Local food tour unlocks secrets of Granada's regional cuisine

As a general rule, the more popular a tourist destination becomes, the harder it is to find authentic local cuisine there. Tourist restaurants default to a generic national menu that satisfies the lowest common expectations, giving little insight into regional traditions. Turning to Trip Advisor rarely helps: its mass-market rating algorithms mean you're just as likely to find a coffee shop with great WiFi or a pile-em-high-sell-em-cheap buffet in the top-rated restaurants as a true culinary discovery.

Granada fit solidly into this model on a first wander through town. Menus all seemed to offer the standard array of dishes you'd find at any Spanish restaurant anywhere in the world; our first lunch of deeply average croquetas, fried squid and salad would have been just as good at our local La Tasca. I'd hoped for a unique melange of Arab and European similar to what you get in Sicilian cuisine, but on first glance the Islamic past's influence seemed limited to 27 Moroccan restaurants. I love Moroccan cuisine, but these are places run by immigrants who've parachuted in to take advantage of the cultural zeitgeist, not anything Granadan. 

The fusion is there, you just have to work hard to find it. There's a distinct willingness to mix sweet with savoury, a unique smoky bread, a love of flaky pastry, cinnamon popping up in unexpected places. And there are plenty of local specialties: goats' cheese (these mountains are made for it), the distinctive Jamón de Trevélez, blood sausage, a fondness for sherry. There are two routes to plug quickly into this food culture. Follow the recommendations of respected travel writers, or sign up for a food-focused tour with a local company. 

The first (thank you, Conde Nast Traveller) gave us Mirador de Morayma for our most exquisitely atmospheric evening. With great food, too. Devour Tours mixed history with stops in three local bars before sitting down to dinner, all with expert commentary on the food and drink. Finally, to give some credit to Trip Advisor, by our last night we knew what we were looking for and used their revues to find our way to one of our best meals of the trip at La Vinoteca.

Mirador de Morayma
Hiking up to this spot on the crest of the Albaicin's hill may not work off all the calories you're bound to consume, but you'll certainly be ready for some sustenance. Your efforts will be rewarded with an exceptional view: the Alhambra spreads from one edge of your visual horizon to another, as if it were built as one enormous folly to enliven the terraced gardens here. The restaurant is located in what's known locally as a carmén, the term for an aristocratic home complete with gardens and orchards, all hidden behind the walls of a tight urban space. This house, legend has it, was the residence of the Princess Morayma during the captivity of her husband Boabdil, the last King of Granada. (And a short walk from her mother-in-law's place at the Palacio Dar-al-Horra, which I wrote about last time.) Both interior and garden have now been turned into a restaurant, and though there's a warren of interestingly decorated rooms inside (wooden beams, tiles, artwork), as soon as it's warm enough most punters spill outside onto three terraces of shady gardens. It's a lush space with patterned cobbles, gently-murmuring fountains, towering evergreens and rambling roses. As if trying to exorcise the Moors, the garden has its own chapel and an exquisite tile mural of St. Anthony beams down from the side of the house.

The menu was full of regional specialties, which sadly I didn't appreciate as such until our tour the next night. On a more informed visit I would have tried the remojón salad (salt cod, oranges, black olives and spring onions), the salmorejo (cold tomato soup with garlic, thickened with bread and emulsified with olive oil), or the codfish with almonds. Despite guidance, we did well. A starter of asparagus spears and goat's cheese wrapped in local dried ham, then lightly grilled, may seem ordinary but the core ingredients were of exceptional quality and the whole thing was elevated by a sauce of reduced Pedro Ximénez that left us momentarily speechless. (Pictured at top.) We both opted for the suckling pig as our main. Succulent and rich, undeniably porky with exquisite crackling. It didn't beat my world's best suckling pig in San Sebastian ... the fat here could have been rendered a bit more ... but it was close.

Morayma adds to its attractions with house wines produced on their country estate, though they were sadly out of the white that night. The waiter made an excellent pick from a list studded with interesting local options. He ended our evening with glasses of complimentary licor de hierba and a move to a recently-vacated table with a better view. We ended up in a corner loggia overlooking both the gardens and the Alhambra. Under the pergola below, a large gathering of locals sang traditional songs as a couple who were clearly the centre of celebrations did a bit of informal flamenco. Magic.

Devour Tours
They're my fantasy tour company: devoted to the intersection of food and history, offering tours to small groups led by expert guides. Guide Marta Sanchez joins the rarified ranks of Sicilian oenologist Valeria Carastro and Omani guardian angel Yousuf as a local able to take your whole experience to another level through knowledge, experience and a genuine love of their home town.

After a short stroll through the lower reaches of the Albaicin and a chat about the history of the place, we got down to serious business at La Bodeguilla de al Lado, a tiny place specialising in local wines with a proprietress who's acknowledged as one of the town's great experts on flamenco. No dancing here, but the decor is a temple to the art form. We matched a dry but lightly fruity Xate-O ... one of those grape varieties that never gets out of Spain ... to an aged goat’s milk cheese from Granada. (Goats are far more practical than cows in these mountains.) Though Lado is near the Cathedral, it's down an unremarkable side street a tourist would never bother to traverse.

We were in a higher-traffic area at Casa Julio, just off the Plaza Nueva. The bar was packed three deep; all that could fit in to the narrow room. The rest spill out into the pedestrian lane outside. A bit of a shame, as all those people obscure the gorgeous tile murals that cover the walls. Forget the sightseeing, however, and go for the atmosphere. Despite the touristy location, it's an obviously local crowd. Tourists are probably put off by the jam. But, as Marta advised, Granadans rarely stay at any place for longer than the space of one drink and tapa. Squeeze in, order, and space will come free. The specialty here is lightly battered and fried local hake. Despite my perception that this mountainous region was deep inland, it's a quick run to the sea less than 50 miles away. Natives talk about local seafood and discuss their favourite beaches. A cold, crisp cerveza (beer) was the logical match here. 

The most bizarre introduction of the evening was El Tabernáculo. I thought I'd experienced every aspect of Southern European Catholicism: guilt, ecstasy, pathos, competitive placement at papal events. But I'd never put festive drinking on that list. This bar is a celebration of the fraternities that parade various religious statues during Holy Week. It's wallpapered with posters and holy cards of Jesus, Mary and the saints, hung with rosaries and medals, adorned with statues of penitentes (the pointy-hooded ceremonial participants who look like, but have nothing to do with, Ku Klux Clan members).They even play their distinctive parade music on a continuous loop. The religious atmosphere puts nobody off but the tourists; the place was packed and merry. Another new experience here was sweet artisan vermouth, which was not the stuff you drip out of a bottle to flavour a martini but its own distinct cocktail. Herby and slightly medicinal, it's probably a bit of an acquired taste but went perfectly with the grilled pork loin ​‘Montadito’.

