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Spencer and Cath's backpacking adventure from London to Brisbane via America, Europe and Asia

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Welcome to our website! From July 11th 2004 Spencer and Cath will spend a year backpacking their way from London to Brisbane via America, Europe and Asia

From the Great Wall of China to swiming with dolphins this site conveys our thoughts and experiences in the months before, during and after our big trip. We hope you stick with us through our journey and would be delighted if you Leave us a message or better still make a donation!

Monday 31st January 2005

Our stay in Valencia recharged our batteries sufficiently well enough to render the horrible experience we endured in Cuenca as nothing more than a fading memory. Consequently by the time we arrived in Barcelona our overwhelming desire to relax had been replaced by a re-ignited vigor to explore. We were excited to be here and with the promise of a world class city at our disposal could not wait to get started.

Barcelona is such a big, sprawling, culturally diverse city though that it proved difficult to know where to start. However after much head scratching and consultation of maps and tourist literature we decided to begin our tour at La Rambla. Mainly because our guidebook said to do so and because it was right next door to our hostel.

As a kind of Spanish version of Covent Garden, but without the square, this stretch of road is undoubtedly the city's social epicenter. Extending for about 1km from the Placa de Catalunya, an expansive plaza dominated by a huge fountain and millions of pigeons, - or as Cath calls them, 'rats with wings', to the Monument a Colom, a rather forlorn statue of Christopher Columbus, La Rambla is a long promenade that runs through the middle of a main road.

Framed on both sides by souvenir shops and lined with cafes, newsstands and a sprinkling of bird, fish ans flower stands La Rambla is a captivating place, whose population of buskers, human statues, artists and beggars radiates a distinctly bohemian feel. It is a great place to wander, better yet to people watch. But on this day, as most of the people available to watch seemed to consist mainly of British tourists or Indian shopkeepers, it was not as rewarding as I had hoped. Infact it almost felt like being back in Ealing. Nonetheless in between bouts of browsing in the shops it was something that kept us occupied for a few hours. That is until we got hungry.

During our time in Spain one thing that we have noticed about the country is that its restaurants offer something to hungry tourists that London does not, (or at least I am not aware that they do) and that is a Menu of the Day. Varying in price from 7 - 15 euros per person, establishments offer inclusive deals that more or less consist of the following. Two 'plates', typically paella, spaghetti bolognese, a hearty stew or chicken and chips, that are served in portions not big enough to be considered a main, but too big to be a starter, with bread and desert and coffee thrown in. On the face of it they represent good value and budget travellers in particular can eat very well. However you do have to be a little careful. Not all eateries provide a drink in this deal, so when you order one they use it as the perfect opportunity for increasing their profit margins. We found this to our peril today when ordering 2 cokes. Fully expecting 2 normal size 250ml bottles to be placed on our table we were surprised to be presented each with pint glasses. When the bill came this surprise turned to dismay when we found that collectively we had been charged 8.60 euros for both drinks. Just 40 cents cheaper than another meal. Nonetheless we paid and as we left the restaurants I noticed that it had very big windows.

They must have seen us coming I thought.

Still it was not all bad. The coke was very refreshing and as we paid the bill, because of their sneaky tactics, we did not feel a drop of remorse, this time around at least, when we left without giving a tip.

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Saturday 29th January 2005

Cuenca rather knocked the stuffing out of us. So much so that our time in Valencia focused more on recouperation than sightseeing. Indeed we spent most of the first night within the confines of our hostel desparately trying to thaw out. Something that I eventually managed to do after standing under a wonderfully hot shower for about 25 minutes.

In truth the 3 days we spent in Valencia were fairly unremarkable and although there were some highlights, like its 3 plazas, pretty beach and the beautiful baroque buildings of the old quarter, it says much about our time here that the 2 things we will remember most fondly are both related to food. The fantastic Italian restaurant La Vita e Bella which offered an amazing barabeque pizza and Valor, a chocoholics paradise, serving the best Chocolate Con Churros (long, thin donut strips that you dip into a rich, creamy chocolate sauce), that we have tasted yet, will stay long in the memory.

For these reasons alone Valencia was definitely worth visiting.

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Friday 28th January 2005

After 3 enjoyable days we were in good spirits as we left Seville and headed back in land, via a connecting train from Madrid, to the city of Cuenca. The weather had been warm, not Sahara temperatures by any stretch of imagination, but pleasant enough to be able to amble around without our jackets on. So it came to us as a bit of a surprise to find a thick blanket of snow carpeting the ground as our train chugged through the bleak wind battered plains of the Castilla la Mancha region. However as it looked serenely beautiful, and we were in nice, comfortable seats, we did not really give it much thought.

Cuenca's lay out is incredible. Its elevated old town sits on top of a deep gorge, isolated from the rest of the city by the Jucar and Huecar rivers, and can only be accessed by a steep, winding road that twists and rises sharply. Set against this scintilating background the old town's appeal lies in its Casas Colgadas, 'hanging houses' built in the 15th century, that cling desparately to the edge of a cliff top. Some with their balconies jutting out directly over the gorge.

After getting a very enthusiastic welcome from the manager of our hostel, probably because we were the only ones there and possibly because we were the first visitors since at least the end of October, we headed out to familiarise ourselves with the area. Over the next couple of hours we managed to gain a brief appreciation of its magnificence from a precarious bridge that spand spans the gorge and some of the lookout points dotted around the top of the old town. But with the light fading and the weather getting increasingly colder we decided to return to our rooms, with every intention of devoting the whole of the next day to further exploration of our surroundings.

After a quick detour to a tapas bar, where we ate Spanish Omelette Bocadillos that were the size of our forearms, we retired to our rooms to relax for the evening. However when we got there the room was freezing. Whatsmore the heater did not work properly. Either air was trapped inside it, or more likely, because it had been turned off before we arrived the pipes had frozen over. Whatever the case it was biting cold, and the room's stone walls only made it colder. Even eskimos would have felt chilly. We knew now why noone else was here. And probably had not been since the end of the last summer.

In an effort to bypass the night we gamely tried to sleep, hoping that the hat, gloves, fleece and socks we were wearing in bed would keep us warm. But they only provided a minimum level of warmth. It felt like we were in a meat freezer and we both began to lose the feeling in our fingers and toes. Despite our best efforts we just could not sleep and we just lay there in silence, wishing the night away. But it just dragged on. I tried to console myself by thinking of situations worse than this. But apart from being buried alive, or being forced to sit through an entire day of Are You Being Served? reruns, nothing else sprang to mind. At 2.17am we looked at a thermometer we had recently bought. I think it read minus 10 degrees centigrade. I could not see properly as my eyes were glazed over. We had never been so cold.

At precisely 4.24am, after about 7 hours of shivering we decided that enough was enough and even though we had paid for 2 nights we agreed to move on to somewhere much warmer the next morning. We could not bear another night here. Strangely enough though, as soon as the decision was made we both fell asleep. We woke at 10.19am and by 10.35am we had left the hostel. We were so keen to leave that we did not even bother to ask for a refund. The manager did not speak English and we had neither the will or the energy to try and communicate with her. We just wanted to get out of there. Judging by the look on her face I think she knew why.

