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Stepping into Andalusia is like finding a portal to the past. It takes me straight back to my youth in the '60s and '70s, an era where craftsmen still went from door to door, sharing their trades with the neighborhood. And so, my childhood was soundtracked by the bells of the milkman and the call of the fishmonger. Fast forward a few decades and back in Belgium, that "human touch" has been replaced by cold, heartless vending machines. You find yourself standing on a rainy str

Olvera’s old town is a puzzle of twisting lanes and tight alleyways, all stitched together over steep, long-testing slopes. For walkers , it’s charming. For drivers…it’s an adventure. And then there’s my street. My street doesn’t test your driving skills…it ambushes them. The entrance has the look of a mousetrap. Many an unsuspecting visitor either gets stuck or nearly jumps out of their skin when they suddenly have to turn the corner. Make it through without stopping? That’s

Four days have passed since my joyous arrival in Santiago, yet a gentle melancholy still lingers in me. As on any given day, hundreds of pilgrims and tourists gather before the majestic cathedral. Local guides shepherd their flocks through the square, and a rainforest of umbrellas drifts in a chaotic ballet across the Plaza de Obradoiro. One in particular catches my eye: “Life is a dancefloor” , it claims. Dancing, now there’s a thought. Who would have guessed that on some i

A false start If you clicked on this post hoping for a blood-soaked thriller, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. No corpses, no detectives, no dark alleys. And yet …our “serial killer” does sneak onto the stage for a brief cameo. Olvera, a white village with a wild soul First, let’s set the scene. Perched on a rocky hilltop in the beating heart of Andalusia, Olvera looks like something lifted from a painter’s dream. At sunrise, the castle glows golden, and the church bells ec