dreamtime country, Australia's strikingly beautiful outback. After a thousand miles of hard riding through the heat and dust, Nugget arrived in the outback's unofficial capital, Alice Springs. He worked for a few years riding with cattle along spinifex trails, putting his savings ultimately into his own spread, building himself a wattle daub homestead and importing a city girl for his bride. His life was one long adventure - and after making a fortune in cattle and minerals, he left the land he loved to retire in greater comfort in the big city.

In those faraway days, the outback was peopled with characters like Nugget, most of whom would drift in and out of the Alice to take on supplies, booze it up and then disappear for another year. The place was, until a few years ago, little more than a shanty town, with a main street, a couple of pubs, some stores, a police station (with black trackers on constant call), some camels wandering about, the Flying Doctor Service and a railway terminal. Underground water sustained the town and made it green, an oasis of sorts in a parched environment. Scattered amongst the trees were the houses of the folk who lived there - railway men, mostly, police, the doctor, government workers, shopkeepers. The town was a tiny flyspeck in a vast sea of spinifex, a green garden in the red centre. Its few visitors didn't linger too long, because there was nothing much to do. I couldn't help but reflect, as we approached Alice Springs after a smooth jetflight from the south, that old Nugget wouldn't know the place today.

Budgerigars nest close to Alice Springs

Alice Springs today is a thriving town of neat homes on tree-lined streets, contemporary air-conditioned hotels and motels, restaurants, galleries selling aboriginal bark paintings and boutiques catering to the tourist with a variety of Australiana. And recently, a train dubbed the Ghan made an appearance, to provide travelers in these parts with a lazy and very luxe way to travel, away from the heat and dust. But the place is more than that; it is your stepping-off point to the wonders of the Dreamtime Country. The traveller who has eaten his fill of Sydney's luscious rock oysters, who has surfed at Palm Beach, cuddled a koala, seen Aida at the opera house, might well ask: okay, how can I top this? The answer lies to the north and to the west, in Australia's last great frontier. There's beauty here to equal Sydney's thrusting skyline and its brilliant blue water - and it's much easier to get here than it was in Nugget's time. Today, a jet will get you there in a few relaxed hours. Once you've arrived, prepare yourself for sights the like of which you have never seen before.

Alice Springs today; the Ghan leaves the Alice for Darwin

You can make your way to Australia's Dreamtime Country (the aboriginals call their past the Dreamtime and recall it through tribal dancing and ritual and in paintings left long ago on the walls of caves) on your own, or with a tour group. If you're travelling alone, book well in advance. If you take the package tour, one trip you'll make is to Ayers Rock. You'll fly from the Alice in a small plane via the Macdonnell Ranges, which sweep in a boomerang arc, east and west of the town. Originally around fifteen thousand feet high, the ranges have been eroded over millions of years and deep gorges have been cut by rivers long since gone. The highest peak in the range is 5,000 feet high. There are spectacular red-walled gorges here (you'll visit one later) but, for the moment, you'll admire it from the air as you wing your way towards an even more remarkable sight, Ayers Rock.

Uluru

Ayers Rock, or Uluru, as the native Australians call it, looks like a large orange pebble as you approach it now; it is, in fact, the rounded sandstone tip of a huge sandstone "iceberg" which sleeps silent under the red earth. As impressive as it is from the air, it really must be seen from the ground, for, chameleon-like, it changes colour - dark crimson at sunrise, variously pink, purple and brown during the day and crimson again as the sun sets. After your plane lands, you'll explore this monolith, from the caves at its base, with their Aboriginal paintings, to the rounded summit, fourteen hundred feet up. Along the way, your guide will point out the natives' sacred places, used once for secret rituals and now abandoned, remembered only by the oldest men in the tribes. There are many sacred totem places scattered throughout the centre and the north, and time was when a stranger encamped on or near them at his peril. I remember Nugget telling me of the night he camped, in all innocence, on such a sacred place. During the night, a dozen warriors crept up to his camp; he escaped with a head wound from a nulla nulla (an aboriginal club) and thereafter carried on his skull a hole the size of a quarter as a souvenir of the occasion.

