Greece on Repeat: An Easy Weekend Get-away

September 19, 2025

It doesn’t take long to make the trip up over the Mediterranean to Athens from Cairo.

It’s close enough that it’s like flying from Auckland to Christchurch (in New Zealand), for the weekend.

Somewhere along the line in my Egypt life, I realised I could catch a 4.30PM flight out of Cairo after work (allowing for carry on luggage only and smooth Uber to the airport for the narrowest of departure scenario’s … no stress) and be in Athens for the weekend; coming back to Cairo ready for work the next day and feel as if I had been immersed in a totally different world.

Thats because I was.

I think what I love the most about Athens is the access to trails, trees and serenity.

I know it well. And I crave it.

My resolve for this coming year though is to also adopt this same approach, to Turkije - with a flight over the Antalya being even shorter than to Athens.

I’m in.

As with any new place though it takes a while to get oriented. In Athens I can metro and bus to where I need to go - in Antalya I will no doubt need a car to access the coast and mountain trails.

But that’s all for a future story.

Greece had me captivated right from when I was a child.

The magnificent Acropolis - the centre-piece of Athens.

I can enjoy a weekend in Athens, packed full of a little bit of everything, and come back to Cairo feeling refreshed and as if I have been away for a month.

My preferred accommodation close to everything is Safestay Monastiraki - a mere 200m walk from Monastiraki metro station and famed square of the same name.

Safestay is always welcoming and accommodating - they also offer storage options for bags with a locker system if you have stayed there and need storage after checking out, OR you can store bags for a slightly higher fee if you haven’t stayed there.

This is a super handy option if you are flying later that day and do not wish to carry bags around town.

The Monastiraki area is a central point for downtown, the Acropolis and other historical sites plus the weekend market area.

Photo of Monastiraki Square by Andrea Leopardi on Unsplash

Athens is crammed FULL of historical sites that are well preserved and easily accessible.

I studied classics at high schools and immersed myself in the various wars, tragedies and triumphs of Greek history as told through broken vases which pieced together their lives, and the scattered ruin sites which littered the countryside.

Greece is diverse.

It is home to islands, mountains, beaches, valleys, canyons, rivers, lakes, and history; so … much … history.

It is civilised - truly civilised - it is one place where their history seems to have been a foundation upon which to springboard forward rather than tumble into disrepair, as I feel Egypt has.

Even the cats know something is up with this special place.

One cannot go to Athens without noticing its commitment to caring for its feline population. Not unlike Istanbul in how it honours the job of the humble but haughty street cat, Athenians create small cat hotels to accommodate the furry inhabitants.

Cats are cared for, fed, spoken to, loved and generally revered in this ancient city, adding a layer of endearment, and for me another reason to love it even more.

From the metro station you can take a direct train to the airport (about 40 mins) and also access Piraeus, from where I catch a ferry over to Aegina (the closest island to Athens).

Half a day on Aegina is like a mini-getaway within a mini getaway - a world within a world.

Stunning Aegina - a mere stones throw away from Piraeus in Athens.

I wander the streets, pop into artisan pottery stores, sample the famous pistachio creations, eat a freshly caught fish meal and photograph the old narrow streets with colourful buildings. The ferry is 45 minutes and costs around eight euro each way, and is a truly wonderful scenic sojourn.

Athens downtown area is walking-friendly, with Plaka and other nearby neighbourhoods being full of amazing eateries, quaint tourist shops, artisan jewellers (check out the whimsical work of Alex Papahatzis), deli’s, clothing op-shops, antique stores, cool coffee joints (check out Anana Coffee & Food); whilst the shopping streets of Ermou Street, Kolonaki and Voukourestiou Streets, have all the big name brands within easy reach of each other if retail is your preferred therapy.

Lazy afternoon afternoon drinks can easily turn into early evening dinners in the many cafes that line the streets of Athens. It is a wonderful way to watch the world go by.

No pressure.

It is also a very art-focused city, with many stores dedicated to art supplies, leather goods, pottery and other hand-made delights. Depending on which way you look at it, even the graffiti plastered on many of the cities walls, are intricately beautiful and add character and juxtapose against the ever-present Acropolis as a constant reminder of Athens past.

The Acropolis area is fantastic for spending time in - there is a vast park-like area where you can engage in some climbing on a local crag; you can run, walk, or just sit and enjoy the viewpoint out to the Aegean Sea or across to Mt Olympus.

The Acropolis itself becomes incredibly busy during the summer months, with queues beginning to build at the entry gates as early as 7.00 in the morning. You can purchase a pass which provides access to six sites, or pay for access to each individual site.

The commanding Parthenon, of the Acropolis in Athens.

Another favourite walk of mine is from downtown up to Lycabettus Hill upon which sits a cute church with an unrivalled view of the city. It is a short but moderately steep walk up to the church and there are also various walking tracks in the surrounding grounds which are great for escaping the streets and getting into some nature.

The image below shows this prominent hump amidst Athens city-scape.

For me personally, I prefer to get into the hilly range of Mount Hymettus, which separates Athens city from Spata, the area where the airport is, for hiking in the Kaisariani forest.

To get there:

From Monastiraki, take the airport metro (or the other train also), to Evangalismo (two stops). Go under the road and walk about 50m to the right to the bus stop and find bus 224. Take the bus to the very last stop (it loops back and repeats the journey every 30 minutes).

From here, walk towards the hills, by going past the cemetery on the path until you see a trail map (its not great by the way!).

Follow the yellow markers for a straight forward route. There are many trails in these hills, with a challenging route going up to the cell phone aerials on top of the ridge of Mount Hymettus, walking along the ridge and down back to meet the main trails (approx three to four hour loop).

This area is scenic, treed, and often full of wandering turtles and hares. The trails are well marked and well maintained. There are surprise churches, cafes and ruins tucked away into the area, making for the ideal playground.

It’s a great place for runners, mountain bikers, hikers and sight-seers alike, or people just wanting a beautiful area to put down a picnic rug and soak up the sun.

It is not uncommon to see tortoises lugging themselves around laboriously and snakes taking refuge under shaded rocky areas, as well as industrious stray cats who have made the ruins their home and no doubt feast off lizards and rubbish bins.

Athens really is the perfect city for a weekend getaway if you are fortunate enough to live a short flight away.

If part of a longer adventure, it is a worthy stopping point from which to branch out further afield and to explore what Greece has to offer.

Athens remains a beacon of knowledge and democracy, home to civilizers like Socrates, who ignited the pursuit of wisdom and ethical thought. This remarkable city is not just a place but a legacy, reminding us of the enduring power of ideas that continue to inspire our quest for understanding.

Athens invites us to honour its past while carrying its torch into the future.

Tips for Athens:

The International airport is some 50km from Athens city centre requiring a train, bus, taxi or car to reach the city.
The metro station is attached to the airport by an airbridge (just follow the signs once in the airport arrivals area); there is a ticket office in the adjoined building.
Metro tickets to the city are nine euro one way or you can purchase a five day ticket for 16 Euro. This pass can also be used on buses.
Be aware of pick-pockets around Monastiraki Square and Plaka areas in the high tourist season.
Be very aware of pick-pockets on the metro during busy times.
You can purchase a one-pass for the major historical sites.
To travel by ferry to one of the closer islands or outlying islands to Athens, you can book online or buy direct from a ticket office in Piraeus. I prefer to buy in Piraeus as then you can get the correct directions for the correct ferry (there are many!).
You can fly to some of the larger islands from Athens such as Rhodes, Santorini, Crete, Mykonos, Corfu.
Try to famous almond cookie - the kourabiedes! Its a well-known treat at Christmas time but is available all year round from some bakeries. Amazing.
You cannot go to Athens without trying moussaka or spanakopita! Do both!
Greece has GREAT wine. Try some with olives. An incredible partnership!

The stunning landscapes of the Rif Mountains in Northern Morocco

Northern Morocco: A Photographer’s Paradise of Villages, Cats, and Kif Fields

September 13, 2025

A resounding round of applause broke out in the cabin when the wheels of our small aircraft touched down on the tarmac at Tetouan airport.

The roller coaster landing, I came to realise ten days later, was a result of Tetouan’s location on the edge of the African continent near the Gibraltar Straits, a mere stones throw away from Spain, and often resulted in flights being diverted to the larger city of Tangier some 60 km away.

The Rif Mountains rising opposite the coastal city of Tetouan, Morocco

I hailed a taxi (10 Euro - cheaper ‘blue’ taxi’s can be caught 300m from the airport fro half the price),

and made my way to Riad Soul of Tetouan - where I would be spending the next three nights.

The Medina in Tetouan was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Centre in 1985, and is accessed through several gates (Babs). It is arguably one of the best preserved examples of a Medina, in Morocco, being largely untouched by outside influences. Gracing the old town above on a hill, is the Kasbah, which is currently under reconstruction - a mini Alhambra, with its clear Andalusian influence. When complete, this will add a huge tourism drawcard to this more authentic Moroccan city.

I was met by the host of the Riad

outside the Medina and I followed his quick pace through narrow, cobbled, vibrant alleys as he showed me the way. I was thankful for his commitment to meeting and greeting guests, as there was no way I would ever have found the Riad - Google maps being redundant in these narrow paved ways.

We arrived at a large imposing old solid wooden door, and I stepped into a vibrant, tiled, colourful world within a world - and oddly, previously owned by a New Zealand woman - vestiges of her influence found in a small collection of Maori artworks gracing the walls.

The gorgeous world of Riad Soul of Tetouan - like stepping into an art installation!

Tetouan would for me, be my ‘warm-up’ for an eight-day stay in the heart of the Rif Mountains, and I was seeking hiking trails almost as soon as I emptied my bags into the wardrobe of my room.

To find the trails, you must head down towards the river, cross a bridge and then head towards the hills.

Simple really!

A quick search on AllTrails did not reveal much, and rather it was simpler and quicker to seek access on foot and to simply …

walk.

Looking back up towards Teouan Medina with the Kasbah on the hill.

And walk I did.

I followed my nose passed the bus station and over a bridge, then wound my way uphill following what appeared to be a reasonably busy road.

After around two km’s of this I came to a noticeable trail access which followed a small creek up hill into a forested area.

I had found access!

I noticed the feeling that being in nature gives me, the second I stepped into the shade of the trees and heard the sound of water flowing as I slowly made my way up the narrow valley, with no real idea of where I was going.

Eventually I picked up a wide dirt road, from which numerous trails branched.

The donkey of a man who offered hiking ‘advice’.

A man (who seemingly appeared from nowhere with his donkey) gestured for me (in his tweed pants and formal blazer, complete with hat), to go a particular way, but I opted for a trail which took me around and up to a rocky view point, providing me with fantastic views over the city and out to the ocean beyond.

I wondered how far that man wandered in his get-up, especially as later I saw him furiously sawing wood and loading his donkey with the cuts.

Moroccan work wear?

Great views of Tetouan and the ocean beyond.

Over the course of the next two days, I spent a lot of time in these mountains, and also walked a complete circuit over unmarked valleys, streams, spurs and ridges, passing sheep and their shepherds and being the recipient of long hard stares, the bared teeth of a few guard dogs and the snorts of donkeys parked like cars in a garage in the middle of nowhere.

From Tetouan I was headed south to the heart of the Rif Mountains, to base myself for eight days in the quaint village of Chefchaouen.

This picturesque hillside town is well-known for its blue-painted old houses inside the old Medina, which dates back to early Jewish settlers who painted their homes the colour of the sky to remind them of their homeland. To get to Chefchaouen, you can take a bus from the bus stop in Tetouan which has four departures daily at a cost of around 25 Euros, or as I did, you can hire a car for 25 Euros a day (I went in Eid - March/April).

I hired from 500 Cars Rent and was super happy with the car (a Clio - manual diesel and very economical), and the attentive service from Mohamed, who made sure I was very happy before I left and when I arrived back to catch my flight to Cairo.

Could I have done without the car? Yes, sure.

However, it gave me a lot of freedom to explore places such as Asailah, and to visit Akchour on my terms.

That said, there are ‘grand taxis’ that depart several times a day from Chefchaouen to Akchour, and return at the end of the day. These are cheap however you do not always know when they will leave, or if they will even arrive at all! I heard a mixture of good and bad stories and did not wish to be stranded in the national park without a way back. In hindsight, I think given the friendly nature of the locals, someone would have made sure I got back to Chefchaouen ok!

Below: Scenes from Asailah

When I pulled off the main highway and drove up to Chefchaouen for the first time, I felt as if I had arrived in the middle of someone’s instagram reel.

I was met by Antonio, who showed me to the riad where I would stay for the next eight days.

Again, as in Tetouan, I entered through a humble old wooden door to the riad Dar Antonio; a riot of colour, quirkiness and vibrance.

The attention to detail in Morocco is out of this world.

As a person who loves colour, and details, I was in my extra extra happy place.

The mountains were just a bonus.

Below: the stunning riad of Dar Antonio.

Chefchaouen could be enough to keep any wandering soul happy for days.

Stunning vibrant carpets line the narrow streets.

Its myriad network of colourful narrow alleyways is home to street vendors selling wares from leather goods, to carpets; bakery items to paint and artworks.

The streets of the village are in themselves a truly visual and photographic feast - with street cats lounging amidst the blue backdrop, making them appear even more elegant and noble, as if they were in themselves, amazing works of art.

Chefchaouen is split into the old town inside the Medina walls and the newer town which is below the Medina.

It was founded in 1471 by the Moulay Ali Ben Rachid, a distant descendant of the Islamic Prophet, Muhammad. The original settlement consisted of just a small fortress, now referred to as Chefchaouen’s Kasbah. The fortress was erected to help defend the area from potential attacks by Portuguese invaders; at the time, Portugal was launching attacks against northern cities and towns in Morocco, so it was understandable that they needed to protect themselves from invaders.

The incredible landscapes of the Rif Mountains near Akchour.

Aside from being immersed in a world of blue, I was in the Rif Mountains to hike.

Chefchaouen is ideally situated for access into numerous trails that are located right outside the town walls. It is possible to access various summits from Chefchaouen including those in Talassemtane National Park such as Jbel Khames, on well formed (although usually not very well-marked) trails.

But if you really want to hike with stunning views, steep valleys and clear blue rivers, the 19km drive to Akchour, is well worth it to access several routes.

From Akchour, a large network of trails spawn from two main trails in the valley -

one that goes to Gods Bridge and the other to Akchour Waterfall.

Both trails begin in the same place then diverge at a bridge which crosses a small dam, with one going up to Gods bridge and the other staying lower along side the river, to a large impressive waterfall.

I had heard many negative things about the waterfall saying it was under-whelming. I was there in spring and it was in full flight even with some snow still on surrounding mountains, the melt was filling the rivers and streams nicely making the waterfall pound into the waterhole below - a drop of some 80 plus meters. Impressive.

There was nothing underwhelming about this drop at all.

The trail to the waterfall was easy - around five plus km one way, suitable for all fitness levels, easy to follow, well maintained and well marked. There were some stream crossings and as it was spring, I did get my feet wet more than once.

To find the trail, cross the bridge at the base of the dam and continue alongside a side stream which feeds into the main river, through a valley. You will walk through various small river-side cafes and eateries, swimming pools, waterfalls and amazing views. Keep going!

The large Akchour Waterfall, is the end of the valley!

Playful Barbary Macaque monkeys leapt boisterously above my head in the surrounding trees as I continued toward the waterfall. Every now and then they would stop and sit - eyeing me with curiosity and no doubt, some suspicion.

Being careful not to get too close, I managed to photograph them in their natural playground.

What a sight.

Mumma and infant give me the royal stare down.

God’s Bridge is a natural land bridge connecting both sides of the very steep valley.

God’s Bridge glows with a luminescent orange caused by the terracotta clay walls.

When the sun catches it, it looks like an inferno is in full force just under the bridge.

The 30m high land bridge makes completing more challenging hikes in the area possible, as well as a loop which will bring trekkers to the start of the waterfall track. Whilst it would be possible to complete both trails in one day, it would make for a long one - especially as the God’s Bridge trail is significantly more difficult than the gentle hike into the waterfall.

To access the God’s Bridge upper trail, do not cross the bridge at the dam, rather, continue up the main river on the true right hand side, and follow the track which begins to climb (steeply in places), above all the cafes below. It is not a long walk to the bridge itself if taking the direct route from the dam, but it is exposed in places so care should be taken for inexperienced hikers.

At the time of hiking (March 2025), the lower track to under God’s bridge, was not open as the river was pounding due to spring snow melt!

After a thigh-burning hike beyond God’s bridge, I would down a fresh squeezed thick pithy orange juice and twice stopped for a magnificent tagine, cooked in front of me on an open cooking system.

Delicious aromatic tagines cooking slowly over flames alongside the Akchour River.

I ate tagine almost daily.

YES PLEASE!

They were cheap, incredibly tasty with complex yet complimentary flavours, and oh so good for you.

My favourite tagine was a chicken, plum and apricot one. I searched for a recipe so that I could make this myself, checked it out with the restaurant chef where I ate evening evening, and was given the thumbs up. If you would like to try cooking a tagine, clearly the tagine itself is a vital piece of cooking equipment. I think it could be possible in a slow cooker, as a ‘next best’ alternative.

For a delicious recipe - click the link below. This recipe comes from My Global Cuisine

Tagine recipe!

Every now and then, while out in the mountains hiking, I would denote a wiff of kif.

The area around Chefchaoun and in the mountains surrounding Akchour, the heady aroma of cannabis can be sniffed on the breeze during the growing season.

But when the plants are long gone, even the faint residue of the plant leaves its distinguishable aroma in the air. I had heard stories of growers guarding their plots jealously, and given that the region is the largest growing area in the world for cannabis, I could see why. Out hiking I would pass groups of men, with their packs of dogs. The men would carry guns; the dogs a menacing glare. Polite hellos would be exchanged and they would ask me where I was going, what I was doing, then proceed to tell me where NOT to go.

I knew why.

Thank goodness it was not growing season, but it did make me curious as to why they opted to grow their kif so high up in the mountains, with access only by foot. It would make for tediously laborious work. I guessed that was why there were so many hiking trails - they were not ‘hiking trails’ for the sheer joy of stretching ones legs; they were essential links between villages; small threads of connection ensuring that the age old traditions of the Rif Mountains were not overcome by tourists in their big busses, and … essential access routes for the kif.

The stunning Cascasde Sur Oued Laou, is not far from the Akchour turn off in the ***Talassamtane National Park***

I would enjoy being in Chefchaoun more than I thought I would.

I spent a lot of time in the mountains directly behind the village - accessing narrow steep valleys behind the Spanish Mosque, also called Bouzaafer Mosque, (a short walk which provides stunning sunset views of Chefchaoun), and also behind Ras el Mar. I discovered on one hike that I could in fact link the valleys which both of these entry points lead to, via a pass.

