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.

For twenty five years we’ve followed a weekly diet that involves preparing mainly non-meat meals during the week, with meat/fish dishes creeping in at the weekend. In this age of labels I guess people would call it flexitarian, even though we’ve been doing this since long before the word was a germinating seed in some lexicologist’s mind.

For the same period of time, our favourite way of freeing our minds from the clutter and dust of daily grind has been to head deep into a forest where the simple act of walking in the woods distracts from the outside world. Forests embrace, they wrap themselves around you physically and mentally. Enter a forest and an unseen entity gently detaches your problems and deposits them at the treeline to be collected, or not, when you depart with renewed spring in your step and a glow in your heart (sorry, I strayed into a Disney construct there). Forests can have that invigorating effect, we’ve refuelled on it for years.

Not so long ago I learned this is now called forest bathing, taken from the Japanese practice of Shinrin-yoku. Like I said, we live in an age of labels and trendy terms which play well in PR circles and social media streams. The first time I read about forest bathing was in an excellent Guardian article by Charlotte Church. It resonated because the restorative world she wrote about was so familiar.

One of the things we’ve discovered about taking ‘a wash in the woods’ is that different forests offer quite contrasting ‘bathing’ experiences.

Cork forests in Portugal
Our work pattern is travel, travel, then sit in an office for weeks writing about travel, gradually going stir crazy. Brief escapes are provided by short jaunts in the small cork forest which lies next to the quinta where we live. A few steps and we’re immersed in a world shaped by humans and nature; the cork trees looking like finger-less gloves of varying shades of ruddy brown, each with a chalky number scratched onto its trunk – a date which informs when it was last stripped of its bark. The path winding through them changes from an earthy track in winter to a sandy trough by the end of summer. At parts there are mounds of freshly furrowed earth, the tell tale signs of snuffling wild boar. In the trees, Eurasian jays squawk, sing and make all sorts of noises They’re supported by the clack-clack-clacking of nearby storks perched in a nest atop some man-made construction. It is an open book of nature’s making, one which is full of diverting information.

Ancient laurisilva forest on La Gomera
The laurel forests still found on some Macronesian islands offer a portal into a long gone past when laurisilva forests covered much of Europe and North Africa. Garajonay on La Gomera is a relic of these ancient rainforests and feels it – spindly, twisted, moss-covered trunks close in around hikers, creating an atmospheric environment where bruma (low cloud) drifts through the trees like ghostly sprites. Walking through the laurisilva forest when bruma descends can be both magical and slightly unsettling; the mist strangles sounds and obscures the way ahead, tree branches drip water even though there’s no rain. We walk with reverence, talking in hushed tones. In winter, the mist’s dank, dampness can chill through to the bone; in summer it brings sauna-like qualities to the forest, ones which drench the clothes – you could say true forest bathing.

Pine forest on Tenerife
By contrast, the Corona Forestal in the La Orotava Valley on Tenerife across the water is generally a warm, dry environment to wander and wallow in; the air filled with the aromatic scent of warm pine needles. Lying above 1000m, the dense carpet of pine trees sweep toward Mount Teide above the cloud line, meaning dappled sunshine is the default setting. This is heady, exhilarating forest bathing, the pure air buzzing with the hum from industrious black bees is occasionally pierced by the shrill cry of a circling buzzard. It is a world of eternal springtime, and spring always wraps us in a comforting blanket of optimism.

The Black Forest in Germany
“I talk to the trees, but they don’t listen to me…”
That’s because they’re too busy gossiping among themselves. Read the Hidden Life of Trees if you think that nonsensical. If ever a forest could make you believe fairy tales might be true it is the Schwarzwald, the Black Forest in Germany. It is immense (11,400 square metres of Scots pine, Norway Spruce, beech, firs, oak and more) and feels as old as time; a place where the earthy scents of decay and rebirth create an intoxicating blend. The Black Forest has multiple personalities; sometimes warm and welcoming, at others oppressive and threatening. When we ventured deep into its dark, dense heart I often felt humbled and insignificant; a minute insect amidst its great bulk. In places the air was heavy with something intangible, an imprint from another realm perhaps, which created a sense we were in the midst of incredibly wise beings… perhaps Ents. A flight of fancy clearly, but that’s part of the draw of being swallowed by a forest; opening your mind to its particular, possibly peculiar, influences.

