JRNY Travel Magazine - Issue Two by jrnymag.com

JRNY ISSUE TWO

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Visit Mississippi is proud to support the second issue of JRNY Travel Magazine. As the author Mark Twain famously said, ‘Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness’. The articles and stories in these pages reinforce that sentiment and bring much-needed light and inspiration to our world.

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ISSUE TWO The JRNY Team Founding Editors: Kav Dadfar & Jordan Banks Editor-in-Chief: Emma Gibbs Sub-Editor: Simon Willmore Art Direction & Design: Jo Dovey Commercial Manager: Sally Cormack Contact Us For general enquiries, partnerships or sales, email us at info@jrnymag.com

JRNY ISSUE TWO

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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 Simon Urwin | Kathy Taylor, guest soloist at Brown Missionary Baptist Church, Southaven, Mississippi. Issue Two First published April 2022. ISSN 2752-7077 (Online)

he articles pu lished re ect the opinions of the respective authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the pu lisher and editorial team. ll rights reserved. J aga ine 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 his maga ine was printed in the y he anson roup td, a su scri er to the orest tewardship ouncil and rogramme for the ndorsement of orest ertification chemes, promoting responsi le management of the world s woodland resources. n addition to forest management and certification, he anson roup td is working in compliance with ertification pending approval , has reduced landfill waste y over through waste segregation policies, with all paper, card oard, plastics and used printing plates recycled in a responsi le 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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Southern Comforts DEEP SOUTH, UNITED STATES

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The Elephant Express & Beyond HWANGE NATIONAL PARK, ZIMBABWE

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Beyond the Midnight Sun SENJA, NORWAY

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Freewheeling up the Wild Atlantic Coast WEST COAST, IRELAND

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A Luxuriant Tapestry SAI KUNG, HONG KONG

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Jacmel Rising JACMEL, HAITI

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The Hidden Jewel of the Adriatic ŠIBENIK, CROATIA

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Mountains Worth Their Salt SALZKAMMERGUT, AUSTRIA

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Sustainability & Survival in the Amazon PARQUE NACIONAL MADIDI, BOLIVIA

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A Culinary Exploration CAIRO, LUXOR & ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

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Reinventing the Isle Of Wight ISLE OF WIGHT, UNITED KINGDOM

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Demons & Heroes HAMADA, JAPAN

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A Wild Ride to Paradise LA GRACIOSA, SPAIN

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Karijini Dreaming KARIJINI NATIONAL PARK, AUSTRALIA

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To All the Birds I've Loved Before CORCOVADO NATIONAL PARK, COSTA RICA

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Issue Two Contributors & the JRNY Team

THE JRNY CONTINUE S ... here are times when still find it uite surreal how the last months have unfolded. his time last year, we had ust ended our crowdfunding campaign and were taking the first tentative steps towards making JRNY a reality. Before we knew it, we were shipping copies of JRNY across Europe and beyond – to South America, Iran, Thailand and even as far away as Australia and New Zealand – and being named Travel Magazine of the Year at the prestigious TravMedia Awards. Not a bad first year for a small independent maga ine orn in the midst of the pandemic and created entirely by freelancers. our support has meant we have een a le to commission fantastic features for ssue wo, again covering a breadth of angles and destinations around the world. Simon Urwin’s text and photographs take us to the Deep South, on a heady 620-mile road trip that samples the sights, sounds and tastes of Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana. Staying in the Americas, indulges his inner twitcher and goes in search of the resplendent quetzal in Costa Rica, while William Fleeson finds a gentler side to Haiti in Jacmel. n olivia, we follow M to an ecolodge in Parque Nacional Madidi that seeks to counteract the social and environmental issues faced by this fascinating region. Wildlife and community are also the focus for Sue Watt in Zimbabwe, where she experiences first hand the positive impact tourism is having on Hwange ational ark. n gypt, Rashmi Narayan has the enviable job of exploring the country via its sumptuous and underrated cuisine; food is the focus too for Claire Naylor, who introduces the Isle of Wight’s sustainable food and drink scene. Europe’s many delights are nothing if not diverse: Mark Stratton cycles along the wild west coastline of Ireland; Ross Clarke finds his own version of paradise on a raciosa Rudolf Abraham hikes through Austria’s spectacular Dachstein mountains; and Mary Novakovich reveals a littleknown gem on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast. If you notice a common theme to JRNY, it’s that we want to illuminate places you haven’t heard a out and show new angles to destinations you have. nd so, in Hong ong, Lee Cobaj takes us away from skyscrapers and the Star Ferry to the enchanting landscapes of Sai Kung, and in Western Australia Lauren Jarvis reveals the raw and rugged beauty of Karijni National Park. As always, incredible photography is as intrinsic to JRNY as words are, and we have two insightful photo essays from Marco Bottigelli and João Maia, on the long summer nights of Norway’s Senja Island and the intricate work of Japan’s mask craftsmen respectively. Once again, it has been a privilege to work with so many talented people on this issue of JRNY. Our small team of Jordan Banks, Emma Gibbs, Simon Willmore and Jo Dovey have worked tirelessly to make our second issue even better than before. But, as I have said many times, we couldn’t have done this without you, our wonderful readers. Your support is what enables us to keep on producing JRNY. We hope you enjoy this issue.

Kav Dadfar Founding Editor

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PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

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elcome to the centre of the country music universe,’ says Charlie Mattos as he points to a six-foot circle on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry House in Nashville, Tennessee. ‘Stars could’ve had number one hits or toured the world, but stepping into that circle is where their dreams really come true.’ Mattos, a well-known DJ who is hosting the evening’s episode of the Grand Ole Opry – both a country music concert and the world’s longestrunning weekly radio programme – then invites me on a quick backstage tour before the live broadcast begins. ‘Our show made country music famous, simple as that,’ he says as we pass the in house and practising luegrass riffs in the wings. ‘It began in 1925; back then there was no electronic interference, so the signal could travel across the entire country from just one antenna. Americans tuned in coast-to-coast to hear country songs about real lives, lives just like their own, and it became this magical shared experience.’ attos pauses rie y to greet one of the night s performers eleven time Grammy-nominee Connie White. ‘Since then, country music has just exploded,’ he says as we head off towards the auditorium. ow ashville is full of hopefuls grinding their way along Broadway, earning only tips, dreaming of one day being spotted and playing the circle.’ I take my seat. A hush descends as Mattos opens the two-hour-long show, which is filled with songs of unre uited love and drowned sorrows. e t to me, two elderly Southern belles with wispy hairdos that resemble crowns of candy oss are soon reaching into their hand ags for tissues. onnie hite rightly calls country music “the cry of the heart,”’ says one. ‘It reminds us we don’t necessarily end up with the life we wanted, or with the person we truly love. That’s why it moves us to tears.’ he ne t day head west, turning off the at rownsville to oin the lunchtime queue of trucker hats and cowboy boots at Helen’s Bar-B-Q. ‘I’ll bring you a meat platter,’ says the eponymous owner Helen Turner in her sing-song Tennessee accent. ‘Y’all in for a treat.’ She returns with a plate of locally hunted, slow-cooked venison that’s so tender it falls apart at the tap of my fork. e start the fire at am and cook our meat over hickory and oak for 12 hours,’ she says. ‘There’s a great tradition of barbecue in the south, but not many people still use wood. It makes all the difference. fter some ri s and olish sausage comes the house speciality pulled pork shoulder with ‘secret sauce’. The pork is delicious – smoky, oaky and swimming in its own juices – while the sauce is sweet with a subtle, spicy kick. ‘What’s in it?’ I ask. ‘Tomato? Brown sugar? Paprika?’ ‘Only I know the recipe,’ Helen replies, coyly. ‘I’ll never tell. When I die, it’ll be gone for good. Not everything has to last forever; maybe that’s what makes it so special.’

Old car in Clarksdale‘s suburbs, Mississippi. RIGHT, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Vintage Grand Ole Opry poster, Nashville; Messengers Pool Hall, Clarksdale; Deak’s Mississippi Saxophones and Blues Emporium, Clarksdale; Red’s Lounge juke joint, Clarksdale.

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Not everything has to last forever; maybe that’s what makes it so special.

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Helen Turner in the kitchen of Helen’s Bar-B-Q; Pulled pork and secret sauce; The visitors’ book at Helen’s Bar-B-Q. THIS PAGE:

Helen’s Bar-B-Q.

Fit to burst, I hit the road and arrive in Memphis at dusk, just as the city’s neon lights are ickering into life outside the ars and honky tonks of eale treet, and up on the roof of Old Dominick’s distillery where a glowing cockerel towers over a tumbler of whiskey. ‘Memphis has always been a drinking town,’ says Alex Castle, Dominick’s master distiller, as she walks me through the yeasty fermentation rooms to sample a sundowner in the distillery lounge. ‘It gets a lot of its character from the Mississippi River nearby, not only its grit, but its hustle too. That’s because historically the river has always been the great highway of the United States, with people passing through and settling here, ringing their diﬀerent characters and cultures; people like Domenico Canale who arrived from Italy in 1859 and started selling his own whiskey that he called Old Dominick’s.’ Under his portrait, Castle pours me a glass of Memphis Toddy. ‘It’s based on Domenico’s rye-based toddy that was thought to be lost. But we found a waxsealed bottle in an old warehouse and I went about recreating it,’ she says. I take a sip it s spicy and sweet with warm avours of citrus, utterscotch and cinnamon. he river deﬁnitely played a part in ringing the toddy to life, astle continues.

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‘It fuels my own creativity. I can feel its energy coming in waves through the soil and rock of the city. For all of us who live here, whether we’re distillers or artists or musicians especially musicians in the case of emphis we all feed off that power.’ I leave town the next morning, driving past a group of fans lining up to pay their respects at the grave of Elvis Presley. Crossing the Tennessee state line in the southern suburbs, I enter the Mississippi Delta region, the vast sprawl of alluvial oodplain that stretches over miles south to icks urg. y first stop is larksdale, no igger than a yspeck on the map a scruffy, scrappy kind of town where ar ershops offer ail onds and mom and pop restaurants serve nothing but deep-fried everything. I head for the New World neighbourhood, once renowned for its juke joints and brothels, and park up outside essengers ool Hall, the first place to get a li uor licence in the early s. nside, the clientele are still making the most of it misfiring cue alls or sliding off their chairs in an ever thickening ha e of eer and our on. ‘Back then, this area was really wild,’ says Sherman Robinson, the manager. ‘Folk would party on Saturday night then pray for forgiveness on Sunday morning with only a freshen up in between. We’ve still got Red’s juke joint, and live blues every night of the year, but Clarksdale’s seen better days for sure. The Delta is full o places like this, rundown ut friendly, with more characters than you find on Sesame Street.’ o inson kindly introduces me to one of them James upa hikan Johnson, who ashes a ewel encrusted smile when turn up at his door. make my own grills,’ he says. ‘This one I did outta a gold-look bracelet. Being a showman, I can’t go on stage with snaggle teeth and holes in my mouth.’ We chat on his sofa, surrounded by a vast collection of guitars, including one converted from a ri e. usic is in my lood, he says. y granddaddy was llis Johnson, first cousin to o ert Johnson, the legendary luesman who they

Folk would party on Saturday night then pray for forgiveness on Sunday morning. 12

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Bottles of Old Dominick’s Memphis Toddy; Beale Street neon lights, Memphis; Alex Castle checks the barrels at Old Dominick’s. THIS PAGE:

S Main Street, Memphis.

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say sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads of highways and in return for eing a guitar maestro. hey played together and had a pact if one died the other would play on. Well, Robert got popular, the women loved him, so much so that one jealous husband gave him a drink laced with strychnine. The way he died – foamin’ at the mouth, cryin’ in pain – scared the hell out of my granddaddy. So he stopped playing altogether. Then my grandma shot him ’cause he’d beat her. His dying words were o for me what should ve done for o ert. was only si at the time. I’m now 70, still playing the blues, still touring the world.’ Johnson picks up a diddley bow and strums; his cigarette-cracked voice sings of heartache, moonshine and life on the cotton plantations. ‘Sure, white people can play the hell out of the blues but they don’t understand the music like black folks do,’ he says. ‘My family comes from slavery, from hardship. Blues is an expression of our pain. The blues is also our salvation.’ distant train whistle wakes me the ne t morning and set off ust as the sunrise erupts like a urning ame, gilding the cypress swamps and fields of cotton, their plump bolls freshly burst open in the heat of late summer. Here, church steeples rise up to the heavens at almost every road junction, their billboards crying ‘Heaven Or Hell? You Decide!’ and ‘Damnation Awaits The Sinner!’ ou re in the heart of the i le elt now, says eese illow, a fifth generation cotton farmer who owns , acres of land outside reenwood, miles south of Clarksdale. ‘Lots of heartfelt prayers get said ’round here, especially by farmers. We face the whims of the weather and the markets, and ask for God’s help with oth. eing out in nature, you definitely feel the presence of a higher power. It’s a spiritual thing, watching a simple seed transformed by the elements into something miraculous a plant yielding pure, white gold. After Eli Whitney’s invention of the cotton gin in 1793 made large-scale cultivation possible, the USA became the world’s largest cotton producer. Great fortunes were made in the elta, nota ly around atche , some miles to the south, which by the early 1800s was home to more millionaires than anywhere else in the country. Historically, atche was a town of two halves high a ove the river were the streets filled with cotton arons mansions, each one as ornate as a wedding

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Deak Harp, legendary harmonica player, Clarksdale. THIS PAGE, FROM THE TOP:

Street scene, Clarksdale; Supa Chikan showing oﬀ his homemade grills.

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A boozy, woozy mix of jazz joints, voodoo stores and all-day hangovers.

cake elow was the rough and tum le port. atche nder he Hill was once considered America’s version of Sodom, the most dangerous spot on the whole Mississippi,’ says John Dicks, a local mechanic and carpenter. ‘Mark Twain passed through here in the mid s and descri ed it as full of fisticu ng and killing among the riff raff . I buy us a round of beers at the Under-The-Hill Saloon, a place once frequented by gamblers and cut-throats. ‘It was a thriving port back then,’ says Dicks as we stare out at the river, its waters running as dark as molasses and oiling with fierce undercurrents. otton was loaded onto paddle oats here before being shipped to England for their textile industry. Cotton was king, but it came at a price. atche had the iggest slave market in the state. ut that s the South for you, the two sides of the coin. The folks are real friendly. We’ll fatten you up with good food, and get you drunk while we chew your ears off. ut there s no escaping our history.’ Some three hours later I reach journey’s end in New Orleans, and head 16

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straight for the Vieux Carré or French Quarter, the city’s oldest neighbourhood, joining the throng along Bourbon Street where a Second Line brass band is weaving its way through crowds of raucous revellers dressed in the full plumage of the achelor and achelorette party tetsons, feather oas and ardi ras eads. walk the street s full length of locks a oo y, woo y mi of a oints, voodoo stores and all-day hangovers, before peeling away to explore the quarter’s quieter side streets, where intricate wrought-iron balconies drip with tropical greenery, and horses’ heads top the street posts. Elegant carriages were once tethered here y their a uent owners, who indulged in sophisticated escapes from the heat and humidity of the plantations with rich food, fine arts and much drinking. ‘New Orleans was once the absinthe capital of the US,’ says bartender Matt Ray, reaching for a bottle of the Green Fairy. ‘We were a French colony so if something was popular back in Paris, it was here too.’ He starts to mi me a a erac cocktail. n many ways it sums up the city, especially the con uence of cultures, he says, giving the glass a rinse of a sinthe first. ou ve got rye whiskey, the first spirit invented in merica y cottish and rish settlers, sugar syrup from the Caribbean, Sicilian citrus and Peychaud’s bitters, created y a Haitian apothecary, with e otic avours like star anise and cinnamon.’ He passes me the amber-coloured concoction and continues, ‘The cocktail also captures the spirit of New Orleans, which has always been an oasis of hedonism. The French brought a culture of drinking here. They were Catholics so could go to confession and easily wipe their moral slates clean. You had all kinds of music from Africa and the Caribbean creating a lively atmosphere too; it’s also the last port on the Mississippi before you hit the ocean, so you’ve always had sailors looking to let off steam. dd it all together and it s no surprise that aisse Les Bons Temps Rouler is the city’s motto. “Let The Good Times Roll” is what this place is all about.’

