If you’ve always wanted to live out your Heidi fantasies, look no further than Switzerland’s Alpine huts.
There are more than 250 huts listed for rent across the country, so your chance to stay close to nature and away from busy roads and the hustle and bustle of city life just got easy. Huts are architecturally typical of the region they’re in and many of these traditional homes have been used as the summer residences by everyone from cheese makers to shepherds and their animals for generations. Most huts are also only accessible by hiking to them, so you know you’ll be experiencing the real deal.
While some accommodations have been luxuriously refurbished, most remain in their original form, free from mod-cons like dishwashers, hot tubs, cable TV or wi-fi. No doubt, this will help you to truly detach yourself from work and your modern-day lifestyle to properly reconnect with Mother Nature. Peace, tranquility, bliss.
Spend your days hiking the mountain trails or just sitting quietly admiring the pristine landscape around you to the gentle ring of cow bells. However you choose to spend your time, know that you will return rejuvenated and re-energised.
If the saying ‘silence is golden’ glimmers with hope, a month-long meditation trek may be just what the doctor ordered.
Journey to the secluded peaks of the Spanish Pyrenees in search of personal reconnection and understanding. In a small group you’ll trek in silence for days, following nature, not a guru, and become attuned to the beating of your heart and the rhythm of your breath.
Camp in solitude in the wild mountains where you’ll discover true spontaneity and the value of social interaction in its absence. Find your own form of spirituality, explore your darkest thoughts and desires and feel the vibrancy of your dreams as your self-awareness kicks in.
Travel lean and practise ‘spiritual fasting’, carrying no more fuel than you need to sustain life as you trek through grass-lined gorges and over frosted mountain passes. Some find hiking as a hermit cathartic, others relaxing, but it’ll sure cure your craving for quiet.
Think James Bond meets David Attenborough. These two boutique, light-filled, heat-retaining domes have been designed to be low on environmental impact and high on techy gadgets.
They have open-plan, five-star interiors, an outdoor Japanese-style hot tub and views stretching out to Castle Stalker, Loch Linnhe and the west coast of Scotland. Choose from whitewater rafting in nearby Fort William, the outdoor capital of the UK, or gorging on your complimentary hamper of scallops (hand-collected by divers from the bottom of the loch) and local beers.
As one of the most cycle-friendly countries in the world, Switzerland sees almost two million visitors hop on two wheels during their holiday – 45% jump on city bikes, almost 30% go for e-bikes and road bicycles, and the reminder traverse trails by mountain bike – and it’s easy to see why. Featuring a series of bike hotels, bike-storing facilities on public transport and a comprehensive network of cycling routes, Switzerland’s rising popularity among cyclists was inevitable.
Now Switzerland Tourism has launched Ride the Alps, a website dedicated to the various cycling events around the country between May and September. Avid riders will find a full run-down of the selected mountain passes that will be closed off to motorists during the five-month period, featuring 13 set dates for cyclists to take advantage of car-free roads.
Some of the traditionally popular alpine cycling routes include the Gotthard region, the Valais, and the Vaud Alps. Now, cyclists can fully explore other alpine regions around the country sans pesky motor traffic.
Few creatures have been so fascinating to humans as the polar bear. The unofficial symbol of the Arctic, these critters – a cross between soft-and-cuddly giant and fearsome predator – are so prolific in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard that they outnumber people, making it the perfect destination to encounter them in their natural habitat, and ensures you’ll tick off this bucket list experience in all its wonder and glory.
Cast off in a Hurtigruten ship from the shores of Longyearbyen and cruise through the icy seas towards the archipelago’s southernmost tip, marvelling at the monolithic glaciers of Kongsfjorden and the ruins of whaling settlements in Mitrahalvøya before sailing through the Hornsund fjord to Gnålodden, renowned for its bird and polar bear populations.
Thanks to its unique geology, the landscape here is a motley of mossy tundra and towering cliffs where a cacophony of nesting black-legged kittiwakes and Brünnich’s guillemots – along with thousands of other bird species – can be seen and heard (the name, gnål, literally means ‘nagging’ in Norwegian) and ice pushed into the fjord draws out the polar bears seeking the perfect hunting block to launch from. Accompanied by your expedition leader, you’ll disembark for an excursion on land where you’ll learn about the area’s fascinating history and topography and feel that heady rush as you stumble upon a polar bear’s enormous paw prints trailing through the snow. The expedition team leader confirms what you already know – a polar bear was here not so long ago.
