Miniature treasures at National Portrait Gallery confirm history can still pull crowds

The National Portrait Gallery has been pushing hard lately for street cred, with some recent exhibitions and a passion for celebrity photography seemingly laying the foundations for Hello magazine to take over sponsorship of the whole place. While I can happily binge on pop culture, I'm frustrated to see it taking over a national institution that supposedly exists (and uses my tax money) to illuminate the personalities of history and connect us to the people who made it.

Perhaps all of the faces in these modern exhibitions will indeed transition from celebrity mag to history book ... but I'm skeptical. Sadly, government-mandated free entry demands exhibitions that bring in a paying crowd to fill the coffers, and museum management has assumed they need Michael Jackson or Vogue to do the trick. Thankfully, Elizabethan Treasures: Miniatures by Hilliard and Oliver is a glorious return to form that shows the Gallery it can stick to its historical strengths and still pull in the punters.

This fact seems to have surprised management, however, who certainly didn't design the displays in anticipation of crowds and who seem to have set the pricing as if they thought this was a loss leader to bring in the blue hairs. At £10, Elizabethan Treasures is a bargain in a town where special exhibits are now typically £15 to £18. The show's been celebrated by reviewers, sold out on weekends and subject to long queues. There aren't many tickets left until the exhibit closes on 19 May; if you're interested, book in advance.

Here's a fun fact: "miniature" doesn't actually refer to size but to a way of painting. It comes from the Latin "miniare", which described the act of colouring a foundation with red lead. That was the secret to getting glowing, jewel-tone colours in illuminated manuscripts. When technology (printing) and current events (the Reformation) combined to kill the market for that ancient craft, artistic skills found their outlet in a new channel: the portrait miniature. You can see the direct line of descent early in the show by lingering over the founding charter of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, a gorgeous thing illuminated with a profusion of flowers and Italian "grotesquerie" by Nicholas Hilliard.

Though you can find miniature portraits across Europe, nobody embraced them like the English and the French, and in England nobody could match Hilliard (self portrait above left) and Issac Oliver (above right). Considered as great as Michaelangelo and Raphael in their lifetimes, the two men moved in the highest circles and painted just about everyone significant in the late Elizabethan and early Jacobean courts.

Playing "compare and contrast" with the two artists is one of the more obvious ways to approach the exhibition. Hilliard was the teacher, Oliver the pupil. Hilliard a better politician; he was Elizabeth's favourite because he flattered her and managed to paint realistic-looking scenes without problematic shadows. Oliver, however, was thought to be more artistically daring ... thus prized by the trend-setting Queen Anne of Denmark. To my uninformed eye, however, it's hard to tell the two of them apart. They both produce works of lush detail and penetrating personality, most so small they fit in the palm of your hand.

You can also enjoy this show as a window to history. All of the most famous faces are here. There are multiple versions of the British royals and a striking, never-before-exhibited miniature of French King Henry III. There's swashbuckling circumnavigator Sir Walter Raleigh; Shakespearean patron the Earl of Southampton; a 17-year old Francis Bacon, already en route to becoming a philosopher and statesman; the two artists in self-portrait.

Because of their specific use ... typically as highly-personal mementos for loved ones, sometimes as intimate diplomatic introductions ... miniatures deliver personality and emotion in a way other forms of portraiture rarely manage. If you're a fan of this time period, you'll love this show. Without a time machine, this is as close as you'll get to meeting these people in the flesh.

While I appreciated both the historical context and the artist comparison, however, I mostly just enjoyed sinking in to the lush beauty of these tiny masterpieces. Many have startling blue backgrounds made of crushed lapis. Lace collars are picked out in spidery complexity. Velvets gleam.  Eyes sparkle. Curls bounce. Gold and gems glitter. (Literally. Rubies, for example, were created by applying a pinhead-sized spot of pure silver, topped with a dot of resin, then a pinprick of red colour.) If these portraits are to be believed, early 17th-century Brits were some of the sexiest, most beautiful people in history.

Perhaps the ultimate example is a portrait of an unknown man wearing nothing but his lawn undershirt (a shocking state of undress at the time), standing in front of a curtain of flames, giving us a smouldering look as he caresses a locket that, presumably, holds a miniature of whoever was the intended audience. There's so much intimate sexuality radiating from this little painting you're almost embarrassed by your act of voyeurism as you enjoy it. Whoever the intended audience was, she (or he?) was clearly adored.

