It all started with the police check last night.
Torchlight zig-zagged across the car and we huddled in the backseat.
“You are English,” said the policeman. “And yet you say you want…
Pedro Martina’s sun-worn face lights up as he grabs my shoulder and points into the distance.
“Three of them are under the water now,” he says. It’s certainly not the first time Pedro has hunted whales…
The Museum of the International Red Cross and Crescent, Geneva
They stand together. Arms shackled, faces covered, feet bare, their posture somehow shrieking both defiance and despair. They huddle in the corner and a wide space surrounds them. Reflective glass panels form the walls in this courtyard, while white sail sheets stretch over their heads, bearing [...]
Speeding along the tarmac road, I wonder how long it’s been since I last took a normal breath. The road drops…
The crowd cheers and I duck as a rainbow of hardboiled missiles pelts down around me. A moment later, men, women and children scrabble around on the lamplit pavement, their hands brushing mine, their fingernails gouging mud and fruity pulp…
It’s an ominous start to the day: dragging 40 kilos of equipment through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter. We are a group of travel bloggers; the demonic machine, the Segway.
Everyone talks in whispers, the omnipresent classical music giving the atmosphere of a reverential mass, or perhaps a mix between a library, an art gallery and heartbreak hotel.
As the sleek shinkansen train slid into Hiroshima station, I admit I felt nervous. Yet for all the studies and reports, I was still unprepared for what I saw.
If I could only use one word to describe my trip around the Basque country it would be colour.
A visit to England’s oldest National Park had me reflecting on bravery, sacrifice, and the need for waterproof trousers.
Water takes no prisoners in the Peak District.
“I’m sorry,” said the dark-eyed receptionist. “We’re full. You find place, you must take it.” He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. “Otherwise your only hope is Roses.”
Marseilles seems proud of its bad-boy image. As a sailor’s city, the Old Port’s promenade is awash with fresh blue paint and a salty breeze. Its reputation is formidable, its spirit rebellious. Above all, Marseilles is a city to be heard.
Ah, you can almost hear the accordion in your mind. The stomp and the swish of the dancers. The haughty stare and ice-licked face of the star, raven hair tight against her scalp.
Or, you can see a rambling, scruffy line of pale-faced young men shuffling forwards in clear and present embarrassment.
ABOUT ME: I’m a freelance writer with a passion for travel and a background in Neuroscience and Emergency Medicine.
Free updates for longer articles only