We ended up at the Bar Patio Braserito, one of those places that was indistinguishable from scores of other restaurants on the outside but was packed with locals within. Here I discovered perhaps my favourite dish of Andalucia: lightly battered, fried aubergine (eggplant) drizzled with dark honey. Exceptional. On to artichokes with creamy Torta del Casar cheese sauce, a fish course of fresh cod in an obviously made-from-scratch tomato sauce and the local pork ‘​secreto’​, grilled with Pedro Ximénez sauce. We tried this with two versions of ‘Cerrojo’ red wine from the area before rolling into the inevitable Pedro Ximénez as a dessert wine.

In addition to ending the evening with both brains and bellies full, we walked away with a list of Marta's fabulous recommendations for more to see, do and eat in Granada. Sadly, their was just one day left. This is really an ideal tour to do on your first night.

La Vinoteca
As the name implies, this place is serious about local wines. It looks like it's had a recent remodelling and is run by people who want to appeal to those serious about their food and wine but disenchanted by the fussiness of fine dining. The staff is young, devoted to their menu and more conversant about it in English than anywhere else we went. There's a dark, trendy front end dedicated to tapas and wine consumption, with restaurant rooms behind for those who want a full meal. The restaurant section had the occasional open table (we hadn't booked and got a good one by the window) but the tapas bar was heaving throughout.

A tempting menu made our choice hard, but the word solomillo stood out. I had brilliant memories of sirloin from past Spanish trips, but Piers had yet to try the classic cut here. Would it live up to the meat eater's expectations? Absolutely. Beautiful beef, simply and lightly grilled (you never have to ask for rare here) with a few potatoes and a wedge of grilled red pepper. This is nowhere-to-hide cooking, entirely dependant of the quality of the ingredients and the fire, and they had both sorted here. The waiter knew his wine list well and introduced us to several of his favourites before we ended the evening with a surprise. The Spanish do baked cheesecake. None of this fluffy, gelatinous, flavour-free set stuff so common across Europe but proper, weighty, taste the cheese, baked cake. Here served as four small squares with different fruit toppings. I was happy.

And sad. Because that was my last meal in Granada, and after three days I felt that I had just begun to experience a distinctive regional cuisine. But it was time to go. Cordoba was calling.

From Moorish mystery to Catholic bombast, Granada has an exotic charm worth an extended stay

There's much more to Granada than the Alhambra.

It's not something I was convinced of when I discovered we couldn't get tickets to the main attraction. I'd booked us for three nights. Would there be enough to keep us busy without the hilltop palaces? Had I made a mistake? No. It's a city of various pleasures that deserves time to explore.

First, appreciate the magic of the physical setting. You're 738 metres above sea level ... almost 300 metres higher than Annecy, France, the mountain town I know best ... with the old city tucked into the sides of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Snow-covered peaks tower overhead, often still white even when it's high summer in the valley below. While the sprawling, post-Napoleonic new town is mostly flat, older bits are a warren of steep lanes, most-often cobbled with fist-sized river-polished stones in fanciful black and white designs. Come with good walking shoes and be ready to climb.

There's enough architectural variety and quaint scenes to keep a lover of the picturesque wandering happily for days. The medieval splendour of the Alhambra dominates many views; the hill facing it is dotted with small parks that seem contrived just to give you a chance to sit and glory in the architectural wonder across the way. That hill is the Albaicin, the old Arab neighbourhood that formed the town beyond the Alhambra in its glory days. It still retains a whitewashed ancient feel; more Sidi Bou Said than other Spanish towns I've visited. And yet, descend to the bit where the Albaicin meets the Darro River and you'll find a cluster of Renaissance palaces that would make you swear you're in Florence. Main boulevards in the newer town are closer to Madrid or Barcelona, while the cathedral is an architectural mishmash unlike anything I've ever seen.

The cathedral's stop-start construction over multiple centuries created an awkward hotch-potch that doesn't gel and is completely at odds with the buildings around it, but it's a cheerful mess. Down on the valley floor you'll find the 21st century in gleaming glass and stone, surrounded by sprawling car parks, in what they claim is Europe's biggest shopping mall. A university district sprawls to the north, while marvellously grand houses climb the Alhambra's southern flanks. Monasteries, nunneries and churches dot the place with a profusion that rivals Rome. One wonders if, once they kicked the Moors out, they were all protesting a bit too much...

The Moors are back in a big way, of course, now that the legacy of their glory days here has become the focal point of the city's tourism. Start by exploring the Albaicin to drink in that heritage. Some of it isn't particularly authentic: a fairly-new Moroccan community is supplying restaurants, hookah bars and shops that have little to do with the Nasrid's Granada. But they do give the whole place a charming, souk-like atmosphere, there's some fun shopping on offer and landlords deserve credit for kitting out their modern buildings in Mudejar style.

I started early one morning and avoided the winding commercial streets for a direct, steep route up Palacio Dar-al-Horra. Follow the little alley that leads off the Placeta to find it, rather than the tourist maps that imply it's in the convent next door. This is the pocket-sized palace of the mother of the last Nasrid king of Granada; from the tower room at its top she could look across the Albaicin to see her son's spread on the next hill. The architectural decoration is similar to the Nasrid palaces, but it's little known and if you wait for the occasional bus tour to clear out you can have it almost to yourself. The empty rooms host rotating exhibitions; at the moment they're full of tools and instruments exploring the scientific talents of the Moors. This was one of my favourite places in Granada.
the Albaicin's hill via lots of stairs. I ended up in a residential section with hardly a car or person in view, just lots of cascading bougainvillea and remarkable vistas below. On a return visit I'd consider looking for a hotel in the charming district around the Placeta de San Miguel Bajo. (We stayed in a practical but unremarkable Ibis on the outskirts.) I got there hunting for the woefully signposted

A bargain-priced entry ticket (less than €6) gets you into several other Moorish monuments across the Albaicin, most notably the Banuelo. You'll probably have to wait a bit to get into this one, as it's in the more touristy part of the Albaicin along the river Darro. But it's worth the wait, and the staff limits entry numbers so that once you're inside it's not too crowded. This is the best-preserved of what were once 21 different neighbourhood bathing complexes with hot, tepid and cold rooms, plus ante-rooms for relaxation and business. The layout is preserved today because it had been turned into a house. Now the modern layers are stripped away so you can see the elegant procession of rooms through Arabic arches. Brick vaults are pierced with hexagons and stars, allowing sunlight to dapple the space below. Even without its water and glazed tiles, it's a magnificent space.

At this point you're close to the Plaza Nueva, sightseeing Ground Zero as it sits between the Albaicin, the Alhambra and the Cathedral district. Time to consider some shopping: something I didn't do enough of in this city. Tourist shops are jammed with Arab-inspired slippers, mouse pads, fridge magnets, pashminas, etc. ... probably mostly made in China but even in the tacky shops there's some pretty stuff. Happily, there's plenty of real craftsmanship along with the mass-produced stuff and for every five tourist shops you'll find something that has a more artisan feel to it. Leather goods, jewellery and ceramics are all worth checking out. The main streets of the Albaicin, the road that runs along the valley of the Darro and the 19th century imagining of a medieval Arab souk near the cathedral are all good for browsing. Granada is particularly known for a distinctive style of inlaid-wooden box. You'll see them everywhere, but the best and most authentic range we saw was in a dedicated shop directly across the street from the Casa del Arte Flamenco on the Cuesta de Gomerez.