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Supa Chikan ri ng in his guitar workshop, Clarksdale. THIS PAGE, FROM THE TOP:

Street art, New Orleans; Sunrise in the French Quarter, New Orleans. NEXT PAGE:

Rows of cowboy boots at Boot Country store, Nashville.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE There are international airports at both Nashville and New Orleans.

B E ST TIME TO GO Year-round, though it’s best to avoid the high heat and humidity of July and August. Keep an eye on the calendar for the wealth of music festivals.

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TIME ZONE GMT -6 FO OD Barbecue is a highlight here: Charlie Vergos’ Rendezvous restaurant in Memphis is justifiably famous for its dry-rub barbecue meats, while Ramon’s diner in Clarksdale is a local institution. In New Orleans, try turtle soup at Brennan’s, beignets at Café du Monde and Creole classics at Dooky Chase’s.

WHERE TO STAY Central Station Hotel (Memphis); Travelers Hotel (Clarksdale); One11 Hotel (New Orleans).

HOW TO DO IT Trailfinders offer a wide range of fly-drive and small group adventure tours of the Deep South; the road trip can also be easily arranged independently and the route can be driven in either direction.

MUST- PACK ITEM A smartphone is better for navigating than paying for a GPS with your car rental, so check out a foreign roaming plan before you travel.

WHY GO Some of the finest live music destinations in the world; authentic and atmospheric Americana – especially in the Mississippi Delta; an important, but often uncomfortable, history lesson, notably about slavery and the Civil Rights movement; and, finally, ‘Southern Hospitality’ may be an oft-used brochure cliché but here the welcome is genuinely as warm as an embrace between old friends.

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Sitting above the Arctic Circle, the Norwegian island of Senja is a place of sheer cliffs, sharp peaks and deep fjords. It’s somewhere that makes you feel small and inconsequential, dwarfed by the extraordinary power of nature. While the early summer months bring the midnight sun, from a photography point of view it’s hard to beat visiting in late July and early August when you get the best of both worlds: overwhelming sunsets and sunrises, but still enough light at ‘night’ to be able to hike to another viewpoint in time for the dawning of another long but beautiful day. PHOTO ESSAY BY MARCO BOTTIGELLI

The ‘Devil’s Teeth’ mountain range at the end of Ersfjord; Senja is often referred to as a miniature Norway.

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addle oarding oﬀ Ersf ordstranda Beach during a late night sunset

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Walking on a mountain ridge at sunrise A circular rain ow at sunset a ove Tungeneset a striking natural phenomenon that showcases the everchanging nature of Arctic weather

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Enjoying the sunrise from the top of Mount Husfjellet.

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ow tide ripples of sand enhance a sense of peacefulness on Ersf ordstranda each during sunset

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Walking on Ersf ordstranda each at sunset

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A view over the eautiful Bergs yan Islands in amn i Sen a ay

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The nearest international airport is at Tromsø, about three hours away from Senja by car. Alternatively, you can catch a 45-minute ferry from Brensholmen (an hour’s drive from Tromsø) to Botnhamn on Senja.

B E ST TIME TO GO The sun doesn’t set below the horizon until mid July, so the best time to enjoy long days and spectacular sunsets is from the end of July to early August. As Senja is positioned inside the aurora oval, it is also an ideal destination for winter trips in search of the Northern Lights.

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FO OD Unsurprisingly for an island, fish plays a large role on many menus; look for boknafisk, an unsalted dried fish. If wild camping, you’ll need to take your own provisions.

WHERE TO STAY The holiday resorts of Hamn i Senja and Mefjord Brygge are beautifully located on Senja’s northern and western coasts. Wild camping is the best way to experience the late-night sunsets and sunrises of this time of year.

HOW TO DO IT To experience the best of the island, especially in the summer, you’ll need to hike; Senja is not short of trails to scenic viewpoints above the fjords and looking out over the mountains. If you do one hike during the summer months, make it the one to Keipen and Grytetippen – this is possibly the best viewpoint of the whole island at this time of year.

MUST- PACK ITEM Good hiking gear, including waterproof hiking boots and plenty of layers for every kind of weather. Light photo gear will make hiking a little easier, and be sure to take ample water.

WHY GO Senja is an outdoor, off-the-beaten-track paradise that is ideal for hikers and photographers. The island is home to some of northern Europe’s most spectacular mountains and is a place to really reconnect with nature.

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Aerial view of Tai Tam Reservoir, Sai Kung; Aerial view of shing oats and dragon oats lining the Sai ung promenade THIS PAGE:

A hiker stands at Sharp eak in Hong Kong UNESCO Glo al Geopark

A utumn is the best time for hiking in Hong Kong. The typhoons have passed, the temperature drops into the pleasant low twenties and the skies break into a joyful blue. So much of what I love about my home, and its rare blend of hope and resilience, is found in the hilly countryside, as much as it is in the neon-painted city. On a brisk November morning, I found myself somewhere I’d never been before: standing on rocks the colour of sher et ﬁ . These prehistoric volcanic pink, purple and orange swirls are located on the ancient Lai Chi Wo trail in Plover Cove, on the furthest reaches of the Hong Kong UNESCO Global Geopark in the northeast of the territory. In compact, super-convenient Hong Kong, residents consider anywhere more than 30 minutes away to be a schlep. Requiring a 100-minute journey by public transport from my home on Hong Kong Island, my trip to Plover Cove felt almost like venturing abroad – something Hongkongers haven’t been able to do without strict quarantine restrictions since the border

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closed to all but residents two years ago. This state of limbo has given locals the impetus to holiday within the 429 square miles we call home, examining every corner in search of the novelty, discovery and wonder that comes from travel. Having staycationed everywhere from 100-year-old grande dames to brand-new boutique hotels overlooking Aberdeen Harbour’s sampans and superyachts, it was this longing for something new that took me to the Hong Kong UNESCO Global Geopark for the weekend. ‘Hongkongers have started to rediscover this area since the pandemic,’ said Gabi Baumgartner, my guide from Walk Hong Kong, who moved to the city from wit erland in , speaks uent antonese and has eyes bluer than the South China Sea. ‘Unlike Hong Kong’s Big Four hiking trails – Wilson, MacLehose, the Hong Kong trail, the Lantau trail – which don’t need to be maintained because they are so well trodden, the ancient Lai Chi Wo trail had very little infrastructure. But now that

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The historic akka village of ai Chi Wo OPPOSITE:

A oat on the water at lover Cove Country ark

they’ve upgraded the path and added parking spaces, toilets and water fountains, more people are visiting.’ Despite its futuristic image, Hong Kong is a city that lives in many centuries. Gabi and I started our hike from Wu Kau Tang, a walled village that’s thought to have been continuously inhabited for over 400 years. It belongs to the Hakka people, a group of Han

Chinese farmers who percolated south from China’s frosty north in search of viable land, eventually landing in Hong ong at diﬀerent stages between the 17th and 20th centuries. ‘Hakka translates as “the guest people”,’ Gabi informed me. ‘Their villages can be found all over Hong Kong but the basic set-up is the same: they speak their own language and live in clans. Sometimes they would come with a couple of

sons and maybe some cousins, other times they would live with a few other families.’ But when these pioneers washed up on Hong Kong’s shores, they found that all the fertile plains had already been taken, forcing them out into the more risky coastal lands. To eke out a living while defending against the pirates that once marauded the South China Sea, Wu Kau Tang is built

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near the water – but not too near – in a defensive formation, with about a hundred narrow two- and three-storey buildings topped with yellow roof tiles huddled tightly together and ringed by a protective pink stone wall. Most Hakka homes and villages are built around feng shui principles, an ancient way of arranging buildings, interiors, colours and objects in a harmonious manner to improve good fortune, a practice still widely followed in the vertiginous city itself. Wu Kau Tang has an ideal setting with a mountain behind, and sea views and atland out front, where ﬁelds of rice and vegeta les can be planted. It felt like an auspicious starting point for our four-mile walk. We made our way along the

The ghostly outlines of abandoned villages began to appear on the periphery.

newly minted path, immediately descending into a luxuriant tapestry of bearded banyans entwined with bamboo groves and enormous white owered derris, whose vines spread and stretch like the giant pythons that also inhabit the forest. In the crepuscular light, the landscape was reminiscent of Louisiana’s bayous and felt like a place where secrets were held and magic could happen. A silence rarely found in Hong Kong, along with the dancing of do ens of utter ies, gossamer wings of electric blue and burnt orange, added to the sense of enchantment. As we made our way deeper into the woods, the ghostly outlines of abandoned villages began to appear on the periphery – a gable end weighted to the ground by ivy, a stone grille swallowed by rare ferns, a wooden doorway leading only from one side of the forest to the other – or perhaps to another world. ‘The Cantonese name for this village is Ha Miu Tin, which loosely translates as “Lower Sprout Field”,’ said Gabi of the settlement, which was abandoned in the 1970s. he at patch where plant food would once have been grown was clearly visible, now a pretty

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glade ringed by a wall of longan trees, incense trees and eshy nut trees draped in thick blankets of climbers and moss. Amid the chirrups of red-whiskered bulbuls and chestnut-winged cuckoos, I could almost hear the gongs and cymbals of festive lion dances long past. The Miu Sam stream led us out of the lush shadowland towards the coast and a series of weird and wonderful rock formations – long silvery plates, purple boulders, ribbons of pink and orange mudstone, some dating back 400 million years – as well as watercolour views of Double Haven, a beautiful squiggly bay sheltered by three green islands, their backs rising from the steel-blue water like sleeping dragons. We stopped for lunch at Fook Lee Tea House, a familyrun restaurant fortuitously set on the hillside with ﬁelds and ﬁsh ponds out front. ‘Pre-pandemic, you had to call ahead to see if the restaurant would be open,’ explained Gabi. ‘Now they’re so busy you sometimes have to wait to get a table.’ There must have been over a hundred diners, sat on red plastic stools around large circular tables. Hongkongers are obsessed with food, so much so that they even have a god dedicated to the kitchen – the fearsome, all-seeing Zao Shen,

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Uni ue rock formations at the ong ong UNESC Glo al Geopark A walkway across the dam of a reservoir in Sai Kung; The mangrove forests of lover Cove Country ark Seafood for sale on a oat at Sai ung har our

whose lips are ceremonially smeared with honey to ensure he only passes on kind words to his superior gods. Hiking to Fook Lee Tea House in troupes means everyone has more dishes to sample and share; exciting dishes you won t find anywhere else in Hong Kong like Hakkastewed pork belly and wrinkly local fungus, silky home-grown beancurd and fried rice cut with pork sausages which have been hung on bamboo ladders and dried in the sun. I made a mental note to return with at least three friends. Fuelled up on delicious real-deal Hakka cuisine, we headed uphill and crossed a moat into the well-defended village of Lai Chi Wo, the walled home of the Wong and the Chan clans. ‘I remember hiking here in the late 1990s and there were only one or two villagers left,’ said Gabi. Now, though, the village was a hub of activity, a community being gradually revitalised by Wong and Chan descendants who, after returning from the US and Canada for a ten-year reunion, petitioned the government and local businesses for funding. HSBC chipped in to restart farming, researchers and volunteers came to help, and the village began to repopulate organically. Inside the wall, we found a tea house and hip little cafe, Perm migo, selling fresh coffee, vegan ice cream and rooms that would soon be available to rent for the night inside traditional Hakka homes, with brick ovens and gallery bedrooms. My room for the night, however, was a 90-minute ferry ride away on the other side of the Hong Kong UNESCO Global Geopark, in the cheerful town of Sai Kung. The WM Hotel opened in late summer 2021 and proved an instant hit, with its waterfront setting, contemporary rooms and oomerang shaped infinity pool overlooking the South China Sea. The town itself is known for its fantastic seafood – Michelinstarred cafés line the promenade

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tempting diners with bubbling tanks of live crustaceans – and provides a gateway to the most popular parts of the park, including the Hoi Ha Wan Marine Park, High Island’s Giant Causeway-like columnar rocks and the bone-white sands of Tai Long Wan beach, as well as hundreds of miles of hiking and nature trails. The next day, I hopped on a sampan from Sai Kung Pier for the ten-minute sail to the tiny Hakka island of Yim Tin Tsai. Translating to ‘Little Salt Pan’, Yim Tin Tsai’s sodium-producing origins date back 300 years but took a surprising turn in the late 19th century when Italian missionaries managed to convert the entire island to Catholicism. he first thing visitors see on the watery approach is the creamy Romanesque frontage of St Joseph’s Chapel perched on the hillside, appearing like an exotic still from an old Pinewood tudios film. Alighting at the postage stamp of a pier, I made my way along the only path on the island, looping up and around the hills which ring the salt ats that once supplied the entirety of Sai Kung. n the first summit a row of one storey cottages, clad in the kind of colourful checkered bathroom tiles that were popular in the 1970s and 1980s, had fallen into ruin, with clumps of cape jasmine erupting through the windows. But Yim Tin Tsai’s fate isn’t as gloomy as it first appeared. There is still a small churchgoing community on the island and a number of initiatives have been introduced to boost visitor numbers, including revitalising the salt pans and the hosting of an arts festival, held over the last three summers. In the dilapidated homes, some of the broken panes had been replaced with painted glass artworks depicting the island’s unique way of life, where 19th-century residents expertly merged extravagant ‘crying marriage’ wedding ceremonies (an old folk custom that involved a

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month of weeping and wailing before the big day) and Catholic baptisms to keep all the gods on side. More glass plates turn up in unexpected spots around my hike, often with religious instruction attached – a sunbeam by the cemetery explains the concept of resurrection. There’s a waterfront bar, a dim sum stall and an ivy-covered restaurant, too. The latter is famed for its baked chicken, which I eyed enviously at other tables while tucking into my rice and garlic greens, having been unaware that the glistening poultry had to be ordered in advance. Next time. From there, the path undulated like the rails of a rollercoaster, the high points providing gorgeous views of the rugged bay and surrounding islands, the lows leading through white ower mangroves and revitalised salt pans. As I ambled away the afternoon, breathing in the salty sea air, I felt my faith restored. Not a religious faith but my faith in Hong Kong. The last few years have been tumultuous ones here and it would be hard to understate the impact of them on the people of Hong Kong. But where there is life, there is hope, and perhaps one day this typhoon too will pass, replaced with skies of joyful blue.

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ong ong is home to around 2 0 species of utter ies, many of which can e found in lover Cove Country ark Aerial view of eung Shuen Wan Salty rice alls, a traditional akka dish An a andoned shing village in Sai ung NEXT PAGE:

Tai Mo Shan, home to ong ong’s highest peak

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Hong Kong airport is served by international ﬂights. Sai Kung is located in the New Territories, about a 45-minute taxi ride from the city; a cheaper alternative is to take the MTR subway to Hang Hau station, followed by the 101M bus into Sai Kung town.

B E ST TIME TO GO For hiking, October to December are the best months as the temperatures are pleasant, skies are sunny and rainfall is low.

CURRENCY

Hong Kong dollar

TIME ZONE

GMT +8

FO OD You’ll ﬁnd every cuisine imaginable in food-obsessed Hong Kong, but home-grown Cantonese fare is where it really excels. Fill up on dim sum favourites, such as siu mai (prawn and pork dumplings), har gao (prawn dumplings) and char siu bao (barbecue pork dumplings), and classic dishes such as sweet and sour pork, roast goose and wonton noodles.

WHERE TO STAY For easy access to the country parks, pick a hotel on the correct MTR line, such as the Hyatt Centric Victoria Harbour on Hong Kong Island or Hotel Icon on Kowloon. Hong Kong’s best rural escapes include the WM Hotel in Sai Kung and the Tai O Heritage Hotel.

HOW TO DO IT Walk Hong Kong can arrange private hiking tours of the ancient Lai Chi Wo trail that include transport and lunch.

MUST- PACK ITEM Comfortable walking shoes – and swimwear if it’s summer.

WHY GO Because nowhere does urban hiking quite like Hong Kong.