In between keeping an eye out for these majestic creatures you’ll sail past bobbing icebergs, spot herds of wild reindeer and admire beautiful alpine flora, all while soaking up the rays of the midnight sun. Keep your camera at the ready, though – this is polar bear country and you can expect to hear sudden cries of excitement from the deck and the loudspeaker crackling into action, both announcing the sighting of a streak of golden fur amongst the blankets of snow and Arctic ice, sending you and your fellow adventurers into an excited frenzy as you spot a bear snoozing peacefully or a cub playfully snuggling in close to its mother. It’s a moment that inspires a collective and heartfelt wave of awe and wonder; once you’ve captured a few snaps with your camera you’ll revel in simply watching them in this epic landscape.
There’s more to Cornwall’s most westerly major town than the story of a leap-year born pirate. The comedic tale of a young pirate, only able to celebrate his birthday every four years and duty-bound to the Pirates of Penzance until his true age of 21 when he is reunited with his true love, may have put Cornwall’s most westerly major town on the map, but there’s more to this historic port than just singing pirates.
Penzance, where the Gilbert and Sullivan classic opera is set, is a picturesque seaside town on the south-west coast of England on Mount’s Bay, which is a body of water dominated by the splendour the medieval tidal island called St Michael’s Mount.
In a sheltered position close to the sea and just 10 miles from Land’s End, Penzance enjoys the most temperate climate of the UK – you can expect to see some sunshine, here. Home of pirates, smugglers, beautiful churches, Victorian markets and UNESCO Heritage Listed Roman baths, it demands to be on your list of destinations to visit.
For the journey, begin with the Tarka Line to Barnstaple, Britain’s most scenic train journey through lush green fields and imposing pine forests with sandy beached coastal views. In Barnstaple, experience the trade of a time immemorial in the Victorian Market Hall with its high vaulted glass and timber ceiling supported by iron columns. From here, jump on the Great Western Railway to the star attraction, Penzance. Founded in 1833 with a restoration returning it to its former glory, the Great Western Railway will deliver breathtakingly scenic views the whole way.
If you want to extend your journey, jump back on the train north-east of Penzance and make your way to the beautiful limestone landscapes of Bath. Set in the rolling countryside of southwest England, Bath is aptly known for its hot springs and stunning architecture. It is home to rows upon rows of Georgian style buildings and the Roman Bath Museum is a must-see, containing the original mineral springs that have proved so healing throughout the ages. Make sure you don’t skip Bath Abbey, a truly magnificent building with its fan-vaulting, tower and large stained-glass windows.
The lush green valleys and rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales encompass the signature sweeping, dramatic landscapes famous of the Yorkshire region. Babbling brooks that converge into a rushing river, limestone-laced landscapes and labyrinths of caves scattered below the lush green ground make up the landscape of the National Park with each valley, or dale, offering it’s own distinct characteristic and rich history.
With high rainfall in the area, the land is endlessly dressed in lush greenery and dotted with purple, yellow and white wildflowers during the spring and summer months. The scent of wild garlic fills the air during spring and delicate wild orchids open themselves to the sun’s rays. Temperate weather may not be a trait of the Dales, but long summer days make for a perfect hilltop hikes that are so peaceful, you’ll forget about the busy roads below. In the winter months, snow cloaks the fields with a pristine, unblemished consistency.
The Dales, which got its name from the old English word dael, meaning valley and derived from Nordic language, are each filled off rich historic stories of early occupation by Danes, Norseman and Romans. Small postcard-like villages scatter the landscape around and through the National Park, each with their own tales of their heritage as medieval trade ports and strategic strongholds in long-ago skirmishes.
The Dales are easily explored from the market town of Skipton, which also holds a few attractions itself. This charming town was voted 2014’s best town to live, and is home to the best preserved medieval castle in England. A castle was first built on this site in 1090 by Robert de Romille, a Norman Baron, but the timber ramparts did little to stop the invading Scots. This was quickly replaced with a stone fortress that was then fortified and considerably extended in the 12th century when King Edward II granted the lands to the Clifford family.
