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.

“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.

Although we often prefer to focus on smaller, specific aspects of areas we visit, there’s a danger the bigger picture might remain slightly out of focus. In Berchtesgaden’s case, Königssee might be a dream of a lake, but what else is nearby? The Eagle’s Nest is a highpoint, but once you’ve soared with the big birds what then?

As I mentioned, Berchtesgaden’s attraction as a destination is as a result of a series of ingredients. These are ten which would have us returning in a jiffy.

Wonderful walking

Berchtesgaden is an adventure park for walkers. Germany’s rural parts generally are signposted to death when it comes to walking routes, with colour coded grading so when you see a red dot on a signpost you either get excited about the challenge ahead, or avoid it like the plague. We climbed narrow forest trails; walked across mountain ridges and through high alms; strolled around lakes; caught cable cars to high peaks, and traversed valleys where wood smoke from small farms blended seamlessly with morning mists. Some of it was challenging (we walked with soldiers on manoeuvres at one point). And some of it, especially lakeside routes, involved little more than gentle and extremely pleasant strolling.

Immerse yourself in history

The author of an excellent article in the Guardian about the Inntravel walking holiday tried his best to tiptoe around Hitler’s connection with Berchtesgaden. But he was still accused online of doing that British thing of referencing the war whenever Germany is mentioned. As is so often the case, comments of this ilk revealed ignorance more than anything else. The area is a well documented Nazi stronghold, nobody pretends otherwise. It’s said Hitler planned his bid to takeover Europe from Berchtesgaden. The Kehlsteinhaus, one of its most popular attractions, only exists because it was a birthday present for Hitler. There are fascinating stories about events in the area during final days of World War II. Tales that deserve telling and which would make an edge-of-the-seat movie. To not mention Hitler or the war when writing about Berchtesgaden would be a bizarre thing to do.

Lunch beside lovely lakes

Königssee is one of the most beautiful lakes I’ve set eyes upon; gushing waterfalls, dramatic cliffs, electric boats gliding quietly across a mirror surface, an onion domed church on its bank – it is a lake of great beauty, fantastical tales, historic ballads and tragic accidents. Hidden Obersee, reached from Königssee’s southern edge, is even more magical.

Get high

The Eagle’s Nest is Berchtesgaden’s most famous highpoint, but there’s also Watzman, Jenner and Predigstuhl, all of which reward with bird’s eye views of the surrounding scenery as far as Salzburg in Austria. The beauty is you don’t have to be an accomplished mountaineer to enjoy these epic views. Cable cars, including Germany’s oldest, make getting high an easy and pleasurable experience, unless you’ve got vertigo of course.

Eat good food

‘Hearty fare’ is generally rolled out whenever German food is mentioned, because that’s exactly what you get. The cuisine is of the sort which has me leaning back in my chair post dinner, patting a satisfied rotund belly. Lunchtime snacks in mountain hüttes are generous enough to fill me for the rest of the day. Berchtesgaden was once a favourite hunting ground of German royalty. It remains a great destination for anyone who enjoys game. Wild boar and venison are regulars on menus, often served in a rich sauce and accompanied by red fruit sauces and dumplings, noodles, or potatoes. Lake fish is also very good and less likely to bust the belly.

For a mix of art and nature

If you think it sounds an exaggerated cliche to describe Berchtesgaden as a magnet for artists, take a walk around Hintersee. The ethereal landscape attracted an army of artists in the 19th century who clearly felt compelled to go head to head with nature’s brush strokes. Easels around the lake remain as testament to their efforts.

There are glaciers

One of our favourite walks in the Berchtesgaden area was an ascent to the Blauieshütte, a lodge below the Blaueis (blue ice), the northernmost glacier in the Alps. Walking is the only way to get there so there aren’t the crowds you find at some of Berchtesgaden’s other attractions. Similarly, not many visitors make the effort to walk from St Bartholomä on Königssee to the Eiskappelle, a dome-like glacier at the foot of the Watzmann. Signs before the ‘Ice Chapel’ warn that to enter is to risk death, but plenty of adventurers (aka fools) ignore the warning.