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ast your eye along Croatia’s Dalmatian coast and the big hitters stand out – Dubrovnik, Split, Zadar, plus the tempting islands of Hvar, ra and or ula. From its unobtrusive position at the end of St Anthony’s Channel, which eventually leads to rka National Park, the city of Šibenik often gets overlooked. normous cruise ships that would normally crowd around Split, Dubrovnik and Zadar can’t squeeze into that narrow channel, leaving Šibenik’s harbour mercifully free of the oating ehemoths. Instead, a walk along the wide Riva waterfront reveals a less intimidating, more intimate collection of ﬁshing oats, sailboats and the regular ferries that shuttle to the islands of the i enik archipelago. f i enik isn’t exactly a household name, its islands – including sleepy larin, rvi , apri e and ir e wouldn’t even register on most

people s radar. The atmosphere here is relaxed and pleasantly low key, with a gentle buzz that suits the mellowness of the old town’s 15th-century houses of pale Dalmatian stone, green shutters and terracotta rooftops. This legacy of four centuries of Venetian rule is everywhere in the maze of cobbled and stepped lanes that gradually climb up the hillside towards the ﬁrst of the city s four fortresses. Unlike nearby Zadar and Split, the Romans had nothing to do with Šibenik – it was the Croatian medieval kings who founded the city sometime around the 11th century, or possibly even earlier. nd it was the roatians who built the original St Michael’s Fortress, rebuilt by the Venetians and now a symbol of Šibenik’s st century re uvenation. fter a ma or restoration, the fortress has been transformed into one of

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The UNESCO town of Šibenik. THIS IMAGE:

Aerial view of St Nicholas’s Fortress and Šibenik Bay. BELOW:

Šibenik from St Michael`s Fortress.

the most atmospheric open-air performance venues in Croatia, with terraced seating giving concertgoers sweeping views of the city and the Adriatic to go with the music or theatre – not a bad way to spend a warm summer s evening. From the fortress, it’s easy to spot the structure that dominates the old town’s skyline: the magnificent listed t James s athedral. uilt during the 15th and 16th centuries, it’s a marvel of engineering, with a barrel-shaped roof and a cupola inspired by Brunelleschi’s dome in lorence s uomo. t s the only cathedral in urope to e constructed entirely of stone. Inside, it’s a harmonious blend of Gothic and Renaissance, most of it realised y adar orn Jura Dalmatinac, who never lived to see his creation finished. He did, however, live long enough to sculpt the e traordinary figures in

The atmosphere here is relaxed and pleasantly low key, with a gentle buzz. 47

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St James’s Cathedral. OPPOSITE PAGE:

The narrow streets of Šibenik. NEXT PAGE:

Aerial view of Šibenik at dusk, with St Michael’s Fortress overlooking the city.

the baptistery, where late Gothic seamlessly morphs into very early enaissance. tep outside and look up to see a frieze of 71 sculpted, life-sized heads decorating the apse. ome say they represent the men who refused to contribute to the cost of the cathedral, but more likely they were ust a typical cross-section of Renaissance roatian society. hoever they were, their likenesses are utterly compelling, with expressions that are at times haughty, comical or downright a ed. he ma esty of the cathedral extends to its neighbouring square, Trg Republike Hrvatske, where the 16th-century arcaded former town hall, Gradska i e nica, is now home to an elegant restaurant with a broad terrace made for people watching. nce you leave behind the airiness of the square, you’re in a labyrinth of shiny marble lanes that meander in

no particular order, occasionally veering oﬀ into minuscule squares where you might see a tiny café and its wooden tables wedged in among the co les. Seemingly the Venetians (helped by the medieval Croatians) were as fond of creating confusing street patterns in their Adriatic outposts as they were in their own city. ut, as in enice, part of the oy of a wander around Šibenik is pure aimlessness, a delight in getting lost and not being in too much of a hurry to ﬁnd your way again. If you’re lucky, or if you’ve been paying attention to the brown signs showing directions to the Medieval Garden of St Lawrence, you’ll stumble upon this fragrant plot by the t awrence onastery. eft abandoned for a century, the monastery’s garden was restored in 2007 and was designed along medieval monastic lines. The result is a peaceful green

space full of scented herbs and medicinal plants, with benches scattered about so you can stop, rest and reathe. nce you ve made it this far, it’s only a few more uphill minutes to reach St Michael’s Fortress, where you can take in the exhibits showing the history of the city as well as those panoramic views. his is right on the edge of the old town, but further up the scrubby hillside are two fortresses built by the Venetians in the 16th century in their attempts to hold oﬀ attacks y the ttomans. he ruins of one of them, St John’s, you can reach via a stony path; the fortress is reopening in 2022 following its restoration. Just a few hundred yards away is Barone Fortress, which has even more impressive views than at St Michael’s, plus augmentedreality tours that shed light on that period of the region’s comple and tumultuous history.

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In complete contrast to these hilltop citadels, the fourth fortiﬁcation plunges you into nature and shows you a wilder side of i enik. inding along the southern side of St Anthony’s Channel is a 2½-mile coastal path, mostly shaded by cooling pines and oaks, occasionally stopping at tiny coves, and, at its highest point, oﬀering a scenic lookout post. ollow the footpath to the end – via a wooden walkway to the islet of kol i and then on to a narrow, stony causeway – to get to triangleshaped St Nicholas’s Fortress, the second of Šibenk’s two orld Heritage ites. It’s pretty rough and ready – no digital e hi its or caf here ust a feeling of timelessness and splendid isolation. You would never know that ust eyond the fortress, on the other side of this little isthmus, are two of the biggest beach

resorts in the area a la e and olaris. ut you don t have to go that far to find a each i enik s la a an is only a ten minute walk from the end of the Riva, a pebbly stretch that gives you some of the loveliest views of the city. ith i enik eing etter known as a launching off point mainly for visits to rka ational Park or boat trips through the archipelago of ornati ational Park – it’s easy to lose sight of the city itself. ut that would mean missing out on gossipy cups of coffee in the waterfront cafés along the Riva, cocktails on the beach at sunset and enthralling glimpses into a medieval and enaissance past. It would mean missing out on the classic Dalmatian concept of fjaka – the art of doing nothing – where your surroundings lull you into such a state of bliss that you forget to leave.

Your surroundings lull you into such a state of bliss that you forget to leave.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The closest airport to Šibenik is Split, a 50-minute drive away. Shuttle buses run from the airport to Sibenik from late June to late August.

B E ST TIME TO GO Spring comes early to Šibenik, which makes it a very pleasant time to explore before the summertime crowds descend in July and August. Warm weather lingers well into October, when you’ll still be able to swim in the sea.

CURRENCY Kuna TIME ZONE GMT +1 FO OD You’re in prime Dalmatian cuisine territory here, which means plenty of grilled ﬁsh and seafood straight from the Adriatic to go with fresh salads and grilled vegetables. You’ll also ﬁnd plenty of Dalmatian pasta and risotto dishes as well as pizzas – not to mention generous platters of grilled meats, steaks and burgers. Croatian wine is particularly good and very underrated.

WHERE TO STAY Two of Šibenik’s most appealing boutique hotels sit at opposite ends in one of the city’s prettiest squares, Trg Palih Šibeniskih Boraca: Heritage Hotel Life and King Krešimir Heritage. For a diﬀerent experience, try the luxurious D-Resort on the Mandalina.

HOW TO DO IT Šibenik is easy to explore independently, and you can download the free Šibenik Audio Guide app created by the tourist board.

MUST- PACK ITEM Take a pair of swimming shoes to get the most enjoyment out of Croatia’s pebbly and rocky beaches.

WHY GO To see one of the Adriatic’s most historic cities and soak up its chilledout atmosphere – but without the crowds you’ll ﬁnd in many of Croatia’s coastal hotspots. Mary Novakovich is the author of My Family and Other Enemies: Life and Travels in Croatia’s Hinterland, published by Bradt Guides on 18 August 2022.

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African leopard in Hwange National Park. THIS PAGE:

Plains zebra in the long grass of Hwange National Park.

am celebrating my long-awaited return to Zimbabwe with a cold Zambezi beer, the perfect antidote to the afternoon heat, when my train comes to a juddering halt. There’s a zebra crossing ahead – not a pedestrian walkway but a real zebra, the size of a stocky pony, galloping over the railway line. Another zebra follows, and another, closely tailed by a tiny foal with a Mohicanstyle mane, dashing to join their herd on the plains of Hwange National Park. Their stallion is the last to cross, kicking up the dust and making an ugly honking bark, his alarm call, which completely belies the beauty of these elegant equines and warns his hareem they are in danger. We scan the scene for a furtive predator, perhaps a cheetah fancying the foal for supper, but see nothing, and eventually continue our journey. A dazzle of frightened e ras eeing for their lives certainly beats the tedious British excuses for train disruptions – the wrong kind of snow or leaves on the line – but it’s nothing unusual on this stretch of colonialist Cecil Rhodes’ overly am itious and thus unﬁnished ape to airo ailway. uilt in the early s, it marks the northern borders of Zimbabwe’s largest national park. I’m travelling on the Elephant Express, a bespoke single-carriage train adapted for

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wildlife viewing by local operator Imvelo Safaris. Named with a nod to Hwange’s huge population of , elephants, it s a uni ue way to start a safari, departing from Dete, a small railway town two hours’ drive from Victoria Falls, to reach Imvelo’s lodges near Ngamo, just outside the park. ‘It’s great fun spending two or three hours riding our railcar across Hwange – we can stop whenever we want to watch the wildlife,’ Mark Butcher, Imvelo’s MD, says over the clattering noise of the diesel engine. Known as Butch, this former ranger now in his s has a air for creating out of the ordinary safari e periences. t s miles to gamo and the line is straight with excellent visibility – you can see the train from miles away.’ The railcar’s exterior is painted a shiny racing green and, in true safari style, is all open sided, ideal for spotting wild animals en route. Curled trunks of ornamental pewter elephants act as brackets for handrails inside the carriage, which seats passengers around polished teak tables. On one side of the line lies Hwange’s , s uare miles of unfenced wilderness, with teak woodlands, mopane forests and palm-dotted plains. On the other lies private woodland, farms and conservancies; wildlife roams across the border at will. The train rocks rhythmically as we roll along the tracks, spotting wildebeest dotted around the plains like freckles and impala all bunched together for safety in case predators emerge. A vervet monkey scurries down a termite mound ashing his pink ackside and lue testicles, and grumpy uﬀalos caked in mud glare at us when we stop to take photos.

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C EC IL’ S L EG ACY

We stop again an hour into our journey, when Butch points out a small tree on farmland bearing a simple wooden sign with the words CECIL’S TREE carved into it. ‘This is where hunters hung meat to lure the lion out of the park,’ he says. Much loved by safari guides and their clients, Cecil was charismatic, calm and easy to photograph. n , the collared lion was cruelly killed at the crossbow-holding hands of a trophy hunter dentist from Minnesota, leaving his seven cubs fatherless and at risk of being killed themselves by other male lions. Popular in his lifetime, Cecil became almost immortalised in death, touching a raw global nerve as an unprecedented media outcry thrust the vulnerability of Africa’s lions into the world spotlight. ver , lions once prowled across the continent; today, only around , survive. Human encroachment, loss of habitat and prey, trophy hunting, poaching and human-wildlife con ict have all contri uted to their demise. Full of raw power and a swaggering arrogance, lions have always captivated me: Cecil was no exception. My partner Will and saw him on our ﬁrst trip to Hwange in . can still picture him, all golden grey muscle and voluminous black mane, ambling nonchalantly through ank high grasses towards Ngweshla Pan, looking like he owned those golden plains. n , we came to ﬁnd his cu s and report on their survival a year after their famous father’s death. The three lionesses of Cecil’s pride had miraculously kept their cubs

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A plaque marks the tree that was used by hunters to lure Cecil out of the park. THIS PAGE:

Cecil’s pride resting.

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Elephants at a waterhole; Mark Butcher (Butch), a former ranger and now MD of Imvelo in Hwange.

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The bespoke single-carriage train known as the “Elephant Express”.

alive, hunting with frightening e ciency and constantly moving on to avoid encounters with males who might kill them. After a week exploring Hwange, we came to African Bush Camps’ luxury Somalisa Camp near the Kennedy vlei (marshland), a favourite area of the pride. With expert guide Calvet Nkomo, we searched for our lions for three whole days to no avail. As we headed back to camp on our last drive, Calvet slammed so hard on the rakes almost fell oﬀ my seat. ‘Cecil’s pride!’ he whispered excitedly, pointing to an acacia beside the track. ‘Look, they’re there, under the tree!’ The hairs stood up on the back of my neck when we saw three mums and seven cubs the size of chunky Labradors doing what lions do best – lying perfectly

camou aged in the shade and do ing peacefully. Being midday, it was swelteringly hot and unlikely the pride would wake until late afternoon. So we waited with them for five lissful hours, silently watching the famous lions in our own little bubble in the wilderness. ometimes they d inch or ick a tail to ward off pesky ies. ometimes they d yawn or stretch, rolling into each other in a mass of tawny uff, or move to lie in shadier spots as the shadows moved with the sun. Eventually the cubs stirred and began their leonine bonding, lovingly licking each other and rolling on their backs, paws in the air, with seemingly not a worry in the world. Then they crossed the road right in front of us, one by one, to go hunting. Cecil’s pride had survived against the odds, a beautiful legacy of a now legendary lion. L I V I N G N E XT D O O R TO H WA N G E

Our next unscheduled stop on the Elephant Express isn’t for wildlife, but for four boys walking home from school, waving enthusiastically to the train. Butch beckons them onboard and their excitement shines through their shyness as they watch wildebeest, warthogs and baboons whizzing past.

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We waited with them for five blissful hours, silently watching the famous lions in our own little bubble in the wilderness.

‘There’s this wonderful paradise inside the park,’ Butch tells me, ‘but outside, it’s far from paradise. There are huge numbers of people, and when you have lions and thousands of elephants you have problems and human wildlife con ict. hole livelihoods can be wiped out overnight.’ Like many of Hwange’s safari operators, including African Bush Camps and Wilderness, Imvelo is deeply committed to protecting wildlife and improving the lives of local people, helping to ﬁll the huge void in resources created by Zimbabwe’s grossly mismanaged regimes. Over eight years, Imvelo, with donors and guests, have contri uted . million to support schools, building classrooms and teachers’ housing, paying teachers’ incentives and scholarships, and taking children into the park, sometimes on the Elephant Express, to learn about conservation. They help fund health clinics, provide boreholes and wells,

and facilitate annual ‘Smile-and-See’ safaris of international dentists and opticians: to date, they ve treated , local patients. mvelo s staff come from near y villages and their Bomani and Camelthorn lodges lie on communal land in Ngamo, with lease fees paid directly to communities. At Ngamo sidings, we leave our young passengers and the Elephant Express behind and head to amelthorn, a minute drive away. With just eight luxury villas shaded y acacias, mvelo s agship property is an elegant lodge with a homely feel, centred around an ancient camelthorn tree that dominates the garden and gives the place its name and character. ‘Local people are our best bulwark against the onslaught of internationally funded elephant and rhino poaching,’ Butch says passionately over dinner. ‘Every cent we devolve from tourism to those villages strengthens that defence, whether through jobs, school feeding programmes or providing clean water – it improves the likelihood of poachers being reported and brought to book.’ This makes our visit to Ngamo village the next morning a genuine interaction rather than voyeuristic intrusion. Giggling children in maroon uniforms join us in our Land Rover on their way to school. They sing their little hearts out as we drive along. I walk the last mile, chatting to eleven-year-old Bright. ‘We don’t like lions,’ he says. ‘They kill our cattle. And elephants eat our corn.’ unning late, we race the final five minutes across the plain, until we see the

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Lunch time at Ngamo school.

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A local Ngamo woman making crafts.