The hiking was limitless. I did not want to leave.

One afternoon when returning from a hike, I saw an elderly man approaching me walking steadily up the rocky path. He walked with a methodical determination, hands clasped behind his back, his long Djellabah (traditional Northern Morocco outer wear for men) outlining his lean frame. He wore slip-on shoes) and navigated the rocks with agile ease.

I think he had walked this trail before.

I paused to watch him after we had exchanged good mornings, curious as to where he was going, and wondered if he was working with one of the goat herders I had past earlier.

A steep trail leading into the mountains behind Chefchaouen.

Watching him with his rhythmic gait, he bounded up the steep rocky path as if he was a youngster. Every now and then on my way down, I would turn and scan the trail above me to see if I could catch a glimpse of him.

Sure enough I would spot him wandering up nonchalantly as if this was something he did every day He appeared deep in thought and had a sort of spiritual air about him.

I wondered where he was going.

The mountains were steep and unforgiving - did he have a house up there somewhere in the wilds?

I was itching to photograph him, but he kept a watchful eye on me, possibly reading my mind ….

Even after a decent stint marinating myself in the Moroccan culture of Northern Africa, I was feeling somewhat anxious at the thought of having to leave.

I drove out of Chefchaoun through the valleys and back down to the coast to Tetouan to catch my flight out of the country, with a bit of a heavy heart. I passed by women walking their flocks, and also baking bread - the delectable aroma wafting through my car window, which had me stop just to photograph their traditional baking method.

Offering me bread, it took all my strength to refuse (knowing my gluten allergy would thank me), but I paid them the same as a round of bread anyway just for the pleasure of capturing them at work, like dough artists.

TIPS FOR NORTHERN MOROCCO:

Here are 10 tips for traveling to Northern Morocco as a solo older female traveler, focusing on towns like Asilah, Chefchaouen, and Tetouan. I did not spend any tim e in Tangier - but if you arrive and depart from this city, I suggest the following before exploring further:

1. Explore the Medina

Wander through Tangier's vibrant medina, enjoying the narrow alleys, local shops, and the lively Grand Socco square.

2. Visit the Kasbah

Check out the Kasbah for stunning views of the harbor and explore the museum to learn about Tangier's rich history.

3. Caves of Hercules

Take a short trip to the Caves of Hercules, where you can enjoy unique rock formations and scenic views of the Atlantic.

4. Local Cuisine

Savor local dishes at eateries like Restaurant El Morocco, where you can enjoy delicious seafood and traditional Moroccan meals.

5. Cap Spartel Day Trip

Make time for a visit to Cap Spartel, where you can take in breathtaking views of the ocean and the famous lighthouse, perfect for photography.

Beyond Tangier:

1. Research Your Itinerary

Towns to Visit: If you hire a car, start with Asilah (after Tangier) for its beautiful beaches and vibrant art scene, then head to Chefchaouen for its iconic blue streets, and finish in Tetouan, known for its rich history and stunning medina.

2. Car Hire Tips

Choose a Reputable Company: Opt for well-known car rental services. Confirm your booking in advance and ensure you understand the insurance coverage. I used 500 Cars Rent (see above).
Driving Conditions: Roads in northern Morocco are generally good, but be cautious of local driving habits. Always have a GPS or map handy. I used Google Maps with no issues.

3. Stay in Safe Accommodations

Select Accommodations Wisely: Look for good reviews on safety, especially in the medina areas. Guesthouses and riads often provide a more authentic experience.

4. Engage with Locals

Cultural Exchange: Don’t hesitate to interact with locals. Many are friendly and willing to share stories or recommend places. Learning a few phrases in Arabic or French can help.

5. Explore Chefchaouen

Hiking and Photography: The Rif Mountains surrounding Chefchaouen offer fantastic hiking trails. The hike to Ras El Maa waterfall (on the way to the Spanish Mosque) is popular and provides opportunities for stunning photography.

6. Visit Tetouan’s Medina

Cultural Heritage: Tetouan’s UNESCO-listed medina is a must-see. Explore its narrow streets, artisan shops, and historical sites, including the Royal Palace and the ethnographic museum.

7. Enjoy Local Cuisine

Food Recommendations: Try local dishes like tagine and couscous at restaurants in the medinas. In Asilah, visit Café Aftas for seafood, and in Chefchaouen, check out Restaurant Casa Hassan for traditional meals.

8. Stay Active

Outdoor Activities: In addition to hiking, consider exploring the beaches in Asilah. Water sports like kayaking or paddleboarding are great ways to stay fit while enjoying the coast. I went in winter - so not ideal for swimming!

9. Photography Opportunities

Capture the Scenery: The blue streets of Chefchaouen, the coastal views in Asilah, and the intricate architecture in Tetouan provide endless photo opportunities. Early mornings or late afternoons are perfect for softer lighting. Check out the Spanish Mosque in Chefchaouen for sunset.

10. Safety Precautions

Travel Wisely: Northern Morocco is generally safe, but take standard precautions. Keep your belongings secure, avoid poorly lit areas at night, and let someone know your travel plans. Joining local tours can also enhance safety and provide guidance.

Enjoy your adventure in Northern Morocco! The region's beauty and culture are sure to provide a memorable experience.

The imposing Vestrahorn Mountains in south east Iceland.

Iceland: Fire, Ice and Wild Wind.

August 30, 2025

Nothing prepares you for the bracing cold of Iceland in winter.

The wind slices straight through you and attempts to shelter away from this frigid attack are futile, as the wind whips from all directions at once.

I thought I was being collected by the van rental company (Northbound) as soon as I made it though immigration but I stood there in that intense freeze for nearly two hours, before the company thought to come and unite me with my home on wheels.

[You can calculate your potential fuel costs here using this link].

They [Northbound] were actually A M AZ I N G - it was just that I had not noticed them looking for me! My bad.

A late start though!

Keflavik airport is about 30 minutes drive from Icelands capital city, Reykjavik. The entire country has a little over 400,000 people so we can hardly call it a city - rather a large town with a commanding view out onto the wild North Sea. I found a camping spot in the town rather than heading out - given that I had lost several hours in the arrival process, I was eager to eat and settle in for the afternoon, as being after two in the afternoon that I landed, I did not arrive in the capital until the early evening.

Camping grounds in Iceland are common, and are the only way you can stay in mobile or temporary accommodation on wheels.

Here is a second link for camping grounds in Iceland.

It is illegal and heavily frowned upon, as well as being a heavily fined offence, to freedom camp in the country. Consequently, most camping spots are extremely well - equipped, including piping hot powerful showers, large warm kitchen areas complete with cooking equipment (not all had this), and access to some of the best hot pools and hiking in the land. A steaming hot shower was a welcome treat for me. I had set up my van after navigating the self-booking and passcode system into the only camp site in Reykjavik itself, parking in a quiet spot (lets face it, in March there was not a rush on camp spots)- and had become cold in the process.

I was glad I had thought to bring my hot water bottle - as a steaming hot shower, followed closely by dinner and a hot water bottle inside my sleeping bags and duvets, was much anticipated and a small luxury that I came to appreciate time and time again as I drove campsite to campsite in Iceland. The free geothermal powered showers were out of this world good. No limits to hot water and a lack of people braving the far northern spring-come-winter, I could wallow in the hot water for as long as I desired.

After a fantastic nights sleep, I woke early, wrapped myself up within several warm layers, and walked into town on the hunt for coffee. I visited the famous cat cafe and explored the quaint streets of the islands capital.

I was pleasantly surprised to to find Reykjavik’s main shopping street to be littered with an excellent array of outdoor clothing and equipment shops.

This was my kinda town.

The kind of place where you could wander freely in full outdoor gear get-up and not be looked at like some sort of weirdo.

What a town. Albeit a cold town.

I decided to stay another night - there was a great vibe I wished to marinate in for a bit longer (and it also suited me to build up my courage to head into the hinterlands, for a little longer).

Reykjavik-Borganes: Driving north then west from Reykjavik, I headed towards the Snaefellsness Peninsula. My heart of hearts wanted to go into the West Fjords but I did not have an F-road vehicle and many of the roads were still closed. As I wanted to drive around the island in a clockwise direction, it made sense to head to one of the most popular areas in Iceland first.

I drove out of the city and out into the mountain clad highway - the famous R1 ring road - pretty much the only road you could drive right around the country. The wind whipped at my wee home on wheels, rocking it from side to side, unsettling me somewhat and making me think again about getting out to photograph the ethereal white-blasted scenery. I opted on many occasions, for the ‘image from the car seat ‘ method of capturing a view, and I longed more and more to be walking amongst the gigantic scenery, but the cold was simply too severe to consider this especially with the bitingly strong polar winds also.

I was finding myself less and less willing to be subjected to the forces of nature outside my little warm cocoon.

I stopped at the famous church - Búðakirkja, also known as the Black Church at Búðira - a solid stalwart against the environment amidst a tumble of eroded volcanic rock covered in moss, and a backdrop of steep glaciated mountains. I wondered why people chose to erect churches in the most eerily lonely places, as if to add to their already isolated position at the top of the planet - echoing a kind of stoicism against the harsh elements.

Driving the peninsula with the wind speed increasing, I was battling against snowdrifts which threatened to blow me into the ditch.

As the day wore on I became increasingly aware of needing to park in a legitimate camping spot, and I found my car wifi would not provide the locations, let alone once I did find them; they were gated off, allowing no access. I had no choice but to continue onwards in the hope I would find somewhere OR risk camping illegally. I wondered if anyone would be foolish enough (apart from me) to be out and about in this weather and that maybe I could get away with it. Really … would the camping police actually be out in this maelstrom?

The Snaefellsness Peninsula was proving challenging driving, and I had wanted to slow my journey around this arm of the island but with deep snow in places; bitter strong wind; I decided to drive directly to the town near the famed Kirkjufell mountain, Grundarfjörður, and camp there.

I trundled slowly through the town like a cowboy in a western - instead of tumble weed crossing my path, drifts of fresh snow blew across the bonnet of my van, blurring my vision and creating an effect only seen in Hollywood movies. I located the campground below a small local ski field sporting a single hopeful looking rope tow, and backed my van into a small single vehicle space inside layers of packed snow which had formed a frozen room - like atmosphere.

The campground was the most miserable place I had been to on the planet - no working toilet or kitchen area and a slippery path to both meaning simply getting there required an ice axe and crampons to safety make the five metre distance from the van.

It was promising to be a grim outlook for the night.

Two other campers were squeezed into the snow-laden parking spot next to me and it was not looking likely that a comfortable night was in store.

I was truly FREEZING.

I decided to walk to a hotel (The Old Post Office Guest House) I had seen on my way in to the town and go for a warm bed and shower with an inside working loo instead. I told myself I would do it just once. I called the owner on a phone placed in the entrance and explained my predicament, hoping for a cheap small but warm bed with a lovely warm Icelandic shower. Alas no rooms in my price range - the cheapest bring 25,000kr - approx $300 NZD, for the night. Deflated, I succumbed to the knowing of an icy retreat inside my van with no chance to even boil water to heat my hot water bottle - the wind was so strong I could not even light my gas cooker!.

The owner, seeing my sunken composure, then explained to me that her daughter owned an Airbnb and she invited me to stay for FREE as a customer had vacated and if I didn’t mind just using my sleeping bag I could stay as long as I liked.

I waited on the road while her daughter Marta walked to meet me. She warmly invited me with a broad open smile, to make use of her air BnB, encouraging me to stay as long as I liked. The wee apartment was warm, with a huge bathroom sporting a strong hot shower, comfortable beds, a small kitchenette and ample room to relax.

I have never felt more overwhelmed and grateful in my life.

True trust and hospitality does actually exist! As it turned out, luckily for me, Marta and her Columbian husband Jan, owned the towns best cafe - The Valeria Cafe’. A small eclectic oasis in an otherwise grim world, with great coffee. In my world it equated to H E A V E N.

They roasted columbian beans, exported from Columbia where Jan’s family lived. They used this also as a chance to support the small mountainside community in Columbia not only through the beans but by importing crafts made by locals which were sold in the Valeria Cafe. I drank coffee, I photographed the famous ‘witches hat’ of Kirkjufell mountain, longed for hiking into the surrounding mountains and explored further into the peninsula in my van when the weather erased up slightly. I photographed Marta’s cafe for her, and took notes for a future article.

I fell in love with the place.

I should have stayed longer. Two nights was not enough. Marta invited me to stay longer - but the road was calling and her hospitality really had been too much already.

I made a friend.

I stayed two nights in that cute small town, also taking a day trip to a Secret life of Walter Mitty filming location on the coast - Stykkishólmur. I saw furry wind-blown Icelandic horses huddled together to mitigate the cutting icy blade of the stiff ‘breeze’; I drove next to frozen lakes; snow-clad viking-esque mountains, deep glacier-carved valleys, solitary churches and long lonely roads strangled in snow-drift.

This was a place like no other.

I reluctantly said farewell and drove out of town towards the ring road bound for Akureyri, only to discover it was closed due to snow and ice - my hopes of completing the circuit would be dashed.

I had no choice but to drove south west to Borganes again.

I drove through a gravel road (the R54) to Borganes, stopping every now and then to capture the achingly raw remote landscape. Ok. Me and my little van - we would have to come back. I slept the best I have ever slept in that wee black oasis that night in the Borganes camping spot. Facing out into the estuary, with no one in sight, I watched a golden setting sun spreading warmth and saturated colours over the surrounding landscape. I cooked my evening meal and drank a glass of white wine, savouring the moment and sitting squarely in it.

Marinated in golden light, the simplicity of living and cooking there was pure delight.

I decided if the weather improved and the road had opened the next morning, I would indeed continue north.

The non-north continuation:

North was not to happen - and if I was to wallow in disappointment, I would potentially miss out on the southern coast due to having to limit my time along that stretch of landscape. It transpired that the southern coast (typically one of the most popular areas of Iceland), was a veritable glut of waterfalls, mossy dramatic canyons, mountains and all of the good things a singular main road on a volcanic glacier covered expanse could offer.

On my way south I stopped at Icelands longest waterfall, Glymurfoss, located in Hvalfjörður fjord in the west, with a height of 198 meters. I hiked up a lonely trail skirting the steep deep valley where the frozen fall disappeared into. I could not see the bottom of it - such was the depth of the canyon it tumbled into in great icy shards. This Fjord was utterly stunning - with a glassy surface, it reflected the surrounding mountains, imbibing an aura of calm.

Aside from the Walter Mitty movie, the other cinematic foray into Iceland that strongly influenced my decision to get to Iceland, was ‘Bokeh” - a post-apocalyptic sombre movie set on the island, which show-cased it through melancholic cinematography. One of the scenes in the movie depicted a natural hot springs pool - something Iceland is famous for, and even produces maps of all the natural springs around the island. I decided I wanted to visit the pool from Bokeh - it was such a striking scene in the movie that I knew I needed to see it with my own eyes. Located off the south coast near Seljavallalaug, the spring is accessed from a carpark near a small collection of houses, from where a short trail meanders through a steep-walled valley following a broad stream gently upwards.

It is a strange vision to come across this man-made pool in the middle of nowhere - a truly surreal experience to strip bare and soak in the murky green waters, warming ones bones, surrounded by snow-capped peaks. I felt as if I had earned the soak also - these pools in Iceland take on an emblematic meaning compared to the hot pool experience in New Zealand.

Stopping at the famous Skógafoss, I hiked for around three hours up behind it while crowds of people stood below in awe of its magnificent curtain of spray. Rainbows fleetingly danced through the delicate spray, fooling one into thinking that perhaps the sun might come out to stay for a while, whilst busloads of people pushed and positioned themselves in front of the wall of white for the best shot. And this was late winter - early spring.

I shuddered to think what the summer would bring.

I ventured behind by climbing the trail which lead up to a viewing platform above Skógafoss - by far in my opinion, the better falls were behind this famous body of water - in the form of at least eight other large impressive drops coursing through narrow snow-lined canyons over precipitous drop-offs. A narrow trail skirted the canyon on the gentle ascent, offering views down and across the Skógá River, culminating in the Fimmvörðuháls Pass, a mountain pass between the Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull Glaciers.

This stunning hike offered me views of volcanic areas, and unique geological formations and can be also hiked to Þórsmörk, the famous area accessible only during the summer months. As I climbed higher, the snow beneath my feet thicker and I knew I would need to turn back.

It felt good to move.

I camped there that night in the falls carpark camping ground. It was free and offered a basic camping set up which included a decent but solo shower and a very small but exposed cooking area.

There are other falls nearby as well that can be reached by walking or a very short drive.

These are Kvernufoss (in my opinion well worth seeing - can also walk behind this one), and Seljalandsfoss (the waterfall you can walk behind if you are brave, which also has the secret waterfall of Gljúfrafoss a short walk away).

In the middle of the night I was woken by my camping neighbours who were excitedly (and loudly) chatting.

Poking my head out of the van door, I immediatey knew why there was such commotion - the northern lights danced above the lip of Skógafoss in swirling green waves which i coud easily see with the naked eye.

What would my camera be able to see ….?

Duty bound to capture an event I may not get a chance to see again, I grabbed my tripod and camera and hesitantly crept to the base of the falls only to be blasted by the penetratingly cold spray, after a precarious walk to capture the lights, over slick frozen river stones. I captured one very fuzzy shot, and not being committed enough to the cause to tough it out in -20 degrees, I high-tailed it back to the comfort of my wee van, happy in the thought that I had at least witnessed the northern lights.

More detailed information on the stunning southern coast waterfalls can be found here.

The following day saw me arrive at Vik, a small southern coastal town, where I decided to take a tour with Katla Track ice cave tours. This was somewhat of a treat as the tours were not cheap - but I longed to experience the blue interior world of the Katla volcano.

A small church overlooks the coastal hamlet of Vik

I was not disappointed. It was other-wordly.

The tour took us out to the cave area, which was named after the volcano under the Kötlujökull glacier, where the ice cave is located. Kötlujökull is an offshoot of the immense Mýrdalsjökull glacier, which is Iceland’s fourth largest glacier. The glaciers volcanic history showed clearly here; told through a layer cake narrative of black volcanic debris, white snow and blue ice striations. It was a world unlike any other - simultaneously beautiful and strikingly surreal.

Vik afforded me the opportunity to shop for food and also grab a decent coffee at an excellent cafe in the small mall (Lava Cafe), which was also opposite the famous Icewear flagship store. A much needed purchase of sox, leggings and spikes was made there. Whilst the camping ground at Vik was closed for the season, it was still possible to park there. However, I needed to use the mall toilets and to get my water from there in order to heat water for my hottie.