The quirks

The cliff face rising from the Königssee which bounces back crisp, soulful music is an oddity which leaves visitors open-mouthed with amazement (it did us). There are other quirks which range from curious to macabre. The curious includes a gradierwerk in Ramsau. This is a construction made from blackthorn twigs; brine trickles through the twigs creating a fine salty mist, the inhalation of which is beneficial to the health. The macabre includes the grim reaper grinning down from cemetery gates.

There’s a kind of magic

Enter a German forest and you often find yourself stepping into a fairytale world. In Berchtesgaden one route passes a dwarves’ bar and a wishing throne. It is actually known as ‘Zauberwald’, the enchanted forest.

King of cakes

Nearly everyone knows about the sinfully delicious German tradition of kaffee und kuchen. I’m not even a cake lover, but I find myself being drawn to a wedge of something sweet and creamy whenever we pass a hütte in Germany during mid afternoon. Windbeutelbaron en route to the Eagle’s Nest shoved a kuchen in front of us which made all others seem like minnows. Their cakes are based on the nearby Watzman mountains and must be close to being life-sized.

These are only snapshots. If I listed all the things we liked about Berchtesgaden I’d end up with a weighty tome. Among Brits, Germany beyond its cities still doesn’t elicit the same sort of enthusiastic interest as many other European destinations. Not so long ago we felt the same lack of interest. Following numerous visits over the last few years the scales have well and truly fallen from our eyes. Germany was a revelation with far more to offer travellers than we realised. It’s time to wake up and smell that kaffee.

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+

It is utter balderdash (not a word I usually use, but it’s a lovely rich old term which fits).

The cuisine they’re referring to is Spanish and a bit too out there for those who come out in hives if they stray too far from a plate of meat and two veg. Ironically, if the food really was geared towards German guests these moaners would be in their culinary element.

There is much about Germany which makes it a perfect match for British tastes.

On the face of it Germany currently doesn’t fare too badly in terms of being a popular destination with British travellers. It’s the sixth most popular country in the world for Brits to visit. But it only gets a fraction of the numbers first choice Spain gets (source: Office for National Statistics). Additionally 44% of visitors to Germany head to one of 11 cities and towns with Berlin and Munich hogging the lion’s share of the tourism pie. It could do better if more Brits realised what the country had to offer, especially outside the well known cities.

During four visits to Germany in the last three years we’ve regularly repeated one phrase.

“Brits would love this.”

Familiar food

German gastronomy is hale and hearty fare and features lots of meat, rich sauces, seasonal vegetables and fruit. It’s not dissimilar to olde worlde British cooking. There’s something comfortably nostalgic about a plate of wild boar sausages draped with bacon, red cabbage hills, dumplings, yellow creamy mash, pear and grapes – as though I’ve slipped into the pages of Mrs Beeton’s cookbook. From Bavaria to the Black Forest we’ve feasted on food which has felt oddly familiar. In lodges, wooden platters overflowing with cheese, cold meats, salad, radishes, gherkins, bread and butter seem like the German cousin of the ploughman’s lunch. And there is also that most sinful of afternoon traditions, kaffee und kuchen. It’s a place where it’s not naff to order Black Forest Gateau.

Beer drinkers

Like the Brits, the Germans are seriously into their beer. A sunny afternoon in a jolly army camp-sized beer hall downing frothy ales from ceramic jugs so big you need two hands to lift one is a giddily authentic experience. There’s no need to wait till Oktoberfest to get merry with the locals, you can enjoy Anymonthfest in Germany’s bierkellers.

Good wine

Stay in one of the picture postcard country hotels around rural Germany and you’ll quickly notice many people have bier with meals rather than wine. Open a menu and you’ll discover why. Wine in hotels is ridiculously expensive, bearing no relation to the price on the bottle in supermarkets where it’s actually good value. German wine is surprisingly good, ranging from smooth Spätburgunders (Pinot noir) bottled on sun-kissed slopes around Kaiserstuhl to cool, crisp Reislings from Mosel. Unlike Spain, France, Italy etc. Germany doesn’t try to pretend there are no other decent wines in the world. In supermarkets you get of choice of wines from other wine-growing countries.