“So, do you have to take your clothes off?” A friend asked when we were musing about the term ‘forest bathing’ being used for doing something thousands if not millions of people do automatically. I laughed and pondered about the prospect of rolling about in a pile of dry leaves; not an unpleasant idea. But it triggered a memory from many years ago of Andy and I walking through a musty forest somewhere in Wales on a warm, summer day. At one point I was overwhelmed by a primeval urge to rip off all my clothes and lope off into the trees. The urge was so strong it was disconcerting. I told Andy, but instead of laughing and saying “don’t be ridiculous,” she replied she’d had the exact same thoughts. It was as though the forest was calling us to join it, but in undiluted natural form.
We’d have given in to the impulse if we hadn’t been so spooked at having the identical feeling at the same time. It hadn’t happened before and hasn’t happened since.

It’s a shame we didn’t, it would have been proper forest bathing in its purest form.

A factor often connected with satisfaction levels is picking up/dropping off rental cars. The experience, good or bad, doesn’t impact overall on how we view a destination, but it can leave a lasting impression.

Good advice in Milan
The staff at Avis strongly advised, in a friendly ‘this is really for your own good’ way that we take full insurance. When we initially waved the advice away, saying we were used to driving in countless countries they responded with a “this is Italy people drive really badly here, you’ll need it. Trust us.” So we did. Within two days there was a dent in the side of the car, damaged whilst it was minding its own business in a car park beside Lake Garda. Incidentally, the entrance to rental car drop off at Milan is confusing as hell. We managed to find it, just. But over a couple of visits we’ve seen plenty of cars reversing along a busy approach road after they’d overshot the entrance. I hope they’d taken the full insurance option.

Most practical, Munich
Locating a proper supermarket right beside the exit and car rental hall in Munich Airport is inspired planning. You’ve got to love the Germans for this sort of forward thinking. Being able to stock up on wine, water, and snacks at non-airport prices before we set off on a long road journey gets things off to a happy start, especially if arriving quite late… or even early evening. Arriving at 19.00, a drive from the airport to our hotel took a couple of hours, making us too late for the ridiculously early German dinner times, but the snacks we’d picked up at the airport meant there was no hungry gashing of teeth as a result.

No manual drives in Glasgow
Despite having booked a car with a gear stick, Sixt at Glasgow Airport not only informed us they didn’t have the model we’d booked but that nobody drove manual cars there any more. Nobody drives manual in Scotland? Utter bollocks. To be fair, they did offer us an upgrade to a snazzy BMW or a limousine-like pimp car (their words)… both automatic. As neither of us have driven automatics, we didn’t fancy attempting it for the first time in an oversized monster on narrow, winding Highland roads. The only other option was a downgrade (no refund for their error) which we took.

It’s Zadar, but where are we going?
Stepping from the plane to being handed the keys to our hire car at Zadar Airport happened so slickly quickly that we were actually cruising the streets of the Croatian city before we knew where we were heading for. Partially my fault. A distracting party weekend in Hay on Wye immediately before travel combined with a shocker of a night in an airport hotel at Liverpool had meant I hadn’t gotten around to printing off details of our accommodation and couldn’t access the info from my phone. The solution was a prompt introduction to Croatian cafe culture with a quick pause at a cafe with wifi and strong, cerebral cobweb-clearing coffee.

A tale of two airports, Tenerife
Tenerife’s two airports are geographically quite close, but in other ways worlds apart. Tenerife North Airport made Airhop’s top ten best airports list. We wouldn’t argue with that. It’s one of the most relaxing airports we’ve travelled through, and picking up the hire car from CICAR mirrors the general laid back attitude. Newbie arrivals might get a shock encountering a four lane motorway immediately after arrival, but once free of La Laguna’s busy autopista, the drive along the north coast, with Mount Teide providing a stunner of a backdrop, gets the juices of anticipation flowing. Tenerife South is a decent airport, but exudes that homogeneous holiday resort airport vibe. My beef with it is that after a teasing arrival – Montaña Roja looking splendid on the coast – the drive south is through an unattractive landscape which has similarities to builder’s rubble; a poor first impression which isn’t helped by an overdose of naff billboards.

Worst car hire, Fuerteventura
Sticking with the Canary Islands, the most unpleasant car hire experience we’ve had anywhere was on Fuerteventura with Goldcar. It was our first visit to the island and it got off to such a bad start we were predisposed not to like the island after it. It was so bad Andy was moved to write a rant about the experience (I’m usually the ranter). Thankfully our experiences thereafter diluted the bad taste the Goldcar experience had left.