The only problem with this exhibition is a design that didn't seem to consider crowds. The only way to appreciate these pieces is to get nose-to-nose with them, which visitors can only do one at a time. You inevitably spend a lot of time queueing, and crowding up around cases that have multiple pieces in them. I had the good fortune to be able to slip in mid-afternoon on a weekday; weekends at full capacity must be rough.

 The exhibition would have been better in a larger space, with more of the miniatures suspended individually at eye level, and enlarged reproductions hanging above to give visitors something to study as they were queuing up. The excellent video providing background to the whole show could have been more prominently signposted at the start, and given more room than a narrow alcove with a single bench for four people.

That, of course, would have required the NPG to believe that Elizabethan and Jacobean history was going to pull the crowds. Let's hope they've learned their lesson.

Hammam al Andalus plunges you into hot water and Arabian Nights

Some spas are memorable for the quality of their treatments or the skill of their therapists. Others celebrate their link to a luxury brand. Some stand out for their unique locations, while others tout the source and health-giving qualities of their water. Most, these days, strive for luxury. But none, in my experience, does atmosphere like the Hammam al Andalus in Granada.

If Disney ran a spa inside an Aladdin-themed hotel, it would be like this. Except more crowded. By my count the Hammam limits each two-hour slot to about 30 people, meaning that while you're sharing the baths with others it never feels jammed (except in the changing rooms) and you have a fair chance of finding yourself alone occasionally in any of the four pools. (Photos borrowed from their web site.)

The Arabs were just as mad about bathing for cleanliness and pleasure as the Romans, building opulent, heated aquatic complexes in most of their cities. The Hammam presents itself as a luxurious bath from the time the Nasrids were living in their opulent palace on the hilltop immediately above. This isn't an original complex (it was a restaurant just a few years ago) but if your sightseeing took you to the medieval baths in either the Alhambra or the Albaicin you'll appreciate how carefully they've copied the original here. Opulent tiles cover the lower walls, plaster panels of intricate arabesques the upper. There are romantic scalloped arches, hammered silver tea sets laid out for your refreshment and those distinctive star-shaped openings punched through the ceilings and lit to give you the impression of sunlight filtering in, even though there's a building above you.

There are four different baths laid out along a corridor: One cold, two piping hot and the largest comfortable as a warm bathtub. On a floorpan this would look like a boring string of rooms along a single corridor, but they've used narrow archways, decorative columns, and pierced-metal lanterns make it into a mysterious warren. One of the hot pools is long and narrow, like an ornamental reflecting pool in a garden, and only about 16 inches deep; perfect for stretching out with your head on the lip and getting comatose. The other a much deeper rectangle with another, smaller rectangle leading off it. The smaller rectangle is shallower and has a screen at the back from which hot water appears to flow from the living rock. Sitting in the main rectangle, a tower stretches up at least three times the depth of the pool and is encrusted with ornate decoration to contemplate as you soak.

Health and safety regulations are clearly different here. My regular spa in the UK won't heat the water to these temperatures, in case bathers are too stupid to get out in time to protect their health. A good deal of the atmosphere comes from lighting far dimmer than any I suspect would be allowed in the UK, exacerbated by large groupings of flickering candles and mist that I'm fairly sure was occasionally pumped in. A gentle, Moorish take on spa music plays softly. You've definitely sunk into a world of exotic harems and Arabian Nights.

The largest pool was about the size of one you'd find in a domestic garden, but had columns springing out of it a bit like the famous cisterns in Istanbul.

So even with a larger group of people here, you could float into a dark corner behind a column and be lulled by the sound of water trickling in from a fountain in the wall. Talking is discouraged; this place is all about quiet contemplation. There's a steam room and sauna behind this which I didn't check out. (After thirty years of surviving St. Louis summers I've never been able to grasp the point of intentionally making yourself hot and sticky.)

Steps lead down from this main pool to another corridor forming the bottom of an "L" with the one that runs along the pools. Down here you'll find showers, a series of alcoves where therapists deliver treatments and a square room at the end where people can lie on marble slabs around another fountain post massage. I just went for the pool time (about £35 for two hours) but reports back on the massage indicate I missed a good one.

