In the Southwark area of London with the looming Shard in the distance lies the Cross bones Graveyard. The small unconsecrated area that is still believed to hold the remains of over 1500 people. Commonly referred to as a prostitutes graveyard, excavations of the site which began in 1991 revealed that in fact two thirds of those found were under the age of five. Despite its early links with the red light district, over the years it became a paupers cemetery, which was finally closed in 1853 with overcrowding at such a point that coffins were said to be placed…
Celebrating the Bengali New Year with a parade and event in Bethnal Green – London
Hatchards bookshop at 187 Piccadilly is London’s oldest bookshop. The holder of three royal warrants, it opened its doors in 1797.
A couple of miles from O Rosal the road begins to climb gently into the mountains. Built to harness the Picon and Folon rivers, the first mill dates from 1702, with 60 eventually completed. They remain well preserved and linked by a hiking trail. Despite their entirely functional purpose, they manage to have a wonderful symmetrical pattern in two areas. The trail sneaked up the Campo do Couto mountain and the mills started to come into the view. They are in surprisingly good condition, with small irrigation channels running between them. The water usually runs directly through the mills, which…
Spain – but not as you know it. In this lush mountainous north west region people gather to give thanks for surviving a near death experience in a most extraordinary way.
Let me be brutally honest here. There are some languages that flow rhythmically and poetically from mouth to ear like some glorious Shakespearian, Mozartian love child – German is not one of them. In truth I have grown quite an affinity to the German people since being released by the cultural grip of semi disdain and suspicion often still experienced in England. Give me a a bushy mustached Hans in a lederhosen as a drinking buddy any time. That being said, a torrent of German still feels like I’m being flogged with cat and water boarded at the same time.
A long ancient bridge led us into the picturesque town of Hospital d’Ortega a few days after leaving Leon. At 204 metres it is the longest bridge along the Camino – and considering the tiny river it crosses – about 200 metres longer than strictly necessary. The majority of this aged relic stretches over a large expanse of bright green grass, which in all likelihood we could have just walked across. Our home for the night was a quaint little alberque that had been recommended to us – a peaceful and serene place until a large gaggle of Italian cyclists…
Outside the main Municipal hostel in Burgos I joined the back of a long line inhabited by a truly bedraggled bunch – all staring vacantly into space. Those who arrived after were given the solemn news that there were no beds left.