GRENADA: HAVING A SPICE TIME, WISH YOU WERE HERE

BY GEORGE: Grenada's picturesque capital, St. George's

WHEN Hurricane Ivan brought death and destruction to Grenada in September 2004, killing 39 people, damaging or demolishing 90 per cent of the buildings and wiping out the vital nutmeg/mace and other spice crops, it looked like curtains for this tiny Caribbean island’s economy. Best-case predictions said it would take decades to recover, but just over seven years later and against the odds, tourism numbers are on the up and spice exports are back to pre-Ivan levels.

International aid allowed the islanders to begin repairing and replacing homes, schools and other public buildings flattened by Nature’s fury, which paid a return visit in July 2005 when Hurricane Emily hit. It was a cruel double blow, but no one had reckoned on the indomitable Grenadians, who spent every daylight hour replanting the vast tracts of nutmeg, all spice, cinnamon and clove trees and pepper vines on which so many livelihoods depended.

They showed that when the going gets tough, the tough get growing.

TOP CROP: Nutmegs and other spices

You have to be tough to sample the rum that’s been produced since 1785 at the Rivers distillery in the northeast of the island. There are two varieties, 69 and 75 proof, the latter so flammable and potentially explosive that it’s not allowed on planes, except maybe in the fuel tanks.

The distillery, on the River Antoine Estate that supplies organic bananas to Sainsbury’s, is a ramshackle collection of old buildings that look long-abandoned, but behind the weather-ravaged walls it’s a fully-functioning and busy facility that makes rum year-round. The only concession to the 21st century is electricity, but it plays no part in the production process — a water wheel powers the press that crushes the sugar cane, the sun-dried husks are burned beneath huge copper basins to boil the cane juice, the hot liquid is ladled into cooling tanks, it’s then siphoned into concrete fermentation tanks and, finally, it’s hand-pumped into and out of the stills. This is how it’s been done for 227 years, and there are no plans to introduce modern methods.

I visited Rivers with award-winning tour guide Simon ‘Mandoo’ Seales (www.grenadatours.com), a former merchant seaman (he’s one of the Navy Seales) who returned to his native Grenada several years ago to help promote tourism. I couldn’t have been in better — or better-dressed — company as Mandoo, in his pristine white uniform, took me on a tour of the Caribbean’s Spice Island which measures just 34 by 19 kilometres (half the size of the Isle of Man) and has a population of 90,000 English-speaking cricket lovers. They’re all Formula 1 fanatics too, thanks to race ace Lewis Hamilton’s Grenadian roots — his grandad, Davidson, is the bus driver in the fishing village of Grand Roy, where he’s affectionately known as Slowcoach.

HAIRY MOMENT: Mona monkey has lunch

Mandoo’s a man of many talents, not least his ability to talk to the animals which he showed off when we stopped to enjoy the views from the heady heights of the steamy Grand Etang rainforest. I had my eye on the bag of bananas he’d bought from a roadside kiosk on the way up, but it turned out they were earmarked for a more deserving cause. Leaning on a railing, he threw his head back and let out a Tarzan-like yodel. If he’d thumped his chest, grabbed a liana and gone swinging into the greenery I couldn’t have been more startled.

A few seconds later a mona monkey came running along and plopped itself down right in front of us. The last time I was that close to a simian was in Gibraltar, where a Barbary macaque picked my pocket and peed on my shoe, so I wasn’t overly keen when Mandoo handed me a banana and suggested I give it to the monkey. But I needn’t have worried — this little guy had obviously been brought up well, and he accepted my arm’s-length offering with a gracious grunt before ambling back into the trees, no doubt to tell the lads about the big jessie with the sunburn and the trembling hand.

And then, without so much as a few warning drops, it began to rain as if someone had turned on the taps full blast, though in Grenada they don’t call it rain (it’s warm for a start). “That’s liquid sunshine,” said Mandoo, and in three words summed up the good-naturedness of the ever-smiling Grenadians. Ten minutes later the downpour ended as suddenly as it had begun, and we were rewarded with the marvellous sight of a double rainbow.

COOL POOL: Concord Waterfalls

There was a rainbow too, a mini one, when we stopped at the first of the three Concord Waterfalls, 13km north of the capital, St. George’s. The lower falls are at the end of a narrow, winding mountain road hugged by lush vegetation, and most visitors content themselves with a quick look and a few snapshots here. The more adventurous and fit trek into the rainforest and through a nutmeg plantation to see the second falls, Au Coin, and continue upwards to the third, Fontainbleu. None is a Niagara, but all three are picturesque and tumble into deep pools of crystal clear water that tempt the brave in for a dip (the pools can be a bit chilly, while the sea close to shore is lukewarm).

The really adventurous don swimming gear, safety helmets and lifevests for a 90-minute ride down the Balthazar River rapids (www.adventuregrenada.com) on individual inflatable tubes that resemble giant donuts but taste awful (I took a tumble and got a wallop in the mouth from mine). There are gentler stretches with pools where you can climb the bank and jump into the water, but I left that bit of daredevilry to the 12-year-old girl from the States who not only jumped but did a somersault and landed feet-first in the middle of her tube. Impressive stuff, though I had to stifle a snigger (her dad was a big fella with tattoos) when her startled little face followed the rest of her through the hole and she surfaced a few seconds later coughing and spluttering. As any fool knows, if you’re going to show off by somersaulting into a rubber ring, keep your arms outspread and don’t shout “Watch me, everybody!”