The two-hour time limit and the request for near-total silence are both unusual for a spa, but essential given the size of the place and the desire to maintain the atmosphere. And there's no wiggle room on that time. If you book for 10 am, that's your entire slot from check in to departure, including your time in the changing room. Get there 10-15 minutes early so check in doesn't eat into your pool time, and you'll be able to enjoy some tea in the spa's beautiful atrium before being escorted to the changing rooms. Then don't dawdle; get into your swimming costume and get to what you've paid for. If you're just doing the pools, two hours is an ample time slot. If you have a massage as well, you might find the pool lounging time a bit curtailed. The joy of these short slots is that they fit easily as a break in a longer day of sightseeing. The Hammam even offers sessions at 10 pm and midnight, for the real night owls.

With their limited capacity, I got the impression that most sessions are sold out. Pre-booking on their web site is essential, particularly for any treatments. There's no sense playing a guessing game over which days and times would be less crowded, because they're all pretty much the same. Just pick what's best for you. On a return visit, I might go for the 4pm siesta slot. Relax, re-energise and clean up before discovering more of Granada's wonderful bars and restaurants.

Dazzling Cartuja is Granada's hidden gem (and crowd-free)

The combination of anguish and triumphalism in the art of Catholic Spain always leaves me uncomfortable in the country's churches.

I find it neither surprising nor alien ... I am, after all, the product of 14-years of convent education ... but it’s still disturbing. The gory martyrdoms, wailing virgins and brooding colour schemes speak of a faith that’s all about guilt and pain. The ridiculous amounts of gold and silver are, to anyone moderately familiar with history, a reminder of the rape of the Americas. The infidels being vanquished beneath the swords, spears and hooves of the Reconquista make me think of the outsiders who went to their deaths on the bonfires of the Inquisition, and wonder if our current battles with Islamic fundamentalism would be quite so bad had the Spanish Catholics been more gracious in victory.

That’s why I find Granada’s cathedral and, to a lesser extent, its famous royal tombs, difficult to love. And why, surprisingly, I discovered my favourite post-Reconquista sight in the city’s Carthusian monastery (photo above). Both are masterpieces that deserve a visit, but neither should be approached lightly.

The cathedral was a monumental political statement from its inception. The conquering Catholics tore down the city's main mosque and covered it with this. Considering the wonders of the palaces of the Alhambra and the mosque-turned-cathedral in Cordoba, I shudder to imagine the beauty destroyed to make a political statement. It might have been worth it had the replacement been better, but Granada's cathedral is more concerned with power than aesthetics. The front is a triple triumphal arch, squat, graceless and far too heavy for the space it occupies. Inside, the white interior and the vaults decorated with swirls of tracery could be delicate, were it not for the disproportionate supporting columns. These things are huge bundles of columns that block views and dominate the scene. Was it intentional that they reminded me most of the fasces, the bundle of rods that indicated a magistrate's power in ancient Rome and has often been used as a symbol for domination?

I've never seen anything quite like the space behind and above the high altar. Circular galleries rise in successive stories, showing off paintings of saints and martyrs. Interesting as an art gallery, but it didn't really work for me in a sacred space. The altar itself was dominated by a solid silver tabernacle almost the size of a garden folly. A lovely classical temple beneath which crouching angels held up the container for the host. In a simpler environment it would have been the masterpiece around which the whole church was built; here it was almost lost amidst visual shouting from all the competing elements. The compulsory religious gore included a life-sized, anatomically perfect, recently removed head of St. John the Baptist bleeding out onto a silver platter, and a shrine of Santiago de Compostela with the saint ... live-sized again ... in combat armour on horseback, his steed about to kill the Muslim knight below with a hoof to the throat. (How Saint James, a Judean who died soon after Jesus, ended up dressed for and involved in a 15th century battle is one of those inexplicable mysteries of Catholicism.)

There are, naturally, little moments of magnificence throughout. In front of the altar there's a twin pair of organs built between columns, facing each other over the main aisle. They're white and gold, light and festive, and I'd love to hear them duel it out. A monumental door frame capped with Moorish-style woodwork nods to history. In the ambulatory (the semi-circular aisle fringed with side altars that circles the main altar and forms the back of the church) glass cases display exquisite illuminated manuscripts. And one side altar, a baroque symphony of rose, black and white marble with a poignant, but not gruesome, pieta is the best thing in the cathedral.