Often known as the gateway to the Yorkshire Dales, Grassington National Park Centre, near Skipton, is the starting point of many scenic trails, varying in difficulty and length for people of all fitness and experience levels. Other scenic walks in the Dales include the lovely village walk along famous limestone pavement from Malham to the cove, or the enchanting Aysgarth Falls further north. Regardless of your destination, you are bound to be struck by the beautiful scenes of the Dales, from the tourist-frequented attractions, to the hidden places you can stumble upon.
The Beatles, David Bowie, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Blur, Oasis, The Stone Roses… the list of legendary British music heroes goes on and on, and you’ll find the places they lived, were inspired, and even played their first gigs right across Britain. But how to get there? Craft your very own custom music tour with Tempo Holidays on a city-to-city rail adventure that will see you walking in the footsteps of your favourite British bands and artists.
In London, snapping your own version of The Beatles’ Abbey Road album cover is a must. For those who don’t know the story, in 1969 the band stepped outside Abbey Road studios in St John’s Wood and onto a white-striped crossing for a photoshoot, and Beatles fans have been trying to recreate this iconic album cover ever since. Then head to 23 Brook Street where you’ll find two blue plaques denoting the former residence of two musical greats – baroque composer George Frideric Handel and guitarist and rock legend Jimi Hendrix. Finally, spice up your life with a dance off on the very spot Britain’s most famous pop girl group, the Spice Girls, filmed their first music video: in the entrance and main staircase of the Midland Grand Hotel. This Victorian-Gothic hotel was once considered among the finest hotels in the world.
Britain’s resume of legendary music doesn’t end there. Jump on a train to Liverpool, home to The Cavern Club, where The Beatles played their first gig; Manchester will delight Smiths fans with the Salford Lads Club where their famous inside cover of The Queen is Dead was shot; and in Scotland King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, which opened in 1990 and quickly established a reputation for showcasing new talent, broke one of Britain’s biggest acts in the last 25 years, Oasis, and they continue to host multi-brand gigs almost every night and nurture up-and-coming talent and cult international acts.
Waves collide against basalt cliffs, sending a cloud of salty spray into the air. Battered by wind and rain, it’s not an entirely pleasant day to be bumping across the North Atlantic, but I’m determined to reach Mykines, the westernmost isle of the remote Faroes and a paradise for migratory birds.
Although known for its breeding colonies of northern gannets, black guillemots and kittiwakes, it is the sweet and inquisitive stares of the puffins that have drawn me to the edge of the archipelago. With two unsuccessful scouting missions already behind me, I’m hopeful that today may be the day I spot these chubby little birds.
Twitchers aside, this remote and windswept cluster of 18 volcanic islands anchored between Scotland, Norway and Iceland remains largely under the radar, even as the popularity of Iceland soars. In my eyes though, it’s every bit as enticing.
Cruising alongside a slate-grey wall dressed in moss, I can see why these rugged landscapes are woven with legends of epic Viking voyages and whimsical folklore. It’s only my fourth day here and I am already acquainted with the tale of the seal woman who cursed local men and the greedy Icelandic giants who stand as spires of rock fixed in the landscape after trying to steal an island.
After 40 minutes of rocking and rolling on the ferry I’m relieved when a tiny marina wedged in a gap in the cliff comes into view. Scarcely more than a dozen inhabitants live in the island’s tiny settlement, a quintessentially Faroese village of manicured turf roofs and white window frames. A mosaic of dewy green fields carpets the way to the western peninsula, where puffins are known to nest. I march along the ridgeline under the watch of grazing sheep. Blades of grass poking through their teeth make them look like a scruffy gang of cowboys.
As I round a bend, a tornado of birds comes into view. Flashes of crimson speckle the horizon and I realise I underestimated the enormity of this spectacle. Puffins flounce through the air, furiously beating their wings in an attempt to keep portly bellies aloft, while thousands more ride the inky waves, their white bodies appearing like stars in a night sky.
After a series of loops in the aerial velodrome, several puffins land clumsily with glassy-eyed sardines drooping from their beaks. They disappear into burrows to feed expectant pufflings. At the westernmost point of the island a cackle of seabirds carries on the wind, rising from those breeding in the cliff walls. The stench of guano is almost unbearable.
A lighthouse pokes from the earth in the distance, kept company by a red-roofed keeper’s hut. To work out here, at what seems to be the end of the world, must be a beautiful but exceedingly lonely existence. Ferries to Mykines operate solely during summer, after which a helicopter is the only way to reach the isle. During harsh winters, storms can leave inhabitants stranded here for days at a time.
