Our journey to the frying pan of Europe began with awkward introductions aboard our new tour bus - thankfully a lot larger and more comfortable than our Morrocan one. We are spending the next week with 26 new travelling companions. Most are Australian, but there are a handful of Canadians and a Californian. We are the only Kiwis, other than our vivacious tour guide who originates from Te Kuiti! The only other nationality on board is our Welsh bus driver.

When we were planning our trip we decided that a tour would be the easiest way to see the south of Spain in the short timeframe we have before we fly to France. The busabout tour will take us down to Tarifa and Granada and includes a brief skip over the border to Lagos in Portugal. I am especially excited about visiting the Alhambra, the beautiful Moorish palace/fort in Granada and Spain's number one tourist attraction. Dale is holding out for some more beach-time and plans to spend some of his birthday money on surfing lessons in Lagos, surf capital of Europe.

First stop was the picturesque town of Cordoba. We crossed the beautiful stone bridge, which lies alongside the ruins of a much older Roman bridge, and had two hours to lose ourselves in the historic town centre filled with houses with terracotta tile roofs, colourful window boxes and hidden inner garden courtyards which we would catch glimpses of as we walked past open doorways. As we strolled along the outside of the enormous mosque (now cathedral) we were accosted by two gypsy women waving rosemary at us. As we tried to fend them off - "no thank-you, no thank-you" - they each grabbed one of our hands and launched into a palm reading. I tried to curl my hand into a ball and pull away from the insistent stranger, but she increased her grip until it hurt. I continued to struggle until she let go, but Dale (always more diplomatic than I am) remained with his hand ensnared in the gypsy woman's clutches, politely nodding at her promises of long life, happy marriage etc. With a final flourish and presentation of a stick of rosemary, the woman finished her reading and informed Dale that she accepted payment in notes. Dale fished in his pocket for some coins to thrust at her, saying that was all he had, and we both made a hasty retreat.

More tapas and sangria, and it was back on the bus to Seville, a city made up of a hotchpotch of architectural styles - Moorish, Gothic, Renaissance, and an eclectic style developed in the 1920s which combines elements of each. There are orange trees everywhere, as well as fountains, colourful tiling, neatly paved open spaces, red geraniums growing on balconies, lonely statues ignored by passers by, shuttered windows above, and street cafes. Above some streets, sails have been rigged to protect against the fierce sun (in summer the temperatures here are consistently above 40 degrees Celsius).

Our hostel was a short walk from the Gothic Cathedral which has its origins in a mosque built by the Moors during their 500 year occupation. Hints of the Cathedral's Moorish beginnings can still be seen in the inner courtyard with its Moorish arches, fountain (used by Muslims to wash before prayer) and the Koranic verses inscribed in the massive outer doors. Also, the minaret has been incorporated into the cathedral as a bell tower. Dale and I used our free morning to visit the Cathedral before the Sunday mass began. It is impossible for me to describe how spectacular the interior was with all its detailed decoration. We were early enough that there were very few people about and the morning sunshine illuminated the jewel-like stained glass windows and lit up the vaulted ceilings a honey yellow colour. Enormous columns reached up and we had to crane our necks to see where they joined the roof. Christopher Columbus is interred here in a large marble coffin borne by four enormous sculpted pallbearers, alongside crypts holding the remains of Kings and a Saint. The building-sized organ stood silent and there was a hush throughout the inside that was only broken when we stepped back out into the foot traffic of the street.

Seville is also home to Spain's records of its voyages to the new world. Over 80 million pages are stored in the Archives of India (called this because when Columbus reached the Americas he believed he had arrived in India), documenting everything from ships cargos bright back to Spain, early maps of South America, correspondence between Columbus and the Spanish monarchs, and accounts of early encounters with the indigenous populations. Some of the documents are on display so the history geek in me dragged a reluctant Dale along ("I'm sure it won't be open on Sundays Victoria") to check out this incredible resource. It was open, and we did see the documents on display. Unfortunately all the explanatory plaques were in Spanish (as of course were the documents) so we didn't gain much of an insight into Spain's conquests, but there were some nice maps and diagrams to look at.

On our way back to the hostel we caught the tail end of a religious parade to mark corpus Christi. Apparently a specially consecrated wafer, signifying the body of Christ, is carried through Seville's streets on a special altar carried by robed clergymen. There was lots of incense and singing and we could make out the decorative altar, bobbing along above the heads of the crowds lining the streets.