I cosied my van up beside the locked kitchen building to shelter from the wind, and had another incredible sleep. There was something about the cool glacial air that was enhancing my ability to sleep soundly. I felt settled, content and truly happy - less is more … (although less heat was potentially more misery!)

Further along the south coast from Vik, is Skaftafell, an area surrounded by glaciers, including Skaftafellsjökull and Svínafellsjökull, and is close to the massive Vatnajökull Glacier, the largest in Europe.

I was not intending to camp in this area at all, but high winds and a closed road ahead was preventing me from venturing further east.

I rolled up tentatively to the camping ground office (a small wooden hut) where I mindfully eased myself out of the van in order to pay for my camping spot. For five minutes I battled against the wind to open the hut door - a heavy metal shield fashioned like some sort of old iron castle door against the elements. It would slam shut caught on the back of a brutal wind gust.

The trick was to slip in between these wollops.

I slid in sideways, taking the opportunity to get inside while I could, with the door thumping closed behind me like a hammer bludgeoning a stubborn nail into place, not allowing any chance for a mis-calculation in timing.

I wasn’t in the mood to lose a hand.

Given the weather situation going on around me, I was actually surprised to see a human in this structure at almost 8 PM. The lovely park ranger (I guess the same as a DoC worker in New Zealand) inside, suggested to me that I camp hard up against the kitchen and ablution block, in order to shelter from the south-easterly winds. He informed me I would likely have to stay two nights as the roads were not looking to re-open any time soon.

I backed my van against the veranda so that I could open the rear doors directly to the kitchen and bathroom. This camping ground had by far the BEST showers I have ever experienced - huge shower spaces, strong powerful steaming hot water and wide shower heads. The free unlimited showers were such a bonus. I lingered, and even sat on the ground - allowing myself to completely warm up; the steaming water rumbling down my back, behind my neck, saturating my hair, warming my muscles, my joints, my bones. I camped two nights due to road closures caused by severe gale force winds. I fell asleep to the wind attacking my van, with sudden loud cracks as gusts of wind whipped over the surrounding mountains and landed into the valley.

It was comforting, in a weird way.

I slept.

When I say “wind”, I really cannot even begin to explain the ferocity with which the winds in Iceland blow. This is the one detail (and by no means a small one!), that the Instagrammers fail to disclose. It is something else all together.

It is not simply wind - it is a raging tempest.

The wind forces cars off the roads; folds car doors in half when they catch against a gust. It ravages tents, destroys a good hair day, eats through umbrellas like some sort of feral wind-beast, and it can literally push a grown man in a backward walk. It is, if nothing else, a rampage against the calm which one should feel when visiting Iceland!

I hiked to the nearest glacier and Skaftafell waterfall (frozen) - otherwise known as Svartifoss. This fall is known for the distinctive black basalt columns that surround it, giving it the name "Black Falls". It sits in a natural amphitheatre, reached by a narrow trail from the campsite. In winter the fall freezes into a set of long fingers suspended above the basalt columns below; in its summer liquid form, it cascades over the rocks below - turning them a distinctive bright luminescent green.

With the weather not letting up for adventures further to the east of the country, I was limited to turning back in order to allow time for driving the popular Golden Circle. I was totally obsessed with seeing the Vestrahorn mountains — a place I had longed to set my eyes on for decades.

The ragged distinctive shape of the Vestrahorn mountains is one of Iceland's most striking and unforgettable features, where jagged unrelenting peaks rise sharply from the surrounding black sand beaches, in the area known as Stokksness, some 15 km from Hofn. Hofn is a small fishing village which also featured in the Walter Mitty movie - posing as Greenland!

Often with a waning tide, impressive reflections of the range can be witnessed, making the Stokkness area an incredible paradise for photographers. The area was also used for a movie set at one point. The replica Viking settlement was originally built for a film that was never saw completion, but it has since been used in other productions, including "The Witcher: Blood Origin". Set against the small but incredibly commanding mountain range, it makes for an intimidating scene.

I stayed a night here in the Viking Cafe and Guesthouse camping ground.

They offered a cheap place to park, warm and clean showers, and a small shed for cooking. There is also an excellent cafe - with good coffee. You can walk out to the beach from here with some seriously dramatic coastal views to be had back along the west coast, as well as towards the east along the beach and around some small estuary areas. There is also a loop walk which encompasses the mountains themselves - but this is best approached during the summer months. The tantalising Estrahorn also beckoned - but this would need to be left for another Icelandic adventure.

I returned to Vik via Jokulsorn lagoon and the famed ‘diamond beach’ and several all-encompassing strips of magnificence.

I cannot even put into words how incredible this landscape is.

I arrived at Diamond beach and had the entire expanse of iced splatters black sand to myself.

I wandered in awe amongst the large erratically shaped chunks of ice which had drifted onto the beach due to the slow and steady glacial carving into the Jokulsarlon lLagoon. The beach here is well known for the unwanted death of many a good camera, as photographers in their attempt to capture a sunrise against this wild and uncertain stretch of beach, trip over the scattered ice blocks as they try to evade the incoming waves.

Therefore it is crucial to be aware of what is around you.

I witnessed and warned, two tourists who arrived to photograph themselves atop a car-sized block of ice - glowing like a large aquamarine molten glass, one woman climbed on top and I warned her that a decent wave could knock her off. She shut me down telling me she knew what she was doing, and I watched with no surprise as a sneaker wave came in, thrashed against the giant lump of ice, and threw her heavily down onto the sand on her backside - soaked in the frigid sea water., she screamed - horrified to have been caught out.

Well - I did warn her. What a start to her day.

Her friend feebly tried to rescue her but the damage had been done. The raw energy here is almost too much to take in. The sun spread its golden expanse through the scattering of diamond-like icicles and I could see what it was such a popular place to visit - it was truly magical. I departed as soon as a large tourist bus rolled into the parking lot - a timely escape and people swarmed onto the beach. Nothing is sacred anymore. I drove across the road to the stunning Jokulsarlon Lagoon - a contrast of white against turquoise as the glacial meltwater from the Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier created a visual feast dotted with lazy seals who lolled about atop any decent sized ice floe.

The weather was unsustainably cold this day, with a wind that cut straight through my thick down jacket and two layers of beanie pulled tightly over my ears.

I Wanted to visit several more coastal sights before I left the country, so opted for a night in Vik and then to find a hidden valley I had seen someone post about on Facebook - Múlagljúfur. And then to visit some of the sites in the famous Golden Circle.

A warm luxurious night in a Vik backpackers consolidated my stay n this part of the south coast, and I used it as a spring board to view the famous tumultuous Reynisfjara, one of the most dangerous beaches in the world. A night in a backpackers - a warm room, great shower, access to hiking in the wind up a steep and unforgiving hill all. I also treated myself to a meal out - fish and chips and a gin. All for a whopping 88 euro!

Once was enough. I was too late for Puffins - sadly - however one tourist at the backpackers told me he had seen some on the cliffs above the Vik camping ground. On further inspection, it was determined he had seen gulls - not puffins. THATS OK I MUSED - I WOULD JUST NEED TO COME BACK AND FINISH the road trip and visit Marta again in warmer more hospitable weather.

Snaps from stops I had along the southern coast :

THE GOLDEN CIRCLE:

There were two waterfalls I particularly wanted to visit in the ‘Golden Circle’ - so called due to its close proximity to Reykjavik and the ease with which people can see maximum impact sights for minimum drive time. I went to the powerful Gullfoss - the most prominent waterfall on the Golden Circle route, and Bruarfoss - which is arguably one of the prettiest waterfall in Iceland even though it is not a large powerful one.

One of the benefits of visiting the island in March and April was that it was still cold enough to keep tourists away. There were few people to contend with - although Skogafoss certainly made up for that. I lost count with how many waterfalls I visited - all the big famous ones along the southern coast - powerful, commanding, unrelenting even in their semi-frozen state.

Múlagljúfur is a mossy steep canyon heading up into the high country with gorgeous views into steep valleys, rivers, and frozen waterfalls. The luminescent green of the moss was incredible even in the “spring” - giving it an unearthly radioactive glow.

The drive in from the main road is down an unmarked gravel road - no signage, but there is a small parking spot. The trail leads up a gentle slope into steeper and more precipitous trails, in places crossing narrow land bridges with drop-offs either side. The snow line was low, therefore making a walk into higher ground somewhat dangerous. In drizzle and -10, it was already miserable and moody enough. I persevered if only for the chance to stretch my legs and attempt to work up a sweat. Any chance at sweating was stamped on by the oppressive cold as if my sweat glands had retreated far into the inner reaches of my body so they themselves could keep warm.

My final drive took me along the coast and through a vast volcanic lava field consisting of isolated hilltop churches and rocks strewn as if cast by some enormous viking giant over the mossy fields. The road rolled lazily over this landscape, catering carefully and respectfully for its curves rather than ploughing straight through them mindlessly.

I visited the small lonely coastal cottage of a famous poet and concurred with his choice of habitation location - I too would flourish in a barren isolated spot away from all signs of life - but I wondered if I could last as long as he did, in Iceland, in a permanent brace against the elements. Surely that alone would use more energy than I would care to expend against weather. Up a hill maybe, sure, but against the wind?

The night before I flew out was spent in Sandgerði where a modern small campground provided a strong warm shower and some open-ended ‘protection’ against the elements. A lighthouse graced a small bay nearby and I made a mental note to do a final astro photography attempt before I left. Alas this is was not to be.

The cold and wind won out yet again.

I layered up and fired up my cooking system on one of the tables, noting with interest all the burn marks from previous stayers at this site, also no doubt bracing themselves from the cold whilst prepping a meal, and opting to cook atop the wooden tables and burn round marks in them.

A corner table housed a variety of food items left by people to scavenge, I left my cooking oil, some veggies, toilet paper and various other items which felt like a final philanthropic move in this wildly sorted out country.

Taking my wee home on wheels back to the rental car agency was kind of sad for me.

I had slept incredibly well for almost two weeks despite not having a heated van. I was warm, cosy and comfortable. The van had everything I needed, was trusty and reliable. It even had its own wifi for maps. I rolled on into the carpark in order to go through the processes of surrendering her. Even getting out of the van and into the building was paving to be a feat requiring great physical determination - it was as if Iceland was attempting to hold me in its icy grip with the wind - reluctant to surrender me back to the sandy environs of Cairo.

The large airport “Iceland” greeting and map was my final little bit of the country that I could cling to. I vowed to it as if it possessed some all-knowing power of prophecy, that I would come back; it appeared to agree, I thought. I was scheming to myself about how I could do a house sit or maybe even work there (is that even possible..?), either way Iceland had not seen the last of me.

TIPS FOR ICELAND TRAVEL:

If travelling there in summer, book EVERYTHING early
Avoid summer if possible!
Travel in the shoulder seasons is the cheapest - car rentals and accommodations are all a lot cheaper than during July/August
Expect cold weather for all months including summer and prepare with layered clothing - do NOT rely on the weather reports.
There is no such thing as bad weather - just the wrong clothing. If you really want to engage in all Iceland offers, then wear the appropriate clothing against the elements.
Wind is an incantation of some sort of demon induced entity. It is NOT wind as we know it.
Take FULL insurance for any vehicle you hire.
I went March/April and did not require an in-car heater. I took a hot water bottle though and my own sleeping bag and was warm as toast.
Fuel is potentially tricky: when filling your vehcicle do not push “FILL”. This will empty your bank account for a few days until its refunded less the actual fuel amount. Instead put in the ISK amount you wish to put into the car.
Fuel stations were reasonably plentiful and most were on prepay pumps.
The currency is ISK and cash is accepted, however card is best.
Food is expensive. Take your own snacks with you to save on money. I also took an aeropress.
Spikes or micro spikes are a great idea if visiting outside July/August.
The R1 ring road is frequently closed in places due to weather. Use the road app to check before driving anywhere.
Parking is often not free in many of the main tourist sites and also in Reykjavik down town area. Download the Parka app before you go.
If travelling during outside the summer months, the interior roads will be closed.
Travel on the roads during spring, autumn and winter can be treacherous. High winds coupled with snow and ice make for nerve-wracking conditions. If you are NOT a confident driver in these conditions, re-think your plans.

Some extra images just to make you want to go!

A Christmas in Greece: Part One: Santorini on Rewind

August 2, 2025

There is something insanely wasteful about flying from Cairo to Athens,

only to have to fly halfway back to the African continent in order to land on one of Greeces many Cyclades islands in the middle of the Aegean.

I was Santorini and Rhodes bounds - the latter, in order to housesit and care for 22 cats during the Christmas week. I leaned into the aircraft window as the croissant-shaped Santorini appeared a few thousand meters below, thinking about my last visit some 35 years prior and how there looked to be a lot more white rooftops than all those decades ago.

A grumpy cat eyeballs me from the cliffside.

Now it was winter, and the ‘off” season.

I was looking forward to exploring again and witnessing the amazing sunsets that Santorini was famous for. I had to spend two hours in Athens airport before flying into Santorini - the island where the airport runway took up nearly 25 percent of the islands total length. I was pondering the absurdity of wasted time in airports - the captured audience that wanders around in a state of transition in anticipation of finally reaching their destination.

Santorini is an island approx 300 km south of Athens, located in the Aegean Sea.

It's part of the Cyclades island group, which is connected to the Mediterranean Sea. The island is the remnant of an ancient volcano, leaving a croissant shaped caldera with steep cliffs on the inner edge upon which the town of Thera (Fira) is perched.

The caldera is the perfect viewing place for spectacular sunsets

On the eastern end of the island is the village of Oia,

and on the western aspect is Akrotiri which is near the ruins of the same name and the famous Red Beach.

Even potted cacti look like works of art.

It is worth noting, that bus services in winter are much less than in summer, so a taxi from the airport to accommodation may be a more reliable (but much more expensive 25 euro v two euro) option. I considered walking the seven km distance to my accommodation, but arriving in the dark and having missed the last bus by mere minutes, I was forced to get a taxi; there was also something luxurious about being dropped right at the door to accommodation, and I wallowed in the feeling of for a few minutes, especially as I was a serial budget traveller.

On hindsight, I quite possibly might not have been so successful in finding said accommodation if left to my own devices as it was squeezed into a very narrow one car width steep alleyway!

My digs - ‘Sunny Days’ Air BnB, was located on the far edge of Fira, away from the hustle and bustle of the main tourist part of the small town. I imagined that during the high season months of summer this could be a bonus. The complex was a modest white-washed building, with delightful French-doored rooms opening onto a balcony. I ditched my bag, and headed out immediately with my camera for a walk, eager to re-trace steps of over 30 years ago.

Memories are a funny thing - you think you can remember - but the memory fades and changes accuracy, only to be jolted into yesteryear by some sort of sensory invasion - a smell, a view, or in my case, a particular corner where a jewellery shop contained the wedding ring I had purchased decades before with my ex-husband. It was still there, and even though nothing had changed, everything had changed.

Fira is a myriad of tiny narrow paved streets through which only scooters or people on foot can travel.

Vehicles are restricted to the main road which runs the length of the caldera, along with some roads on the gentler slopes to the south side of the island. Blue domes grace most of the churches with brightly painted window frames contrasting against rounded white-washed houses. There is something ethereally satisfying about the contrasting abodes against the deep aquamarine blue of the Aegean Sea; something that sits well within the pit of your being - a familiarity that is unexplainable. Perhaps this is the result of an excellent marketing team silently invading magazines, social media and even Hollywood, with pristine Greek locations, or perhaps it is just something more innate.

The village sits atop the island caldera with a dizzying view down to the old port, where 35 years ago, we docked from the mainland, to be greeted by a donkey train offering to transport us to our accommodation. I remember looking up at the zig zagging steps and preferring to tackle them by foot. Which we did. Back then it seemed an age, in reality it is a little over a ten minute walk at most, although I can understand why some people would complain. Now with the port situated near the northern end of the island, large cruise ships are greeted by tour buses - none of this donkey business. The donkeys are used more for transporting raw materials for the ever increasing construction being carried out on the island - I wondered how they could possibly fit any more as it seemed that every square inch of it which was not a vineyard - was accommodation.

Donkey’s get ready to descend to the old port.

Santorini is proposed to be the lost island of Atlantis, and certainly there is evidence of a vast volcanic eruption which blew the top of the island off and changed civilisation there and every other nearby island, forever.

The ruins of Ancient Thera are located on Mesa Vouno mountain in Santorini, specifically between the villages of Kamari and Perissa.

The site sits atop the mountain, about 360 meters above sea level.

In recent years however, Santorini is becoming increasingly known for its wines, in particular Assyrtiko, a grape vine grown by twisting it into a hole in the ground, due to lack of vineyard space. This gives the wine a particular flavour and ups the price considerably - the average bottle for a good one, selling for over $100 NZD. Land is most definitely HOT property there and considering the volcanic history, one can see why!

Winter in Santorini gives off a lazy vibe - the air was chilly, a gentle breeze blew most days and I was free to wader the streets imagining what it was like with thousands of tourists squashing into the narrow alleys - and thanking my good judgement to have stayed away during this time. Accommodation was freely available, food was cheap even though there were fewer choices, and the streets were empty making it perfect for photography and lazy wandering.

Back in the 80’s as an impressionable teen, I saw a movie called Summer Lovers. It was set on this island, in the village of Oia. I remember being adamant I would get there - and a decade later my ex-husband and I did, as part of a greater three month trip around Europe. We had sailed between Greek islands on creaky rusty tubs and I have vivid memories of ouzo-fuelled illness colouring my sea-fearing adventures.

Sailing between the islands is still an extremely popular form of transportation, and the Greeks are intertwined with the ocean - they have sea water rather than blood running through their veins. Island life becomes a product of the weather - it defines the ability to catch fish, to offer tourism and to grow food crops, consequently the greek islanders are a hardy innovative bunch.

My thighs burnt as I took the final few steps out of Fira towards Oia, finding the track which linked villages along the east end of the caldera. I planned to walk the 12km to Oia which I could see on the farthest point to the east and if necessary catch the 4.30 pm bus back, BUT my preference was to walk both directions.

Leaving early enough to allow such time for ambling, I drank in the views, whilst bidding my good mornings to teams of construction workers working on new builds (which I could only assume were for tourist accommodations), cleaning and creating new paths, and repairing existing housing.

The place was alive with activity aimed at readiness for what seemed like a far-off summer.

Oia is possibly the most picturesque of the main villages on the island, with the famous triple blue domes representing the quintessential Santorini. People flock to this part of the island to capture sunset and to experience the villages food offerings.

The small narrow path changed from stone to mud and before long I was avoiding sure-footed donkeys laden with rocks, earning their days keep as cheap labour, with tanned wiry men urging them along using stern calls and the occasional slap on the rump.

