JRNY Travel Magazine - Issue Three by jrnymag.com

JRNY ISSUE THREE

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That Wild Idea is proud to support the third issue of JRNY Travel Magazine. As a company that specialises in photography holidays around the world, the amazing photos and stories on the pages of this issue – told by some of the best travel photographers and writers around – act as an inspiration for all of us. We are proud to be able to support these artists in continuing to inspire us to travel.

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ISSUE THREE The JRNY Team Founding Editors: Kav Dadfar & Jordan Banks Editor-in-Chief: Emma Gibbs Sub-Editor / Head of Digital: Simon Willmore Art Direction & Design: Jo Dovey Commercial Manager: Sally Cormack

JRNY ISSUE THREE

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Contributors If you would like to contribute to JRNY Travel Magazine, email us at submissions@jrnymag.com Follow us Website: jrnymag.com Twitter: @jrnymag Instagram: @jrnymag Cover Image By Kav Dadfar | Zebras in Makgadikgadi Pans National Park, Botswana. Issue Three First published November 2022. ISSN 2752-7077 (Online)

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The articles published reflect the opinions of the respective authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the publisher and editorial team. All rights reserved. agazine Limited. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the cases of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. JRNY Magazine Limited reserves the right to accept or reject any article or material to edit this material prior to publication. Published in the UK by JRNY Magazine Limited This magazine was printed in the by The anson roup td, a subscriber to the orest Stewardship Council and rogramme for the ndorsement of orest Certification Schemes, promoting responsible management of the world’s woodland resources. In addition to forest management and certification, The anson roup td is working in compliance with IS Certification pending approval , has reduced landfill waste by over through waste segregation policies, with all paper, cardboard, plastics and used printing plates recycled in a responsible manner and employs new technology and processes within its printing facility, such as LED lighting and the use of electric delivery vehicles, to reduce its carbon footprint. For more information, visit tmgp.uk/enviro and www.mansongroup.co.uk/environment

CONTENTS

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Flooded with Life OKAVANGO DELTA, BOTSWANA

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Culinary Creativity on the Edge of Europe AVINURME, SETOMAA & TALLINN, ESTONIA

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Southern Extremes PATAGONIA, CHILE

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Painting Santa Catarina Palopó SANTA CATARINA PALOPÓ, GUATEMALA

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Falling in Love with the Bull Shark BEQA LAGOON, FIJI

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Way Out West TEXAS, USA

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Chasing Flamingos in the Camargue THE CAMARGUE, FRANCE

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Petals and Paganism in the Peak District PEAK DISTRICT, UK

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South America's Most Relaxed Capital MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY

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Catching Your Breath in Bali BALI, INDONESIA

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Children of the Sticky Rice LUANG PRABANG, LAOS

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Day of the Dead PÁTZCUARO, MEXICO

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From Red to Dead RED SEA, DANA & THE DEAD SEA, JORDAN

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Into the Arctic STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN

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An Appetite for Opulence SHEKI, AZERBAIJAN

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Issue Three Contributors & the JRNY Team

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Moremi Game Reserve.

THE JRNY CONTINUE S... ere we are – already on our third issue. I still find it hard to believe sometimes that we have come such a long way in such a short space of time. Thanks to your continued support, we have been able to commission another issue packed full of fantastic travel stories by some of the UK’s best travel writers. We kick off this issue with my own trip to northern otswana, in which I had the privilege of staying in some of the wildest and most beautiful places in the wildlife-abundant Okavango Delta. Fauna is also the focus of Karen Edwards' article, though this time underwater as she swims with bull sharks in Fiji; there’s a sea theme to Keith Drew’s article, too, where he visits both the Dead and the Red seas, as well as inland sustainability initiatives in Jordan. Heading a little further east, Simon Urwin introduces us to the cuisine and crafts of Azerbai an’s cultural capital, Sheki. Sticking with food, Ash Bhardwaj explores Estonia’s deep connection between land and plate; while a relationship with the land is also in play in the Peak District, where Vicky Smith delves into the world of well dressing. Monisha Rajesh discovers camaraderie on board the night train from Stockholm to the Arctic Circle – with an abundance of beautiful scenery thrown in for good measure, of course – and Nori Jemil's guide to Montevideo will introduce you to this friendly and unpretentious South American capital. As always, we love to uncover new angles to well-known destinations, so James March e plores the less glitzy side of the south of rance in the flamingo-speckled salt marshes of the Camargue; Kate Wickers uncovers a quieter, hidden side to the tourist traps of Bali; and Lauren Jarvis introduces us to beer-guzzling goat mayors and the wild, wide spaces of Texas. We have some outstanding photo essays in this issue, too, with Jordan Banks showing off the colour and creativity of Pátzcuaro’s Day of the Dead festival in central Mexico, Bella Falk introducing us to the vivid paintwork that has breathed new life into the village of Santa Catarina Palopó in Guatemala, and Giulia Verdinelli portraying the growing – and eating – of one of Laos' most important foods, khao niew (sticky rice). There is, however, more to JRNY than just our print issues. Firstly, there’s the JRNY podcast, in which we interview some of our contributors to find out more about them and their careers you can listen for free on our website or through Apple odcasts. In addition, in we’ll be launching a whole new set of immersive travel stories on our website, which will feature videos alongside the same great writing and photography that you’ve come to expect from JRNY, creating a whole new way to experience online content. We are now also offering an annual membership, for which will you receive three superb, collectable issues in more details are available on our website rnymag.com . And please do spread the word about JRNY – we are only able to do what we do thanks to the support of our readers. On behalf of the whole JRNY team – Emma, Jo, Jordan, Simon, Sally and I – we hope you enjoy this issue.

Kav Dadfar Founding Editor

FLOODED WITH LIFE

Flooded with life

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really hoped that I was awake; that this wasn’t some cruel manifestation that my mind had conjured up to taunt me. It was so beautiful that I was afraid to check if I was dreaming, worried that the reality was four walls of a hotel room and not the endless view of the cosmos before me. Reluctantly, I rolled to my side to check my watch just as a cold gust of wind assured me that I was definitely awake. It was e actly am and I was in the vast salt flat of Ntwetwe Pan, in northern Botswana, lying on just a mattress with only a duvet to protect me from the freezing temperature. Above me, the sky was so packed with stars that it was like watching a TV channel when the regular programming ends and static fills the screen. I couldn’t even bring myself to blink, afraid that I might miss another shooting star. It struck me as ironic that in this desolate place – a place where things struggle to survive – I felt more alive than ever before.

the mantra of ‘empowering Botswana people’ by hiring, training and promoting locals to be guides and managers within the company. The wider safari industry remains male-dominated today; it’s more likely than not that if you’ve been on a safari anywhere in Africa, it’ll have been with a male guide. But in 2004 Desert & elta appointed one of the first-ever female guides in Botswana, Florence Kagiso. Today, almost twenty years on, their entire guiding team at their flagship Chobe ame odge is made up of ‘Angels’: a group of women who are not only trailblazers in Botswana but all of Africa. ‘When we appointed Florence, to our surprise it became big news,’ Andrew Flatt, Desert & Delta’s Marketing Manager, told me. ‘We couldn’t really understand why. After all, all we were doing was offering an opportunity for women to apply to become guides. Over time, more and more women joined to get us to this point.’ The thing is, it was a big deal – and it led to Desert & Delta beginning their concentrated effort of bridging the gender-equality gap in this industry. While some of the original ‘Chobe Angels’ have now gone on to other safari companies, many are still working at Chobe Game Lodge and other Desert & Delta safari camps. This dedication to empowering Botswana people by employing and involving local communities might just be the best defence against the dangers to wildlife from human encroachment and poaching that stalk the delta.

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I had arrived in Botswana nine days earlier, travelling with local safari company Desert & Delta. At a time when it feels like we humans are hell-bent on destroying the planet, its resources and ourselves, the company’s forward-thinking approach is reassuringly refreshing. In they introduced their first electric safari vehicle and boat at Chobe Game Lodge; eight years on, they now operate the largest fleet of electric safari vehicles in Africa. Methale ‘Metal’ Mosheti, head of their guide training, who accompanied me on the trip e plained ‘When we first introduced the electric safari vehicles, we didn’t know how the animals would react to the quiet nature of them. We were worried that they might get spooked. ut, from the first drive, the animals took to them and even got closer to the vehicles. They were almost telling us that this was the way forward.’ But Desert & Delta’s innovations encompass more than technology – even more impressive is the way that they have adopted

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My light aircraft seemed to touch down so effortlessly on the dry grass of the landing strip at Nxamaseri that I wondered if we had somehow lost power and glided in. I stumbled out of the metal hull of the plane with all the grace and elegance of a newborn giraffe and made my way toward the clearing among the bushes. There were no tedious security checks, unfriendly immigration officers or baggage carousels here; instead a narrow, winding path led to a small aluminium motorboat to take me to Desert & Delta’s newest property, Nxamaseri Lodge. This was my base for the next two nights while I explored the source of the Okavango and its panhandle – the 40-mile stretch of the river that feeds into and fans across the plains of the delta. Fed by rainwater coming down from the mountains of Angola, the Okavango elta is a permanently flooded marshland in the northwest of Botswana. This miraculous expanse is unique in being one of the few inland delta systems in the world that is completely landlocked. This means that the floodwaters eventually evaporate in the scorching sun or drain away into the Kalahari esert, rather than flowing out to sea. uring the dry season this perennial swamp doubles in size, ushering in hundreds of thousands of mammals, birds and amphibians, including

We slowly made our way through flooded plains, barely making a sound.

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to see the prized sightings. But despite the hippos and big cats staying out of sight during the relentless baking heat of the day, I still felt elation at my smaller wins, most notably the sight of a rainbow-coloured malachite kingfisher, perching momentarily on a branch.

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some of the rarest species on earth. I was here to explore the maze-like waterways of the panhandle. These papyruslined roads of nature run like veins – often intertwining – through the vast swampy marshland. n my first outing, I drifted slowly towards the Cubango River on an aluminium motorboat. The calm that surrounded me was only broken by the chimes of the white-browed robin-chat and the occasional splash of a crocodile diving into the dark waters after being woken from its sleep. I dreaded to think how many of these ancient predators lay beneath us as we floated gently along. Of course, like many visitors to Botswana – and elsewhere on the continent – I wanted

With few roads, travelling around the delta by car can be long and arduous. To get to my next destination, Moremi Game Reserve, meant heading 102 miles southeast by another lightaircraft flight. etting to the airstrip itself was an adventure involving a ride on a mokoro, or traditional dug-out canoe. Similar to a punt, the canoe is pushed along by a pole at the stern, which enables it to travel over shallower parts of the waterways. We slowly made our way through flooded plains, over submerged common reeds, barely making a sound. Occasionally there would be a bump below when we scraped over sand dunes. Adam, our guide, would then exert a bit more effort to push us over the dune and we would return to effortlessly gliding along the narrow channels. As we slalomed our way in between day and night waterlilies, so silent was our journey that even the reed cormorants and green-backed herons stayed put, barely noticing as we drifted past. Up in the air, the vast spread of the Okavango Delta was revealed in full: the green marshland; the vein-like waterways shimmering in the unforgiving sun; and dried-out, waterstarved patches of land, with small islands among pockets of water. From the canoe the

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waterways had seemed like pronounced rivers, but from here they were barely noticeable, like strands of straw drifting on a lake. Back on solid ground – where we were greeted by a different kind of welcoming party a small herd of elephants, walking in perfect unison across the runway – our safari truck sped across sandy tracks towards Moremi. Animal heads popped up from the tall grass as we passed, ears cocked for danger: impala, red lechwe, kudu and baboons, all then disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. Moremi Game Reserve covers much of the eastern and central areas of the Okavango Delta – roughly around 1,930 square miles (the entire delta ranges from 5,800 square miles during dry spells to 8,500 square miles in wetter periods). Yet although this is a relatively small part of this wide region, its perfect blend of savannah, mopane woodland, acacia forests, floodplains and lagoons make it one of the most diverse areas in the world for fauna and wildlife viewing. The numbers are quite staggering: the reserve is home to over 500 species of birds, over 1,000 plant species and, since the reintroduction of the critically endangered white rhino on Chief’s Island, the complete Big Five. It’s no wonder that this area is known as ‘the Garden of Eden’. This, of course, was what I was here for. Less than 20 minutes into our afternoon game drive, our driver slowed down and reached for the radio. It was evident that excitement was building over the airways and I waited, breath baited, to hear what it was – a lion? A cheetah? Or perhaps even a kill? Metal told me that some African wild dogs had been spotted, and we set off on our chase, swerving branches and driving faster and faster, one of a handful of safari vehicles rushing in the same direction, like predators being drawn to a kill. Though not part of the Big Five, there was good reason to be excited by this sighting: African wild dogs are among the most endangered mammals in the world and are known for their endurance and speed, which can reach 44 miles per hour during a chase. A pack of eight ambled along among the low savannah grass, their dark coats splattered with shades of black, brown and white, striking a contrast against the muted yellow of the grass. They flanked the safari vehicle and, watching their mean, hard-set faces, I was utterly mesmerised. And then, like Olympic sprinters when the starting gun is fired, they exploded into action. In the distance, an impala was making a break, one of the dogs hot on its heels; more and more dogs joined the chase and within seconds they disappeared into the distance. Metal gave a grim prediction for the impala, based on the efficiency of the wild dogs’ hunting skills. Soon after we were face to face with a hoard of African buffaloes. et black in colour and with magnificent horns that resembled

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the comedy moustaches of cartoon villains, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of the beasts were stuffing themselves on the surrounding dry grass. Occasionally one would look up to check that we weren’t overstepping our boundary – a relief for us as much as them: these grumpy animals might seem docile but are among the most aggressive and dangerous in Africa. I asked Metal what the best response would be if we were charged by one. ‘It’s the only time when I tell guests not to run faster than the guide,’ he joked. y my final morning in oremi, I had seen everything from hippos and crocodiles to giraffes and zebras, not to mention a glorious el’s fishing owl that calmly perched on a branch at the camp – though, alas, only two of the ig ive elephants and buffaloes . I was desperate to see more: the previous night I’d had a fleeting look at two male cheetahs before they scurried into the tall grass – a tantalising but too-brief glimpse.

The river is a lifeline for thousands of zebra and wildebeest, who migrate here in search of fresh grazing.

As the sun seeped over the horizon on that beautiful morning, I headed out on my final game drive, and there the two males were: lying almost perfectly camouflaged among the bushes. As we watched, the cheetahs playfully rolled over, a move familiar from their much smaller, domestic counterparts. I was still euphoric about my earlier cheetah experience when I arrived at my next camp after another short flight to the southeast. Translated as ‘Lion’s Paw’, Leroo La Tau sits along the western bank of the Boteti River, which is the main outflow of the kavango Delta. The river is a lifeline for thousands of zebra and wildebeest who all migrate here from the delta at the end of winter, in search of

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water and fresh grazing in what is thought to be the second largest mammal migration in Africa. The camp’s elevated position, looking south along the river, grants it an advantageous – in fact, you might say ostentatious – view over its surroundings. From my room’s balcony, adjacent to the river, looking to the right gave me a view of two male elephants bathing themselves in mud. In the other direction, another male elephant was knee-deep in the river, blowing a cascade of water over himself to cool down. And directly in front of me were large herds of zebra, wildebeest and springbok grazing freely but keeping a careful distance from the numerous crocodiles warming themselves along the riverbank. It was like watching that famous scene from T e ion in when all the animals gather to see Simba held aloft by afiki. It seemed strange, after so much life, to head on further southeast to the desolation of Ntwetwe Pan – what would have been an arduous five-hour ourney made infinitely more pleasurable by taking just a 25-minute helicopter flight, cruising above the vast salt flats. The views at first continued what I had seen at eroo a Tau – giraffes, wildebeest, zebra and elephants roaming below – before the animals, and the greenery that surrounded them, gave way to the gleaming white expanse of the pan. There was nothing but white as far as the eye could see – no single point of interest or other tone to break that vast colourlessness. We arrived at a temporary camp that had been set up just for us, touching down a fair distance away to avoid whipping up the salt and covering everything in white. Walking over to it, each step broke the thin upper part of the salt pan’s crust, creating a satisfying crunch akin to walking on fresh frost. It was an incredibly simple but inviting camp: a series of mattresses in a vast circle on the ground, a blazing fire already topped with barbecued meats, and a cast-iron kettle whistling alongside that would provide warming drinks as the temperature dropped. ut there in the nothingness of the flats, darkness descended quickly. I looked around me to try to make out any glimmer of light in the pitch black that engulfed the camp. But there was nothing but darkness. I climbed under my duvet and looked to the heavens instead, where a blanket of stars and the mesmerising galactic core of the Milky Way awaited me. Life in all its vivid complexity was here, too, even in this barren, other-worldly space, and despite that – or maybe because of it – I felt more a part of it than I had ever felt before. FROM THE TOP:

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Gaborone, the capital of Botswana. Another option is to fly to Livingstone in Zambia and then drive into Botswana. B E S T T I M E TO G O

The winter months (May to September) when the temperatures are cooler are more comfortable – but this is also the most expensive time to visit. The shoulder seasons (October and April) make a good alternative. C U R R E N C Y Pula T I M E Z O N E GMT +1 FO O D

Meals are included in safarilodge stays; look out for local dishes such as dikgobe – a combination of lamb, corn and beans – that may be on offer. W H E R E TO S TAY

Desert & Delta have nine 4-star luxury camps across northern Botswana, including Chobe Game Lodge, Chobe Savanna Lodge, Savute Safari Lodge, Camp Moremi, Camp Xakanaxa, Camp Okavango, Xugana Island Lodge, Leroo La Tau and Nxamaseri Island Lodge. H OW TO D O I T

While it’s possible to travel around Botswana independently, doing so can be time-consuming. Rainbow Tours offer a nine-night tour with all the stops mentioned in this article. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Warm clothes (early mornings can be bitterly cold), sunscreen and a camera. WHY GO

To marvel and experience Africa at its wildest: the wildlife and birdwatching are exceptional, as is the welcome you will receive from the Botswana people. Kav Dadfar travelled with Qatar Airways and Desert & Delta Safaris.