Guides-cum-lifeguards accompany tube riders who are advised to bring a towel, but that proved to be excess baggage because 10 minutes after stepping ashore in my sodden shorts and T-shirt they’d dried in the sun with me still in them.

THRILLS (AND SPILLS): Tubing on the Balthazar River

Grenada, which prides itself on being the cleanest, greenest and most law-abiding island in the Caribbean, is hot, with a year-round average afternoon temperature of 23C/80F and daily highs from July through October of, and often exceeding, 31/88. November through February are the coolest months (if you call 24/76 cool), January through May are the driest and the rainy season is June to November, though it usually rains just once a day for an hour and then not every day. With such an agreeable climate it’s ideal for beach weddings and honeymoons and is an increasingly popular holiday destination, but being only 190km north of the Equator the sun is twice as intense as in the Mediterranean, so regular and generous applications of sunscreen — or in my case, axle grease ­— are a must.

I’ve never been one for beaches (beach bars, yes) and all that lying and frying on the sand, but the ones in Grenada look like they came straight out of a Bounty bar commercial. I strolled the three-kilometre length of Grand Anse beach in the southwest of the island, hot-footing it into the turquoise water at regular intervals to prevent my flip-flops melting, and concluded it must’ve been idyllic surroundings like this for which postcards were invented.

SHOREFIRE HIT: Picture postcard Grand Anse beach

Levera Beach, in the north, is a smaller version of Grand Anse at 700 metres long but just as dreamy, and for nature lovers such as Mandoo it’s something of a sacred site. Every year between April and July, female leatherback turtles come here to bury their soft-shelled eggs — from 80 to 100 each — in the sand on the very beach where they themselves hatched several years before. These critically-endangered creatures, which can weigh up to 900 kilos and grow to two metres in length (the males are much bigger and spend their entire lives at sea), undertake an epic 12-month migration of up to 6,000 kilometres each way from and back to Grenada and are absolutely pooped when they drag themselves ashore.

This is when Mandoo — who gives up much of his free time to lecture on environmental issues in schools and colleges — and his fellow conservation volunteers step in to lend a helping hand, working in round-the-clock shifts to protect the turtles from poachers and guard the nest sites while the eggs incubate. Access to Levera between April and July is strictly limited, though small groups of visitors can join the volunteers to see the females laying and their tiny hatchlings — of which only one in a thousand survive to maturity — scurrying down the beach and into the sea.

SHELL OUT: Fun and food at Fish Friday night in Gouyave

No one does much scurrying or hurrying in Grenada, where life is so laid-back it’s almost horizontal. This was delightfully evident when I visited the northwest seaside town of Gouyave for the weekly Fish Friday evening when locals turn out to eat, drink and socialise with their neighbours and tourists in the backstreets while Bob Marley monopolises the music blaring from the speakers. Once a week, these traffic-free, narrow residential alleyways are turned into a maze of open-air canteens with umpteen stalls serving succulent seafood that costs next to nothing, cheap soft drinks and beer, and rum punch so potent it might strip the enamel from your teeth if you over-indulge.

Dress down for this most informal of nights out that sometimes goes on until dawn (Gouyave is known as the town that never sleeps) because boiled, baked, barbecued, grilled and fried fresh fish, crayfish and lobster accompanied by spicy vegetables and fried breadfruit are meant to be tackled with fingers, not forks. When you can’t find a serviette, wipe your hands on your T-shirt — you can always wear and wash it when you go for a dip in the sea the following morning.

The waters around Grenada attract scuba divers from all over the world thanks to the abundance of coral reefs and wrecks that teem with marine life including seahorses, shoals of angel fish, schools of snappers, graceful stingrays and curious (as in fearlessly nosy) turtles. Not that I’ve been down there to have a look, which is my loss — I’m not a strong swimmer; I gagged the first and only time I bit on a breathing regulator; and I’ve had a morbid fear of sharks since a German woman was killed by one off Sharm el-Sheikh in December 2010 near the spot where I’d been treading water only a fortnight before. There are NO dangerous sharks off Grenada, but that fatal attack in Egypt has left me with a terrible dread, so when it comes to scuba diving I have to say thanks, but no tanks.

SCUBA-DUPER: Diving among the island's coral reefs

I stayed at LaSource (www.theamazingholiday.com), the all-inclusive, no-children-allowed resort on Pink Gin Beach near St. George’s where I spent seven blissful days and nights thinking: If I win the lottery this is where they can forward my mail.