Looking back along Mykines toward the fjords undulating into the distance is tremendous. Rivulets have carved waves into the jet-black rock face over millions of years. I can’t ever remember setting foot anywhere more wild or at the mercy of the elements.
The days slide by in a blur of curious sheep, spectacular coastal roads and homes that would fit in the pages of any children’s fairytale. Although rain is almost constant and sombre skies unabating, it only seems to intensify the allure of the islands.
I marvel at the waterfall at Gásadalur that tumbles from a precipice toward the ocean, only to be whisked away by the wind, and wait for the incoming tide to flood the bay of Saksun and form a mirror of the sky. Later, I explore the medieval ruins of St Magnus Cathedral and contemplate indulging in the 17-course tasting menu at Kok, the only Michelin-starred restaurant in the archipelago. As I watch a tall ship with lowered sails pass narrow fjords and pinnacles of rock being assaulted by the northern seas, I wonder if perhaps they are the central characters of another local legend.
One surprisingly sunny day I venture north on the island of Streymoy along a serpentine road that delivers me to charming Tjørnuvík. Sat in the valley, this unassuming hamlet is hugged by a brilliant blue bay one might expect to find in the Caribbean rather than a moody archipelago so close to the Arctic Circle. Marking the horizon are the petrified figures of Risin and Kellingin, that sneaky giant and his wife, a witch, who unsuccessfully attempted to steal the islands and were transformed into sea stacks for their sins.
The scent of waffles pervades the centre of town, flowing from an open-air stand run by a couple who sit yammering on a wooden bench. Now that high season is over I may be today’s only customer. In this rare moment of warm autumn sunshine, waffles topped in cream and served with a side of jovial company are a welcome afternoon treat.
On the isle of Vágar sheep wend along the mossy banks of Sørvágsvatn, the largest lake in the islands, to a final incline leading to a ragged bluff. From here the curved lake appears to hover above the ocean, an optical illusion that has captured the imagination of keen photographers in recent years.
Leaning over the edge sends a bolt of adrenaline down to my feet. The Faroes are home to some of the tallest sea cliffs in the world, and although this one is more than high enough to send me trembling as I stumble away from the brink, it doesn’t even come close to qualifying for the top spot.
Later, Johannes Hansen, a local adventure guide, invites me in for a traditional feast. In his singsong accent, he relays the isle’s dark history, reawakening my sense of vertigo. According to legend, as a punishment for laziness or simply falling ill, slaves were tossed over the cliffs and into the angry sea. In a blissful daze after a few tots of homemade schnapps it’s hard to imagine these modern-day Vikings, with their cheerful, rosy cheeks, could possibly have ancestors – even fantasy ones – capable of such cruelty.
Conversation turns away from tales of malevolence and Johannes shares yarns about houses that have been transplanted between villages over the centuries, carefully shifted brick by brick, and explains why the Faroese always wear oversized hats jutting to the left – it’s so they can easily remove them when shaking hands with their right.
Famished, I work through a spread of unfamiliar meats. Skerpikjøt, a tender, wind-dried mutton that’s been hanging in Johannes’s shed for almost two years, gives off the funk of blue cheese. Dried flakes of fish and pilot whale blubber and flesh also feature on the menu. Although the annual grindadráp (whale hunt) is controversial on the international stage, locals fiercely defend the tradition. On these remote, rugged islands it’s difficult to survive on agriculture alone, and so whaling has sustained the communities through many harsh winters.
Overnight, mist envelops the homes of the 40,000 people living in the capital city of Tórshavn – almost the archipelago’s entire population – and I wake to a sea of white lapping at my window. Intent on embarking on a multi-isle road trip, I push on to the east along Highway 10. A bridge carries me over the sound between Streymoy and the isle of Eysturoy, where a sub-sea tunnel connects me to Borðoy and a ferry karts me to Kalsoy, a narrow island resembling a knobbly witch’s finger.
As is the case in many Nordic nations, the building philosophy seems to be “if we can’t go over it, we’ll have to go through it”. I lament the all-too-dim headlights guiding me into an unlit passage leading into the belly of a mountain. It spits me out at the village of Trøllanes, where I swap wheels for feet to reach my final destination. Perched by the Kallur Lighthouse, which stands sentinel on the emerald tip of the island, I watch the fog roll over the end of the earth.