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Partnership with Q ATA R A I RWAY S

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Fly with Qatar Airways The only thing that tainted my excitement about visiting the Okavango Delta was the thought of the gruelling travelling that was required to get there: three flights and a total of almost 35 hours in the air and at airports. At Heathrow, I sat in the Qatar Airways lounge looking out at the panoramic view of the runway, wondering if it was too early in the day for a visit to the martini bar; I resisted and instead made my way to board my flight. Stepping onto the plane, I was greeted with such beaming smiles from the cabin crew that I could see them through their masks. ‘Welcome onboard, would you like some help with your bags?’ I was clearly already showing the strain of lugging around heavy camera equipment. Settling into my seat in the award-winning business class cabin, I was offered one of Qatar Airways’ signature lemon and mint mocktails. It’s a refreshing and mouth-watering blend of lemon juice, sugar, water and chopped mint that leaves you yearning for another. While I waited for take-off, I stretched out my legs – to my delight, barely reaching the foot stool – and browsed through the library of movies and TV shows on my 21½-inch touchscreen TV. Qatar Airways has just been named Airline of the Year for an incredible seventh time – now in their 25th year, it’s one of countless other accolades, such as World’s Best Business Class Lounge Dining, and Best Airline in the Middle East. And their luxurious Qsuite has also just been voted World’s Best Business Class for a sixth year in a row. It’s not hard to see why: once we had taken off, I was served a sumptuous threecourse lunch that started with a seafood plate piled with lobster and scallops, followed by slow-cooked beef and finally a cheese platter. After my table was cleared, I slowly reclined my seat. ‘A bit more,’ I said to myself, tapping the controls until my comfort levels allowed me total relaxation. My eyes started to feel heavy, and I was soon struggling to stay awake – I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I lost that battle. Suddenly the next 30-odd hours didn’t seem so bad after all.

Paid partnership with C H I L E TO U R I S M

SOUTHERN EXTREMES At once both the world’s longest and its narrowest country, Chile’s slender size belies an awesome, dramatic landscape of extremes, which is arguably best seen in the south of the country, where lush green forests and hills, spotted i a er a s an ran ui a es i e ay o or s an ro en ice e s This is a place for outdoor adventures – there is no better way, after all, to experience such overwhelming natural splendour than to get out there and be a part of it, whether learning more about gaucho culture and cattle ranching, boating down a tranquil river, cycling over the hills, or trekking through the oun ains a e er i is you re a er a en ure a ai s

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View of the Baker River in Patagonia, which starts at Lake General Carrera; The pier at the town of Frutilar, on the western side of Lake Llanquihue; Beautiful countryside near e ci y o oy ai ue

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CHILE

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Santiago, Chile’s capital, is well served by international ights from around the world, including direct ights with British Airways from London Heathrow three times a week. t is also possible to arrive in Chile via the ports at alparaiso and Punta Arenas, as well as overland from Argentina, Bolivia or Peru. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Thanks to its length, hile is a year-round destination. Patagonia and the south are generally best visited from ovember to arch when the weather is warmer, or in April when the autumn colours paint the landscape. Santiago, northern hile and the Atacama Desert can be visited throughout the year, but you may want to avoid the hottest months (January to arch). September to ovember is a great time to visit the Lake District, though a visit between June and August will reward with fewer visitors and cheaper prices. C U R R E N C Y Chilean peso TIME ZONE

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FO O D

Try local dishes such as pastel de choclo, which translates to corn pie’ and usually involves a layer of chicken, minced beef and raisins topped with mashed sweetcorn, and beef empanadas (stuffed pastries). W H E R E TO S TAY

There are plenty of option for all budgets, from hostels and guesthouses to lu ury hotels. To really get to know the country and its people, try a rural homestay. H OW TO D O I T

hile is well served by public transport, though to really e plore you may need to consider hiring a car. M U S T- PAC K O P T I O N

Hiking or walking gear, including sturdy and comfortable shoes, a windproof jacket and a sunhat. Don’t forget to take plenty of layers. WHY GO

To e perience a huge contrast of landscapes, from the world’s driest desert, the Atacama, in the north to the glaciers and mountains of Patagonia in the south, with wine country, forests, volcanoes and beaches in between. BROUGHT TO YOU IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

Photo Credits: All images by Chile Travel.

FALLING IN

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FA L L I N G I N L OV E W I T H T H E B U L L S H A R K

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FIJI

he acific cean is the colour of dark blue ink as I roll back over the side of the boat, one hand firmly clasping my scuba regulator and the other placed against my snorkelling mask, into the lukewarm water. With a uick bounce, and a display of the ‘ ’ hand signal in the direction of our dive master, I sink beneath the surface – slowly, effortlessly falling into the blue – towards Shark eef. At around ft deep, a vast marine fortress appears. Soft corals, boulder corals and gorgonian fans unravel as far as the eye can see, forming an e travagant gateway to this shark-filled ocean. Table corals glisten in the hazy sunlight streaming through the water. In the distance, the uiet rumble of the boat engine fades and I find my breathing slowing almost instantly to match the delicate tran uillity of this magnificent view. As I glide over bundles of anemones, a single shy clownfish pops his head out of his home to observe me before dramatically swooping back inside and undercover. The camouflaged snout of a resting baby blacktip reef shark pokes out from underneath a ledge. Ahead, a school of buttercup-yellow convict surgeonfish flutter their fins to the rhythm of the current, as though they have been appended in an invisible forcefield. Together they swoosh back and forth, a brushstroke of colour against a sapphire backdrop. Then comes the drop at the edge of the reef. ine beady-eyed scuba divers and I release air from our buoyancy control devices C s to swim down to a ft depth, following our dive master Silio a atima closely. The water is now a dark shade of tur uoise, but the visibility remains clear. We line up against a wall of low-lying dead coral boulders, each of us with one knee gently resting on the sandy ocean floor. As a brisk current pushes and tugs at my body, swinging me left and then right, I hold onto the rock in front of me to help stay anchored as I wait, while a small sergeant ma or fish nibbles at my knuckles.

Bull shark in Beqa Lagoon. THIS PAGE :

The turquoise waters around Fiji are ideal for diving, with excellent visibility.

ocated ust ten miles from the southern coastline of i i’s iti evu island, Shark eef in the e a agoon has long been celebrated as a first-rate shark habitat. or centuries, several species are thought to have been drawn into these shallow waters, thanks to the powerful currents of the region pulling vast amounts of nutrients from the depths of the ocean floor towards the surface of the water – creating ideal conditions for coral reefs to thrive. In turn, the reefs have supported a high diversity and concentration of marine life such as pelagic fish, sea turtles and stingrays which larger sharks, such as the bull shark, feed on. nfortunately, i i’s marine life hasn’t always been treated with the respect it demands. y the late th century, the reefs around iti evu’s southern coastline were severely overfished, leaving very little for the sharks to feed on. As a result, species numbers started to dwindle – with conservationists fearing that some species, including the

FA L L I N G I N L OV E W I T H T H E B U L L S H A R K

THIS PAGE:

Coral reef around Viti Levu. OPPOSITE PAGE:

A diver explores Beqa Lagoon.

When the bull sharks arrive, they glide in one by one with an air of cool.

bull shark, could become extinct in these waters in the near future. It was time for drastic action. In 1998, a South African diver named Brandon Paige gained permission from the traditional custodian of the reef, the Chief of Wainiyabia village, to introduce fish scraps into the demolished reef. He enlisted local divers to help with the ob. The scraps – typically fish heads – would decompose underwater, returning vital nutrients to the seabed and thus allowing reefs to reform. After only a year, corals were returning and providing habitats for a wide variety of marine life – from small reef fish to giant trevally, snappers and reef sharks such as greys, blacktips and whitetips. In the next few years, Shark Reef revived itself with more species, including tawny nurse sharks, the mighty bulls, and even the odd tiger shark finding their way to these waters. With the area now teeming with life, Paige set up a bespoke dive operation encouraging tourism to the region – a progressive move that proved to be a vital first step in entwining shark conservation with the tourism industry. As word of the reef’s revival spread, Fiji’s Ministry of Fisheries teamed up with another local dive resort, Beqa Adventure Divers, to approach the chiefs of nearby Galoa and Wainiyabia villages – this time asking for help in starting a full-blown conservation programme around the reef. A deal was struck: Shark Reef would be listed as a Marine Protected Area by the Fijian government, and villagers would stop fishing within its parameters. Simultaneously, Beqa Adventure Divers and Paige’s company Aqua-Trek could run regular scuba-diving tours to the surrounding

reefs from the nearby gateway town of acific arbour, with Beqa taking on the role of guardians of the reef. As compensation to the traditional owners, the companies would charge each diver a compulsory marine park levy (now $25 Fijian dollars or approximately £9 per day), which would go to the villages. rofits from the dives would go towards the further restoration of the reef and generating awareness of shark conservation. Five stealth wardens – our guardians for the day – stand behind us in their all-black wetsuits, gloves and neoprene balaclavas, ready to deter the sharks if they come too close. They seem calm, strong but benevolent, the undersea bouncers of the most thrilling club. It’s reassuring to know they are there. Meanwhile, a head warden positions himself at a distance, ne t to a large metallic bo filled with fish heads. As he carefully unlocks the bo , the scent of fish is released into the surroundings, attracting the attention of sharks and other predatory fish in the area. When the bull sharks arrive, they glide in one by one with an air of cool. Initially, they seem cautious, assessing their environment with a non-committal curiosity. Within a minute or so, a sense of confidence is established, and they move in closer to our trusty wall, eager to sniff out the fish heads. So-called thanks to their blunt, rounded noses and slightly belligerent nature, bull sharks typically measure approximately 10ft and are considered to be a medium- to large-sized shark. Their big, bulky bodies are muscular

and powerful. You wouldn’t think it, but there’s something ultimately calming about watching them. From my safe position a few yards away, I take in the etchings of colour on their skin; the cloudy grey that sweeps over their bodies with an underbelly of silver. Some carry distinctive fuzzy dark patches around their fins, while others are decorated with ivory-coloured scars around their noses – likely war wounds from an especially hard to crack crab shell. Their mouths form distinct curves on the underside of their snouts; their eyes are deep black holes of wonder. There are – I count – 30 individuals in the vicinity, each with their own character and inquisitiveness. At one point, two sharks swim towards me almost in sequence. They appear as though they’re holding hands, their pectoral fins almost touching. ouths slightly agape, showcasing a toothy ‘grin’, they cause me to draw breath at perhaps one of the most beautiful scenes I’ve experienced underwater. A few further breaths and the grace of the moment is interrupted by the arrival of a huge 13ft beast, who swoops up in front of me like a rocket, mouth open and poised, to swallow a floating tuna head whole. In his wake, a large tooth drops onto the seabed and becomes lost in the sand. Not long after, the bull sharks disperse. Every year, over 2,500 people take part in the bull shark dive at Shark Reef through Beqa Adventure Divers alone. In the time they have been operating, bull shark numbers have steadily climbed – from ust five recognised sharks in 1999 to over 60 in recent years. The Shark Reef Marine Reserve is now also a centre of research and study on shark physiology and behaviour. A comprehensive bull shark tagging programme is in place, which uses both acoustic and satellite tags to track where the bull sharks migrate through the seasons. Over the years, several scientists and academics have attended the dive site, conducting behavioural studies, researching the genome of bull sharks and even collecting tissue samples to look into shark dementia and the effects of mercury poisoning. Regular biodiversity assessments of the reef are also undertaken.

Their eyes are deep black holes of wonder.

The controversial aspect of feeding the sharks fish heads to lure them to the dive site is also something that has been studied extensively at Shark Reef – with results showing little evidence that shark behaviour is conditioned by the controlled feeds. In the 2018 paper, You Are What You Ea E a inin T e E ec s o ro isionin Touris on ar Diets, scientists from James Cook University, Queensland deduced: ‘There was no evidence of incorporation of food provided, even for individuals who regularly consume food rewards. Current levels of provisioning likely have no longterm impacts on bull shark diet or behaviour.’ Ambassador for The Shark Trust Caroline RobertsonBrown agrees that feeding does not the condition the sharks if it’s done suitably: ‘[In this case] the sharks are not fed enough where they aren’t [hunting] traditionally the rest of the time. Through responsible practice, and by making sure [Beqa Adventure Divers] aren’t doing the same thing all day, every day, any likelihood of conditioning is lessened greatly. Which I know is something they are aware of in Fiji.’ Perhaps most importantly, however, is the way in which this shark-diving experience broadens the general public’s understanding of the vital role sharks play within an ecosystem. With media reports often focussing on shark incidents in which human beings are injured, there is little effort made to acknowledge shark attacks are particularly rare, and often not intentional. By providing the public with

FIJI

OPPOSITE PAGE:

Triton’s trumpet shell. THIS PAGE:

Colourful soft corals near Beqa Lagoon.

FA L L I N G I N L OV E W I T H T H E B U L L S H A R K

an exciting and educational experience at Shark Reef, visitors often leave as ambassadors for the wildlife and the environment they have witnessed. It is, for this reason, that this particular shark-diving experience is supported by organisations such as the Save Our Seas Foundation and the Shark Foundation. ‘One of the most important links between shark diving and shark conservation is that it allows a love of sharks to be shared widely,’ explains Caroline. ‘Very few people are going to see a shark in the wild, but if those who do can share these positive experiences, that has to help raise awareness around every shark species. That can change the general negative portrayal of sharks that we see in the media.’ Meanwhile, the now world-famous Fiji bull shark dive is considered one of the most eco-conscious sharkdiving experiences, with conservation at the forefront of the e perience. rofits from the dives have allowed e a Adventure Divers to train local villagers, including former fishermen, to become dive masters and guides as well as marine-reserve wardens who protect the area against illegal fishing. Even better, village chiefs have used the income from the compulsory marine-park levy to plant extensive mangroves along parts of the southern coastline of Viti Levu, which now act as wildlife habitats, enriching the water with further nutrients and allowing space for developing ecosystems. What strikes me most, however, is that sharks have always been entwined in Fiji’s story. In fact, local mythology has long told of the shark god Dakuwaqa, who takes the form of a Fijian man with the upper body of a shark and is worshipped by fishermen and seafarers who believe he protects them from the dangers of the ocean. As a result, sharks are highly revered in Fijian culture and so it comes as no surprise that there is a strong local desire for Fijians to protect their shark populations. As we return to the boat, an almighty cheer erupts from the divers and the guides. This extraordinary opportunity isn’t lost on any of us. Without such conservation efforts, it may never have happened. It seems that an enterprising South African with a bucket of fish heads may have changed the course of history.

FIJI

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Pacific Harbour is a two-hour drive away from Suva- ausori nternational Airport rental cars are available from the airport kiosks. Local buses run from the central bus station in the capital, Suva, and take appro imately 90 minutes. B E S T T I M E TO G O

The dry season, from ay to ctober, is best for underwater visibility throughout the ijian slands. f possible, avoid the peak months of December and January when prices are at their highest. CURRENCY

ijian dollar

T I M E Z O N E GMT+12 FO O D

ijian cuisine consists of a wonderful mi of in uences. ost menus will sample everything from fresh seafood and local fruits to north ndianstyle curries, southeast Asian stir fries and hinese-style dishes. W H E R E TO S TAY

prising Beach esort’s villas open into beautiful gardens and onto the golden sands of Palm Beach. H OW TO D O I T

Be a Adventure Divers, based in Pacific Harbour, offer a two-tank dive to Shark eef, weather permitting, several days per week. t’s advisable to book your dive in advance. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

nvest in a well-fitted snorkelling mask before you go so you’re not having to clear a foggy borrowed mask during this mind-blowing e perience. WHY GO

LEFT:

un i

si oue es a dive boat. THIS IMAGE:

er ean

a or s

Photo Credits: Alamy, Dreamstime & Picfair.

As well as being home to one of the world’s most prolific shark conservation programmes, iji is the ideal place to e perience a variety of other marine life in the wild. Karen Edwards’ new book, The Responsible Traveller, is published y u ers a e an is a ai a e now. For details, go to jrnymag.com/ karen.

CHASING FLAMINGOS IN THE CAMARGUE

CHASING

FLAMINGOS

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‘P

ut it this way, the flamingos have a nice life here,’ says my guide aul as we peer through our and over’s dirtflecked windows toward a group of the famous pink birds, dunking their heads in and out of a shallow blue lagoon. ‘Some of them migrate to Africa for the winter, but a lot of them stay. The weather’s nice. There aren’t any predators. They know they’ve got it good here.’ Though at this point on a hot and humid ay afternoon I’ve spotted more wild flamingos than I care to count, I’m still struggling to wrap my head around the fact that I’m in rance and not some far-flung tropical outpost. ondering that the White Cliffs of over are ust a frivolous two-hour hop away only adds to the feeling of ornithological confusion. Think of rovence and the mind may con ure up romantic vignettes of bright lavender fields in bloom, shimmering tur uoise waters lapping against golden sands, or glamorous coastal towns offering decadence at premium prices. The Camargue is none of these. ccupying a rural southwestern corner of rovence, this wetlands region fans out across a vast marshy area of s uare miles beneath the oman city of Arles. A patchwork of tran uil rice paddies, yawning green fields and rose-coloured salt flats pockmarked by black bulls, indigenous white horses and the ubi uitous pink flamingos, the region is also Western urope’s largest river delta. Though

a in os in i the Camargue.

o er

LEFT:

Cobbled street in Arles. ABOVE:

Religious sculpture inside the Church of St Trophime in Arles.

it’s only an hour by train from Marseille and the bright lights of the Riviera that lie beyond, the Camargue might as well be another country. I begin my journey in Arles, a city boasting some magnificent , -year old oman ruins but arguably better known as the evening canvas for some of Vincent Van Gogh’s most famous works, including Café Terrace at Night and Starry Night Over the Rhône. With its narrow cobbled streets flanked by charming stone apartments bearing pastel shutters and hanging baskets, Arles is a delightful city to explore on foot and appears to have changed little since Van Gogh spent a tumultuous 1888 here trying to persuade Paul Gauguin to journey south and join him under Provence’s azure skies. Taking the once-an-hour A bus south out of Arles towards the southern fishing village of Saintes- aries-de-la- er, it doesn’t take long for this curious region to reveal itself. y bus trundles down the along the western arm of the Rhône delta (known as le Petit Rhône, due to its division from the larger river, le Grand Rhône, at Arles) as the landscape opens up into wide rural plains. Skinny reeds from nearby rice paddies sway gently in the wind while lonely cream-coloured farmhouses are occasionally visible in the distance, often obscured by weeping birch trees. Dusty red sun-beaten tractors plough uietly across remote fields and it feels as if the pace of life has slowed profoundly within the space of a few minutes. The famous white horses begin to appear more regularly the deeper we drive into the Camargue, though they seem more of a light-grey comple ion, sporting light brown manes. The bus suddenly takes an unexpected detour into a residential neighbourhood as we approach Saintes- aries-de-la- er town centre. ‘The road’s closed because of the

CHASING FLAMINGOS IN THE CAMARGUE

festival,’ the bus driver says when I en uire what’s happening. ‘You’ll have to walk into town that way,’ he says, pointing to an unassuming street. The festival, it turns out, is the Gitan Pilgrimage and it provides a serendipitous window into Camarguaise tradition. Flamenco guitar is playing from a stereo in a car park where various market stalls are being set up and bored-looking police idly man barricades; most of the shops, apart from a few cafés, are closed. There’s a commotion, however, outside the imposing omanes ue Church of the Saintes Maries de la Mer. A line of colourfully suited men, mounted on white Camargue horses and carrying wooden lances, are posing for photos in front of an excitable crowd. The pilgrimage honours Saint Sara – the Black Madonna – who’s the patron saint of the

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Romani people and thought to have been the handmaid of Mary Magdalene. Sara’s bones and effigy are kept inside the church and thousands from the Romani community make their way from across Europe at the end of May each year to honour her here. I make a hopeless pilgrimage of my own to various bike-hire shops, but I’m greeted by the dismal sight of closed-up storefronts with handwritten explanations Sellotaped to the shutters blaming the festival as to why they’re all fermé today. y first port of call is the rnithological Park of Pont de Gau, around three miles north of town, but now I have to jump back on the infre uent A to reach it. pened as a small collection of zoological gardens in 1949 by local nature lover André Lamouroux, the park was transformed by his son en in who laid

discovery trails across the neighbouring -acre hunting marshes, created islets and planted thousands of trees and shrubs. It’s a uiet and respectful nature reserve where many of the Camargue’s more than species of bird can be spotted. I stroll along wooden boardwalks flanked by wispy reeds and tran uil lagoons where milky pink flamingos spend languid days with their heads almost permanently submerged. They’re an awkward yet compelling sight. Terns occasionally wheel overhead, while the waters are also roamed by tall storks and angular white egrets. But it’s the dancing, spindly flamingos with their cartoonish honking who keep my attention. Flamingos are the colour they are due to the transformation of carotene pigments from their food. And from April to September –

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A herd of the iconic white Camargue horses. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Camargue bulls.