This 4-star plus hideaway in 40 acres of tropical grounds is hugely popular with singles, and many a lasting relationship has been forged here. What’s especially nice is that anyone arriving on their own will never feel alone — get-to-know-you drinks are served in the bar every evening and solo guests are invited to join others for dinner. And, joy of joys, there’s not a distracting TV in sight, not even in the rooms, all of which overlook the Caribbean. Sitting on my balcony most evenings, I watched the sun sink beneath the horizon in a blaze of red and orange before getting dressed for dinner with a fascinating and friendly mix of mostly English singles and couples, many of them LaSource regulars, from all walks of life — accountants, restaurateurs, secretaries, doctors, a redundant computer games designer, honeymooners and retirees.

Some were there simply to chill out and enjoy the surroundings and fabulous food followed by a relaxing evening in the piano bar, while others took full advantage of the wealth of leisure facilities and organised activities. There’s a nine-hole golf course, tennis courts, archery, beach volleyball, t’ai chi and yoga (watching a meditation class was as active as I got), and watersports including snorkeling, knee boarding, ocean kayaking, windsurfing and Hobie Cat sailing. The resort has its own scuba boat and crew (www.divelasource.com), and guests who are certified divers get three outings per week included in the price of their stay. Also included for all guests is a complimentary daily spa treatment with a choice of facials, massages and body wraps.

A recent addition to the attractions at LaSource is the week-long Sleep School (www.thesleepschool.org) that aims to help insomniacs get a good night’s kip. Run by Dr. Guy Meadows, who claims an 87 per cent success rate, it’s attracting interest from all over the world. Thankfully, I’ve never had any trouble dropping off, though I’m not looking forward to my next nine-hour Grenada-Gatwick flight — all those cured insomniacs who haven’t slept in ages have a lot of snoring to catch up on.

HAVEN ON EARTH: Fabulous all-inclusive LaSource resort

GETTING THERE

FLY: British Airways (www.britishairways.com), Virgin Atlantic (www.virgin-atlantic.com) and Monarch (www.monarch.co.uk) fly from London Gatwick to Grenada.

BOOK: For Irish clients, Tropical Sky has a 7 nights all-inclusive holiday at LaSource from €1,899 per person sharing. Valid for selected departures from June to September, the price includes scheduled flights from Dublin via Gatwick, accommodation in a luxury room, resort transfers, taxes and surcharges. In Ireland, see www.tropicalsky.ie or call 01 526 2566 or 068 56800; in the UK see www.tropicalsky.co.uk or call 0844 332 9371.

˜For further information on visiting Grenada, see www.grenadagrenadines.com

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Iceland: Saegreifinn (Sea Baron)

Besides Baejarin Beztu, the other name I kept coming across on Chowhound posts about Iceland was Saegreifinn, a.k.a. Sea Baron. This casual restaurant is more fish shack than fine dining. Customers order at the counter then sit on narrow fish barrels along communal benches. Still, even Mark Bittman has called out Saegreifinn for its outstanding lobster soup.
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The entire dining area is tiny. At the time I went, there weren't very many customers and people rotated in and out fairly rapidly. I imagine during high tourist season in the summer, the place is packed to the gills. As with almost anywhere else in Iceland, the proprietors speak perfect English. Their English was so good in fact that I frequently forgot to practice the Icelandic phrases I picked up for the trip. I did however, satisfy my goal to be able to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull, the volcano that erupted last year.



I believe Saegreifinn serves their famous lobster soup year-round, but check the display case for the local catch of the day on kebabs. The soup has a Nordic flavor profile, rich and hearty with some slight sweetness and ample amount of lobster. The locally fished lobster is smaller than we're used to, but sweeter in taste. It actually reminded me more of crawfish. I've been told it is specifically langoustine. Indeed it does have that same taste.





From the fridge, we picked out a halibut kebab. The waitress brought the kebab to the back to be grilled while we warmed up with the soup and heaps of crusty bread. The soup and the complimentary bread would be enough to make a light lunch, but we were about to head for the airport. While the fish was certainly fresh, it lacked the flavor of the outstanding Pacific halibut I had in Alaska.




While in my trip, I had plenty of delicious food, I didn't partake in much of the exotic fare. I avoided hakarl, the Fear Factor-esque fermented shark that is described as licking a urinal. I also didn't have reindeer or puffin, which I hear tastes very fishy. I did however, eat a whale kebab. Iceland and Japan are two of the few countries that still whale. They are also two countries where you can find whale on the menu. The texture is easy to describe--tough, like an overcooked steak. The taste is much odder. Imagine a cross between tuna and beef, or if a cow was only fed a diet of fish. Whale is one of those things you can say you've tried, but you're not likely to go back.

Saegrefinn (Sea Baron)
354-553-1500
Geirsgata 9, 101 Reykjavik
The restaurant is located in the Northwest of Reykjavik by the harbor.


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MALTA: SMALL IS BEAUTIFUL

MUST-SEA: Valletta Grand Harbour, the most photographed view on Malta. Is it any wonder?

FOR an intelligent man, Saint Paul was an awful eejit. If only he’d stayed put in Malta, where he was shipwrecked in 60AD during a voyage to Rome, he might have been buried in one piece. But no. This first century Robinson Crusoe converted the islanders to Christianity — they were putty in his hands after he laughed off a bite from a venomous snake — then continued his journey. Big mistake. The Emperor Nero being no pal of Paul, he ordered the executioner to get his axe and look sharpish, and that’s why in 67AD the poor old Apostle turned up at the Pearly Gates with his head under his arm. If he’d turned up at the Ryanair gate they’d probably have made him check it in.