Speaking of flamenco, Granada is mad for it. Legend says the art form arose in the 16th century when jews and Moorish "conversos", not yet kicked out of the country but relegated to second-class citizenship, worked out their frustrations with heart-rending music and angry dancing. (Explaining why flamenco tunes often echo the pathos of Eastern-European jewish music, or the wails of Arab women at funerals.) The traditional district for Granada's flamenco is Sacromonte, once an under-class ghetto outside the city walls. It now hosts an array of flamenco venues, many in caves, where tourist buses disgorge large groups for the nightly show and dinner. Local aficionados are dismissive of most of them as being neither serious about dancing or food. Instead, they directed us to the Casa del Arte Flamenco. This small (only about 50 seats) venue stages a concentrated, one-hour experience with a rotating line-up of performers who are all well-known on the flamenco scene. Our show included a guitarist, singer, male and female dancers, each given the solo spotlight in addition to performing as a group.

This was unlike any flamenco I'd seen, either live or on television. The passion was raw and visceral. The intimacy of the venue meant we could see every drop of sweat and feel the shudder of the floor under the dancers' pounding heels. The speed and power of movement was jaw-dropping (and that included the flying fingers of the guitarist). An hour was perfect; any more would have been emotionally draining. And the beauty of this venue is that you spill out into a district full of restaurants in time for dinner.

The last must-see on even a short trip to Granada is the burial chapel of the Catholic Monarchs. Had the entire cathedral been constructed in this lace-like, triumphant gothic, it would have been a masterpiece. Instead, it's as if all the beauty has been concentrated in this small appendage. The focal point is the tombs themselves: full-size marble effigies of Ferdinand and Isabella, their daughter Juana and her husband Philip, lying on marble biers encrusted with carved figures, foliage and architectural elements. In a poignant contrast, you can descend and peer into the crypt where they actually lie in stark,  unembellished lead coffins. The main altarpiece which their effigies face is
considered one of the biggest and most lavish in Spain, a towering concoction of carved saints and angels who are painted and gilded to a life-like sheen as they go through their stories as if acting in a three-dimensional cartoon strip.

Several side chapels have altars and other works of art almost as intriguing. The most significant masterpieces, however, are probably in the arched room beyond the tombs, now used as a museum. Queen Isabella had a penchant for Flemish Renaissance art, and her collection on display here is better than most of the world's great museums: Roger Van Der Weyden, the Master of the Legend of St. Catherine, Dieric Bouts, Hans Memling. Seeing these paintings alone would be worth the admission price.

I worried that three nights in Granada would be too much. I thought I would like Cordoba better. I was wrong on both counts. We easily could have used another day. My only complaint? It's a city so swamped with tourists it can be hard to find a local experience. We beat that challenge by investing in a top-quality food and history tour led by a local. For that story, see my next entry.

Secrets of the Alhambra: ticketing, crowds and alternative entry options

There is one vital piece of information that neither travel writers, web sites or Trip Advisor reviews seem to get across about tourism in Granada: Getting tickets to see the Nasrid palaces within the Alhambra is as challenging as snagging a table at a prized Michelin-starred restaurant.

A limited number of tickets go on sale every day exactly three months before entry. A large chunk of those are snapped up by tour companies. The rest go quickly to individuals, selling out in weeks for off-season slots and days for peak times. Pricier packaged tour options take a little longer to sell out. But if, oblivious to the scarcity of tickets, you decide about 10 days in advance to buy your tickets online to get a bit of holiday admin out of the way, you will be out of luck. Which is how I ... the architecture and history geek, the holiday advance planner who's been dreaming of seeing this paragon of Moorish architecture for decades ... ended up spending three days in Granada without getting in to its No. 1 tourist attraction.

The Alhambra is now Spain's No. 1 tourist attraction. And last year Spain jumped over the USA to become the world's second-most visited country by tourists (France is No. 1). While I'm frustrated by the general failure to communicate the scarcity of entry, I applaud the Alhambra's attempt to limit and better organise the 2.7 million people flowing through their doors every year. They're trying to prevent something I've discussed before on this blog when writing about Venice, Versailles and Mont Saint Michel: the world's great sites are becoming so over-crowded with tourists that we are destroying the experience of seeing them ... and, in some cases, the sites themselves.

The fact that the Nasrid palaces exist at all is a miracle. The interiors represent the height of Islamic architecture, complete with Koranic verses flowing through the ornate geometric and foliate wall panels. Legend has it that it was all so beautiful that even when the Spanish establishment was stooping to mass deportation and genocide to get Muslims out of their country, they couldn't bear to destroy their craftsmanship. By the time Washington Irving wrote his classic Tales from the Alhambra in the 19th century, however, the buildings were all but abandoned after sustaining bad damage in the Napoleonic wars, mouldering into ruin in a disorganised, increasingly impoverished country. Irving's writing, arguably, started their restoration and climb towards tourist super-stardom.

These days they're a must see for anyone beguiled by pattern, architecture, courtyard gardens and stunning views. (The complex tops a promontory at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains, with dramatic vistas spreading out in every direction.) Increasing Asian and Oriental tourist numbers are adding to the crowds. But I think there are some other factors at work here. So much of the Islamic world is now considered unsafe for travel that this is one of the few easily accessible spots to revel in the glories of the architecture of its Golden Age. And the Spanish ... perhaps in penance for the Inquisition and all those centuries of being one of the most xenophobic countries on the planet ... are now playing up the wonders of Moorish Spain as a useful ideal for our own days. A time when Muslims, Christians and Jews lived and worked side-by-side, freely practicing their religions while also engaging in remarkable scientific discovery and thoughtful philosophy. This is the cultural zeitgeist that both Granada and Cordoba are promoting hard in their tourism. It's a comforting message in our increasingly polarised world. Even if it does ignore a great deal of political dirty dealing, internecine warfare and intolerance on both sides, even in the glory days. The Nasrids might have lived in exquisite splendour; their track record as rulers isn't so beautiful.

Turns out that you can still get a hearty taste of this splendour without getting into the Nasrid masterpieces. The Alhambra rambles over 26 acres on two hilltops linked by a bridge. Far more than a royal palace, it was a walled city-within-a-city embracing all the critical functions of government: administrative offices, military housing, reception rooms, bath houses, markets, craft workshops and housing for everyone who worked there from high to low. It's so big that the Generalife on the second hilltop was actually a garden palace where the kings of Granada could retreat to escape from their official, more centrally-located residences on the other hilltop.

Enter the Alhambra through the Gate of Justice and you can wander around through the site and look at all the buildings from the outside for free. You'll get stunning views and can see some of the better gardens from a distance. The ruins of the old city now feature a monastery and a couple of hotels. Lunch of traditional Spanish classics in the pretty, vine-covered courtyard of the Hotel America could make for a pleasant day out up here without doing any additional sightseeing.