Longest wait, Marseille
Two things stick in my mind about arriving at Marseille Airport. It seemed to take an eternity before we were handed the car keys, the process seemed to take oh-so-much longer than anywhere else. Waiting in a greenhouse of a car rental office when it was 30C plus didn’t help. The other is the runway jutting out into the Etang de Berre lagoon – WOW. For all the fussiness, I like Marseille Airport.

You can’t be serious, Coyhaique
Chile’s Coyhaique Airport is a sweet and friendly big shed of an airport, and one I shall always have very fond memories of thanks to the kindness of the staff there. However, I did exclaim “you can’t be serious?” at one point when returning our Mitsubishi pick-up truck. Over nearly three weeks we’d driven hundreds, if not thousands, of kilometres on the (in)famous Carretera Austral without any mishap other than the car wearing a dusty overcoat. The girl responsible for checking the car was returned in a decent state had commented “it’s so dirty I can’t tell if there’s any damage.” To be fair, after my McEnroe outburst the girl laughed and ticked the ‘all okay’ box on her docs.

A stunner of a way to arrive, Lisbon
It can take a long time to get out of Lisbon Airport. But once free of its clutches, if heading south across the Tagus, the experience is unique. After a few minutes you escape the city to cross the Tagus on the Vasco da Gama Bridge, until recently the longest bridge in Europe at just over 17km in length (12km being over water). It is an architectural marvel. Our first experience crossing it included a dreamy sunset of endless pastel bands drifting across the sky, an army of fisherman wading in the mudflats on each side of the bridge, and a flamboyance of flamingos in the wetlands at its southern end.

Bizarre Basel
Although only 3.5km from the Swiss city it’s named after, Basel Airport is in France so is jointly operated by France and Switzerland. The same car hire companies have different branches located in separate areas. Which you use depends on whether you pick up your hire car in France or Switzerland. It isn’t an issue collecting the car, but returning it is a minefield. You can’t leave a French hire car at a Swiss drop off point. If you try, you’ll be directed to the ‘correct’ country even though it’s the same company. Although they share the one building (only a couple of hundred metres separates them as the crow flies), you can’t just drive across the airport from one to the other. Nope, you have to leave the airport, join the motorway and seek out the correct entrance to the other country’s part of the airport. I know this because we got it wrong on a Monday morning when the motorway was gridlocked and the time left for being able to check in was running out. We only managed to catch our flight because a member of Avis’s French staff took pity on us and allowed us to leave our Swiss hire car in a French parking bay.

The joy of travel.

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.

One could be because the owner, Herr Fehrenbach, didn’t so much as blink an eye when we introduced ourselves on arrival with “We’re Jack and Andy, do you have a hacksaw?”
Longish story, but the request was because I’d locked the padlock keys inside our cases and needed one to saw through the padlocks which separated me from their keys.

Another could be that in a land of wonderfully hearty gastronomic fare, Herr Fehrenbach’s nightly culinary offerings were elegant and surprising, involving an imaginative use of local ingredients – black forest cherries, pumpkins, venison cooked in hay, fir sauces, local hams, willow bark, polenta flavoured by wild rosemary and so on.

But the personality pièce de résistance was the hotel’s Sunday breakfast in the barn.

The hoe down breakfast barn in the Black Forest
Breakfast any day at Waldhotel Fehrenbach tends to be a lavish affair, but on Sundays it careens into OOOOk-lahoma territory as it’s held in the hotel’s vast wooden barn.

Think ideal venue for a hoe down and you might be close to its appearance – wooden rafters, walls consisting of chopped logs, wagon wheels, various farming implements, an industrial sized stove in the centre of the room. The breakfast itself is a spread worthy of champions, and their hungry mates – various King Arthur-esque tables covered in cheeses, warm breads, fruit, an array of cold meats and sausages, homemade jams (rhubarb, strawberry, Pinot Noir), cereals including Bircher muesli – a dish which is a must for me whenever it appears on a breakfast spread.

Although the culinary offerings are first class, it’s the setting which elevates it into a unique and surreal experience. I especially loved watching the expressions on other guests’ faces when they stepped into the barn to be faced with a wonderfully outlandish slice of kitsch. As it’s in the Black Forest, known for it’s famous cherry gateaux, maybe that should be kirsch rather than kitsch.

We absolutely loved it.

“Do you think people will get it?” Andy asks, referring to a new Slow Travel holiday we’ve been putting together in the area.

I take a slow look around my surroundings before answering – classic castle walls with views to Lisbon; a sculpted mermaid, boat, fish, and dolphins all of which reflect aspects of the town and the oh-so-blue sea which earned the coastline its name; the old church opposite the cafe, decorated with ancient azulejos (traditional blue tiles).