I wouldn’t mind being shipwrecked on Malta, especially in July and August when the average mid-afternoon temperature is 30C/86F and often hits 35/95, though a welcome sea breeze takes the sting out of it. It’s a popular destination in winter too when it’s usually T-shirt weather (around 15/59) and sunny all day — except last Monday, when I got a soaking in the capital, Valletta, and boarded the plane home that evening with the beginnings of a stinking cold. Fortunately, I’d had three runny nose-free days to enjoy the Christmas weekend there.

DIRECT HIT: Bombed Church of the Assumption in Mosta

NAZI SURPRISE: Replica bomb

High on the list of attractions not to be sneezed at is the Church of the Assumption of Our Lady in Mosta. This splendid structure, which has the third-biggest dome in Europe after Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome and the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, is well worth a look, but it’s the story of the 1942 “Miracle of Mosta” that has visitors flocking to the place year-round. In the late afternoon of April 9, while 300 parishioners gathered for mass during a German air raid (they felt safe enough within the church’s nine-metre thick walls), a 200-kilo bomb came crashing through the dome. While the congregation rapidly blessed themselves for what they thought was the last time, they watched in horror as the bomb bounced and clattered down the aisle towards the altar — and failed to explode. Good thing too, as there was a fireworks factory next door.

Hitler’s Luftwaffe and Mussolini’s Regia Aeronautica blitzed the bejaysus out of Malta during World War Two — there was only one 24-hour period in the 175 days between January 1 and July 24, 1942, when no bombs fell on Valletta and the island’s other ports and air bases. The Siege of Malta, from early June 1940 until late November 1942, aimed to bomb or starve the strategically-important yet woefully under-defended island into submission. It was the heaviest and most concentrated and sustained aerial bombardment in history, during which 30,000 buildings were damaged or destroyed and the 250,000 islanders were forced to kill and eat all the horses because food was so desperately short.

Salvation came nearer in the months leading up to the Allies’ victory at the second Battle of El Alamein in November 1942 when the Axis commanders began diverting much of their attention away from Malta to northern Egypt, allowing the RAF in stages to station 250 Spitfires on the island. Faced with increasing opposition (21-year-old Canadian Spitfire pilot George ‘Screwball’ Beurling shot down 27 Axis aircraft over Malta in just 14 days), the Germans and Italians eventually scarpered with their tailfins between their legs. When a supply convoy of four merchant ships from Alexandria reached Valletta on November 20 virtually unscathed, the siege was over and the long-suffering islanders were able to emerge from the deep underground tunnels where they’d been forced to shelter for nearly two-and-a-half years from round-the-clock air raids.

BLITZED: Destruction in Valletta's Kingsway street

JUST REWARD: The George Cross awarded to island

Their courage had been recognised the previous April when King George VI awarded Malta one of only two collective George Crosses ever conferred (the other went to the Royal Ulster Constabulary in 1999). In a letter to the island’s Governor, Lieutenant-General Sir William Dobbie, the King wrote: “To honour her brave people, I award the George Cross to the Island Fortress of Malta to bear witness to a heroism and devotion that will long be famous in history.” Dobbie replied: “By God’s help Malta will not weaken but will endure until victory is won.” The medal, which is depicted on the Maltese flag, and the King’s letter can be seen in the War Museum in Valletta’s Fort Saint Elmo.

Nearby, the island’s top visitor attraction, The Malta Experience, has hourly showings of a fascinating 40-minute film that highlights significant events from 7,000 years of history, including the Great Siege of 1565 when 30,000 Turks failed to overwhelm 6,000 defenders.

Driving in the smallest member of the European Union (it’s just 27km by 15) can be overwhelming, and requires a degree of heroism worthy of mention in dispatches. Locals joke that the slimmest book in the library is the Maltese Highway Code, which had me chuckling until my pal Paula took me out for a spin. It was no tongue-in-cheek statement — my heart was in my mouth more often than in my chest as we were tailgated by insanely impatient motorists, cut across, overtaken on blind bends and wrong-footed by cars indicating left then turning right. In Sliema, on the peninsula across Grand Harbour from Valletta, I watched another example of motoring madness as a young woman directing her husband into a parking space was almost run over by an old fella in a battered Morris Marina who nipped in and claimed it. I don’t know what she said to him during a two-minute tirade in Maltese, but it drew a sharp intake of breath from my neighbours on a cafe terrace and he quickly reversed out and sped off.

JUST THE TICKET: One of Malta's redundant vintage buses

If your nerves are easily jangled, it’s better to hop on a bus — the quaint old yellow and orange ones that feature in countless holiday snaps were replaced in July by a modern fleet — but even then there’s no guarantee of a smooth ride. I’ve seen train-spotters and plane-spotters, but until I boarded the number 52 from Valletta to Dingli for a look at the nearby cliffs I’d never encountered bus-spotters, and I never want to again. For nearly 40 minutes I stood on that crowded bus having to listen to the biggest load of old drivel from a dozen camera-toting public transport fanatics from Lancashire as they excitedly discussed the new vehicles (especially the bend-in-the-middle ones), the new timetable and the new routes. I wouldn’t have minded, but I’d forgotten to recharge my iPod and the battery was drained. And then, just as I was thinking it couldn’t get any worse, a well-meaning teenage girl who recognises pain on the face of a fellow passenger when she sees it added insult to injury by getting up and insisting I take her seat.