For a bargain €7 you can buy a ticket that gets you in to all the buildings and gardens besides the three main Nasrid Palaces: notably the Generalife, the Alcazar, the Partal gardens and the palace of Charles V. Discovering this on your own, however, is unlikely. Google searches, Trip Advisor discussion groups and the Alhambra's own web site were no help; it took the city's tourism office to point me in the right direction. (The ticket booking page for this option is within the Alhambra's main web site, but not obvious to find.)

The Generalife is, at least judging from pictures of the Nasrid Palace interiors, a representative slice of both the architecture and the gardens you'd find in the main attraction. The gardens leading up to, and within the courtyard of, the residential villa overflow with colour in late April. Wisteria, iris, snapdragons, salvia, poppies and more are laid out to imitate the colour patterns of oriental rugs. At the end of a long courtyard with a water channel down the centre, flowers on each side and an arched arcade to the left giving dramatic views over the valley below, stands a pavilion covered with stone so intricately carved it's almost writhing. Indeed, it is partially alive as small songbirds live in and on the screen, piping a merry tune as you explore. The hall, niches, windows and ceiling beyond offer so much decorative detail to study it would take you a lifetime to properly see it all.

The Alcazar, at the other end of the Albambra complex, is the oldest part and was the military bit. What it lacks in decorative detail it makes up for in views from its towers.

In between, the Partal Gardens are similar to the Generalife (more gardens with water features terminating in a screen of ornamental architecture with views over the valley below), though the gardens here at this time of year are less impressive; mostly box-hedged parterres filled with plants that will be at their height later in the summer. At the bottom of this garden is the oratorio, a small chapel built into the outer walls with a jaw-dropping interior (below).

The Nasrid Palace tours end in this garden, while above it looms the much later palace of Charles V.Sitting on the streets of Madrid, Florence or Vienna it would be a gem: all Late Rennaisance bulk, elegance and classicism, the exterior cube made interesting by a massive, round internal courtyard with a double colonnade. Here, the Western style feels a clumsy, oversized interloper against the Islamic flights of fancy. Inside, there's an art collection upstairs and a museum of Nasrid finds below. Even without entry to the Nasrid Palaces, however, we had run out of the energy needed to explore these.

The decorative density of both the architecture and the gardens is so overwhelming up here that it burns your brain energy quickly. We just couldn't take in any more and appreciate it properly. I can't imagine that many of those who manage to get the Nasrid Palace tickets have both the time and the concentration to fully appreciate the rest of the site. Based on what I know now, I would book one of the organised evening tours to the palace and book the ticket for the Generalife et al as a second, daytime visit. If you're not that serious about the architecture, the sample you get in the €7 ticket may be enough for you.

From a visitor experience point of view, the Alhambra's ticketing strategy does seem to be working. Though the main Generalife garden and the courtyard outside the Nasrid Palaces were packed, we only waited in a few queues and the crowds were never so big as to destroy the experience. In most cases, stepping aside and waiting a few minutes would give me a clear, people-free shot of most things I wanted to photograph. This may be the future of all Tier 1 tourist sites. Thoughtful planning and advance booking will become essential. It will be helpful, of course, if attraction web sites make that clear.

Real Spain is just below the surface of Anglophilic Costa Blanca

Invaders have always loved the Costa Blanca.

In ancient times the Phoenicians, Carthaginians and Romans all found logical extensions of their
maritime empires ... and places that felt like home ... on this mountainous, beach-dappled Mediterranean coastline. Then came the Visigoths and the Moors. With the Christian "reconquista", so many Islamic residents were expelled that the Spanish kings had to re-populate the place from other parts of Spain. Today's coast is a mixed-nationality holiday and retirement community: about 60% English with robust deputations from the rest of the Europe.

You might dine here in a Japanese restaurant, run by a Chinese lady, full of Brits, with menus also printed in cyrillic, in an environment of well-curated affluence that looks remarkably like Palos Verdes Estates, California. It is the least Spanish place I've ever visited in Spain.

The appeal, however, is obvious and instant. We're staying with friends in a beach-side community called Moraira, almost exactly half-way between Valencia and Alicante on a point that juts out towards Ibiza. Brits may be familiar with the tower-block studded metropolis of Benidorm to the southwest; cradle of the package holiday. Moraira is a very different prospect. The centre of town is a bustling cluster of mostly-modern low-rise buildings stretching back from a yacht harbour. Shops below, apartments above. A main road stretches inland through a valley of grapevines, olive trees and clusters of older villages. The most eye-catching bits, however, are villa-studded hills rising on either side of the village, overlooking the sea. White walls, red-tiled roofs, green gardens and blue pools. The roads going up these hills twist and turn between walls, gardens and narrow drives. It's a good thing the traffic is light because the driving is not for the faint-hearted. On the northern horizon the villas stop before the  top of the wind-scoured headland, where an old watch-tower still stands sentinel. In the 16th and 17th centuries these warned the inhabitants of pirate raids. One assumes modern bandits would have a richer take these days than the poor fisherfolk they used to sell into slavery.

A winding coast road offers dramatic viewpoints and descents to small, sandy beaches protected by the steep coastline. El Portet is particularly popular: a laid-back beach bar is steps away from a golden crescent of sand. Homes of the rich and famous ascend in levels above you like an audience in an amphitheatre. Not a bad life. In the other direction, Altea's old town is making a bid to be this region's Santorini or Taormina. Though there's nothing of historic or cultural significance here it's an incredibly picturesque place to wander. At the top of the hill stands a church with showy blue-and-white tiled domes. The interior is a disappointing 19th century pastiche, but the exterior offers fine views while lounging at outdoor cafes. Black-and-white cobbles laid in differing designs form narrow lanes running between houses, showing off colourfully-tiled balconies and window surrounds. Geraniums sit in tiled window sills, spilling merrily through the ornate curves of cast iron grates. Steep lanes end in tiny plazas offering dramatic sea views. Properties are primarily either restaurants or shops at the ground level; the shops are mostly of the charming boutique variety. This is a place for jewellery, ceramics, works of art and flowing linen beachwear.

While it's easy for all the front-line mansions on this stretch of coast to dominate your view ... rambling haciendas jostle with Bond-villain modernism to grab architectural attention ... reality is a more balanced community that enjoys excellent value for money. Whether it's three-bedroom homes, bottles of wine or meat at the supermarket, prices are below what you'd find in the south of England. The French are here because it's so much cheaper than equivalent landscapes on the Cote d'Azur. Others tell similar tales. Inside the tasteful, small but well-stocked Pepe La Sal grocery the Brits can pick up Marmite and the Dutch stroopwafels for pretty much what they'd pay at home. While there's plenty of fine dining, there are more excellent value-for-money spots catering to the affluent pensioners’ desire to remain affluent. Conveniently, the international community defaults to English to get along.