Driving back between the fjords beneath a blanket of grey, I’ve come to realise that the melancholy skies lend well to the islands’ stark beauty and sinister legends. And yet, as if on cue, the clouds part and a halo of golden light spills across the landscape. Perhaps it’s a sign that I should do as the Faroese do and transplant my house brick by brick into this fabled landscape.
Swooping out of the lush green hills of Spain’s north coast into the wide valley around Pamplona, I’m struck with the feeling that this is the spot where sun-blessed Spain first conquers the drizzly north.
It’s difficult to imagine that just 40 minutes to the south there’s a landscape of shimmering desert plains and wind-sculpted natural monuments. That’s Navarre for you. This tiny province would fit into Tasmania six times, yet it’s among the most diverse regions in the country. Few visitors, however, ever see beyond the tangle of alleyways that is the setting for the world’s greatest fiesta.
By ancient royal decree this desert region – known as Bardenas Reales National Park, or the Badlands – is governed by the seven villages within its boundaries. One of only a handful of deserts in Europe, it’s so remote that the US Air Force has paid to use the area for target practice in fighter jet training.
But there are no fighter jets to slice the dawn haze as we unload our mountain bikes early this winter morning. Within an hour the Spanish sun has burnt off the mist and we’re cruising along a wide sandy trail. This camino real was once an ancient route for nomadic shepherds, but the only tracks I spy belong to a wild cat and, inexplicably, a set of bare human feet. Perhaps we’re following a hippie hiker or penitent pilgrim.
Our trail climbs steeply to a plateau that looks across a desolate valley and into much of Navarre. With dust under our wheels and desert sun on our backs we already feel a world away from the lush valleys of the Pyrenees and the twisting alleyways of old Pamplona.
I first came to the city in 1989 and developed an addiction to the place I wasn’t able to shake for 17 fiestas. But this normally sleepy city, an easy train ride from Barcelona, has a peacetime charm all its own. These days I return regularly to visit my teenage daughter Lucia, and to explore an even more fascinating side to this historic city when there isn’t a bull in sight.
Peering from an arrow slit in the battlements that protected the Portal de Francia (Gateway to France), it’s easy to imagine the awe early pilgrims must have felt as they approached these rearing walls from the wild passes of the Pyrenees.
“We call this area Caída de los Amantes,” Spanish author Javier Muñoz tells me. “It means ‘lovers fall’. Young couples come up here and occasionally they get a bit carried away and roll straight off!”
Javier is not only an expert in Pamplona’s secret corners, but also in Ernest Hemingway’s celebrated love affair with Spain. So much so, he recently published a book on the subject called Eating with Hemingway. In The Sun Also Rises (the book that established Pamplona’s fiesta as the “hell-raising capital of the world”), Hemingway wrote of the empty plains that, at that time, still stretched from the foot of the city’s walls, and the twinkling lights on what he described as “the fort”.
These days the abandoned fort is almost unknown, even among locals, and the pot-holed road that winds up the mountainside to it seems like a fast track to wild Spain. My guide, Stephanie Mutsaerts, eases our car to a halt to let a flock of sheep cascade around us in a fluffy white avalanche. Stephanie left her home in Canada 20 years ago and, after cultivating her Spanish in Barcelona, found outdoor adventure calling her to Navarre.
“Here, we’re only 15 minutes from the city, but many of the townspeople are not even aware the old fort exists,” says Stephanie’s friend Ángel Ozcoidi, as we walk onto the summit of San Cristóbal Mountain. “Others refuse to come here. There’s such a brooding history around this place and some consider it bad luck.”
Now abandoned for decades, Fort Alfonso XII was built on the hill in 1878 following a series of civil wars. It served as a notorious prison until 1945.
Ángel grew up at the foot of the hill and still walks or cycles up here most weekends. He’s the perfect guide, leading us through secret passageways to forgotten dungeons and old gun emplacements. Skulking through dark rooms that once housed hundreds of revolutionaries and thousands of political prisoners gives me the spooks, so I’m grateful when we emerge into the sunlight to gaze down on the walls of Pamplona and the 450-year-old star-shaped citadel that’s considered one of the best-preserved medieval fortifications in Europe. Only in a city with as much historical wealth as Pamplona could the massive granite fortifications remain almost unnoticed up on this mount.
