Since then we’ve stayed in four hotels, one traditional cottage, a country house, a Provençal villa, and dined in a dozen restaurants. The experiences tore down those prison walls, but it has also been interesting to observe how different places have responded to the challenges of dealing with COVID-19. These contrasts were highlighted as we drove through three countries, from Portugal’s Atlantic coast to Provence, not only switching from stuttering along in one language to another, but trying to figure out what COVID-19 restrictions applied where.

Portugal
We leave our house near Portugal’s west coast at just after 7 a.m. When we cross the border into Spain it’s still breakfast time (if we don’t add on the hour time difference). Subsequently we don’t stop anywhere on Portuguese soil; however, our trip to the north of Portugal just over a week ago gave us plenty of examples of how Portugal is responding to travel post-COVID. Many establishments displayed ‘Clean & Safe’ stickers issued by Turismo de Portugal, which did their job in that they helped allay our fears somewhat. In hotels, breakfast buffets were completely revamped. In one, individual trays were brought to our table. In another, waiting staff filled our plates from a roped-off buffet. Eating in restaurants felt remarkably normal, especially after being seated when masks could be removed. If anything, dining experiences were enhanced as there was more space between tables than usual.

There’s no requirement to wear masks in Portugal’s streets, but in Arcos de Valdevez many of the older residents did so anyway. Generally life meandered on as normal, albeit at a two-meter distance. The only time social distancing wasn’t respected was by a sour-faced woman in a supermarket queue who jostled the folk in front of her, impatient to get her goods on the conveyor belt, and by a large group of teenagers in a riverside bar who, bolstered by the immortality of youth, mobbed a table, adding chairs and more tables till they encroached on everyone immediately around them.

Spain
A ‘break and bocadillo‘ stop at motorway services just across the border illustrates the inconsistencies which can surround the adherence to COVID regulations. Spain’s regulations have been among the most severe in Europe, and the wearing of face masks in public spaces is compulsory. Aside from the fact the place serves the worst bocadillos we’ve eaten, inside is COVID chaos. People entering wear face masks, but some of those who have already eaten wander around ‘sin‘ masks. Next to where the pre-ordered food is left on the counter for a waitress (with face mask) to collect are two wizened old men drinking cafe con leche. As they’re drinking, neither wear face masks. There is hand gel available everywhere, but when I visit the toilets I see some men not bothering washing their hands after using the facilities. I’ve had a bugbear about personal hygiene since long before COVID raised its head, believing inconsideration and poor hygiene habits of dirty buggers to be the cause of many a disease spread around resort areas. Inedible bocadillos aside, it’s not a place I want to spend a lot of time in.

Eight hours later, and having crossed Spain’s endless, hot dusty plains we arrive in green and scenic Catalonia, at the Hotel Gran Claustre in Altafulla near Tarragona. As we check in the receptionist points a gun at our heads. It’s a relief to find that our temperatures are normal, even though it’s 35C outside.
There’s a summer holiday ambience to the streets of the old town, if we ignore the fact everyone is wearing masks. Being used to restrictions in Portugal which are more relaxed, we occasionally forget to put ours on when we stroll along the cobbled streets, but there are no Invasion of the Bodysnatchers type scenes of people pointing at us and screaming accusingly in ear-piercing, alien voices.
The hotel smells slightly of disinfectant perfumed by essential oils, whilst the hotel’s restaurant has a novel way of ensuring there’s no menu-touching going on; the menu is accessed via a QR code on the table. It’s a neat idea except for one thing. Not everyone has a smartphone. Not only that, my phone declares the hotel’s wifi to be dodgy and refuses to open the menu. By the time the waitress returns to ask if we’re ready to order, I still haven’t a clue what’s on offer.

France
Most of the journey across Portugal and Spain was relaxing and traffic-free. The South of France is a very different prospect. It’s busy. Our villa is in the village of Éguilles, which isn’t busy; it’s one of the areas not badly affected by COVID the owner, Laurent, tells us… as way of reassurance as he isn’t wearing a mask when he shows around the property. This part of France’s COVID restrictions seem to fall somewhere between Portugal’s and Spain’s. Face masks are compulsory in enclosed busy places, but also outdoors in busy locations like Paris, Nice, Lyon etc. When we walk into the village to buy croissants each morning, we only put on masks when we enter the boulangerie. Wine tasting in the village’s winery is probably not much different from normal. We wear masks to enter, but thereafter remove them as we’re introduced to a generous selection of the area’s rosé and red wines.

Mask-wearing aside, life in the village seems comfortingly normal. It’s only when we venture further afield that we realise the fear ingrained from months of scare stories in the press hasn’t totally dissipated. There might be a lack of British visitors in Provence, but French holidaymakers are there in their droves. Last time we visited the underground art installation of Carrières de Lumières we simply parked the car and wandered in. That was late September when summer holidays in the south of Europe were over. This time there are lines of cars parked along the road for miles. The place is mobbed. We’ve pre-booked and breeze past the queue waiting to get in (after passing another temperature test). Whereas the number of people entering Carrières de Lumières is regulated, the number of people on the streets of the picturesque town of Les Baux-de-Provence overlooking the quarry isn’t. We spend ten minutes on its too-crowded streets, where some people wear masks and some don’t, before deciding to escape. COVID has influenced our hasty exit for sure, but we’d have done the same pre-virus as it’s an overcrowded tourist trap.