Scratch a bit below the surface, however, and it's not hard to find the real Spain. Modern invaders have to cope with traditions of opening hours, lack of health and safety regulations and procedural red tape that remain deeply alien to their own traditions. While English may suffice for day-to-day interactions, Spanish is necessary if you want to dig deep into any topic. Drive just a few miles inland to towns like Teulada or Benissa and the pretence of internationalism falls away. Savvy locals haggle over vegetable prices in local markets. Martyrs suffering ghastly torments disburse guilt from golden altars in gloomy churches. (Teulada's, built to double as a defensive bastion in pirate slave raids, is particularly interesting.) Once past the hideous ring of modern apartment blocks so characteristic of many small Spanish towns, both places offer winding lanes overlooked by impressive 16th and 17th century architecture and charming courtyards decorated with cascading bougainvillea, cobbles arranged in intricate patterns and brightly coloured tiles.

Things get particularly alien with the local festivals. While you might occasionally spot a congregation parading a statue of a saint around town elsewhere in Europe, nowhere (except perhaps Sicily) does it with the same verve as Spain: lockstepped fellowships carrying towering platforms enthroning saints, robed penitents, flowers and fireworks.  In late April in Benissa, these processions alternate with running long-horned cattle through town. We thought we needed to check it out.

Benissa erects tall wooden screens and metal cages topped by viewing stands to create a winding run through town, perhaps 20 feet wide and 500 meters long. Things kick off with a group of young men running to stay ahead of a herd of about 10 longhorns charging at full pelt, similar to what most people have seen of the Pamplona race but on a smaller scale. Everyone ends up in an impromptu bull ring created in the square in front of the church, where the lads play a crazy game of tag before herders gather the cattle to charge back up the pop-up canyon the way they came. It's all quite jolly, as locals stand around having their evening cocktails and peering through the screens as the action comes by.

Then things got a lot darker, and more alien to British and American sensibilities. Locals excitedly billed it as the "one-on-one rounds". It is indeed one animal ... in this case, a cow rather than a bull ... but after a single runner led her to the main ring a whole gang got involved. She looked more irritated and exhausted than enraged or dangerous, and the contest was nowhere near equal. Young men eager to prove their machismo swarmed around her like a cloud of insects, shouting, waving jackets, swatting and kicking out at her, often from inside a protective screen of iron bars. We were instantly on the cow's side, though she never got up enough of a charge to truly endanger anyone. She just looked like she wanted to be left alone. These were the less exciting early contests, locals advised. They save the angry, aggressive bulls for late at night when the party is going at full strength. We didn't stick around.

Humans pitting themselves against bulls is one of the most ancient themes in our civilisation. It inspired our earliest art in the form of cave paintings. Ancient murals show us bull dancers in Crete, ancient tales tell us of the minotaur. Spanish contests with bulls descend in a direct line from these things, and are as close as any modern human will get to what Romans once watched in their amphitheatres. I respect the  local tradition, and I'm glad to have experienced something so tied to ancient history, but I won't seek it out again. This was too far from a fair fight for me to stomach, and I suspect it's the same for most of the international community in their hillside villas.

The Spaniard and the invader, the ancient and modern, the beautiful and the ugly ... they live side-by-side here in the Costa Blanca. Each respects the each other, seeming to blend together, but I suspect that just below the surface there's a profound, eternal Spain that will be here no matter what invasions the next 3,000 years bring.

London's Fat Bear gives Southern American cuisine the respect it deserves

American food doesn't get the respect it deserves in London.

I'm not talking about the burger joints and diners that define foreigners' ideas of American food, but the stuff of family celebrations and prized local restaurants. A cuisine that treasures ingredients from a vast and varied country with deep agricultural roots. The place that embodied "fusion" before it was a trend, as immigrants from hundreds of culinary traditions lived side-by-side or married and merged kitchens. A country where the enduring tradition of "pot luck" parties and "family style" dining reminds us that sharing great food is at the heart of what's good in life. Hell, we have a holiday dedicated to the idea. (Thanksgiving, if you're planning, is 22 November this year.)

You can probably find more Nepalese or Ethiopian restaurants in London than you can places that celebrate this kind of American cuisine. The two old warhorses, Joe Allen and Christopher's, sit a stone's throw from each other in Covent Garden. They're excellent, but expensive and noisy. Proper barbecue has seen a welcome rise in respect in London, but menus are usually limited to a narrow off-the-grill-and-sauce-it niche.

My discovery of The Fat Bear has therefore filled me with delight. It makes no pretensions to cover the whole country ... an impossible task when New York, St. Louis and San Francisco are as culinarily diverse as London, Paris and Rome ... but picks The South as its niche. And delivers to a standard that any Southern Living subscriber would applaud before inviting y'all round for a bite. This despite the fact that chef Judy Ong is actually from New York. (Believe me, that's a big compliment coming from a St. Louisan.) Husband Gareth Rees anchors a bar that does cocktails properly. No Shoreditch trend chasing or Mayfair price extortion: just an encyclopaedic knowledge of the classics mixed with healthy experimentation and an impressive range of top-quality boutique American brands. (And a few European classics, if you must.) Menu pairings include cocktails as well as wines; an excellent call when your bar is this good.

Nestled in the warren of narrow, winding streets between St. Paul's and Blackfriars, it's an intimate two-room place above a pub. The wood-slat blinds on the windows, the enormous bar on one wall and the excellent mix of jazz and zydeco on the sound system set an atmosphere to match the food. And though it's been close to full all three times I've eaten there, it's a small enough place to never be too noisy. One of those rare, moderately priced spots in London where you can catch up with friends over dinner and have a proper conversation without shouting or straining to hear.

(A quick disclaimer to university friends. Despite the fact that you have known me as "Bear" since we were 17, the above adjective has applied most of my life and Chicago banking magnate Homer Livingston once said he'd fund my bar and restaurant if I ever wanted to open one ... I have no personal ties to this place.)

For Americans with connections to The South, the Fat Bear pushes the nostalgia buttons. One taste of the pimiento dip (a spreadable cheddar cheese spiked with bits of red pepper) pulled me back to neighbourhood Fourth of July picnics. Corn dogs take a direct line to the state fair. Braised brisket, slathered with sweet and spicy BBQ sauce, took me to the back deck of my family home; I could almost hear the crickets chirping and see fireflies dancing in the trees. Most importantly, it was done properly. Simple words, but perhaps the highest praise anyone from the barbecue belt can bestow.

But would the food hold up for Brits, or even American Northerners, who had no cultural identification with the menu? Yes. Corn dog neophytes proclaimed them delicious, if a bit daunted by the fiery sauce. The dips, while curious, were satisfying. Buffalo wings with blue cheese dip were a huge hit across the table.

Fried chicken, done as Southern grandmothers demand with the bite of buttermilk that's so often

lacking in British versions, is delicious. The waffles on the side are reassuringly traditional, the sriracha-spiked maple syrup an exciting innovation. Gumbo and jambalaya both come studded with quality ingredients, spices well-layered and hot but not overwhelming.