From the summit of Ayers Rock, you get a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside-and you'll see a pale mauve jumble of boulders in the distance. This odd range is Mt Olga. If you half close your eyes, you'll swear you're looking at some strange Byzantine temple, its many domes shimmering in the sun.

The Olgas

Next day, you might like to visit a cattle station where, under the watchful gaze of an Aboriginal guide, you'll learn how to throw a boomerang, test your skill with a stock whip and, if you're so inclined, ride a horse along outback trails. While you're here, you'll get a taste of pioneer days, right down to Damper, the outback bread cooked in hot ashes.

Another trip you'll make is to the Macdonnell Ranges, which you saw earlier from the air. This time, you'll go by coach, for a closer look at the gorges which are a photographer's delight. Standley Chasm, the most famous, has walls 240 feet high and only 12 feet wide; when the noonday sun casts its shadows deep into the gorge, the walls turn blood red, vivid contrast to the sliver of blue above. In this part of the country you'll see Ghost Gums, with their gleaming white trunks; with any luck, a parrot, like some feathered rainbow, will scream at you from the branches and high in the sky, a wedge-tailed eagle will swoop, in lazy circles, looking for a tasty tidbit. Here, too, far from the sea, are tall palms which fringe Palm Valley waterholes- a sight almost as odd as the wild camels which roam much of the interior.

The Macdonnell Ranges; a Ghost Gum; wild camels; a saltwater croc lies in wait

Further adventures lie in store for the traveller who journeys north, from Alice Springs to Darwin, the outpost town on the country's far-north coast. You can fly there from the Alice, or from any major capital - or take the Ghan. Darwin, named for the scientist who visited these shores aboard the Beagle, rewards with an ambience that's straight out of a Somerset Maugham story. The place was hit by a hurricane some years ago and almost flattened, but with true Aussie spirit it quickly bounced back as vital and as offbeat as ever.

Flame Tree glows up north

The north country, with Darwin at its centre, has great herds of buffalo drinking at rivers which are alive with crocodiles. Once Nugget was crossing just such a river in a dinghy with his dog. A huge croc almost swamped the boat as it leapt out of the water to snatch the dog with its powerful jaws. You'll meet buffalo and crocodile hunters here, and, in all likelihood, Japanese pearl fishermen, Australian cattlemen and uranium miners, American rice growers, French nuns from Noumea, Chinese cooks and Aboriginals sitting in the shade of the flame trees. The new, rebuilt Darwin has something for everyone if you have the time and are looking for an experience out of the ordinary.

2007-02-08T13:38:00.000+11:00

Across Australia on the Indian-Pacific

This remarkable woman, with her long skirts and button-up boots, lived in a tent and treated the natives like family. They, in turn, called her Kabbarli, grandmother. She transcribed their legends, did her best to prevent them eating their new-born babies, learned 117 different dialects, buried eleven of her Aboriginal friends in the sand hills with her own hands. Ill health forced her return to the city, where she died in 1951

On the logo, an eagle links the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean

It takes three days, it's occasionally tedious, often fascinating, sometimes even hypnotic. You cross this island continent from one side to the other, from the shores of the Indian Ocean to the Pacific. The aptly named "Indian-Pacific" is one of the world's great trains and the crossing is, surely, one of the world's great journeys.

I made the trip from Perth to Sydney. I have travelled this way before, by air, staring down through wisps of cloud to what looks like a great sheet of wrinkled brown paper below. But I'd always wanted to cross the country by train, getting the look and feel and smell of the place, following in the path of the trail-blazers, many of whom left their bleached bones behind as mute witness to the hostility of the Outback. So by train I came. Along the way, I saw Australia's rugged interior, with its grazing sheep and pale gold pastureland. I saw kangaroos, too, and brilliant native parrots whose wings lit up the sky. But, more than anything else, I remember the wide, flat Nullarbor Plain; this strange, barren heartland is, truly, the Great Australian Loneliness.