Feeling a huge sense of relief, yet thoroughly miserable, we made our way to the bus stop where a nice young Spanish girl confirmed to us that it was heading in the correct direction for the train station. In an effort to be friendly, she said to us in Spanish words to the effect that it was very cold. As I looked at the fresh snow that lined the streets I thought to myself that she did not know the half of it. After 10 long minutes the bus came, but as we stepped onto it we were horrified to learn that we did not have enough change. With only a 50 euro note and 1.35 euros in coins we faced for a split second the soul destroying possibility, with no shops open to get change, of having to walk for more than 2 miles with our backpacks in the snow. Thankfully the young girl came to our rescue and gave us the extra 25 cents required. We thanked her profusely but I am not sure that she fully grasped the impact that she had made to our day.

Even though the bus stopped only a couple of streets away from the train station we still managed somehow to get lost. But fortunately a kindly local old man whom we accosted from his busy day of standing on a street corner, walked us, or rather trudged us to within sight of the station. Overjoyed by its presence I offered him my hand, which he duly shook, but my fingers were so stiff that his firm grip felt like a crushing vice.

With our train waiting on the platform we just about had enough time to buy our tickets abd climb aboard before it set off. We were lucky. The next train was not due to leave for another 3 hours. I am not sure how we would have coped if we had of missed it. Gratifyingly this was not the case though and we headed for Valencia without further incident. When we got there a sign on a station clock read 13 degrees centigrade.

After spending the night in that room in Cuenca, it felt more like 30.

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Wednesday 26th January 2005

It might not be overly politically correct but before we started our big trip whenever I thought about Spain I immediately conjoured up images of moustached guitarists strolling jovially around restaurants, glamorously dressed flamenco dancers strutting their stuff and domineering bullfighters tormenting their hapless victims. However up until now we had not really witnessed anything of the like. Despite loving what we had seen of Spain so far, a small feeling of unfulfillment had been eating away inside me. However it disappeared as soon as we started to explore Seville.

Here these activities seemed to abound with the degree of authenticity that I had envisaged. There were examples everywhere. In every shop, bar and restaurant. Even in the architecture. It was difficult to ignore, but the fierce pride with which examples of these traditions were displayed was intensely fascinating. Furthermore as the regional capital of Andulucia, Seville has long been the stronghold for Muslims in Spain and this Moorish influence was also heavily, not to mention beautifully, evident. The result is an eclectic mix of culture and history that renders Seville as one of the most Spanish of Spanish cities.

Like any big city Seville possesses some impressive attractions, like its Cathedral, which supposedly houses the tomb of Christopher Columbus and its Alcazar which dates back to 913 AD. However in parts it also has its share of foreigners, most of whom seemed to be British tourists, or American exchange students named Brad or Amber. By and large though we managed to avoid these masses by staying more or less exclusively in and around the old Jewish Quarter of the city.

By day we spent hours wandering through its captivating maze of narrow streets, where blind corners revealed beautiful secluded plazas, or solitary shops nestled amongst houses so close together that people could probably hold hands from opposite windows. At night we simply sat in tapas bars and watched the evening unfold. In short we spent a couple of days doing what the most elder locals did. It might not sound exciting but it was very satisfying.

For when the time came to move on I felt like I had finally seen the real Spain.

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Monday 24th January 2005

Several years ago, I recall, there was an Air Canada advert on television that struck a cord with me. It was not especially glitzy, nor was it fronted by a famous personality, but what I found intriguing was its message that suggested that their passengers enjoyed their flight so much that despite landing on the tarmac several hours previously they preferred to stay on the plane. Today's train journey to Seville brought that memory back to me.

Not only did we pass through a breathtaking landscape of rolling hills interspersed with acres of orange and olive trees, but the superfast AVE trains covered the 471km distance in only 2.5 hours. Furthermore with exceptionally comfortable seats in a clean, quiet compartment, and airplace style stewardesses at our assistance the whole experience was extremely pleasurable. They even showed the film, 'Finding Nemo' on a series of television screens, although admittedly it was of little use to us as it was in Spanish. All in all it was a better standard of performance and service than I have experience in England and it put me in a very good mood as we arrived in Seville.

Almost immediately we noticed a marked change from Madrid. For a start it was appreciably warmner. About 10 degrees centigrade warmer according to a clock near the station. Moreover with far fewer people around the pace of life was slower, and as complete strangers smiled at us, evidently more convivial. It was instantly appealing.

Quite coincidentally our hostel in the Barrio de Santa Cruz, the old Jewish Quarter was the exact same one as Cath had stayed in on a visit to Seville 6 years previously. After checking in to the property, with her recollections flooding back, she took me to one of her favourite spots. For the rest of the afternoon we sat there in a magnificent courtyard, filled with a canopy of orange trees, where we enjoyed a delicious and ridiculously cheap 3 course meal on the terrace of a restaurant. It was a pleasant way to realx and as we sat and watched the locals go about their business, with the sun baking down upon us, we felt an immense sense of content, recognising that this in essense is a large part of what our big trip is about.

Technically we might currently be unemployed and homeless, but at least we can say that we are living.

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Sunday 23rd January 2005

We did not really fancy a third day of wandering aimlessly around the streets of Madrid so instead, after a brief consultation with our guidebook last night, we decided to head out for a quiet day of exploring the ancient Roman town of Segovia.

As it was early on sunday morning, and considering that Segovia is about a 2.5 hour train journey from Madrid we were surprised to find our platform at Atoche station packed with people. Furthermore when they noisily clambered aboard the 3 carriages heading for Segovia our plan for a quiet day was begining to look like mere wishful thinking. It was fairly dismaying at first but as we were lucky enough to have secured a seat we tried to block out the commotion by taking in the views of the scenic countryside. However suddenly, after about 2 huors of travelling, our desired level of calm returned for as soon as we reached a place called Cercedilla, virtually 95 per cent of the people disembarked. I have no idea why they did this, the station looked pretty downtrodden and seemed to be located in the middle of nowhere but nonetheless they left in their droves. As the train pulled away and the people, most of whom seemed to be Spanish, slowly began to disappear from view I could not help but wonder what had brought them here. More to the point I began to hypothesise on what we were missing out on.

Originally a Celtic settlement, Segovia's old town, which was successfully invaded by Romans around 80 BC, sits gracefully on top of a foreboding ridge about 2 k from its train station. As we reached the old town we were immediately struck by its radiating sense of character and history. Nowhere did this seem to be embodied more than in the extraordinary Aqueduct.

Standing over 29 metres high with 163 arches on 2 levels stretching for a distance of over 800 metres, the structure is an arresting sight. Constructed in the first century with huge blocks of stone the Aqueduct is a remarkable feat of engineering in that it was made without the aid of a single drop of mortar. As we observed it, standing resplendant against the deep blue sky like a giant game of Jenga, I could not even begin to conceive the effort and organisation required to produce something so magnificent. Considering they had little more than rope and sheer physical strength at their disposal it is amazing that they managed to build it at all.