Germans are polite

That might come as a revelation to anyone whose only experience of Germans has been in holiday resorts, battling over sunbeds or pointing out ‘actually there’s a queue you know’. A German friend told us some Germans encountered in holiday resort areas were just their equivalent of the ‘Brits abroad’ types we avoid like the plague. Of all the European countries we’ve explored on foot, Germany stands out for the sheer number of people who stop to ask if they can help when we’ve been lingering at signposts too long (usually because it takes ages to write down place names with a zillion letters in them). It’s the same travelling on public transport and in shops and hotels and so on. It’s a polite and orderly society. However, if you want to cause meltdown try paying by card rather than cash in a supermarket in any small town.

An overdose of walking routes

An activity we share a liking for is walking, it’s a national pastime. Subsequently Germany leaves many countries for dead when it comes to waymarking routes. There are well maintained paths everywhere and just about every junction has a signpost. It’s exceedingly helpful when following directions, but frustrating when writing them as every few yards (slight exaggeration) there’s another signpost with fingers pointing to multitudinous places with long names for us to record.

Sensational Scenery

The locations we’ve visited in Germany all had one thing in common, the scenery has been enchanting – from wild granite mountain ranges and once impenetrable forests to immaculate meadows and hypnotic lakes. These are lands where myth, legends and fairy tales are rife; a countryside so dramatic it should come with a Wagner soundtrack. The countryside hasn’t been abused and farming still is small scale. In some areas it feels as though time has stood still and the sight of a woodsman, axe over one shoulder, leading a little girl wearing a red cloak would seem perfectly normal.

Environmentally friendly

Whilst Britain is ahead of some European countries when it comes to environmental awareness. Germany is in another league. In cities like Freiburg bikes outnumber cars. But it’s the way plastic bottles are dealt with which really impresses me. Machines in supermarkets suck in empty water bottles and reward with vouchers you can put towards shopping in the store. A win-win system. It’s not new as such. In the 1970s in Scotland we used to pay for our Friday fish suppers from Ninian’s fish and chip shop by handing over empty lemonade bottles.

And then there’s also a shared love of football.

All these factors make Germany a destination which should appeal to British tastes. But there is one other vitally important reason why Germany is a good fit for British travellers. Despite the best efforts of trashy UK newspapers, the Germans actually like us. In the Black Forest a hotel owner pointed out that the Schwarzwald used to be highly popular with British visitors.

“I’d love to see the British come back,” he lamented.

The time is right for granting his wish.

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+

But the idea the title is intended to get across is the point. Is there a law which says if we want to be considered discerning travellers we should only eat what is considered ‘local food’ whenever we visit a destination?

Absolutely not.

Take Britain. What is local food there anyway? Steak and kidney pie? Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? Fish and chips? Haggis, neeps and tatties? Beef rogan josh with basmati rice? Chicken chow mien?

If visitors to the UK want to eat like a local, it could involve any of that lot. If a tourist was getting their gob around a tandoori in Rusholme, Manchester, they’d be eating like a local. Britain is one of those European countries where even smallish towns have restaurants influenced by gastronomy from other parts of the world.

World cuisines becoming staples of a nation’s eating pattern is just one reason why eating in restaurants serving food which doesn’t originally have its roots in that country is still eating like a local. Although, I’ve seen suggestions that traditional British nosh is so bad it needs to be propped up by food from other countries.

Balderdash. Having a diverse gastronomic melting point is a sign of a multicultural society. And that also means a richly varied restaurant scene.

Which brings me neatly to another reason why we regularly sneak in the odd burger and pizza when we find ourselves in different pastures, even though a big part of travel is trying food that is new to us.

Diversity.

In some destinations the menu from one traditional restaurant to another can be interchangeable. Sometimes there may be enough variation on that menu to allow foodies to try something different day after day for a fortnight or more, e.g. Italy, France and the likes of Croatia where a blend of Northern European and Mediterranean influences tends to keep menus interesting. Sometimes that boils down to regions within a country. Costa Brava’s slightly bonkers cuisine continually surprises and delights, yet in other parts we can get bored after a few days. In Spain’s case that’s because we live in Spanish territory, so often traditional menus don’t offer anything particularly new for us. For that reason, in Madrid one night we committed the crime of eschewing the tapas bars around Plaza Santa Ana in favour of a Thai restaurant.