I enjoyed the architecture here - it was more colourful than Fira, and also housed several ancient windmills, hinting at the towns location in capturing prevailing winds. Wandering the towns narrow streets, popping into artisan stores, I looked down and saw a house I recognised.

The house in Oia used in the movie Summer Lovers.

There it was !

The Summer Lovers house from the movie - now an Air Bnb, but still emanating the trademark Santorini abode vibe, that the islands houses had. Smooth corners, roughcast plaster exterior, wooden shutters, brightly painted doors and trimmings set against white walls.

The brilliant blue ocean beyond, along with rows of potted cacti and other brightly coloured plants was complemented with fat contented street cats finding patches of warm sunlight to lounge in.

This was typical Santorini.

Photographing the windmills at the islands tip, I noticed the sky was rapidly turning an ominous dark grey and I realised I would not get back to Fira without getting doused in rain. Then it started, and when it came down, it did not hold back. The streets turned into streams, and like all streams, the water goes where there is the least resistance - downwards. The steps became slippery death traps and water collected opportunistically on any flat area.

Deep puddles formed. I didn’t have a rain jacket.

Ouch.

Bussing was my only option.

Thunder roared and lightning cracked and the rain came in broad horizontal sheets. I have never seen such a black angry sky or steps being transformed into waterfalls.

Things began to blow over.

I found the bus shelter and huddled there along with six other folk hopeful of a bus. We swapped travel stories; a family from India; a young couple with a baby from USA; me, and one cat curled up on an old blanket.

The cold began to bite into my skin.

One warm plate of moussaka later in one of the only open cafes in Fira, I was reflecting on how lucky I was to be back on this incredible island. Later, I gratefully crawled into a warm bed while the rain pelted loudly on the roof of my room, lulling me into a contentment filled sleep.

The rain can only but feel better on a stunning Greek island.

What bliss.

Street cats are cared for here like family members.

Tips for Santorini:

Flights from Athens to Santorini are well catered for - with approx 250 a week during the summer months and this shifts down to around 40 per week during winter.
There are also ferries from Athens and other islands.
Accommodation is cheap during the off-season.
Some cafes and restaurants close completely during the off-season.
There are cheap buses running to and from the airport, approx every hour for 2 euro each trip.
Buses cover the expanse of the island and offer a cheap way to get from point to point.
You can hire scooters, cars and 4 wheeler ATV’s in Fira
Fira has three supermarkets - two are out of the main area and one is on the main street (a lot smaller than the others).
Be prepared for strong sudden rain in the winter months - take rain gear.
Hiking opportunities are easy to access. There are well-marked trails all over the island.

Ireland Part Three: Killarney to Cork

July 30, 2025

“Oh so you’re a kiwi then! I was gonna say Australian but thought I should wait …. ”

The broad smile of the barista took up much of the room on his face. “I once went out with a girl from Timaru” (surprised look on my face); “what a shit-hole” he added. I had told him I lived in Timaru for a while, and it turns out he was there when I was there. He asks me if I know the girl concerned - name announced - ‘nope’. It’s a small world but not that small, although mind you in New Zealand it can be a very small world.

“Well, commiserations” I offered - “on the Timaru thing, but it’s improved a lot in recent years - you may even be able to still buy a house for under $300k there, so that’s saying something”.

Two sausage dogs with hair emerge from the desk behind him and I enquire as to the breed - adding that my only fur-grandchild is a sausage dog mix of some sort (and promptly wonder if it’s PC in the dog world to call them ‘sausages’). I love a backpackers with pets and seemingly this is a thing in many backpackers I have encountered over the years.

Having emerged unscathed from my two pet-sits through trusted house-sitters (no animals died thank goodness), I was hankering for more animal contact. I realised I was missing the street dogs and cats of Cairo - the only dogs you see in the UK are attached to the end of a leash and cats appeared few and far between to me. So here I was about to pitch a tent in the backyard of the backpacker-cafe in Killarney; the gateway to the Killarney National Park and Lakes.

I was itching to get up into the hills and get my legs moving in anticipation of the bigger hills of the Balkans, but so far wind and rain usually taking turns in massive doses, had hampered efforts of getting to Ireland’s tallest peak (a mere 1040m, but that is pretty much from sea level, and I hear it’s a respectable hike, and not to be sniffed at in the best of times let alone in inclement weather).

I decided to go to Muckross Gardens - a fancy posh house set amidst huge grounds, including a nearby large waterfall. Being one to seek out a good drop, I was keen to photograph the waterfall - however the rain was getting worse.

I parked my rental car for free a few km’s away and made the soggy trek in to the cascade, and stood there waiting to use my filters while some dweeb decided to ruin everyone’s photos by climbing up to the base of the hall - slipping on wet slimy rocks several times and generally opening himself up to ridicule from the watching crowd. I managed one quick snap and knew I would be editing away rain drops in post and the performing baboon.

Sigh.

I later tossed the raw image with this performing guy in it. Raindrops spoilt it anyway.

Given the forecast for rain all day, I figured I would take advantage and drive the Ring of Kerry. This drive encircles the biggest land area in county Kerry and covers around 160km of the Wild Atlantic Way - ducking in and out of various headlands via narrow twisty roads, hardly fit for a car let alone camper and and buses - but they do it! This day however, because I had left Killarney late I missed a lot of the traffic and ended up on an amazing adventure being treated to moody skies and a rugged wild ocean thrashing against the coastline. The recommended 3.5 hours to drive this took me 7 hours and I fell into my tent with a full heart at 10.45 pm, excited for what I had captured through my lens - the chance to convey the emotions of being in such a wild windswept place, stored in data within my camera’s SD card.

And it rained all night.

My tent stayed dry and I felt a huge sense of contentment - simplicity is so underrated in this world of collecting more stuff. All I needed in that moment was right there with me in my backpack. I woke with plans to beat the buses by driving the Gap of Dunloe before heading up Carantouill (the high point of Ireland). But in pure Irish form, the wind blew in hard, making me doubt that I would stand on Irelands highest lump. I parked at the top of the Gap; battled to open the car door to get out, and leaned my full body weight into the wind - yep - I could probably almost levitate it was that strong. I wondered about the sense of hiking in such conditions, and thought I would instead hike the valley to the mountain AND half of the Gap so I could take some photos.

Part way back the rain set in again, the wind hammered against my body and I new that it was not to be. I pondered staying another night in Killarney but knew this would make it too pressured at the other end to get back to Dublin to deliver the car back on time. I opted out and instead drove to Cork via the Beara Peninsula - heeding serious advice given to me by a local.

Recalling that conversation I had that morning with the local tour guide, he told me the Beara Peninsula was super rugged and would be quiet compared to the more popular Ring of Kerry and Dingle. Having already driven the other two ‘rings’, I was ready for some more isolated experiences - the Beara peninsula sounded idyllic.

Fore-warned is fore-armed, and I had indeed acquainted myself with the foibles of driving in the Irish countryside, by joining a Facebook group dedicated to tourists tips for Ireland.

I was glad where I had read posts warning about the extremely narrow heavily hedged Irish back-country roads. On more than one occasion I found myself reversing for several hundred metres in search of a driveway or anything really that resembled space - to allow an on-coming car to drive by without inadvertently collecting my wing mirrors. The weather was suitably dismal nearly every day I spent in Ireland, and driving around the Ring of Beara should not be done in any other fashion - the wild weather makes for eye-popping vibrant greens, huge Atlantic waves and an orchestra of drama that alludes to a history of unbridled living conditions. The road wending its way from Inishowen Peninsula in County Donegal to Kinsale in County Cork, a distance of some 2600 km, is known as the Wild Atlantic Way.

And wild it is.

Raw, weathered, hammered, dramatic, moody, untamed and utterly mesmerising; I was in awe of this stretch of road that had me stopping around every corner to capture a scene that took my breath away. It was a slow slow trip to Cork that day and I ended up pulling in to a free camper van park by the port, very late, but having the best sleep ever in the back of the car. .

My final days on the Emerald Isle were spent in Dublin, with a more open mind from when I arrived. I wandered the paved streets, ate ice cream (delicious ice cream in Dublin!), sampled Guinness, wandered through galleries and hiked in the park near the backpackers in search of fallow deer.

I visited Killmonheim Prison - an historic gaol in Dublin and pondered what would lead an adult world to imprison an infant for theft.

Hard times for the Irish; a gritty history that has seen them rise through the muck of hard graft to become synonymous with resilience.

A goat farmer manages his herd, moving them across a dry river bed to tastier treats.

"Socotra Unveiled: Adventures on the Edge of the Arabian Sea" [Part 2: Day's 4-5]

April 30, 2025

The wind whipped around my tent all night

denying me of any hope of sleep.

I felt the only thing holding my dome home down, was me.

I emerged into the morning light feeling groggy and lacking energy.

Today could be the day that I break my coffee drought and venture into unknown territory - instant coffee.

I was desperate for a hint of alertness.

The thought of instant coffee made me shudder, but the sickly sweet tea wasn’t cutting the mustard.

Breakfast was a delicious feast of beans, soft sweet dates, eggs and cheese, washed down with instant coffee.

As we ate, groups of school kids dressed in spotlessly clean white and blue uniforms wandered by our group.

We must have been an odd sight, camped there in a river bed, and we eye-balled each with curiosity and friendly waves as they continued their no doubt long trek, to a no doubt dilapidated building in order to get some sort of education. I admired their commitment and resilience, especially considering their day probably started with a 10km walk to school..

Kids walking to school with their backpacks full of hope.

Today was the day we would go to Kilisan Wadi, where we would hike to the deep greeny-blue waters amidst steep limestone cliffs. This was a location I was very excited to see, and the warming day brought with it the promise of cooling down in this stunning location where our inner instagrammer could be set free.

The driving to Kilisan Wadi was through forests of Bottle Trees - hundreds of them - and we stopped to admire all the odd shapes and sizes - conjoined twins and triplets, some in bloom some not, some fat some thin, some with contorted branches, some perfectly symmetrical (like a bottle). The array of variation within this one species of tree was astonishing, however one common striking feature was the oddly mesmerising beauty of this endemic tree.

If ever there was a perfect swimming spot, wadi kilisan would have to be it!

The water is so exquisitely coloured, as if someone has poured green dye into the space where water flows through the white limestone layered cliffs.

Our guide from Socotra Specialty Tours took us through caves, tunnels, nooks and crannies to find the perfect place for cliff jumping into the cooling waters and it did not disappoint.

The stunning waters of Wadi Kilisan invite even the most timid person to leap with abandonment from its limestone cliffs!

Our day was just beginning…

We hiked back to the vehicles and settled in for a spectacular drive back down to the coast to Zahek Sand Dunes. The drive down from the plateau to the dunes was nothing short of intense - slow and measured, we inched our way toward the azure blue strip hugging the island, while our careful driver sang along with us to various playlists blasting on the stereo.

Zahek dunes are perfect for sunset. To capture the shapes, shadows and light during golden hour was beyond amazing.

The seemingly endless curves of Zahek Dunes reach like a soft blanket, to the Arabian Sea.

I don’t think I wanted to leave that spot.

But a new camp for the night beckoned, along with the promise of soft sweet dates and heart-warming food.

Such deep, rich golden light turned the imposing mountains into a layer cake.

We ate a lot of fish, and that evening did not disappoint. Fishing is a mainstay for the people of Socotra, and there is nothing like fish that is eaten less than an hour from net to plate. The distinctive Yemeni fishing boats dotted the coastline, and on a good calm day many could be seen heading out early to make the most of unsuspecting fish.

Early. morning at Aomak beach - fisherman already out making the most of the abundant fish.

Day 5 saw me awake early and heading for an exploration of the beach. At 0500 several boats were out, working their way along the water close to the shore. Every now and then I would see a fisherman pull up his net and extract his haul. One guy looking up at me and giving me the thumbs up each time he was successful. It seemed to be a throw and pull type of system - the nets were thrown in, pulled along briefly and then pulled up and out of the water to reveal the score.

My fisherman friend changed from thumbs up gestures to now showing me the number of fish he had caugh, on his fingers. Soon he was going to run out of fingers.

Would he use his toes?

A glorious Socotra sunrise brings the promise of another amazing day.

"Socotra Unveiled: Adventures on the Edge of the Arabian Sea" [Part 1: Day 3]

March 21, 2025

As I peeled myself from my tent perched on the edge of a vast blue ocean, the iconic words of my mother speaking to my child self, drifted through my brain … “shut the door! Were you born in a tent?!!”

I secretly think I would have liked to have been born in a tent, as childhood memories of ”camping” in the back yard in my flimsy canvas tent were one of the most etched-into-my-brain visions I had of my formative years; plus making pretend camp fires in the front yard under the trees.

I welcomed the early morning sea breeze and let my mother’s words land in that special place where I liked to think my adventurous spirit dwelled as a young kid. I remember biking here there and everywhere - off on some big self-described intrepid journey on my orange three-geared bike with a carrier, while other girls my age went to ballet classes.

I was uncool but didn’t care.

Still am uncool.

Still don’t care.

The early morning sky was a blanket of black with pin-cushion stars. I tried to tell myself there was a better night sky in New Zealand but had to admit that actually this was pretty bloody epic. Too bad it was so windy - I wasn’t keen on getting my tripod out and attempting to keep my camera clear of sand just to get some star shots.

Sand and camera’s don’t mix.

The sea lapped close to the rocky edge of the shore and I needed to be careful not to tumble down into it.

This dark blustery morning was meant for sunrise watching. We were told to be awake at 0400 in order to walk the dune to a vantage point from which to view the sunrise. Walking a monstrous steep sand dune of sand so soft and fine it felt like walking on a bed of clouds, is no easy feat at stupid-o’clock when the body is asking “WHY?!”

I zipped up the door of my tent - careful not to let my mothers words spill out into the morning, and met the others who were joining for the upward trudge. We were driven to the base; stripped our shoes and socks off and started up. There was no ‘warm-up’ dune; it was straight into it. I swear that dune was a sixty degree angle - she was steeeeeeeeeeeeeep! The good thing about steep hikes is you get high pretty quickly. And not just due to hyperventilation. It did not take long before we were scouting for the best view point amongst others who had joined from other tour groups, including the influencers on their flowing red dresses attempting to look ‘spontaneously put together’ on their epic island ‘adventure’. I wondered if they ever really LOOKED, or if they re-lived through their heavily curated world and THEN pinched themselves after the fact.

I preferred the real-time pinch.

Gradually the sun inched toward an orange-painted sky, casting a warm glow on the white sand dunes; the wind picking up its pace in tune with the ever increasing daylight. We all sat then ; some together, some alone, but each silent in a capsule of awe as yet another ‘pinch-me’ moment presented itself. I was torn between photographing and just watching. So I mostly watched - probably ending up in the very important influencers video. Ah well - they can edit me out. Convenient, that.

Breakfast tasted especially good after the early start.

We ate with a chilled relaxed vibe, settling in to sand between our toes and teeth; in our hair and food; the promise of the days adventures hanging before us like a tantilizing prize.

I was especially excited knowing that we would get our first glimpse of the famed Dragon’s Blood Trees - the iconic shape which makes Socotra instantly recognisable for those in the know. But first we visited a coastal marine reserve (Dihamri) - a rugged stretch of coast outlined with vivid red volcanic rock, and draped with shells of all shapes, sizes and textures.

I wandered alone, amongst this visual feast - as I hunted out interesting shells and corals to photograph, while the others sat absorbed by their phones in the first wifi spot of the past three days.

We also had a cold shower here, in a small, drafty, smelly stone hut.

It felt like pure unadulterated luxury.

I was battered by the wild wind, as turbulent waves spilled up onto the shore causing the bed of shells and corals to rattle and shake as if some sort of sonic branding advertising the beaches of Socotra. The power of the waves stood in stark contrast to the tranquil beauty around me. The sand dunes of Arher Beach sliding all the way down to meet the Indian Ocean a short distance away, and the vivid blue of the water against the deep red scoria, formed a breathtaking spectacle - one that kept me captivated for over an hour while I wandered capturing images. Typically a spot that invites snorkelling and diving, the rough conditions steered us away from underwater adventures; instead, each of us found our own form of solace, before setting off toward the mountains, where the promise of lush trees and the enchanting allure of Homhil’s ‘Infinity Pool’ awaited us.

A small village enroute to Homhil Plateau, sits atop a rise overlooking a stunning vista.

The drive to Homhill involves heading inland and up, at a snails pace on the most rugged gauged out dirt roads I have ever experienced in a 4-wheel drive, to the Homhil Plateau. It was like experiencing the worst turbulence on a flight, as we were tossed about in the vehicle, like coffee beans succumbing to a grinder. This was to be our camp spot for the evening, but as we set up the tents and got ready to depart for a short walk down to the Infinity Pool, the portable toilet tent blew away! The sky was an ominous grey and the wind whipped viciously around our legs, stripping away any ideas of soaking in the inviting green waters of one of the most impressively located water pools on the island, and also of a peaceful sleep that night!

The Infinity Pool is a small pool perched on the edge of an intimidating cliff, which is fed by a series of limestone channels from the valley above.

The Infinity Pool is filled by water which drains from the plateau through limestone channels which yawn their way downwards due to a millennia of etching into the rock. This has left an intricate array of curious patterns in them. The channels culminate in the small aquamarine pool and an impressive cliff edge with views to the ocean.

The intricate patterns of limestone and alluring shape of the Dragons Blood Trees create a never-dull landscape.

Given the camp toilet was in pieces

and our tents were unable to be erected due to the origami-style attempts against gale force winds, a decision was made by the camp cooking crew to go to a different camp site while we were at the Infinity Pool. This unfolded into a hilarious adventure of ‘find the camp cook’ who had driven off with all our supplies, including tents, toilet and food, in order to find another less stormy camp site. The problem is, this place was not communicated to our drivers and we spent around two hours attempting to find it!

Eventually we did; a dried river bed surrounded by mountains and goats was to be our home for the night and we settled in to yet another evening of wonderful food, hilarity with the camp cooks and drivers joining in on the worlds smallest Jenga game (I failed miserably at this), and the bleats of wandering goats as they cruised by our small base camp checking us out. The wind blasted around us but fortunately in our river bed valley we were sheltered from the worst of it, and I settled into a restful sleep, secure in the knowledge that when I needed to get up and pee in the middle of the night, I could do so in a tent-bog that wasn’t going to blow away leaving me exposed (literally) to the elements … I think.

By the way, as an avid traveller, I need to know that my family back in New Zealand are not stressing about my safety. I use SafetyWing Nomad Travel Insurance to keep me covered and give me peace of mind!

My tent at Arhur Beach, on a soft sand pillow beneath towering cliffs and gaping caves, on the edge of the Arabian Sea.