Like most Spanish towns, Segovia's old town has a picturesque Plaza Mayor, framed on one side by an imposing 16th century gothic cathedral and filled with a collection of lively eateries and charming, understated, locally produced souvenir shops. However its centrepiece is undoubtedly the Alcazar, a fairy tale 15th castle situated on the top of a ragged cliff. With rapunzel towers, turrets topped with slate spires and a deep, intimidating moat, the structure's facade resembles something out of a Disney movie. Yet the inside is equally impressive. Housing a collection of rooms decorated with the most lavish furnishings including the Hall of Monarchs, which contains a frieze portraying images of all the Asturias, Castile and Leon monarchs who held power through the middle ages, and the Royal Bedroom, with its gothic walnut bed complete with a brocade canopy woven with gold, the castle is an important monument to Segovia's history. A fact that was unfortunately diluted upon us by the heavy flowing draft of the massive rooms that forced us to hurry along our tour at a faster pace than was perhaps deserved.

After strolling around the main body of the castle we made our way to the superb Torre de Juan II, an imperious watchtower that dominates the Alcazar. Reached by climbing a winding, dark staircase whose 152 steps are so narrow that you have to breathe in sharply to let people pass, the ascent to the top is pretty challenging. However once you get there, the sweeping views of the surrounding area are very rewarding.

All around us, set against a background of arid brown countryside, was a panorama of the most entrancing scenery. Spanning from Segovia's imposing cathedral, past the rustic villages of Zamarramala and San Marcos and to the sacred El Parrel Monastery, the view was simply outstanding. A world away from Madrid. As I started to digest it I began to feel an overwhelming sense of amazement. One that had been rather elusive over the last couple of days.

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Saturday 22nd January 2005

Despite spending the day exploring the city with a renewed sense of vigour after waking up refreshed from a good night's sleep our initial impression of Madrid did not change that much.

It is probably also a partial reflection of our gradual descent into impending middle age but as budget travellers Madrid's proud reputation as a party city is rather wasted on us. Ten years ago we would have probably loved it but now with so many other destinations still to visit on our big trip we have to manage our funds very tightly and unfortunately can ill afford to join the locals on wild nights of drinking. Besides even if we could, judging by how much they seem to put away over lunch and dinner I am not sure if we would have been able to keep up with them anyway!

Although Madrid did hold some points of genuine interest for us, including the Parque del Retiro, a beautiful park hosting a tranquil boating lake, the regal looking glass Palacio de Cristal and the Paseo de las Estatuas, a path lined with ornate statues, as well as the Palacio Real and the Museo del Prado, effectively it just felt like another big city. Without the magnificent architecture of London, the sophistication and class of Paris or even the impirical history of Brussels, there was nothing really to compel us to stay. However it wasn't all that bad I suppose.

Looking on the bright side, at least it was better than Winnipeg.

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Friday 21st January 2005

Salamanca was fantastic. Infact it made such a good impression on us that if we were a few years younger we would have strongly considered living here for a year or so. Furthermore if you were to merge San Sebastian's waterfront setting with Salamanca's old town, you would pretty much arrive at our dream place to live.

As you might be able to tell we really liked Salamanca so when it was time to leave we were racked with more than a little disappointment. After all, as we are moving to Australia at the end of our big trip, it is unlikely that we will ever come back.

Thus engulfed with this setinment it should come as no surprise to anyone that our arrival in Madrid felt like we had turned up a day after the Lord Mayor's show. Its not that we did not like Madrid, infact we had actually been quite looking forward to going there. It just was not Salamanca. Everything about it seemed inferior. Our hostel was 50 per cent more expensive and about 50 per cent less cosy. Tapas seemed to cost twice as much with only half the choice. Even the Plaza Mayor, although mightily impressive, was not as good as Salamanca's.

Despite feeling listless and uninspired we spent a couple of hours wandering aimlessly around the city. But in truth we were just going through the motions. So with the time approaching 9pm we decided to head back to the hostel in the hope that, like Salamanca, a good night's sleep would make us view the city in a more positive light.

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Wednesday 19th January 2005

Promising fairytale sights and vibrant nightlife our guidebook conveyed Salamanca in such a positive manner that I half thought the review had been written by the marketing manager of the local tourist board. To be honest it all seemed a little too good to be true (as a marketeer myself I have learnt not to believe everything I read) and our dishevelled arrival late last night, coupled with the mass construction site at the end of our hostel's street did not create a great first impression. Nonetheless I decided to try and keep an open mind and after a good night's sleep and with the sun shining brilliantly in a perfect blue sky we cheerily set out to explore the city.

We were amazed and delighted by what we found.

Salamanca more than lived up to the lavish praise heaped on it by our guidebook. It was truly wonderful. A magical display of awe inspiring architecture and an intoxicating blend of culture, sophistication and old world charm. It was like nowhere else I have ever visited.

Dating back from before the 12th century Salamanca's Old Town is a living exhibition of some of the country's greatest architectural triumphs. Ranging in style from Romanesque and Renaissance to Gothic and Baroque, there are so many buldings of outstanding beauty that after a while they tend to merge into one all encompassing work of art. However there were a few that did stand out.

Considered one of the best examples of the Spanish Gothic style, the Casa de las Conchas was one such building. Named after the pattern of scallop shells that adorn its exterior walls the structure is a long standing symbol of Salamanca. Containing a beautiful courtyard that made such an impression on Cath that she spent the entire evening designing our dream home around it, the building is currently a public library. Although surely it must just be a matter of time until Shell Petroleum Company try and relocate their global headquarters here to take advantage of the ready made branding of the outside walls.

Other buildings which caught the eye were the amazing gothic Catedral Nueva whose incredibly intricate ornamentation and composition took 220 years to complete, the Church of San Marcos, a quirky 12th century circular Romanesque structure and Salamanca's university, founded in 1218 and the oldest in Spain, whose main facade comprises of a sandstone tapestry depicting mythical and historical figures as well as a legendary frog which proves almost impossible to find, yet does not prevent millions of visitors a year attempting to search for it. A rather pointless past time considering that you do not win a prize for spotting it, your life would not be any more complete and even if you did spot it noone else would be able to see it to verify it!

Despite these impressive buildings Salamanca's crown jewel is undoubtedly the Plaza Mayor, a majestic Baroque style 18th century town square that accommodates the town hall and the Royal Pavilion. Framed by famous figures overlooking a series of connecting arches the Playa Mayor is the city's heartbeat. Whether it be during the day or under illumination at night its grandiose setting bustles with shoppers, tourists and artists searching for inspiration for their next attempt at a masterpiece. It is the perfect place to wile away the hours people watching over a couple of cafe con leches. Something that we have found ourselves doing increasingly more of as of late.

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Tuesday 18th January 2005

I should have known it was going to be a bad day as soon as I heard the song Crazy Horses by The Osmonds. Whenever I hear that song something always goes wrong. The last time I heard it West Brom got relegated from the Premier League later that day. The time before was on my way to work on the day that the company announced that they were being forced into liquidation and the entire workforce was to be made redundant. On another occasion I heard it on the morning of my second driving test, which I later went on to fail. As you can imagine everytime I hear that song I get quite nervous. The irony is I actually quite like the song.

I actually heard the song over the tannoy system at San Sebastian train station where the operator was treating commuters to a melody of hits from the 70s and 80s like Tainted Love and Under Pressure. Whether this was a deliberate attempt to be retro or merely a reflection of a behind the times record collection I am not sure but nonetheless it provided some form of entertainment to alleviate the boredom of waiting for our train.

When Crazy Horses came on we were standing on our platform, a thin strip of concrete sandwiched between 2 bigger concourses. When I recognised its signature introductory guitar riffs I snapped my head back and rolled my eyes to the sky in contempt. When I saw the dark brooding clouds swirling menacingly around us I knew there would only be one outcome.