After two weeks of hiking around Bavaria, enjoying hearty German fare nightly, we were more than ready to swap knödels for beefy Bavarian burgers with our frothy bier in Berchtesgaden. In the first few days in Bavaria, even though we’d hiked 20km each day, we put on weight.

Similarly in Corsica, having gorged on filling cheesy beignets and savoury wild boar stews to a point where we were dangerous close to exploding, the occasional pizza or burger acted as a pressure valve.

Then there are places where restaurant menus hardly have enough diversity to offer different choices over the space of a few days let alone longer. We reached being tangined-out very quickly in Marrakesh. Restaurant menus in small towns in Chile’s Aysén region tended to be limited. In both these places there were some excellent and diverse dishes to be savoured, but mainly in the form of home-cooking in riads in Marrakesh and stylish rural lodges in Chile.

Ultimately I’d argue that if food is a major part of a travel experience, you wouldn’t be happy with eating the same thing, or a variation of, night after night for the duration of any visit. Plus, locals eat burgers and pizzas so technically, as long it’s in a restaurant favoured by the resident population, it’s still eating like a local.

Actually, I have eaten burgers in France – a huge, appropriately named Pyrenean burger served with a bucket of French fries in Limoux. It was the only thing left on the menu as they were about to shut… at around 9pm (the downside to dining in France). It was delicious.

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+

That 3% makes a difference.

We regularly walk in the volcanic crater of Teide National Park on Tenerife where routes begin around the 2000m mark. Top of the island is Mount Teide, at 3718m it’s the highest peak in Spain. At 2000m there is approximately 5% less oxygen than at sea level. On Teide’s peak it’s a seriously breathless 8% less. Altitude sickness can kick in around 2400m where it’s about 6% less.

When walking at altitude on Tenerife with friends from Britain, even experienced walkers, we advise them to take it slow. In fact, we especially advise friends who are experienced at walking in Britain. They are the ones more likely to set off at their usual walking pace, which in subtropical conditions at altitude is likely to leave them red-faced and gasping after a few hundred yards.

It’s easy to put into perspective the chasm of difference which lies between walking in Britain and walking at altitude. We always say a variation of the same thing: “we’re starting at an altitude which is as high as Britain’s highest peak,” or, even better. “This is twice (or even three times) the height of Ben Nevis.”

At altitude it’s important to adjust to the surroundings.

Appreciating, or not, the impact of walking at different altitudes is only one example of how being an ‘experienced walker’ can be a relative term.

Consider wildly differing terrain
We recently received an email asking if an ambitious walking route on Tenerife was feasible; it involved climbing from the south coast to the peak of Mount Teide in a day. It was immediately obvious the route hadn’t been planned properly as it was mostly along main roads making it a) unnecessarily long, b) potentially dangerous and c) dull as hell. All of which told us the person who sent the email wasn’t an experienced hiker. We suggested they probably weren’t ready for such a challenging route to which they came back insisting they were experienced walkers, having walked around their county for charity.
Not understanding the difference between walking in parts of Britain, or anywhere, which is relatively flat and walking on an island where the gradient is such Spain’s highest mountain can cast a shadow on the sea can be a recipe for disaster.

The Canary Islands are perfect as a winter walking destination. But because they’re known in parts of Europe mainly as a winter sun destination means their wilder face can regularly be underestimated. La Palma is known as La Isla Bonita but also lays claim to being the steepest island in the world. That means challenging ascents of descents and anyone more used to gently undulating hills will feel the difference. La Gomera in some ways offers even more demanding walking. As the most popular Canary Island for walkers its rugged terrain, consisting of ravine after ravine, regularly catches out even experienced walkers. It’s immensely rewarding walking but it makes you work for it.