The royal tombs next door are a more satisfying ensemble, thanks to their earlier Gothic architecture, though they still have their frightening martyrdoms. (Don't miss Saint Vitus placidly enduring his boiling cauldron.) You can read what I wrote about them last year here. The cathedral and the tombs cost £5 each; if strapped for time or cash prioritise the tombs. But if you're really working to a short list, skip them both and head to the Cartuja de Granada.

One of the girls on the trip had a hot tip from people who used to live here that this was the most amazing thing in town and must be seen. How could it be, if none of us had ever heard of it? But our sources were quite passionate in their endorsement, so we hopped a taxi and investigated. Initial impressions were underwhelming.

The church sits in a commanding position on a hillside, its architecture stolid and a bit grim. (The view from the plaza outside the front door, however, is remarkable.) You'll start in the cloisters. Standard layout, minimal decoration, basic garden with some pretty patterned pavements. In to the refectories; long, plain white halls with gracious Gothic vaults where monks (in one hall) and affiliated lay brothers (in another) would eat a basic meal without conversation while they listened to scripture and contemplated paintings of martyrs. It appeared there was no escaping. The set of canvasses on English martyrs in the monk's hall was particularly horrific. Who knew Henry VIII and Cromwell had tortured with such creativity? There are priests being dragged behind teams of horses, taking axes in the head, having their hearts ripped out and in one particularly gruesome scene, being hung from a tree and butchered into halves like a pig. All this in the dining room. While it does put the Anglo-Hispanic tensions of the 16th and 17th centuries in context, it's hard going. I was afraid the horror show would continue in the church, but there things quickly started to improve.

The nave is a festival of white with gold accents, three-dimensional with statues, ornate plaster cornices and foliate decoration. It's like a wedding cake turned inside-out, designed on a religious theme. A painting of Mary triumphant over an intricately-carved wooden door starts to add colour, and there's more in the choir screen. It's a pastiche of paintings, multi-coloured marble, gold and a striking pair of wooden doors in the geometric inlay that is the Granada style. You get a peek at an even more ornate high altar through them. Had we been visitors to an active monastery, this is as close as we would get. But old divisions don't exist for tourists.

Once in the choir you can fully appreciate the explosion into the fantastical that is the high altar. A life-sized-Mary rules the heavens from her perch on the crescent moon, framed by barley-twist gold columns inset with lozenges of crystal to add a star-like glimmer. Putti frolic everywhere. The ornate decoration on the walls above and beside her, rather than the white of the rest of the church, is now drenched in cheerful pastels. Directly behind her is a wall of glass ... is it mirrors? ... that adds to the glitter. This is the 17th century equivalent of coming out of the dark into a room of strobe lights. Everything is intended to dazzle you into a state of awe.

Just off to the left, you'll find the sacristy, where sacred vestments were stored and priests got dressed for mass. It's big and ornate enough to be a church in its own right, and the decoration is so opulent it takes your brain some time to process it. Every white plaster column is encrusted with swirls, curlicues, flares and pinnacles.  The ceiling writhes with decorated coffers and swags of flowers. The crazy density of the decoration reminded me of a Hindu temple though, looking closer to home, one suspected these artisans were trying to meet and out-do the effect of the Halls of the Two Sisters and the Abencerrajes in the Nasrid Palaces.

And this is all just background. Add multi-coloured inlaid marble cladding to the first five feet of the room, then extend it up into a complex masterpiece of an altar. Add a few paintings on the walls, and a dome above the altar painted with a heavenly scene. Then, just to make sure there are no undecorated spaces, bring in more geometric inlay to cover the chests where you keep the robes (a masterpiece on their own), and the doors in and out. The only plain thing in the room is the glass in the mirrors above the chests, angled down to help the priests' dress. But, of course, they just reflect the surroundings.

Neither altar or sacristy, however, are the most magnificent part of this place. Move behind the altar to check out that wall of glass. They aren't mirrors, but clear, beveled panes that have refracted and broadcast the magnificence of what stands behind. All churches have a tabernacle to house the communion bread and wine, usually a model of a temple sat on the high altar. Here, the tabernacle has its own chapel. And it's a blockbuster.