With only a high narrow roof for shelter our platform was hopelessly exposed to the elements and as the rain lashed brutally down all we could do was huddle together for warmth. For a few moments we stood their helpless, 2 foreigners miles from home, facing the wrath of mother nature, in a country where we did not speak the language, all alone, except for each other. Yet in that supportive embrace we felt as close as we ever have.

Eventually our trin pulled in but no sooner had we climbed on board then it was off again. We had not even got to our seats yet. However undeterred we composed ourselves, settled down and watched with interest as the Spanish countryside unravelled its rugged beauty before our eyes. Unfortunately it was not to be long until the curse of Crazy Horses struck again.

For the first half of the 6 hour journey the train ride was smooth so as we pulled into a station just north of Burgos we hardly batted an eyelid. I was so deep in thought that fully 10 minutes passed before I realsied that we were still on the platform. Soon that 10 minutes became 20, then 30 and then an hour. Finally after just under 2 hours of sitting idly the train had its engine replaced and we eventually moved off again.

What made the wait so frustrating was that we had no idea why we were delayed. None of the train guards told us. At least in England we would have received some kind of explanation like there were too many wet leaves on the track, the wrong kind of snow or something equally as farcical, yet as we waited restlessly a lack of feedback left everybody in the dark. Mind you even if we had of been told, as noone else on the carriage seemed to speak English, we would not have understood a word of what they would have said.

Damn those bloody Osmonds!

Once normal service was resumed we arrived in Salamanca without further incident, tired, hungry and in need of a pick me up. Generally we do not like arriving in a new destination at night as it is harder to navigate your way around, especially when the darkness makes reading street names very difficult! Fortunately on this occasion we were able to navigate our way to the Pension Las Vegas with no problems. Our room was ok. Clean and homely. Although having clearly recently undergone renovation the bathroom was a little on the small side. Indeed the toilet, which was located in the corner of the room, had so little legroom that people of a heavy disposition would have to sit sideways on it!

With the time approaching 10pm we went in search of somewhere to eat, after a quick freshen up, and more specifically somewhere to sit down in peace and comfort. As most of the cafes and tapas bars were full we decided to dine at a quiet little Chinese restaurants on a sidestreet near our hotel. It was an excellent decision to have made for we ended up eating a fantastic meal. Tasty, filling and remarkably cheap. It really brought a smile to our face. After what we had been through on the journey down from San Sebastian it proved to be a huge silver lining to what had otherwise been a terribly cloudy day.

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Monday 17th January 2005

For the first time since we started the European leg of our big trip we slept in past 11am. We were pretty tired and if truth be told simply could not face another day of sightseeing just yet. We knew that we were moving on again tomorrow and just wanted to relax today. So we though what better way to chill out then to take a walk on the beach.

With the dazzling sun masking a slight breeze that nipped discreetly at our faces we ambled lethargically to the Playa de la Concha. Just yesterday this, the larger of the 2 beaches that form the cove around the Bahia de la Concha, was crowded with locals, not to mention the 3 football pitches that were hosting congruent matches. However today the locals were at work and the pitch markings had forever been erased by the water's uncompromising tide patterns. The beach was incredibly peaceful and as we walked across the flat, smooth sand that curved gently across a 2km stretch, at times there wasn't anyone within 250 yards of us. The view was simply breathtaking. Even more beautiful than it had appeared yesterday. The bay's sapphire water seemed to sparkle brighter and Jesus looked even more striking from atop Monte Urgull. It truly felt like a little piece of heaven.

After poking around the rockpools that join the 2 beaches we continued on to the Playa de Onderetta, a shorter, rougher stretch of beach whose soft grainy sand proved more challenging to our legs. In total it took us over an hour to complete a return journey from the start of the Playa de la Concha to the end of the Playa de Onderetta and back, but it was incredibly stimulating to both mind and body. By the time we had finished we were completely refreshed.

Maybe it is because of the sea air but walking on the beach always makes us hungry and by the time that dinner came around we were famished. So with full wallets and empty stomachs we headed for the Old Town in search of the instant gratification that can be gained from Spanish tapas.

Resembling a glorified cricket tea and laid out by virtually all the cafes and bars, who all had an impressive collection adorning their counters, these buffet style snack items come literally in thousands of delicious varieties, from fritatas filled with tuna to pepper stuffed with paella, with everything from olives to potato salads in between, there is something to suit everybody's palatte. Each establishment seems to offer a different yet wonderfully fresh looking selection, and prices hover either side of 1 euro per item.

Having spent most yesterday sizing up how the locals conducted themselves we knew exactly what to do and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening enjoying a culinary pub crawl, trying out lots of knew and interesting snacks. Two hours, 4 bars and 15 euros later we were completely stuffed and headed back to our hotel in a state of content. It had been a great day. As we went to sleep we could feel our desire to sightsee come flooding back.

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Sunday 16th January 2005

Sometimes when you travel your path crosses with someone who re-ignites your faith in human nature. Today this happened to us.

Having been advised by a platform attendant at Bayonne station, who could hardly speak English, that our train to the French border town of Hendaye would be at least 2 hours late we settled down for a pot of tea at the station's cafe. However about 25 minutes later, just after pouring our second cup, we were interrupted by a tumultuous banging of the cafe's glass doors, accompanied by a vociferous cry of 'Hendaye! Hendaye!'. When we turned our heads to see what all the commotion was about we saw the very same station guard pointing dementedly at a train that had just pulled in to 3 platforms away from where we were sitting. Registering that this was our train we frantically gathered our backpacks and ran as fast as we could to our carriage, an experience that gave me a brief insight into what it must be like to be on the Amazing Race.

Thankfully we managed to board the train before it departed but as we began to compose ourselves and settling into our seats, I realised that in the rush I did not get a chance to thank the guard. For a while I began to fell a little guilty as it dawned on me that he had watched us go into the coffee shop and in an act above and beyond the call of duty, realising that we did not understand fluent French, had crossed 3 platforms to inform us of the train's arrival. If he had not of bothered, and we had of missed the train, we would have had to have waited for over 4 more hours until the next one came along. Although if this had of happened the upside would have been that I would have at least got to have finished my tea.

We reached Hendaye 30 minutes later and within a further 5 minutes found ourselves on a metro train heading for San Sebastian. However after Bayonne's picturesque setting, the construction work, grafitti and grimy clutter of buildings that characterised the Spanish border town of Irun and its neighbouring suburbs led us to question what we were letting ourselves in for. Gratefully though we watched with much relief as the environment became increasingly more appealing to the eye the closer we got to our destination.

We arrived in San Sebastian shortly before 1.30pm and having checked in to our accommodation, the excellent Pension la Perla, whose clean and spacious rooms were contained within an elegant 4 storey property with grand wooden staircases and high, wide hallways, we set off to explore the city.

Almost immediately we were blown away.

San Sebastian was amazing. Everything about the city oozed perfection. Its cleanliness, its beauty, its warmth. At times it felt like we were walking round a holiday brochure.