The 51, 52 and 53 buses are among the busiest out of Valletta as they stop at Rabat, home of the magnificent medieval walled city of Mdina, a World Heritage Site also known as the Silent City that sits on a rocky promontory and was the Maltese capital centuries before Valletta was even thought of. Mdina’s warren of narrow, cobbled streets that suddenly open on to picturesque, flower-bedecked squares full of noblemen’s townhouses and palaces are dotted with cafes and shops selling tasteful souvenirs (nothing so tacky as mass-produced mementoes here), with the biggest sellers being colourful Mdina glass, amber jewellery and lace. The imposing Cathedral of Saint Paul, built between 1697 and 1702 on the site of a previous church destroyed by an earthquake in 1693, is impressive from a distance and even more so when viewed up close, but the best view in Mdina — a sweeping vista of central Malta to the sea — is from Bastion Square.

LUNAR LANDSCAPE: The medieval former capital, Mdina

Valletta, also a World Heritage Site, isn’t short of bastions, many of which are a dizzying 47 metres tall. The city’s foundation stone was laid on March 28, 1566, by Jean Parisot de la Valette, the Grand Master of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem which later became the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta but is better known as the more easily remembered Knights of Malta. The city was planned as a refuge for injured soldiers and pilgrims during the Crusades and built over the course of just 15 years, including tea breaks, on a uniform grid system that has been copied countless times worldwide.

As in most historical cities awash with magnificent, centuries-old buildings, it pays to look up every now and then when wandering through Valletta to avoid missing something worth seeing, such as the brightly-painted and well-kept balconies. It also pays to look down. Go to the Upper Barrakka Gardens, lean on the railing and feast your eyes on the most-photographed and famous sight in Malta, the Grand Harbour and the Three Cities of Cospicua, Vittoriosa and Senglea which you can visit by jumping aboard a water taxi.

Back at street level, step inside the Pro Cathedral and gaze at Caravaggio’s huge and gruesome painting, The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist (1608). Photos aren’t allowed in the room that houses this masterpiece, but that’s OK because the image will stay with you and possibly give you nightmares, especially if you’ve over-indulged in gbejna goat and sheep’s milk cheese, a delicacy from the smaller neighbouring island of Gozo that’s absolutely delicious. I brought some back last week and am rationing myself to a slice a day to make it last as long as possible.

QUALITY STREET: Balconies of houses in Valletta

Sliema — home to umpteen designer boutiques and art galleries and the hub of Maltese cafe life where all the rich kids with fancy cars hang out — and Saint Julian’s are the main tourist resorts around the capital, which is a favourite port of call for cruise liners. In both places you’ll find some of the best restaurants on the island, especially the trendy and brilliant value Italian I Monelli in Saint Julian’s, where the bill for dinner for five with loads of wine and beer came to an unbelievable €123. A short stroll away is The Dubliner pub, a favourite with expats and visitors because a) it’s a genuine Irish boozer, not one of those prefabricated, self-assembly joints that blight holiday hot spots throughout the Mediterranean, and b) the staff are Irish.

In Sliema, Ta’ Kris Restaurant and Bistro serves the most wonderful Maltese cuisine including roast and stewed rabbit, veal escalopes and the national dish, bragioli (savoury stuffed beef rolls braised in wine). It’s always busy, packed with people swearing they’ll never set foot in the place again because the service is so terrible. It isn’t terrible at all: the waitresses are super-efficient and charming, but often there just aren’t enough of them. I had lunch there on Christmas Eve when every table was taken, but only two girls were on duty to seat customers, take orders, pour drinks, serve food, work the cash register and clean up. After waiting 40 minutes for our starters, my five Maltese friends began grumbling (so did my stomach). Half-an-hour then passed before the main courses arrived. One of our group was daft enough to ask for dessert — a slice of cheesecake — and got it 20 minutes later. It took another 20 minutes between asking for and receiving the bill, but at the end of our meal all five left generous tips and were making arrangements to have lunch there the following week. That’s how good the food is.

Despite all the heavy sighing and tut-tutting from diners, the waitresses remained calm and focused. Like their fellow islanders before them they were under siege, but refused to buckle. Those two girls deserve medals.

SPLASH OUT: Book into the Phoenicia Hotel, Valletta

WHERE TO STAY

The Irish-owned 5-star Phoenicia Hotel in Valletta is handily located next to the bus station, and most of the 128 rooms and eight suites have views of the Grand Harbour. Opened in 1947, it has welcomed royalty, film stars, honeymooning couples and families and remains a favourite with regular visitors to Malta. See www.phoeniciamalta.com for details of special deals.