It's a testament to the marble-worker's art; a score of different colours and patterns carved into exuberant shapes and fitted together seamlessly. There's a heavenly host of near life-sized saints and angels. No martyrdoms depicted here (though there are martyrs); everyone is in a mood of joyous celebration. Gold encrusts frames and column capitals. Fat putti dart in and out of every decorative element. The dome and pendentives above are painted in a blaze of yellows, pinks and blues, inviting you to a heaven of eternal joy and sunlight. Ironically, only Saint Bruno, the founder of the Carthusian order, looks unhappy in the heavenly scene. It's as if all the happiness is too much for him.

This room is on par with the greatest masterpieces of Baroque art and reminds me most of the joyous madness of the Asamkirche in Munich, my favourite thing in that whole city. It is awesome, in its original awe-inspiring, knock-you-to-your knees meaning.

The Cartuja is likely to strike the modern mind as a monument to hypocrisy. How unfair that the common folk and lesser monks lived on a diet of martyrdom, fear and inferior decorative schemes, while the guys in charge got to get close to, and enter, some of the most beautiful rooms in the city? How could they preach a life of austerity, yet build this for themselves? This is where Catholic education becomes useful, because it all makes perfect sense to me.

The architecture is a metaphor for life. The outer bits are our everyday striving. The closer we get to the altar, the closer we are to heaven. In a religion that believes literally that the consecrated bread and wine is the body and blood of Jesus, the tabernacle becomes the space where God lives. That chapel is, literally, heaven. The artists and architects who built it were doing their best to bring it to life on earth, and to give anyone who saw it a taste of the reward they were working for. This is what the Baroque movement was all about. And why I'd never make it as a protestant.

Homey private dining and other top picks for Granada restaurants

I’ve seen lots in the media about the trend of pop-up restaurants and private dining, but hadn’t tried it myself until Granada. If Francisco Lillo Roldán is anything to go by, this is definitely an option worth searching out when visiting a new place.

Francisco cooks and serves out of a building along the Calle Virgin del Rosario, just across from the noteworthy La Tana wine bar. (We were introduced to both by Marta Sanchez of Bite Granada.) La Oliva’s sign suggests a public venue, and its interior tells the tale of a former olive oil shop, but today it’s a very private domain. There are no menus, most of the views to the street are screened and you won’t get in without making arrangements in advance.

This is not a restaurant and Francisco is not a chef. Most of the food is assembled on a counter next to the table and the hot stuff comes off a burner closer to a camping stove than a professional range. Rather than getting formal, multi-layered courses ... for example a main of protein, starch, two veg and sauce on one plate ... you’ll get a progression of small dishes with just one thing in them. A single meatball with a bit of sauce. A generous spoon of the new season’s broad (fava) beans. There’s no high end presentation here. It’s the simple dishing up of the home cook.

And that’s the beauty of it. An evening at La Oliva feels like you’ve been invited into the home of a local who’s turning out his cupboards to give you as many tastes of local specialties as they’ll yield, all with running commentary.

You're a guest, and payment is simply a sordid little inconvenience at the end. And even that is unconventional. You’re presented with an envelope and invited to slip in whatever cash you feel would be appropriate for the evening. Francisco let us know in advance that the value of what he was serving would be at least €40 in a restaurant; what we left was up to us. Given that this was our last night in Spain, this was a better experience than our most expensive meal (e85 at Mirador de Morayma, discussed below), and we drank a lot of Francisco’s wine, we contributed far over his base cost.

I assume every evening will be different at La Oliva, depending on what’s in the market that day and how many people have booked in advance. There were five of us (the girls’ trip four plus one adventurous lone traveller) and the menu was surprisingly vegetal for Spain, reflecting the lush abundance of the local spring harvest. We’d lost count, and notes had become sketchy, by the time we were nursing our Pedro Ximénez, but photos attest to at least a dozen rounds of tasting flowing across the table before us. With wines starting with a dry sherry, progressing through white and rose before big reds and that final glass of sweet stuff. Abstemious diners should steer clear.

In line with tradition, we’d started with a range of charcuterie, olives, fresh bread and three types of olive oil. Francisco certainly knows his olive lore, explaining that there are 263 acknowledged varieties and so many different ways of preserving and pressing them that the variety of consumables to emerge at the end of the production process is almost infinite. Certainly the three oils he poured for dipping were radically different. Pigeon and mushroom pates followed.