Our starting point was the city's Waterfront Promenade where 2 gorgeous beaches form a huge cove around the Bahia de la Concha, to provide the city with an awesome setting. The sapphire water sparkled from the glow of the mid afternoon sun. In the middle of the bay a yacht sailed past a lonely melancholic island. To the east a statue of Jesus gazed evocatively from atop a hillside. I could live here I thought.

On one of the beaches 3 football pitches had been drawn in to the hard flat sand. Proper sized pitches with halfway lines, 18 yard areas, penalty boxes and corner flags. Although I was aware of the concept I had never witnessed anything like this before, beach football is not that big in Ealing, and I was intrigued. Of the 3 matches in progress my eyes fixed on one where a team were playing in the navy blue and white stripes of my beloved West Brom. The match was a fairly free flowing entertaining affair and unlike my beloved West Brom for much of this season they were actually on top, enjoying most of the possession and creating the better chances. They had the makings of a good side, one I posited that could only be enhanced if I lived here and played for them. Especially considering my only rival for the right back slot seemed to be a balding middle aged man who appeared to have consumed one too many pies.

After leaving the football we continued along the Waterfront Promenade and past a small marina of colourful fishing boats before heading inland to San Sebastian's fabled Old Town. Consisting of a grid of narrow streets framed around the magnificent Plaza de la Constitucion, the Old Town is essentially a lively social playground of coffee shops, bakeries and tapas bars contained within a parade of tall elegant buildings. Its ambience was so intoxicating that before we knew it over 2 hours had elapsed.

With the memories of the view of Paris from atop the Sacre Coeur still vibrant in our memories we decided to end our day's exploration of the city by discovering how San Sebastian's premier look out point measured up. After a fairly strenous 30 minutes climb through a series of steep zig zagging slopes we reached the top of Monte Urgull. Despite being a little fatigued the effort had been definitely worth it as we were rewarded with amazing views of the panorama. A scene that compared equally favourably with its French counterpart. With the statue of Jesus leaning over us the view of beaches, the bay and the surrounding houses were awe inspiring.

As we stood there taking it in I couldn't help but feel what a shame it was that my home town did not have a look out point like this.

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Saturday 15th January 2005

During the summer months, when the trees are full of lush foliage and the grass replete with a wine bottle green shine, south west France's countryside must be a joy to behold. Even now on this fresh winter's morning its brazen appearance was enough to hold our attention during the hour long train journey to St Jean Pied de Port.

Sitting at the foot of the Pyrenese, on the very tip of the France-Spain border, St Jean Pied de Port is a sleepy town of around 1500 residents. So sleepy infat that when we arrived there at 10am there was hardly a soul about, except for a handful of hungry locals making their way to, or from, the local boulangerie. Thankfully though the tourist office was open and after surprising the counter girl who, looking bored to tears, had her nose buried in a newspaper, presumably in the job section, advised us of the town's main sights. As this comprised solely of the old town and a short looping scenic walk through the backstreets leading away from it, it was not a particularly long conversation. Nonetheless we thanked her for her help and continued on our way.

Encapsulated within a thick stone wall that encircles its perimeter, the well preserved medieval town has huge religious significance as the last stop over point in France for pilgrims heading to the holy Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela. A tradition still upheld by many today. The concept of a completely walled city was one I had never come across before. It certainly does not exist in Ealing, although judging by the way my home town has hanged for the worse over the last 25 years maybe it would not be a bad thing if parts of it were walled!

Within its confines a long steep cobblestone lane rose steadily past a gently curving parade of quaint, rustic houses, each decorated with ornate window boxes filled with pretty flowers and brightly coloured wooden shutters. as we began to traverse it I started to wonder what it would have been like to have lived here all those years ago, in what essentially was a medieval council estate. To live most of your life in a town completely surrounded by a huge thick stone wall must have been a bit like living within a giant polo mint and I briefly contemplated whether the young children of the time even realised that there was a whole world beyond the wall. Still with so many people around, at least you would not have been lonely.

The centrepiece of the old town is the foreboding Citadelle, a fort built in the 17th century on a hilltop within the complex. Accessed by a series of steps that steadily jagged their way to the top, the Citadelle provides stunning and expansive views of the surrounding area. Quite strikingly all the houses outside of the wall were virutally the same, brilliant white structures, with dark red shutters and massive, thick wooden front doors. Against the backdrop of the Pyrenese it was a worthwhile visual reward for the physical effort expended whilst climbing the steps. As we observed it I could not help thinking that somewhere was a building contractor and paint shop owner who years ago got very rich out of working here. The fort itself was pretty interesting to look at and we spent some time walking round it, but unfortunately as it has now been converted int a school we weren't allowed in to it.

We had planned to spend the whole day in St Jean Pied de Port but after descending from the Citadelle the scenic walk was nothing to write home about. Infact the only vaguely interesting thing about it was that in the space of no less than 3 streets we saw more than half a dozen hairdressers and opticians. If it is true, as I have heard, that the shops in any given town paints a picture of the locals, then I can only conclude that the population of St Jean Pied de Port have very fast growing hair and rapidly receding eyesight!

In the end we decided to take the 1.30pm train back to Bayonne instead of the one at 5pm. A decision which on hindsight was probably correct as the extra time enabled us to get some rest in the afternoon, before heading off to Spain the next morning.

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Friday 14th January 2005

One of the advantages to travelling off season is that you often get to see places from a unique perspective; at their most natural, free from the hoardes of summer tourists. On these occasions, without the distraction of the crowds, you often get to appreciate how special they actually are.

Biarritz is one such place. Situated 8km west of Bayonne this glitzy coastal resort exudes an air of sophistication that compliments its beautiful setting. Best viewed from the Rocher de la Vierge, an islet reached from a quaint footbridge, its insignia, the Grand Plage, is a flat, sweeping stretch of beach that spectacularly offsets the rock strewn coastline of the Atlantic Ocean.

From this lofty position the view of the Grand Plage was breathtaking. So much so that I began to break out in goosepimples. With the sun glinting brilliantly off the trillions of tiny pebbles that carpet the beach, the ocean waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks and the hazy image of a lighthouse hovering imperiously in the distance, the Grand Plage was a truly magnificent sight. One that whilst being accentuated by the lack of people enjoying it on this mild January afternoon, would sadly be diluted by the swarm of sunbathers who must descend upon the beach in summer. We spent a few minutes disgesting the panoramic views of the coastline before deciding to explore it in more detail.

As the pebbles gave substantially with the tread of our feet, walking along the Grand Plage was hard work, but the slow pace we adopted only served to prolong our enjoyment. The beach was a fantastic playground and for almost 2 hours we split our time between watching a few hardy surfers braving the ocean's angry, freezing waves, wading through an intriguing set of rockpools and mavelling at some of the unusual colours and patterns of the pebbles.

It was a lovely afternoon and proved to be the perfect way to unwind, having been constantly on the go for the last 10 days.

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Thursday 13th January 2005

We are not particularly religious people but having been enchanted by the magnificence of Notre Dame and the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, and after witnessing the effects these sights seemed to hqve on the people who visited them, it was with a high degree of interest that we headed to Lourdes.