“There’s history as rich as anywhere, Roman ruins, golden beaches, forests, plains, scenic ridges, Moorish castles, traditional towns, sprawling vineyards, more gastronomic specialities than you’d find in a trendy London deli, the people are exceedingly friendly, and there’s the Virgin Mary on a giant mule. If anything, there are too many ingredients. If people don’t like this, then…” I let the sentence trail off on its own, distracted by one of the many ‘ingredients’.

The harsh reality is not everyone has the same travel  preferences. We know this only too well. We started our travel writing careers specialising on a Canary Island which many people sneered down their noses at.

I recently had a conversation which someone who was taken aback when I mentioned we deliberately keep the numbers of our Real Tenerife facebook page low. In an arena where achieving big numbers of followers on social media platforms has been the Holy Grail for many years, this was unthinkable. We have our reasons. We don’t attempt to try to write for everyone. We want to appeal to people who like the same things as us. On Tenerife we called them the “ten percenters” – the people who were interested in the Tenerife that exists beyond the brochures rather than just the fact it’s warm and sunny (mostly) for 12 months of the year. We’ve managed mainstream travel facebook pages in the past, and boosting numbers in an non-selective manner is a relatively easy business once you know the techniques.

There’s a clear division between holidaymakers who only like to lie around the pool of an all inclusive hotel all day and those who like to get out and about to learn more about the place they’re visiting. But once you clear the hotel boundaries those distinctions become less sharp. To put it simplistically, there are those who like to go full-on authentic, there are those who prefer a mix of authenticity combined with tourist destination trappings and there are folk who like to give the impression they seek authenticity but in reality want a sanitised version of it. Some folk in the latter category are probably not going to like all the same things as us.

We’ve witnessed these divisions in numerous locations over the years, sometimes relating to places which have thrilled us and sometimes ones which have left us cold. I can think of at least one example in the Canaries which ticks the latter box, a place regularly referred to as a Canarian town even though it didn’t exist before the 1970s.

A couple of years ago we were captivated by the whole experience of visiting the Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden, Bavaria. The dark past was palpable throughout, starting with a bus ride from the Dokumentation Centre way below, more of a white knuckle fairground ride really, and continuing with an atmospheric ascent by lift through the centre of a rock to reach the lair and its bird of prey views. It was exceedingly busy, but also one of those places where the sense of history in the air made the crowd around us dissipate. It was a literal and metaphoric highlight. But not everyone gets it.

“They have made Hitler’s mountain retreat, where he planned atrocities, into a restaurant and beer garden. If you are expecting any historical insights, forget it…” Tripadvisor review.

Not everyone ‘feels’ the past or the sense of a place. A lot of destinations we like we do so because they exude something that extends beyond bricks, mortar and information boards. We call it ‘soul’.
Being able to get a sense of the past isn’t always a good thing. We have a friend who dislikes visiting castles because she is troubled by the weighty air of oppression inside some.

Varying expectations can be especially exposed when it comes to rural accommodation. It might seem obvious but if staying in rural accommodation, which is often not much more than an extended family home, I don’t expect to be treated the same was as I would in a resort or city hotel. I expect to lug my own cases up and down narrow staircases and I don’t think there’s going to be someone around to tend to me at all times. However, some people seem to expect resort hotel facilities and their dissatisfaction when they don’t get those can manifest itself in various ways.

As an example, one review regarding the Tamahuche Rural Hotel in Vallehermoso on La Gomera moans about the ‘urban sprawl’ of a view from its windows. See our photo of this ‘urban sprawl’.

These are often the people I think of as wanting a sanitised version of authenticity, people who don’t appreciate those delicious differences which come when you encounter the real thing in the raw.

I am, however, guilty of taking it personally when I read criticism of places we like, especially the smaller family hotels where it’s all about individuality. “They just don’t get it. Should have stuck to purpose-built resorts.” J’accusé, throwing in the purpose-built resort jibe to deliberately be provocative.

Once my judgemental outbursts subside, rationality reminds me we simply don’t all like the same things.

“Do you think people will like it here?” I ask.

It’s four days after our Sesimbra Castle tosta and we’re in another cafe beside yet another castle eating a colourful selection of petiscos – stuffed mushrooms, prawns in a sweet and savoury sauce, crunchy chicken salad, and sweet potato chips.