As we started to move into first course territory, there was a pair of prawns on wilted spinach, a deliciously innovative mix of salt cod, radish and spring onion dolloped on orange slices and drizzled with olive oil, cod in saffron sauce and a dish of quickly pan-fried fresh asparagus tossed with olive oil, crushed almonds and lemon rind. I was so pleased to have the last; watching beautiful two-kilo bunches of pinkie-thick stalks being piled high in the markets earlier in the trip was the one time I'd had the urge to use our flat's kitchen. I will definitely be trying this flavour combo at home when English asparagus comes into season; in at least another month.

Next was a bit of tuna lightly fried with herbs, then a small bowl of chickpeas with onions and green

pepper in a few spoonfuls of broth, then broad beans with onions. If this had been a "proper" restaurant I'd have said too much repetition on the fish and the pulses, but in this environment it was instructive of what the locals would do with seasonal produce, so bring it on.  And if this is representative of what the Spanish eat at home, then it was far lighter on the meat than your average restaurant meal. Our only taste was the aforementioned meatball. Two simple sweets followed: a bowl of macerated strawberries and a plate of fried pastries and biscuits a bit like Italian cantucci. 

If you have only had one or two nights in Granada, I'd recommend a regular restaurant. But if you have more, this is a memorable alternative that gives you a distinctive local twist. Here are some other local dining options.

Mirador de Morayma Disappointing. My visit with my husband a year ago was magical, the service memorable and the food magnificent. It was almost a different restaurant this time. It took four contacts starting months in advance to get them to acknowledge my reservation (that should have been a clue), they didn't acknowledge me as anything but a walk-in despite the advance planning and my positive blog article, we were tucked in a poky upstairs room, the service was shoddy (the private event downstairs was clearly consuming all the attention), and we think we were probably charged for a bottle of wine we didn't consume (but recognised that we were tipsy enough that we didn't have the credibility to argue the bill. Most shocking was the emergence of two solomilio (beef tenderloin) well done when we'd asked for them medium rare. I didn't think it was even possible for a blood-loving Spaniard to cook meat that thoroughly. All we could think of is that they'd heard American accents and decided to cook meat the way they thought Americans liked to eat it. It's one of the few times in my life I've sent a dish back to the kitchen. It took so long for fresh steak to come out that the other half of our party had finished their mains, and though done properly this time it wasn't warm.

The starters had been much more successful, including a lush plate of jamon Iberico and wild boar croquetas. As it had been last year, the suckling pig was a triumph, and had we all gone for that we would have been happier diners. I'd still recommend Morayma, but only if you can sit in its romantic gardens with their incredible views, and only if you have the pig. 

La Vinoteca did manage to live up to last year's positive review. The almost-secret dining room behind the front bar still mixes classics and seasonal specials in a cool, modern interior. Plates edge towards fine dining presentation but at moderate prices. Squid, octopus and pork (below) were all memorable here, as was a decadent ... but totally un-Spanish ... chocolate brownie dessert. Good regional wine list.

Monje Taberna Espirituosa was an accidental find and a real delight. We'd been heading for the much-recommended Cunini fish restaurant, but even at 9:30 at night there was a 45 minute wait.  Espirituosa had one cozy table in the back corner, which we grabbed hungrily. This place has quite a modern vibe, with an open, airy decor that feels almost like someone's garden room. Plus tremendous  and very genial service from the very clued-in Jorge and Javier, who reminded us to fill out that Trip Advisor review even as they talked us through their menu. More beautiful Iberico and some classically grilled padron peppers, plus a chance to introduce the girls to the Granadan classic of fried aubergine with a drizzle of molasses. This is where we opted for the ubiquitous paella and we were rewarded with some of the best I've ever had, gorgeously presented and heavily studded with a variety of seafood including tiny crabs and a wealth of mini-marshmallow sized scallops. It broke our heart to send some back to the kitchen, but we were stuffed.