According to folklore, in 1858 a 14 year old peasant girl named Bernadette Sobirous witnessed the Virgin Mary within a series of 18 visions. However far from being shunned as a crackpot her claims were ratifed by the Vatican who, after categorising them as apparitions, later went on to canonise her as St Bernadette in 1933. Over the years, as a result of these events, Lourdes has become a city of huge religious significance, attracting more than 5 million visitors a year from all over the world. As this works ouot to an astonishing 13698.63 pilgrims per day we arrived at Lourdes train station, after a 90 minute transfer from Bayonne, expecting to be engulfed in a swarm of people. However to our surprise this was not the case and as we walked towards the religious complex, the sedateness created by the lack of people felt like we had entered a ghost town.

Nestled at the foot of the Pyrenees the city of Lourdes has a magical setting that emits a certain old world charm. The rustic buildings that line its narrow winding backstreets which gently slope through steep inclines and declines are an alluring sight and as we made our way along them it almost felt like we had been suspended in time. However this feeling did not hold for long and was cruelly shattered by the clutter of flashing neon signs outside the countless hotels and restaurants that overwhelmed us as we turned on to main roads.

With the magnificent Basilique du Rosaire towering at the end of a beautiful promenade of manicured lawns and impressive statues the main Pont St Michel entrance to the religious complex radiated an imposing sense of sacredness. One that seemed to be accentuated on this day by the discernible absence of pilgrims. The few people that were there, of which there must of been less than 75, went about their visit with the kind of respectful silence that a small child pays their headmaster. The only noise was the sound of people reciting the Rossary against the occasional ringing of the Basilique bell.

Although we spent some time perusing the complex's major sights, what really intrigued me was how other people reacted when they were there. As you would expect vitually all of them started to pray, especially at the Grotte de Messabielle, the cave where Bernadette had her visions, but what was noticeable was the degree of emotion and physicality involved. Whereas some people adopted a stoaic posture of quiet contemplation, others were reduced to tears, or even more poigniantly, a violent rocking motion back and forth. As I witnessed this I wondered if this somehow reflected the severity of the cause they were praying for. Were the people crying in more need than those who remained quiet? or was this simply the only way they could express their pleas? Whatever the case I stood for a couple of minutes observing the power of faith in action.

It was an evocative moment and as we left I couldn't help but hope that their prayers be answered.

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Wednesday 12th January 2005

In the spirit of true backpacking, and in an effort to burn off some of the calories that we had piled on during the previous night's dinner, we decided to walk the 3km distance from our hotel to Gare de St Jean, Bordeaux's train station. Thankfully we felt no effects of the lethargy that often accompanies a big feed (believe me if was a big feed!) and despite having to bob and weave our way our way through a constant bombardement of people who seemed to have no greater purpose in life than to act as human obstacles to our progress, we reached the station in good time. Having not caused our legs or backs too much distress and with our blood racing frenetically round our bodies, we boarded the train to Bayonne with a gratifying sense of invigoration.

For 100 minutes we hurtled through south west France's countryside on one of the most comfortable second class carriages I have ever had the pleasure of sitting on. The scenery was compelling. cast over a brooding collection of grey clouds, tall thin clusters of naked trees fused together with miles of fallow farmlands and rugged windswept meadows to form a bleak yet strangely alluring landscape. Much of the area was hopelessly desolute but the presence of abandoned houses suggested it was once a thriving community. some of the decaying properties looked like they had been vacated more than 30 years ago and as we passed by them I could not help but wonder what happened to the people that lived here? and what stopped other people from moving in once they had gone? It was a sobering thought and as I perused the derelict structures it saddened me to think that at some point in the past some families would have probably cherished calling these places home.

We arrived in Bayonne shortly after 2pm and as our hotel (the Paris-Madrid) was located literally next door to the station we found ourselves in our room less than 3 minutes later. After checking in to our room, a comfortable and clean double whose wooden panelled walls made it smell a little like a sauna, we took a walk into the city. Immediately we were struck by its picturesque setting. Situated in the heart of the Basque country on the tip of the France-Spain border Bayonne is split by the Adour and Nive Rivers into 3 areas. With the sun shining against a cool breeze we decided to spend the remainder of our day exploring the oldest part of the city, Grand Bayonne.

Dominated by the 15th century gothic Cathedral Ste Marie the old town is steeped in history. However with thousands of teenagers rampaging through the area it became difficult to fully appreciate our surroundings. I am not entirely sure what they were doing and why at 2.30pm they were not in school or college, but as they all seemed to be suffering collectively from the worst case of acne I had ever seen I quickly drew the conclusion that they were probably all heading for the nearest chemist to buy a tube of spot cream. Maybe it is something in the water, or maybe they just need to use more water, but the guys who produce Oxycute could do worse than open up a shop here!

Apart from walking through its quaint narrow cobblestone streets and observing the charming properties that sit above the shops and restaurants, resplendant with brightly coloured wooden shutters, there really is no that much to see and do in Bayonne. So after an hour or so of walking we decided to head back to our hotel to chill out. With plenty in the pipeline to keep us occupied over the next few days, we knew we needed to get as much rest as possible.

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Tuesday 11th January 2005

After spending a few days enjoying Paris' culture, sophistication and charm, Bordeaux's more rustic setting provided a marked, yet fascinating contrast.

Famed for its neoclassical architecture, massive student population and of course its wine Bordeaux is France's third biggest city in terms of population with atound 750,000 people calling it home. Yet surprisingly for such a big city it is not very touristy and as many of the local shopkeepers can't speak any English at all it feels like we have entered into a more authentic realm of French society.

In truth there isn't much to see here except for a few museums, a couple of parks and some nice buildings but this is not necessarily a bad thing. Instead over the last couple of days we have spent our time enjoying the simple pleasures of drinking coffee in homely cafes, eating French bread and pastries and wandering through Bordeaux's quaint but narrow sidestreets. It might not sound as exotic or exciting as visiting the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe but in many ways it is more rewarding. For travelling is not just about sightseeing it is also about experiencing local cultures.

What we have done over the last couple of days just would not have been the same on Ealing High Street.

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Sunday 9th January 2005

Paris is a fantastic city to visit but it can be tiring because with such a wealth of attractions to keep you occupied you have to be on the ball all the time. For us the last couple of days have flown by in an exhausting haze of sightseeing. Even between sights where we have been taking a break or making our way to the next one, a beautiful building, intriguing statute or wonderful intricately designed lace ironwork row balcony would capture our attention. Its been so intense, both to mind and body, that yesterday I managed to gain almost 12 hours sleep!

Of the many sights that we have seen since Friday's tour of Paris' blockbuster attractions a handful in particular stick in the mind. Namely the Pantheon, the Sorbonne and the Latin Quarter. However undoubtedly the one that will stay with us for years to come is Notre Dame.

Even though I have not seen too many other structures to compare, Paris' cathedral must rate as one of the best examples of gothic architecture in the world. Built between 1163 and 1345 the building was constructed with such incredible detail that it is impossible to take it all in on just one visit. On its exterior walls alone hundreds of entrancing statues and images chiseled into its brickwork hold your attention for some time. However when you walk inside the cathedral it almost pales into insignificance.

Containing an amazing assortment of decor including a magnificent alter, a collection of fantastically intricate stain glass windows, elegant candleabras, a massive nativity scene, numerous paintings, statues and antiques and an imposing pipe organ that bellowed out somewhat spinechilling Dracula type music, Notre Dame's interior is simply an incredible sight to behold. I am not sure that my vocabulary extends far enough to be able to paint as vivid a picture necessary to do it justice. Needless to say if you ever get the chance you should definitely try and go there.