GETTING THERE

For flights from Dublin to Malta, see www.ryanair.com and www.airmalta.com. Easyjet (www.easyjet.com) flies from Belfast. In Ireland, Concorde Travel are Malta specialists. See 
www.concordetravel.ie/featured-destinations/malta/

˜For further information, see www.visitmalta.com

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TURK, REST AND PLAY

THE 'REAL' DEAL: Sign at entrance to Ephesus

HONESTY in advertising is important, which is why it was so refreshing to see the sign offering “genuine fake watches” outside a souvenir shop at the entrance to the ancient Greco-Roman city of Ephesus near Kusadasi, Turkey.

The pint of local Efes lager I had in the airside bar in Bodrum airport on the way home to Dublin was refreshing too, but the price left me feeling I’d just been mugged. How can they charge €7 for a beer that costs only €2.50 in most resorts without having the good manners to wear a mask and point a pistol? It’s a rip-off that’s had holidaymakers ranting for ages, but their outraged howls have fallen on deaf ears. The only answer, until the owners come to their senses, is to give that bar a wide berth. Or buy shares in it.

That said, the €10 entrance fee to Ephesus — one of the biggest and most remarkable outdoor museums in the world ­— which must be paid in local currency or by credit card is worth every cent. The place might be in ruins, but what’s left is phenomenal, as is the heat in summer, so visitors should take a litre bottle of water.

Ephesus, which was once only 2km from the bustling harbour that made it a hugely important trading port, now sits 8km inland following centuries of silt depositing by the Cayster River that created a fertile plain. Well-travelled Greek engineer and mathematician Philon of Byzantium waxed lyrical on his wax tablet, just before it melted (the temperature can hit 40C in August), after his visit in 225BC. “I have seen the walls and Hanging Gardens of ancient Babylon, the statue of Olympian Zeus, the Colossus of Rhodes, the mighty work of the high Pyramids and the tomb of Mausolus,” he wrote, “but when I saw the temple of Artemis at Ephesus rising to the clouds, all these other wonders were put in the shade.”

Fifty-odd years later, in the first recorded example of plagiarism, Greek poet Antipater of Sidon sent a postcard home saying: “I have set eyes on the wall of lofty Babylon on which is a road for chariots, and the statue of Zeus by the Alpheus, and the hanging gardens, and the Colossus of the Sun, and the huge labour of the high pyramids, and the vast tomb of Mausolus; but when I saw the house of Artemis that mounted to the clouds, those other marvels lost their brilliancy, and I said, ‘Lo, apart from Olympus, the Sun never looked on aught so grand’.”

At least TV's Idiot Abroad Karl Pilkington could never be accused of being a copycat. This is the dope who looked on the same Pyramids and said: “It’s like a game of Jenga that’s got out of hand.”

HOW IT LOOKED: Temple model at Istanbul's Miniaturk

All that remains of the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World that was built around 800BC and was four times the size of the Parthenon in Athens, is a single column of dissociated stone fragments sticking out of a swamp, though a model showing how it looked in all its white marble magnificence can be seen in the Miniaturk Park in Istanbul.

Saint Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, written in 62AD while he was a prisoner in Rome, is one of the most popular readings at Christian marriage ceremonies. In it he says: “Each one of you must love his wife as he loves himself, and let every wife respect her husband.” There wasn’t much love or respect for Paul when he visited Ephesus in 57AD and bad-mouthed the silversmiths who earned a living churning out miniatures of the temple. A near-riot ensued, and 24,000 metalworkers and other artisans packed the amphitheatre to hear shop steward Demetrius denounce the Apostle. More recently, similar numbers have gathered there — it’s largely intact and in good condition — to see Elton John, Sting and Ray Charles perform under the stars.

But Ephesus, an hour’s coach ride from Izmir where Homer (the poet, not Simpson) was born and just 20km from the popular tourist resort of Kusadasi, is the real star, and the highlight of any visit to western Turkey.

FAB FACADE: Ruins of Library of Celsus at Ephesus

The ruins include the partly-reconstructed facade of the three-storey Library of Celsus, built in honour of Roman Senator Tiberius Julius Celsus Polemaeanus (he was interred in a crypt below the entrance) by his son, Consul Gaius Julius Aquila, and completed in 135AD. The entrance was positioned facing east so that the reading rooms, which housed 12,000 scrolls, received the morning light. Only the facade remained standing after an earthquake hit the area in 262AD, and the popular tale told by tour guides is that the last words uttered by those inside when the building began to shake and collapse were: “Ssh! I’m trying to read.”

Built into the side of Mount Panayor, the huge semi-circular amphitheatre was the venue for public meetings, plays that often went on and on and yawn from early morning until midnight and gladiatorial contests involving wild animals. The acoustics are tremendous, which allowed audience members in the highest seats 30 metres above the arena to hear perfectly well the “Ouch!” and “Aow!” when a lion or a bear got the better of its tormentors.