Thursday 9pm.

Out here in Perth, capital of Western Australia, the day has been summer-bright, with a breeze whispering in from the sea. We have just boarded the train, a sleek, silver express made up of a dozen carriages, including dining car, lounge/observation car and sleeping cars, which offer single Roomette or double Twinette cabins.

In Perth - and ready to leave

Right on time, we glide out into the gathering dusk. Through the big window in my cabin, I see the lights of Perth flicker past. Soon, I see no lights at all-just a thin orange peel of light on the western horizon. There's a knock on my door, and our steward pokes his head in to greet me with a warm Aussie welcome. "Like a wake-up cuppa in the morning, Sir?" he asks. Then I crawl into bed and sleep.

Friday.

When the tea arrives at 6.30 next morning, we have already travelled over 650 km and rows of neat houses on gum-shaded streets announce our arrival at Kalgoorlie. As we pull into the station, the local radio is chattering on about some boisterous youths caught pouring paint over a revered town statue. Ah, rip-roaring Kalgoorlie, living up to its reputation, I think to myself. But out in the square by the station, all is calm and quiet. There's hardly a soul about. I walk along empty streets, trying to conjure up the past. This town was created by the gold rush at the turn of the century. It grew and prospered, attracting adventurers from all over, including the young Herbert Hoover, who managed a mine a few miles north. At one time, Kalgoorlie's Golden Mile was one of the richest and most rambunctious patches of real estate on earth. Echoes of those days remain in classic architecture, fading facades and rusting mineshafts. The stopover here is short, just thirty minutes. So I make my way back to the train, past the obligatory ANZAC statue, a trooper with fixed bayonet, turned to gilt by the rising sun.

Kalgoorlie: classic Australiana

Kalgoorlie sits on the very edge of a vast, featureless plain called Nullarbor, Latin for "no tree". To leave Kalgoorlie is rather like leaving port for the open sea. Very soon, the trees thin out and disappear, to be replaced by saltbush and spinifex, which covers the orange-red face of the plain like grey foam. This is the sea you now traverse. It stretches for hundreds and hundreds of miles in all directions. You stare out at it for hour after hour, seeing nothing, no sign of life, no animal, not even a bird. Just an occasional watery mirage shimmering on the horizon and the sun, a remorseless white eye in the sky.

Outside, it's baking hot. But the train is air-conditioned; my Roomette is cool and comfortable. In the sun's glare, I draw the shade and look around. This cabin has been well designed: lots of nooks and crannies for storage, small closets to hang things, a folding table, a comfy chair that turns into an equally comfortable bed, reading and night lights, a basin with hot and cold water, a foldaway toilet, ice-water on tap, a speaker for music en route. There's no shower (Twinettes have one) but there's one just down the corridor. Soon, our steward will announce the First Sitting for lunch. There are three separate sittings for each meal; I've chosen the Second Sitting, as it's timed just right for me. And the food aboard is just fine. The lunch that awaits me includes Chicken Soup, Egg and Asparagus Salad, Saute of Beef, Roast Turkey and Peach Melba for dessert. I'll probably order a chilled white Australian wine with my lunch, from the well-stocked bar.

As we continue on across the Nullarbor we pass, from time to time, lonely rows of prefab houses, lined up on the side of the track. These outposts, preposterous and incongruous in this environment, are for the men who must maintain the line. They flash past in an instant - Boonderoo, Mundrabilla, Mungala-and then disappear in a haze of heat. Like desert mirages, there one minute and gone the next.

A big red roo watches the train go by

At 3 o'clock in the afternoon, we reach the start of what is called "the longest straight" - 478 km of track without a single curve, the longest such stretch anywhere. As the sun sets, we reach Cook, where the engines take on more diesel fuel. Cook is the social centre of the Nullarbor, a neat little oasis with school, hospital and dance hall, shaded by peppercorn trees. Then we're off again, the setting sun behind us staining the plain blood red.