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This makes our visit to Ngamo village the next morning a genuine interaction rather than voyeuristic intrusion. school sign with a picture of a rare African wild dog as its emblem, and single-storey classrooms with corrugated roofs. We watch the children dance frenetically to a lively drumbeat, as if they’re jumping over snakes. In a simple kitchen, mothers cook school meals, sweltering over steaming iron cauldrons on wood ﬁres on the oor. ood at home is scarce in the dry season, and Imvelo’s feeding programme encourages attendance and improves pupils’ performance – after all, it’s hard to concentrate on an empty tummy. At lunchtime, children queue patiently, tin plates in hand, for beans and sadza – the

thick, white maize-meal that is Zimbabwe’s staple food. Empowering women is another objective for local safari operators, who fund projects including jewellery making, chicken breeding and selling crafts. We wander around their mini-market near the school where women sell batiks, baskets and bangles shaded by trees. The enigmatic village headman Johnson Ncube lives a short walk away in his pristine homestead made of termite-mound mud and thatch. It’s elaborately decorated in traditional black, white and ochre ‘paints’ derived from charcoal, ash and soil. Murals of leopards and

giraﬀes adorn the walls. ‘Personally, I love wildlife because it brings in the safari industry,’ he tells me. ‘Before, people felt all animals were bad, but we see the good in wildlife now. It brings tourists here and makes our schools what they are. Without wildlife, we wouldn’t have what we have today. Whoever brings education, brings light into our life.’ Ncube worked with Imvelo from the start to develop lodges for the eneﬁt of his people. ‘It wasn’t easy convincing our politicians,’ he says, ‘but today everyone is enjoying the rewards. Butch is a son of this area now.’ Future plans include a wildlife sanctuary and a training college. ‘Me and Mr Butch will make things happen,’ he says. ‘We’ll make things better.’ HWANG E’S WIL D WON DE RS

Our days in Hwange are full of surprises. ne morning, find hi waiting for me. gorgeous dapple-grey horse, he’s placid yet responsive, perfect for riding in the bush should we meet wildlife behaving badly – thankfully, we don’t. We trot along the plains, passing chubby warthogs and a kudu with spiralling horns, and splash through mirrorlike pans strewn with waterlilies. Our riding guides lead us to another crystal-clear pan where dining tables have een laid, complete with owers, a delicious uffet and chilled wine. ome rave souls go swimming; I choose a soothing massage at the discreet pop-up spa nearby. Later, safely ensconced in Imvelo’s ingenious ‘Look-up blind’, a semi-submerged shipping container with windows, we watch herds of elephants up-close beside a waterhole. ull comes sni ng near y and I can see the wiry hairs on his trunk and scratches on his milky white tusks. I hear him slurping and dribbling as he drinks, then rumbling contentedly as he walks away sated. One morning, we spot two rare crested cranes looking almost coiffured with perfect grey plumage and crowns like a fan of golden feathers. nd we find indy, a super mum cheetah, sitting on a mound while five frisky cu s play around her. ach day ends blissfully, sipping sundowner G&Ts as elephants come to drink at the waterholes and the skies turn red. All too soon, we’re back aboard our Elephant Express, reluctantly heading for home. I spot a lone lion in the distance, bringing back memories of Cecil. His legacy continues, with many of his descendants now roaming Hwange’s plains, and I wonder if this might be one of them…

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An elephant with its trunk curled into its mouth.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Victoria Falls is the nearest international airport for Hwange. From there, it’s either an exciting one-hour bush ﬂight in a small charter plane, a four-hour drive, or a two-hour drive to Dete, followed by the two- to three-hour Elephant Express transfer to Imvelo’s lodges.

B E ST TIME TO GO For the best wildlife sightings, go in the dry season from July to October when the pans will be teeming with animals and grasses are low, oﬀering great visibility. For birders, the wet season from November to April attracts migratory birds aplenty, but the weather – and roads – can be challenging, especially during January and February.

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Zimbabwean dollar; tourists can use US dollars.

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GMT +2

FO OD Sadza is Zimbabwe’s maize-meal staple, often served with tasty stews of meat, veg or beans, or try fried mopane worms, a local protein-ﬁlled delicacy. Lodges serve a mix of international food, including braais with sizzling steaks and game meats.

WHERE TO STAY Imvelo Safaris’ Camelthorn lodge or Bomani Tented Camp; African Bush Camps’ Somalisa.

HOW TO DO IT Expert Africa and The Luxury Safari Company, both specialist Africa tour operators, can arrange trips to Hwange with Imvelo Safaris and African Bush Camps.

MUST- PACK OPTION Binoculars, antimalarials and an open mind.

WHY GO To see past the bad press this underrated destination often unjustiﬁably receives. Safaris here are exceptional, with proliﬁc wildlife, world-class camps and lodges, excellent projects by committed conservationists, and some of the best guides in Africa (known as ZimPros, Zimbabwe Professional guides have the most intensive training on the continent).

Photo Credits: All images by Will Whitford with the exception of: P52 & P53 - Ondřej Prosický | Dreamstime; P54 - Ondřej Prosický | Dreamstime; P62 - Paula Joyce | Dreamstime; P64 & P65 - Paula Joyce | Dreamstime.

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hen cycling, there are some days when nature’s elements conspire to create such a perfect day I feel like singing at the top of my voice. And that is how it is, freewheeling down from the liffs of Moher, where choughs as black as basalt cling to ledges soaked by the Atlantic’s crashing sea spray. Ahead lies the empty coastal road to Ballyvaughan, a ride alongside opaque green ocean where a salty breeze rustles u legum pink sea thrift and find a parallel with the manic lapwings, their loop-the-loop aerobatics mirroring every revolution of my bicycle’s wheels. It’s not only the scenic bounty of my 12day cycle along West Ireland’s MIZMAL route that inspires such purple prose, but also the special feeling that cycling the entire length of a country brings. I’m no superman, nor a self propulsion freak, ust an averagely fit cyclist who enjoys the simplicity of pedalling day after day and watching landscapes slowly unfold, mile by mile, a whole country in ever changing u . y first end to end was mainland Britain, a thousand miles from John O’Groats to Land’s End; France followed, spirited down the Rhone Valley by the mistral at my back until I pushed my bike through the sands on the edge of the Mediterranean. Then Taiwan, down its east coast – vertiginous mountains and sweltering humidity throughout until I reached the island’s southern end. The 652-mile MIZMAL cycle route (a portmanteau of Mizen Head to Malin Head) begins at the most southerly peninsula of the western Irish coast and ends at its most northerly e treme. mid spoken aelic language, music and coastal communities shaped by a turbulent political history, it digs deeper into ire s culture than any fau encounter on a Dublin stag do or kissing of the Blarney stone could ever hope to.

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And the weather gods smile throughout. From Mizen Head’s chaotic lava hillsides, where I begin the cycle northwards on a small group tour, the rains keep away for the duration of my trip – a minor miracle along this usually sodden and windy coastline. he first morning, there s scarcely a ripple on the azure sea of wineglass-shaped rocky ays. he uiet amplifies the piercing calls of curlews the starting pistol for a magnificent ride ahead. hat first night, share a eer with aul ennedy in lengarriff in aelic, leann Garbh, translated as ‘rugged glen’) – its 140 residents inha it a finger slim peninsular jutting into Bantry Bay. Paul created the name and was the first to launch end to-end cycle tours along it. The Ulsterman started by riding the route with friends before deciding he might be able to make a business of it, so he gave up a 25-year career in IT and launched Wild Atlantic Cycling. ‘The richness of Gaelic culture, coastal scenery and music is very different to what I was brought up with in a Protestant family in Northern Ireland. I realised it had all the ingredients of a world-class cycle, so I was happy to walk away from a comfortable profession that was stealing my soul,’ he says. Averaging 55 miles each day, I settle into a familiar routine. Our group fragments and coalesces throughout the days, allowing me headspace during long stretches in the saddle to be lost in thought and imbue the spirit of Gaelic Ireland. I leave after reakfast and finish when please at small guesthouses and hotels, usually in seaside towns and villages.

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A rainbow above the Cliﬀs of Moher

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The road wends by tannin-rich streams and mossy groves, amid jumbled rockfalls. It’s not plain sailing, mind. On my second morning, I leave County Cork and head northwards for Kerry in freakishly warm weather. Emerald pastureland soon fades into uplands of heather moorland in the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks and a rollicking day of steep climbs where I grind away in my lowest gears, wishing there were more of them, before the relief of fast-paced descents. At one stage I feel I’ve slipped through a crack into a lost world, taking a little-used road into ummeenduﬀ the lack alley a small country turn oﬀ scarcely noticea le to motor vehicles. ‘It’s one of the remotest places in all Ireland and easy to miss,’ says

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Cycling up the Gap of Dunloe. THIS IMAGE:

Aerial view of Malin ead.

Paul. The road wends by tannin-rich streams and mossy groves, amid jumbled rockfalls where scattered farmsteads once lived completely off grid until the s when the valley became the last place in Ireland to receive electricity. I climb out of the valley, soaring to the day s final effort to the ap of unloe. y calves scream for mercy, digging deeper and ever steeper, as I reach 3,268ft, the highest point along the MIZMAL. The dark mountainside traps glacially cold tarns and I hurtle down from the pass towards Killarney, the evening’s stop. There I meet an American tour party reconnecting with their Gaelic roots. ‘We’re on a week-long tour of the United Kingdom,’ says Dennis, a chatty guy from New Hampshire. I wince and hope nobody local heard this, given Killarney’s long republican heritage, especially during the rish ar of ndependence. e re off to cotland ne t and then ritain and what’s the other one?’ Dennis asks. ‘Wales,’ I suggest, hurrying inside my guesthouse. espite this, evenings prove a oy, intensified by the feeling I’ve earned my nightly victuals with each day s e ertion. Several easy-paced days follow and a succession of pretty coastal towns come and go eyond the ird rich tidal ats of

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Tralee Bay. I pedal into County Clare after a ferry ride across the quicksilver Shannon stuary, rewarded for my daily efforts with the likes of ilkee and ahinch, offering cosy pubs where the welcome is warm and the seafood – oysters, cured salmon and herring – abundant. Given this idyll, it’s easy to overlook the darker times associated with this coast; a sometimes traumatic past imbued with political intrigue and tragedy – of insurrections and shipwrecks. I pause several times one afternoon north of the Shannon at land memorials marking times when the Atlantic wrought maritime chaos. At Quilty, in , rave men dashed to sea in their currachs to rescue the crew of the King Leon XIII, a wheat cargo vessel from New York driven onto the rocks by heavy seas. t near y panish oint, a pla ue e plains how, in 1588, the Spanish Armada, arriving to overthrow Elizabeth I, foundered on this treacherous coastline. It’s not hard to imagine the hazard to shipping. One morning in County Clare, ferocious onshore Atlantic winds almost push me backwards as I ride out to Loop Head Lighthouse. The winds wail like banshees. But the tall mid th century lighthouse stands firm, a ove cliffs collapsing into the ocean

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Rocks on Beale Strand, County Kerry.

like chunks of liquorice. I walk behind the lighthouse to find large letters marked out on the headland that read E.I.R.E. Under a state of political emergency during World War II, Ireland (Éire) declared its neutrality. ‘These letters were basically saying “We’re neutral, don’t bomb us”,’ Paul says. Further dark shadows of the past emerge as follow the , re ecting the ripples of instability caused by Northern Ireland’s troubles. In County Sligo, a huge castle hewn of brown stone grows in my eyeline – Classiebawn, its myriad chimneys and towers haughtily perched above the Mullaghmore Peninsula. Long a symbol of the British establishment, it was the property of Lord Mountbatten, Prince Philip’s mentor and the last Viceroy of India, for several decades until the Irish Republican Army planted a bomb on his boat and assassinated him in . Yet, for the most part, the MIZMAL is bathed in gentle, hospitable light. On one brilliant, sunny day after a week of cycling, I detour a few miles inland to follow the perimeter of The Burren, a rare geological feature known as a limestone pavement and a UNESCO World Heritage site. The sun soaks into the pavement, heating the squareshaped grykes (blocks) so they are warm to the touch. he grykes are defined y right angled incisions or clints, little fissures within which delicate ferns and owers grow. t s a wondrous phenomenon – rough and cracked like the soles of a man who’s walked barefoot through a desert.

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Sunset at Mizen ead A pub in Killarney. OPPOSITE PAGE:

A horse in Connemara.

I celebrate the ride that evening with several shots at O’Lochlainn Whiskey Bar in Ballyvaughan, sipping a 12-year-old mash of unmalted and malted barley matured in bourbon barrels. The gregarious owner, argaret, holds court. he e plains m drinking a pot-still whiskey that’s been thrice distilled for a cleaner spirit. ‘Our family has had this ar since the s. m si th generation, she says. ‘My daughter will be the seventh if she doesn’t get too distracted by the boys.’ earing alway, the countryside utters with the local team s ags they had ust reached the ll reland aelic foot all final. The west coast city is where you’ll most likely find the craic of a good night out along this route, and on this night Galway is boisterous but good-humoured throughout. I make my way into a jammed little bar where a uartet playing two fiddles, a mandolin and a bodhrán (a large tambourine) are in full ow. he musicians play for their eer while, around me, Gaelic is spoken in conversation. ‘We speak more Gaeilge, it keeps our culture alive, a man ne t to me says during a shouted conversation. later start ne t morning sees my lurred e cess from the night efore sharply refocused across the at, sweeping moorland

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I’m so beguiled by its irrepressible spirit I scarcely want the ride to end.

of Connemara National Park – possessing what Irish playwright Oscar Wilde called ‘a savage beauty’. It’s another blue-sky day and I can see for miles as I cycle. Lavender splashes of owering heather form a patchwork bloom, and I bid good morning to two men digging peat for ﬁres, e posing anaerobic black soils – although this precious landscape of one of Europe’s largest raised bogs is mostly protected. Curled-horned sheep meander along the empty roads and I spot snowy-white Connemara ponies. There are legends about everything on this coast, many featuring shipwrecks, and the endearing theory about how they came to be that I’m told is no

e ception. hey say onnemaras originate from the sunken galleons of the Armada,’ Paul says. ‘They were Andalusian horses who swam ashore and bred with local ponies.’ Poetic licence, probably. But this is a coast of poets. Beyond Connemara – as I survive hairier moments as my broken pedal repeatedly drops oﬀ dismount for a while at rumcliﬀ hurch, north of ligo town, to pay homage to Ireland’s greatest poet, WB eats . His tom stone s self penned epitaph poetically observes that even in death, life’s journey carries on: ‘Cast a cold eye, On life, On death, Horseman, pass by’

Indeed, my own journey now nears completion. Tired limbs, for sure, but I am already imbued with memories from the wild-open landscapes, its highs and lows of mountains and peat bogs, and the unquenchable identity of west-coast culture. I’m so beguiled by its irrepressible spirit I scarcely want the ride to end. This is especially true on my penultimate day in the breathtakingly beautiful Glenveagh National Park where I follow another empty road, crossing arched stone bridges that span fastowing streams as autumn s golden grasses ripple in the breeze, as brittle as straw. Finally, beyond Letterkenny, the landscape towards Malin Head begins to

mirror Mizen Head, where the cycle began. Bays like Trawbreaga cradle warm golden sands while the Innishowen Peninsula slowly pinches into a broken upland of shattered black crags. The smell of the ocean is strong. The hill climb to the end is violent and also surreal, as a few holidaymakers stand along the road, clapping and cheering me on. ‘Keep going,’ yells one. But soon, clutching my bike on top of the tall Malin cliﬀs, look out across the calm e panse of the tlantic and re ect there is no going on – I’ve run out of road. All Ireland is behind me and anything feels possible.

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Glengarriﬀ ar our THIS PAGE:

Classie awn Castle, with Ben ul in rising up ehind NEXT PAGE:

Sunrise over alentia Island from ortmagee

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The route is open to anybody, approximately following the Wild Atlantic Highway. The nearest airport to Mizen Head is at Cork. For a more sustainable journey, take a ferry from Holyhead (Anglesey) to Dublin and then train (2½ hours) to Cork.

B E ST TIME TO GO West Coast Ireland’s winter weather can be wet and windy so spring to autumn is the best bet for cycling.

CURRENCY Euro TIME ZONE GMT FO OD The seafood is world-class – Galway oysters, especially, and ﬁsh and chips is ubiquitous – and you won’t taste better Guinness or whiskey elsewhere in Ireland. You’ll want to pack electrolyte drinks and sugary snacks for the journey.

WHERE TO STAY There’s a multitude of homely places along the MIZMAL, from period houses to B&Bs – on a multi-day cycle it’s important to get a good night’s rest and re-energise for the next day.

HOW TO DO IT Wild Atlantic Cycling arrange seven- and 12-day end-to-end tours with pick-up in Cork.

MUST- PACK ITEMS Padded cycling shorts will save a degree of pain but keep things light on the move.

WHY GO To experience every nuanced fold along arguably the Atlantic Ocean’s most beautiful coast.

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RISING HEADING OUT OF PORT-AU-PRINCE IN SEARCH OF RELAXATION, SAFETY AND PALM-FRINGED BEACHES, WILLIAM FLEESON DISCOVERS RESPITE AND REVIVAL IN HAITI’S SOUTHERN CITY.