The large town of Aix-en-Provence is better… in parts. Some streets and squares are uncomfortably crowded, but those not on the main drag aren’t. Away from the mobs there are lovely Provençal streets and alleys, lined by elegant honey-coloured buildings. These are home to the sort of tiny, atmospheric restaurants you hope to find in the back lanes of a French town. We pick one with an enticing menu de midi – i.e. it has moules frites – and spend an enjoyable couple hours tossing empty shells into pans, sipping a summery rosé, and marvelling at the fashion sense of the chic young French women who pass by. It is exactly what we would have done if we’d visited the town a year ago.

COVID has obviously changed how we travel, but in the last month our experiences have taught me that in many ways, it hasn’t.

At this point Andy rolls her eyes and says “you say that, but you always wolf it down when we have a pud.”

That’s true as well. I love good puddings. The thing about dessert menus is in some countries they can swing from the divine to the deadly dull, especially in traditional restaurants. You never know which is going to show up. Portugal is a classic example of what I mean. This is a country whose dessert menus are dominated by puddings made from left over egg yolks after nuns have used the whites to starch their wimples. Conventual desserts have novelty value when first encountered, but after numerous occasions discovering all those desserts with odd little names (nun’s belly, lard from heaven etc.) consist of the holy trio of egg yolks, sugar, and cinnamon, it all gets a bit samey. But then, deliciously fruity crumbles, and dreamy, creamy cheesecakes can turn up on a lot of Portuguese menus as well, just to confound expectations.

My least favourite part of a meal is dessert… unless there is something which awakens the sweet-toothed child that slumbers within. And there regularly is, no matter where we travel around Europe.

White chocolate egg, Italy and Portugal
The dessert menu at Mundet, located in the non-touristy town of Seixal on the other side of the Tagus from Lisbon, is inspired by Alice Through the Looking Glass, and does feature goodies suitable for a wonderland setting. Humpty Dumpty involved a white chocolate egg enclosing Mundet’s take on a traditional sponge cake called pão de ló. It was fun, lip-licking tasty, and reminded us of another white chocolate egg dessert which caused a WOW moment, as it was dropped from above diners’ heads to smash into pieces on their plates. That one was at the two star Michelin restaurant Piccolo Lago on the banks of Lake Mergozzo in Italy. All night we wondered why there were sudden outbursts of laughter at tables around the restaurant, until a huge,white chocolate egg whizzed past Andy’s head to explode on her plate, revealing an anarchic splodge of raspberries with banana and caramel ice cream.

Deep-fried ice cream, Glasgow
It is true, the west of Scotland is deep-fried Nirvana – a land of battered sausages and hardened arteries. As teenagers we never thought twice about ordering deep-fried pizzas and Scotch pies from the local chippie after a night on the Tennents. But deep-fried ice cream at Oriental fusion restaurant Opium on Hope Street was a first for me. It consisted of a large ball of vanilla ice cream enclosed in melt-in-the-mouth golden, crispy, batter, drizzled with chocolate sauce and honey; the epitome of sinful dining.

Salt and caramel, La Palma
The first time we knowingly tasted salted caramel was at Jardín de la Sal on the volcanic badlands at fiery Fuencaliente, the site of a brace of volcanic eruptions, the last being in 1971. The restaurant specialises in giving traditional dishes a contemporary reboot. The signature dessert dish (literary as the chef actually signed it using caramel) was as wildly surreal as the surrounding terrain – featuring an eruption of chocolate mousse; chocolate cake; almond ice cream; broken Oreos; dried banana; toasted almonds; passion fruit syrup; yoghurt, and goat’s cheese foam. The salt used to elevate the caramel to the culinary heavens was from the salt pans outside the restaurant. Caramel desserts without salt just don’t make the grade now.

Mountain of cream, Bavaria
There’s no split personality issues with desserts in Germany. This is the country which gave the world the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte – Black Forest gateau. The problem in Germany is trying to not eat too many delicious desserts. Sometimes a mission impossible. We don’t like to eat a hefty lunch mid-hike, but the desserts at Windbeutelbaron (a mountain lodge en route to the infamous Eagle’s Nest above Berchtesgaden) tempted us right off that path. Their speciality is a puff pastry, fresh cream concoction known as Der Windbeutel which is inspired by the various peaks of the Watzmann Mountains forming the panoramic view from the lodge’s terrace. Each cake is gigantic. We showed some restraint by sharing one, whereas most other customers devoured a mountain to themselves.

Spanish toast in Extremadura
If you like French toast, you’ll love torrijas, the improved Spanish version. The really good ones are as light as air, despite some looking the size of a brick. I could mention a few places where we’ve eaten outstanding examples, but the torrija cacereña at El 13 de San Anton in historic Cáceres gets pride of place as we enjoyed such a good evening there, plus the torrija was accompanied by English cream, coffee ice cream, and Licor de bellota.