Cook: a lonely outpost in the middle of nowhere

Much later, around 11 pm, we pass through Ooldea in the darkness and leave the longest straight behind us. I would have liked to visit this little settlement which stands on the eastern fringes of the plain. It was here, in Ooldea, that the legendary Daisy Bates laboured for years, taking care of the Aborigines who gathered in the sand hills close to the track. Born in Ireland in 1817, this remarkable woman, with her long skirts and button-up boots, lived in a tent and treated the natives like family. They, in turn, called her Kabbarli, grandmother. She transcribed their legends, did her best to prevent them eating their new-born babies, learned 117 different dialects, buried eleven of her Aboriginal friends in the sand hills with her own hands. Ill health forced her return to the city, where she died in 1951. A settlement along the track has been named in her honour.

Daisy Bates

Saturday.

Breakfast is over now. We crossed the West Australia/South Australia border in the night, made brief morning stopovers in Port Augusta (boring!) and Port Pirie (equally boring- but we did catch a tantalizing glimpse of the blue waters of Spencer Gulf) and now we're racing up into rolling wheat and sheep country. A dusty yellow haze hangs over the scene. Horses stand quietly in the shade of eucalypts, sheep gather at waterholes, wheatfields ripple in the distance and the galvanized roofs of farm buildings flash like mirrors in the sun.

Rural Australia flashes by

As the afternoon wears on, the scene changes again. Now the terrain is rougher, with saltbush, tall grass and mulga scrub. There are plenty of kangaroos about; they stand, motionless, watching the train go by and then hop away. I see emus, too: a stately group of these big ostrich-like birds walks in single file along the dried up bed of a river, giving us disapproving looks as we disturb their promenade. And, every so often, flocks of pink and grey galahs take to the air and wheel above us, their plumage brilliant against the blue sky.

Kangaroos peep out as we pass by

We're in New South Wales now, near the state's western border. At 8 pm we reach Broken Hill, a large mining city. Lead, silver and zinc are mined here and then shipped to the smelters at Port Pirie. It's been a hot day; when I get out and wander about, the night air smells warm and dusty. But we don't linger. Another half hour and we're on our way. I have a last drink up in the bar, talking with fellow passengers-a teacher from Ethiopia and his French wife. Someone is tinkling away on the piano. The barman yawns. It is midnight.

Sunday.

Wheat and sheep country again, with lots of hills casting deep purple shadows. We are having breakfast when we pull into Parkes, a pleasant country town 446 km from Sydney. Just before lunch we reach Bathurst, the oldest settlement west of the Great Dividing Range. I see great stone houses here, standing in wooded estates, I see farmhouses standing atop hills and LandRovers kicking up the dust on side roads. An hour later, the hills become sharper and more timbered. We have reached the foothills of the range and are about to climb into the Blue Mountains for the hour-long descent into Sydney.

The Blue Mountains: blue ridges, as far as the eye can see

This is a whole different world: crisp air, tall timber, tree-ferns, mountain villages, historic gate houses and bridges built by convict labour, waterfalls that leap off cliffs to disappear into valleys far below and bright red, blue and green parrots that squawk at us from the branches of fruit trees. The Indian-Pacific stops briefly at Lithgow then races over the mountain ridges until it reaches the coastal plain below. With the mountains behind us, we thunder over the Nepean River Bridge, streak and rattle and howl our way through the dry western suburbs and reach Sydney's huge Central terminal at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, on time.

65 hours and 3961 km! It's been quite a trip.