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T he orange and red mosaic tiles of the boardwalk glinted below the blast-furnace sun, the green Caribbean Sea washing the pebbled beach. A bay in the shape of a wide horseshoe ringed the horizon; pedestrians strolled and vendors called out along the oardwalk ehind me. was gratified relieved, if m honest to have made it, after much stress and physical effort, to this port town on the southern coast of Haiti: Jacmel. I went to Haiti because, very simply, much of the rest of the world was closed and was suffering from pandemic related ca in fever. Haiti has commanded news headlines in recent years for all the worst reasons: corruption; poverty; gang violence; deadly earthquakes; a presidential assassination. Unsurprisingly, friends and family told me not to go not to risk somewhere so volatile and uncertain ut, travelling solo, figured I wouldn’t attract too much attention. Arriving in the capital, Port-au-Prince, however, the warnings didn’t stop, and so I decided to head down to Jacmel a few days early, intrigued by its reputation for great beaches, laid ack lifestyle and perhaps a ove all safety. I had heard of a two-day hike to Jacmel through the mountains south of Port-auPrince. The trail, winding across La Visite ational ark, promised to offer a haven from the capital’s urban dangers among some of Haiti’s most dramatic mountain scenery. I didn’t know anyone who had ever travelled through the park or, for that matter, to Jacmel. The town is an out-of-the-way place in an out-of-the-way country.

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Jacmel’s Rue du Commerce on a Sunday; Roadside fruit and vegetable vendors.

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Hailing one of the country’s ubiquitous motorcycle taxis, I rode to the trailhead outside Port-au-Prince. Emerald peaks jutted up everywhere, their lower fields terraced y centuries of human effort. omen carried baskets and men led mules up and down the rocky slopes. I was the only hiker, as far as I could tell. Likewise, I was the sole guest at a low-slung auberge in the mountaintop town of Séguin, where I spent the night halfway through La Visite. Descending to the coast the following day, I arrived at land’s sunsoaked end in Jacmel, glad to have arrived safe and sound at the coast. That’s not to say that Jacmel hasn’t had its own share of volatility. Founded by the Spanish and seized by the French, the town contributed to Haiti’s colonial reputation as the wealthy ‘Pearl of the Caribbean’ yet its export economy was built on slavery, which resulted in a slave rebellion that ran from 1791 until the colony gained independence in 1804. early a century later, a fire ra ed much of the city, leading to another transformation; over its long recovery, Jacmel got creative, developing what became hallmarks of its culture: artisanal crafts and wood furniture; an annual carnival that today draws visitors from around the Caribbean; and writing and poetry. One of those poets, Alcibiade Pommayrac, wrote stirring verse in the aftermath of the fire, urging his fellow Jacmel citi ens to persevere. His words, ‘Smile at your misery/ Jacmel, ursam orda Sursam Corda translates to lift up your hearts remain precious and relevant today, as Haiti works through its current di culties. From the boardwalk, its orange and red tiles like the ames that rought Jacmel s destruction and rebirth, I made my way to the celebrated Hotel Florita. The Florita stands out as one of Jacmel’s famous ‘gingerbread houses a style of architecture, with its open verandahs and wrought-iron facades, found across the Caribbean. Built in 1888 y a wealthy coffee e porter, the lue and white Florita evokes Jacmel’s best days as an economic powerhouse. The building has been kept largely true to its original design, giving the visitor an authentic feeling for the period when it was first constructed. nside, the rick walls offered cooler temperatures, a relief from the humidity outside. The Florita’s American owner, Joe Cross, acknowledges the advantages of Jacmel today. ‘No gangs, no kidnappings,’ he told me. ‘People are moving here [from Port-auPrince] because they can go out at night.’

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King penguins waddle along a South Georgia.

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Swimming in the Bassin Bleu.

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anting to see Jacmel s differences for myself, I walked out of the Florita’s vaulted main entrance and uphill, away from the beach, along steep streets that had been made easier by a number of stepped walkways. At the open-air market, every conceiva le good was on offer, from clothes and phones to household items and groceries. The rows were organised by type, and nothing was refrigerated. The afternoon heat affected everything, like a pinch of spice that permeates a whole recipe. hen ies landed on open, sweating cuts of pork and chicken, the vendors shooed the insects away with a wave of the hand or a page of newspaper, before returning to fanning themselves. From here, a knot of side streets drew me in and I stumbled upon the Marché de er the old ron arket imported from Belgium in 1895 by the businessman-poet ommayrac. he market survived the fire of the following year, but not the earthquake of 2010; the building now rusts away behind a chain link fence that wards off those scheming to salvage its parts. Standing on the fence’s other side, I could only squint up and try to imagine the vibrancy it once had as the city s est market. ould another decade e enough time for government o cials to rehabilitate it? The following morning, the sun already poised to burn anyone unprepared for its tropical strength, I hailed a mototaxi to take me to a more refreshing corner of greater Jacmel. The Bassin Bleu, or Blue Bath, is a series of wading pools formed by a mountain waterfall a ove, owing in u le gum brightness to the sea. Getting here required some effort as the way to the tur uoise pools runs through rough mountain roads and equally shoddy footpaths. Before leaving the Florita, I’d asked the manager Jean-Ruid Senatus whether the Bassin Bleu was worth the effort of the ourney. He had paused, as if trying to respond gracefully to an ignorant question. ‘Not seeing Bassin Bleu when you’re in Jacmel is like not seeing the iffel ower when you’re in Paris,’ he said, his face serious. After an hour’s bumpy ride, the mototaxi driver and I gripped a knotted rope to step down the final slippery stones to the pool. Green walls of rock, covered in moss and strung with vines, framed the cerulean waters, and the rush of the falls was audible even from around a bend. The driver couldn’t wait and cannonballed into the water ahead of me, resurfacing with a shout. Perhaps he felt moved by the mysterious forces of the Bassin Bleu: legend holds that water nymphs

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A motorcycle passes old coﬀee stores; Two friends wait in a lottery stall for their next customer; Dilapidated buildings in central Jacmel; The city’s market on a Sunday. NEXT PAGE:

A fruit and vegetable seller with her produce.

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live among the underwater rocks and that they antagonise divers seeking the true depth of the pools. After a proper cooling down, we towelled off, lingering for a long final moment to take in the strange, ethereal beauty of the pool. Senatus was right. I was grateful to have seen Jacmel’s most attractive landmark, and found in it a place of respite, even mystery. On my last full day in Jacmel, I headed east of the city to Plage Ti Mouillage, in need of somewhere to simply relax. The beach lay in a curl of gold before lapping teal-green waves; palm trees fringed the coast road, giving shade to a waterside restaurant. Both the beach and the restaurant were empty. After an hour’s swim, feeling the current’s force and tasting the saltwater’s tang, I sat down for a rum sour and ordered a lunch of langoustines and rice. hen the cook rought it over from the open-air kitchen, I had nearly forgotten it, so taken was I with the beauty of my surroundings. I ordered another rum sour after finished my food, dug my toes in the sand and slumped to a lazy, happy posture in my plastic chair. A kind of serenity settled on me then, one I hadn’t felt since before those early days of the pandemic. The next morning I boarded a tiny essna ust four seats, including the pilot s to take me ack to the capital. had decided to y ecause hadn t wanted to hike back, and the roads to Port-au-Prince remained dangerous. ifting off the tarmac, gained a new perspective as we looped over the sea before turning north to Port-au-Prince. Like the persistence of the Haitian people, like the ames of past fires, we ascended. Hearts lifting higher. From Jacmel, Sursum Corda, indeed.

The afternoon heat affected everything, like a pinch of spice that permeates a whole recipe. 85

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The country’s international airport is in Port-au-Prince; onward travel to Jacmel can be arranged in-country.

B E ST TIME TO GO The driest months are December to February; other times are also pleasant, but the frequent storms of the rainy season (April to October) can muddy the roads and complicate long-distance travel.

CURRENCY Gourde TIME ZONE GMT -5 FO OD Haitian griot, or grilled pork, is a must-try street food. Also look for pikliz, the spicy pickled cabbage that is considered a national treasure.

WHERE TO STAY Hotel Florita; Manoir Adriana Hotel.

HOW TO DO IT Your hotel is the best starting point for arranging travel to the Bassin Bleu or nearby beaches, and avoids streetside haggling and the potential for being overcharged.

MUST- PACK ITEM Given Haiti’s shared latitude with Jamaica and the Sahara Desert, sunglasses and sunscreen are essential. A backpack with a chest strap is helpful for any travel by mototaxi – it will prevent the bag from slipping or falling oﬀ altogether on tight corners.

WHY GO Jacmel offers a safe and very pleasant introduction to Haiti today. The city’s rich history, folk arts and welcoming people make it a destination well worth the effort – and the adventure – of getting there. This feature was commissioned in partnership with Talking Travel Writing newsletter (travelwriting.substack.com), in which we were able to offer one of their mentees a paid commission.

Photo Credits: All photos by Viran De Silva and www.ExperienceHaiti.org

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The little town of Hallstatt, on the shore of Hallstätter See.

t’s a brilliantly sunny morning; rocks crunch underfoot, and the edge of the Hallstätter Glacier glitters a smudge of white below the lopsided grey pyramid of the Hoher Dachstein. Only a few months before, on the same trail, I had waded and snowshoed across knee-deep snow, pausing for breath and shaking the cold from my arms while spindrift gathered in the folds of my jacket, and ptarmigan trod gossamer steps across the steep white slope beside me. This is the Dachstein – a huge, sprawling limestone plateau which forms the spectacular southern edge of Austria’s Salzkammergut region, its uppermost slopes spewing the remnants of fast diminishing glaciers, its subterranean world mined for salt since at least the Iron ge. t was here on the achstein that my love affair with the Salzkammergut region began, and it is perhaps here among its sublime scenery that all trips to the region should end. We pause at a junction then turn left, descending through scattered thickets of juniper, our shared pair of hiking poles clattering across limestone pavement, our progress overshadowed by the bulk of Taubenkogel on our left. I’m hiking with my young daughter and we’re heading for Simonyhütte (an Alpine hut), which lies higher up, close to the snout of the glacier – following the Dachstein Nature Trail, with the current, slightly more challenging variant thrown in. t s one of the final days of a two-and-a-half-week hiking trip in Salzkammergut, and by this point we ve definitely found our stride. he uted rocks eside the trail are dotted with the blues and whites of gentians and mountain avens, snow patches lurk in karst depressions, and alpine choughs swoop down, black silhouettes against a still, blue sky.

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Alpine choughs swoop down, black silhouettes against a still, blue sky.

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The Dachstein Nature Trail.

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The steep trail to Taubenkogel, on the Dachstein plateau.

Part of the Northern Limestone Alps, the Salzkammergut region lies a short distance east of Salzburg and extends across the boundaries of three Austrian states: Salzburgerland in the west; Oberösterreich in the north; and Steiermark to the east. What binds this region together is not a political or administrative boundary, but its long history of salt mining – the name comes from the words salz, meaning salt, and kammergut which is an old term for a demesne, meaning the lands belonging to a king or lord under the feudal system of land ownership. The salt deposits here were formed by the evaporation of seawater, with the shrinking of a minor ocean more than 250 million years ago. These deposits were later su merged eneath the surface of another ocean, the ourishing prehistoric reefs of which laid down a thick layer of limestone on top of them in the form of shells and other marine deposits, reaching over 3,000ft thick in places – all of which was later uplifted and shoved around by mountain-building plate tectonics. The Dachstein is part of this reef limestone, the salt deposits having been forced upwards into it. There is evidence of salt mining in the area around Hallstatt, which lies at the foot of the Dachstein, from at least the second millennium BC. At this time,

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Vorderer Gosausee. OPPOSITE PAGE:

The Dachstein Chapel, close to Simonyhütte and the Hallstätter glacier.

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salt was gathered in the form of natural brine, which was captured in vessels and then evaporated. However, by around 800BC a highly organised system of mining was in place, to a depth of around ft, under the ourishing ron ge Hallstatt Culture. Salt mining continued under the Romans, and in the medieval period fed the vast wealth of the Prince Bishops of Salzburg, with a dam being constructed on Hallstätter See in the early 1500s to make it easier for salt barges to sail down the River Traun, and a pipeline completed in 1607 to carry brine from Hallstatt to Ebensee, where it was (and still is) transformed into salt. It is this long and largely unbroken history of human interaction, of mining and reﬁning this white gold in what remains a stunningly eautiful landscape, that led

No other place in Austria is quite so deserving of that somewhat overused ‘lakes and mountains’ moniker as this. to the area being awarded the status of a UNESCO World Heritage Site (bearing the rather clumsy title of the Hallstatt-Dachstein / Salzkammergut Cultural Landscape). As an arena for day walks, Salzkammergut is one of the best in Austria – a country which, let’s face it, has absolutely no shortage of areas in which to lace up your hiking oots and go charging oﬀ into the wilds. hat sets it apart, all that salty history and UNESCO status aside, is its wonderfully accessible mixture of lakes and mountains – no other place in Austria is quite so deserving of that somewhat overused lakes and mountains moniker as this. ou can spend days here, or

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weeks (I have, on more than one occasion), based in a lakeside guesthouse and picking off several day hikes, interspersed with a few freshwater swims efore jumping on a bus or train a couple of stops to the next lake, and repeating the process. There are 76 lakes in the Salzkammergut, ranging in size and depth from somewhere like Vorderer Gosausee, which you can walk around in under an hour, to raunsee, the deepest lake in ustria. es, the little town of Hallstatt itself is hugely popular – some might say too popular – its picture-perfect lakeside setting and historic salt mines which are definitely worth visiting ust an easy day trip from al urg. However, you only have to go a short distance from the town to find trails which are uncrowded, and for moments of stillness and profound silence among some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable. On the path beside Vorderer Gosausee, following an exquisitely beautiful trail which cuts below the northwestern arm of the Dachstein and the jagged peaks of the Gosaukamm, we pass a large boulder, its surface a patchwork of concentric, elliptical swirls. These are the fossilised remains of a species of seashell (called a

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Moments of stillness and profound silence among some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable. Trochacteon, since you ask) which lived on the seabed around a hundred million years ago – the Dachstein massif is one of the richest deposits of marine fossils anywhere in the world, with more than 500 ammonite species having been identified from fossils found in the area around Hallstatt alone. he path on this side of the lake passes through a gallery, elow a cliff traversed by alpine climbing routes, and in other places the trail is dotted by sculptures and installations on the theme of water. Some of these are rather fun – like the giant funnel pointed towards a moss covered luff traced y tiny rivulets of water, the drip drip sound of which is amplified when you put your ear to one end, as if you’ve stuck your head into a watery cave. At the far end of the lake, we continue straight ahead rather than following the shoreline, and half an hour later arrive at Gosaulacke – a shallow, seasonal pond fed by adjacent springs, which perfectly mirrors the Dachstein peaks and glaciers ahead. Beyond this, we continue up to Hinterer Gosausee, at the head of the valley and tightly walled in by steep mountains on three sides. A couple are picnicking on the rocks, and a family is taking a brave dip in the far from warm water. Voices drift over from the hut at Holzmeisteralm, along with the clink of glasses and the whiff of sausages from its terrace. rom here it s possi le to follow a steep trail up to Adamekhütte, another hut, which lies across one arm of the Hallstätter Glacier from Simonyhütte. But for today we content ourselves with putting our feet up by

OPPOSITE PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

A ferry on Wolfgangsee, below Schafberg mountain; Delicious Kaiserschwarrn at Simonyhütte; Hiking from Hallstatt to Wiesberghaus on the Dachstein plateau, after October snowfall. BELOW:

A viewing platform in the Dachstein.

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Hallstatt village.