Deconstructed classic in Drôme Provençale
According to some online sources, the USA is responsible for the gift that is lemon meringue pie. I’m afraid I’m not buying that story. Other sources attribute it to Victorian England; although nearly everybody accepts a form of lemon tart has been around since way before Columbus crossed the ocean blue. Meringue is a French word, so there’s definitely some French influence. It’s one of my favourite desserts, and when spotted on a menu every other option becomes a blur. The most memorable in recent years was a deconstructed version served in the leafy courtyard of L’entre2, a charmer of a restaurant in a typically Provençal stone house just outside the old centre of Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux.

Pure pantomime, Tenerife
It takes some talent when a chef can please the taste-buds and put a smile on your face when you’re suffering from the flu. We’d booked Michelin star El Rincón de Juan Carlos in Los Gigantes months in advance and had spent all day in bed, sleeping, sweating, and shivering etc. after succumbing to some bug picked up thanks to the poor hygienic habits of too many of the guests at a resort hotel we’d stayed at. But there was no way we were going to miss a meal at our favourite restaurant in the Canary Islands. One of the things we enjoy about avant-garde dining is the sense of theatre and fun (see white egg previously). Chef Juan Carlos ended another triumph of a taster menu with a flight of pure whimsy in the shape of a bonsai-sized candyfloss tree. Magical.

Awesome apples, Austria
It’s unfair to pick out one restaurant when it comes to apple strudel as I don’t remember having a bad one anywhere in Germany, Austria, Croatia, or Slovenia; all countries where the dish crops up all the time on dessert menus. We’ve flaked their pastries in roadside cafes, alpine lodges, farmhouses, and bustling city centres. Purely to choose one to illustrate, I’ve opted for Gasthaus Zum Kranz in Freiburg. It was a cosy, convivial, traditional restaurant in the Altstadt whose apple strudel in custard rounded off a tasty introduction this environmentally friendly city’s gastronomy.

Hot and cold in Venice
We expected the gastronomic offerings in Venice to have suffered due to overtourism, just like we’d previously experienced in places like Dubrovnik. We ended up pleasantly surprised both by the quality of the food we ate and the fact that after dark there were nowhere near as many tourists filling the streets. On sultry summer nights good restaurants were far easier to get into than some other popular European cities. Our visit was topped off by a delight of a dessert at Impronta Cafe (not a cafe at all) in the arty Dorsoduro district – mascarpone cheese custard on a meringue waffle with lashings of hot liquorice and star anise sauce. The Italians simply do good food like nobody else.

Hard to beat puds, England
I’m biased, but nowhere in Europe does puds quite as good as Britain. And yet I struggled to come up with a standout one from England. Not England’s fault, it’s just that we don’t spend much time there and when we do it’s usually with family, so desserts don’t often figure. Then I remembered a December day a couple of years ago, sitting by the fire in Yo Olde Nags Head in Castleton with snowy scenes outside the window, good company at my side, a craft ale in my hand, and a bowl with sticky toffee pudding in caramel sauce on the table in front of me. These are the sort of ingredients that make hearty, British desserts difficult to top.

Having spent many happy days walking in Provence, our memories are of gentle paths meandering though meadows and green valleys alongside endless fields of lavender and vines, the kilometres passing by almost imperceptibly. Arriving into Drôme Provençale, we had no reason to expect it would be any different. Occupying the fertile land between the Rhône and the Alps, driving through Drôme Provençale you could easily be forgiven for thinking you were still in Provence, its sun-baked landscape displaying all those quintessential elements of its southern neighbour. But delve below the surface of this slice of the Enclaves des Papes and the subtle differences of its singular nature begin to reveal themselves.

Last September our work took us to this less-visited region of southern France to tread its paths and explore its towns.

Grignan
Our first walk began in Grignan, standing proud on its hilltop vantage, looking for all the world like any perched village in Provence yet all the time we’ve been exploring the town, I haven’t heard a single English voice, only French, and despite it being a glorious day, many of the tables in the village square are free, and the narrow streets are un-congested. I’ve only noticed a handful of restaurants and cafés, despite this being the main town in the area, and the only hotel I remember seeing is the chic, boutique and (given that the town holds an Annual Writing Festival) ingeniously named, Le Claire de la Plume. If this was St-Rémy-de-Provence, Tarascon or Avignon, we would be elbowing our way through crowds.

Leaving the village, our route winds its way south towards the river where it appears to come to a dead end at the entrance to a riding school. Confused and not a little anxious that our research has gone seriously awry, we ask a woman riding a horse around the practice paddock if she knows where the path is and she assures us it’s right through the middle of the equestrian centre. Despite her assurances, we’re a tad intrepid as we begin to wander along the track flanked by paddocks where curious horses lift their heads from grazing to watch us stroll by. When we emerge from the woods, it’s to a world of olive trees, sunflowers, courgettes, vines and sweetcorn – a cornucopia of late summer produce carpeting the meadows alongside the dense oak forests and beneath the landmark finger of Chamaret’s mediaeval dungeon, pointing to the heavens like a directional portent.

The next day we walk from the door of the chambre d’hôte to Val des Nymphes, our route taking us along unkempt paths and climbing through woods along a Poet’s Path to reach the 70m vertical cliffs of Les Crevasses, formed in 1774 when the Rouverge plateau fractured and shifted. For little effort, we’re rewarded with grandstand views over the plateau as we follow a narrow path along the tops of the cliffs. Far below, a trail winds its way through the base of the Crevasses but with unruly rockfalls to negotiate and long stretches no wider than a rucksack to squeeze through, all beneath the constant threat of further rockfall, it’s not for the faint-hearted, and a long way from the gentle strolling of Provence.