"Socotra Unveiled: Adventures on the Edge of the Arabian Sea" [Part 1: Days 1-2]

February 8, 2025

Excitement buzzed in the air like static electricity.

It was as though we were embarking on a secret mission, the check-in counter separate from the normal buzz of the airport, a hidden door leading to an adventure that only a select few—merely 3,000 souls a year—could embrace.

As the line formed for the special Air Arabia charter flight at Abu Dhabi airport, we exchanged knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment of our shared destiny. Each individual was a character in this unfolding adventure: older couples, solo travellers like myself, self-curating influencers, young ‘OEers”, all waiting patiently under the watchful eye of a 'flexible' boarding time.

My overnight jaunt from Cairo had left me bleary-eyed, fueled only by coffee and the anticipation of exhaustion. The thought of a brief nap was a tantalizing dream, quickly overshadowed by the thrill of heading to Socotra Island—often dubbed the Galápagos of the Middle East, a gem resting 350 km off Yemen's southern coast in the Arabian Sea.

Socotra lies off the Horn of Africa - closer to Somalia than to the Yemen mainland.

This small island, was surely the place where God decided to experiment with tree designs; the famous Desert Rose (Bottle Tree) and Dragons Blood Tree being two such quirky ‘Dr Suessian’ wonders of nature, that had drawn me years ago to research about this little visited island.

I was literally living a dream I had, to see these trees for myself.

Stepping off the plane, I was met by a main airport so small it felt like it could have fit comfortably in my living room. It housed a lone x-ray machine and a handful of tour guides, the friendly faces of various companies offering glimpses into the island’s wonders.

The air was thick with anticipation as travellers claimed their bags; excitement and anxiety blending with the knowledge that a Yemen visa stamp awaited us—an elusive prize for some, a burden for others.

The famous Socotra International Airport

FULL DISCLOSURE: I do NOT like to be part of a tour group and pride myself on solo travel, solo adventuring; solo exploring; a ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ style of travelling. In order to be on Socotra Island as a tourist, a person MUST obtain a visa [sigh] through a tour company operating from the island. Formalities regarding the permission to enter Socotra and visa [fee 150USD/person] can be administered only by an ecotourism agency situated in Socotra. This does not mean one has to travel as part of a group, but it does mean one needs to have a tour company willing to take on the legal burden of a person being on the island. Whilst people do travel solo, it is under the auspices of a tour company or they have hired a driver (the roads in the interior are definitely NOT to be messed with!) to transport them to various locations around the island. I joined a tour in order to ‘check out’ future partnering possibilities with the company [watch this space!] on the island and so I needed to immerse myself inside the tour experience.

The Adventure Begins…

Finding my group, we piled into three rugged 4x4s, our new companions for the next eight days—young, vibrant souls from Australia, Ireland, and America.

I was certainly the old lady of the group!

The drive into Hadiboh [Socotra’s capital] unfolded like a cinematic adventure, where we were greeted by the owner of our tour company and enjoyed a sumptuous local lunch. Goats, with their whimsical charm, also welcomed us, foreshadowing the delightful absurdity that would be our theme for the week. As we savoured the flavours of the local cuisine, we chatted about the days to come - a shared anticipation rising.

We climbed back into the jeeps, the vehicles bouncing along roads that seemed to defy logic. Our driver, Saeed, a jovial spirit, filled the air with the vibrant notes of Arabic music. I silently pleaded for a reprieve from the energetic tunes, recalling the din of Cairo. But soon, the landscape transformed, and we paused to marvel at the iconic Bottle Tree, also known as the Desert Rose. I had thought it a rare sight, but little did I know, the island was a treasure trove of such wonders.

A lone fisherman works in sync with the ocean.

As we approached our first camp at Arhur Beach, the coastline unfurled before us like a painter’s brushstroke of aquamarine, framed by majestic mountains. The scene was breathtaking—a symphony of steep white sand dunes and imposing cliffs that clung to the earth like ancient sentinels, while the turquoise Arabian Sea lapped gently at the shore.

Massive sand dune cascaded from sheer cliffs, against an azure blue ocean.

Arriving at Arhur Beach, the tents stood ready, each one a cozy cocoon with a view that could steal your breath away. The dunes rose steeply, their white sands juxtaposed against the rugged cliffs, like nature’s own pyramids, while the smooth ribbon of beach beckoned us to dive into its crystal-clear waters.

I lay back, my feet poking out of the tent, lulled by the rhythmic whispers of the waves.

Though my eyelids felt heavy with sleep, adventure called. The group guide took us to a nearby trail that promised a breathtaking sunset view. He strode off and I inhaled sharply thinking “here we go”, but happy to be moving after two days of inactivity. The path steepened, shifting from sandy ease to rocky challenge, as the surrounding terrain broadened around us.

At the top - a rocky plateau - the coastline opened up as a wide expanse of jagged mountains meeting turquoise oceans lapping up against white sandy beaches.

Was I in fact IN paradise?

The Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea intertwined like sleeping cats; their waters embracing in a dazzling display of popping colour. As the sun dipped, the sky transformed into a canvas of deep gold, illuminating every crevice of the craggy cliffs and the land below. I sat in awed silence, soaking in the beauty as light danced around us, a fleeting moment of magic etched forever in my memory.

A steep descent back to the vehicles below.

With a steep, quick descent that felt like running through a gravity-less lunar landscape, we floated back to camp, our spirits buoyed by the jaunt to higher ground. The evening welcomed us with a feast fit for adventurers; a culinary delight that lit up the taste buds. Sated and happily sleepy, I retreated into my tent—my personal secluded capsule of comfort—and surrendered to a blissful sleep, lulled by the rhythmic crashing of waves just meters away. Ten hours of uninterrupted rest embraced me, wrapping me in dreams of far-off lands and sparkling waters.

Day 2: Arhur Beach — Hike to Hoq Caves and Sunset at the Two Oceans

Emerging from my tent the next morning, I was greeted by a mirror-like ocean, reflecting the dawn in a surreal tableau. Breakfast was a protein-packed feast, an array of eggs, creamy cheese, and soft, gooey dates that seemed to promise both energy and indulgence. I wondered if I might leave Socotra ten kilograms heavier ….

After breakfast, we piled into the jeeps, our excitement palpable as we drove to the trailhead for the infamous Hoq Caves. The hike began, and I found myself enveloped in a glorious palette of color, where bizarre bottle trees stood like surreal sculptures against the azure sky. Vibrant hues of the unique rock formations dotted our path, and before long, the cave entrance loomed ahead above —an imposing gaping maw, jagged and toothy, like a slumbering giant beckoning us into its depths.

With hearts racing and senses heightened, we stood at the threshold of adventure, contemplating not just the caves, but the beauty and mystery of Socotra itself, a place where nature's wonders unfold like pages of an unwritten adventure story, waiting for us to explore their depths. As we ascended the cave revealed itself; a main passage stretching around two kilometres, with a mean width of 50 meters. It felt like wandering inside the belly of a magnificent beast, an experience that would be unimaginable in the caves of Europe or my homeland of New Zealand—where health and safety regulations often frame the spirit of adventure with paved paths, hand rails and even lighting. I wondered how long it would be before Socotra’s caves would succumb to the same constraints.

Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the first 200 meters, but soon we were enveloped in darkness, our headlamps flickering to life, casting eerie shadows against the ancient walls. The temperature dropped, a chill creeping in until we ventured about 1.5 kilometers deep, where the air shifted suddenly—clammy, hot, and humid.

More difficult to breathe.

Kase, our guide, told us that every time he had tried to go further into the cave, the headlamps had all gone out.

Freaky.

It was then that we discovered the source of the warmth: natural pools of crystal-clear water formed a natural barrier, inviting yet forbidding. The temptation to dive into those shimmering waters was quite overwhelming and we had a brief moment of contemplation — to swim or not to swim.

Not to swim was the order of the day, but we did pass a handful of water over our clammy faces.

We lingered in the Hoq Caves, spellbound by the gaping wonder that was Mother Nature’s artistry. Each stalactite and stalagmite like some out of place ginormous church organ, whispered stories of eons past, while we stood in reverent awe, as if we were witnessing the birth of a weird world. Eventually, we retraced our steps back to our vehicles, anticipation bubbling up at the thought of a freshly caught feast awaiting us at base camp.

Lunch was indeed a celebration of the sea, with fish prepared to perfection, each bite a reminder of what the ocean can provide. You simply could not get fresher than this - from ocean to plate. Afterward, the afternoon unfolded lazily, a gentle sigh of relaxation. We indulged in “showers” beneath the cascading waters of a natural spring, the cool liquid flowing down from the cliffs and merging with the warm embrace of the Arabian Sea. The coast beckoned me to explore, and I wandered along the shoreline.

In that tranquil space, the worries of the world felt like distant echoes, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I realised I had not once missed my phone.

As late afternoon approached, we once again piled into our trusty 4x4s, a raucous band of adventure seekers, hanging out of car windows and perching on rooftops. Laughter and music filled the air as we sped through the landscape, completely absorbed in the moment, a joyous cacophony of life. Our destination was a special place where the Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea met; a gentle merging of waters that felt almost sacred.

We sped along the bumpy sand roads whilst perched atop the vehicles - laughing as our drivers tried to outdo each other.

There was no grand spectacle when we got the the Eastern most point on Socotra; no fanfare to herald this meeting of giants—just an invisible line drawn between two of the planet's most powerful forces. As the golden light began to cast its warm glow across the beach and the steep cliffs that plunged into the rolling waves, I felt the magic of the moment wash over me. Traditional Yemeni fishing boats bobbed along the coastline, their silhouettes framed against a backdrop of shimmering waves that caught the sunlight and sent it crashing to the shore.

The rugged coastline reminded me of New Zealand’s wild West Coast, where each rocky outcrop seemed to hold secrets of the sea. I half-expected to spot an orange starfish nestled among the stones, but nature had other plans. As the sun dipped lower, the sky ignited in a deep orange hue, painting a moody masterpiece that felt alive and breathing.

The spectacular evening light was a sight to behold.

In that breathtaking moment, I reminded myself that I was standing on an island I had long dreamed of visiting; a dream that had blossomed into reality in ways I had never imagined. I stood there on that bit of coast jutting out into the meeting of two bodies of water, allowing the beauty to envelop me — to seep into my very being — hoping it would remain a part of me forever like a tattoo; an indelible mark of this extraordinary experience.

Interested in a trip there with me in january 2026?

Register your interest now for a women’s only hiking | photography | camping tour over 7 nights/8 days, by contacting me in the “learn more” button below.

Learn more

The Burren, Some Cliffs, Three Cats and a Fox.

September 15, 2024

I don’t think I was ever really drawn to visit Ireland - impossibly moody photographs of the Cliffs of Moher have from time to time piqued my interest, as has the Wild Atlantic Way, but I think I could have gone to my grave ok with never having gone to ‘The Emerald Isle’.

An opportunity to take on a Trusted Housesitters gig in County Clare, in a typical small Irish village called Coffin, was enough to make me re-think my non-interest in Ireland. And I am delighted that I did.

Corofin is regarded as being the heart of The Burren National Park - a large limestone expanse of undulating contorted landscape that is known for hiking, fossil hunting and archeological sites.

“The Burren” literally means “rocky place”.

This bountiful area of 530 sq kilometres of karst and glaciokarst, was a mere eight km from Corofin, making it the perfect base for a week of adventures. Corofin was also close to the other highlight of County Clare - the Cliffs of Moher, plus wonderful delights such as the small town of Ennistymon, which I discovered by pure chance.

The mesmerising swirls of The Burren and below - click in to view the animals!

I was tasked with caring for a moody overweight ginger beast of a cat called Barney, who had one working eye and a half chewed ear; an older cat on medication called Marge, and Scruffy the young explorer. Additionally I was told a fox frequented the garden, along with numerous birds, which were also to be fed. It was a wonderful few days of cat love, fox enticement, Netflix, gin in the evenings, photography, exploring and I also mingled with the locals in the red pub for fish and chips, Guinness and bawdy exuberant Irish music.

I explored the wonderful forests of Dromore Woods, near the pretty larger town of Enis (whose picture post-card streets I wandered through), where the skeletal O’Brien Castle stands on a lake edge as solitary witness to history in the area; a surprise amidst the densely forested trails (I also got lost at one point!). My most loved town however, was Ennistymon.

In the impressively water-falled town of Ennistymon, I discovered fantastic coffee at The Cheese Press, and drove daily the narrow hedged lanes for 20 km just to sip down this luscious brew and soak up the artsy atmosphere of the cafe. Ennistymon is an extremely pretty typically Irish village. The village itself is hidden in a recess among the hills and lies on the southern edge of the Burren, three km inland from the Atlantic.

The old historic bridge and first cascade.

It has a wonderful old bridge which spans the Cullenagh River near the oldest part of the town.

A little below the bridge, the river rushes over an impressive ridge of rocks and forms a beautiful series of cascades about a kilometre away from where it joins the river Derry. The united streams continue towards the sea as the Inagh River.

Colourful old buildings line the Main Street, giving hint to the villages past, and the river meandering alongside houses a stunning walking track which can also form a loop back into the village. One day whilst wandering the streets, I came across a woman who was holding an exhibition of her sea kelp paintings. They were exquisitely painted - fine detail and use of colour had all been expertly woven together in a harmony of design and story-telling . Her work reminded me immediately of a movie I had watched on Netflix the night before - My Octopus Teacher. I enquired if she, (the painter) had seen the movie. She hadn’t, but asked about it. I showed her the YouTube trailer on my phone and she became quite moved by the short snippet, thanking me for telling her about it and vowing she would watch it that evening. We talked about all sorts of things, connecting in a very human way, for a short period of time, and would likely never see each other again. It was one of those rare but quite profound moments when you stop and realise how similar we all are, how kind people are and how inherently we all are programmed for connection.

It could be rightly argued that aside from The Burren, County Clare’s best (if not most fame-worthy) attraction is The Cliffs of Moher. Spanning some 15 km, these awe-inspiring features cut a foreboding edge to Irelands intersection with the wild Atlantic Ocean. Here, the tempestuous ocean collides with the land, a savage dance that has surged between the vibrant shores of the USA's East Coast and the dramatic misty cliffs of Ireland’s west coast, for thousands of years.

The Cliffs of Kilkee is perhaps the lesser known of the two must-see cliffs along this section of Irish coastline, but in my opinion, is overwhelmingly under-rated. It is more accessible for those who cannot walk the more rugged Cliffs of Moher, and generally it is not as busy.

There are no words adequate enough to describe the grandeur of the Irish coastal cliffs. Both the Cliffs of Kilkee and the Cliffs of Moher rise like ancient sentinels, their jagged edges clawing at the sky, where the restless Atlantic crashes below, in a symphony of thunderous waves echoing the fierce heartbeat of a wild and untamed land.

The Cliffs of Moher track leads you perilously near the precipice, where a fierce wind dances through your hair like a banshee, mud sucks to your boots as if the earth is reluctant to let you go, and a biting chill seeps into your fingertips, encouraging you to seek solace within your puffer jacket. Yes - even in summer, this place carry’s the haunting chilled breath of the ocean's untamed fury. There is a true sense here, of evoking an Ireland of old; where people fought against the elements with as much fervour as they did against their foes, braving fierce winds and crashing waves that forged their rugged spirit and unyielding resilience. Ireland was rising higher on my most favourite countries.

Tourist websites encourage people to drive to the main parking area (12 euro fee to park) located at the visitors centre and to then walk the short but scenic distance to the cliff edge.

I strongly suggest to drive to the Hags Head end, where a more reasonable five euros grants you access to the track, through private farmland. It is also possible to overnight camp at the parking area. From the access track, you can spend a few hours traversing this stunning stretch of Ireland, especially recommended at golden hour (an hour before sunset), when the sun bathes the emerald landscape in a warm, ethereal glow that seems to breathe life into every blade of grass.

Alternatively, the charming village of Doolin, (where parking is free), provides access to the track — if you have the spirit and stamina for an adventure (it is more challenging from the Doolin end, but by no means a sufferfest!). This route also takes you past the interesting Doonagore Castle.

In summer, Doolin pulses with life, so arrive early to witness the dawn’s light painting the cliffs with a magic that lingers long after the day unfolds (and for prime parking) .

Wild Ireland had unfolded in my mind as a tapestry of untamed beauty, and the rugged coastal cliffs of Kilkee and Moher stood as vivid brushstrokes, solidifying this vision with their imposing raw majesty against the tempestuous embrace of the sea.

I was getting closer to the wild I was looking for.

GETTING THERE:

Directions to the Cliffs of Moher and Kilkee Cliffs

Getting to the Cliffs of Moher:

From Galway:
- Take the N67 south towards Ennistymon.
- Follow signs for the Cliffs of Moher.
- The drive will take approximately 1.5 hours, offering scenic views along the way.
From Limerick:
- Head west on the N18, then take the N85 towards Ennis.
- Continue on the N85 until you reach the N67.
- Follow the N67 to the Cliffs of Moher. The journey takes around 1.5 hours.
Parking:
- There is a designated parking area at the Cliffs of Moher visitor center, with a fee for parking.

Getting to Kilkee Cliffs:

From Ennis:
- Take the N85 towards Kilrush.
- Once in Kilrush, follow the signs for Kilkee on the R487.
- The drive takes about 40 minutes, winding through the lush Irish countryside.
From Limerick:
- Travel west on the N18, then take the N68 towards Kilrush.
- Continue on to the R487 to reach Kilkee. The trip will take approximately 1.5 hours.
Parking:
- There are several parking areas in Kilkee, often free or at a minimal charge, especially near the beach and cliff paths.

Both locations offer stunning views and a chance to experience the raw beauty of Ireland’s rugged coastline. Enjoy your adventure!

Stunningly colourful old buildings adorn Dublins central city area.

Exploring Dublin: Open Mind Essential

September 15, 2024

I emerged from Dublin airport

somewhat sorry for those that had sat near me on the flight from Edinburgh.

I had been travelling for around a month at this point - living out of my backpack and at times, the backs of cars, wearing and washing the same clothes in a veritable rotation of rudimentary laundry applications (aka hand washing in bottled water or a frigid mountain stream). I was indeed putting Icebreakers claim of their merino products being able to be worn for x amount of days without washing - but I was pretty sure I had moved beyond the point of no return, my clothes could quite possibly walk on their own they were so stiff with sweat and grime, from the last ten days of being in Scotland. Laundry doesn’t dry there - it just sort of loses moisture for a while….

