I get a little nostalgic when I think of Cangas de Onís in northern Spain, partly because of its ‘puente’ or ‘Roman’ bridge, which arches impressively over the River Sella. I’m often drawn towards old bridges, as they’re typically pretty, offer views and provide a link to the past. Cangas de Onís was also nearly …
A foliage-covered monolith sweeps towards the wastelands, where the sirocco drinks from quiet hills and breathes life into dust. Above parched hues of gold and lustier green, houses are perched theatrically, their backyards plummeting towards the tombs of desperate prisoners and the damned. At eventide, their whitewashed walls burn like salt crystals and Ronda’s gorge …
After experiencing the merciless sun, dust and parched hills of southern Spain, I decided to head north in search of my favourite colour – green. It was here that I discovered a land of lush meadows, jagged mountains, stews, cider and Celtic culture. It was also here that I discovered I was much happier. So …
I had the unfortunate experience of visiting Seville’s Real Alcázar (royal palace) in late July, when the city was a flaming inferno of pain and torture (it really was). However, I’d also heard very little about it prior to my visit, which made my experience all the more memorable. I soon discovered – even while …
Sixty six square metres of dust surrounded by a ring of stonework – of pillars, arched roofs and curved seats that have witnessed the countless spilling of blood. Men in ornate jackets, winged hats and tights, carrying capes and swords – parading, then lunging, spinning, then stabbing. Wearing down an animal until its last breath …