Into the fascinating, former Knights Templar stronghold of Clansayes, and then through the grounds of an extensive vineyard, walking between rows of vines heavy with purple fruit, our multifarious route finally arrives into the woodland world of Val Des Nymphes, at the foot of the perched village of La-Garde-Adhémar, one of the designated plus beaux villages de France.

La-Garde-Adhémar
Strolling into its shady village square on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it’s easy to see why La-Garde-Adhémar is celebrated. Honey-coloured stone cottages with powder blue wooden shutters line the narrow cobbled streets and the shady village square where the tables and chairs of L’Absinthe and L’Epicerie restaurants spill onto the cobbles, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers over discarded coffee cups. In Le Jardin des Herbes, that lies below the old walls, we wander the paths between medicinal plants and herbs, their colourful, chaotic plantings breaking ranks and escaping over borders in a bid to colonise neighbouring beds. Once again we’re on our own as we descend to the lower garden and through a small gate onto a dappled path that will lead us back through dense oak forests, to the Val des Nymphes.

Tales of magic, mystery and sacrifice surround Val des Nymphes where labyrinthine paths thread their way over the gnarled roots of Holm oak trees where hidden treasure lies in the form of black truffles. Tell tale impromptu holes surrounded by mounds of displaced earth betray the presence of wild boar and their midnight treasure hunts. As paths twist and turn through low branches, we follow a trail of symbols which is supposed to lead to ancient sacrificial sites. Briefly emerging from the dense tangled woods into sunlight, we see a large, flat boulder jutting out over the valley alongside one of the symbols we’ve been following and conclude that this must indeed be the site of primordial carnage. As I stand astride the rock, I imagine throats being cut and blood spilling into the undergrowth below. Unfortunately (or fortunately) my imagination is far more powerful than the truth and our stone turns out just to be, well, a stone, while the actual sacrificial stones are simple stone troughs and look like they would be used for nothing more sinister than treading grapes.

St-Paul-Trois-Chateaux
Walking from Val des Nymphes to St-Paul-Trois-Chateaux, we are once again transported back to Provence, our gentle paths wending through meadows grazed by thoroughbred horses, fields being ploughed by tractors, and lavender fields whose harvested stems still exert a faint perfume in the heat, their silver lines spreading like mercury trails across the scorched, late summer earth.

On our final day we follow a truffle trail through the forest above the town to reach the village of St Restitut, famous for its white stone quarries. Wandering through its streets with their white stone houses, is like being on a film set before shooting begins. Nothing stirs. Apart from an elderly woman sweeping the white stone step of her white stone home, there’s not a soul around. At the end of the village lies a memorial to those whose job it was to quarry the stone, a white Stonehenge standing above the plateau. A narrow trail leads from the stones, along a magnificent path cut like a balcony above the Tricastín plateau, to the Chapel St Juste and a 360º panorama of this small corner of south east France, this unhurried, uncluttered Provence with attitude.

Getting there:
We flew into Marseilles, hired a car and drove to La Garde-Adhémar, a journey of 130km, which took us an hour and a half.

Staying there:
You’ll find few large hotels or tourist complexes in the Drôme, instead the region has plentiful chambre d’hôtes, charming and characterful, privately-owned guest houses, usually set within extensive grounds with a swimming pool, where you can base yourself on a bed & breakfast basis. Many will commonly also provide dinner on a pre-arranged basis. We were based in Les Esplanes, just outside La-Garde-Adhémar, where we rented a small gîte within the grounds which gave us the freedom of self catering while still enjoying all the charm of the chambre d’hôte.
Chambres-Hotes.fr is choc-full of places in and around the region.

Walking in Drôme Provençale:
There are lots of walks and paths in the region and you should pop into the tourist office in Grignan to pick up information and a map.
We were there working as consultants for Inntravel who provide an itinerant walking holiday (walking from hotel to hotel while your luggage is transported for you) in the region – Secret Provence.

Staying in a hotel in rural Alentejo which also happened to be a vineyard added extra sparkle to the experience. The wine tasted divine, its flavour intensified by its proximity to the neat vines below our balcony. It was the second time in just over a week we’d stayed in a vineyard. Both cases prompted thoughts of many other visits to vineyards around Europe, visits that had formed long-lasting, warm and fuzzy (not just thanks to enthusiastic tasting) memories.

We don’t necessarily seek out vineyards and/or wine producers, sometimes fate just throws them into our paths.

Intoxicated by Catalonia
The view from Castell d’Encus near Tremp could have had me drunk on non-alcoholic wine – vines tumbling down the hill to a cluster of stone houses huddled together atop a small hill surrounded by thick forests and scarlet poppy fields. Catalonia is a stunning region in so many ways. At one point I had four glasses in front of me, the contents ranging from a ruby red to a sunburst Sauvignon Blanc. Serious intoxication was staved off only by a feast of locally produced goodies – hams, cheeses, dried sausages – including girella, a pattie which tasted similar to haggis, a flavour that really made me feel at home. It was one of those special afternoons with lashings of wine, food and laughter.