Room for improvement comes with the desserts, opinions about which split the table on my last visit. I, who normally won't touch set cheesecakes, think their Oreo version is an addictively more-ish wonder. My husband, who prefers set and isn't an Oreo fan, thought the balance of ingredients was off and that it lacked the light airiness he wants in a cheesecake. The Brits liked the lemon tart. I referred back to the menu description ... actually Key Lime pie ... which the low-slung square before me most definitely was not. Key Limes are a specific variety with a unique taste, and the Florida classic has a colour, shape and texture not achieved here. The nostalgia factor came into play with the 'Nilla Wafer pudding. I thought it was the best of the lot, a triumph of a classic recipe ... including the re-creations of the distinctive biscuits' flavour ... that brought back happy memories of childhood. Two Londoners and one Michigander, none of whom had ever been exposed to this particular dessert (essentially a vanilla-heavy biscuit layered with sliced banana and vanilla pudding/custard), thought it was a bit vile.

Bottom line, there's enough to tempt your sweet tooth here but nothing that truly evokes The South's impressive dessert tradition. Where are the classic pies? Towering chiffons, flaky peach, bourbon-spiked pecan? How about lofty angel food cakes ... unknown in the UK but sure to be loved ... frosted in pillowy icing (my grandmother always opted for strawberry)? Or ambrosia, with citrus slices dressed in freshly-ground coconut, swimming in whipped cream, marshmallows and maraschino cherries? Actually, forget the ambrosia, Judy. This is one of those nostalgia options that will puzzle, and possibly disgust, anyone who didn't grow up with it.

With its comforting combination of food, cocktails and atmosphere, The Fat Bear gives American cuisine the respect it deserves. They can keep working on the desserts. And if Judy wants my St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake recipe, then one generously-sized ursus stands ready to help another.

Gracious, grand and cosmopolitan, Liverpool confounds expectations

Liverpool, I owe you an apology.

I imagined a grimy, defunct port town clinging to life through Beatles tourism and football. A fan of neither, I'd never been tempted to detour from other explorations of the Northeast to see what the city had to offer. My determination to see the Chinese warriors transcended my apathy, but I wasn't happy about their location. I made sure there was secure parking for the car in what I imagined to be a blighted city centre, and worried about safety while walking our dogs at night. Given the length of the drive, I booked the hotel for two nights but doubted there'd be much to see after the exhibition. We could always get out to lovely Chester or North Wales if it was too much of a bust.

How wrong I was. The financial collapse, the derelict inner city, the riots are all a short blip in the city's otherwise impressive history. As the most significant port on the west coast, Liverpool has been a commercial hub since Anglo-Saxon times. Throughout the empire it was fabulously wealthy, giving it a legacy of magnificent Georgian, Victorian, Art Nouveau and Art Deco buildings and an impressive museum quarter. It's also been a hub of innovation, adapting technology to build ever better docks as the world switched from sail to steam, canal boat to rail. In a rare lack of foresight, Liverpool failed to spot the revolution brought by container shipping. Thousands were made redundant when they were no longer needed to unload ships. The docks emptied. The city, its game seemingly over, became known for poverty and radical unionism.

But the next chapter isn't so told as often. Liverpool invested in container ports. The business is back. Motorways leading out of town are lined with distribution warehouses. They've poured regeneration money into the city centre, now a bustling, clean, affluent mix of lovely restored architecture and beautifully designed new buildings. High tech and creative industries are booming. Locals are proud of their city and warmly welcoming, if a little difficult to understand for southern ears. And it turns out it's a city of thriving cosmopolitanism. The Chinese warriors came here because Liverpool has the oldest Chinatown in Europe, is twinned with Shanghai and actively fosters its Asian trade links. The Irish community is better known, and brings with them so many Irish pubs with live music you'd think you were in Dublin. According to the Council, the city's four major universities host 50,000 students from 100 countries, who contribute more than £300 million to the economy every year and drive a diverse social scene. We ate at a Brazilian restaurant (after considering Thai and Cuban) and stayed at a hotel staffed by French, Italians and Spaniards. This is the only part of the North that voted to stay in the European Union. Liverpool is a grown up, sophisticated city of the world and worth every moment of the three days we spent within her borders. Here are some highlights.

BUS TOUR
Liverpool is a remarkably walkable city; most of the top tourist attractions are no more than a 20-minute stroll from the riverfront. It's still worth buying a ticket for a hop-on hop-off bus tour. There are two companies. We opted for City Explorer and their live guides (rather than the other company's recorded tours ... though their multi-lingual capability was clearly the choice for non-English speakers).  Combine your bus pass with a Mersey Ferry ticket for £16.50, all good for 24 hours. Though the guides clearly have a set of facts they're supposed to impart, they have lots of flexibility and different areas of expertise. So it's worth switching buses and repeating parts of the route. We had one guy who was clearly a Beatles expert (got a bit tedious) and another who was serious about history and architecture (our favourite). Do this first to get an idea of what you want to come back to explore in more depth.

CATHEDRALS
Liverpool's two 20th century cathedrals are polar opposites architecturally, and their position a short stretch from each other down the appropriately named Hope Street makes for a fascinating half day of compare-and-contrast exploration.

The Catholic Metropolitan Cathedral is ruthlessly modern: a brilliant white upside-down funnel commonly known as "Paddy's Wigwam". The interior is essentially a vast theatre in the round, with abstract shards of stained glass from the central tower and side walls providing dramatic lighting. If you're a fan of late 1950s and early 1960s modernism, this is a fascinating representation of it, especially in the decorative work in the side chapels and the stations of the cross. It's MadMen does God. Despite understandable local boasting, however, the style is not particularly unique. The Madonna delle Lacrime shrine in Siricusa, which I wrote about here, and the Abbey of St. Mary and St. Louis (aka Priory's church) in my home town are both examples of the post-Vatican II trend in round Roman Catholic churches. (I think the St. Louis version, an early masterpiece from renowned architects HOK, actually does it best.) Were Liverpool's example a theatre or lecture hall, I'd give it high marks. But for me the space is too devoid of any spiritual feeling to be successful as a church.

The Anglican Cathedral down the street does a better job on this front, starting with the reliably religious Gothic style for sanctity, then adding modern twists. Architect Giles Gilbert Scott is better known for giving us the iconic red phone box, but he came from a long line of architects famous for gothic revivalism and he was clearly carrying on grand family traditions here. I've never been in a church quite like it.

It changes levels dramatically, starting with an entrance porch six feet below below the rest of the church. Ceiling heights fluctuate along with the floors. It's more like a series of separate grand spaces that have been pushed together rather than a single church. This adds excitement, with a sense of discovery and constant movement. The style is a stripped down, modernised gothic with elements of art deco veering towards fascist overlordship. If they'd done Christianity inGame of Thrones, it might turn up as something like this. And yet that's making it sound rather brutal. It's filled with delicate design touches, from paintings behind the choir stalls that looks more like Arthurian legend than anything religious, to exquisitely embroidered altar hangings, to a gold-encrusted high altar that looks like it's been kidnapped from Spain. It is a startling pastiche, and I loved it.