CHASING FLAMINGOS IN THE CAMARGUE

when the Camargue’s salt marshes are largely underwater – they consume large uantities of artemia salina, a tiny micro-crustacean with a high carotene content. Similar to whales, water is filtered through the edges of their beak and the food is then directed into the oesophagus by the flamingo’s thick tongue. With all the time spent with their heads underwater, I can’t help but wonder at how desperately inefficient all of this is – but it seems to work, as over , flamingos now call the Camargue home. The trails around the park are dotted with small wooden towers to give the many birdwatchers here a better perspective, but I don’t have time to climb them. My conspicuous lack of a bike means an hour’s walk through the Camargue’s uiet back roads to meet up with a local 4x4 ‘safari’ tour group at a rural farmhouse. The stuffy humidity begins to pick up as the day eases into the afternoon and the high sun is relentless, the desolate trails providing little shade. A brooding herd of black Camargue bulls behind a steel fence turn their heads and give me vacuous stares as I pick up the pace. Occasionally the trails descend into lumpy sand, making the going that much tougher. Swatting away flies as I go, the humidity feels tropical at times yet the flat dull-green landscape often bears a resemblance to the Norfolk Broads. Finally, I make out the shapes of a few creamy-white and overs and it’s here that I meet Paul from Le Gitan Safari, dressed in khaki and sporting aviator shades underneath a brown Stetson hat. We chat in French for a while, but when we switch to English his accent crosses hemispheres into an arresting Antipodean twang. I later learn that he grew up in a village near Nice but spent some time in Australia working for a car-rental company before the tedium of office life drove him to this drastic career change four years ago. Paul drives us onto a bumpy side trail and stops among the bright white salt flats and dense roadside shrubbery of La Petite

FRANCE

Nearby salt pans shift in colour to a dense purple that glimmers in the ceaseless sun.

Camargue, the Camargue’s most westerly region. A lone flamingo suddenly motors its way along a shallow lagoon, its wings slowly beating before lurching up into a cumbersome flight like an overloaded cargo plane. It’s at once awkward and graceful. The bird’s vivid salmon-pink body is revealed as it passes overhead. ‘They spend of their time eating and of their time in the water,’ e plains aul as the flamingo splashes down in a parallel pond. ‘The other , they fly from one lake to another.’ I’m still fascinated by their primitive eating habits though and want to understand more. ‘Flamingos are not clever,’ Paul says in a withering tone. ‘They decided to eat something

that’s , times smaller than they are. o you know another big animal that eats something very small?’ ‘Whales?’ ‘Exactly. But because they’ve both been doing that for millions of years, they are morphologically adapted.’ The iconic white Camargue horses have been here for millions of years too, though these days they’re largely used for tourist rides and are often seen filing down roads before turning off onto dusty side trails. aul e plains that while the dramatic photos of the horses crashing through the Camargue’s lakes might suggest that they’re wild and unleashed, they’re actually more semi-wild as all of them

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Shimmering pink salt a s T e a ar ue s s a p an scape Horsemen of the Gitan Pilgrimage.

CHASING FLAMINGOS IN THE CAMARGUE

FRANCE

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Flamingos in the early morning sun.

CHASING FLAMINGOS IN THE CAMARGUE

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The white horses of the Camargue.

Photo Credits: All images Dreamstime with the exception of page 40 – James March.

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are owned by local farmhouses known as mas. The horses are allowed to graze as they please in large private fields, but are still used for tourist trails when they’re needed. ‘The most visible characteristic is the horse’s colour,’ he says. ‘Though they’re actually born brown. They don’t turn white until between the ages of three and six. The second thing to notice is their height. They’re actually smaller than most horses – sort of in-between a pony and a horse. They should be called doubleponies, or something,’ he smiles. The ne t morning I’m back in SaintesMaries. For a moment it seems my bad timing has struck again – today is a jour férié (a French public holiday – though the bike-hire shops are thankfully unshuttered and the town is open for business, as the throngs of visitors testify. Unlike the previous day’s religious reverence, this sunny morning sees children feverishly licking ice creams and elderly couples parked serenely on coastal-facing benches, giving the town an almost wistful British seaside feel. I cycle east along the sandy shorefront towards the Camargue Regional Natural Park on a -mile trek in search of the famous pink salt pans that make this part of France so distinct. Sunbathers lounge about on SainteMarie’s beaches, but within a couple of miles an eerie silence descends and a feeling of isolation in this widescreen landscape returns. It’s an odd sensation to cycle a coastal path with water on both sides. Colourful European bee-eater birds flitter by, while the grazing flamingos’ curved necks and crooked legs are silhouetted in the humid midday haze. Only the piercing, high-pitched whines from mos uitos occasionally puncture the calm. My mountain bike powers on above an ever-changing terrain of gravel, stone and sand. Navigating the small stretches of thick sand is like riding through molasses and the wheels lurch from left to right before I have to get off and walk. A lone lighthouse rises in the distance and nearby salt pans shift in colour to a dense purple that glimmers in the ceaseless Mediterranean sun. In the end, with sweat pouring down my back and my rucksack feeling like a bowling ball, my legs give up, the rugged shapeshifting terrain and punishing heat proving too much. It’s time to turn back. The brightest pink salt pans are out there somewhere beyond the horizon, but I won’t see them today. Slanting golden light and long shadows fall across the Camargue’s languid rice paddies as my bus rolls back to Arles in the low evening sun. The dusk’s luminous, romantic glow comes straight from Provence, but everything else feels like a strange fever dream. I can’t wait to return.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Marseille Provence Airport is the nearest airport to the Camargue and it’s around a 45-minute train ride from there to Arles. From Arles, there are hourly bus services to the region; car hire is available, too. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Between April and May is beautiful for weather and also coincides with migratory species like the European bee-eater returning to their breeding grounds from Africa. C U R R E N C Y Euro T I M E Z O N E GMT +1 FO O D

There’s plenty of seafood in this coastal region of France but seek out the gardiane de taureau, a hearty bull stew historically made for the Camargue’s ranchers. W H E R E TO S TAY

Decide first if you want to base yourself in nearby Arles or in a classic B&B in the Camargue itself: L’Arlatan in Arles is a wonderfully colourful stay. H OW TO D O I T

Take a 4x4 tour with Le Gitan Safari to see the more remote and hard-to-access parts of the terrain, as well as to receive informed explanations of the birdlife you’re seeing. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Mosquito repellent, particularly if you’re heading out on two wheels. WHY GO

To see a strange and starkly beautiful side to the south of France that’s a world away from the Riviera’s crowded beaches and gaudy mega yachts.

C U L I N A RY C R E AT I V I T Y O N T H E E D G E O F E U RO P E

Culinary creativity on the edge of Europe 56

E S TO N I A

E A R L I E R T H E

T H I S

Y E A R ,

M I C H E L I N

G U I D E

A W A R D E D

S TA R S

T O

T W O

E S T O N I A N

R E S TA U R A N T S , A N D 2 9

A W A R D S

O T H E R S .

P R O D U C T

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C U LT U R E , A N D

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F O O D ,

B H A R D WA J

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T PREVIOUS PAGE:

A chef preparing food at o o ra s a useu ABOVE:

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e o o an resse in ra i iona c o in

he thick mauve am uice flowed like ichor as lumps of dark, fleshy fruit burst beneath the knife, releasing more flavour into the thick, soft bread. As I bit down, the sweetness fought with sour acidity, balanced by the fatty comfort of golden yellow butter. I gobbled up the slice and uickly prepared another. veli Tooming, the caf owner, brought over a bowl of broth, heaving with pork, mushrooms, herbs and barley. As the steam filled my nostrils, I was transported to a memory of autumn, and almost forgot to ask where the am came from. ‘ rom the forests, of course,’ veli said. ‘ ur family collects blueberries every summer, and we turn the spares into am. We get the

mushrooms and herbs from the forest, too. Forests and foraging are in the heart of every Estonian.’ I was in Avinurme, in northeast Estonia, a flat landscape of regimented pine forests and open farmland, where villages and settlements pop out of the earth with a mi of cosy wooden houses and harsh, concrete Soviet-era structures. I’d come to learn about the region’s renowned woodwork at the uiduait handicraft centre. The shop was full of baskets, kitchenware, furniture and toys – all crafted here using wood from the surrounding pine forests – but it was the food from the onsite caf that captivated me. In every caf and restaurant I visited, stonian food was rich and deep full of flavours that overwhelmed my supermarketmaimed palate. ost produce came from no further than the ne t district over, and it was all seasonal, pickled or preserved. This connection to the land and its produce seemed as bound up with stonian identity as wine is to the rench. It was late in the evening when I arrived at irsi Talo guesthouse in Setomaa, a region in southeast stonia along the border with ussia.

C U L I N A RY C R E AT I V I T Y O N T H E E D G E O F E U RO P E

own here, the landscape is more open, with farmland running down to lakes eipsi and ihkva, where you can look across to ussia. aidi erdt grew up here, and she moved back from Tallinn a few years ago to create the guesthouse. ‘I wanted my son to have what I grew up with,’ she said. ‘There’s a oke about how stonians don’t like to be too near to each other, and down here we have all the space we could wish for.’ She had put out a veritable ban uet of cheese, smoked ham, and redcurrant and mint elly for my arrival. aidi told me that Seto culture is very intimate ‘We have a lot of festivals and home crafts. I remember being cosy in the kitchen as my grandmother taught my mother and I how to make this cheese, so it’s more than ust something tasty to eat. All of this food was made in Setomaa. The ham actually comes from the sauna.’ aidi laughed as she saw the confusion on my face, and led me to a wooden hut in the back garden. She opened a window, and a torrent of smoke poured out. When it had cleared, I peeked through and spotted a line of hams hanging in the corner. Smoke saunas are a south Estonian speciality. With no chimney, the wood burns slowly and the smoke stays inside. ocks are placed on the coals and, when the wood has burned out, a window is opened to release the smoke. Then it is used for a more familiar purpose, which I tried out a few hours later. ‘ ou’ll need it to cool down,’ aidi’s husband eimo said as he handed me a beer. e wasn’t oking, as the air temperature inside the hut climbed to C. When eimo poured water on the rocks, it reached an incredible C. I could only bear it for a few minutes before I burst outside, into the cool air. ‘ ollow me,’ eimo ordered. We headed to a pond, covered in a thin layer of ice. e umped straight in, cracking the frozen surface and plunging up to his neck, before ducking his head under, too. I finished my beer and plunged in after him, the shock of the cold making my skin tingle with electricity. Then we headed back into the sauna and repeated the cycle another three times before dinner. The following day, I drove to binitsa, the main town in Setomaa and the centre of Seto culture. It feels like a village from some imagined bucolic past, where locals cheerfully stroll through the streets, waving hello to each other and chatting to visitors to help them on their way. I was immediately handed a glass of handza, the strong home-brew li uor that’s given to every guest, and hustled indoors to a community centre, filled with a riot of accordions and singing. ‘Ter ise s ’ e claimed Iti Toom, a local teacher, introducing me to the stonian for ‘cheers’. ‘ ow we need to decorate our eggs for the egg rolling.’

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They don’t forage because it’s a trend. They do it because they’re Estonian.

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Tea in eipsi a ue of the pagan god e o in e o aa o o ora e rui an us roo s

The Seto are rthodo Christians in a mainly utheran country, and I had arrived ust in time for aster. Ancient Setomaa e tended into what is now ussia and when the Soviet nion ended the Seto were separated from many of their holy places. As a local teacher, Iti took great pride in ensuring I understood Setomaa’s Easter customs. ‘We are separated from much of our homeland,’ she said, ‘but we still hold onto our traditions.” In the kitchen, between shots of handza, we wrapped the eggs in string and placed them in a vat of water filled with onion skins. When the eggs had boiled hard, they were taken out and the string removed, revealing delicate patterns on the shell, stained red from the onion skins. We then decorated them with rice and wa .

Iti would not let me leave without eating, and she sat me down in front of a plate of smoked sausage and bulgur wheat, covered with creamy white sauce – all washed down with more handza, of course. The following morning I staggered into town, where a group of men wearing long, cream woollen ackets and black fedora hats sang a cheerful folk tune, the deep notes of which matched the pace of their walking. They carried a basket on a long pole between them, collecting eggs from houses and, when they stopped singing, a group of women behind them took up a counter-song in a higher pitch. In the town s uare, a long strip of birch bark acted as a ramp, down which our decorated eggs were rolled. The game was to hit an egg against an egg from the previous player. If I hit it, I would win the defeated egg

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and earn another roll. I managed three hits in a row before the previous night’s handza scuppered my aim, and my wandering egg was hit by the ne t participant. I spent a few days in Setomaa, e ploring the old open mines and visiting the sacred hill of the pagan god eko before heading to Tallinn. Along the way, I stopped in the hamlet of illapalu, miles east of the capital. The orest etreat is a converted barn where groups hold conventions and volun-tourists come to learn about stonian culture and land management. It is owned by Birgit, a former diplomat, and her nglish husband, obin, who led me out back to a table ne t to the sauna. e pulled out what looked like a charred husk of wood, before he hacked at the edge with an a e, revealing an orange interior. ‘This is chaga,’ he said, ‘it’s a fungus that grows on birch trees in stonia, through inland, into Siberia, and round to Alaska and Canada. It’s full of melanin, and indigenous

people have used it as a medicine for centuries. It seems to have anti-carcinogenic properties, and we turn it into tinctures and teas.’ e placed the conk of chaga in a pot over the fire, the water turning a deep brownorange from its tannins. It tasted smoky and bitter, but was really uite pleasant, particularly with a drop of honey from some nearby hives. Suitably refreshed, I headed into the forest with irgit, who pointed out a dark mass of chaga sprouting from a birch tree. ‘ any stonians own a little piece of woodland,’ she said. ‘The country has a big logging industry, but it’s more sustainable to keep the forest alive, foraging for berries and mushrooms. And, as we have shown with our chaga products, it can generate income, too.’ We were there to forage at first, I couldn’t see anything among the leaf litter, but under irgit’s guidance my eyes began to spot bunches of indigo blueberries and red flashes of wild strawberries. A few minutes later, irgit

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shouted in e citement and called me over to a patch of orange. ‘The first chanterelles,’ she said, pushing the moss back from their edges and paring them out with a small knife. ‘In a few weeks, the whole forest will be covered with them. In Estonia there’s a right to roam and forage, but the best spots are a closely guarded secret. I have a cousin who brings me a pot of cloudberry am every year – but he never tells me where he finds them ’ oraging has become integral to stonia’s food scene, and chefs from across the world are finding inspiration in what they find here. At ee restaurant, on the edge of Tallinn’s ld Town, I met apanese-Canadian head chef iro Takeda. ‘I used to work at oma in Copenhagen,’ he said, ‘and they kind of made foraging cool . ut in Tallinn, almost every home has a mushroom basket by the door, waiting to be used. They don’t forage it because it’s a trend. They do it because they’re stonian.

‘The cuisine reflects their character and history. And that’s a story of survival. f resilient people who’ve gone through incredible hardship to be free and independent. The base foods are humble, hearty, simple to prepare, and can be found everywhere. ou can see it in the stonian palate. They love simple flavours, and they make use of the seasons.’ The chefs at ee have a close relationship with their suppliers, and they regularly visit them for inspiration. ‘Those relationships are very important,’ said iro. ‘The ee owners are country boys and have known some of the suppliers for decades. very stonian has a basic knowledge of edible and medicinal wild plants. It’s ust ingrained in their culture. So when we visit our producers, they help us to think about what’s possible, like using spruce cones, pineapple weed or linden blossom. It’s great for them, too, as it means they can sell more than ust their usual crops.’ ining in Tallinn has a homeliness that

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I’ve never found in any other capital city. ee is set in a garden that makes you feel like you are in the countryside, but which runs up against the walls of the ld City, in a space that would have triple the number of tables in ondon. The waiting staff are knowledgeable and the service is e cellent here, too – at restaurant ataskaevu in the town centre they even give you personalised ‘Thank you’ notes when you leave. ain dishes in the top restaurants are to a plate you’d get a rubbish pub roast for that in ondon. At otografiska, on the top-floor of a photography gallery in trendy Telliskivi in the northwest of the city, they have made sustainable responsibility part of their identity. The restaurant was recently awarded a ichelin reen Star because they have almost no waste, and it leads to creative, constantly changing dishes that are unlike anything else I’ve eaten. We had cheese-sauce-topped red onion, roasted in vegetable compost, and roasted cabbage with nettle sauce. egetarian eating has never tasted so good. At the h ala rewery, based in an old submarine workshop in the city’s newly redeveloped oblessner arbour, they take the same innovative approach to ingredients as stonian cuisine does, using une pected ingredients such as rock salt and berries. They e plained some of their brewing processes to me, which seemed to involve dozens more steps than anything I’ve found at other breweries, but I abandoned the conceptual stuff and went straight for the practical understanding the tap room features of their own beers, including the only non-alcoholic beer that I’ve found indistinguishable from its inebriating cousin. Everywhere you turn, Estonia is innovating with food, drink and ingredients. That foraging heritage, driven by a challenging history that forced stonians to make do with what they could find, has flourished into one of the most rewarding and creative culinary scenes in urope. ot bad for a country of ust . million people.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Tallinn airport. Estonia has a solid rail and bus system, which makes it easy to explore the country and visit destinations beyond Tallinn. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Winter has its own charm, but Estonia comes to life in spring and summer. From May to September, the weather is warmer and the long nights give you more time to explore. C U R R E N C Y Euro T I M E Z O N E GMT+2 FO O D

Each region of Estonia has its own specialities, and every café has its own, secret, bread recipe. Most menus change with the seasons, or you can go one step further and forage for your own dinner. W H E R E TO S TAY

ÖÖD Mirror Houses make you feel like you are sleeping in the forest – and they come with their own saunas, too! There are 20 of them across the country, including one near Rannamõisa, west of Tallinn. H OW TO D O I T

Baltic Holidays have been running tours to Estonia for over two decades and can help you concoct a bespoke trip. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Walking boots: you can’t understand Estonia without exploring the bogs and forests, and you’ll need the right footwear to make the most of it. OPPOSITE PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Noblessner Harbour area; Fotografiska; Rataskaevu 16; Põhjala Brewery. THIS PAGE:

Põhjala Brewery tap room.