As our time in Paris' was coming to an end we decided to spend our last few hours in the city revisiting its major attractions. In the dark of night, observing the illuminated figures if the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe was a tremendous sight and cast a new perspective on these famous landmarks. We spent a couple of minutes taking them in, secretly hoping that this would not be the last time we would get to see them.

After moving on we made our way to Montmarte and took the lazy route up to the foot of the Basilique de Sacre Coeur, via the lift. The views of the city were still sensational and we spent some time savouring them.

Having been introduced to the city like this, it was the perfect way for me to say goodbye.

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Friday 7th January 2005

If you were to make a list of all the world's major cities and then make a separate list numbering all their main attractions, I would be willing to bet alot of money that Paris would feature somewhere in the top three.

However whereas this makes Paris an attractive destination to visit, its sheer volume of sights can actually cause travellers a headache. With so much to see and do, if you only have a few days here it can be difficult to know where to start. Faced with this dilema and a set of rather ominous looking clouds we decided to play it safe on our first full day here by visiting Paris' most famous sights.

Without attaching a specific order of importance we started our day at the Place de la Concorde, a huge cobblestone square situated at the foot of the Champs Elysees. Dominated by a 3300 year old obelisk, which is splendidly inscripted with ancient Egyptian drawings, the picturesque square is lavishly decked out with a couple of elegant fountains with green and gold sculptures encorporated into its design and an assembly of ornately decorated lamp posts. However this appealing facade hides a rather barbaric past for this was the place where Louis XVI was guilletined in 1793, as were over 1300 other people including Marie Antoinette over a gruesome 2 year period. Its current appearance must be a world apart from its bloodier past and as we strolled round the complex I tried to imagine what it must have been like back then being part of the racous crowd witnessing a beheading, or even worse to be the terrified hapless victim. It was a spinechilling thought and as we left the square I consoled myself in the knowledge that times and society had changed, until suddenly I realised that with some of the atrocities that have been inflicted on western hostages in Iraq, maybe some people have not changed that much at all.

Adjacent to the Place de la Concorde the Avenue des Champs Elysees is a 2km stretch of road that leads directly to the Arc de Triomphe. Completely lined with a striking repetition of red, yellow, blue and green flags promoting Paris' 2012 olympic bid it is a stunning sight and as as we ambled leisurely along the route the walk provided us with an excellent opportunity to burn off some of the calories that we had put on from eating some of the delicious local pastries at breakfast.

At the end of the road the Arc de Triomphe sits on the largest roundabout in the world. Commissioned in 1806 by Napoleon to celebrate his many imperial victories the huge arch signifies the meeting point of 12 avenues. Despite the presence of temporary scaffolding on one of its sides it remains a magnificent sight. Even if you have seen it every day of your life for 50 years it is still the kind of place that you can't fail to be impressed by. As we stood observing it at the end of the Champs Elysees I couldn't help but wonder to myself how many traffic accidents occur round its base every year, for surely at least 1 out of every 10 drivers who traverse the roundabout must take their eye of the road to view it. After walking through an underground tunnel, the only safe way to reach the monument without adding to the number of accidents, we spent a few minutes exploring its base and paying our respects to the unknown World War I soldier, buried under the arch, who is commemorated by a flame lit at his memorial. Atop the arch there is a platform that supposedly offers fantastic views of the city but with the clouds being so grey and expansive we agreed that this would be a rather pointless exercise and instead decided to move on.

After a quick hop on the metro we made our way through the Jardins du Trocadero, passing its grand rectangular fountain and impressive collection of sculptures and across the Pont d'Inea to the Tour Eiffel. As France and possibly Europe's most famous landmark the Eiffel Tower had been tantalisingly in our view all day but now that we had finally reached it, we realished being able to see it close up. Standing at 320 feet from top to toe the Eiffel Tower is exactly as you have seen it on television or in pictures. However its only from walking qround its vicinity that you gain a sense of how foreboding the structure actually is. For many people it is what defines Paris and it is amazing to think that in 1909, 20 years after it was built for the World's Fair, it was almost torn down. Judging by the huge queues of people waiting to take the lift up to one of its 3 levels, it is a good thing it was not. Although most of us would not have known any different, I don't think Paris would have been the same without it.

From the Eiffel Tower we took a brief stroll along the banks of the Seine before heading back to the hotel for a well earned rest. Being a Friday, in an effort to save 5 euros we decided to wait here until 6pm when the price of entry tickets to the Louvre becomes cheaper.

Originally built as a fort in the early 13th century and then renovated as a palace in the mid 16th century the Louvre became a public museum in 1793. It is a huge complex, sprawled across many buildings, but the collections on display, which have been assembled by more than 500 years of French government, are simply awesome. There literally is something to suit every art buffs taste from 13th - 19th century French, Italian, Spanish, and Northern European schools of paintings to Oriental, Egyptian, Greek, Etruscan and Roman antiquities dating back to 7000 AD. The exhibits are very well laid out and make fascinating viewing. Unfortunately to fully appreciate every single one of them would take literally decades!

Like many people I suspect who visit the Louvre we came here specifically for one reason, to see Leonardo da Vinci's 'Mona Lisa'. Call us philistines if you want, but as I have already alluded to when you only have a couple of days in Paris you have to prioritise.

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Thursday 6th January 2005

Up until today 1.15pm GMT, one of my biggest personal regrets was that despite living less than 300 miles from Paris, in my 32 years on this earth I had never been there before. I am not entirely sure why this was the case, it was just, but thankfully after an 85 minute train journey from Brussels my wait was finally over. As the train pulled in to Paris's Gard du Nord station I felt a rush of energy flow through my body. I was genuinely excited and could not wait to explore the city.

With our hotel being situated close to the Cimitiere du Pere Lachaise on the eastern edge of the city, our tour of Paris started off in pretty sombre fashion. As the final resting place for such illuminairies as Chopin, Oscar Wilde and a vast array of French people that I and nor probably youhave never heard of Pere Lachaise is somewhat of a celebrity graveyard and with its main 'attraction' being the tomb of Jim Morrison, its no wonder that it is the most visited cemetary in the world. Containing acres of huge but sadly neglected tombstones amongst an eery field of silence Pere Lachaise is a spooky place and anyone who has seen Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' video could not help but feel a little on edge, especially as the darkness was begining to fall.

Without a map, (everyone else seemed to have one except us but we could not find anyone who was distributing them), or any information boards, except for one at the main gate, finding Jim Morrison's grave was a bit of a challenge. However after about 10 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the general vicinity our hunch of following an unsuspecting woman with a map, who too was looking for his grave, paid off and she led us straight it. To my surprise, far from being a glorious tribute to the man I found his gravesite to be very understated. Boxed in akwardly on an overcrowded plot of land between a cluster of other tombs the grave was not at all what I had expected and although it was covered with a blanket of flowers it just did not seem to do justice to a man whose music, some 33 years after his death, still moves millions of people.

Tinged with a slight feeling of disappointment we left the cemetary and made our way north west via the metro to the Montmarte. Once a thriving centre for artists and bards in the 19th century the area has now descended into an unashamed tourist trap with the only artists you likely to encounter being mimers or buskers. However the area does possess one true gem, the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, which towers majestically above the Montmarte from the top of a very steep hill. Accessed by a series of flights of stairs that would challenge the stamina of even the most experienced of hikers, the 3 gold plated dome roofed church is a magnificent sight and could easily be a palace of some magnitude. When you go inside you quickly realise that it could also be a Tardis!