We misjudged the terrain ourselves in Berchtesgadener Land, Bavaria, where mountains act as walls between valleys. Walls which have to be climbed if you want follow the best routes from one valley to the next. Because we’re often mapping out new routes, which involves referring to maps, using GPS, recording notes and taking photos, we don’t use walking sticks as they get in the way. After completing our first route in Berchtesgaden, which involved an 1100m ascent and descent over a relatively short distance, we realised we were unlikely to survive 11 days of similar walking without sticks. Thankfully just about every Bavarian village has an outdoors equipment shop and we picked up a couple of cheap ones which were lifesavers.

Although contours on maps show how steep the terrain is, the 3D aspect you get with Google Earth is excellent for actually showing you the lay of the land before you set foot in a place.

Connected with the terrain is the type of paths walkers are likely to encounter in various destinations. Paths come in many forms. It still surprises when regular walkers aren’t used to the more wild varieties. We met a couple in Leutasch, Austria, who were outraged they’d been sent on a path which they felt was dangerous and not fit to be used. In reality there was nothing wrong with it except it was narrow, steep and uneven. Anyone who has walked extensively in more mountainous areas of Europe will have encountered many similar ‘goat trail’ paths.

Hot walks
Finally, something that can catch experienced walkers out is just how hot walking in parts of Europe can be. In June in Corsica we found our energy sapped by temperatures of 30C+, and we’re used to hot walking. We slow down, wear hats, slap on sun cream, take lots of rests, follow routes where there’s shade and, most importantly of all, drink lots of water.

In the Canary Islands the walking can be hot throughout the year, even in the depths of winter. It might sound like spouting the obvious but it’s essential to take note and adjust to conditions. I say it might be spouting the obvious but I’ve known hiking companies take walkers out during a heatwave on Gran Canaria and experienced walkers take to the hills on La Gomera when a rural hotel owner advised against it. Neither of those examples ended well.

What being an experienced walker means is relative and can vary from person to person. Like everything in life, exploring the countryside on foot involves following a continual learning curve.

Each destination offers something new, something different, which is partly why we love getting out onto that trail as often as we can.

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+

At the foot of the steps, three elderly walkers are pondering their options. Guessing their average age must be in the vicinity of 80 yrs, I’m both impressed and humbled by the fact they’ve made it this far. After some deliberation, they settle down on a low wall, presumably to summon up the energy to make the final push. Shamed into feeling somewhat pathetic, I take to the steps with enthusiasm.

It had been a difficult decision.

It was our penultimate full day in the hiker’s utopia of Berchtesgaden at the southern tip of Bavaria and, our final day already committed, we had to choose whether to re-route our first walk of the trip in order to get a better look at the distinctive profile of geotope, Steinerne Agnes, or make the steep ascent of the flank of the Hochalter mountain range to reach the mountain Hütte tucked into a craggy ledge below the Blaueis glacier. With no guarantees that Agnes would deign to look any more impressive from anywhere other than the cockpit of a helicopter hovering alongside, we opted for Blaueis.

My initial zeal rapidly diminishing into slow, hard slog, we finally emerge at the side of the Hütte, walk around the rear where one or two tables sit outside the back door beneath the gaze of the eponymous glacier above, and onto the front decking terrace. I walk to a free table at the far side of the large terrace where a posee of yellow-billed, Alpine choughs line the wooden handrail like expectant waiters.

We order a large platter of cold meats, cheeses, crusty bread, and a slab of butter and, as we hungrily tuck in, the realisation of just where we are begins to sink in.

Around 800m (2,600ft) below us, the artist’s lake of Hintersee shimmers like a fallen piece of sky in the midst of the pine forest at the foot of the Lattengebirge mountains. Behind us, the Hochalter mountains rose to their craggy peaks while, tucked into a crevasse just a short distance above us, the Blaueis glacier sits, a thin line of walkers making negligible progress as they snake along the granite rock towards it. And here we sit, on a wooden platform jutting out from the rock face, suspended 1600m above sea level, the sun on our faces, and a feast on our table.

It might have been hard work to get here but it was worth every step to be in such a unique spot.

As we’re leaving, the three octogenarians have just arrived at one of the tables at the rear of the building and are perusing the menu for their well-deserved lunch.

Don’t you just love Slow travel?