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While its boglands, forests, sea towns and classical grandeur are wonderful to explore, the intersection of land, culture and history is best discovered through Estonia’s food.

Photo Credits: Peeter Järvelaid; Priidu Saart; Näljane Nelik; Laimipress (@Laimipress); Karl Markus Antson; Lee Restoran; Ragne Värk; Kaupo Kalda; Dreamstime.

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PAINTING S A N TA C ATA R I N A PALOPÓ

Spilling over a lush hillside above picturesque Lake Atitlán in Guatemala, the Maya town of Santa Catarina Palopó is a kaleidoscope of joyful colours that leap out of the landscape. Yet less than a eca e a o i as a ery i eren scene a concrete ghetto, marred by poverty and disillusionment. In 2016, a team of locals hatched a plan to paint all 850 houses with vibrant designs, in the hope of transforming Santa Catarina Palopó into a thriving cultural destination. The whole town is now on board with what is known as ‘Pintando Santa Catarina Palopó’ (‘Painting Santa Catarina Palopó’), investing their passion an oi in o e pro ec in a roup e or o breathe new life into their community. So far, over 700 houses have been painted, tourism and employment are up, and Santa Catarina has gone from being one of most neglected towns on the lake to a vibrant neighbourhood with a new-found sense of pride and belonging. PHOTO ESSAY BY BELLA FALK

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The Maya town of Santa Catarina Palopó.

T e in an o an a a arina a op pro ec o ce is oca e on e o n s ain square; Romario Tax mixes colours using environmentally friendly paint, water and lime, the last of which helps protect the buildings from rain and mould.

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The designs were created by Guatemalan artists and are inspired by Maya symbols and local textiles. On this building, deer sit alongside the traditional two-headed bird, Ixcot, and geometric patterns. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Project administrator Milsa Sajvin points out another important Maya symbol, milpa (corn); Sixto López Cumes is one of just four local artists responsible for painting all the buildings; Paint colours were chosen to represent the natural environment – here the blue represents the waters of Lake Atitlán.

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One of the earliest houses to be completed; Some of the most recently decorated houses. Any family can apply to have their house painted for free, but in return they must agree to keep their neighbourhood clean and send their children to the local school. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Another recently painted house, i u er ies peacoc s an Ixcot, the two-headed bird. Each homeowner can choose the design of their house from a palette of 12 background colours and 14 images.

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María Sajvin López wears the traditional huipil (blouse) worn by almost all Maya women. They’re handmade using the centuries-old craft of backstrap loom weaving, one of the most important cultural industries in Guatemala. Every town has its own unique designs and colours. THIS PAGE FROM TOP:

María González Tax weaves for up to six hours a day, alongside caring for her daughter Micaela. She’s making her own huipil using the same traditional imagery and colours that inspired the designs now adorning the walls of the town; Some of the coloured threads that María uses to create her huipil, which i a e er e on s o nis

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Marcela Cumes’s huipil and corte (skirt) are in the new town colours of blue, green and turquoise. The same colours are now being used to transform Santa Catarina Palopó, with the red still preserved in the buildings’ roofs.

Some of the gorgeous handwoven designs created by the weavers of Santa Catarina Palopó.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

The easiest way to get to Santa Catarina Palopó is to take a tourist shuttle from Guatemala City to Panajachel, the gateway town to Lake Atitlán. From there, you can take a tuk-tuk along the bumpy road to Santa Catarina, about 20 minutes away. B E S T T I M E TO G O

With pleasant temperatures year-round, Guatemala is nicknamed the ‘Land of Eternal Spring’. But the best time to visit is during the dry season (November to April). C U R R E N C Y Quetzal T I M E Z O N E GMT -6 FO O D

The staple crop in Guatemala is corn, worshipped by the ancient Maya and still served with almost every local meal. Try corn tortillas with frijoles (refried black beans) and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and tamales (corn dough steamed in a banana leaf) with rich tomatoey chicken pepian (a type of stew) for lunch. W H E R E TO S TAY

Casa Palopó, a beautiful lakeside boutique hotel that sponsors the painting project. H OW TO D O I T

Head to the office in the main square for a private tour, or simply wander around and explore the streets by yourself. M U S T- PAC K O P T I O N

Trainers or sensible shoes: many of Santa Catarina Palopó’s streets feature steps or steep inclines. WHY GO

With mirror-calm blue waters overlooked by three dramatic volcanos, Lake Atitlán is considered one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. You could easily spend a week exploring all the different lakeside towns, but a tour of Santa Catarina Palopó will not only take you to one of the prettiest, it’ll also directly support the local community.

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A boat on the bank of the Rio Grande River, Santa Elena Canyon; Carousel Mountain. ABOVE:

Sunset in Big Bend National Park. OPPOSITE FROM LEFT:

The Honorable Clay Henry I; Entrance to Big Bend National Park.

t’s not often you’ll find a town mayor making a public display of himself in a saloon bar, kicking up his heels and guzzling a beer while posing for selfies with the electorate. And, despite a party-hard reputation, this mayor can be uite a grump when the hangover hits, stomping around the dusty streets of rewster County, West Te as, headbutting anyone who gets between him and his ne t bottle of ice-cold one Star. anners maketh man, says the proverb, but this mayor could neither read nor comprehend the lesson, for a man he is not the onorable Clay enry is the

Beer-Drinking Goat Mayor of Lajitas. After winning a mayoral election organised by businessman and town owner, Walter Mischer, in 1986, the goat known as Clay Henry I understandably became a celebrity, drawing travellers and even country-music legend Willie Nelson to this remote outpost, all keen to share a beverage with the beer-swilling bovid. Killed by his son Clay Henry Jr. during a drunken brawl over a nanny goat in the early 1990s, the overthrown and taxidermied Clay Henry I now downs a bottle in perpetuity at the Starlight Theatre Restaurant & Bar, a saloon in the nearby ghost town of Terlingua, while a descendant of the bearded boozer, Clay Henry IV, is currently drunk and doing nicely in his mayoral ‘office’ ne t to a itas’ eneral Store. While this shaggy tale sounds like a script

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straight out of Hollywood, Tinseltown this most definitely ain’t. Clay enry has his hooves firmly planted in a real, raw and untamed region of Wild West America – and the long, legendary road to Big Bend in Texas will take you there, with plenty of unexpected twists and turns along the way. One of the most isolated national parks in the United States – the nearest airport is a three-hour drive away – Big Bend covers 1,252 square miles and protects a vast region of the Chihuahuan Desert, the largest and one of the most biodiverse deserts in North America. Separated from Mexico by one of the world’s legendary rivers, the io rande, ig end’s variety of ecosystems and habitats – from grassy plains to desert scrub and forests of aspen, maple, pine and oak – support a dazzling array of plants and animals, including more than 450 species of birds, 56 species of reptiles, 75 kinds of mammals and more species of bats and cacti than any other US national park. Hiking the trails brings opportunities to see lizards, hummingbirds and javelinas (peccaries), and more elusive black bears, bobcats and mountain lions, while the river is home to species of fish, along with beavers, turtles and resident and migrating waterbirds. A horse would be the most appropriate ride for an adventure into the Chihuahuan Desert, which spans parts of northern Mexico and the southwestern United States, including much of West Texas, but my gleaming white steed for this journey is a Mercury Grand Marquis, which I pick up on landing at Midland International Air and Space Port. Midland, 340 miles west of allas, is the first commercial airport to be certified for space vehicles, and its surrounds could easily pass for another planet. As far as the eye can see, thousands of thirsty pump jacks rise and fall across the grid-lined, mes uite-covered oil fields, as if terraforming a distant land. Drawing up black gold from the Permian Basin below, the nodding jacks stretch on for miles, servicing one of the world’s largest oil fields. y , S oil production is predicted to equal that of Russia and Saudi Arabia combined, according to the International Energy Agency, despite the inconvenient truth of the world needing to halve greenhouse gas emissions by 2030 to avoid global climate catastrophe. While modern-day Homo sapiens are seemingly determined to drill their way to oblivion in the basin, which 500 million years ago was under water, Big Bend National Park has a long and rich anthropological history, with evidence of human hunter and gatherer activity in the region dating back 10,000 years. Paleo-Indian presence has been recorded, and later indigenous groups have left their mark with ancient archaeological sites and

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petroglyphs scattered across the park. The Chisos, Mescalero Apache and Comanche tribes hunted and farmed here from the 1500s – the latter establishing the Great Comanche Trail through Big Bend – concurrent with the Spanish, who built missions and forts, battling with the indigenous inhabitants until the US government took control of the region in the late 1800s. Mexican settlers arrived in the early 1800s, with Anglo-Americans arriving later that century, surviving the harsh conditions and leaving behind remnants of stores and ranches, and their descendants who thrive in the community today. eaving the pumps, rigs and ‘man camp’ oilworker compounds of Midland behind, I travel two-and-a-half hours southwest to Marathon, one of the gateways to the national park and nearest to the northern Persimmon entrance, driving through spiky desertscapes of yucca and agave. Like its better-known neighbour, Marfa, Marathon is a community-driven, artistic town, with a few good hotels and restaurants and real-deal Stetsoned and spurred cowboys pulling up seats in the bars, as if the steerhead wall hangings and cowhide-strewn floors weren’t reminder enough that I’m now deep in the heart of cattle country. I’m welcomed to ve’s arden rganic Bed & Breakfast by owner Kate Thayer, who hands me a glass of wine and sits me down around the firepit to unwind with her dog, Bubbles. With a large, fragrant bougainvilleacovered courtyard and an organic garden growing the produce used for her bounteous breakfasts, plus a solar-heated lap pool and a stargazing deck to ponder ig end’s big

rom ve’s den, I drive for a couple of hours to Lajitas, home to the Beer-Drinking Goat Mayor and the Big Bend & Lajitas Stables, where I swap my hot wheels for a horse and join a half-day trail ride through Big Bend Ranch State Park to feel the desert sun on my back and learn about the mercury-mining boom which put the region on the map. Following the path of early European settlers, we ride along rocky Rough Run Creek and out to the base of straight-out-of-aWestern Maverick Mountain, before visiting the Study utte ine pronounced ‘stoody’ , which opened in the early 1900s, and the boulders at Indian Head, to see ancient petroglyphs left by Indigenous Americans who were here long before the mine’s days. Study utte rode high

Clay Henry IV is currently drunk and doing nicely in his mayoral ‘office’. skies, ve’s is an oasis in the desert. It’s also an Ecology Resource Center and a poster child for papercrete – a sustainable, cost-effective building material which became popular in the 1980s and combines wastepaper with sand, clay and Portland cement to form industrialstrength papier-mâché. Moving to Marathon from Houston, Kate began to build her dream papercrete palace in , and ve’s now has seven unique handcrafted rooms, inspired by the adobe buildings of the American southwest, with cathedralesque arches and domes painted in the vibrant colours of Mexico and hung with original local art.

on the quicksilver wave before wrapping up operations in 1972, leaving mining machinery and freight-wagon trails to be swallowed by the desert. Riding on horseback under a relentless sun, the desolate, scorched landscape and wind whirling around the abandoned site con ures up long-lost memories of the miners’ trials up from the dust: breaking backs as they hauled cinnabar ore from underground shafts by hand, cart or burro, toiling for riches that some would never have the chance to see. The cost – and legacy – of quicksilver mining shifts into focus in nearby Terlingua, where The

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Lounging lizard at Eve’s Garden in Marathon; Papercrete arches and domes at Eve’s Garden; A vintage car in Marfa town centre; Starlight Theatre Restaurant & Bar in Terlingua.

Chisos Mining Company was established in . ne of the nited States’ ma or producers of quicksilver, the town grew to meet the demand for mercury, which increased during World War I. While the dollars poured in, the price the miners paid for their labours was high; in Terlingua Cemetery, simple metal crosses, piles of stones and a commemorative sign mark ‘the final resting place for residents and mine workers that succumbed to dangerous working conditions, gunfights and the influenza pandemic of .’

As demand for mercury dried up and pioneers left to find their fortunes elsewhere, Terlingua became a ghost town, sharing the fate of many other mining communities around the world. Today, fresh blood flows through Terlingua’s veins. Curious travellers bound for Big Bend come to wander its historic buildings, airstreams and adobe shacks, dine in the Starlight saloon, and sit on the porch of the Trading Store at sunset, chewing the fat with locals and sinking Mexican beers. Foodies are beckoned by a yearly International Chili Championship, heralded as ‘The Burning Man of Chili’, while artists, writers and rebels are drawn by its solitude, raw reputation and wildly romantic location, out on the edge of nowhere. This is a place of swaying grasslands and mystic mountains; a refuge where people erase the past and wipe slates clean, redefine their future and take another roll of the dice. ‘Life was good, but could take harsh turns in the remote, untamed region known as ig end,’ warns the sign in Terlingua Cemetery: words that still whisper across the desert plains and echo through the canyons today. Covering over one million acres of public lands, Big Bend National Park and the neighbouring smaller and lesser-known Big Bend Ranch State Park share the Chihuahuan esert ecosystem, and offer miles of desert and mountain paths for hiking, horse riding and biking. Seasonal temperatures and the presence of large animals in the national park, including black bears and mountain lions, call for adventurers to be alert, but visitors should prepare to lose themselves a little too: to yield to the call of this wildest of lands and hike its trails a little further, climb its peaks a little higher, and explore its valleys a little deeper. Desert covers 80% of the national park, with sparse, harsh vegetation adding splashes of prickly green to expanses of rugged and rocky land. There are grasslands here, too, stretching to distant hazy horizons, and verdant marshes: desert oases, alive with turtles and frogs. Encircled by the park, the Chisos Mountains are scarred with canyons and pitted with valleys, their higher elevations forming ‘sky islands’ cooler realms offering respite from the sweltering desert ‘seas’ 6,000ft below. Up here, the lush montane habitat conceals a myriad of plants and ancient trees: gnarly Mexican piñon pines, oaks and junipers, bringing shade to hiking routes along the range’s northeast and southeast rims. A double rainbow springs from peak to peak as I set off on a late-afternoon hike from Chisos Mountains Lodge, the only hotel within the national park, in search of ig end’s natural treasures. Trails pregnant with adventure and bursting with life spring straight from the doorstep, fringed with prickly pear, sortol and ‘spaghetti plants’ ocotillo cacti, which unleash tentacles up to 20ft high in the cobalt sky.

Tracks from spiny lizards lead the way, and one of ig end’s feathered superstars, a Colima warbler, flashes across my path as I hike past rock walls, sculpted over millennia by volcanic eruptions and wind, telling the time through the multicoloured strata striping their peaks. Further north, a scramble along the Grapevine Hills Trail leads to the monumental Balanced Rock, a giant boulder wedged between stone pillars high above the path, forming the perfect photographic frame, and a window to view the creations of ig end’s tumultuous and geologically explosive past. There are wet and wild adventures to be had here on the Rio Grande, too. When water levels allow, paddlers can run the river through the dramatic Santa Elena Canyon on half- or multi-day guided trips that involve wild camping as peregrine falcons swoop from the soaring 1,500ft canyon walls above. Passing through Grade I and II rapids, and the more challenging Rock Slide Rapid which can reach Grade IV, this journey into the heart of Big Bend

is one of the world’s epic adventures. uring my stay, the river’s too low to raft, so instead I hike into the canyon. The spectacular 30-mile Ross Maxwell Scenic rive which leads to Santa lena offers me a highlights tour of Big Bend as I wind through the Chihuahuan Desert. Roadrunners bomb out from behind the barrel cactus while I explore homesteader ranches and the abandoned cavalry camp at Castolon Historic District, lookouts along the road delivering views of the Mule Ears Peaks and Chisos Mountains, shimmering gold in the early-morning sun. At the tarmac’s end, the spectacular . -mile-long Santa Elena Canyon Trail leads me into the chasm mouth, starting with a rock-hop across the bubbling Terlingua Creek and leading down to a sandy bank where the path ends and the river rolls on. From the elevated trail, I see persistent kayakers trying to paddle through and hauling their craft on foot as the mighty Rio Grande trickles around their ankles, dwarfed by ancient limestone cliffs.

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Terlingua ghost town sign; An abandoned church in Terlingua; Santa Elena Canyon; ABOVE:

Road through Big Bend National Park. FOLLOWING PAGES CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT:

Prickly pear cactus; Balanced Rock in Big Bend NP; The Rio Grande River acts as border bewteen the United States and Mexico.