GRAND CIRCLE: The massive amphitheatre at Ephesus

Curetes Street, which runs from the Gate of Hercules to the Library of Celsus, was paved in marble, and ruts made by cart and chariot wheels can still be seen. I watched as several people crouched and ran their fingers in the grooves, better perhaps to get a feel of the ancient history all around. Named after the priests who kept the sacred flame, the street was lined with shops and inns, pillars, monuments and statues of notable citizens and deities and was also a main processional route. At its junction with Marble Street are the remains of the municipal brothel, where strict hygiene rules of the day obliged visitors to wash their feet before they were admitted, because you can never be too careful. Imagine going to the doctor and having to tell him: “Look, this is embarrassing. I was you-know-where the other night and I forgot to wash my feet on the way in and, well, I think I’ve picked up ... a verruca.” Etched in the pavement in Marble Street is the earliest known roadside advertisement, three drawings of a woman, a heart and a left foot directing visiting sailors to the brothel.

Nearby are the men-only public latrines, a cosy, convivial place containing benches with holes in them ranged along the walls, a channel with running water below and a pool in front where the chaps who could afford to spend a diram (there was no such thing as a free hunch, they had to pay in) would meet for a chat. In winter, wealthy citizens planning to use the latrines, which had no partitions, would send a slave in ahead of them to sit and warm the marble seat. It was from such public conveniences that we get the phrase “wrong end of the stick”. There was no toilet paper in those days; rather, sticks with sponges on the end were used, and if a patron asked his neighbour to pass the stick, he had to be careful to grab the right end.

BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE: The latrines at Ephesus

The remains of the two Slope Houses, currently under a protective tent while excavations continue, provide a fascinating peek into how the other half lived in Ephesus between the first and seventh centuries AD. These terraced villas containing fine examples of restored murals and mosaics behind what was a row of shops on Curetes Street close to the library, the brothel and the latrines — location, location, location — were abandoned when the silting up of the harbour adversely affected trade and their wealthy residents moved on. Ironically, several landslides that buried the houses and their contents also preserved them, and it’s worth queueing to have a look around inside.

A short drive into the mountains, with splendid views along the way of Ephesus below, is the House of the Virgin Mary, a Christian and Muslim shrine where it’s believed the mother of Christ was brought by the Apostle John after the crucifixion of her son and remained until her Assumption. Nestling in a forest on the slopes of Mount Koressos, the small stone house was discovered in October 1881 by French priest Julien Gouyet working solely from the uncannily accurate descriptions of its location and construction by a German visionary who had never been there.

Augustinian nun Anne Katherina Emmerich (1774-1824), who was beatified in October 2004 by Pope John Paul II, spent her later years bedridden in Dülmen, 40km from Dortmund, where she received a steady stream of influential visitors including, most significantly, the poet Clemens Brentano. Over the space of five years until her death, Emmerich recounted her visions of the lives of Christ and his mother to Brentano, whose notes were published in two volumes. It was these books that Gouyet used as a guide (the first, The Dolorous Passion, was director Mel Gibson’s main source of reference for his film, The Passion Of The Christ), and they led him straight to the house which is now a chapel that’s been visited by four Popes, Leo XIII in 1896, Paul VI in 1967, John Paul II in 1979 and Benedict in 2006. The spring underneath the house is reputed to have healing properties, and many crutches and walking sticks have been left behind by the lame who’ve drunk from it and, allegedly, left with a spring of another kind in their step.

SACRED SITE: The house where the Virgin Mary lived

There’s nothing holy about the hooleys that see Kusadasi’s Bar Street hopping every night during the long holiday season. This is the thoroughfare where parents of young adults should fear to tread, lest they see what they get up to when they’re out of sight of their mammies and daddies. With all the unabashed smooching that goes on, they should rename the place Kissadasi. I vaguely remember being young and wild once, but I don’t remember teenage girls running in and out of pubs in their shifts chased by pimply-faced young bucks in those ridiculous jeans with the backside halfway down their legs. But that’s what young ones do nowadays, and good luck to them. Kusadasi ticks all the boxes as far as they’re concerned.

Away from the brashness of Bar Street, Kusadasi’s a firm family favourite, with great hotels, facilities galore and umpteen attractions nearby including waterparks and one of the best dolphin shows in Europe. I stayed a couple of nights at the exclusively-Irish Golden Day Wings Hotel after flying to Izmir, so it was a home from home, except with blistering sunshine when I visited in May. The 4-star Golden Day Wings is a five-minute walk from the waterfront and 25 minutes from Bar Street, so it’s perfectly located for those who like to laze by the pool by day and let their hair down in town at night. I had to see Bar Street, having heard so much about it, but I’d have been perfectly happy staying put in the hotel, where the in-house entertainment is a good old laugh that’ll send you to bed smiling.

KUSA-DAZZLER: View from Golden Day Wings Hotel

STEPPED IN HISTORY: The Temple of Apollo, Didyma

From Kusadasi I headed to Altinkum for a few nights at the 5-star all-inclusive Venosa Beach Resort and Spa, stopping en route to wander among the ruins of the ancient and enormous Temple of Apollo at Didyma, which was completed towards the end of the 8th century BC. The original temple, destroyed in 494BC by the Persians, attracted pilgrims from throughout Asia Minor and farther afield who would consult the famed oracle, a priestess who dished out advice on everything from matters of the heart to the best time to plant crops. When Alexander the Great conquered nearby Miletus in 334BC the temple was resanctified and pilgrimages resumed. However, in 303AD an over-zealous oracle told the Emperor Diocletian to persecute those pesky Christians, which he set about with fervour. When Constantine, the first Roman ruler to convert to Christianity, became Emperor in 306 he put a stop to the persecution and condemned the temple’s priests and the oracle to agonising deaths, which was only fitting for an agony aunt.