Extending the length of a football pitch, the interior of the Basilique du Sacre Coeur is awe inspiring. Dominated by a huge depiction of Jesus painted on its ceiling and a series of graceful arches supporting the roof, the church is very impressive indeed and after 10 minutes if taking in its marvellous decor, which includes a nativity scene, statues of saints and alternate tiers of striking red and white candles, even the most ardent satanist might attempt to discover their faith. As we left the church we suddenly noticed from our lofty position on top of the hill that we were able to see an amazing panorama of the city. With most of the buildings lit up in the dark of the evening our look out point on a terrace just below the Basilique du Sacre Coeur afforded scintilating views of Paris. We spent about 20 minutes taking in the view before heading home.

It was the perfect introduction to the city.

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Tuesday 4th January 2005

Having spent a couple of days familiarising ourselves with Belgium's most visited city we decided to turn our attention to its most visited town and so after spending an hour on the train, rattling through a captivating interchange of small rural towns and pea green and mustard yellow fields, we arrived for a day trip in Brugge.

Once a thriving cloth manufacturing town and a hotbed for Flemish primitive art during the 12th - 15th centuries Brugge, which is nestled about 15 miles in from the country's northwestern tip, is now one of Europe's best maintained medieval cities. As we walked through the backstreets the narrow, cobblestone alleys with their long terraces of pavement hugging properties served as a poigniant legacy to eras gone by and their bright red, blue and green window shutters provided a striking diversion as we approached the city centre.

At the centre of the town's medieval core, the Markt is Brugge's main drawcard. Flanked by the imposing Belfort, an 83 metre high belfry that towers imperiously above the cobblestone market square, the Palais Provincial, a grey stonewall building with ornate figures and bright red window frames etched into its design, and a charming row of cafes and shops the Markt is bigger in size than its Brussels counterpart and no less grand. The square radiates a warm, romantic vibe and as we strolled round its area it felt like we had stumbled into a fairytale. For a minute I pictured what it must have been like during medieval times when the Markt would have bustled with cloth traders selling their wares. When I returned to reality and observed all the tourists roaming round the square with their cameras clicking constantly I realised how times had changed.

After wandering round the Markt we spent some time in the Burg, a smaller yet equally characterful square with a neat quadrangle of beautiful buildings, surrounding a lone christmas tree. Among them the Stadhuis, Belgium's oldest town hall and the Helligbloed-Basiliek, which is said to house a few drops of Christ's blood, left us spellbound with their fantastic designs and opulent trimmings. Considering that they were constructed without the aid of any of the equipment that modern technology has produced they really are magnificent feats of engineering. I could not even begin to imagine how they would go about starting such a project. After wrestling with this thought for a couple of minutes we decided to move on, thankful for the fact that we were not involved.

Like Amsterdam, Brugge has its fair share of canals and after leaving the Burg we spent about 30 minutes following some of their trails. With a range of historic buildings reflecting off the water's tranquility, which snaked gently through the towns narrow backstreets, our walk provided picturesque views and as we traversed the Groenerei, an exceptionally beautiful part of the promenade it felt like we were walking into a postcard. It was so serene that I wondered whether the locals ever experienced prolonged stress, for surely if they ever did feel a little het up, 5 minutes of following the canal routes would banish any worries they had.

Despite only spending a few hours in Brugge the town is small enough for you to get to know it pretty well and during our time here we became hooked by what we found. Emitting a sense of history and rustic charm, Brugge has to be one of Europe's ultimate romantic destinations.

When you visit here it almost feels like you have stepped back in time.

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Monday 3rd January 2005

At just over 30,000 square miles in size Belgium is one of Europe's smallest countries. However it is also one of the oldest and nowhere is its sense of history more evident than at the Grand Place in Brussels.

Situated in the centre of the Petit Ring, a pentagon of quaint, narrow, cobblestone boulevards that dissect the heart of central Brussels, the Grand Place is a 15th century market square that is widely considered to be one of the finest in Europe. Consisting of a foreboding quadrangle of grandiose buildings ornately furnished with golden figures that sparkle brightly, the Grand Place, which is the former home of the craft guilds, is an enchanting place. The square emits a regal aura and its magnificent architecture made compelling viewing. We spent around 45 minutes strolling around its vicinity before moving on.

Having visited Brussels most classy attraction we took a quick detour to arguably its most tacky, the Manneken Pis, a small fountain that features a statue of a young boy peeing, before heading to the Galeries St Hubert. Contained within Europe's oldest glass shopping arcade, the Galeries St Hubert is an elegant parade of homely but expensive boutiques selling some of the country's most famous exports. Among them, Neuhaus, is generally recognised as one of the world's oldest chocolate shops and its wonderfully arranged window display exhibits a mindblowing range of creations. With everything from christmas trees to cars and even replicas of the Manneken Pis(!), the chocolates are produced with such intricacy and dedication that you don't quite know whether to eat them or frame them!

After leaving the arcade we strolled along to Rue Charles Buls where we faithfully observed the tradition of rubbing the golden reclining statue of the Everard t' Serclaes for luck before heading back to our hotel. The route back to our hotel took us past the main high street and as we turned the corner leading on to it we suddenly found ourselves amongst a swarm of hundreds of people. As I looked around, instead of viewing a sea of Belgians, the area was fully of Eastern Europeans and Africans and judging by the supermarket produce they were carrying they were not on holiday. It was a bit of a surprise and one that was a stark contrast to what we had witnessed at the Grand Place. As we left the high street and continued on to our hotel the thought occured to me that this contrast seemed to sum up Belgium perfectly.

Because for all its roots in history, as the current centre for the EU and NATO, Belgium now reflects the changing face of Europe.

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Sunday 2nd January 2005

We had hoped to enjoy some proper rest during our 10 days back in London, but as Christmas and New Year seemed to fly by, we never really got the chance. No sooner had we began to settle in then it was time to go again and so it was, feeling slightly jaded, that we headed for Belgium to start the European leg of our big trip.

Thankfully after our horrible flight home from Miami the 50 minute journey to Brussels was very pleasant and after clearing through an extremely efficient customs and immigration process, the likes of which Italian officials at Milan airport could learn a thing or two from, we hopped on the metro and cheerily made our way towards our hotel. However when we eventually got there and checked in to our room it was a bit of a culture shock. Having been spoilt by the good standard of accommodation that we enjoyed throughout America, the spartan room we found ourselves in took some getting used to. Gone was the cosy double beds, fridge, microwave and 50 channel cable tv that we had grown to expect from, every hotel we visited in the United States and instead they had been replaced with a basic spattering of 2 single beds, a small tv and a couple of thin cupboards, situated in a bland room with faded orange wallpaper and no paintings. The Hilton it most certainly is not.

For what we have got for 50 Euros a night the room is really expensive and a real disappointment. However as budget travellers this is something that we have to put up with and considering that we have come to Brussels primarily to sightsee it might even be a blessing in disguise. If ever we needed an incentive to stay out and explore the city, undoubtedly our hotel room provides us with it.

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