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Big Bend is a remote wonderland – the nearest airport is a 200-mile drive away – and even on this popular trail I pass just a handful of hikers, and at times have Santa Elena to myself. She proves to be an inspiring – and surprising – companion. Her grass-fringed sandy path winds along the river, fault-lined tan rock reaching up to the blue, revealing fossils of precious shells and prehistoric sea creatures within its leathery cracks and crags. ig end’s palaeontology game is strong, with over 1,200 fossils found in the park spanning 130 million years of history, including a tyrannosaur, duckbilled dinosaurs, and the world’s largest flying creature, a pterosaur with a 35ft wingspan, discovered in primordial landscapes where you can imagine them still roaming today. The national park was established by President Franklin D Roosevelt in 1944, amid the turbulence of World War II. For years, the region had been considered remote and dangerous. Si flags had flown over this sought-after section of North America – Spain, France, Mexico, The Republic of Texas, The Confederacy and the United States; the Spanish had called it El Despoblado or ‘The ninhabited and’, due to its e panse of tough terrain. The park’s less foreboding American name comes from a drastic northerly curve in the course of the Rio Grande, which has carved canyons over millennia and forged a natural border for 1,255 miles between the US and e ico on its ourney from Colorado’s San uan Mountains to the Gulf of Mexico. There’s no Trumpian border wall needed here: the miles of desert that await any unsolicited arrival to the US is deterrent enough, but when the river is low, tourists risk wading across from Big Bend for the chance to be an outlaw – even for a few minutes – on Mexican soil. Lesser banditos can cross the border with a passport at the Boquillas Port of Entry and spend a few hours exploring the tiny town of Boquillas. While legal, this journey into Mexico is no less exciting: once the border formalities are over, and clutching $5, I step into a tin boat that will ferry me across the Rio Grande. My captain remains expressionless as I let rip with my best Duran Duran rendition while he rows me to the other side, a far more tuneful Mexican voice serenading us from the shore. It’s taken years for this teenage dream to land but, as eagles cruise through the blue skies overhead and mountains glisten gold in the afternoon sun, I finally get to dance my way across the Rio Grande. Spectacular national parks abound across the USA but here, at the literal end of the road in Texas, amid ghost towns and canyons and cloven-hoofed mayors, lies a land that will not only satisfy your dreams, but raise them. So saddle up, open your mind and go west: and if Clay enry’s in town, be sure to shout him a Lone Star from me.

Photo Credits: All images Kav Dadfar with the exception of Page 86 - Lauren Jarvis.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Big Bend is a remote national park; the nearest airport in Texas is Midland International Air and Space Port, 235 miles from the park’s HQ; cars are available to rent from here. There is no public transport to or within Big Bend. Carry enough fuel, oil, food and water for your trip as towns and services are limited. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Early spring or late autumn, when daytime temperatures are manageable. C U R R E N C Y US dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT -5 FO O D

Barbecue is a favourite in the region, along with excellent Tex-Mex. W H E R E TO S TAY

In Marathon, Eve’s Garden Organic Bed & Breakfast is set amid a lush courtyard and fruit orchard. The only accommodation inside Big Bend National Park, Chisos Mountains Lodge offers en-suite rooms, rustic stone cottages, and RV/campervan sites with showers. H OW TO D O I T

The traveltexas.com website has huge amounts of information about the state and the national park. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Your passport – not just to enter the US, but for the Boquillas Port of Entry, Big Bend’s gateway to neighbouring Mexico, which lies just across the river. WHY GO

Big Bend offers soaring mountain vistas, wildly beautiful desert landscapes and the chance to cross the iconic Rio Grande. Add in romantic ghost towns, exciting wildlife, gorgeous backcountry trails and vast starry skies, and this rugged slice of southwestern Texas has all you need for an epic American adventure.

petals and paganism IN THE PEAK DISTRICT

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uring spring and summer you might see something extraordinary in and around the Peak District: huge pictures ‘painted’ in flowers, placed by wells and water features. Across this varied landscape of limpid reservoirs and verdant valleys, plunging ravines and wild moorlands, over towns and villages practise a custom known as well dressing.

dressings themselves. According to The Art of Buxton Well Dressing, a book published by Buxton Well Dressing Festival in 2022, these used to be simple garlands but later became the elaborate petalled scenes of today. Volunteers can spend an astonishing 500 hours making them in the week before their unveiling; seeing some underway in Bollington, a Cheshire town near the Peak District border, I can understand why. Each creation begins with a large wooden frame packed with fresh clay, onto which the design is traced. ‘Some do things differently but we add the less perishable things next,’ joint volunteer leader Janet Beech tells me,

It’s a meticulous, painstaking process done entirely by volunteers.

The tradition of decorating wells to give thanks for fresh water is centuries old. ossibly rooted in pagan ritual, it’s now synonymous with Tissington, a village in the erbyshire ales many say it was here that villagers first dressed their well in , crediting its ‘pure’ water for their escape from the lack eath, while others suggest it took place in , when the same source saved residents from a drought. ither way, it’s likely this scenic settlement played a key role in the tradition. These days, well dressing is still prevalent in erbyshire – especially around the limestone plateau of White eak, famed for its abundant springs – but has spread to other Peak District counties and even beyond. vents, which take place from ay to September, range from ‘inthe-making’ sessions to blessings and carnivals. The main attraction, of course, is the

gesturing to a table lined with materials: bark, coffee beans, sweetcorn, dried chamomile, alder cones, pine needles, peppercorns, feathers, shells, sorrel seeds, sycamore keys and others besides. As Bollington’s 2022 theme is the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee, one lady is even using fur to decorate a corgi. ‘The dog went to the groomer’s yesterday,’ Janet chuckles, adding that ‘more conservative’ places such as Tissington and Eyam would say fur was cheating. ‘They have a strict rules on which natural materials are allowed. We’re the well-dressing rebels!’ Finally, the petals are added. These are often from commercially grown flowers like hydrangeas, both for environmental reasons (likewise, with the use of readily available leaves like copper beech) and longevity. Each must be individually positioned, overlapping

Well dressing at Tissington in Derbyshire. THIS PAGE:

The view from Curbar Edge in Derbyshire.

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like roof tiles to allow rain to slide off. It’s a meticulous, painstaking process done entirely by volunteers and, considering the artworks last only a few days, I had questioned the motivation. Yet seeing the sense of camaraderie in Bollington, and the pride at the spectacular results, I realise the importance. It’s about unity, friendship and preserving a unique ancient heritage – and apparently is therapeutic too. My only hope is that more young people are inspired to get involved as, while it’s common for local schools to create a board, volunteers are generally retired. My next event is a blessing, a practice that began as well dressing became Christianised it’s taking place in ayfield, a picturesque stone village that foots Kinder Scout plateau, home to the highest point in both Derbyshire and the Peak District. I walk to the ceremony starting point – an enchanting autumnal display on one of the main streets – as church bells chime in anticipation and the brass band, dapper in carnation-red suits, play hymns. Two May Queens pose by the decoration – ayfield is thought to have the longest unbroken May Queen tradition in the UK and Commonwealth, though these days the girls attend events year-round and not just on their namesake month. Surprisingly, the vicar here is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He arrives late and puffed out but soon wins over the attendees, religious or otherwise, with his affable manner and evident admiration for the beautiful displays, designed, as in many places, by volunteer local artists before being traced and filled in by the dressers.

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Well dressing in Tissington that commemorates the youth of the village who died for their country. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

A Platinum Jubilee dressing in Buxton; A volunteer works on a Jubilee-themed well dressing in Buxton. Photo Credits: All images Dreamstime with the exception of page 96 - Vicky Smith.

ayfield’s theme this year is the seasons and the eight dressings, sponsored by regional businesses, range from squirrels and stags to winter walks and summer ice creams. As we, a chattering procession of young and old, follow the vicar to each display, he makes a short speech; community spirit is a recurring topic and he often alludes to ayfield events, including the famous 1932 Kinder Scout trespass that revolutionised walkers’ rights, before rounding off with a blessing. The final stop is St ohn’s Church, whose flower festival sees homemade cakes and its own resplendent floral displays. ‘ ay the wells of blessings continue to flow within our community,’ the vicar says, and I’m struck again by that last word. I’m not religious but it doesn’t matter, for this is what it’s all about: bringing people together, as indeed wells have done for millennia. Blessings aren’t the only Christian element to well dressing; the designs themselves were once usually biblical too. However, according to Christine Gould, a secretary at Buxton Well Dressing Festival, the displays ‘have changed with the times and are now often secular. We’re living in a much more multicultural society, so we pick subjects like anniversaries. Our themes for 2022 include the Platinum Jubilee and 100 years since the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Politics can also feature, like our children’s board supporting Ukraine.’ Buxton’s festival was founded in 1840 when the Duke of Devonshire arranged for a piped water supply to the marketplace. It’s now one of the area’s biggest events of its kind, aptly so considering Buxton’s heritage. Poised on the edge of the Peak District, England’s highest market town has been renowned since pre-Roman times for its thermal springs, which were once believed to have healing powers and thus enticed everyone from pilgrims to Mary, Queen of Scots. It later became a fashionable spa resort and today abounds with landmarks like the Georgian Crescent (now a five-star spa hotel and St Anne’s Well, source of the town’s famous bottled water. Nowadays, Buxton Well Dressing Festival also sees a carnival and funfair: complete, as I find out on the sunny parade weekend, with rides galore and even lvis-themed floats among other more ‘conventional’ exhibits. I’m momentarily worried these are a distraction, not in keeping with such a long-standing custom – but then, surrounded by laughter and that same sense of camaraderie I felt in Bollington and ayfield, I dismiss this idea. From petals to ‘rebellious’ dog fur, vicar’s blessings to secular designs and modernday amusements, it’s clear that well dressing continues to adapt while preserving ancient traditions. For this very reason, I’ve little doubt it will unite and delight for centuries to come.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Bu ton offers easy access to many partaking towns and villages, plus its own popular well-dressing festival and many more attractions besides. An ideal Peak District base, it can be reached by train try Trainline’s SplitSave feature or railcards for competitive fares. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Well dressings take place from ay to September, with the majority in June and July. C U R R E N C Y British pound TIME ZONE

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ou’ll find everything from top-notch restaurants to hearty pub grub, but don’t miss staples like Bu ton pudding a crumbly, buttery confection filled with raspberry preserve. W H E R E TO S TAY

Bu ton rescent recently reopened as a five-star spa hotel, following a 0 million renovation, it offers topnotch pampering in a rade -listed eorgian landmark. H OW TO D O I T

Websites such as welldressing.com and visitpeakdistrict.com offer ample information. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

An emergency raincoat. Even in summer, you never know here WHY GO

To see a fascinating custom in some captivating places, not least the Peak District. ostly located within Derbyshire but with footholds in orkshire, heshire, reater anchester and Staffordshire Britain’s oldest national park offers much to discover. Vicky Smith travelled with the assistance of Trainline (thetrainline.com).

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elaxed’ isn’t a word that usually gets bandied about when it comes to South American capital cities, but you’ll often hear it used in descriptions of Montevideo. A population of less than two million gives it the laid-back feel of a second city rather than, say, famously grandiose and hectic Buenos Aires, situated little more than a hop across the Río de la Plata. And Uruguay, being two thirds enclosed by water – its only land border with Brazil

to the northeast – can sometimes feel like an island, rather than a country tucked within an enormous, vibrant continent. The downside of this might initially cause less favourable comparisons with its showy neighbours, but it won’t take long before Montevideo’s lack of pretension works its charms. The city is founded on a natural harbour on Uruguay’s south coast, where the o de la lata flows into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, so you’re never far from cooling breezes and calming vistas. And access to the shoreline is aided by the capital’s famously long boardwalk, La Rambla, which hugs the water’s edge for around 15 miles. You might do as locals do and run, cycle or stroll along it, though for me it’s never better than at sunset – as much of a cliché as that might sound – when you can watch the glistening ‘River of Silver’ become a ribbon of burnished copper before the

sun says adios. Dwarfed by neighbouring Argentina and Brazil, it’s easy to overlook South America’s second smallest country. But despite its relatively diminutive size (it’s still nearly twice the landmass of Portugal), Uruguay punches well above its weight – not least because it gives travellers the chance to e perience local traditions at close uarters. ere you’ll find so much of what people come to South America in search of, within easy reach: brilliant food and wine; carnival season; stunning beaches; and a live music and tango scene. And, of course, Montevideo has the best of all of this, neatly wrapped up within its manageable environs. Plaza Matriz is a great place to start exploring. The oldest square in Ciudad Vieja – a part of the ‘old city’ on which ontevideo was first built – it’s more formally referred to as Plaza de la Constitución. Frequented in daytime by

office workers on their breaks and elderly citizens reading newspapers in the shade, in the early evening couples kiss on benches while families promenade along the path that encircles the plaza’s lavish stone fountain. Sit for long enough in any of Montevideo’s parks and public spaces and you’ll likely get drawn into a conversation or two – it’s certainly worth knowing a little Spanish to make the most of any chance encounters. Adjacent to the plaza is the neoclassical Metropolitan Cathedral – head inside to take in the impressive, gilded interior and savour the calm atmosphere as locals sit quietly with their thoughts or light candles for loved ones. Faith in miracles and the power of prayer is also very much a part of the story at the nearby Museo Andes 1972. The ‘Miracle of the Andes’ occurred in 1972 when a plane carrying the Old Christians rugby team, on their way to play

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a match in Chile, crashed into the mountainside. Lost for many weeks and given up for dead, the struggle to survive in the fuselage wreck on a glacier was famously told in the book and subse uent film, Alive. After 72 days in the Andes, 19-year-old student Roberto Canessa and his friend Nando Parrado walked for ten days over a 15,260ft peak – without climbing gear – to seek help. Eventually sighting Sergio Catalán, a Chilean arriero (livestock herder), but too distant to be heard over the stream that separated them, they tossed over messages wrapped around a rock. Catalán rode a great distance to raise the alarm, and a rescue team eventually plucked the other 14 survivors from the glacier. This feat of human endurance ranks in the annals of history, alongside names like Ernest Shackleton; I once met Canessa in Chile, and was deeply moved to hear him speak of his experience and how it motivated his later work as a doctor. The museum, which tells the story in both English and Spanish, pays homage to those involved and will probably knock you for six – even if the display boards themselves at first appear underwhelming. Plaza Independencia marks the start of Centro, the city’s once ‘new’ central barrio, the ornate tower of Palacio Salvo here dominating the skyline. Indicative of the art-deco style that was beloved in Montevideo in the 1920s when the

city’s port trade boomed thanks to Uruguay’s leather, meat and wool exports, this was once one of South America’s tallest buildings and is well worth a climb for the views. Surprisingly, the city has one of the largest collections of artdeco buildings in the world, many of which are now being restored to their former glory. ook out for dificio apido on Avenida 18 de Julio with its satisfyingly curved lines. Elsewhere, there are other reminders of the city’s architectural past, like the 18th-century Puerta de la Ciudadela (Gateway of the Citadel). It’s one of few remnants of the capital’s once-imposing fortifications – before independence, Uruguay’s position made it strategic in the battle between the colonising Portuguese in Brazil and the Spanish forces across the river in Argentina, and on the rest of the continent. From the gateway, a leisurely walk via the shops and cafés on pedestrianised Peatonal Sarandí will lead you to La Rambla and the ‘coast’. The words for sea and beach are often used loosely in Montevideo, being interchangeable with estuary and riverbank – unsurprising, really, when you’re never far from the water in the city. When Uruguayans refer to el mar and la playa they’re often talking about the river and its shoreline that runs along the country’s western flank. Where it’s at its widest, the estuary between the ferry ports of Buenos Aires

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and Uruguay is known as Río de la Plata, or River Plate, but heading north it narrows into the Uruguay River, thinly separating the two countries. Though you might not find brilliantly clear waters along the city’s urban shores, the river is excellent for watersports and – perhaps most enticingly – a handful of white strands like the ones at Playa Verde and laya de los ocitos offer the ideal spot for downing a beer at the end of the day, within easy reach of the centre.

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La Rambla at sunset. PREVIOUS PAGE:

Montevideo sign overlooking Playa Pocitos. THESE PAGES CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Candombe drumming; Street art; Musicians in Plaza Matriz; Cooking at an asado; Getting ready for carnival.

For me, one of the biggest charms of Montevideo lies in its people, who welcome visitors with an openness mostly unmatched in other capitals across the continent. In fact, don’t be surprised if you’re invited to share someone’s yerba mate (a kind of herbal tea). Simply thinking of it as a herbal infusion is something of a misnomer, however – yerba mate is a revered ritual and very much part of the cultural fabric of this region, originating from the indigenous Guaraní people, whose tradition of drinking it communally is still followed. While sipping from the same straw (a bombilla – pronounced more like bombizsha by Uruguayans) as someone you’ve only just met might not sound particularly appealing, especially during this Covid era, it’s customary to join in. Though be warned – if you’ve had mate previously, it’s on another level here: Uruguayans drink it much stronger than their neighbours. Carnival is also big in Montevideo, with the city home to the longest festival season in Latin America. Running for 40 nights from January to March, it sees revellers making the most of the weeks leading up to Lent. From

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Footballs for sale; Playa Pocitos; Plaza Matriz at night; Cafés on Plaza Matriz; Yerba mate; Plaza Independencia.

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Photo Credits: All images Jordan Banks or Dreamstime.