First Impressions

Transitioning from the UK to the EU, you’d think you’d notice a stark difference, but as I plodded out of the airport, the English language was still the primary mode of communication, even if I could not understand the strong Dubliner accent. I hopped onto the budget city bus—only two euros—feeling like a sardine in a tin can, with my backpack practically claiming its own seat. I thought, “Maybe I should just start mailing things back to New Zealand.”

Disembarking in the centre of the city, quaint cobbled back streets smelled like stale urine, and dodgy looking characters leaned out of doorways, peering out. I felt a little unnerved. This wasn’t the Dublin I was expecting. I was expecting that somewhere in this I would recognise an anglo-saxon part of my gene pool, and that I would feel at least a little at home.

All I felt was even more grimy, cold and coffee-deprived.

But as I crossed the picturesque River Liffey in search of coffee, I stumbled upon the raw vibe of the city.

Picture this: a man, clearly in his own world, was loudly airing grievances to an invisible lunch-time audience. With missing teeth and a face that looked like it had seen better days, he was doing a rather spirited dance of desperation, half-heartedly trying to hold up his sagging jeans. The locals gave him a wide berth, and I, too, felt a twinge of unease.

Was this the Dublin I’d been dreaming of?

Finding the Charm

Determined to uncover the city’s hidden gems, I checked into my budget accommodation—a run-down house near Dublin Zoo. My room was shared with two other girls, and while it lacked luxury, it boasted proximity to a massive park and a bus stop right outside. With a heart full of hope, I ventured back into the city.

And I am glad I did! The quirky vibe of Dublin began to unfold before me. I wandered through cobbled back streets (yes, they still smelled a bit like stale urine from the previous nights antics), but I also found vibrant street art that was truly worthy of admiration. The pubs were alive with laughter and music, where the air was thick with the aroma of hearty Irish fare.

Trinity College was a delight, in particular the library, and I found solace in the expansive Phoenix Park where Fallow deer roamed freely, as if they owned the place. I also paid a visit to the historic Kilmainham Gaol, which was equal parts fascinating and sobering.

And let’s not forget the coffee! After days of caffeine deprivation, I finally found a café that served a brew strong enough to revive my spirits.

Dublin Tips for the Adventurer

If you're planning your own escapade to Dublin, here are a few tips to maximize your experience:

Airport Transfers: Skip the pricey shuttles! For just 2 euros, the city bus will take you into the heart of Dublin. Just follow the signs and cross the road to find the bus stop.
Currency: Remember, the Euro is your friend here.
The River Liffey: This river divides Dublin into two distinct areas—explore both!
Dublin Zoo: Located next to a sprawling park, it’s definitely worth a visit.
Phoenix Park: Acres and acres of sprawling parklands. Great for walking or running, so lace up those sneakers!
Kilmainham Gaol: A must-see! Check for cancellations before you go, or book online.
Book of Kells: A bit overrated, if I’m honest. But the Trinity College Library? Absolutely stunning.
IMMA: The Irish Museum of Modern Art is free and fantastic.
Guinness Factory: I skipped it, but I hear it’s a classic Dublin experience.
Art and Culture: The older parts of the city are filled with quirky art stores and vibrant street art—worth wandering through.
Night Safety: The streets can get a bit dodgy after dark, so stick to well-lit areas, especially if you’re alone.
Watch Your Belongings: Pickpocketing can happen, so keep your bags close!
The Luas: A light rail system connecting some suburbs with inner Dublin

Dublin may have thrown me a few curveballs, but by the end of my visit, I had fallen in a little bit in love with its unique character. The blend of rough edges and warm hearts makes Dublin a truly interesting destination. So pack your bags, open your heart, and prepare to explore!

Ireland: The French and Their Bicycles

September 13, 2024

You have to admire the French folks commitment to the bicycle.

Being the home of the famed Tour De France, perhaps they cannot escape the legacy of this momentous event, and so embrace it with gusto - cycling all over the planet with an unencumbered enthusiasm and vivre le passion!

She did not speak much English and inserted French readily as she attempted to converse with me. We got by - don’t we always, when we encounter another language- body language for sure is universal; gestures; eye contact.

I had seen the touring bike in the lounge of the backpackers;

painted an elegant bright turquoise. Being a small frame I imagined its owner to be small.

Cooking my eggs in the kitchen, imagining my day, I was not alone.

A woman sat at the table on a tablet, maps and way-points on the screen. I figured she was the owner of the bike, so I asked. And so began our gesticulated conversation. She stood up to show me the maps as I flipped my omelette - exhibiting a strong tanned pair of well-defined legs.

Yep - she was the owner of the pretty turquoise bike.

She extended the device in my direction and I could see Ireland ringed in red with a gap between Dublin and somewhere south on the coast. She holds up five fingers - “five weeks velo here” she tells me.

I am immediately impressed, she is not a young woman, I guess maybe 60-ish (and she was - 60).

“Wow” I offer

Could I have given a lamer response?!

She had not only biked around nearly all of Ireland, but had biked FROM her home in France to the ferry that bought her there - a 15 hour trip (my idea of hell), but she tells me flying is too difficult with a bike - to take apart wheels and deconstruct then reconstruct- she prefers the slow ferry trip during which she sleeps.

She goes on to explain that her friends think she is crazy but she does not care.

She is a teacher - computer science, to adults. She has to ride her bike back home then start back at work the next day (she screws up her face). She produces an app whereby people can follow her travels and tells me all her students are following her (she laughs at this and shrugs it off as nothing). She was a racer back in her younger days, in France. I can tell. She has not lost the angular lean look of a cyclist.

Now, she explains with bursts of Frenglish, she rides long distance for fun.

She has ridden around both England and Scotland AND France.

This pocket rocket is a MACHINE! I feel suddenly very unfit and boring.

She tells me New Zealand is somewhere she would also like to ride, but she doesn’t fancy the plane flight. I also figure a boat is out of the question!

We exchange further pleasantries such as what we have enjoyed the most about Ireland, what to avoid and how the company of strangers can be so comforting when alone in a foreign country.

“It’s the people I meet” she says - her eyes light up - “in France I feel so alone, no children, husband, only students; but when travelling I meet so many people - I enjoy”.

Yes, I reflected - I enjoy too.

On some level, we humans really are so similar, we may have language barriers and things may get lost in translation, but if we REALLY look and observe, we KNOW what is being conveyed.

Ireland: In Praise of Old Ladies

September 13, 2024

My backpack was heavy.

I was cursing the weight.

What the heck is in here that weighs so much? I knew I had packed too many clothes and in the mean time I had acquired a new pair of hiking shoes AND Doc Marten sandals, plus a funky pair of sloth overalls I could not pass up from my fave store in Edinburgh. I had my small camera bag on my front clinging like a baby sloth to its mother, and my trusty Osprey 65 litre was stuffed FULL.

Never again will I travel with so much - I had literally worn two sets of clothes thus far.

Not sure why I thought I needed ‘going out clothes’. Where was I going to go?

I did actually deposit myself in a pub in Limerick to listen to a group of young musicians belt out Irish folk music. I made an effort to put on clothes that didn’t smell. So I guess that counts.

Walking to the bus to get myself across Dublin to collect my rental car pick-up was relying on pure luck to get me into the right bus (and maybe a train?). I had searched Google maps for public transport options from my accommodation and was again cursing the rain. I had started to wonder if my new look was “drowned rat”. Never-the-less I trudged over to the bus stop which was fortunately 200m down the road.

But, I waited and waited and waited for a bus to come.

Nothing.

So I walked a couple of kilometers to a major intersection in the hope of finding a bus - by now, ANY bus.

I joined three over-joyed looking Dubliners under the bus shelter and started to manifest the right bus in my mind.

“Something something something something heavy” an older woman to my left muttered rapidly to me.

Did she speak English? Was she speaking to me?

“Sorry?” I responded, “are you talking to me"?”

“Yer bag on yer back looks mighty heavy” - the words fell out of her mouth with rapidity.

“Oh - well it looks heavier than it is” I lied, “but I do wish I hadn’t brought so much stuff that I will never use on this trip”.

“Where are ye off te?” she enquired

“I’m going to collect a rental car and then will go to County Clare but I’m not sure if this is the right bus”.

She investigated my exact destination and what the ‘right bus’ might be, then told me to get the bus from this stop which would take me to Heuston Station and from there I could jump on the light rail (they call this the luas).

“I thought I could perhaps just walk?”

“Ah nuuuuu!” She exclaimed “tiz a very long walk; ye be needing the train fe sure (“to be sure” - I added in my brain voice); “annits reening mad, ye be gettin’ fair soaked”.

I agreed, it was somewhat ludicrous to walk but I was already soaked so figured a bit more of a drowning would make no difference.

“Look here; I cen pay fe ye on me card - I get one free; ye be comin’ on wit me”.

Ok - I had been acquired by a Good Samaritan granny. “It’s ok thanks I have money!”

But no she would not hear of it and insisted. Not being one to deny someone of such moments of do-goodism, I graciously succumbed and allowed myself to be taken care of.

The bus came - eventually - and she sternly explained to the driver that she was covering my fare. He glared at me over his gold rimmed huge square glasses, and mumbled his agreement that indeed I should be taken care of (did they think I was a homeless bum??).

And so, we stood there side by slide, clinging onto the cold metal hand rails as the double decker bus lurched its way down a rolling hill. She looked up at me and smiled - and told me to make sure I got on the train from Heuston and NOT to walk.

“Yes Grandma” I thought. I will.

The bus pulled over to our stop; we tumbled out into the weather.

“Okee - so ye know where te get the train - just arind the corner there; I’m going to me daughters.

Bye now”.

And off she went - all five foot of her and a bulging shopping bag - across the wet road into a bleak Dublin day.

Scotland Part Four: The Fur Brigade and Idle Golf Balls

August 5, 2024

Apparently Scotland is one of the top ten countries in the world when it comes to golf courses per capita.

They take their golf seriously in Scotland and are widely promoted as “the home of golf”.

Thats not a bad thing to be known for.

“Gullane Hill, with the sun shining and the wind blowing, the black clouds banked beyond the Forth, and just a glimpse in the distance of the mighty tracery of the Forth bridge, is one of the most beautiful spots in the world”

Wrote Bernard Darwin in an article for Country Life called “On Gullane Hill”.

Gullane village as viewed from the beach at the Forth or Firth.

Gullane is a small town on the southern shore of the Firth of Forth in East Lothian,

on the east coast of Scotland that lives and breathes golf, and it is where I found myself (through a Trusted Housesitters job), caring for Jussi the young black Labrador while her owners took a break away for a five days.

There are five superb golf courses in this small village about 30 mins drive south of Edinburgh, on the coast, apparently made so through the naturally occurring exquisite turf which maintains its quality year round. The best land in the area, is occupied by - yep, you guessed it - golf courses.

Dissecting these fairways are beach access tracks, which give way to stunning coastal walkways with wonderful views across the Forth and towards the close larger town of North Berwick with its many off-shore small islands, home to many seabird varieties.

From the Gullane coast looking towards Bass Rock (off the coast of North Berwick)

Bass Rock with its distinctive lighthouse, and the small island of Craigleath (above)

Jussi was energetic - being young - and LOVED her three walks a day, especially if these included being able to swim.

Jussi’s humans were Geoff and Colette; and they chose me to care for their dog because I was a Kiwi. Geoff had lived and worked in New Zealand as a young optometrist for a while, and those vividly fond memories of my country had stayed with him.

I was treated to a wonderful five days in their glorious home, with the use of an EV, an amazing dog for company and wonderful walking trails to explore. Jussi was a well-disciplined dog, eager for affection and attention and was delight to have for company during my time exploring life in a small Scottish Village.

Being a substitute dog-owner for a few days, also brings with it the meritorious advantage of meeting random strangers to discuss all issues ‘dog’. It also brought with it the obligatory duty of seeking out lost golf balls, of which we found many, Jussi and I.

From Gullane I frequented North Berwick (an extremely pretty coastal town which is the home of the Scottish Seabird Centre), hunting coffee and coastal walking tracks. I also visited Saltcoast Castle and Dirlton Castle, the latter also containing a delightful (and very old) walled garden full of summer blooms.

Stunning flowers from the gardens of Dirlton Castle

Gullane was to be my last foray in Scotland and I was loathe to leave.

Another gorgeous stretch of beach near Gullane.

I headed back to Edinburgh on the train - after spending a night with Geoff and Colette (back home from their break) - sharing wonderful stories, food and wine. I prolonged the bliss and stayed one more night in Edinburgh, soaking up another full day in this wonderfully vibrant city before flying down to Dublin.

The gorgeous coastal town of North Berwick

Tips for Scotland:

See my first blog on Scotland for specific tips on Edinburgh
Public transport is not that reliable for beyond Edinburgh and the larger cities, so a car rental option is highly recommended for venturing further afield, unless taking a train
The roads in Scotland can be very narrow and windy.
Left hand side driving is the rule
There are villages every few kilometres in Scotland, so gas stations and pubs are common!
The Scottish weather is inclement at the best of times. ALWAYS take a jacket!
Check out Trusted Housesitters for opportunities to pet sit and explore!

Scotland Part Three: The Isle of Skye

August 4, 2024

Looking at the wallpaper map of Scotland with Sam, all I could see was vast areas of the country I really wanted to see.

We discussed the merits of the Isle of Skye compared to going to hike Mt Suilven (a mere mound compared to the rest of Scotlands mountains, but one which had captured my attention since I saw its unique shape and interesting approach, in the movie ‘Edie’).

I figured I could NOT do both. God only knew I WANTED to do both!

We stared at the map, tracing the roads with our fingers, Sam pointing out places of interest and possible best routes. Well, Skye it was then. Suilven would have to wait until I came back another time. And I would be back an other time.

I felt slightly gutted, but knew to do this travel thing justice, I needed to slow down - especially in Scotland - but also excited because I knew it had captured me enough for me to want to come back.

Packing all my belongings into the car, I retraced my previous journey through to Glencoe, Fort William and up to the turn off to Inverness. I sat there tormented briefly.

I turned left.

Skye was waiting.

The road trip to this island linked by a massive bridge, is nothing short of utterly breath-taking.

The Skye bridge is an impressive structure which has opened the island up to people who shouldn’t actually be let loose on those tiny pot holed narrow roads. I seriously worried about the fancy BMW car I was swanning around in, with those low profile types not at all equipped for the things that pass as roads, on Skye.

Crossing that link from Western Scotland over to the Inner Hebrides island of Skye, is like steeping into another world.

Quaint lives here.

It possesses an almost Nordic feel, with all the houses (except for in Portree which does have some colour!), painted white, creating a poetic contrast against the vivid green landscape resplendent with dramatic oddly shaped mountains.

I had planned to hike to a Bothy (a basic shelter used by hikers in the Scottish back country - free of charge) for my first night on Skye, but arriving late, and in the rain, I opted instead for a small inlet where I could park the car in a narrow protected cove and pitch my tent.

The idea of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise, occupied my mind, and as I unwrapped my tent and then wrestled it against the ever-increasing gale force winds (and failed three times to get it to stay up), I bundled it all into the car, folded the back seats down, spread my sleeping bag out, said good night to the audience of sheep who had now gathered above me to watch the show in the fading light.

I slept like a log that night and unfolded myself to the same audience of sheep the next morning, as I took in the wonderful soft-lit views around me. Behind me was a glorious waterfall several terraces high that seemed to emanate from a pointed hill further beyond.

Skye is known for sheep, gin and surreal landscapes.

Small boutique distilleries - most notably in Portree - provide the purveyor some learning around the vital role a good quality tonic water plays in the experience of drinking this refreshing mix.

I purchased a small bottle from a tiny boutique distillery and promised myself it would make it back to Egypt in my luggage but it never made it beyond Scotland! (It WAS a small bottle ….). The wind remained, the rain persisted and the green became even more vibrant in the soft mossy countryside.

I wandered into the famous Fairy Pools; hiked the Quirang before sunrise (and stood in awe of the steep cliffs and curious rocky surrounds) and hiked around the Old Man of Storr area.

The brooding Cuillin range is accessed in Glenbrittle, a large glen with the river Brittle leisurely wending its way out towards the sea lock of Loch Brittle.

I was determined (despite the drizzle) to hike into the Cuillin Range and up to a tarn (Coire Lagan) I had seen on the map, accessed near the Glenbrittle campground (where I had successfully pitched my tent without it being grabbed by the wind).

The trail was accessed behind the campground, with a bit of solid effort required for the first part as it begins with a demanding climb of over 550 metres. It is well worth the effort to reach Coire Lagan lochan which sits in one of the most spectacular Cuillin corries. Once here I took stock of my surroundings and drank in the tranquility of the place while peering up at the arresting rock faces of the Black Cuillin Mountains.

Awesome walking over several hours and the bonus of a much appreciated and well-poured flat white in the camping ground cafe upon my return - always soothing after a cold raw, gritty day.

Gorgeous stonewalled farms littered the landscape some of which were still in use demonstrating how this volatile environment could be lived with despite the bleak surroundings.

I felt a sense of sadness as I crossed the bridge back to the mainland - a sort of demarkation of a timeless land that the rest of Scotland had left behind.

On my way back to Newtyle I stopped in the pouring rain, and photographed the famous Eileen Donan Castle which is possibly one of the most stunning settings for the classic castle I that I had seen outside of Switzerland Germany or Austria.

Eilean Donan is a small tidal island situated at the confluence of three sea lochs (Loch Duich, Loch Long and Loch Alsh) , about 1km from the village of Dornie. It is connected to the mainland by a footbridge that was installed early in the 20th century and is dominated by the picturesque castle which was built in the thirteenth century; it became a stronghold of the Clan Mackenzie and their allies, the Clan MacRae.

Scotland is proof that fairytales really do exist.

I left this part of Scotland with the feeling that I had to come back.

Paving stones in Edinburgh with my favourite quote.

Scotland Part Two: In Search of Munro

August 3, 2024

Dundee did not fail to impress with its dedication to rain and cold in the middle of summer.

I bussed as far as I could go once I disembarked off the train from Edinburgh (amidst the stares of Dundeeins) then walked the two km in Dundee rain, with my pack weighing heavy on my shoulders to find the car rental agency I had pre-booked a vehicle with. Soaked to the skin, I was grateful for the warm room and offer to change in their toilets, when I turned up looking like something the dog dragged in from under the hedge, dripping into pools of water around my sodden footwear.

The rental guy directed me outside to the car in question and I looked everywhere straining my eyes for the rent-a-wreck I thought I was getting (and had planned to sleep in if required). I had ordered a wagon/hatchback style car but instead before me lay a black brand new (8km on the clock) latest model BMW two door sporty expensive looking thing.

I checked my credentials (no - I had not completed 787 Dreamliner training in my sleep, so how the heck was I going to drive this hi-tech beautiful beast of a thing let alone sleep in it?).