Andrea (Andy) Montgomery is a freelance travel writer and co-owner of Buzz Trips and The Real Tenerife series of travel websites. Published in The Telegraph, The Independent, DK Guides, Wexas Traveller, Thomas Cook Travel Magazine, EasyJet Traveller Magazine, you can read her latest content on Google+

Jack thinks she looks like Sid from the movie Ice Age.

Mystery surrounds her presence here and imbues her with both a virtuous and a scandalous past. Some say she’s a virgin milkmaid turned to stone to protect her from the Devil, others that she was turned to stone as punishment for cavorting with him, and yet another claims she’s a prostitute turned to stone for killing her child.

Take away the superstition and you’re left with a 15m high obelisk in the shape of a mushroom and one of Germany’s most beautiful Geotopes (a geological phenomena). Formed by different rates of erosion on the rock’s component parts over millennia, Agnes is composed of limestone, dolomite and marl. The neck consists mainly of soft dolomite whereas the head is more compacted limestone and marl which weathers better. Part of the Lattengebirge mountain range on the edge of the Berchtesgadener Land National Park in Bavaria, this is hiker’s Nirvana and the trail to Steinerne Agnes is reputedly a fine one, with the added reward of meeting Agnes herself at the half way stage.

On a rainy summer’s day in September we set out from Bischofswiesen to go and see for ourselves. Beginning from a small car park where Agnes’ portrait with the estimated walking time of 3hrs denotes the start of the route, we set out along the path climbing steeply through forest above the valley floor, occasional breaks in the trees allowing us glances across the spa town of Bad Reichenhall nestling in meadows far below. Onwards and upwards we climb, over tree roots and along narrow paths, our destination countdown marked out in Steinerne Agnes directional signposts every step of the way. At last the path levels out and we follow the final signpost showing just 10mins to our milkmaid.

At a clearing below a rock we arrive at another board displaying that tantalising portrait and we look up, expecting to see her proud profile before us. But all there is, is a limestone obelisk, mundanely rectangular with nothing to distinguish it from all the other limestone rocks around us.
“This isn’t it,” declares Jack.
“Yes it is,” I reply.
“It isn’t,” he insists. “It must be further on.”
“This is it.” I know we’re in the right place, I’m just not sure where Agnes is.
We walk around to the front of the obelisk and I realise that what we’re looking at is Agnes from below, her head barely discernible above her shoulders, her neck completely hidden. From down here she looks nothing.

While Jack goes off in search of a profile, any profile, I find a bench, and solace in the form of a packed lunch.

Retracing our steps in order to begin the descent into Bischofswiesen, we round a bend in the path and something catches our eye. Looking back towards Agnes, her profile is suddenly there. Nothing like as clear as her portrait but nevertheless, you can definitely see the slender neck and the oversized head. Crouching beneath the sodden boughs of a tree, Jack manages to take a shot. But without the cobalt sky, it’s hard to differentiate Agnes from the leaden heavens above her.

It’s a good walk and takes in some splendid valley views on its return but I can’t help feeling a bit cheated. Right from the very start you’re led to believe that the portrait in the picture is the one that awaits you at the end of your 3hr forest ascent, and it simply isn’t. After studying the portrait that adorns information boards and leaflets, we’re fairly sure Agnes must have been photographed from a helicopter, a brilliant way to capture her extraordinary profile but surely a bit misleading as an enticement to visit her.

For the rest of our two weeks we were haunted by the notion that we may somehow have failed to find Agnes and that perhaps we should have descended from Karkopf instead, or tried to climb the rocks alongside her to reach higher ground. But we didn’t go back, and she remains enigmatically elusive. I’ve even had to use a photograph from the Bischofswiesen Tourist Board (top) to illustrate what she looks like. If anyone knows a way to see her like this without the aid of a flying machine or crampons, please let us know.

Andrea (Andy) Montgomery is a freelance travel writer and co-owner of Buzz Trips and The Real Tenerife series of travel websites. Published in The Telegraph, The Independent, DK Guides, Wexas Traveller, Thomas Cook Travel Magazine, EasyJet Traveller Magazine, you can read her latest content on Google+