Wine-less in Dubrovnik
Dubrovnik old town closing early left us without any wine to imbibe on our hotel room balcony overlooking Gruz harbour. This was clearly an unacceptable state of affairs. After bombing out on a quest to find anywhere open which sold wine at less than exorbitant prices, we entered the last chance saloon – a slightly ajar door on a stone building which looked as though it might have had something to do with wine. It turned out Skar was the only authentic winery in all Dubrovnik, so sea captain and wine producing owner Mati told us. The winery was closed, but that didn’t stop Mati from pouring generous measure of his Plavac Mali to test before he gave us a private tour and sold us a couple of bottles – result. It felt as though we’d stumbled into somewhere which had remained off the beaten track in a city which was increasingly suffering from over tourism. Checking on Tripadvisor to see whether Skar was still in business it’s heartening to see the sea captain’s winery is going strong, and is now open till 10pm – a sanctuary for other post-dinner wine seekers.

German wine country
Kaiserstuhl was not what I’d ever imagined German countryside to look like, even after having walked through significantly-sized chunks of the country. The vineyards of the sunny plateau in the Upper Rhine Plains are anarchic in their design. The rows themselves are neat, but they interact with other vines at such acutely contrasting angles, and on various levels, that it gives them the appearance of a puzzle or a work of mathematically-inspired art. Our base, Ihringen, was a town where the flower-covered entrances to nearly every building led to wineries. We had only 24 hours there and were on a mission which took us away from the weinguts; not leaving enough time to indulge. Instead, we wandered sunken lanes where bee-eaters fluttered, and parted clouds of ladybirds to pass alongside the crazy-paving vines, piecing together a walking route which took us into the pretty village of Bickensohl where we couldn’t resist the draw of the scenic terrace at Weingut Hauser-Bühler. In the heart of German wine country we did something unheard of in a winery, we didn’t try the wine. Instead, as we still had half a walking route to complete, we ordered cherry cake and coffee. If we’d succumbed to temptation we’d never have completed our mission.

The scent of Corsica
Anthony cracked me up; he was our contact on Corsica, helping us put together a slow travel holiday. His colourful tales of life on the French island made us laugh, and also made us slightly wary of ‘exciting’ locals too much by talking politics (the Brexit vote took place whilst we were there), bumping into the French Foreign Legion who trained on the island, and of local cows whose character was apparently as fiercely independent as the island’s human population. He also introduced us to the specialities of Corsica’s food and wine scene. I took to Clos Culombu vineyard outside Montegrosso before I’d sipped any of its wines. It exuded that affinity with art you often encounter in vineyards, starting with a neat graffiti wall create by clearly talented customers. The tasting room was as much contemporary art gallery as it was winery and featured the most perfect piece of wine art I’ve seen anywhere. The vin which took our floral-scented breaths away was vin d’orange, a sweet concoction made from white grapes macerated with the zest of oranges, lemon and cinnamon bark. It was orange blossom in a glass.

Coffee and wine on Gran Canaria
I could recount any number of merry afternoons spent in various Canarian bodegas; however, the culmination of a walk through Tamadaba National Park on Gran Canaria stands out as being unique. As well as producing wine, Los Berrazales in the sub-tropical Agaete Valley is a fruit farm (oranges, mangoes, guavas, avocados) and the most northerly coffee plantation in the world. Over the space of a couple of hours owner Victor plied us wine, goat’s cheese, orange blossom honey and sponge cake, which went deliciously well with Los Berrazales seco – a blend of Moscatel and Malvasia. Like most wine producers, his enthusiasm and passion was infectious. I was chuffed recently to see Victor’s bodega had won an award for innovation in gastronomy at the 2018 Canary Islands’ Los Premios Mahou.

On the Douro
Which brings me full circle back to Portugal and a couple of nights at Quinta de la Rosa, a working winery – the hotel reception is also the tasting room – on the banks of the Douro River. Our room came ‘equipped’ with a selection of the vineyard’s red, white, and rosé wines. After being faced with that sort of choice we realised the usual motley crew of mini bar ingredients at the next ‘conventional’ hotel we stayed at was going to seem woefully inadequate. As an added bonus, the Quinta also has a gourmet restaurant overlooking the river. That’s our sort of all inclusive package.
Our time there gave us a deep thirst for staying in similar establishments. Before we left we were already batting between us other potential destinations for wine-themed visits.

Until we come to a decision where’s first on the list, we’ll just have to keep notching up more localised vineyard experiences. Luckily, that won’t take much effort as we stay right in the heart of Portuguese wine country. Just about every time we go out for a walk we pass an adega (winery).

Note: All of the places mentioned are open to the public.

At one point it occurred to me that this form of travel wasn’t a million miles away from the average package holiday coach excursion. Being ferried to experiences hand-picked by someone else wasn’t really the way I wanted to travel. I’m indebted to that trip and wouldn’t have missed it for the world; however, it was a catalyst for change in many differing ways. We both went on a couple of other press/blog trips after that but, on the whole, phased them out of our travel plans.

Six years later, stinking of vinho verde (courtesy of a bottle which broke when our rucksack fell off a bench) and sitting on the banks of the River Lima wondering whether a taxi I’d tried to arrange using bad Portuguese was going to turn up and save the day, I pondered the wisdom of swapping travel where someone else makes most of the arrangements for travel which was more seat of the pants stuff.