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Trail signs on the Dachstein plateau. NEXT PAGE:

ﬀensee re ecting the surrounding mountains.

the lake, before returning the way we’ve come, and following the opposite shore of orderer osausee, its elt of pine trees re ected in the green mirror of its surface. The following day, we head uphill above the northern shore of Vorderer Gosausee, through forest and open pastures where we are easily waylaid at one of several small mountain huts. Our goal is Löckermoos, a raised blanket og laid down around , years ago. t s one of only ﬁve such lanket ogs in Austria, made even more of a rarity in that it lies at a relatively high altitude. It’s an extraordinary place – a 6½ft-thick layer of peat supporting a fragile ecosystem of sundews and other moorland plants, overlaid with a sea of blueberry bushes and traversed y a wooded oardwalk, with a tiny pond at its centre re ecting the serrated line of the Gosaukamm mountains. The Gosaukamm is dominated by one of the most popular via ferrata routes in the area, up the northeast face of the Großer Donnerkogel. However, the adjacent hiking trail – leading up across the Törlecksattel and along the southern edge of the Dachstein, towards the towering bulk of the Bischofsmütze – is one of the best in Salzkammergut. As we cross the Törlecksattel, a helicopter descends to rescue an injured climber from the Großer Donnerkogel – a broken arm, we are told. Then we are crossing the steep slopes beyond the pass, with views stretching out to the ennenge irge mountains, as utter ies it on lue wings among the ushes. We’ve carried full packs with us over the Gosaukamm, as we plan to exit this

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side of Salzkammergut rather than head back to Bad Ischl. So, after a quick stop at Theodor-Körner hütte, and feeling a sizeable pang of regret, we head down towards the distant rooftops of Annaberg in Lammertal, which lies on the bus route to Schladming, and the train back to Salzburg. t was from a mountain hut near the ennenge irge that d first spied the Dachstein peaks, while hiking some of the Salzburger Almenweg – another trip with my daughter, a few years earlier. It was after dusk, and we’d given up trying to spot any more chamois on the surrounding hillsides, and replaced this activity with drinking berry tea (the seven-year old) and schnapps (the responsible parent). he light of another hut ickered in the east, framed within a lack silhouette of mountains etched against a right, star filled sky. achstein, said the hut warden, following my gaze and nodding in that direction. It was, he assured me and not without a trace of reverence, a rather magnificent place. Over a succession of visits to the Salzkammergut since that evening, I have watched rock faces on the Dachstein plateau turn blood red in the early morning light, glimpsed waterfalls at the head of the Echerntal falling through ribbons of mist above a swathe of late autumn colour, and seen an alpine salamander on the Höllengebirge, tiny among a vast sea of rock. Just as the hut warden predicted, Salzkammergut never disappoints.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The Salzkammergut region begins less than 19 miles east of Salzburg, and is easily reached by local bus (#150 from Salzburg Hauptbahnhof to St Gilgen and Bad Ischl) and train (from Attnang-Puchheim to Bad Ischl, Hallstatt and Bad Aussee). Other local bus services ﬁll in any gaps left by these, and there are ferry services on several of the lakes.

B E ST TIME TO GO Early summer to late autumn for the best hiking conditions.

CURRENCY Euro TIME ZONE

GMT +1

FO OD You’ll find plenty of freshwater fish on the menu, along with familiar Austrian fare such as Kasnudeln (giant cheese- and potato-filled ravioli) and the ubiquitous schnitzel. And one should never miss an opportunity to indulge in Kaiserschwarrn – a mountain of chopped, fluffy pancakes, smothered in butter and sugar and caramelised under the grill, and served with fruit compote.

WHERE TO STAY Gasthof Gosausee (Gosausee); Gasthof zur Post (St Gilgen); Gasthof Roitner (Ebensee); Gasthof Grüner Anger (Hallstatt); Gasthof zum Hirschen (Altaussee); Landhotel Schützenhof (Fuschl am See); Wiesberghaus (Dachstein).

HOW TO DO IT It’s very straightforward to enjoy a whole raft of day hikes, basing yourself in a few lakeside towns (or a mountain hut for the Dachstein plateau) and getting around by public transport. Cable cars run through the summer on Dachstein, Feuerkogel and other areas, and there’s even a mountain railway on Schafberg, if you feel like giving your legs a rest.

MUST- PACK ITEM Folding hiking poles (Leki’s Black Series MVC are excellent, incredibly lightweight, and they fold up small enough to ﬁt inside checked luggage), good hiking boots and a pair of rafting sandals for those lazy days beside a lake.

WHY GO Wonderful hiking and a huge variety of terrain, from easy lakeside strolls to exhilarating trails on big spiky mountains, or across jumbled karst wilderness – and almost everything in between. Along with all those lakes to swim in, you’ll ﬁnd oodles of history, and plenty of welcoming mountain huts – and it’s all extremely accessible by public transport.

Photo Credits: All images by Rudolf Abraham with the exception of: P94 - Jojjik | Dreamstime P97 - Saiko3p | Dreamstime; P98 & P99 - minnystock | Dreamstime.

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T he Yacuma River was the colour and consistency of over-steeped tea. As I peered into the cloudy water, my mind drifted back to the caimans, the shoal of piranhas and the anaconda – 19ft long, coiled like a Cumberland sausage, body as thick as my thigh – I’d seen that morning in Parque Nacional Madidi. The river was perfectly still. Too still, I thought suspiciously, as a giant red tailed dragon y more dragon than y u ed overhead. Pride overcame reticence, just. When I entered the water there was a ash of movement and a pod of pink dolphins – bufeos – appeared. Two other travellers swam over and we instinctively clung together, half anticipating a nip on the toes.

Sunset over the jungle-covered hills beside the Beni River in Rurrenabaque. LEFT FROM THE TOP:

A lue morpho utter y A grasshopper An appropriately named ot ips’ ower

Suddenly, there was a splash. I spun round to see a dolphin pop up, before diving beneath my feet and then re-emerging behind me. I swung around again, but the dolphin deftly reversed its manoeuvre and appeared behind me once more. As I turned for a third time, it twisted its mottled torso and splashed me in the face with its uke, an action that felt deliberately mischievous. Moments later the dolphin reappeared efore me, ga ing curiously with gimlet eyes. A staring contest ensued. I blinked first. nce again, the dolphin ducked under, before resurfacing with a twig in its mouth, waggling it briskly and then releasing it in front of me, as if offering a gift. uring that first visit to the olivian ma on in , didn t appreciate the significance of the region or the threats it faced – I was too caught up in the thrill of backpacking across South America. But it soon became clear the area stands on the frontline of touchstone social and environmental issues such as Indigenous rights, renewable energy, sustainable tourism and, above all, the climate emergency. ver a decade later, I returned to Madidi to visit a pioneering ecolodge that crystalises these challenges. The region’s gateway is Rurrenabaque, which overlooks the Beni River, backed by karst like hills. ome miles northeast of a a , the town

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was founded in on the back of the quinine trade, before becoming an outpost of the rubber boom. When that industry crashed in the s, Rurrenabaque rapidly declined. Logging provided some jobs, but the town slumbered for most of the th century. Its awakening was prompted by an Israeli traveller, ossi hins erg, who set oﬀ into the surrounding rainforest in 1981, got lost and – despite little food or equipment – survived for three weeks before being rescued. Ghinsberg wrote a best-selling book about his experience, Back from Tuichi (later republished as Lost in the Jungle and turned into the ﬁlm, Jungle). Israeli backpackers ocked to urrena a ue, followed by their European and North American counterparts. When the Bolivian government established Parque Nacional Madidi in 1995, the town developed into an ecotourism hub. Ghinsberg was rescued by the residents of San José de Uchupiamonas, an Indigenous Quechua-Tacana community in the heart of Madidi. In a bid to escape entrenched poverty, the community built a set of traditional huts at a nearby lagoon; with help from Ghinsberg, the Chalalán colodge opened in and became a model of communitybased tourism and conservation, creating jobs, improving water

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supplies, and building clinics and schools. It also inspired neighbouring communities to set up their own ecolodges and travel companies. Although far from perfect, the situation was more positive than in many other parts of the ma on. And in a better world, that would be the end of the story. My guide for the trip to Chalalán was William, a wiry

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A canoe on a lake in Parque Nacional Madidi.

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Josesano in his mid s wearing aviators and a money belt. He was assisted by Don Luis, older and quieter, with bushy grey hair sprouting from beneath a baseball cap. He directed me and three other travellers onto a motorboat for the ﬁve hour ourney upstream from Rurrenabaque. n the way, illiam talked about Madidi. Spanning

around , s uare miles, it encompasses ma onian and Andean ecosystems, including rainforests, cloud forests, grasslands and wetlands. The park has at least , ird species – almost ten per cent of the world s total plus mammal species, reptile and amphi ian species, , utter y species and more than , plant species, many

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On the other side of the gorge, the cliffs flattened and the hills beyond disappeared from view.

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As we sank glasses of sugared lime juice, hoots, shrieks, rustling leaves and monkey calls sounded from the forest. of them endemic. ‘There are jaguars, anacondas, stingrays, birds of paradise, spectacled bears, macaws, many others,’ said illiam. n , following a two-and-a-half-year study, the Wildlife Conservation Society declared Madidi ‘the world’s most biologically diverse protected area’. Gradually the river narrowed and impenetra le cliﬀs rose on either side. Trees sprung out of the ﬁssured rock, shrouded by tobacco-coloured clouds. fter minutes we reached the Bala Gorge, the proposed site of a hydroelectric megadam that poses an existential threat to Madidi. ‘If the dam is built, this journey we’re taking today will not be possible,’ said

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William. ‘It would end tourism in Rurrenabaque and Chalalán would close. There is lots of ﬁghting and lots of protests from the community, but...’ He trailed oﬀ and looked away. uring the s, vo Morales’ government drew up a plan for a pair of dams in Bala and the nearby Chepete canyon to generate thousands of megawatts of electricity, mainly for export. Jointly they would ood almost s uare miles of rainforest and displace around , indigenous people, including the San José de Uchupiamonas community. A local , the oordinator for the efence of the ma on, said the dams would devastate the region’s ‘environment, habitats,

diverse ways of life [and] cultural patrimony . ra ti, posters and banners in Rurrenabaque had an even blunter message: ‘Dams equal death, debt and pain.’ Although Morales has now left o ce, the fate of the pro ect remains unclear. n the other side of the gorge, the cliﬀs attened and the hills beyond disappeared from view. The riverbanks were dense walls of green foliage, save for the odd ghostly white tree. Further on, a pair of men sluiced water and mud through a machine on a stony beach. Gold miners, said Don Luis, breaking an hour’s silence. Gold mining, dredging and panning are growing problems, thanks to rising demand following the

persists because of the region’s Most of the activity is illegal yet it glo al ﬁnancial crisis.

to deforestation, he warned. in and around Madidi, leading building are also intensifying

Later we sat in silence, eye, ashing red in the light. occasionally catching a caiman

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FROM THE LEFT:

A golden S uirrel Monkey A green anaconda A group of yellow spotted river turtles

glo al ﬁnancial crisis. Most of the activity is illegal yet it persists because of the region’s remoteness, insu cient rangers and lack of political will. These miners were small-timers, but big businesses, often linked to organised crime, are involved, with large dredging vessels known as ‘dragons’ a common sight. The result is rainforest clearance and waterways poisoned with mercury. We turned onto the narrower Tuichi River. At the front, Don Luis sat in silence, gesturing left or right so William could avoid rapids, de ris and sand ars. fter ﬁve hours we arrived at a dock around miles southwest of Rurrenabaque. From here we followed the Jaguar Trail through the forest to Chalalán, though the only creature we saw was a tapir, a dark grey, cow si ed creature with an elephantine snout. Jaguars, the biggest cat in the Americas, have been badly hit by poaching, William told us, gently lowering my expectations of a sighting. nly around , to , survive in olivia and numbers are declining. Logging, cattle ranching, farming and road

building are also intensifying in and around Madidi, leading to deforestation, he warned. olivia lost more than , square miles – an area larger than Denmark – of tree cover etween and , according to Global Forest Watch. The trail emerged into a clearing where stilted, A-frame huts with thatched roofs were shaded by trees so heavy with fruit their branches arched like bows. Beyond a set of solar panels, a path led to a wooden deck facing a gorgeous lagoon. As we sank glasses of sugared lime juice, hoots, shrieks, rustling leaves and monkey calls sounded from the forest. After dinner William took us out onto the inky darkness of the lagoon in a canoe. When the Josesanos were building Chalalán, he said, they realised a malign spirit was present – a ghostly white man who paddled across the water late at night. William grinned and said not to worry: the villagers conducted various ceremonies and the apparition has not been seen since. We took it in turns to scan our torches along the shoreline,

occasionally catching a caiman eye, ashing red in the light. Later we sat in silence, ga ing up at countless stars on a perfectly black background. I’d never seen the Southern Cross so clearly. The next morning William guided us through the rainforest to the anta osa agoon, miles to the east, hacking a route through the undergrowth with his machete. We scrabbled across undulating hills, passing jaguar tracks and long lines of leaf-cutter ants. Parrots, toucans, macaws, red-breasted trogons and spiky-crested, blue-faced hoat ins sounded their calls as we approached, like a chorus of car alarms. William pointed out medicinal plants, and a tree that appeared to have been imagined into existence by Gabriel García r ue . he cashapona, or walking palm, grows a succession of stilted roots that gradually move it across the forest oor in search of the sunniest spot and the richest soil. Its branches were draped with shaggy epiphytes and alive with li ards, ﬁre ants and a ﬁst si ed tarantula.

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Shards of sunlight pierced the canopy, but there was no ree e and sweat matted my clothes. The smell of decomposing vegetation filled the air and the trail grew progressively worse, with streams and rivers blocking our route. ne was so wide William was forced to construct a rudimentary pontoon bridge from a oating log and strips of bark wound into a twine. The trail ascended steeply to a plateau, once the site of a coffee plantation. nterspersed between pomelo, mandarin, banana and lime trees, the neglected coffee ushes were still fruiting. Just beyond was the

the oversi ed aws into a macabre cairn. vernight it rained solidly, transforming the Tuichi into a diﬀerent east for our ourney back to Rurrenabaque – higher, faster, churning violently. We travelled with the current, skimming along at pace, sending up clouds of spray. The banks had partially collapsed, plunging do ens of trees into the river. ut Don Luis navigated a slaloming route, calling out orders over the wind and ﬁercely gesturing with his arms. We were back in two and half hours. n the dri le, urrena a ue had a melancholy feel. A local newspaper reported visitor

where locals decamp for a gentle ree e, a cup of syrupy shaved ice and a spot to watch the sunset. Across the Beni was the settlement of San Buenaventura, which according to Google Maps was connected to Rurrenabaque by a bridge. This was just an aspiration: while the initial sections had been built on either ank, a , ft gap yawned in the middle. Through it chugged a at ed arge loaded with tractors, heading upstream. As the barge slowly disappeared from view, I thought back to my river dolphin encounter in Madidi all those years earlier. Bufeos, I later learned, are not quite what

Just beyond was the lagoon, a glorious pale turquoise mirror, its edges shaded by overhanging trees. lagoon, a glorious pale turquoise mirror, its edges shaded by overhanging trees. After rowing to the centre, William baited lines with strips of eef, cast off, and within seconds snagged his first piranha. He casually removed the hook and tossed the fish into a puddle of water in the bottom of the boat. He uickly caught more the rest of us were out of luck. As we paddled back, the piranhas thrashed around between my feet until they finally e pired. When we returned to Chalalán, muddy, sweaty and sticky with pomelo juice, we launched ourselves into the neigh ouring lagoon to cool off, keeping an eye out for caimans as squirrel, capuchin and howler monkeys crashed through the canopy. For dinner we ate William’s piranhas, piling up

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numbers had halved in recent years, hitting the tourist-oriented economy hard. t lamed oods, a Madidi entry fee hike, and visa restrictions for Israeli and US citi ens. olivia s recent political unrest and devastating wildfires, combined with the pandemic, mean tourism in Rurrenabaque is unlikely to recover anytime soon. Alongside dams, deforestation, gold mining and poaching, this can seem a trivial issue or even a positive development. Yet residents lack a sustainable alternative and receive little support. When community-based tourism is done right, as at Chalalán, it gives people a financial incentive to conserve the environment: take it away and they have to find other ways to survive. In the late afternoon I walked along the costanera,

they seem: their distinctive pink hue is the result of scar tissue, while ma onian folklore paints them as shapeshifters with the power to seduce, mesmerise and haunt your dreams. It struck me that in the future Madidi – and the people who live in and around it – will need to exhibit similar qualities of resilience and adaptability to survive.

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A dirt road in Rurrena a ue Exploring the ungle of ar ue Nacional Madidi Mushrooms growing on the ungle oor NEXT PAGE:

A caiman in Parque Nacional Madidi.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The quickest way to reach Rurrenabaque is on a direct ﬂight from La Paz or the Amazonian city of Trinidad. The town is served by several long, arduous bus routes from La Paz, Trinidad and beyond.