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Afro-Uruguayan candombe drumming – the exhilarating troops of percussionists who take to the streets – to murga theatre shows, where different groups of singers with heavily painted faces and colourful costumes perform on stages, Uruguay has its own distinctive style of carnival. Unlike the typically wild celebrations that take place at this time of year elsewhere in South America, many events here involve staged theatrical performances in more formal settings, which are just as enticing in their own right. Even out of season, you can get a taste of Uruguay’s festival season with a visit to the Carnival Museum, where the origins of the festivities are explored. For a taste of what the locals like to eat, wander down to the 19th-century Mercado del Puerto, the portside market, where you can try the national dish, chivito. This giant steak sandwich is piled high with lettuce, cheese, eggs and olives, and is probably best shared. As you’d expect from a place with so much coastline, there are also spectacular fish and seafood restaurants here serving up deliciously smoky octopus, tapas plates of salted cod and shrimp empanaditas (small savoury pastries). But it’s the smell of asados drifting from homes, restaurants and paradores food stalls that fills the streets and will linger in your memory. Grilled meat, cooked on metal grates over burning embers, is something of an art form here – unsurprising given that much of the country’s rural centre is given over to grazing land where cows definitely outnumber humans. The full monty, or parillada completa, includes a range of sizzling and caramelised beef cuts from skirt and rump, like bife de chorizo, to offal and intestines (the last more popular than you might expect and worth a try), barbecued alongside spicy chorizo, served in bread as choripán, and salted, creamy morcilla (blood sausage). And while the food scene has moved on a lot in recent years, especially so with vegan and vegetarian options, it’s hard to resist – especially on a first visit – following your nose and giving into a platter of seared beef on an outdoor patio. And don’t forget to order a glass of something to wash it down with – Uruguay’s wine scene is attracting global attention, and deservedly so. In typical Latin American style, the city’s nightlife doesn’t kick off until at least pm predictably perhaps, given the stimulant properties of yerba mate), where the focus for many is a milonga. Often more akin to a community dance, these informal tango sessions happen every day in Montevideo – they’re much more low-key than a typical tango ‘show’ sold to travellers here and across the water, and provide a real taste of local culture. The dancing carries on well into the small hours, though instead of skirts slashed to the upper thigh and virtuoso gancho leg flicks, you’re ust as likely to be shuffling along ne t to someone’s grandparents in their cardigans – though, of course, you’ll notice plenty of serious dancers changing into their wellheeled leather shoes, too. And if you arrive without a partner, you’ll no doubt find someone will offer to guide you around the floor. But, even at night, when the buildings on the other side of the Río de la Plata blink back at me in the darkness, it’s the quiet of La Rambla that draws me back again and again. In this rich and diverse continent there will always be a strong pull to explore further – more to see, to do, to experience – but the quiet charms and ease of Montevideo are as stimulating and unexpectedly satisfying as a gourd full of yerba mate.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Carrasco International Airport is only 15 miles from the centre of Montevideo, and easily reached by shuttle, bus or taxi. Ferries connect Buenos Aires to Montevideo. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Montevideo is a great yearround destination. Head here from December to March for the best beach weather, and for carnival from January; the weather on either side of these months is pleasantly milder, with lots to do in the city at this time. C U R R E N C Y Uruguayan

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Often celebrated for its yerba mate and grilled meat (the latter thanks to its rural interior and gaucho culture), Uruguay – and especially Montevideo – also has a growing foodie scene, making use of the country’s underrated wine and abundant seafood. W H E R E TO S TAY

The sumptuous, centrally located Alma Histórica bouti ue hotel, or the Sofitel Montevideo, in the salubrious beachside suburb of Carrasco, close to the airport. H OW TO D O I T

Montevideo is easy to explore independently; make use of the unparalleled local Guru’Guay website (guruguay.com) for planning. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

A pair of trainers or walking shoes to make the most of the extensive riverside boardwalk, La Rambla. WHY GO

To soak up a bit of South American culture in one of its most laid-back and accessible countries, with great beaches to boot.

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Khao niew (sticky rice) is more than just the staple food of Laos – it is the glue that holds its people and traditions together. So much so that Lao people refer to themselves as luk khao niew, ‘children of the sticky rice’. Khao niew forms the centrepiece of every meal, always eaten by hand and largely as a bread-like utensil to scoop up food or dip into sauces. In towns and villages, you’ll see bamboo-steamed sticky rice sold as a snack from street and market stalls, and you’ll also spot handfuls of khao niew on altars at temples, playing an important part in Laotian Buddhist rituals. PHOTO ESSAY BY GIULIA VERDINELLI

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Flooded rice paddies near Luang Prabang. OPPOSITE PAGE:

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iscs o rice our ryin in the sun; Farmers often work barefoot while planting and ar es in rice n e ry season, entire villages are dedicated to making rice noodles.

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After the rice stalks are rie ey are ea en i orous y on wooden planks to separate the kernels from the plant.

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ice is ra i iona y s ea e o er a c arcoa re in a unne s ape bamboo basket called a huad; Small handfuls of khao niew are o ere on a ars o onour e ea an ei ies RIGHT:

s ree en or se in ao a a popu ar s ree oo snac o s ee s ic y rice s ea e or ri e in a oo u es

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Luang Prabang airport, though you’ll most likely have to travel there via Bangkok. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Visit at the beginning of the dry season in October/ November to see the lush, flooded paddy fields. C U R R E N C Y Kip T I M E Z O N E GMT +7 FO O D

Khao niew can be found everywhere, from restaurants to night markets. Try dipping it in jeow mak keua, a spicy dip made with aubergines (eggplant), fish sauce and chillies, or have it as a pudding cooked with coconut milk and served with mango. W H E R E TO S TAY

There’s a great range of accommodation in Luang Prabang, from luxury hotels to more traditional guesthouses; some of the most atmospheric line the river roads. H OW TO D O I T

To really understand khao niew, visit a working rice farm (a tuk-tuk can take you there from the city or you can hire a scooter). Here you will learn how rice is cultivated and then enjoy a lunch of local specialities. M U S T- PAC K O P T I O N

Shorts will make it easier to navigate the muddy paddy fields. WHY GO

There is often no better way to experience a country than through its food, and Laos is no exception: through trying khao niew and other local dishes, you can experience a centuriesold tradition.

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ropical fish have the most fantastic names. lennies. Trevallies. amsels and sweetlips. asked puffers and carpet flatheads. Spangled emperors and apoleon wrasse – the latter all the more magnificent when you consider the first thing they thought of when coming up with its name was that the lump on its head looks a little bit like apoleon onaparte’s hat. I’m slowly following one of these hefty creatures through the waters off A aba, in ordan’s ed Sea. The fish is electric blue, all fleshy lips and shocked e pression an aster Island head with fins. And then I see the gun turret, pointing up past me, towards the surface of the sea. ther shapes develop from the darkness. A eep. A troop carrier. A fleet of armoured cars, lined up as if they’re engaged in some kind of battle on the ocean floor. ubbles stream out of the open hatch of a nearby tank. As curious sights go, this is right up there. ut then this is the world’s first nderwater ilitary useum, an ensemble of retired ordanian Army vehicles that were scuttled on a sandy patch of seabed in the hope of providing a habitat for marine life where there was none. The scope of the pro ect is impressive – it’s the largest of its kind in the world – but this isn’t the first crack at establishing artificial reefs in the ulf of A aba. Another anti-aircraft vehicle lies in shallow water further down the coast, sunk in by the ordanian oyal cological iving Society. After more than years beneath the waves, it’s a vision of how the nderwater ilitary useum might look in years to come, with bushes of soft corals and sponges sprouting from its armour plates and schools of reef fish darting among them. These manufactured marine-life hubs complement a uni ue fringe of naturally growing coral reef. The most northerly in the world, the reefs along ordan’s ed Sea coastline are made up of more than types of coral formation and have one of the world’s highest diversity of species per s uare yard. What’s more, they might ust be resilient to climate change. ‘In a recent study, corals in the ulf of A aba showed remarkable heat resistance and high tolerance to seawater warming,’ r Ali Al-Sawalmih, director of the arine Science Station, tells me at his base in A aba. While bleaching and death occur when corals are e posed to temperatures that are one to two degrees Celsius above average, the reefs around A aba can survive a rise of five or si degrees. There’s certainly nothing but colour and life in the

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Sunset over the Dead Sea. OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Scuba diving in the Red Sea; Hawksbill turtle. THIS PAGE:

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Saif al Krimeen guides a roup a on e a al Reesh Trail in Dana Biosphere Reserve. BELOW:

Tea stop in Dana Biosphere Reserve.

reefs I snorkel. The nooks and crannies of the Japanese Gardens, named after the huge coral heads that resemble the curving, storeyed roofs of Japanese pagodas, are packed with starfish, crabs and shrimps. ing Abdullah eef is a typhoon of schooling fusiliers; Black Rock a rainbow of lettuce corals, fire corals and all kinds of other formations I don’t recognise and have to look up later. These reefs form part of the Aqaba Marine Park, the country’s first marine reserve, which was established in December 2020 to protect an area of around 615 acres south of Aqaba town. Seen from the beach, it covers a third of ordan’s entire coastline. The park is ust the first step, though. fforts are underway to get the site protected by UNESCO, the International Union for Conservation of Nature and other global governing bodies. The work in the Red Sea is being carried out with one eye firmly on the future. ana village, miles to the north, and the nature reserve it overlooks, has already become synonymous with sustainability. The flagship of ordan’s Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature (RSCN), Dana Biosphere Reserve is focused around Wadi Dana, a wild, eroded canyon that drops over 4,900ft as it slashes down from terraced mountain slopes through aromatic woodland to stony desert. The steep descent has created a remarkable combination of ecosystems in a relatively small area, and there’s a oah’s Ark of animals that you could also find in Europe, Africa and Asia: sandgrouse, porcupines, striped hyenas and rare species like the Arabian wolf and spinytailed lizard.

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Men who once hunted ibex and hyrax over the rocks are now paid to protect them. The reserve is a hiker’s paradise, with a squiggle of tracks running down through the wadi and along its sloping walls. arly one morning, I set off with my guide Saif al rimeen on the Sha al eesh Trail, the Canyon of Feathers, a nod to the eagles that we soon see wheeling on the thermals above. We pick our way through a Wild West landscape of stubbled mountains, pancake rocks and formations of freestanding limestone that recall the eroded fairy chimneys of Cappadocia. Bristly plants grow in the unlikeliest of places, wedged into shadowy cracks in the rocks and bursting out of boulders. Saif points out pistachio trees, lavender, clumps of sage and scraggy juniper, which is used for everything from cleaning teeth to flavouring rice and lining roofs. ‘You English have it in your gin,’ he teases. We scramble down through Shaq Al Reesh itself, a narrow crevice that Saif calls the ‘Dana Siq’ after the famous gorge that marks the gateway to Petra. The rocks on the other side are streaked with copper. As the sun starts to bleach the sky, it’s time to stop for Arabic tea in the shade of a cliff face. Saif constructs a little fire out of dried brushwood, hangs a blackened kettle above it between two cairns and talks about his dream of opening his own camp for tourists. He’s 25 years old but has already been guiding for nearly a decade. ‘If you wake up without a goal, go back to sleep again; nothing is impossible,’ he says, as much to himself as to me.

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Saif was born in Al Qadisiyya, which was built just above Dana village in the late 1960s. The new town, which straddles the main road, was essentially Dana’s replacement, Abed hawaldeh tells me as we sit on the terrace of the RSCN’s guesthouse later that day: its dusty streets of old Ottoman houses quickly emptied, the residents drawn up the hill by new jobs – and the lure of running water and electricity. Abed’s family were the last to leave the village for Al Qadisiyya in the late 1980s. He now works for the RSCN in Dana, one of 80 or so local people the NGO employs as rangers, researchers, guides, cooks and artisans. ‘Before the formation of the reserve, there was little chance for locals to find obs here,’ he says. ‘It transformed the people from damaging nature to conserving it.’ Men who once hunted ibex and hyrax over the rocks are now paid to protect them. In workshops just across from the guesthouse, women who once sold their crops in local markets now earn money turning them into dried-fruit products. Others hand-craft jewellery out of silver. ‘The project started with the elderly ladies who were experienced in fruit drying,’ says Abed. ‘They have trained the young girls how to do it. The job is passed on from generation to generation.’ Supervisor Nazeer el hasabah learned the skill from her mother and has now been working here for 22 years. Her team parches apricots,

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ie o ana a ure eser e lizard walking up the side of a rock; Exploring the narrow canyon i e or es s ep er in Dana National Park.

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figs and grapes into leathery sheets, or boils them down into jams or molasses, with only a drop of lemon juice or a pinch or two of sugar added, to Nazeer’s taste. Dana is a winning story of wildlife conservation that’s not been achieved at the expense of the community. Just as a number of locals have been employed within the reserve, so, too, can shepherds still graze their goats in the ‘mixed zone’ of the wadi (I can make out the amber pinpricks of their campfires deep down in the canyon each night .

Dazzling clumps of sodium chloride bobble on the shoreline, looking like washed-up cauliflower heads.

Where Dana accommodates life of all kinds, Jordan’s other great natural spectacle does nothing of the sort. The first rule of swimming in the ead Sea is that you don’t swim in the Dead Sea. Because you can’t. You can float like a starfish, you can dangle in the water and try to read a newspaper without mushing up the pages too much, but its extreme buoyancy means you can forget about a bit of breaststroke. Which is something I quickly discover as I bob around in the oily shallows, more Weeble than Weissmuller, going nowhere fast and getting an eyeful of supercharged saltwater for my troubles. Stretching for 30 miles along the border between Jordan and Israel, around 65 miles north of Dana, the Dead Sea is a unique phenomenon. It lies at the lowest point on Earth, some 1,410ft below sea level, and is ten times saltier than the Mediterranean. Its waters, and the mud beneath them, are a soup of therapeutic minerals. Even the air – rich in oxygen and almost completely clear of pollen and other allergens – is special. The Dead Sea has been called the world’s largest natural spa, and I’ve dragged my poor neglected body here to put its healing properties to the test. ut the first thing that strikes me is the stark beauty of the place. Land, sea and sky pop in a layer cake of colour. Dazzling clumps of sodium chloride bobble on the shoreline, looking like washed-up cauliflower heads. ehind them, veins of crystallised salt fan out like tree roots sprinkled with sunlit snowfall. Across the flattened water, the buff hills of the West ank hover in the vapour haze.

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The coastline of the Dead Sea. Photo Credits: Picfair, Dreamstime and Keith Drew.

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I thread my way through the landscaped grounds of the empinski otel Ishtar ead Sea and down to a wedge of russet sand. Bathing for therapeutic purposes has been practised in these parts since anti uity – ing erod the reat established one of the world’s first health resorts on the Dead Sea’s shores – so I follow suit, slipping into the dark-blue deadness. Swirling my hands through the water, I can actually see the minerals, gliding along in the currents I’ve just created like an oil slick. There’s sulphur, calcium and magnesium here, and iodine, potassium and chlorine, proven cures for a whole host of ailments ranging from psoriasis to bad circulation. Bromine, prized for its calming effects, is found here in concentrations times greater than anywhere else on Earth. Maybe it’s the silence and the stillness and the pressing heat, maybe it’s the bromine, but there’s a Zen-like serenity to just dangling in the greasy water. It’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to experiencing what zero gravity feels like. The peace permeates the hotel’s grounds, too, a shady mass of palm trees and dripping bougainvillea. In the cool of the spa at the top of the hill, guests can try various different treatments that make use of the natural remedies on offer just outside the door. I opt for the ‘Polish and Swathe’, a vigorous body scrub with Dead Sea salts followed by a hot mud wrap. ‘The salt scrub exfoliates the skin and opens your pores for the mud to work its magic,’ Vinod Panwar, the spa manager, explains to me, adding that Cleopatra used Dead Sea salts in her daily beautifying rituals. Once my therapist has well and truly opened up my pores with crunchy handfuls of crushed salt, she douses me in the sloppy black clay that gathers along the sea’s shore. The mud is packed with minerals that have antiseptic qualities and is said to help relieve joint and muscle pain. I’m then cocooned in a kind of heated quilt and left to bake. When I emerge half an hour later, my skin feels like silk. The Dead Sea has historically been fed by the River ordan, which flows south from the Sea of alilee into its northern end, and a few shoreline springs. But in the 1960s and ’ s, first Israel then ordan began diverting water from the river’s upper reaches – and from the River Yarmouk, the Jordan’s main tributary – for use in industry, agriculture and residential homes on both sides of the border. With nothing to replenish it, the Dead Sea is in danger of dying. ‘Ninety percent of the water that used to feed the lake is being diverted,’ says Ibrahim Al Sheyyab of the Dead Sea Museum, which is perched above the shore at the end of a climbing switchback road minutes’ drive south of the empinski. ‘At the beginning of the 20th century, its surface area was around 950 square kilometres [366 square miles]. At the beginning of this century, that had fallen by half.’ Stepped rocky terraces on the shoreline further south show just how much the water level has changed. Sinkholes – formed when fresh groundwater dissolves the salty soil into large subterranean caverns that eventually collapse in upon themselves – are opening up at this end of the sea at an alarming rate. Plans to run a canal north from the Red Sea, dotted with desalination plants to transform Red Sea water into drinking water while pumping the remaining salty brine into the Dead Sea, appear to have been permanently shelved due to environmental concerns. The solution remains elusive. But then, reassuringly, if Dana and the Red Sea are anything to go by, Jordan has found solutions to similar problems before.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

The Dead Sea is about an hour’s drive west of Queen Alia International Airport. Aqaba has its own international airport, 15 minutes’ north of the city. Dana is roughly halfway between the two. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Spring (March to May) is the best time to visit Jordan, when the weather’s warm and the upper slopes of Dana will be green and speckled with wild owers. Avoid summer, when the Dead Sea region can resemble a furnace and a hot wind blows through Aqaba. C U R R E N C Y Jordanian dinar T I M E Z O N E GMT+2 FO O D

Jordanian hospitality is legendary, so don’t be surprised if you get invited to a home-cooked dinner; you might be served kebabs or mansaf, the national dish of lamb in a sour goat’s milk yoghurt. In restaurants, you can’t go wrong with meze. W H E R E TO S TAY

The palatial Kempinski Hotel Ishtar Dead Sea; Dana Guesthouse, on the edge of Wadi Dana; Mövenpick Tala Bay, which is closer to the Red Sea’s coral reefs than the hotels in Aqaba itself. H OW TO D O I T

Regent Holidays can arrange trips to Jordan that take in all the places mentioned here. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Hiking boots for Dana and a mask and snorkel for the Red Sea. Plus, of course, a newspaper for the quintessential Dead Sea experience. WHY GO

To see a trio of remarkable natural wonders, all very different, just a few hours apart, along with some of the best conservation and community-tourism initiatives in the Middle East. 131

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heki is a city with a very sweet tooth,’ says chef Ramil Jamalli. ‘We love to eat mindal [nuts in a crisp, caramel coating]; we adore bamya too sticky, fluted doughnut fingers , but we are known all over the country for our halva [a local version of baklava . It’s been a signature dish of Sheki since the 1700s.’ In the kitchen of Azizoglu alvasi – one of the city’s finest halva shops – amil sets about preparing the first of the day’s batches of the sugary, nutty confection by mi ing rice flour with water. ‘The recipe and method have remained unchanged in hundreds of years,’ he says. ‘In Sheki, we must only use rice flour that has been ground in one of the local water mills. therwise, it cannot be called Sheki halva.’ e turns up the flame under a griddle pan and begins painting whorls of the rice-flour batter across its smoking surface, creating a

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Detail of a shebeke window in the workshop of master craftsman Huseyn Mustafazadeh; View of Sheki from the walls surrounding the Khan’s palace. OPPOSITE PAGE FROM LEFT TO RIGHT