Travelling around cities and big towns is easy, relatively speaking. Where there are many commuters, there’s generally good public transport links. Getting from A to B isn’t a problem once you tune in to how things work in any specific location.

As experienced walkers know, it’s not the same in rural locations where low levels of population mean limited transport links. We regularly find ourselves in areas where figuring out how we’re going to travel to, or return from, a linear walking route using whatever local transport is available can prove somewhat of a ‘suck it and see’ exercise.

Stumped in Germany
Germany is an outstanding joy when it comes to public transport links. A gästekarte in some rural areas allows visitors free (you pay a nominal tax at your rural hotel and in return receive a ‘guest card’) use of buses and trains, of which there is a good network. In the Black Forest we never had to task the grey cells too much to figure out public transport connections. We’d simply hop on and off trains and buses which took us to and from start and end points of walking routes. Only on one occasion, in Kaiserlautern, we nearly came unstuck when a timetable didn’t match reality and we found ourselves sitting at an empty bus station in a place we didn’t want to be on a sleepy Sunday morning. With an hour to wait before the train which would return us to our starting point we had plenty of time to pour over our map, improvise and come up with a great little route which didn’t involve having to use any transport at all. So it all worked out well in the end.

Lost in translation in France
In many locations there are not always convenient railway stations at hand nor bus routes which run on a regular enough basis to make them viable. At these times taxis are lifesavers. In Drôme Provençale, one route took us to Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux. At this point Inntravel customers on the holiday we were helping design will be able to check into their new hotel and relax. However, we had to get back to accommodation at our starting point. As we were in a decent-sized town we figured there’d be no problem picking up a taxi. Wrong. There were none to be seen. Using Google advice we headed to the nearby location of one firm to find it no longer existed. We plonked ourselves down on the kerb in the car park of an adjacent supermarket and called the contact taxi. The regular driver and his English speaking girlfriend had taken the weekend off (the reason why we didn’t call them first) and the back up driver didn’t speak any English. Giving directions in a language you’re not totally comfortable in is a risky business. But Andy did a sterling job and, after one lost in translation mix up, the taxi driver rolled into the supermarket car park.
Having a local taxi firm number to hand is a sensible plan whatever your walking circumstances are.

Part of the experience on Tenerife
When is the end of a walking route not an end but a continuation of the experience? When the route involves descending the Masca Barranco on Tenerife. For years we left our car above Masca hamlet, and walked the barranco (gorge) both ways. It’s not a long route, but it is a challenging one. The last two times we took the easy option – we descended the ravine and jumped onto a water taxi (pre-booked) when we arrived at the coast. It’s an exhilarating way to end a walk; the sun warming, the sea spray refreshing on your face. Plus there’s the chance of some dolphin-spotting on the short voyage back to the resort of Los Gigantes where a queue of taxis wait to transport folk back to their cars in Masca (around €25). It’s a far more enjoyable way of experiencing the Masca Barranco than having to trudge all the way back up it again.
(Note: the Masca Barranco is currently closed to the public and is expected to open again in March 2019.)

Laid on a plate on Andros, Greece
Sometimes when someone else arranges the transport it can still feel like it’s part of a uniquely local experience. Fourteen kilometres of climbing in an out of valleys led us from Andros town to Ormos Korthiou, a coastal town so sleepy a swan was able to take a long dust bath in the centre of the main road without fear of being flattened. It was also a place where it was instantly evident there wasn’t going to be a bus or taxi to take us home. As always, we had a back-up number to call. But there was no need. In Allegria, one of the only tascas open, the owner greeted us with a “you need taxi? I phone taxi… but plenty of time for a beer first.” It turned out there was time for two beers, and also for the owner to have a nap on one of his tables before our taxi driver turned up in a sleek Mercedes where the meter was part of the rear-view mirror (first time I’d ever seen that). She gave us a present of scented wild lavender in a muslin bag and kept us entertained with tales of island life on the 40 min journey back to our hotel.

Thirty tears ago I would have fretted about having localised travel arrangements nailed down in advance. The older I get, the far more chilled I am about this sort of thing. If we have to wait for an hour in a small bar somewhere, no problem. In fact, all the better.

It’s all part of building up experiences of the reality of a local way of life across a wide variety of destinations.

We’ve slow travelled in Provence before but Drôme Provençale, although exhibiting many of the classic Provence ingredients, had a slightly different personality; one which was typically soft and beautiful in that dreamy Provence way, yet with a slightly wilder, more carefree edge.

Here are ten scenes to give a taster of what I mean.

Classic Provence

One day we shall fall to our knees in reverence when gazing over the wondrous sight of neat rows of lavender in full bloom flowing gracefully below honey-coloured villages-perchés. But so far our timing has been out. The evidence was there – the tidy lines of plants beside picturesque villages – the bloom had long gone. However, there were still pockets where fields of smiling sunflowers added a vibrant blast of colour to an already exquisite landscape. Classic Provence.