B E ST TIME TO GO The dry winter season (May to October) is the best time to visit the Bolivian Amazon, as it is slightly cooler and generally less rainy. During the wet summer season, the roads connecting Rurrenabaque with the rest of Bolivia can become impassable.

CURRENCY Boliviano TIME ZONE GMT -4 FO OD Many of Rurrenabaque’s restaurants serve traveller-focused menus – think pancakes, pasta, pizzas and so on. But the highlights are the fresh ﬁsh – try the surubí, a type of catﬁsh – and the array of tropical fruit.

WHERE TO STAY Chalalán Ecolodge

HOW TO DO IT Chalalán Ecolodge oﬀers a range of guided tours inside Madidi.

MUST- PACK OPTION Deet-heavy mosquito repellent – the biting insects are ferocious.

WHY GO As well as being one of the most biodiverse places on the planet, the Madidi region is also easier to access than comparable areas of the Brazilian or Peruvian Amazon. Moreover, if you choose a responsible, community-based lodge and tour operator, your visit can have a positive impact. Shaﬁk Meghji’s new book, Crossed oﬀ the Map: Travels in Bolivia, is available from all good bookshops.

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REINVENTING THE ISLE OF WIGHT

REINVENTING THE ISLE OF WIGHT C L A I R E N AY LO R LO O K S AT H OW S U S TA I N A B I L I T Y, L O C A L LY S O U R C E D I N G R E D I E N T S A N D C O M M U N I T Y A R E P L AY I N G A PA RT I N T H E I S L E O F W I G H T ’ S INNOVATIVE FOOD AND DRINK SCENE.

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s a youngster, the Isle of Wight was little more than a school-trip destination – all I cared about were the small-scale theme parks and sharing a B&B dorm room with my friends. It made a lasting impression on me as ‘a really cool trip’, but that was more about the lack of parents than anything else. So what took me back there? Convenience, mainly. With ever-changing travel rules keeping us all on our toes, I wanted to visit somewhere not too far from my home in southeast ondon. sunny island ust off the mainland with a reputation for being pretty seemed like a good place to start. And it turned out that ‘pretty’ is an understatement. Driving along Military Road, which follows the southwest coast from Chale to Freshwater Bay, I had lush farmland to one side and beaches and crashing waves on the other heading west, the white chalk cliffs stretched away into the distance, before crumbling into the dramatic chalk stacks of the Needles. This length of road is one of the island’s beautiful landscapes that were designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) in 1992, protecting large parts of its coastline from development. More recently, the island became a iosphere eserve, recognised for its strong tradition of environmental action’ and a developing eco-tourism infrastructure, with projects designed to increase community engagement. Appreciation of the island’s scenery is nothing new: it inspired the omantic poet John eats, who lived on the island from to , and the cliffs a ove the eedles are now known as Tennyson Down in honour of Alfred Lord Tennyson, who lived here for almost 40 years. Queen Victoria set up a second home on the Isle of Wight – she called Osborne House her ‘little paradise’ – and the island’s resort towns became a desirable destination for well off Victorian leisure seekers. One of these, Ventnor, was a particular favourite for its microclimate, with visitors coming to take the town’s warmer, more humid air, which was believed to treat lung complaints. Today, Ventnor Botanic Garden makes the most of this climate by growing plants not seen elsewhere in the .

This small town on the south coast, sheltered y the cliffs of t oniface own, still pulls in visitors today. But it was partly Ventnor’s sense of community that drew Fiona Russell and Lloyd Stoll here from the mainland; looking for a new life on the island, they took over Le Tour du Monde restaurant in May 2021. ‘Everyone knows everyone, everyone tries to support each other,’ Lloyd told me, ‘and that’s what we want to do; we want to get involved not only in the restaurant, but with the community.’ Lloyd had many years’ experience working in the food industry, having run a pub and been part of a food development team, but for Fiona, with a background as an accountant, this was her first role in hospitality. For a small town, Ventnor has plenty of places to eat: two Indians, a Chinese, a pan-Asian restaurant, a seafood restaurant and several pubs, as well as hotel dining rooms with osette awards. eople travel specifically to eat here, partly because there’s plenty of choice across all budgets. The pair wanted to make sure they were offering something a little different to their peers, somewhere you could come for both a special occasion and a normal day’s dining. Le Tour du Monde’s internationally in uenced menu serves up dishes that have een created with imagination and air, making use of the best locally-sourced produce – which, on this island, is abundant. Like Fiona, Mark Little didn’t have a background in the food industry – he worked as a record producer before setting up Call It What You Want (CIWYW) in a former butcher’s in Cowes. His travels, particularly in the southern nited tates, in uenced the reole and a un dishes at CIWYW, as well as how the food is served. Mark and the team were determined that a traditional approach wouldn’t work for them, and so there’s no menu here. nstead, on arrival, ark rattles off a list of what s available – popcorn chicken, chowder, jambalaya, gumbo and mac ‘n’ cheese often feature – and then the food is brought out on a fully loaded skillet, ready for you to dig in as a group. The small size of CIWYW means that Mark can give everyone attention. ‘I sit down and talk shit with everybody,’ he says, ‘and then bring the food out.’ Local support for the restaurant – which opened in summer 2019 – has been incredible; a particularly positive sign in a town like Cowes that has such seasonal footfall. In the summer months, the streets and harbour here are packed with tourists; Cowes Week, stretching from late July to early August, sees thousands of sailors and sailing enthusiasts take part in a regatta that dates back to 1826. Come towards the end of the season, though, as I did, and you ll find a gentle hum in the restaurants and very few people jostling for space at the island’s major

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attractions, like nearby Osborne House. CIWYW, however, remained reassuringly busy. Some people are apprehensive about how the place works, but Mark tells me no one has ever complained about their meal. ‘We’re cooks, not chefs,’ says Mark, ‘and this place, whatever it is, is uid and e i le, it ust keeps changing.’ This unusual approach to dining was something would e pect to find on the street art clad roads of ast London or in the vibrant Stokes Croft neighbourhood of Bristol, not on a cobbled street of a small harbour town packed with shops selling sailing gear. But its lack of menu undou tedly makes it versatile, so it really could fit almost anywhere find myself agreeing with ark it is ‘just the most perfect little pop-up’. It’s not just creative cuisine that the Isle of Wight is pumping out. The Isle of Wight Distillery opened in 2015 and produces small-batch London dry gin that can be sampled at its bar near Ryde in the northeast of the island. Of course, these days gin distilleries are popping up everywhere across the , so what makes this one different ell, a couple of things stood out for me their ermaid in is avoured with rock samphire, a key ingredient that is foraged on the island; and the distillery is very mindful of its surroundings, putting sustainability central to the way it operates. Co-founder Xavier Baker, an Isle of Wight native, believes that being surrounded by water means islanders are generally very aware of environmental issues such as marine pollution. The company is net zero and prides itself on its involvement with conservation and the local community, working together with the Hampshire and Isle of Wight Wildlife Trust on the restoration of seagrass meadows on the north side of the island. As well as being an important habitat for seahorses and bass, seagrass plays a huge role in fighting climate change ecause it can capture carbon dioxide up to 35 times faster than tropical rainforests. All team members at the distillery have had training with the Wildlife Trust, where they have learnt about marine conservation and gone beach cleaning as a team. n further efforts to minimise impact on the island, the distillery uses bottles that are completely plastic free (the compostable seals are made from corn and potato starch), which won them the Spirits Artwork and Bottle Design category in 2019 in the International Wine and Spirit Competition. ‘Our ethos from the start was whatever we do, try to incorporate the island,’ Xavier tells me, and setting high sustainability standards was part of that. ‘We created a lot of barriers for ourselves, but that was the challenge of what we wanted to achieve.’ Bembridge, a village on the island’s east coast, is home to the distinctive Pilot Boat Inn. This is the base for ight nuckle rewery, a family usiness run y eorge Bristow and his two sons Edward and Fergus. At the quirky boat-shaped building – part gift shop, part snack stop, part pub and pizzeria – you can sample the seven different craft rews that d tells me re ect the character of the island’, ranging from an IPA with citrus and spicy aromas to a black stout with liquorice undertones. The beers are brewed in a sustainable way, with the carbon footprint of the brewing process kept to a minimum: spent

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grain is sent to a local pig farm and, where possible, water is recycled for future batches. Central to the ethos of all these companies is supporting and representing the island itself through making the most of fresh local produce. Both CIWYW and Le Tour du Monde work with Isle of Wight fruit and veg suppliers, and serve meat and poultry that has, for the most part, been reared on the island. The Isle of Wight Distillery sources many of their gin ingredients locally – with the exception of juniper, which isn’t grown on the island. In addition to the foraged rock samphire, elder ower is harvested near y, and the Boadicea hops come from Ventnor Botanic Garden. Wight nuckle rewery sources as much as possi le locally, for both the beer and the pizzas sold at the Pilot Boat Inn. ooking at ways to further enhance island avours in their beer, Ed tells me they are also growing a small amount of hops at his parents’ house in Brading, ‘which we’ll incorporate when we can’. But even with the most carefully constructed dishes, drinks and dining experiences, it’s the island’s good looks that have drawn visitors from the mainland for over 170 years. ‘A lot of people I’ve chatted to when they’ve been in [the restaurant] have never been to the Isle of Wight before,’ Fiona tells me. ‘They came for a staycation and now they’re planning on coming back. Lots of people have had their eyes opened to the beauty of the island.’ As I drove the winding countryside roads that lead from Bembridge to Shanklin’s seafront, I spotted a dinosaur themed minigolf a ash of the sle of Wight I remembered from my childhood – before heading up a hill dotted with stone cottages and topped with a medieval church. The road took me through another stretch of farmland before descending to the Victorian-villa-clad village of Bonchurch and onwards to Ventnor, where I paused on the beach watching container ships pass on the horizon. It wasn’t hard to see why Lloyd and Fiona had traded up their urban life for this, with just a four-minute wander down to the sea from their restaurant. For Mark, too, the beaches in summer are a highlight of island life, but so is proximity to the mainland. ‘I can get everywhere I need to get, and the island is just a wonderful place to come back to.’ I couldn’t help but agree.

Our ethos from the start was whatever we do, try to incorporate the island.

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The chalk cliﬀs of reshwater Bay Small ope Beach at Shanklin. THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

E uipment at the Isle of Wight Distillery A main course at e Tour du Monde The Mermaid Bar at the Isle of Wight Distillery Bem ridge ar our NEXT PAGE:

The Needles

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Passenger and car ferries run from Portsmouth, Southsea, Southampton and Lymington to several ports on the Isle of Wight, taking between 40 minutes and an hour. Crossings are usually cheaper if booked through your accommodation.

B E ST TIME TO GO The summer is a wonderful time to visit the island’s beaches, with the best weather, but expect it to be busy, especially with the Isle of Wight Festival in June and Cowes Week in late July/early August. For fewer crowds, head over in spring or autumn.

CURRENCY British pound TIME ZONE GMT FO OD You’ll ﬁnd independent restaurants across the island, generally serving fresh, locally grown produce. For something to take away with you, stop by one of the farm shops.

WHERE TO STAY Hillside (Ventnor)

HOW TO DO IT The best way to get around the island is with your own wheels – vehicles can be brought over on Red Funnel and WightLink ferries. There’s also a fairly comprehensive bus network operated by Southern Vectis, and some fantastic walking paths.

MUST- PACK ITEM Sunglasses and a reliable windproof jacket. They’ll both be appreciated as you walk to the Needles or stroll along Tennyson Down.

WHY GO Go to experience the countryside by the sea, along with creative dining and island-inspired drinks.

Photo Credits: P114 - Ian Woolcock | Dreamstime; P115 - Johnhill118 | Dreamstime; P116 - The Isle of Wight Distillery; P116 - Acceleratorhams | Dreamstime; P117 - Le Tour du Monde; P117 - The Isle of Wight Distillery.

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Playa de la Conchas. THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP:

Cycling on La Graciosa; Fishing boats docked at Caleta de Sebo; Wooden signs point to the island’s main attractions. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Papas arrugadas (wrinkled potatoes) with mojo picón sauce.

rriving at Caleta de Sebo in La Graciosa on the 30-minute catamaran ride from Lanzarote, I feel … intrepid. I’m not generally a ‘rough it’ sort of travel writer, but there is something about the crossing – perhaps the sea spray on my skin or ﬁnding my rhythm as the boat rides the waves, or maybe because I’m one of only a handful of people making the trip to what seems like a deserted island – that makes me feel like I’m in for an adventure. I can only see a small village of low-slung whitewashed houses, strikingly bright in the sunlight, the sea beneath us turning from inky navy to Bombay Sapphire blue. The rest of my peripheral view is almost lunar: soft mountain peaks with their red-brown ombre, and swathes of deep sandy coloured terrain, characteristic of the Chinijo Archipelago Natural Park in which La Graciosa sits. It’s sunny, but storm clouds loom from the north and I think we might have rain before I head back over the El Río strait, the sliver of sea that separates La Graciosa from neighbouring Lanzarote. I had planned on hiring a bike – apparently a good way to see and experience this small island – but after a quick leche y leche milky coﬀee with condensed milk) at Bar

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Cafetería El Saladero, I decide to hedge my bets on a 4x4 taxi instead. There are no asphalt roads on the island (even here, in the town) and with the rain seemingly imminent and my balance on two wheels not the best, this seems the safer option. A sign points me to a small ueue of and overs, their oﬀ white paintwork bruised by years of stray lava and basalt rubble. A group sporting cool boxes and each towels sets oﬀ in a car, and the driver of another approaches to ask me what I’m looking for. ‘A bit of a tour round the island,’ I reply, to which he says he can take me on a roughly 90-minute vuelta (round trip) of the island’s most notable points. There’s barely a soul about as we head out of town towards the only other inhabited part of the 11-square-mile island, although ‘inhabited’ seems a bit strong for the one-street hamlet. La Graciosa – the island and the wider Natural Park to which it

belongs – is home to around 700 people and yet feels a lot more sparse than that: the ‘streets’ are deserted, apart from day-tripping tourists, hunched over their mountain-bike handlebars and loaded up with backpacks. Bruno, my guide and driver, waves a hand towards the menacing grey clouds approaching (while somehow managing to avoid the worst of the pothole-strewn tracks with the other) and tells me ‘Viene la lluvia’ – the rain is coming. He’s not wrong; no sooner have I got back in the car after taking a few snaps of the small ﬁshermen s houses – some pristine, others in ruins – and tranquil sea at Pedro Barba than the heavens open. It doesn’t deter Bruno and he points out some small landslides from the recent rainy weather – it’s been an unseasonably warm autumn even by Canarian standards and the rain is much needed. Bruno is not trepidatious when it comes to navigating

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these tracks, and we power over holes and rocks with surprising speed and back-breaking suspension; everything rattles, from the glove-box door to my teeth – it’s no wonder he said I’d be more comfortable sitting in the front. He tells me he has lived here all his life and started driving when he was 14 (he’s now mid 20s), so it’s no surprise that he’s secure in his potholenavigating skills and one-handed steering/changing gears technique. And I am grateful for it; these roads are not as plano y recto at and straight as the bike-hire websites would lead you to believe – although in nicer weather they would no doubt be easier to traverse, especially at the leisurely pace at which the island moves. The scenery is noticeably arid and obvious vegetation is sparse, apart from some hardy looking bushes. But while the land is dry, it’s not desert-like in the same way that Fuerteventura is; instead, the earth here almost radiates with a terracotta aura that makes it seem otherworldly. Most of the ora on the island is marine, with more than 300 species of seaweed identified something that attracts a varied bird population including western ospreys and whitefaced petrels. Essentially made up of five volcanoes that formed somewhere between 5,000 and several million years ago (there’s still an ongoing debate), Graciosa’s peaks are soft – unlike the bigger islands to the west – and the highest point, Agujas Grandes, stands at just 873ft above sea level, although it looks much taller from the car as we pass by. We make a stop at Arcos de los Caletones, a series of gravity defying archways made by a solidified lava ow and punished by the relentless Atlantic breakers. The lava here could be millions of years old and has been beaten relentlessly by the ocean ever since, and yet these miraculous arches persevere, constantly reformed y fire, wind

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Aerial view of Playa de las Conchas and Bermeja mountain. OPPOSITE:

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The view of La Graciosa from Lanzarote.