The rental man explained they had run out of wagons and this car would “have to do” (no extra charge). So - I arrived at Sam’s in a fancy black car looking like some rich farmers wife, having zipped seamlessly through the narrow roads of the Scottish countryside, terrified of damaging it just simply by breathing on it. I imagined myself as a black blur, smearing the landscape with my adventurous intentions. I loved the GPS and car wifi as I didn’t need to use my own data - win!

Sam was house-sitting near Newtyle with a sole bad-tempered cantankerous chicken named Margaret.

I loved the walls inside the glorious old character-filled farm house, which were papered with large maps pieced together, making a MASSIVE map of Scotland, and also of course providing daily fodder for the imagination in terms of planning adventures. Newtyle had some stellar small hikes near the town; one which went up to an old historic tower through a pretty valley dotted with waterfalls, gave way to generous views of the surrounding farmland and more further afield to the tantalising Cairngorms foothills.

Eager to explore, my first adventure took me to the charming village of Pitlochry, where not only did I purchase a new pair of hiking shoes, but I also bagged my first Munro, hiking to the peak of Beinn a'Ghlo - Braigh Coire Chruinn-bhalgain (1070m).

My first Munro in the bag looking out towards Pitlochry.

A Munro is a Scottish mountain with an elevation of more than 3,000 feet (914 metres), and you can ‘bag’ one by reaching the summit. These lofty peaks take their name from Sir Hugh Munro (1856–1919), whose groundbreaking list of the 283 highest mountains in Scotland was first published as Munro’s Tables in the Scottish Mountaineering Club’s journal in 1891.

The purple heather of summertime is prevalent in the Scottish highlands.

With a sore neck from rubber-necking at all the quaint countryside villages, I also decided to check out Braemar, on Sam’s suggestion. Braemar is famous for being near the Royal Family owned Balmoral Castle, which sits on the banks of the River Dee; a river I was intending to photograph at the picturesque Linn of Dee.

This alluring area has an old bridge which spans an impressive gash in the landscape through which the river has hewed a deep narrow gorge.

Hiking up to a view point on a windy day, I happened upon the archetypal Scottish wanderer;

a wisened looking gentleman walking alone, wrapped up in his knitted jersey and tweed pants, with a firm grip on a whittled walking pole.

How quaint!

We stopped for a chat until we both felt the chill eeking into our bones, said our goodbyes and carried on in opposite directions. He told me (as had Sam) about the right to wander rule - where you are allowed to cross farmland which is privately owned, in order to go for a jolly good stroll.

I was falling in love with Scotland by the minute,

but wondered briefly how many well-intentioned wanderers had been chased by running bulls or angry rams in their quest for peaceful trails.

Eager for more photography fodder, I ventured beyond the stunning Cairngorms (the largest national park in the United Kingdom) to the more rugged Glencoe area, known for its position in the highlands and proximity to the highest peak in the UK - Ben Nevis. It was not a long drive from Newtyle into Glencoe, and it was a journey that took one through the most stunning impactful landscape I had seen yet, which had me thinking that even New Zealand could be surpassed in its wild raw natural beauty. Scotland has an other-worldly type of beauty; aided by the ever-present moody Scottish weather. I felt as if the LoTR movie set would enter into my field of vision every time I stopped to capture what I felt, through my camera lens - because indeed it was a FEELING - no - an EMOTION rather than a need, to capture a scene, which was foremost in my mind.

Scotland is evocative - specifically the highlands - and for me it brought me to a sense of the familiar without really being able to pin-point why. For the first time in a long time, I was accepting that the weather was what it was and I just needed to make the most of it, hike when I could but mostly I enjoyed the unlimited photo ops that had me slamming on the brakes around every corner.

Rivers, waterfalls, quaint villages, lonely desolate houses, mountains, mist, mood - it was all there in spades.

Ascending into the Devils Realm:

It is all very well wandering the rolling hills with wafts of purpled heather and glittering green moss lighting the way, but I was also seeking something more challenging for both legs and heart, more of a feast for eyes also. My hardy Scottish friend in New Zealand suggested I tackle The Devils Staircase (Aonach Eagach). I called into the National Trust for Scotland information centre on the outskirts of Glencoe and talked to the wardens there who discussed the hike being reasonably challenging, and that there was some inclement weather coming in. They figure if I was a non- dilly-dallying walker, I could complete the ridge before the weather hit. I knew the end point descended into near Glencoe and as yet I had not determined how I would get back to my car, parked some 8km out of Glencoe!

The stretch of highway which wends its way through the mountains and down to Glencoe is incredibly scenic, therefore also incredibly popular with both the Scots and tourists alike. The sides of the roads were thick with cars and buses, parking was a premium here. I was lucky to find a spot directly at the start of the track up to the ridge where the Devils Staircase shared its spiny back with the heavens.

The walk from the road to the ridge gains over 1000m in elevation over a short sharp distance. Therefore its quite the heave on the legs and before long I found myself marinating in that familiar feeling of both pleasure and pain as my legs slowly carried me up the steep trail. The view around me opened up and before long I could see over to Ben Nevis (swimming in cloud) where I WAS initially intending to walk that day, but now glad I didn’t as it would have been a walk in the clouds - literally.

The sides of the trail narrowed onto a skinny ridge and very steep drop offs gave way to the highway below and across the valley with views into their lofty peaks. An air of menace hung heavily, further enhanced by the menacing triple faces of the Three Sisters, peering through the mist from across the valley. I spied a steep trail disappearing into a u-shaped valley, directly across the expanse from me, and I thought I might tackle that track too another day. (Photo).

People stand atop a peak in the distance as the weather starts to fold in

Standing on the ridge I could see along its spine and saw people in the distance standing on a peak. I felt some sense of comfort knowing there were others around, especially as the trail became more technical including some decent grade 2-3 scrambling on exposed, slippery, well polished rock, an area on the trail I later learnt, had killed several people in recent years.

As I stood contemplating the time it would take to reach the high point where the people had now moved on from, I noticed the weather darkening, and a figure in a red jacket walking in my direction.

I ventured further on the trail, wondering if it was wise, as I felt the first few drops of light drizzle and a breeze that was picking up. The red jacketed man, and myself stopped for a chat. He asked if I was planning on continuing and suggested that I turn back as the weather changed quickly, and it was doing just that. He said I could follow him up the now wet rock face I had recently climbed down, and that he could show me an alternative way to the car below.

As we chatted he disclosed that he knew the track well as he wrote the guide books for the region! He explained briefly the significance of the area - the notorious 1692 Massacre of Glencoe, when dozens of members of the local MacDonald clan were murdered by soldiers billeted in their houses or died of exposure as they fled through a snowstorm to hide in the mountains. He also disclosed his daughter was either currently or had been in New Zealand working. Leading me to another Munro, he pointed me in the direction of a gully, casually stating that it would (sooner or later) pop out onto the main road 1000m below. We parted ways and he disappeared into the mist like some sort of red cloaked ethereal ghost.

I even wondered if this was imagined corporeality.

I clambered my way down the gully, with no trail to follow except for common sense, and soon found myself fighting a burgeoning stream, colossal boulders, walloping waterfalls, and points where I was left wondering if I was ever going to be able to blunder my way out of this cavernous culvert.

At some point a small trail magicked itself out of nothing on the left side of the gully, and I followed through thick prickly hedged thicket, until I sprung out like toast from a toaster, onto the main road, feeling like an intrepid explorer scratched, bleeding and somewhat waterlogged.

I picked the twigs out of my hair and decided to cross the road and climb the track to a U-shaped valley I had seen from above. The trail followed steeply uphill beside a narrow but replete stream, dotted with charming waterfalls until it spilled into a wide open valley above which I had expected to see a lake - but this was the lake of my imaginings as it was simply a wide open mossed expanse.

A trail wrapped around this inner sanctum and then exited down the other side of the valley.

As my legs were already thrashed, I decided to descend the way I had come, as I could see this would involve possibly a further one to two hours of hiking and I was not so sure I had that left in my legs. Plus it had started to rain.

I fell into my car after that long adventure-filled day, bouyant and with a sense of fulfilment.

When I returned to Newtyle, Sam spoke sternly to me for attempting the Devils Staircase in dodgy weather and informed me about recent deaths on the ridge.

Sobering.

I am glad she told me after I had been up there - but I am sure the red-jacketed guy was her substitute up on those breezy heights, because without him to deter me, I am sure I would have kept going.

Ah well - I will just have to go back. I hate an unfinished journey!

The A82 road weaving its way through the valley near Glencoe with a view across to the first of the Three Sisters..

"There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter"

July 25, 2024

So Says Billy Connelly

PART ONE: EDINBURGH

I sat on the wrong side of the train. It was a pre-booked seat so I had no choice. I was so busy admiring the English countryside that I did not notice when we crossed the border into Scotland from England, where I had boarded at Kings Cross Station in London.

Iridescent emerald green farmland rolled past my carriage window in a rhythmic blur, revealing over-fluffed sheep and robust cattle, reminding me somewhat of rural New Zealand - a land born from a heavy reliance upon a deal with Mother Nature herself.

Scotland revealed herself this way and that - in church spires, tiled roofs, and ploughed fields as we trundled through the countryside and into Edinburgh with the halting grind of metal upon metal as the hefty bulk screeched to a stand still in the terminus of Waverley Station.

I stepped out of the rolling tube and into the bustling vibe of central Edinburgh’s Waverley Station.

My accommodation - St Christopher’s Inn - was a short stroll from the station, and conveniently located near the Royal Mile and a most excellent cafe. Colourful bunting flags lined the streets linking aged brick buildings and giving the historic area a playful vibe whilst juxtaposed against the cobbled streets and imposing form of Edinburgh Castle.

All of this amazing history provides a constant reminder of a time knights and knaves wandered these weathered neighbourhoods.

Edinburgh Castle is perched on a massive rock outcrop and is a focal point for the city and all that Edinburgh is known for. I wandered around absorbing the atmosphere; an intense looking owl sat clenched on the arm of a nervous tourist - its head turning as if on a gimble; musicians played on the streets; a wandering bagpiper littered the area with the shrill tones reminding me that indeed I was in bonny Scotland and busloads of tourists piled out onto the streets looking around in awe.

View through a gap in the buildings of The Royal Mile

Edinburgh left an indelible mark on me - a city infused with history yet brimming with a contemporary city vibe,

but I was on a mission to get into the hillier regions of Scotland and to visit an old friend who was house-sitting near the Cairngorm region.

My plan was to collect a rental in Dundee, then use where Sam was as a base while I explored the area. Sam was a wealth of knowledge in terms of outdoor stuff in Scotland - she knew all the hiking trails and this was aided by the gigantic map of Scotland that served as wallpaper in the house she was minding.

I could not wait to crank on.

The highlands were calling!

A crow sits over the edge of Arthurs Seat

EDINBURGH TIPS:

Waverley Station is the main train station in the city and is central to the historic and new city area
The city is extremely walkable, and safe.
There is a tram line running through the newer part of the city
There is no direct airport train - you need to swap for a tram from the nearest stop
Whiskey and Gin shops are plentiful!
The Royal Mile houses many historic sights, including the main way to Edinburgh Castle, Scotland Yard and numerous other famed sights
Scottish Pounds is the currency - English Pounds are also accepted
Most restaurants open late - around 9 to 10 in the morning, so do not expect an early morning coffee unless heading to a coffee specific cafe
There are nice walking tracks accessible from the city centre which provide commanding views of the city, including Arthurs Seat

Guernsey - A small place with a BIG heart.

July 20, 2024

Guernsey, a charming island nestled in the English Channel,

beckons travelers with its picturesque landscapes and rich history. From lush green hills rolling down to dramatic cliffs, to sandy beaches that seem straight out of a postcard, Guernsey offers a serene yet captivating escape. Whether wandering through the historic streets of St. Peter Port or embarking on a coastal hike to discover hidden coves, every corner of Guernsey holds a story waiting to be explored.

I wondered why flying to Guernsey and back would be the most expensive flights of my entire summer travel ensemble, last year and when I landed I realised why.

This amazing gem of a place needs to be kept secret from tourists breathing in the amazing oxygen, history and landscapes. Guernsey is part of an archipegelo called the Channel Islands off the French coast of Normandy. Guernsey is the second biggest Island, with Jersey being the largest. Guernsey has an airport based on one end of the island. In truth the airport is probably taking up a lot of the area of Guernsey - it is only a 63 km drive right around the place! The main town is St Peters Port - a quaint settlement on the southern aspect of the island, with views to Sark, and Herm, and on a good day, Alderney (and even the French coastline itself).

The island has a population of 60,000, which is a lot considering it is only 78sq km in size!

I wandered off the plane and into the small airport to be met by my friend Sarah who I had not laid eyes on in about 10 years since she and her partner Tony had left New Zealand. In that time they had renovated a 600 year old farm house and produced two boys, who are now 7 - twins!

Time flies.

I was excited to meet these two little humans after watching their growth via the internet. Sarah and I slotted into the same ease with which we had carried our friendship in New Zealand - it felt like a long overdue reunion with them both.

I was looking forward to exploring Guernseys rugged coastline, walking the beaches and if possible seeing puffins - a long term goal of mine is to photograph these quirky little birds.

Their home was stunning - retaining the rustic ageless charm of Guernsey yet fitted with the conveniences and spaces required to raise two energetic youngsters.

It is a weird thing to insert yourself into someones life for a short time, and I know I was incredibly tired when I first got to the UK, from a busy semester at school and not having the greatest of health.

I was foggy and mentally clumsy for the first few weeks of being away - the remedy was to walk, hike, move my body and re-establish those brain connections forged through physical activity. Something I had done barely any of since being in Egypt.

Guernsey is the perfect place for this - with 52 km of walkable coastline it was simply a matter of deciding where to start, picking a point and getting my legs to carry me. The coast is dotted with cliffs, caves, rocky and sandy beaches, cafes and small marinas.

It is truly postcard picturesque.

A stunning little cluster of homes near Renoirs Beach

I discovered that Guernsey could rival New Zealand in its milk quality,

with the Guernsey cow pouring some of the highest butter fat quality cream on the planet. I could taste this in simple pleasures like my daily flat white, or the sumptuous Guernsey fudge - (I ate way way too much of that!). Seafood obviously features strongly in Guernsey, with access to such a big coastline.

The interesting history of Guernsey supposes that it was at one stage part of France - and indeed when William the Conquerer from Normandy became King of England in 1066, the Channel Islands too become part of England with him. This has remained the same since. However, the island has retained its French influence, with the architecture and street names being deridingly French in flavour, casting a quaint European glow over the island and in particular St Peter Port and other smaller hamlets.

At once stage the island was under German occupation and there is evidence of this everywhere - Guernsey attempting to keep itself intact, with the erection of watch towers, defensive fortresses and fortifications spaced with regularity around the islands perimeter.

The islands were the ONLY British soil occupied by German troops between 1940 and 1945 and during this time around 18,000 people were evacuated to England as Hitler attempted to include Guernsey in his “Atlantic wall’ - something that was considered out of balance with the strategic importance of the Channel Islands. In 1944 after the D-Day Normandy landing, the islands became isolated from the rest of Europe and many people lived through starvation as food supplies dwindled. However in May 1945, the German commander based on the island finally surrendered, and Guernsey was freed from occupation.

I thoroughly enjoyed this tangibly visible history, and visited the numerous towers and forts. One very big one in St Peter Port - the Castle Cornet, was built around 1200 AD on a small island as a strategic defensive move to protect trading in St Peter Port.

The castle was only accessible by foot at low tide.

It was then nearly a mile off the coast! In 1338 however, the French attacked and occupied Castle cornet for 7 years after which the English recaptured it back. Over successive centuries, each ruler added on to the castle with additional fortifications and extensions, until the 1800s when finally the harbour of St Peter Port was extended and a bridge connected the mainland to the castle.

Thank goodness for that!

The distinctive form of Castle Cornet which stands as a reminder of Guernsey’s past.

The German occupation logically included the use of Castle Cornet for a strategic base, and it was renamed Stuzpunk Hafenschloss (this name sounded to me like some sort of Eastern European heavy metal band). During this time the German added personnel shelters and gun emplacements which are still in place today as a part of the history of this amazing structure.

Guernsey really packs a punch in terms of history, for such a small island, it is hitting well above its weight.

I also hiked half of the islands coastal cliff-top track.

The track can be entered at various points, and allows a decently hard workout due to its steeply undulating well-maintained trail. The trail commands extremely attractive views down into post-card bays with azure waters, as well as out to sea, dotted with boats (it was summertime when I was there). It really is a walkers paradise for easy to moderate hiking. Near to Sarah and Tonys place I could walk to the flatter side of the island which housed sandier rather than predominantly rocky beaches.

Along this area was a large golf course which provided access to the coast, and the area gave way to incredible sunsets. I would frequent here daily in my nine days on the island - the first time I had also seen rabbits since being in New Zealand!

Stunning coastal views fill hiking trails around the island.

Most mornings I awoke to the sounds of giggles and wee feet sneaking into my room to “see if I was awake”.

If I wasn’t, I certainly was soon after.

Being part of a morning routine with young kids again was a bit of a jolt back in time with my own kids, but for Sarah and Tony, parenthood to these two came later, and they handled the job with poise and creativity. The boys were delightful; entertaining me at times with their wacky sense of fun and energy. It amazed me how Sarah and Tony managed this energy requirement - I know I slowed down with my kids as they aged and it made me wonder how us parents survive at all!

For me though, the young boys were a welcome change to the teenage world I was immersed in through teaching, and the crazy classrooms of Cairo.

Together with Sarah and the boys, not only did I join into their everyday activities, but we also did some adventuring together. We visited “The Little Chapel” which is a miniature version of the famous grotto and basilica at Lourdes in France. It measures a tiny 4.9 m long by 2.7 m wide. It also houses an intriguing number of rooms accessed by narrow stairs.

We also went to Herm on the boat from St Peter Port. This is well worth the trip - the small island about 20 minutes offshore - has a wonderful charm and beautiful beaches, where we sat and chatted while the boys jumped waves and explored amongst the rocky pools trapped in the golden sands of Shell Beach.

Time stands still on Herm. I was convinced of that.

I also explored Sark, a larger island with an isthmus that creates a wonderful opportunity to hike or bike out to a viewpoint.

In fact Sark is somewhere to explore over a weekend and I wish I had more time to do this. The history of these two small islands is interesting, plus they are the place where puffins go to hangout - alas I never saw any. I was too late for these quirky little birds.

Sark was originally settled in order to defend Jersey and Guernsey from French invasion.

It is divided into about 40 land tenements, a very old system of property ownership. It was of course, unlike Herm, also occupied by Germans during the Second World War. Sark also has its own language - Sercquaise, which is a fusion of French, Patois, and English.