Walking

After our last foray into the Provence countryside I wrote ‘walking in Provence was like enjoying a light dessert after a hearty meal.’ Drôme Provençale has the gently undulating hills, neat fields, dappled paths and quaint farmhouses with Provence-blue wooden shutters and doors. But it also has clifftop paths above deep crevasses and dense woods where wild boar snuffle for truffles. Routes flow from pleasant Stella Artois advert farmlands to more rugged terrain where natural balconies give expansive views across the countryside. And the magical thing about it is, switching from one to the other doesn’t involve a great deal of effort. Paths generally climb gently so walkers get the sort of views which would normally require much huffing and puffing.

History

Where do I start? Good walking routes require a variety of ingredients as far as we’re concerned, including a richness of historic snippets. The area of Drôme Provençale we concentrated on had it by l’ancien bucket-load; from Romanesque churches to Medieval castles and neo-classical fountains and beauty spots where nymphs bathed to stones used for sacrificial stones (allegedly). One of my favourites was Chamaret’s feudal keep, a 33m high dungeon which can be seen pointing to the heavens from all over the surrounding countryside.

Food

On our last trip to Provence there were some areas where I have to admit to being a tad disappointed with the culinary offerings in restaurants. In one place it seemed impossible to avoid lamb, nice though the local lamb was. Drôme Provençale was completely different. Restaurants were quietly sophisticated, even in relatively small towns. This was reflected in our rural accommodation where gazpacho was served with a goat’s cheese ice cream island. But there were also coarse Provençale pâtés and flavoursome creamy cheeses so, overall, a tasty balance between the traditional and contemporary.

Scenery

It’s Provence, you know you’re going to get the sort of scenery where instead of having litres of water and energy bars in your rucksack you really should be strolling through vineyards with a knapsack filled with rounds of cheese and a bottle of vin rouge.

Accommodation

As dreamy as the Provençale countryside – mostly small, boutique, rural hotels run by people as charming as their exquisite abodes. Honestly, the sort of places you instantly covet. We enjoy a wonderful lifestyle but I looked at some of the small hotels we visited and couldn’t help but ponder what it might be like to live in such idyllic settings. Instead, we had to make do with temporarily enjoying sipping post-walk beers in the late afternoon sun outside our mini gite, and tucking into dinner al fresco as the sun set, lapping up views across a gentle valley to one of the area’s most picturesque villages-perchés. I’m deliberately not mentioning their names as the actual Slow Travel holiday which includes them hasn’t ‘gone live’ yet.

Villages-perchés

Talking of villages-perchés gives me an excuse to include an image of one. It doesn’t matter which, they’re all picture postcard material.

Traditions

An integral aspect to getting to know individual areas is finding out what sets them apart from other places; what traditional activities are a bit different. This area was especially renowned for its truffles; the world’s top source for black truffles in fact. We didn’t see any truffle hunters or snuffling dogs, but we loved this rusty, arty homage to them on a roundabout. There’s lots of truffle trivia to be learned in the area, like eating black truffles was once considered to be akin to dabbling with the Devil.

Viewpoints

One of the aspects to the Drôme Provençale countryside which elevated it was that at key points we’d find ourselves on hilltops, either in small towns or on ridges, where we were able to trace where we’d come from and look forward to where we were going; you could say literally high points of the routes.

Quirks

Finally quirks. We adore quirks, follies, oddities. They often add uniqueness to a place as well as prompt people to utter “bugger me, I didn’t know that”… or maybe that’s just me. Scarlet quills decorate buildings in the town of Grignan as it was sometime home to Marie Sévigné (shortened version of her name), a French aristocrat famed for her witty and colourful letters. Thanks to her evocative scribblings, each year in July the Festival de la Correspondance celebrates the art of letter writing attracting authors, actors and artists. Isabelle Adjani was at the 2018 festival (the one name I recognised on the programme, but that’s probably down to my ignorance of renowned French authors and artists).

After those two we were satisfyingly full.

Then came a ‘surprise’ dish, slipped in presumably to keep hunger pangs at bay before the main course arrived; a tray of five golden, puffed up brocciu cheese beignets, a common dish on Corsican menus. To eat one was to say au revoir to the rest of dinner.

But, boy, did they look good – fried balls made from flour, yeast, mint, egg and soft sheep cheese. Against our better judgement we ate them all, stomachs stretching to capacity at the effort. They were delicious; deep-fried, savoury, golden wonders that left us happy but groaning.

The main dishes arrived. Two trays of food, enough for a quartet of diners. One was filled with a meaty stew, the other with rich, cheesy pasta.

“You’ve got to eat it all,” warned the waitress. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or was just a culinary sadist.

What was the meat? What type of pasta was it? I can’t tell you. I was operating on autopilot, just trying to survive and hoping to avoid a Monty Python Meaning of Life outcome.

We gave it our best shot, but managed only a couple of mouthfuls before collapsing back in our chairs, utterly defeated and ready to be rolled to bed.

It turned out the chef was known for engineering this Man V. Food scenario. Diners came primarily because the food was excellent, but also to see if they could actually finish a meal. apparently few managed it.

Needless to say, dessert was not ordered.

Osteria a Stalla Sischese (Marine de Sisco) is a small hotel  near the coast in Sisco with an excellent restaurant which is open to the public.