PUBS
The height of Liverpool's affluence happened to coincide with the golden age of the British pub. A weekend's wandering suggested to me that there are more spectacular examples in a higher density here than in London, and that's not including the Irish places, modern chains and Beatles-themed spots. We're talking Victorian opulence here, with polished brass, frosted glass, exotic tile work and yards of ornately-carved mahogany. At the top of the list are the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, known locally as The Phil. Don't let the name throw you off; "dining rooms" was a sop to the temperance movement agitating in the city. Today, in a delightful demonstration of irony, a statue of Baptist temperance advocate High Stowell Brown now stands across from the doors, gazing upon drinkers 24/7. There is a restaurant upstairs, and they serve food throughout, but it is most definitely a pub.

Enter beneath an arch of writhing art nouveau brass scrolls to find an enormous horseshoe-shaped bar fronted with floral mosaic. The ceiling is jacobean-style strapwork, leaded glass windows with stained glass insets stand at the back, while straight ahead an enormous fire beckons. The snugs on either side are encrusted with repousee copper panels, more mosaic and intricately carved mahogany. And that's just the first room. In classic high Victorian style this place is divided into a warren of smaller spaces, including two elegant drawing rooms named after Brahms and Liszt (the whole place is themed on classical music to honour the Philharmonic concert hall just across the street). There's a particularly grand central hall where almost life-sized classical figures in plaster stretch above the wainscot to support a grand ceiling embedded with more stained glass. In the time it took to drink one pint in a cozy wingback, this became my favourite pub in all of England.

CULTURAL QUARTER
There's no better place to see proof of Liverpool's affluent past than in the Cultural Quarter, now a UNESCO World Heritage site thanks to its unique concentration of Victorian neo-classical buildings. (Well, not quite unique. It's very similar to Berlin's Museum island. The Berlin museums probably have more significant collections, but Liverpool has more and better architecture.) Built at the same time and in similar Greco-Roman style, the buildings are given added dignity by the way they cascade down a hill atop which the Duke of Wellington stands on a towering column.

The architectural assemblage includes the World Museum (where the Terracotta Warriors exhibition is now on), the Walker Art Gallery, the County Sessions house and the magnificent round, colonnaded Central Library. All these bow before the enormous St. George's Hall, architectural historian Pevsner's pick for one of the finest neo-Greek buildings in the world. It's an odd combination of law courts and concert hall. The area includes gardens, grand statues and cobbled open spaces. Modern additions like the Art Deco WWI memorial and the recent Hillsborough disaster monument are in a sympathetic style that fits with the wider scheme.

ALONG THE MERSEY
The Albert Docks contain a long string of grand red-brick warehouses that introduced the world to concepts like fireproofing and bonded storage (where you don't pay customs until you sell your goods). The city came very close to tearing them down in its darkest days. Now they're at the heart of  a renewal that stretches along the riverfront in either direction. It's a thriving place during the day, with a branch of the Tate, shops, restaurants and attractions like a pirate ship and a Beatles museum. I found it surprisingly quiet on a Friday night when walking my dogs there, however ... after dark nothing seems to be going on outside the restaurants.

A short walk west along the Mersey brings you to Pier Head and the buildings known as "the Three Graces": the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the Port of Liverpool Building. Tucked in behind the last is a magnificent Art Deco pile that appears to be a mysterious HQ without windows, and turns out to be a ridiculously ornate extraction chimney for the tunnel below. The Graces themselves all offer different takes on grand, early 20th century neo-classicism. Pier Head will remind you a lot of New York's grand buildings of the 1920s and '30s, unsurprising considering the direct passage of people and goods between the two cities.  Turns out European directors regularly use this area as a stand-in for New York when filming. The New York of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is actually Liverpool.

Modern architects have taken a stab at giving the city three new graces in the Mersey Ferry building,
the Museum of Liverpool and another gallery and office building. The last is black, the other two white, and all three have striking, shard-like angles as if the iceberg that sunk the Titanic drifted into town. They've been sensitively inserted into the scheme and their undecorated, reflective exteriors make a satisfying foil for the Graces. The Museum presents an excellent overview of the city's history and is free to enter. There's a statue of the Beatles outside the Ferry Terminal that tourists queue up to get a photo with.

Directly inland from the Albert Docks is a modern retail development called Liverpool One. It is essentially a three-story shopping mall with John Lewis as anchor, but the architects have literally ripped the roof off, creating an open-air canyon. A fourth story on the landward-side is filled by restaurants; glass and chrome bridges fly over the chasm below to a grassy expanse bigger than a football pitch, from which you have wonderful views of the docks and on which the city regularly stages concerts and festivals. Other restaurants line the west side of the field while the south (river) side falls away in terraces of trees and landscaping. It all feels like a sylvan park on a big hill, into which the shopping mall has been carved. A clever illusion, as the hill covers a car park. It's a neat bit of urban planning, and has clearly been successful as the streets spreading out from here are bustling with more big brands in both retail and dining.

Thus far, Liverpool has been successful in mixing old and new, but they are walking a knife edge. UNESCO recently threatened to pull the city's world heritage status over plans to build a complex of glass skyscrapers just west of the Three Graces, which critics say will destroy the city skyline.

WHAT I WOULD HAVE DONE WITH MORE TIME
I didn't think I'd fill two days in Liverpool. After three, I walked away with a hefty list of things I missed. Though we bought tickets, we never had time for our ride on the Mersey Ferry. Beyond The Phil, there were all sorts of charming pubs I would have liked to explore.

We didn't delve into the food scene at all. Exhausted and much in need of down time, we managed to stumble across the street to a Brazilian steakhouse (Bem Brasil) that was a good example of its type but nothing special on our first night, and stayed in the hotel (the Novotel, near Liverpool One, allows dogs) for a perfectly passable but unremarkable dinner the next. Our bus tour guides made big claims for the city as a booming foodie destination, with the Baltic Market and Cain's Brewery Village being the hub of the scene. Distillers and microbrewers are gaining traction. One of our guides claimed that Ma Boyle's pub near the Three Graces has better corned beef sandwiches than New York. Considering I've never had a corned beef sandwich in England that gets to good on a New York scale, I was intrigued. I also spotted three separate restaurants that specialised in desserts only. Given Liverpool's long association with the sugar trade, is this a local thing? It could have used more research.

On the cultural front, the Walker Art Gallery is supposed to have one of the best pre-Raphaelite collections in the world. I would have loved to get inside St. George's hall. The Liverpool Philharmonic is much respected and is Classic FM's official orchestra in the North. Seeing them at home means getting inside a listed Art Deco concert hall. (And going back to The Phil.) Speke Hall is a rambling half-timbered National Trust manor house on the outskirts of town.

And, I suppose, it wouldn't do any harm to stick my head into the Cavern Club. I still think the disproportionate attention given to the Beatles and football distracts attention from the charms of this place, but at least now I can argue for the bigger picture.

Terracotta warriors invade Liverpool with style

In an uncharacteristic scheduling failure back in 2007-8, I didn't manage to snag tickets to the British Museum's sell-out show on China's first emperor and his terracotta warriors. The blockbuster drew in more than 850,000 visitors over seven months, becoming Britain's most popular cultural exhibition since the legendary Treasures of King Tut show in the '70s.