“The hotel is inside a Moorish castle. There are five good restaurants within strolling distance, one with views across to Lisbon, whilst this one overlooks the Sado Estuary. How could anyone not like it?” Andy replies.

There are no guarantees anyone is going to like the same places we like. But in this case I feel quietly confident.

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.

It’s a snippet of a conversation we had in a restaurant in Portugal recently which reminded me of another conversation we had on a flight from Frankfurt a few weeks previously. Which in turn highlighted how we might be part of a European Union, but individual countries within the EU retain their own way of doing things across many aspects of life. One which is especially noticeable to visitors is when it comes to the question of paying with cash or card.

The conversation on the Frankfurt flight was with a Swedish traveller who was ostensibly living off grid. Whenever he returned to Sweden he said was finding it increasingly difficult as it was becoming more and more of a cashless society. He told us he even had problems catching a bus as money had been banned on buses in Sweden a few years ago.

Living outside of Britain for a decade and a half we’re still used to paying both by card or by cash, depending on the situation – there are still plenty of places where you can forget flashing your card. Whenever we return to Britain, especially to cities, it’s a bit like taking a step into the future. We watch in amazement as people pay for little things like a coffee, or a pint of beer with contactless cards. This just wouldn’t happen where we’re based in Portugal.

The gulf between EU countries when it comes to how to pay for simple things is an enormous chasm, and one which can be illuminating.

A few years ago in a supermarket outside of Foralquier in Provence I nudged Andy when I saw how the person in front was spaying for the goods they’d purchased. They were slowly writing out a cheque.
“I haven’t seen anyone use one of those in over a decade,” I laughed.
Next time we were in a supermarket it happened again, and then again, and again. At that point the penny dropped. Cheques were still in vogue in France. During our most recent visit to Provence I spotted a sign on a restaurant which said ‘no credit cards, cash or cheques only.’

In Portugal, like Spain, some places only accept cash, some accept cards as well. But there can be a twist. Some of the establishments which accept cards only accept those from a Portuguese bank. I first discovered this in a Vodafone shop whilst trying to top up a portable hotspot. They didn’t accept foreign bank cards, and that’s an international brand. A restaurant we love, The Old House at Parque Das Nacoes, was regularly criticised on Tripadvisor because visiting diners were regularly ‘caught out’ as the restaurant only accepted cash or Portuguese cards. It’s not exactly what you’d call budget eats either so even when people did have some cash on them, it might not have been enough to pay the bill. On our last visit they told us they’d finally gone international.

Even in countries where cash is still king practices can be very, very different.

Germany being mostly a cash society initially came as a huge surprise. We caused a cashier in Bavaria to have a complete meltdown by trying to pay for our shopping using a bank card. It was for €70 worth of food, yet when we handed over the card the cashier looked at it with unmitigated horror. She had a card machine but had no idea how to use it; all around us other shoppers were handing over wads of notes to pay for their purchases. She actually ended up with her head in her hands and had to call for assistance from a supervisor. After that we made sure we had plenty of ‘real’ money. In some cases we were able to use cards but mostly we paid cash in restaurants, even in cities like Freiburg. Without exception, whenever visiting Germany we are given receipts without hesitation.

Which brings me to Greece, another country where cash rules supreme, but not quite in the same fashion. I mentioned receipts for a reason. When we’re working we need them. On Crete a couple of years ago this occasionally proved a contentious point. In some restaurants we had to pay by cash because ‘the card machine didn’t start working until May’ – the official start of the season (we visited in April). Asking for receipts often led to a heated debate. In one case, the owner of the poshest taxi I’ve ever been in simply refused to give us a receipt. When we stood our ground, he ripped a piece of paper from his car – a receipt for a far lesser amount from a previous journey – and threw it at us in a temper. Similar happened in a couple of supermarkets, more than once we were reluctantly handed someone else’s receipt (always for a lesser amount) when we insisted on having one. Having visited Greece many times in the past it wasn’t something we’d been particularly aware of before. But this had been the first time we needed proof of purchases. By contrast, on the island of Andros, not far from Athens, getting a receipt was never an issue. Why there should be such differences between the two islands who knows?

It’s fascinating that on the northern fringes of Europe there exists an almost cashless society whilst on its southern flank there can be more of what’s basically bordering on a money under the mattress approach.

Apart from bartering for receipts in some locations, we don’t have a problem when visiting European countries. Knowing there can be varying cultural practices, we’re prepared for both cash and card societies. The exception is moving from the north of Britain to the south and trying to use Scottish banknotes in England. But that’s a rant topic for another day.