Jack is co-editor, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites as well as a contributor to online travel sites and travel magazines. Follow Jack on Google+

The French Foreign Legion – a mysterious, dangerous band of brothers consisting of men escaping a dodgy past or attempting to mend hearts broken by betrayals in love. I hadn’t thought about them for decades until I found out there was a regiment based in Calvi on Corsica, an island which itself had taken to the forgotten corners of my mind. I was already looking forward to visiting Corsica, but I was as thrilled as a child on Christmas morn at the prospect of visiting the Citadelle de Calvi, one of the strongholds of the men whose motto is Honneur et Fidelité.

Calvi, tucked neatly into a crescent-shaped bay on Corsica’s north west coast, seems an appropriate base for the French Foreign Legion. Sleek, expensive yachts populate the smart harbour whilst the streets behind exude more of the down to earth Corsican character. Lording it above both is the aloof Citadel, the town’s protector since the 13th century. Calvi’s history is as rich as the owners of the yachts lined up like soldiers in the cerulean waters below. The Romans, Greeks and Genoese all enjoyed spells in Calvi. It’s claimed the Citadel was the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, whose mother must have endured a painfully protracted labour which spanned various locations. In 1794 Nelson lost his right eye whilst laying siege to the town. Just outside the entrance to the Citadel are monuments to Columbus, Corsicans killed in the World Wars, and resistance fighters who helped liberate Corsica from the Germans in 1943.

Above the entrance is Calvi’s motto, not unlike that of the Legion, Civitas Calvi semper fidelis – a proclamation of eternal fidelity to the Genoese.

There is an official route with an audio guide which leads visitors around the historic highlights (€7 per person or €11 per couple) but we prefer to explore the network of alleys and cobbled walkways in a more anarchic fashion (more on the lookout for legionnaires than historic edifices in truth).

Entering the Citadel is akin to stepping through a portal if not in time but to a location far removed from the busy town below. It’s difficult to say whether this is the norm, but where Calvi’s sea level streets are bustling with visitors, the Citadal is close to being a ghost town. We encounter only a handful of other wandering souls on our travels. It’s a mystery why, as the old streets are filled with fascinating features. Not only is there historic interest, it’s worth making the trek from the town just for the views from the ramparts.

French Foreign Legion fact: You can’t apply to join online, or by mail. The only way to sign up is to turn up at the door of one of the Legion’s offices in mainland France. From that point they’ll feed you and give you accommodation until you’re accepted or shown the door.

There is a rough ‘n’ ready honesty to the world inside the Citadel, this is no immaculately maintained monument to an historic past. Arches are crumbling, plaster peels off walls, wooden doors are rickety, signs are simple and handmade, and graffiti is either artistically coy or oozes bad ass attitude. It’s the sort of place where you could imagine someone with a chiselled jaw and glinting eyes lounging in the shadows digging raw meat out of their teeth with a dagger.

The Citadel is appealingly attractive in a roguishly handsome, world weary way.

Our meandering takes us past Columbus’ alleged birthplace (an unassuming ruin), grand (St Jean-Baptiste Cathedral) and humble (St Antoine Oratory) places of worship and a nightclub I’m probably too much of a wuss and not wealthy enough to enter, Chez Tao. Chez Tao was Corsica’s first nightclub and is located in the house of Napoleon Bonaparte’s grandfather. The club has a motto – ‘be happy today because tomorrow will be too late’. We’ve been told it is the haunt of off duty legionnaires looking to spend generous wages on an awful lot of alcohol (the place is said to be an expensive one to frequent). The motto sounds as though it could have been created for them.

French Foreign Legion fact: When you join you’re given a completely new identity.

There are a few good-looking cafés dotted around the old streets; we stop at one for a couple of small (25cl) Corsican chestnut beers. They’re €4 apiece – not tourist prices, legionnaire prices. Still, it’s worth it to drink ale in such atmospheric surroundings. We continue onwards and upwards to arrive at a wall above a ‘hidden’ car park where there are two seriously chunky looking 4x4s with camouflage paintwork. No prizes for guessing who they belong to.

Steps descending from the Cathedral lead us to a small square and Le Palais des Gouverneurs, home of the Légion étrangère. Inside is a roped-off area with a few photos, a couple of paintings, regiment badges, the legion’s code of honour, and also La Priere du Para, the French Foreign Legion paratrooper’s prayer. It’s probably of limited interest to most people, but to someone who grew up with no doubt unrealistically romanticised notions of the French Foreign Legion, it feels as though I’m standing alongside the ghost of Beau Geste. I take a few moments to absorb the Spartan display and read words I’ll have to translate later, but which convey pride, honour and dedication.

French Foreign Legion fact: The Legion’s code of honour is made up of 7 articles, the seventh of which is ‘In combat, you act without passion and without hate, you respect defeated enemies, and you never abandon your dead, your wounded, or your arms’.

We walk from the dim hallway back outside and into bright sunlight where Andy, momentarily blinded, bumps into a car’s wing mirror. Inside is a wiry, solid looking man wearing a camouflage uniform. Although it was Andy who bumped the car, his emotionless eyes look at the wing mirror and then glide slowly from it to me. A couple of lines from the paratrooper’s prayer pop into my head – ‘I want insecurity and anxiety. I want turmoil and brawl’.

“Forget march or die,” I grab Andy’s arm. “Let’s make a run for it.”

French Foreign Legion unconfirmed fact: One of the entry requirements is applicants shouldn’t be on Interpol’s most wanted list.