Forty minutes’ drive north-west of Pamplona you find the Bidasoa Valley, an area that is culturally Basque. And in towns such as Lesaka, you’ll rarely hear Spanish spoken in the streets. Lucia and I drive over to meet my friend Juan Carlos Pikabea, who comes from a Basque-speaking Lesaka family that can trace its roots back 500 years. The son of a timber merchant, Juan Carlos is now one of Navarre’s most celebrated artists and a man whose enthusiasm for local traditions seems almost limitless.
“Our fiesta falls in the same week as Pamplona’s,” Juan Carlos tells me. “Hemingway came here too but, luckily for us, he didn’t make it famous and Lesaka’s fiesta has remained pretty much as it was centuries ago.”
There can be few towns even in Spain where history is as spectacularly concentrated as in Lesaka. As we walk the streets Juan Carlos points out mansions, watchtowers and armouries that date back a thousand years or more. Without his guidance I’d never have noticed the demonic faces peering out from the corners of some of the houses, sculpted as guardians against the evil eye. Near the church he points out a torture post where criminals and those accused of witchcraft were once hung up, with spikes driven through their tongues. Lucia is horrified to hear that children who stole fruit from the orchards were slathered in honey and bound to the post, where they were left to be tormented by the sticky feet of thousands of flies and ants.
These days life in Bidasoa Valley is more peaceful, and people enjoy a quiet, rural existence that is closely linked to the changing seasons. The foothills of the Pyrenees seem to bleed colour in autumn, when the immense Irati Forest – Europe’s best-preserved beech and fir forest – explodes with flame-coloured foliage.
“This is when I get inspiration for painting,” Juan Carlos says, smiling as he guides Lucia and me through a masterclass in the studio above his family home. “Throughout the summer the landscape stays mostly green, but in autumn it seems to change almost by the hour.”
Lesaka lies just 20 minutes from the Basque coast and enjoys a mild climate that makes these forested valleys particularly rich. Even today the people of these villages seem to have remained inveterate hunter-gatherers.
Juan Carlos’s wife and daughters were out at dawn in a secret glade searching for setas, the wild mushrooms that are a local delicacy. It is only when we gather at the family table to sample the harvest with fresh-baked bread and robust Navarran wine that I realise why so many locals are dedicated to mushroom hunting.
Far up on the mountaintop above Lesaka a group of ‘fishermen’ also gather each day before dawn to spread their nets in a province that has no sea. They hoist their giant webs between a channel of soaring trees to catch the migrating pigeons that will end up in the asadores, or rotisserie restaurants, across the region – often served with chocolate sauce.
The first-known record of la palomera (the pigeoning) tradition was 640 years ago, when the people of the mountain town of Etxalar complained to the Catholic Church about a local priest who was holding morning mass at 4am so he could go pigeon hunting by daybreak. Since then, the pigeon-netters of Etxalar have honed their skills into a science. During October and November, flocks of up to 100,000 migrating pigeons pass daily through trees that form a narrow corridor where France meets Spain. When the birds get close, hunters in watchtowers lob wooden decoys (whitewashed ping-pong bats work a treat); thinking the flashes of white are hawks on the prowl the pigeons dive, aiming for the safety of the trees. Their evasive flight directs them straight into the waiting nets. One of the chaps blows on a brass horn to signal to the other hunters that they can now open fire with their shotguns, snuffing out the unfortunate birds.
Playing our part to support local tradition Lucia, Stephanie, local guide Alfonso Bermejo and I head to a typical mountain asador to dine on roasted pigeon. One of Spain’s great underrated traditions, sobremesa (over the table) means to extend a meal through the pleasures of coffee and liquor and, most importantly, conversation.
“Navarran rural cuisine, as you know, is among Europe’s best,” says Alfonso as we ponder life over a glass of herbal liquor. “But San Sebastián [just an hour’s drive away] has overtaken us in the eyes of the world. Our wine is just as incredible but, through clever marketing, the region of La Rioja has become a worldwide name. We also have world-class olive oil, but most locals don’t even realise it. Navarrans in general aren’t good at promotion.”
It does seem strange the only tourists who visit Navarre come for either San Fermín, which was promoted initially by an American writer, or for the Camino de Santiago – of which only five or six days are spent in the province. Yet this tiny region is slowly becoming known as a modern-day place of pilgrimage for tourists who want to sample the real Spain. The word is finally out on what the world’s hell-raising capital does in its downtime.
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