Churrería Alhambra Cafeteria Chocolatería proves that looks can be deceiving. This spot on the southwestern corner of the Bib Rambla looks about as touristy as it is possible to be, complete with "pizzeria" emblazoned on its awnings. But according to tour guide Marta Sanchez, they make the best churros in Granada. Naturally, we had to test that claim. And though we have no other Granadan examples for comparison, they were certainly the best any of us had ever had. Crisp, light, flavourful batons of fried dough, curving gently on the plate and served with a coffee cup of dark chocolate sauce. On its own, this chocolate was unpleasantly bitter. When used as a dip for the churros, however, the bitterness melds with the pastry's sweet to bring flavours into perfect balance. If we hadn't fallen so deeply in love with Pasteleria Lopez-Mezquita, we would have returned here for future breakfasts. So many pastry shops, so little time...

Through bites and sips, Granada shows off the glories of fusion

If my burning need to get inside the Nasrid Palace was my first reason for promoting Granada for the 2019 girls’ trip, Marta Sanchez was my second.

The tour my husband and I took with her last year (described here) opened our eyes to the charisma of a city we hadn't yet warmed to. Having spent an evening following Marta around town, I was certain she had the depth of knowledge, sense of fun and appreciation of the good things in life to match our girls' trip style. One of the cornerstones of our trips has become investing in private guides; split between the four of us they turn an invaluable investment into memorable experiences. 

Though she's a guide to all aspects of life in and history of Granada, Marta's specialist subject is food and drink. Her tours include consuming a variety along the way, covered in their price. The idea: understanding what people put on their table helps you truly understand a culture. It's certainly true of Granada's mash-up of cultures, wrapped up in pork-eating protestations of Catholic faith. (Neither Jews nor Muslims eat pork thus, Lord Inquisitor, if I'm eating it daily I must be on the right side of God. So please don't arrest me.)

We arranged two half-day tours with Marta. The first wound us through the Albaicin to cover the town's ancient and medieval history; seven centuries of Romans and another seven of Moors before Ferdinand and Isabella incorporated the region into a united, Catholic Spain by conquest. The second was a morning in the lower town exploring history since that Reconquista and accumulating enough snacks to banish any need for lunch. Together, they covered most of the history and cultural highlights I wrote about last year; I'll let you read the basics here rather than covering them again.

Having a local guide in the Albaicin meant cutting up the hill through quiet, narrow lanes rather than jammed tourist tracks. We appreciated dozy courtyards, historic facades and almost-empty plazas from which to snap photos of the Alhambra on its hill across the Darro river valley below. Marta brought us up to the Plaza Aliatar, the Plaza Larga and a network of bustling lanes between filled with intriguing shops and restaurants. I thought I'd explored the Albaicin thoroughly last year, but this section ... though only a stone's throw from the blockbuster site of the Palacio Dar al-Horra, had completely evaded my discovery. Not returning here for a leisurely wander was probably the greatest regret of our trip, but we simply ran out of time.

Winding through the Albaicin in this way means you come out onto the scenic overlook of the Placeta Cristo de las Azuzenas and the Mirador de Santa Isabel la Real (essentially giant stair-steps of public plazas coming down the crest of the hill) from the back, through narrow lanes with short perspectives, and are completely surprised by the magnificent vista suddenly spread before you. The Alhambra in all its glory, the snow-capped mountains behind it, the city sloping down to miles of fertile valley before more mountains contain the scene. As urban vistas go, there are few better.

This area is full of bars and restaurants obviously convenient for tourists. But the reason you book Marta is to find something more local. Winding down a few lanes brought us to the Balcón de San Nicolás. Just four metres above us, scores of tourists crowded against the top of a wall to watch sunset over the Alhambra from the famous viewpoint of the Mirador de San Nicolás. We had the exact same view, but from a quiet, covered patio shared with gently-murmuring people "in the know" and looked after by an attentive staff.

Whether the bartenders always pour such strong gin and tonics or if you have to be a friend of Marta's I can't tell you, but I will say we could have happily sat here all night and had some regrets that we'd booked pre-booked dinner elsewhere. But we needed to keep moving and let Marta go home, since another big day of sightseeing, food and drink followed.

The next day, at a hangover-friendly 10:30 (another benefit of private guides being the ability to set your own schedule) we started chatting about the Reconquista, Columbus' discovery of the new world and the fabulous fusion of styles and flavours those things brought together under the statue of the explorer and Queen Isabella. Then it was off to Pasteleria Lopez-Mezquita for second breakfast.