2007-02-08T12:06:00.000+11:00

Australia's Southwest

The beach is a sensuous curve of white sand, a sheltering expanse of flat rock with hidden rock pools that stretches out to sea for hundreds of yards (you can walk out all the way) and water the colour of melted opals

The beach at Yallingup

The question was, when I arrived in Perth, whether I should head north, or south. To the north, in the West's tropical frontier, I could see cattle roam, bananas ripen, pearls glow, crocodiles lurk and strong men wrest iron ore and diamonds from the hot red earth. But it was summer. The south beckoned with a gentler climate- so south I travelled, to where the giant karri grows and on to Albany, the mellow old town that sits at the foot of a mountain, dreaming of its lusty colonial past. But first I discovered Perth. This city of close to a million people claims to have more sunshine than any other city in the country- and official records uphold the claim. The place has a languid Mediterranean air, perfumed by the blossoms of native trees that are unique to this part of the continent. The city is well situated; the Swan River, dotted with black swans and sailboats, meanders past a thrusting contemporary skyline, past King's Park (which gives you a grandstand view of Perth) and on to the sea. Perth nowadays is a city of steel and glass and wide green spaces, but there are plenty of reminders of its formative years-in the slightly cheeky ambience of Hay Street, for example, or in the more formal and decidedly English face of St George's Terrace nearby. After a day or two of looking around, I rented a car so that I could more easily explore the countryside and set off southwards, hugging the coast. My first stop was Mandurah, 78 km from Perth. Here is an ocean beach and a quiet, enclosed estuary, where pelicans parade and where the locals go crabbing at weekends. You can picnic here in a park that straddles the water's edge and later drive to where new developments are being carved out of scrubby sandhills, overlooking the ocean. It's easy to understand why house prices are sky-rocketing in this breezy resort so close to the city. Yallingup, further south on the coast, beyond Bunbury and Busselton, is another world, far removed from the almost suburban Mandurah. If you travel this way in December/January, your road will be lined with the West's spectacular Christmas tree, which is heavy with yellow blossom. You'll see, too, tall stands of the famed Kangaroo Paw, which comes in different varieties- red, green or yellow.

Yallingup (like so many places in the west, it ends in "up" which comes from the local Aboriginal dialect) is approached through rolling, sparsely timbered hills. Suddenly, the road dips- and there ahead is a shimmer of sea. The beach is a sensuous curve of white sand, a sheltering expanse of flat rock with hidden rock pools that stretches out to sea for hundreds of yards (you can walk out all the way) and water the colour of melted opals. The surf here is gentle and the trees on the slopes overlooking the beach have been twisted into a witch's fingers by the prevailing winds. I stopped for a bite to eat at the Old Mill, close to Yallingup. Here, in sloping parkland, shaded by trees and serenaded by bush birds, is an old wooden mill, with a creaking water wheel- cool hideaway on a hot summer's day. You can watch a blacksmith and wood turner practising their craft, visit the mill's art gallery or walk through the surrounding bushland. Cape Leeuwin is about an hour away on the coast road, via the town of Augusta.

Cape Leeuwin and its lighthouse

A scenic drive takes you out past beaches whipped by a stiff breeze, past fishermen casting off the rocks, to the lighthouse which stands alone at the tip of the cape, surveying the junction of the Indian and Southern Oceans. This grey limestone tower stands 128 ft high and was built at the turn of the century. It's open for inspection on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but you must get your ticket first, at the Augusta Museum. From Cape Leeuwin, you have a good half day's drive, through classic Australian countryside, to the town of Denmark, passing through Pemberton and Walpole on the way. When you're just past Walpole, look for the sign that directs you to the Valley of the Giants.

Red gum blossom; Karri forest; Albany Pitcher Plant

Here you'll see the massive karri and marri reaching for the sky, eucalypts that rival the sequoias of California. Take time to seek out the local wildflowers, too- the beguiling White Pincushion, Purple Sarsparilla, Red Helmet Orchid, Pineapple Bush and Albany Pitcher Plant. Albany is east of Denmark, about an hour away. The town, which sits in the shadow of a great hill, has an English look to it, all grey stone and slightly weathered. There's a lot of green here, thanks to the frequent rains which sweep in from the Southern Ocean. Stirling Terrace and York Street, with their classic Victorian facades, strongly evoke the days of sailers and whalers and in the former colonial governor's residence, the Old Farm at Strawberry Hill, is a sampler sewn by Nelson's love, Emma Hamilton. You'll visit the old gaol, down by the waterfront, with its thick whitewashed walls. King George V slept here, so the sign says - although he was a prince at the time.

