I’ve been away from Seville for a long time. Not long enough to forget the sharp near salty tang of the local fino sherry, that bitter sensation that once warmed my throat like turpentine before seducing me with its subtler flavours. Not long enough to forget the…
Tag Archives | Andalucia
People never believe me, but it’s not always sunny in Spain. Even in Seville, Europe’s hottest city, winters are COLD, COLD, COLD. Well, OK, probably only the one “cold” would have done…
In the scorching cauldron of Andalucia, the Sierra Nevada mountains rise up to tickle the skies and gather enough snow to cover the peaks for most of the year. Beneath them…
When it came to first impressions, the inside of Seville’s sprawling cathedral left me cold. I saw gloom and scaffolding, dust and darkness, and the dreams and shadows of the Spanish Inquisition lurking behind the many locked gates and doors…
Balancing on the wet rock, I watch the river of gold run past. I’m high in the Alpujarras Mountains, a part of Andalucia that
The Seville Communion takes readers into two different worlds. It starts with the priests who guard the Pope’s personal computer in the Vatican. Then we meet Quart, a priest with more than a hint of James Bond and Luca Brazi, who works for the Pope and, well, Christianity at large. He…
“Take a photo of him,” she says, her eyes smoky with eyeliner, her words smudging together in the Andalucían way.
I glance up at the head on the wall.
Months ago, I wrote about the golden padlocks locked to the Isabel II Bridge in Seville. Then I spotted the same tradition in Paris, on the Pont des Arts, surely one of the most romantic examples of civil engineering that anyone could find. Somewhere between finding love in Paris and stumbling across…
Short & sweet this week, as I’m travelling through rural Andalucia to places where cyberspace […]
I’ll admit it, I have photo fever at the moment. I’m trying out…
Every ash cloud has a silver lining, as the new saying goes. One unexpected advantage, though, was…
On a spring afternoon, with orange blossom filtering the sunshine, I saw my first one. Looming tall and dressed entirely in black, the hood masked his face before rising upwards to a point above his head. His hands were gloved, the dark robe flowing and two, blinking dark eyes…
It all started with the police check last night.
Torchlight zig-zagged across the car and we huddled in the backseat.
“You are English,” said the policeman. “And yet you say you want…
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