It was a delight to learn that Tolkein's hobbits aren't the only characters in love with this extra morning meal. Likely to have started their day with just a quick coffee and small bite, the people of Granada traditionally take a break at mid-morning to enjoy a more leisurely café con leche with a pastry and some civilised conversation. We can vouch for the veracity of this tale, since we returned to Lopez-Mezquita every morning for the rest of our trip. From its wooden panelling, marble and brass to its grand dames and waiters who look (and perform) like they've been behind the counter since Franco was in charge, this place screams venerable institution. Despite the fact that it's on the main tourist flight path, you'll hear few foreign accents. It can be a bit intimidating without local knowledge and the ability to speak Spanish, but dive in, point at what you want and enjoy. You won't regret it.

Marta introduced us to two local specialities here. Piononos are little rolls of sponge cake, soaked in a faintly alcoholic syrup, topped with a cap of flame-toasted custard (above left). They're supposed to evoke papal costume, and were originally made to commemorate a visit of Pius IX to Granada. I found the pastela moruna more intriguing. Light, sweet pastry filled with stewed chicken and dusted with confectioner's sugar, these have the classic sweet/savoury combo so typical of Arab cooking and are a lighter, sweeter version of Moroccan pastilla (above right). The Arab/European cross-over in Granada frequently reminds me of Sicily. Another delicacy Marta introduced us to the day before, pestiños, are like thick, unfilled cannoli shells.

After a bit of strolling around the Plaza de Bib Rambla (where Inquisitors were once happy to incinerate Moorish descendants suspected of religious backsliding, even while stealing their pastry recipes) we transitioned solidly from sweet to savoury at a tiny grocer specialising in jamon. There we learned, and tasted, the difference between the standard and the more prized Iberico (also called pata negra or black leg; they're all the same) before meandering on to the Mercado San Agustin. While not as comprehensive or as gourmet as Barcelona's famous Boqueria, this has the same delightful mix of proper local market and buzzing spot for casual dining.

Having circled the cathedral and heard stories of the Catholic monarchs and its dramatic construction,  and popped briefly into the cultural centre where we checked out some dramatic Moorish interiors, then stopped for a drink in a classic, bustling bar near Plaza Nueva. Bodegas Casteneda is well known for its home-made vermu. This is not the vermouth you put into martinis but a sweet, herbal mixture that's a bit like a highly-alcoholic, but not-as-sugary-as cola.

It's worth noting that, once you dip into the alcoholic drinks, Granada is one of the few cities in Spain that still follows the original tradition of a free tapa with each round. Here it was a plate of paella. Bonuses at other places included a mound of fried potatoes with slices of roast pork, croquettes and a pile of fried squid. These are usually generously-proportioned snacks that stretch the budget and can stand in for dinner if you bar hop across an evening. (Perhaps one of the reasons we saw no public drunkenness despite throngs of young Spaniards across the weekend. I can't imagine the same when combining Brits and cheap beer.)

Then it was time to head for a different neighbourhood. One that would become our regular evening haunt for the rest of the trip. The Calle Virgen del Rosario is a three-block lane packed with trendy bars and restaurants. On a Saturday afternoon it was heaving with locals of all ages, and liberally laced with Spanish hen dos. These are not the brazen, intoxicated raves of the British version, but almost charmingly innocent packs of girls in matching costume ... Minnie Mouse is popular ... who break into the occasional group dance routine.

Our objective was Taberna La Tana, a small but perfectly-formed wine bar once lauded by
American celebrity chef and food pundit Anthony Bourdain. This place is a gem. Towering shelves packed with beguiling varieties of Spanish wines, a dark and mellow interior and a landlady who looks like she's just stepped out of a Caravaggio painting. Though you'll hear foreign voices it's mostly Spanish-speakers here, catered for by substantial regional tapas that are not for the faint hearted: scoops of home-made black pudding, lightly-grilled fresh sardines on thick slabs of bread and the simply glory of locally grown tomatoes bursting with acidic punch. We would have come back every night left to us, but they close on Sundays. I wouldn't visit Granada without a return here. I might even book my holiday accommodation to be near it.

La Tana is the kind of place I'd be unlikely to find without a local guide. And we would have been unlikely to develop the confidence to plunge into similar places without Marta's coaching on the local form. After she left us, we honed our skills around town for the rest of the trip. Check out my next entry for the best dining and drinking spots we went to without our trusty escort.

Marta's company is called Bite Granada. Follow or contact them via Facebook and Instagram.