Ramil Jamalli prepares halva in the kitchen of Azizoglu Halvasi; Shahla Shirinova cuts halva for customers at Azizoglu Halvasi after adding a nis in ouc o oney

lace-like pancake which is cooked for just a minute then set aside to cool. Ramil repeats the process until he has a very precise 36 sheets, at which point he starts to assemble the halva, alternating the rice-flour lattices with ground hazelnuts, coriander seeds and cardamom before drowning them all in sugar syrup. ‘Hazelnuts and coriander we grow here, but cardamom came from Iran to Sheki via the Silk oad,’ he says. ‘All kinds of influences, ideas and ingredients have travelled in and out of the city that way.’ He invites me to join him for a cup of tea and a slice of the halva, which is made even sweeter with an additional drizzle of honey. As we sit and chat, he tells me that in Sheki tea is considered more than just a beverage, it’s a symbol of hospitality which is offered to guests with every hello and handshake. Always served black, amil likes to flavour his with rose petals ‘Rose is good for the heart,’ he says. It arrives in hourglass-shaped crystal glasses – armudu – ingeniously designed to cool at the top while keeping the heat below, and is accompanied by yet more sugar: a pot full of cubes to drink the tea local-style – the cube dunked in the brew first, then the tea sucked through it. amil tells me that, in Azerbaijan, sugar even plays an important role in wedding negotiations. ‘If you don’t include it on the tea tray, you are saying to the other family, without words or losing face, that the marriage will not go ahead. So, sometimes tea is not always so good for the heart I suppose.’ I set out to explore the city, which lies in the foothills of the Caucasus mountains in a valley forested with mulberry trees and oaks. Established as early as the Bronze Age, it rose to power in the mid 1700s as the headquarters of the first and foremost khanate in the region. The Sheki khans ruled over their domain from a fortified comple of buildings set around gardens, fountains and marble water pools. Of the original 40 or so buildings, only one structure has survived: the spectacular Khan’s Palace, an administrative building designed for the passing of laws and the plotting of wars with rival khanates, which took two years to

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build and a further eight to decorate. Eventually completed in 1762, its exterior walls – made from limestone cemented together with egg white – are richly adorned with turquoise and ochre geometric patterns and dotted with depictions of flowers and strutting peacocks. ‘Peacocks are a symbol of beauty, but their cry is ugly and shrill,’ says palace guide Zamina Rasulava. ‘They were a reminder to the people of Sheki that nothing in creation is perfect.’ The interior murals are even more lavish, with peonies, daffodils and irises blooming in vivid colour among pomegranate trees laden with the ruby-red fruit. ‘In the Koran, the pomegranate is considered the king of the paradise fruits because its top resembles a crown,’ says Zamina. ‘It is also a symbol of government. Inside, there are many seeds and the seeds are like people. The white pith separates them into different regions, cultures and ethnic groups. If there is good government then there is unity in the khanate.’ Most spectacular though are the palace’s shebeke windows, featuring thousands of pieces of stained glass – brought from Murano, Italy via the Silk Road – and slotted into intricate wooden frames without the use of glue or a single nail. Their effect is to splinter the sunlight and cast shards of blue, green and yellow light across the room. ‘The Sheki khans were

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Bread shop in Sheki’s Teze bazaar; A design diagram for a shebeke window in Huseyn Mustafazadeh’s workshop; Construction of a shebeke window. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Piti pots; Sevil Musayeva in her kitchen.

known for their love of beautiful things,’ Zamina explains. ‘They had an appetite for opulence and indulgence. They enjoyed feasting on candies, sweet breads and desserts, especially halva. The Indian fabrics and Chinese vases that were brought here along the Silk Road inspired in them a great love of art. As a result, the city became well-known as a centre for handicrafts many of them are still practised today, including shebeke and silk-printing.’ Outside the palace walls, I stop to sample another of Sheki’s renowned specialities: piti. Considered by many to be the national dish of Azerbaijan, its name is derived from an old Turkic word which translates as ‘the end of need to eat any more food.’ I take a seat at a restaurant table and the cook, Sevil Musayeva, arrives moments later with a conical earthenware dopu (piti pot) then guides me through the two-part eating ritual. The first step, she explains, involves placing chunks of pillowy tendir bread in a soup bowl and draining the liquid contents of the dopu on top of it. ‘It’s important to tear the bread, not cut it with a knife,’ she says. ‘It’s one of our many important bread traditions. If we tear it, it means the visitor will definitely return.’ The resulting broth is delicious, rich with the flavour of lamb and a hint of saffron a sprinkle of sumac spice on top brings an extra citrusy tang. Step two consists of emptying out the remaining solids – lamb, chickpeas, chestnuts and sheep’s-tail fat – and mashing them together with a fork. The large lumps of fat, while unappetising to the eye, help to create a sumptuous stew that is as comforting as a log fire in winter. ‘When it’s cold it warms you up, and in summer it gives you energy to get through the day,’ Sevil says. ‘In ancient times, the Sheki khans would give it to their slaves for that reason. It’s why we call it the “porters’ food”.’ it to burst, I decide to walk off the halva and piti in Sheki’s historic centre, a UNESCO World eritage Site. The city’s role as a key trading post linking the capital Baku with Tbilisi in Georgia and Dagestan in Russia gave rise to the building of five great stone-and-timber caravanserais here, two of which are still

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The dying room in Amiraslan Shamilov’s workshop; Finished khelagiya hanging out to dry.

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The wealth generated by the silk trade can be seen in the rows of handsome merchants’ houses – their high-pitched roofs built for breeding silkworms.

standing. Elsewhere, the wealth generated by the silk trade can be seen in the rows of handsome merchants’ houses – their highpitched roofs built for breeding silkworms in the spacious, airy attics. At one time, as many as 14,000 Sheki families were engaged in the process, producing over 200 tonnes of raw silk each year. Residents were also actively involved in the dyeing and decorating of silk squares to make kelaghayi (women’s headscarves), an art form now inscribed on UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity List. ‘In the 18th and 19th centuries, silk from Sheki was valued as highly as any other in the world,’ says Amiraslan Shamilov, whose family have been making kelaghayi for more than two hundred years. ‘Merchants would travel all the way from China and Japan just to buy headscarves from my ancestors,’ he adds proudly. Amiraslan then leads me across a cobbled courtyard to his workshop, where an assistant is hammering sticks of smoke bush, also known as the dyers’ sumac – a softwood which yields a strong orange-red dye. ‘The main reason silk became so highly sought-after wasn’t just because it is beautiful, but because of lice,’ he explains. ‘They don’t live in silk, so for the royalty and the rich people it was very much in demand.’ He takes a seat next to a makeshift cauldron, which is filled with the scent of slowly heating pasab – an oily paste made from tree resin and paraffin that, much like batik wa , resists dyes and allows him to decorate the silk and colour it with natural pigments to his own design. Warning me that one slip or accidental drip could render the silk worthless, Amiraslan painstakingly applies the pasab with a carved wooden stamp. It is one of a large collection, passed down through the generations, each with a different meaning a circle symbolises the sun, triangles the mighty Caucasus

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Stale bread hangs from a door in Sheki’s old town; A kulchebasan for decorating kulcha bread i e ra i iona o er of the universe’ pattern; Omasi bread after baking; Omasi bread ready to be put in the oven.

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mountains. The most common motif is the buta, which is shaped like a teardrop with a curved tip. ‘The buta represents the flame,’ he says. ‘Azerbai an is known as the land of fire after all – here, natural gas burns in the soil and, before Islam, we were Zoroastrians who worshipped at temples of fire. The buta is also a symbol of life and death. During pregnancy, the foetus is curled up in this shape in the womb and in ancient times people of this region were buried in clay pots in the same position. ‘The khelagiya has its own circle of life too,’ he adds, hanging up his handiwork to dry. ‘The mulberry leaves feed the silkworms their cocoons give us silk thread then other ature allows me to bring the silk to life with colour.’ I leave Amiraslan to his labours and wander off towards the ur ana iver, which cuts the city in two. I pass a gate where a bag of stale bread hangs from a hook. Then, a few houses down, I spot a woman tying a similar bag to a tree. ‘In Azerbaijan, we have a deep respect for bread,’ she tells me. ‘It’s considered a sin to throw it away or put it on the ground, so we hang it up outside. If someone has chickens or farm animals, they will take the bread for them for food.’ When I come across a bakery further down the road, I head inside to learn more about Sheki’s veneration of the humble loaf. Here, Hagigat Sadigova is busy preparing omasi, a sweet brioche spiced with saffron. ‘You have to be relaxed and in a good mood to make good bread,’ she says, kneading away merrily. ‘We believe if you are in a bad mood it will pass to the bread through your hands so it won’t rise properly.’ After moulding a batch with her floury fingers, agigate uses the tines of a fork to decorate their surfaces with diamonds. ‘The omasi has the same patterns as the palace’s shebeke windows they represent the stars in the night sky,’ she says, before scattering over a handful of sesame seeds. With a long-armed paddle, she lifts the loaves into her wood-fired oven, constructed in her garden from bricks, broken glass and more than a tonne of salt in order that it retains its fierce heat. ‘An oven must never be built near the dirt of a stable or a henhouse, out of respect for the bread,’ she says. It’s one of many traditions that Hagigat swears by: as well as the belief that bread dropped on the ground should be kissed and touched to the forehead three times, like a form of apology that if children suffer nightmares, bread should be placed under the pillow with a knife to protect them from the evil eye and that a promise made over bread must never be broken. I ask why there is such reverence for bread of all things. She pauses and smooths down her apron before replying. ‘Bread came before even the holy book – the Koran,’ she says, ‘so bread is as old as life itself. That is why.’

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Sheki is a five-hour drive west of the capital Baku, which is served by international ights. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Avoid the oppressive heat and humidity of July and August spring and autumn are the best times to enjoy the city in the cooler mountain air. CURRENCY

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Try piti at the restaurantcum-homestay of lhama Huseynova, on the outskirts of Sheki. Another local speciality is dolma vine-leaf-wrapped balls of minced lamb. At a arin restaurant, you can enjoy them accompanied by fine views across the city. W H E R E TO S TAY

Bed down for the night in the historic ukari Karavansarai Hotel, a simply renovated but atmospheric caravanserai just a short walk from the Khan’s Palace (book in advance). H OW TO D O I T

A recommended Englishspeaking driver is Habil udratli ( 99 0 habilgudratli gmail.com) who can drive you from Baku to Sheki and show you the city’s highlights. M U S T- PAC K I T E M S

Travel lightly so you have room in your luggage to bring home a bottle or two of the superb local wine which is not readily available abroad, notably habiant, eysari and Savalan. WHY GO

Azerbaijan is the most distinctive of the jigsaw puzzle of nations that make up the aucasus, with good food, enjoyable hiking and a burgeoning wine scene. Sheki is its most pictures ue town, steeped in Silk oad history, and remains, for the moment, relatively untouristed. Simon Urwin travelled as a guest of azerbaijan.travel.

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p comes a perihelion super sun, shining close to our orbit and looking as radiant as a new mum, ready to deliver warm, gentle kisses to wake her earthling babies. ‘It’s all about association,’ Arief, the yogi master, has explained. ‘Try to connect personally with nature.’ With my hand on my heart centre, I take a deep breath just as I’ve been instructed. Before me is a 9th-century water temple glowing golden amid green rice terraces that look like a giant’s thumb prints, sketched by fluorescent pen. A white-breasted water hen, roused by our recent round of enthusiastic ‘Oms’, is nearby, shaking her feathers dry. I giggle at the wonderful absurdity of being on this bird’s turf while performing a downwardfacing dog. ‘In through the nose, out through the mouth,’ urges Arief. Ridiculous as it may sound, I realise that I haven’t been inhaling and exhaling correctly since setting foot in Bali. Instead, I’ve been huffing and puffing, and I’ll tell you why traffic ams too many tourists Aussie blokes on stag dos. It wasn’t my idea to come here and I’m still settling in. The most western of Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands, Bali sits east of Lombok and west of Java, and it was my surf-mad eldest son Josh who had urged me to consider visiting while we were planning our route to Australia. I’ve never been a fan of crowded places, however many hours of sunshine they have or exotic they sound, and Bali, at 2,230 square miles, receives over six million tourists annually, accounting for over eighty percent of its economy. The first tourists arrived on the utch steamship line KPM in 1924 – the island had fallen bloodily to The Netherlands’ rule on 28 April 1908, when 200 of Bali’s royal household took their own lives rather than succumb, and the utch kept the island as a curiosity, like a living museum of Balinese tradition, with the first international-class resort – the ali otel –

built in 1927. World War II and the struggle for independence put paid to tourism until the 1970s when Kuta became popular with surfers and package tourism boomed, until the number of visiting foreigners dwindled in the wake of terrorist attacks in 2002 and 2005. Now thriving again, these days the biggest problem the island faces is managing its ever-increasing popularity. On Josh’s request, I did some research. escriptions like ‘only butterflies for company’ and ‘easy to lose the crowds’ made me think again. I read about hidden shrines tucked away in bamboo forests; sacred springs in which to cleanse your soul; secret beaches to play castaway on. I dug out Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, which does give a good argument for running away here to discover yourself. Tempted, I booked our plane tickets, determined to find a glimpse of the ali of old amid the glut of over-tourism, but first impressions let me down. Cue the huffing as we sat in a traffic am near the airport. y breath became shorter still while sitting atop serrated cliffs, trying to view the sunset at the th-

Terrace rice e s near Ubud. OPPOSITE PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

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century water temple of Pura Luhur. Nothing to see here but a forest of arms holding phones. Once yoga has steadied my breath, we seek out smaller shrines, not as grand but more charming in their deliverance of peace. At the 13th-century Pura Kehen temple in the village of Cempaga, stone effigies of the elephant god anesh flank moss-covered steps that lead to a grey-stone temple, watched over by an incense-seller who welcomes us with a grin and a nod. As a tourist in a village not listed in the guidebooks, it’s good to feel like a novelty rather than a nuisance. The mile-long cowrie-littered sands of Nyang Nyang, east of Uluwatu, lie at the foot of ungle-clad cliffs. The effort it re uires to get here – a 30-minute walk through pasture to a 500-step trail that winds down to the sands – keeps it an idyll. Here, we picnic on sticky coconut cake and fresh pineapple and poke our noses into rock pools where spiky sea urchins, trapped by the tide, are also cast away. The surf curls like butter on a knife edge to form perfect swirls, before crashing to send white mists to a cloudless sky where greatcrested terns fly. I sit in the cliff-hugged cove of Padang Padang to catch my breath after climbing down monkey-riddled steps. The surf break here is world famous and even on ‘flat’ days the beach teems with devotees. Josh is out with an instructor, living his best teenage years, and as I let the grains of sand run through my fingers, I feel both time and heartbeat slow, mesmerised by the surfers’ quiet perseverance in their quest for that perfect break. As the flamboyantly striped u un traditional outrigger fishing canoes return to deposit their hundreds of kilos of fish at imbaran fish market at dawn, I take pictures. A milky rose sky is the backdrop as immense

The surf curls like butter on a knife edge to form perfect swirls.

sleek yellow-fin tuna are hauled from the crafts by salty sailors soaked to the bone, hoisting their swag to swing from hooks. Brine splashes my legs as buckets of slippery wayward squids are ferried to stalls, and nimble-fingered women chatter and pick through turquoise nets for the uiciest prawns, uickly tossed to ice before the hawking begins. By night, when the bay is aglow with the flickering candles

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from the arun s seafood restaurants , we eat red snapper served with nasi oren (fried rice , cooked on coconut-fuelled grills. When the time has come for homemade coconut ice cream, the tide has rolled in and the Indian Ocean laps at our feet. We head inland to Ubud, Bali’s cultural heartland, passing emerald rice paddies dotted with statuesque white herons watching out for eels, and travel through small villages, each stone-walled house with its own family shrine. earing bud the traffic slows, and my heart sinks at the sight of the town’s streets thronging with day trippers, lured here by its bohemian reputation. I wonder if the town is more theme park than spiritual centre these days. I’m soon set straight as I wander. Ubud’s heart is found not only in its temples but in its many independent businesses: more organic cafés, vegan restaurants, yoga studios and meditation centres than a healer could wave a crystal at. I call into homeware store Threads of Life, chock full of woven baskets, rugs

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and hand-drawn silk batiks, whose proceeds support over 1,000 rural women weavers across Indonesia. Along the Ayung River, we paddle through Class II and III rapids; a gentle ride that enables us to take in our surroundings. Floppyhatted flower growers tend to riverside gardens of marigolds; leather-skinned men tethered by ropes transport timber on their heads, waist high in rushing water; a local family perform a cleansing ceremony in the pure water of a holy spring. Their toddler squirms as the cool water is splashed on his face. His mum points to us as a distraction, and we give him a wave as we float by. Like the Hindu god, Brahma, Bali has many faces. Surfer, stag, hippy, or none of the above – by now I’ve realised that each can find their own nirvana here. I find mine sitting in the lotus position next to a water hen, on the rapids of the Ayung, by candlelight on Jimbaran beach, but most of all in watching my surfing son fly high.

BALI

OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

s on er carries a ar in on Ji aran eac res s or sa e a Ji aran s ar e THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

o orcyc is s on a usy u s ree ar er s ar s or in a pa y e near u

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Denpasar Airport Bali, the only airport on the island. Ubud can only be reached by road. B E S T T I M E TO G O

May to September C U R R E N C Y Rupiah T I M E Z O N E GMT +8 FO O D

Coconut-based curries, soups, seafood, sate, stir-fries and noodles. Bali specialities include babu guling (spitroasted pig), betutu bebek (slow-cooked smoked duck), and bubuh injin (black rice pudding with a sweet coconut sauce). W H E R E TO S TAY

Four Seasons Jimbaran Bay for a luxury splurge; Sandat Glamping Tents for an ecofriendly boutique stay. H OW TO D O I T

With no rail service, and congested, often nameless roads making self-drive stressful, the best option is chartered transport (car with a driver/guide). Be sure to research carefully: hotels that look like they are situated in idyllic isolation can often be in very busy spots. Always check if you need a visa as requirements are subject to change. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Insect repellent; yoga gear. WHY GO

Interesting culture, fabulous beaches and a laid-back vibe. For me, travel is about making your own mind up about a place and trying to see beyond the hype. As a small island, Bali caters to all tastes; my fear is that it’s only going to get busier, so catch those unspoilt quiet pockets while you can.

THIS PAGE:

A surfer rides a barrel wave off Padang Padang beach. Photo Credits: All images Dreamstime.

Kate Wickers’ new family travel memoir Shape of a Boy: My Family and Other Adventures is available from all good bookshops. For details, go to jrnymag.com/kate.

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D AY OF THE 152

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One of the most important festivals in Mexico, the Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos) sees families come together to celebrate and remember deceased loved ones. Far from being sombre or melancholic, this is a joyous – and sacred – time. Celebrations can be seen throughout the country, but Pátzcuaro’s, about 230 miles from Mexico City, are particularly unique and memorable. PHOTO ESSAY BY JORDAN BANKS

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Like this young girl, many of the Day of the Dead costumes are based on La Calavera Catrina, a zinc etching originally created by Jose Guadalupe Posada in the early 20th century; Brightly decorated sugar skulls are often used to decorate altars.