When Liverpool announced a similar terracotta warriors exhibition, I didn't waste time. Even if I would have to brave England's notorious bank holiday traffic and visit a city that, in more than 20 years in the UK, had never even piqued my curiosity.

Turns out I was wrong about Liverpool. (Of that, more in the next story.) But I was entirely justified to move fast for the terracotta warriors. They're on show until 28 October but weekends are already selling out well into the run, so move fast.

Standing face-to-face with these ancient, life-sized and remarkably charismatic figures is an astonishing experience, bridging centuries and cultures to find a shared humanity. There are nine here, from general to stable boy with all ranks in between, and one remarkable horse ready to snort and charge into battle. But, surprisingly, they aren't the best thing about this show. It's the wider context around them that elevates the experience, transforming this from a straightforward chance to take selfies with a few masterpieces to a subtle journey of discovery about a whole culture.

And that, no doubt, is exactly the intent. Because this isn't your standard, academically-driven show, created by curators over years and assembled from multiple points. It's travelling juggernaut of Chinese PR, assembled as a single package with a single message: we have been a phenomenally sophisticated civilisation for thousands of years. The single-mindedness extends to show design. There's a slight whiff of the amusement park about the experience as you queue up to enter a long cinema room, where a beautifully-produced film shows an array of gorgeous scenes on a wall of fractured, angled planes before the doors at the end fling open automatically to beckon you into the dramatic first room of the exhibition.

This familiar crowd pacing strategy, combined with the fact that the show has taken over an entire floor of Liverpool's World Museum, meant that the exhibition never felt crowded despite operating at sell-out capacity. Show designers clearly had crowds in mind. There's plenty of room between and around exhibits, large-print information panels are placed above head height and screening walls designed to resemble ceremonial gates hold down noise levels while separating show sections. There's atmospheric but unobtrusive background music, videos, animations and huge blow-ups of Chinese paintings and prints of the time to add colour to the earth-toned artefacts. Punters are welcomed ... even encouraged ... to take photos without flash. Don't know how to disable your flash? Just ask one of our staff members to help you with your device. It's a tourism triumph.

And a triumph of soft diplomacy. From the start, when a helpful chart lays the world you're about to explore against European history (roughly the height of classical Greek civilisation through the European Dark Ages), the sophistication of the art you're looking at argues that this is a world on par with ... and maybe ahead of ... Europe. Your first view is of one of those warriors: a horse keeper and one of his cavalry horses. The warriors go on tour a fair amount; there are thousands of them, after all. Horses are another matter. Experts estimate there are only 150 cavalry horses like this one, most un-excavated. And they're much trickier to move. So seeing this one was a real treat. But before you meet more of Emperor Qin's gang, you need to understand where he came from.

So we start 200 years earlier in the Warring States period, when seven families controlled small kingdoms and brawled amongst themselves to take over the wider country. (I suspect it's no accident the music in this section has a Game of Thrones feel to it.) Despite the upheaval of war, the period also gave China treasures of art, philosophy and religion that would underpin its culture for the millennia to come. Grave goods on display here are sumptuous and would be objects of desire today. Bronze bowls with intricate geometric patterns. Sinuous dragons. Round-bellied wine jars you'll want to cradle and take home. Clearly these states were prizes worth fighting for.

Enter Qin Shi Huang, who took over his own state at 13, conquered the rest of China by 38 and went to his eternal sleep with his facsimile court by 49. Like the ancient Egyptians, Qin surrounded himself with everything he thought he'd need in the next life. There were acrobats and strongmen for entertainment. Sadly, those terracotta figures didn't travel but we see the enormous, sumptuously detailed caldron they juggled to impress. A bronze goose looks lifelike enough to dispatch for dinner. Wine jugs stand ready for the banquet, jade ornaments prepared to adorn the great man's body. A one-third size model of two four-horse chariots ... one for guards to make way, the second an ancient mobile home bearing the emperor's body ... is one of the most spectacular sights here, even though they're modern copies of artefacts too fragile to travel.

But Qin leaves us in no doubt he's a warrior first. Here's his set of stone armour, implying that the afterlife has given him enormous strength. And, of course, the warriors. A stable boy crouches to one side, leaving seven front-line fighters lined up on a single platform. There's a variety here: general, light and heavy infantry men, archers. Uniforms vary to match their roles and, famously, every face is different. Though not completely unique. An interesting modern sculpture across from the warriors shows how a factory production line churned out body parts from moulds, then hand-assembled and

finished them to give that legendary variety. Though the warriors now share a patina with your garden pots, they were once painted to make them more realistic. Screens behind them alternate images of their colourful original state with scenes of their "homes" back in the trenches of the Emperor's tomb. The show designers continue their populist thoughtfulness here. Illumination is camera friendly, the open spaces around the warriors are broad and selfies (but no selfie sticks) are welcomed.

This is clearly the climax of the show, but there's a long and fascinating denouement. While following generations never met death on such a grand scale, the tradition of terracotta armies and courtiers continued. A Han dynasty general brought both mounted cavalrymen and foot soldiers on his journey to the afterlife. While the craftsmanship is a bit more crude, and they're only about a metre tall, there's an endearing warmth to their ranks and a thrill of excitement when you see that some have retained their paint. The Emperor Jing was clearly as worried about feasting as warring in his eternity, as his tomb pits revealed hundreds of domestic animal statues. There's a small farmyard here. (The gift shop offered replicas of the warriors. I would

have bought one of the pigs.)

Near the exit you come upon an intact tomb door, its lintel exquisitely decorated with hunting scenes. Past that, you enter a dimly lit room where a three-dimensional model of the inside of Emperor Qin's central tomb chamber stretches in front of you. My only criticism of the show: they didn't explain enough about it for me to appreciate the wonder of the re-creation then before me. Legend tells of 100 rivers of mercury flowing around his coffin through miniatures of the palaces and cities of his empire. Mercury was then thought to have immortality-giving properties; ironically ingesting the stuff may have killed Qin prematurely. Models of heavenly bodies are supposed to have rotated overhead, while gold illuminated the walls and booby-trapped crossbows were set to eliminate tomb robbers. Real Indiana Jones stuff. I didn't read all of this until I got home, so only then did I appreciate what a great job they did at creating the myth. The actual tomb chamber remains un-excavated. Signage in the exhibition suggests the reason is respect for both the dead and the heritage. A bit of post show research suggest the sky-high levels of mercury that test probes have revealed. The tomb designers have been successful at keeping invaders out, though not in the way they thought.

This is a show worth travelling for. It's also great value in light of recent London exhibition prices. Compare £14.50 for the warriors to a whopping £18.00 for the V&A's cruise liners show. You'll spend a lot more than £3.50 getting here, of course, but it's nice to feel that you're getting a bargain. And once you've visited the warriors, it turns out Liverpool makes for a great weekend of sightseeing. Which I'll cover in my next story.