Stirling Ranges; twin masted ship In Albany Harbour

Beyond the gaol and the twin-masted sailing ship close by is the harbour, one of the three finest in the world. An even better view of the harbour and the surrounding country can be had from atop Mount Clarence, which looms large over the town. A sandstone sculpture sits up here; an ANZAC memorial, it was originally in Egypt but was repatriated after the Suez crisis of 1956. The view from the mountaintop is breathtaking, a 360 degree panorama encompassing the town, Princess Royal Harbour, King George Sound, the Porongurup and Stirling Ranges and the white sand beaches for which Albany is famed.

The rocky coastline near Albany

After sightseeing in the town, go past Middleton Beach to the Old Farm for Devonshire Tea, served in a long, low cottage that's fringed with hollyhocks. Beyond the town, away from the quiet beaches, is the rugged coastline that looks southward to Antarctica. Here is scenery that overpowers with its hostile beauty; giant King waves lash these rocks in winter and signs everywhere warn of the danger. Drive out here to see the Gap, the Blow Hole, the Natural Bridge, Frenchman's Bay and the whaling station, no longer in use. On the way back, you'll look across the bay to see the lights of Albany twinkling reassuringly; this town, founded by a group of soldiers and convicts from Sydney Town back in 1826 and the first settlement in the West, makes a great finale to a tour of Australia's out-of-the-way South-West.

2007-01-17T17:06:00.000+11:00

Day trips from Madrid

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

A horseman walks towards the plaza, Chinchon

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

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

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

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

Plaza Mayor, Chinchon

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

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

The castle, Chinchon

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beautiful Royal palace at Aranjuez

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-01-16T17:16:00.000+11:00

Green Galicia

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

Santiago cityscape

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

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

Pasture and cemetery, Galicia

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

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

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

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

Rias on the Galician coast

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

Horreo and Galician countryside

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

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

The cathedral, Santiago de Compostela

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

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

A foggy day in La Coruña

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

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

2007-01-16T16:28:00.000+11:00

In the steps of Santa Teresa

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

Rocky ramparts, stone walls: Avila

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

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

Santa Teresa de Avila

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

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

Inside the cathedral

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

A cathedral filled with sunlight

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

Juan de la Cruz

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-01-16T12:01:00.000+11:00

The Wies-Dachau Experience

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

Entrance to Dachau and a gate's cynical message

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

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

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

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

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

Rococo dazzles with a golden glow

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

The towering, overpowering altar at Wies church

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

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

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

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

A poignant reminder of terrible times

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

Barbed wire, powerful lights - and the camp crematorium

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

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

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

2007-01-16T11:21:00.000+11:00

Tapa-hopping

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

An economico in Madrid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VideoJug: How To Make Octopus Spanish Style

2007-01-16T09:39:00.000+11:00

Larger-than-life puppets!

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

For links to information about Japan, go here.

2007-01-16T09:17:00.000+11:00

The Gardens of Kyoto

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

For links to information about Japan, go here.

2007-01-15T09:38:00.000+11:00

Japan Links

Yokoso! Welcome! to Japan!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-01-14T20:14:00.000+11:00

Sunlit Safari

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

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

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

2007-01-14T17:36:00.000+11:00

The Waterfall in the Mountain

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

My campsite in Grindelwald

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

Chalet, midsummer; Jungfrau

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

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

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

The entrance to Trummelbach Falls

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

Cow relaxes on high meadow; Jungfrau train passes by

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

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

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

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

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