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ABOVE:

Night-long vigils are held by candlelight at several graveyards in Pátzcuaro, where altars are decorated with vivid orange marigolds.

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Graves surrounded by an abundance of marigolds, which are believed to help attract the souls of the dead.

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RIGHT:

A moment to relax after the night-long vigil.

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o an ecora es ra es i

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A man lights candles on a grave.

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Settling in for a cold night of celebrations.

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LEFT:

FOLLOWING PAGE:

A local man at a cemetery.

Ceramic ornaments of La Calavera Catrina for sale at the market.

RIGHT:

Typica

ecora ions a ain re ec in

ei a eo

a a a era a rina

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Mexico City, from where it’s a five-hour bus journey to Pátzcuaro. B E S T T I M E TO G O

To experience all of the festivities, time your stay to coincide with 30 October to 2 November. C U R R E N C Y Mexican Peso T I M E Z O N E GMT -6 FO O D

Leave your preconceptions of Mexican food at home; the real deal is a lot less stodgy and heavy than you may be used to. In particular, look out for mole, a traditional sauce that usually contains fruit, nuts, spices and chillies, and is often used in celebratory food. W H E R E TO S TAY

Hotel Pueblo Magico. H OW TO D O I T

It’s easy to plan a trip independently, but be sure to book as far in advance as possible, especially for accommodation, as places can get booked up quickly during the festival. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

A phrasebook – English isn’t widely spoken in this region of Mexico – and a hip flask to help keep you warm during the all-night vigils. WHY GO

For a real local experience of this iconic festival, without any of the commerciality of the celebrations in Mexico City, Cancún and Oaxaca.

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Into the Arctic M O N I S H A

R A J E S H

S N O W -T O P P E D A N D

T R AV E L S

L A K E S ,

D A R K

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M O U N TA I N S

T R A I N

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C I R C L E .

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t was just after 5.30pm and passengers were pacing the platform, glancing up the tracks and checking the overhead screens when the roar of an engine put an end to their jitters, a string of silver carriages curling into the station behind it. ‘This is us!’ said Marc, my photographer, pulling on his rucksack and attempting to board as the train came to rest with a hiss. However, a trio of young women had already hoisted themselves onto the carriage steps and proceeded to swing out in sync, waving victory signs and pointing at the train for a photo op. This, I soon learnt, was a moment of tågskryt or ‘train-bragging’, otherwise known as the Greta ffect. After reta Thunberg made y s a flight shame a global phenomenon, stemming from the guilt associated with air travel, trainbragging became the ne t hashtag to take off

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in Sweden, with young people photographing themselves on trains and posting them on social media to boast about their carbonneutral travel choices. So I wasn’t that surprised to discover our train to Narvik was almost full. Departing daily from Stockholm Central station just after 6pm, the only sleeper train running the length of the country pulls into Narvik, across the border in Norway, at around 1pm the following day, taking passengers more than 100 miles into the Arctic Circle. After a jostle and a squeeze through the door we arrived at our compartment to find the aisle already crammed with three rucksacks rotating in the tiny space and a pair of socked feet straddling the middle berths, the flustered owner trying to make up a bed. Now with six people, five rucksacks and marginally more room than a downstairs toilet, we decided to let the other two couples unpack and settle in while we made a beeline for the dining car where the air was thick with the sound of opening cans, the heat of bodies, and the smell of sweet gravlax being slapped onto tables. Groups in snow boots and furry jumpers seemed to already know one another, exchanging kisses and sliding into booths with

bottles of Alsace Riesling, oblivious to the train gliding away from the platform, past fat graffiti and apartment blocks, their lights flicking on as the darkness moved in. Touching my forehead to the window, its frame embroidered with ice, I peered up at the sky, midnight blue at 6pm, a fingernail of moon in the corner. As we passed a car trapped in snow I felt instant gratitude for being on the train, no slave to traffic, bad weather or delayed flights. This was the first sleeper service I’d been on since travel restrictions had been lifted around the world and the feeling of freedom and movement hit like a drug in my veins. Simply knowing I was journeying through an unknown country had triggered a heightened alertness towards the way the woods lit up in the train’s headlamps, the peach-coloured snow piled under streetlights, and the enticing aroma of my neighbour’s reindeer stew – which was sold alongside a stuffed souvenir reindeer. I lifted the lid on my own microwaved mash with its strip of creamy, smoked meat, scattering of mushrooms and dollop of lingonberry jam, and found a seat alongside one of the couples from our compartment. Colin and Eimear were over from the States and thrilled by their first sleeper train, which they were taking to Kiruna

The town of Narvik. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Abisko railway station in Sweden. BELOW:

The Aurora Sky Station.

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The view from the windows was nothing but festive, with every roof and front yard twinkling with fairy lights.

to chase auroras on snowmobiles. Providing the only rail link between the far north and the rest of Sweden, the train is a favourite of skiers, snowboarders and groups of families taking children to indulge in winter activities from nighttime snow-shoe treks and ice fishing to indulgent stays at the Icehotel in Jukkasjärvi. On the table was a laminated card detailing information about Swedish Lapland and The King’s Trail from Hemavan to Abisko, home of the Aurora Sky Station where visitors can borrow Michelin-man snowsuits and ride a chair car up the mountain at night to chase auroras around the summit. The other side of the card explained how to dress for the weather, how to avoid frostbite, and how to choose snow boots – a clear indication of who usually rode the train. As I made notes, Colin unwrapped a slab of gravlax and nudged it across with a hunk of cheese the size of his forearm, whispering: ‘I

don’t want to alarm you or anything, but the other couple are… kinda sketchy.’ ‘In what way?’ I asked, peeling a ribbon off the fish. ‘So, they’ve locked the compartment with all of our stuff inside and they’re not opening the door.’ I moved to get up from the table, very much alarmed, but Eimear just shrugged and took a sip of her beer. ‘Come, I’ll show you,’ Colin said, picking his way up the carriage and swinging into someone’s lap as the train took a corner. As we passed through the standard carriage where passengers would sleep upright all night, their shoes off, hoods pulled up, and phones showing dramas and films – and one instance of porn – I asked Colin if he’d checked the numbers on the carriage. ‘Yeah, it’s ours,’ he replied. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘We’re definitely in 15 and I think this is 14.’

LEFT, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Aerial view of Kiruna, the northernmost town in Sweden; The Northern Lights in Arctic Sweden; Train tracks running through Abisko National Park; Dog sledding in Kiruna. RIGHT:

Passenger train at Kiruna Railway Station.

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‘Totally sure,’ he replied, less confidently this time. We came to a compartment where the curtains were drawn and the doors locked. ‘It won’t open,’ he said, tugging at the door. ‘Keep walking,’ I said, as Colin’s cheeks turned a similar shade to the lingonberry jam and we arrived at the next carriage and found our compartment with the door open, the curtain tied back and the woman lying in the top berth playing Minecraft on an iPad. ‘Hey,’ Colin said, reaching into his berth for any item he could find, wincing, and shuffling back out. Once outside, we both staggered about the aisle in hysterics, as the train lurched from side to side. Colin held up his hands. ‘I swear, in the States this is totally what people do. They will take over a compartment, even if your stuff is in there, and they will not let you in. I’m serious. You’d spend the whole night out there sitting upright without your bags and no bedding and they wouldn’t care.’ We looked at one another and started giggling again, and in that moment a friendship was cemented – the kind that only happens on a train. Back in the dining car, neon-pink lighting gave the carriage the feeling of travelling through a 1980s time warp, the laughter getting louder and more raucous as the train swept up the northeastern coast. The view from the windows was nothing but festive, with every roof and front yard twinkling with fairy lights, and snow shovelled into small mountains. With my hands cupped against the glass, I peered out,

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A house in Kiruna; Colourful buildings in Narvik. THIS PAGE:

Abisko train station.

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Abisko National Park; A cabin at night in Kiruna. Photo Credits: All images Dreamstime.

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catching fleeting moments of Swedes winding down for the night: closing curtains; washing up at their sinks; and watching TV, unaware of the voyeur on the train rushing by. As the sky blackened and the moon turned white, I made my way to bed, passing through the standard carriage where passengers were contorted into various shapes, some with their heads on tables, others wearing headphones and eye masks, all dozing off in a fug of warm socks and alcohol. Our compartment now dark, and the not-so-sketchy couple asleep in the top berths, I crept under my blanket and moved my pillow to the end by the window for one last peek, before turning over and allowing the train to rock me to sleep. By the time I woke, the Norwegian couple had vanished, and Marc was in the corridor watching the blizzard. Colin and Eimear were packing and unpacking their bags, pondering snow boots, thermals and base layers, and wondering which to put on before disembarking at Kiruna. Eventually they pulled on the lot for fear that they’d freeze while waiting for a taxi. Marc and I made our way to the dining car for a breakfast of black coffee and kanelbullar – giant cinnamon buns that we’d picked up from the Fabrique bakery in Stockholm that had somehow managed to stay soft and squidgy despite being flattened overnight by Colin’s bag. From the now-quiet dining car we watched limp spruce flit past the window. Skeletal, and buried to the waist in drifts, the trees looked like lace, delicately dusted with powder. On the approach to Abisko, the train circled above Torneträsk, the sixth largest lake in Sweden, its surface thick with snow, and mountains rising in the distance, their necks wrapped in scarves of soft cloud. It was impossible to look away from the window, with the train running so close to the edge of forests that fresh animal tracks were clear in the snow which was crisp and sparkling in the morning light. Crossing the Swedish border, the train passed the resort of Riksgränsen, and from here began the Ofoten line, Norway’s northernmost railway, and the most spectacular stretch of all. It was at this moment that the fjords emerged. Like black silk ribbons they wound around the base of cliffs, a terrifying majesty in their movement. And we were only a handful of remaining passengers on board to witness this glorious finale, the train curling in and out of tunnels, barrelling past forests, and the winter sun throwing peachy-gold warmth on the scene. Everything looked soft: the snow, the sky, the light, and in that instant I realised I was having my tågskryt moment. But I didn’t need to let the world know that I was here, on this beautiful train, in this beautiful land. I was here, on one of the greatest railway journeys in the world, and that was enough for me.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

For the full tågskryt experience, travel by train to Stockholm – this usually involves either overnighting in or taking a sleeping train from Hamburg in Germany. Alternatively, international ights arrive into Stockholm Arlanda Airport, 23 miles to the north of the city’s Central station. B E S T T I M E TO G O

For winter sports and a good chance of seeing the Northern Lights, travel between mid-September and mid-March. C U R R E N C Y Swedish krona

and Norwegian krone T I M E Z O N E GMT+1 FO O D

Before you leave Stockholm, have lunch at Restaurang Prinsen, a chic bistro in the centre of town that serves burnished scallops with hazelnuts, and traditional meatballs and mash with lingonberries and pickled cucumber on the side. Food on board the train is surprisingly good and of high quality; as well as reindeer stew, the menu includes dishes like mushroom risotto and bean chilli. W H E R E TO S TAY

Downtown Camper in Stockholm is a six-minute walk from the station. H OW TO D O I T

The night train from Stockholm to Narvik departs daily with tickets available from sj.se/en. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Ear plugs. WHY GO

Whether you travel in winter or take the train between May and July for the midnight sun in the north of Sweden, this journey offers an enchanting ride into some of the country’s wildest regions.

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C O N T R I B U TO R S

K A R E N E DWA R D S Karen is a freelance editor and writer from London who specialises in responsible tourism. She has written for a variety of national and international titles, including High Life, Grazia, Metro, The Telegraph and Time Out. Karen inherited her love for the planet at a young age while travelling with her parents. Her love for exploring has taken her from the Russian Arctic to the Sub-Antarctic islands of Australia and New Zealand. She currently lives in London with her marine-biologist husband.

karenedwards.co.uk Karennedwards_Writer

JA M E S M A R C H James is a freelance travel writer and guidebook author from Birmingham, UK. After spending three years working in France and Canada, James returned home to embark on a travel-writing career which has led to contributions to publications like BBC Travel, National Geographic Traveller and Lonely Planet.

jamesmarchtravel.com JMarchTravel

A S H B H A R DWA J Ash is an author, broadcaster and film-maker who writes about the intersection of travel, current affairs and social issues. He presents television and radio for the BBC and Discovery, co-hosts The First Mile travel podcast, and is a lecturer in Lifestyle Journalism at City, University of London. This was his fourth visit to Estonia, having previously been there as a defence journalist, a soldier, and researcher.

ashbhardwaj.com AshBhardwaj

B E L L A FA L K Bella’s photography career began when, aged ten, she used bin bags to convert her parents’ laundry room into a darkroom. Alongside her passion for travel, this led her to a colourful life as a travel photographer, documentary director, writer, and creator of the multi-award-winning travel blog Passport & Pixels. She won Best Photographer at the Travel Media Awards 2020 and her work has appeared in National Geographic Traveller, BBC Travel and Lonely Planet, among others.

passportandpixels.com PassportAndPix

L AU R E N JA RV I S Lauren is Travel Editor of Breathe, the bimonthly women’s lifestyle magazine, and a freelance editorial travel specialist. She is also the former Editorial Director of the UK edition of National Geographic Kids, the world’s biggest magazine for children, and the former Editorial Director of DAD.info, Europe’s biggest website for fathers. Lauren has contributed to a broad range of publications including National Geographic, The Guardian, The Times, Grazia and more.

laurenjarvistravels

VICK Y SMITH Vicky is a freelance journalist, copywriter and photographer who grew up near England’s Peak District and still loves the region (despite its fickle weather). Her work has appeared in various publications including BBC Travel, The Guardian, The Independent, Wanderlust, Bradt Guides, loveEXPLORING and more.

vickywordsmith.com VickyWordsmith

NORI JEMIL Nori is a London-based, award-winning photographer, writer and videographer. Her book with Bradt Guides – The Travel Photographer’s Way – was shortlisted for the 2022 Edward Stanford Travel Writing Awards. A regular contributor to National Geographic Traveller UK, Nori also works with numerous other travel publications. She’s an experienced public speaker and expedition photography guide, visiting Western Australia and South America often, having spent many happy years living and travelling on each continent.

nori.jemil.travel AndeanImaging

GIULIA VERDINELLI Giulia is a food and travel photographer, a photography tutor and travel entrepreneur. As a storyteller, her mission is to inspire the curious traveller to go further, dig deeper, and find wonder in the mundane. Her photography has been featured in publications such as National Geographic Traveller Food, The Sunday Times, and Whetstone, and she has worked with commercial brands like Pernod Ricard and Tesco.

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giuliaverdinelli.com giulia_verdinelli_ photography

C O N T R I B U TO R S

KEITH DREW Keith writes about the wilder regions of the world for a variety of print and digital titles, including BBC Travel, The Telegraph, The Guardian and AFAR, and has authored or updated over a dozen guidebooks to places like Argentina, Costa Rica, Morocco and Japan. He is the co-founder of Lijoma.com, which provides inspirational itineraries for independent family travel.

lijoma.com Keithdrewtravel

S I M O N U RW I N Simon is a London-based travel writer and photographer whose work has been recognised by the likes of Nikon, the Association of Photographers, Taylor Wessing and the British Guild of Travel Writers. He writes and shoots for publications such as BBC Travel, The Telegraph and The Guardian, and is the UK Editor of award-winning travel magazine American Trails.

simonurwin.com SimonUrwinPhoto

K AT E W I C K E R S Kate Wickers has been a journalist and travel writer for over 20 years, writing features on travel, culture and food, and has travelled to over 70 countries. Her family travel memoir, Shape of a Boy, My Family & Other Adventures, was published in 2022, and was listed by National Geographic Traveller and Wanderlust in ‘The best travel books for 2022’, and by The Independent in ‘The best books to inspire your next adventure’.

katewickers.com KateWickers

MONISHA RAJESH Monisha Rajesh is a British travel writer and journalist from London whose work has appeared in Time, The New York Times and Vanity Fair. She’s the author of Around India in 80 Trains (2012), and Around the World in 80 Trains (2019) which won the National Geographic Traveller Book of the Year and was shortlisted for the Stanford Dolman Award. Her latest book, Epic Train Journeys, is longlisted for the National Geographic Traveller Book of the Year.

monisharajesh.com monisha_rajesh

K AV DA D FA R – FO U N D I N G E D I TO R dadfarphotography.com DadfarPhoto

Kav is one of the founding editors of JRNY. He is also a freelance writer and photographer, based in the southeast of the UK. Over the years he has worked with tourist boards, and editorial and commercial clients, with work appearing in the likes of Condé Nast, National Geographic, Wanderlust, Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, American Express, Daily Mail, The Sunday Times Travel Magazine, The Express, The Guardian and many more.

J O R DA N B A N K S – FO U N D I N G E D I TO R jordanbanksphoto.com JordanBanksPhoto

Jordan is one of the founding editors of JRNY, as well as an accomplished travel and lifestyle photographer. His 20-year career has seen him shooting assignments and high-end content for travel, tourism and lifestyle brands such as British Airways, Kuoni, Lonely Planet, Rough Guides and National Geographic.

E M M A G I B B S – E D I TO R- I N - C H I E F emmagibbseditorial.com emmgibbs

A freelance writer and editor, Emma has worked with some of the biggest names in travel publishing – including Lonely Planet, Rough Guides and Bradt Guides – and has updated guides to Laos, France and the UK. She wrote North Coast 500: Britain’s Ultimate Road Trip for Collins, and is about to start researching and writing a new guide to northwest Scotland for Bradt’s Slow Travel series, to be published in 2024.

S I M O N W I L L M O R E – S U B - E D I TO R / H E A D O F D I G I TA L siwillmore.com SiWillmore

Si is a travel writer and editor, with words in Wanderlust, National Geographic and more. He’s contributed to books for Rough Guides and Frommer’s, made videos for Times Travel, hosts the JRNY podcast, and is the digital manager at Bradt Guides. He’s an editor of best-selling The Best British Travel Writing of the 21st Century, the youngest-ever chairman of the British Guild of Travel Writers, and speaks regularly at conferences and travel events.

J O D OV E Y – A RT D I R EC T I O N & D E S I G N jodovey.com

A London-based, award-winning freelance art director, Jo has worked on news-stand titles such as Stylist and The Sunday Mirror, but her passion is making beautifully designed travel publications. She’s relaunched magazines for Thomas Cook, Condor, Jet2.com, Tui and PrivatAir, and created coffee-table books for Lonely Planet. But her favourite bit? Travelling! Jo has zip lined over the sea in Haiti and learned golf with the pros in Spain – all in the name of the job. 175

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