The vigorous soaping, slapping, kneading and pummelling that are part and somewhat painful parcel of a Turkish bath might be considered agony by some, but an hour after being subjected to what felt like three rounds with Mike Tyson in the spa at Venosa Beach I was tingling from head to toe and energised like never before (incidentally, the first Turkish bath in the British Isles opened in 1856 at Saint Ann’s Hydropathic Establishment in Blarney, County Cork).

Venosa Beach, where each of the 339 rooms has a sea view, is a new addition to the accommodation options available to holidaymakers in Altinkum, and it’s a beaut. Critics of all-inclusive packages can say what they like about feeling confined to one hotel, but from my experience nobody at Venosa Beach was particularly keen to wander too far from the poolside or the beach. Any wandering they did do was to the in-house restaurants, snack bars, bars, nightclub, leisure centre, gym and spa, there being neither need nor good reason to set flip-flopped foot outside one of the best holiday complexes I’ve stayed at.

WONDER-POOL: The Venosa Beach Resort and Spa

The last (boo-hoo) of my seven nights in Turkey was spent aboard a beautiful gulet, a converted fishing boat named, appropriately, B&B, after a memorable day cruising off Bodrum. Tickets can be bought for a fun afternoon on any of umpteen gulets, or groups can charter one of these fully-crewed vessels for several days of being wined and dined and waited on hand and foot between bouts of sunbathing on deck, taking a dip in the sea and enjoying a necessary siesta. Even the worst of sleepers will have no difficulty drifting off, gently rocked by the nudging of the waves on the hull.

Bodrum is the mostly upmarket resort where Turks like to boast they’re going or have been on holiday, though it does have its noisy clubs and pubs for night owls who want to drink and dance until dawn and sleep until mid-afternoon. Those joints, however, are in one part of town while the quieter and posher bars and restaurants are in another, close to the marina with its multi-million euro ocean-going yachts. At the far end of the harbour is the 15th century Castle of Saint Peter which houses the Underwater Archaeological Museum containing artefacts recovered from wrecked ships. Several submerged wrecks dating back hundreds of years and a wealth of spectacular corals and marine life only a few minutes’ motorboat ride from the shore make the remarkably clear waters a renowned scuba diving spot.

Until the 1960s, Bodrum had for generations been a small fishing and sponge diving community quietly going about its business, but a prolonged stay by Oxford-educated Turkish intellectual Cevat Sekir during which he wrote about his sailing adventures sparked an international interest in the place. His beautifully-written book, The Blue Voyage, had yachtsmen worldwide salivating, and in no time at all they were descending on Bodrum to follow in his wake. Word quickly spread, landlubbers got to hear about it and, inevitably, tourism followed. In a satisfyingly ironic backfiring of the local tradition of farmers leaving their most fertile land to their sons and the unproductive rockier tracts nearer the sea to their daughters, it’s women who are today among Bodrum’s wealthiest citizens. When developers began looking for suitable sites on which to build hotels, apartments and villa complexes, those rocky tracts proved to be the ideal locations and — wait for it, girls — many hard-up daughters cashed-in big time on what had appeared to be worthless inheritances.

You’d need an inheritance if you wanted to buy more than a couple of drinks in that bar at Bodrum airport. As I sat there taking tiny sips from my pint so it would last the 90 minutes until the Dublin flight began boarding, I pondered on my visit earlier in the week to the carpet factory where Bill Clinton had thought nothing of paying $40,000 for an exquisite handmade silk rug. I bet he’d have thought twice about paying €7 for a beer.

BOAT-IFUL: Bodrum's harbour and its medieval castle

GETTING THERE

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Iceland: Baejarins Beztu Pylsur

A whole post on a hot dog stand? Of course, especially when Baejarins Beztu Pylsur is one of the most famous restaurants/stand in a parking lot in all of Iceland.

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In my research for Icelandic cuisine, one place kept reappearing. Both locals and foreign tourists alike stop at Baejarins Beztu Pylsur ("Town's Best Hot Dog") for the 300 korna frank.



Ask for it with everything and you'll get ketchup, sweet mustard, fried onion, raw onion and remolaði, a mayonnaise-based sauce with sweet relish. The sauce is striking. As with much of Iceland's saucy cuisine culture, it is bold and sweet like a tangy gravy. I've mentioned before that Icelandic lamb is special. The addition of lamb to the mix of beef makes the sausage unique. There characteristic flavors of lamb shine, even through the sauce and other toppings.

Considering how expensive food, among other things, is in Iceland. Baejarins Beztu makes an excellent cheap meal. Find it near the water in the old Northwestern part of Reykjavik near the port, across from the Radisson.

Baejarins Beztu Pylsur
Tryggvagata 101, Reykjavik

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