These two closest islands to Guernsey are wonderful day trips for hiking, history and relaxing - thoroughly recommended. We also went to a famous beach Moulin Huet where Renoir had painted about 15 different views of the bay and the Pea Stacks. He was there in 1883 and the bay has in place a large empty painting frame, encapsulating the view he painted.

St Peter Port, the main town on Guernsey looks stunning at night, with the lights reflecting on the calm inner waters of the harbour. A night time photo eluded me, but I know I will be back to capture this. The quaint cobbled narrow streets, and old heritage buildings reminded me of France, or Belgium, and certainly adds to the charm of this tax haven capital for the UK - where numerous very large corporations and business have their head offices, for tax purposes.

I enjoyed many walks to the town centre from Sarah and Tonys house, wandering the narrow quaint streets in search of photo opportunities (and coffee) and would usually walk part of the way back or grab a bus. It was a wonderful relaxing start to my European adventure.

STUFF TO NOTE:

Flights to Guernsey are not cheap, however you can take a flight from almost any major city in the UK. It is also well connected internationally.

A regular bus service connects the entire island with two main routes - one travelling clockwise and the other in the opposite direction. They also weave into the interior, making it likely you can sit and wait and grab a bus to get anywhere, with a bit of patience and not much planning!

Guernsey boasts a temperate climate - I was pleasantly surprised. Even though it was at times windy, it was mild weather - perfect for hiking and exploring during summer.

I would love to return - there is something special about island life, wherever you go, the vibe seems to be similar. Island life evokes a sense of relaxation, no rush, less stress and more time to genuinely engage in ones surroundings and with others.

I will see you again Guernsey!

Person fishing at a beach near Bognor Regis

Regal Bognor

October 1, 2023

Bognor was just good old Bognor until a certain royal personage (George the 5th) went there in 1929 to be cured by the ocean air, and it was renamed Bognor Regis.

I don't know why one needs an addendum to accentuate the apparent importance of a royal convalescence, but there it is. And probably Bognor Regis is all the better for it (pun intended).

I wonder if all the towns folk felt more regal.

My friend Valerie hails from Bognor Regis and so on my recent adventure to the United Kingdom it was only fitting that I chased her up in her hometown before she disappeared back to the Antipodes for spring and summer.

I was met with Valerie’s usual open-armed exuberance at the Bognor Regis train station and I folded myself into her flower-covered car to be taken to her house. It is always a nice feeling being met by someone in a strange place. It incites a sense of familiarity but also a weird sense of out-of-placeness. Valerie was in the right place as this was her home, but all my interactions with her have been in New Zealand, so it felt oddly strange for me to meet her here in England.

Valerie's modest home perfectly reflected her personality - full of colour and curiosities - she had a wild backyard that was home to hedgehogs, birds, bees, foxes and wildflowers. The perfect world within a world for a nature-lover; private, homely and calm. With hedgehogs rapidly disappearing from England, Valerie was committed to providing food for these small animals, reminding me of my childhood when my parents would feed “Huffy the hedgehog” in our backyard at night, and us kids would say good night before our bedtime.

I was treated to a fox viewing one night also, as the animal cautiously pawed its way towards the snacks Valerie had left for it, looking around warily, its nose going ten to the dozen.

Bognor Regis is on the south coast of England in a county called West Sussex. Being so accessible from London, it is a popular holiday destination, with the South Downs National Park also only being 20 minutes drive away. It exudes an air of once-grandness; as if it could do with a lick of paint and a bit of TLC, yet also having that archetypal British sea-side resort vibe.

I enjoyed the beach-front walking path and the promise of fresh sea air.

A walk around Valerie's neighbourhood soon revealed quaint thatch-roofed houses and I learned that each thatcher has their own ‘signature’ they leave on top of the roof in the form of a small motif (for example a thatched fox or pheasant or some other symbol).

Notice the thatchers signature on the roof of this beautiful house.

The clever signature of a roof-thatcher.

I was also excited to sample genuine English fish and chips, and was not disappointed when we ordered from her local ‘fryery’.
Valerie had told me many times over the years that Bognor Regis is fantastic for road cycling and I could see why, with small hedge-lined country roads and rolling terrain. I was keen to get out for a decent hike, so together with her friend Annie, we went for a stunning walk through Kingley Vale - stopping at a local pub on the way. We also saw a sparrow hawk which sat on a pole posing for us for several minutes.

That walk took us through a grove of ancient yew trees which are thought to be as old as 2000 years. They absolutely had an other-wordly air about them, and you could almost imagine the Druids hanging out here on a dark winter's night.

Another walk we did was alongside a canal starting in Chichester. This was a flat but pleasant walk which took us along the famous point where JW Turner painted his ‘Chichester Canal’ painting in 1828.

Valerie and her friend Annie enjoy ocean dips in the frigid waters of Bognor, and on more than one occasion I watched from the sidelines of a wind-battered shoreline, as the two of them braved the cold waters for their morning icey dip. They did this every day - and seemingly loved it! What madness is this?! I have to admit to knowing about the benefits of cold water immersion and I secretly cussed my unwillingness to join them, whilst simultaneously applauding their bravery.

I got the feeling that life here could be very stress-free. Perhaps it has something to do with living in a place that has history - that no matter who comes and goes, the historic buildings and yew trees remain. Aside from the history, reflected mainly in the architecture, I did not feel as if I was in a world vastly different from back home in New Zealand.

It felt comfortable and familiar.

My time in Bognor Regis was short but sweet, and I was delivered back to the train station by Valerie after five wonderful days visiting with her, to continue my journey even further south - to Southampton - in order to fly across to Guernsey in the Channel Islands.

The next phase of my journey was beginning and I was grateful to all the people so far who were links in the chain.

Travel Strangers

October 1, 2023

Travel is a funny thing - people all thrust together into the confines of a plane, train or boat seat; sometimes spending hours next to someone we do not even utter more than perhaps a cautionary “scuze me’ when we need to push past them to attend to the loo. Everyone in that confined space is going somewhere - there’s a destination on the mind - beset perhaps with new experiences; family to visit; a job interview; travel for the sake of travel - always some reason but possibly all provoked by a scratch that needs itching - the wanderlust itch. At least that’s how it is for me.

The high speed train from Kings Cross London to Edinburgh covers the 646 km in a little over 4.25 hours, stopping at Newcastle to unload travellers before Scotland kicks in. It’s feels as though the train is bolting through the countryside - the blur of greenery near the tracks becoming sleep-inducing when coupled with the gentle sway of the train as it charges forward.

It’s hard to comprehend the nitty-gritty of travel at times. This morning I was saying goodbye to my friend in Guernsey and now I am halfway to Edinburgh on a train - opting for the romantic notion of overland travel rather than above the clouds. As the train progresses up the length of England the weather becomes increasingly dull until finally rain drops make its slanted patterns across the train window. Glad I bought that rain jacket in St Peter Port - on the advice of a very keen store owner who filled me in on various hikes I should do in Scotland. I only went in for some in-soles for my shoes.

I am amazed I made it at all onto this train. The morning was running smoothly, with an early landing in Southampton from Guernsey providing me with a 20 minute head start for the train - perhaps I could go on an earlier train to London? Yes - I could. This fact would prove valuable as the morning wore on, when a fatality on the tracks halted the train at Farnborough. I could feel my heart rate increasing but kept up the positive self-talk … “it’s going to be fine!”.

I asked at the ticket office about alternative ways to get to London, as frustrated commuters let the news sink in that they would be very late for work that day. Someone muttered about inconsiderate track jumpers disrupting the working day, while Someone else shouted at the ticket guy about paying for a service that is very rarely delivered. Good heavens - I just want to get to Scotland!

I started to think my flight booked the next morning (which I was opting to forgo in favour of the train) would be my actual modus operandi after all. The by now pink-faced ticket dude gave me harried directions to the other Farnborough train station and duly informed me I would need to find another train from Guildford.

Oh heck - the Edinburgh train was starting to look like an impossible dream - although I knew I could possibly get a later one (even though seats are all allocated through the booking system).

Google maps told me the walk to the other station was 20 minutes.

Just when I was cursing my two packs, two women came and asked me if if was taking the train to London, then when I confirmed my moves they offered me a ride to the other station. They were sisters , with one of them visiting the other after 4 years (she resided in Canada), and both were South African. I was amazed they would offer to take a stranger - but grateful especially as my previous days galavanting on Sark had left my feet battered and blistered. Quite frankly a 20 minute walk in Doc Martens wasn’t appealing at that point in time!

The Canadian sister and I stuck together - and I helped her figure out the tube she needed to be on from Waterloo in order to meet friends in Covent Garden. We bade farewells and happy travels and good lucks and parted ways. Her name was Val and after England she was going to Croatia.

You never know - we may in fact meet again.

After an early train from Southampton; a suspended service in Farnborough; two changes of alternative trains; and two tubes, I made it to Kings Cross with 20 minutes to spare. Hindsight is a wonderful thing - if I had not taken that earlier train I would have been stuck in Southampton until after 1 pm and it would have been a late arrival to Edinburgh, if at all.

Things happen for a reason sometimes. Perhaps.

The ploughed fields and gentle rolling landscape hurtled by my window seat and the girl in the seat next to me (maybe 11-12 years old), stared transfixed at her phone screen. The world outside my window reminded me of the landscape south of Timaru - particularly near Pareoa and St Andrew’s. I could have been in New Zealand. Through all the geographic locations on this ball we call planet earth, there are more similarities than differences - with pockets of the utterly bizarre or mind-blowingly gorgeous adding a sense of wonder and certainly a sense of appreciation for the simple art of travel.

Out the train window enroute to Scotland, the view reminds me of South Canterbury, NZ

A couple of weeks ago I was on the train from Bognor heading south to catch my flight across to Guernsey. A man sat opposite me - longish grey hair pulled back into a loose pony-tail which extruded shyly from his ‘train-driver’ style hat. He had a cloth bag, linen shirt and pants and exuded an air of ‘alternative’ about him. As the train lurched out of Bognor Regis he shuffled through his bag to produce some glass jars of various food items which he placed on the small table between us. I shuffled about in my bag and pulled out chocolate. Ha! Take THAT!!

Stunning thatched roof house in Bognor Regis

He then poured a cup of hot brew from a thermos then spread humus onto rice crackers and layered tomato and cheese slices over top. “Old school”, I thought - as I wondered about the people around me and marvelled at my ability to judge - perhaps incorrectly, as to who these people were that I shared the journey to Southampton with.

After a small feast, he then produced a compact sewing kit and an item of cloth, then laboriously attempted to thread the tiny needle.

After several minutes he had success and began to loop the thread around a failing hem in what appeared to be pants.

I observed all this through my reflective glasses.

It’s rude to stare. I was fascinated. Sewing, on a train!

I lost myself in the passing countryside becoming slightly sleepy from the hypnotic rhythm of the trains movements. Feeling my eyelids drooping, I was just on the verge of one of those ‘falling off a cliff’ moments, when a voice jolted me back into the moment.

“It’s good to see someone wearing an actual watch - not a phone attached to a watch strap” the man announced.

Is he speaking to me?

“Hi”! He demanded my attention.

I learnt he was off to some shamanic festival, and that he objected to the nudity he would encounter there (oh - really?), but was looking forward to camping and doing yoga. He said he also couldn’t bring himself to throw out a perfectly good pair of pants and that he repaired all his clothes. He disgorged a LOT of words in that short time from the watch comment to us pulling into Southampton. I wished him a fun experience at the shaman festival and he strode off with his linen pants in hand and with his hikers sandals inviting a peek of his long gnarly toenails.

Nice.

Meanwhile the girl in the train seat next to me shows me an evil cat picture and tells me she is scared of it. I realise English is not her first language and wonder what her story is. Where are her parents?

The train is packed - wall to wall people and baggage, but a good lot will disembark in New Castle and perhaps a new swathe if travellers will replace them. My backpack sits atop a pile of other backpacks; sleeping mats; walking poles - and I know there is a portion of train travellers here probably heading for Scotlands highlands for some hiking. Me too. Anticipation much. Tomorrow I will collect a rental car and have a taste of freedom.

I cannot wait for the adventure to truly begin. It’s time to really stretch my legs.

SUMMER BREAK: Escaping the Heat: Part Two

September 23, 2023

“The sun doesn’t live in England; it comes here on holiday when we’re all at work.”
– Benny Bellamacina

England feels very ‘proppa innit’ after the chaos of Cairo.

Three wonderful days spent in London, re-visiting places I had seen 30+ years ago, was a treat, and to see how London has changed, yet oddly remained the same. It seemed weird to me to hear english being spoken, and as there are so many English folk living in New Zealand, the accent feels normal to me. It also provides a certain element of stress relief as I realise I can make sense of something potentially challenging with people who speak the same language - such as - “what platform do I need to get the train to [x,y,z] from?”

London is convivial, ordered, old, new, clean, polite and offers efficient transport.

Win-win.

People let each other in to roads when driving cars, and even wave to each other - unlike Cairenes who attempt to squeeze their vehicles into one space all at the same time, with no courtesy and definitely no smiles, waving or “no YOU go first!” Generally it’s a tirade of horns, followed sometimes by verbal abuse and even occasionally by physical altercations in the middle of the road - creating even more of a traffic issue. Sigh.

After six months of sunshine 99.9% of my time in Egypt, it has given me an immense sense of pure JOY to see clouds, rain, and cooler weather. I have donned jackets, sheltered from rain, wind AND sunshine.

Ahhhhh Mother England - you bewdy!

My jaunt to England has seen me re-connect with family and friends - a wonderful treat to be in their space and to slot in to their lives in some small way for a short amount of time. I have “awwww’d and ahhhhhh’d” at the beautiful old houses that remind me of Christchurch and Dunedin in New Zealand; the gorgeous old flower-covered country-side pubs; the typical British seaside beach huts; the cobbled streets; and the delicious English fish ‘n chips from the local ‘fryery’. It is all easy, relaxed, ‘normal’ and quaint.

I have decided I love England.

It's been almost three months since I set foot back on British territory after a 30-plus year hiatus. After the burgeoning Cairo heat, I was looking forward to respite in the British Isles - a break from relentless blue sky and the never settling dust; a break from the monotony of a bi-seasoned existence (summer or winter … hot or cold). I wanted the quandary of what to wear; the wonderment of a cloud-filled sky, and the miracle of rainfall. I wanted it all.

Now that I am back into the routine of a working day, and the panic of seeing real live students in my classroom again has somewhat abated, I feel I can begin to reflect on a time which my step-brother's wife dubbed as - “Kerensa’s European Adventure”.

And it was.

I arrived in London at Heathrow's organised chaos, to be greeted by an old childhood friend. Whilst he did not look the least bit old, he was indeed once a childhood friend - he still looked like that cheeky-faced mop-haired little 8 year-old I last saw him as (and still did see in my mind's eye), except now he was just taller. I recognised him instantly at the arrivals hall, and we greeted as if we had just hung out last week at the local pub. He - Gordon - bundled me off in his red mini cooper (but of course) and with a relieved exhale I realised the adventure was beginning and the first leg had been achieved with little hassle.

I was profoundly grateful for this person who I had not seen in 40-something years, for making space in his life to not only collect me from the airport, but also plop me in his home for a night's rest, feed me and deliver me to the train station the next morning so I could head to my next stop. I was already regretting bringing as much clothing as I had; my backpack was filled with question-marks about what sort of weather I might encounter over the next ten weeks, and how best to allow for that. Plus I was determined to purchase some Doc Martens in London and knew I needed dwelling space for those fantastic bits of foot art.

Traipsing through London looking like a hiker on her way to some fantastical base-camp, I felt slightly out of place in a city of snappy-dressers.

It had been decades since I last had to navigate the catacombs of the London Underground.

Thank you random stranger as I photograph the descent into London’s darkest deepest places.

The map on the wall showing the tube lines seemed even more colourful and confusing then I remembered, but not being one to shy away from the knowledge held by locals, I was happy to ask people how to get to where I needed to go - which was to my step-brothers house near Finsbury Park.

I kept pinching myself as everything slotted together with ease and I soon found myself searching for his spare key under a mossy rock in the front garden.

I love the wee houses in London - the two up, two down type arrangement. There is a delicate elegance about these places all in a row. They’re quaintly organised and efficiently contained within the urban construct, whilst still exuding a sort of olde worlde vibe. After my spacious apartment in Cairo, I did wonder how my step-bro and his family weren’t constantly crashing into the walls (or each other) in this narrow dwelling, but it also made me reflect on how some people can be so content with excess and some content with exactly as much as they really do need. How much space do we really need? I loved his house and the ‘secret garden’ out the back. I wondered about all the other secret gardens lurking behind the other rowed houses.

After a change of clothes and throwing my things out of the pack in a manner becoming of one who could chillax for two nights, I decided to walk to Camden Market where I knew a flagship Doc Marten store was. The walk down took a good hour; a not unpleasant stroll at all and I stopped to sample a coffee from a funky looking place on the way there, and sit and soak up the atmosphere for a while. Such a contrast to Cairo.

People here were going about their afternoon in an orderly manner. Horns were not honking every second. Dogs were not tearing through garbage. People were not sitting on sidewalks or roads on rickety chairs watching the world go by. Taxi drivers were not calling out. Beggars were not tugging at my sleeves. Dust was not misting up the view. People were not having arguments in the middle of the road.

In fact I could hardly hear the noise of the UK’s largest city.

Down in Camden, I exchanged money, purchased new DM sandals and marinated in the sense of familiarity that London emitted. I guess the binding aspects of coming from a country which was colonised by the English, meant that everything felt vaguely like home.

Existing in the sixth largest city on the planet for the previous six months had taken me inside myself a little. As much as the awe and wonder of being in a totally different culture of one of the greatest civilisations has been incredible, it has also been mentally draining and somewhat anxiety-inducing. The frenetic pace and manic vibe of Cairo is probably not dissimilar to places like Mumbai in India or Kathmandu in Nepal. These cultures seemingly do not appear to notice personal body space or have a notion of privacy - open staring and gawking is a sport; crazy driving is a given; and sweaty bodies pressing against each other in rickety buses is normal everyday life.

Ah London - thank you for having some semblance of ‘not crazy’.

I had a wonderful three nights in total enjoying English beer, central London, my step-bro’s cooking and some great conversations. It was time to head south, first to Bognor Regis and then across to the Channel Islands. I said goodbye to London and family, and hello to my now heavier (with the addition of chunky DM’s), backpack and plodded down the street to the bus stop which would lead me to Finsbury Park tube station and ultimately to the station to carry me south. I was truly impressed with the transport system in London - so simple, easy and efficient.

Next stop - Bognor Regis and my dear friend Valerie.

B l o g