The sound of nature is deafening: thundering waves, a whistling wind and unadulterated silence. and water. runo oﬀers to take my photo and suggests I stand precariously close to the vertiginous precipice, angry sea water foaming beneath. ‘Trust me,’ he says. I’ve no reason not to and resolve to continue in the intrepid way that I started out on the boat. I hand him my phone and wonder how close is too close. I can feel the cold spray from crashing waves on the back of my bare legs, the thunderous smashing sound of them, ampliﬁed y the cove, echoing

in my ears. Legs suitably sea-foamed and ever so slightly trembling, we head back to the car and Bruno asks me why I’ve come. ‘I’ve never been,’ I tell him. ‘Not many people can say they’ve visited the eighth o cial anary Island.’ La Graciosa was granted legal status as such in 2018 (it had previously been considered an islet), although Bruno tells me it really hasn’t meant a whole lot of diﬀerence for the island yet, though it makes

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him hopeful for the future. The island won’t have its own cabildo (local government) but rather it’ll be treated as its own district as part of Lanzarote, meaning it can decide how it uses public funds for services and development. ‘We’ve always relied on Lanzarote,’ says Bruno (even potable water is pumped over from there), ‘but I think with all the things to do here, the mountains, the beaches, the quiet … we can really make a go of it now that we have our own say.’ With exceptional diving spots, extraordinary hikes, unspoilt landscapes and that desert island quality (it’s thought Graciosa was the inspiration behind Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island), it certainly seems tourist infrastructure might be top of that new agenda. e re oﬀ to laya de las Conchas next, in the north of the island, and I tell Bruno I’ve heard a lot about it. ‘It’s the best beach in Europe,’ he says. ‘They’re

always doing fashion shoots there with the biggest names.’ The sun has come back out and, approaching the bay, I can’t quite believe it. After the scorched earth and greyish volcanic detritus that’s been hitting the windscreen and scu ng up under the thick tyres, the world has suddenly gone technicolour. The slightly damp sand is a rich caramel and the sea is bright turquoise blending to deep navy; the uninhabited islet of onta a lara, rising oﬀ the coast with its red and cream hues, forms a contrasting and dramatic backdrop. The sound of nature is deafening: thundering waves, a whistling wind and unadulterated silence. take oﬀ my sunglasses, screwing up my eyes in the bright light just to let the colour ood my vision. ve read this is a dangerous spot for swimming as the currents are strong, but it’s impossible not to walk along the water’s edge and paddle my feet in the water.

A handful of other people have made it here, too, their bikes left unlocked at the top of the path. I say hello to a couple who tell me they’ve come over for the long weekend, partly for the stargazing – thanks to the lack of light pollution, the islands are one of the best places in the world to do it and neighbouring a alma was the world s first Starlight Reserve. As I amble back up the sandy path, I try to commit the image of the beach to memory. ‘It’s better than I imagined,’ I say to Bruno as I get back in the car, it s so different to the rest of the island.’ ‘It’s everyone’s favourite part,’ he tells me. ‘You can really feel part of nature, no? ost people strip off as there s nobody around and those that are don’t care.’ ‘It’s paradise,’ I say. ‘If you like sun and hot weather,’ he replies. I ask who doesn’t and he tells me he gets tired of it and longs for the greenery, rain and cold that I’ll be returning to in Wales. We head back towards town, passing through the Montaña de Mojón – one of the island s smaller at topped volcanic cones – and the imposing Montaña Pedro Barba with its two giant volcanic craters, Agujas Grandes and Agujas Chicas. I’m being thrown about more than I was before and realise I’ve forgotten my seatbelt. I apologise and buckle up, but Bruno reassures me: ‘Don’t worry, there’s only one police o cer on the island and he’s my neighbour.’ After the solitude of the rest of the island, Caleta de Sebo seems positively buzzing with activity. I have an hour to kill before my boat back, allowing me to enjoy a cool can of local brew Tropical and plates of puntillas de calamar (small fried squid) and salty papas arrugadas with garlicky mojo picón. I eat, watching the e and ow of the tide and the people arriving on the dock, all hoping to find their own little piece of paradise.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TI N G TH ER E There’s no airport on the island; ﬂy to neighbouring Lanzarote and then take the boat from Órzola to Caleta de Sebo. Lineas Romero run around eight services a day to La Graciosa.

B E S T TI M E TO G O Anytime: La Graciosa is blessed with a year-round temperate climate.

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FO O D Fishing is the main source of industry other than tourism here and the plentiful and varied ﬁsh and shellﬁsh catches are cooked simply by the restaurants around the port. Try a side of papas arrugadas (wrinkled potatoes) with mojo picón sauce (a striking orangey-red sauce laced with paprika, garlic and red peppers) – it’s possibly the most emblematic of Canarian dishes.

W H ER E TO S TAY There are a few holiday apartments and small townhouses to let, but no hotels on the island. Alternatively, there’s a dedicated campsite run by the national park authority.

H OW TO D O IT Bikes and 4x4 taxis can be hired from the port when you arrive.

M US T- PAC K O P TI O N Sun cream and hiking gear.

W HY G O There’s more to the Canary Islands than most people think, and La Graciosa might just exemplify that better than any of the others. The rugged scorched landscape and unspoilt beaches make this a retreat for both people and nature.

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To all the birds I’ve loved before T H O U G H H I M S E L F

T W I T C H I N G I N

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he problem started, as problems often do, with penguins. Years later, I would learn that they should be called my ‘spark bird’ – the species that made some inner geek hatch deep inside me – but on that rainy afternoon on New Zealand’s South Island, all I knew was that I wanted to see a yellow eyed penguin. hey may e o cially endangered with a population of just 4,000, approximately the same as wild tigers, but they are found on just a few Kiwi beaches and are not masters of stealth. Spotting them should have been quite easy. After an hour of sitting in a hide, without a penguin in sight, I was cold and numb with boredom, so retreated to my motorhome. The problem wasn’t missing out on the penguins, it was that I was annoyed about the failure. I thought about it for some time. I still do now.

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There have been other misses with other birds since. Resplendent quetzals in Panama, harpy eagles in the Amazon, Andean condors in Chile – they’ve all left me feeling bitter through their absences, but I didn’t dwell on them the way I did those penguins. And so, when I’m looking for a species to blame for my unwittingly becoming a birder, it’s to those yellow eyed astards turn. I realised the extent of my doom in the autumn of 2020, when I was waiting out the second wave of the pandemic on the Galapagos Islands. Towards the end of five remarka le weeks, which had included swims with Galapagos penguins, I was speaking in a confessional tone to an editor in London when I said I feared I had become a birder. But the line was bad, and I was perhaps distracted by the blue-footed oo ies and rown pelicans fishing offshore, so she instead heard, ‘I fear I’ve become a murderer.’ I corrected her, we laughed a bit, then agreed the truth was equally unappealing to women. I never wanted this fate. I did not seek it out, but more than a decade of travel writing and photography exposed me to birds around the world. As I told myself I only wanted to learn about them in order to have something to write about or shoot, they slowly glided under my skin. There were the pu ns and ra or ills in the aroe Islands; three types of booby in Ecuador; to my amusement, a cock-of-the-rock in Guyana; then, to my delight, a second cock of a second rock in Peru; lilac-breasted rollers in South Africa; intimidating golden eagles in Kyrgyzstan; a hornbill called Joanna in Papua New Guinea; penguins beyond number, spread across four continents… To be clear, I am not someone who has a list. At the time of writing, I still do not travel specifically for irds. am a mem er of

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A green-crowned brilliant hummingbird takes a break in Costa Rica. RIGHT:

La Catarata de la Llorona waterfall in Corcovado National Park.

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As I told myself I only wanted to learn about them in order to have something to write about or shoot, they slowly glided under my skin.

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A scarlet macaw in Corcovado National Park.

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no societies, nor do own any camou aged clothing. But I do have a kink for the endemic and the beautiful. Photography is paramount. I would always rather shoot a hyacinth macaw than a skylark, no matter how operatic its song. This is doubly true because I also have a weakness for collective nouns and the parrots’ is one of the most excellent: a pandemonium. A pandemonium of parrots, which is perhaps only bettered by a am oyance of amingos, though have a soft spot for parliaments of owls, too. For me, admiring rarer birds means also despising common, more adaptable species. I have no love for pigeons or sparrows because of their ubiquity, for example. Like any right-minded person, I care not for crows, though I at least understand that their inherent meanness comes from enormous intelligence – it takes real cunning to vivisect a lamb and get away with it. Yet I have no such appreciation of herring gulls. Many mornings I have fantasised about climbing

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to the roof of the building near my Glasgow at with a amethrower and laying waste to the colony that nests there each summer and rises noisily at am every morning. Last November, as the Scottish skies were shorn of birds, sun and hope, I escaped to osta ica, a place where knew d find all three and not be woken by gulls as they squabbled over burst rubbish bags. I hadn’t gone for birds, or at least not exclusively, but I certainly knew this was a country famous for them. There are over 900 species here, with many endemic to Costa Rica and neighbouring Panama. Part of the reason for this is the region’s now famous dedication to environmentalism; it’s said that more than half of Costa Rica is still forested and these days virtually all of its power comes from renewa le sources. Before visiting, I wondered if Costa Ricans being rapturously told their country is enviably green ever felt tedious, like a tall person having their height pointed out to them by short dullards. ‘Not really,’ said my guide Jeffry i erino, sounding a little confused by my line of questioning as we stood under a coconut tree at the edge of Corcovado National Park. We were both looking skywards at that moment, though not for irds Jeffry was trying to dislodge a fresh coconut with a long piece of bamboo. From a distance we must have looked like primates exhibiting rudimentary tool use. ‘Scarlet macaws,’ said the guide as he gave the coconut another whack. I looked around and he was right – two of those gaudy parrots were bisecting the blue sky. Good nature guides are often like this, able to sense birds as much as see them (really good ones are simultaneously able to source you a fantastically tasty coconut on a very humid day) though scarlet macaws certainly make things easier. As well as those extravagant, over-saturated feathers, their hideously inelegant calls carry far across the canopy. In that part of Costa Rica, it felt like the sky was never entirely parrot-free. The birds mate for life and to see them sail across the sky in boisterous tandem often felt like witnessing an infuriatingly contented couple loudly boasting of their continued happiness. In the distance, turkey vultures soared silently on thermals, while northern caracaras and black hawks scoured the grey-sand beach for carrion and baby turtles making their perilous ourney to the acific. y inner ird nerd spread its own wings. Of all the country’s wild places, Corcovado is perhaps the least tamed. Largely inaccessible by road, it has a lot of

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A roseate spoonbill, found in Costa Rica; An emerald toucanet in the Costa Rican highlands. BELOW:

A clay-coloured thrush, the national bird of Costa Rica.

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A turkey vulture, also known as a turkey buzzard, one of four vultures found in Costa Rica; A roadside hawk surveys the jungle at the Lapa Rios Ecolodge in Costa Rica; A wood stork in Costa Rica.

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the best of Costa Rica contained within its 105,000 acres: riotous foliage, satisfying waterfalls, and a vast, windswept beach backed by lanky palms leaning forward, straining towards the mighty ocean. On the drive to the park’s border, bouncing along a route that seemed more pothole than road, we passed through an ugly slash of pastoral land. At least the birds had also found a way to make use of this artiﬁciality. oseate spoon ills, looking like amingos crossed with cutlery, om astically came into land, perturbing white ibis which were already patrolling the wet ground in search of breakfast. From atop fence posts, a wedge (or congregation) of cattle egrets deferred to these larger species. oh look, said Jeﬀry as our car crept forward and a huge, white bird with a scabrous slate-coloured head emerged from the long grass. ‘A wood stork – very unusual to see it this far south.’ I pretended not to care about this information because it’s important that I don’t

shy, and the overcast conditions and low light of the thick jungle made competent photography impossible. Did that mean I didn’t admire the crimson-collared tanager, which looked like a sparrow dressed for a rave in 1992? Or the snowy cotingas appearing like ying pearls o, ut did wish they d een more compliant models. Of course, to learn something of birdlife around the world is also to learn first hand something of the climate catastrophe, too. first sailed to ntarctica in and my favourite ird wasn t any of the five penguin species I saw, but the sooty albatross, several of which followed my ship across the tumultuous Drake Passage. In the intervening years, over several more trips, I’ve only seen one other sooty and, according to naturalist friends who make their living at those unlikely latitudes, this is not because I have been unlucky. Those birds, and many thousands more, are disappearing, unable to adapt as humans boil the world and devour their habitats.

When I made it to the highlands, there was another kaleidoscope of birds waiting for me. become a twitcher – someone who travels to find irds and tick them off a life list. f you’re one of the few people who saw the little watched comedy The Big Year, then you’ll have an idea of what twitchers are, or at least could be: competitive men (it’s almost always men) stomping over the environment and each other to spot as many species as possi le. he difference etween that obnoxious behaviour and my innocent pastime is that a twitcher would have been delighted by the wood stork, added it to their list, then quickly moved on, whereas I was simply happy to see a big, slow-moving bird that made photography easy. It’s perhaps not quite needless to say that it doesn’t always go like that. Costa Rica’s marvellous avian portfolio is spread across its orders, from the raw acific, over the country’s mountainous green shoulders, all the way down to the Caribbean coast in the east. There, around the Selva Bananito ecolodge, many of the species were quite

Costa Rica is one of those rare destinations where it’s easy to pretend otherwise, a place that still teems with life – or at least feels that way to visitors. When I made it to the highlands, there was another kaleidoscope of birds waiting for me. Among them, I’d been told there might be a resplendent quetzal, the outrageous show off that d evaded me in anama a decade earlier. h, if we see them, we d e the first people in years,’ said my new guide Matute Loria, delivering the bad news with jarring cheeriness as we headed out into the countryside, him with binoculars, me with a heavy telephoto lens. ‘You should come to my part of the country,’ he added, before stopping to show me a series of beautiful, intimate photos of these magnificent irds on his phone. smiled and nodded, furious. The quetzal is found in pockets throughout Central America (it’s so beautiful that Guatemalans have taken

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A baby turtle makes its way to the sea; The long beach on Corcovado National Park’s western shore.

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its name for their currency) but Costa Rica is generally agreed to be the best place in the world to spot them – just not this part of it. I suddenly felt like I was wasting my time, but as we tramped uphill, compensation soon appeared. Emerald toucanets perched on branches around Costa Rica’s national bird, the almost comically dull clay-coloured thrush. We pushed on, eventually arriving at a farm where the owner had decided to forego cash crops in favour of plants that would encourage more wildlife. It was there, among blooming bougainvillea and hydrangea that we found the hummingbirds. Matute began to identify them as they zipped in front of our eyes. Here was the white-crested coquette and there was the green crowned rilliant. ome ew close to my head, their tiny wings and hearts beating like pitﬁre engines. s they whi ed past,

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they generated a discombobulating sonic pressure, a noise that was as uncomfortable as it is with swarming bees. After a while, I began to feel unsafe in the same way I might walking across a pub full of drunkards playing darts. They were, of course, a nightmare to photograph – miniscule birds moving faster than my eye and lens could see, capable of ying in any direction, uiced to high heaven on pure nectar. This was made harder because of a hyper-aggressive rufous-tailed hummingbird being extremely territorial around his favourite owers. ut even with all the velocity and violence, after a while, I began to predict where they might hover or land and picked up shots. As gorgeous as they were, none of these pretty little birds were the resplendent quetzal – that remains elusive. I won’t say it’s on the list, but I’ve made a note of it.

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A crimson-collared tanager perched on a branch in La Virgen, Costa Rica. LEFT:

A white ibis in the undergrowth en route to Corcovado National Park. NEXT PAGE:

Sunset at a beach inside Corcovado National Park.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE International ﬂights arrive into the Costa Rican capital, San Jose.

B E ST TIME TO GO Costa Rica is worth visiting year-round, but August to November sees the heaviest rain. Additionally, the country is ﬂooded with tourists each January, meaning attractions will be busier and prices higher.

CURRENCY Colón TIME ZONE

GMT -6

FO OD Much of the food in Costa Rica is the same as what is found throughout Central America, with a big focus on pinto gallo (rice and beans), as well as fresh fruit, both of which are often served with every meal.

WHERE TO STAY Lapa Rios in the west; AltaGracia in the Highlands; Selva Bananito in the east.

HOW TO DO IT Journey Latin America can arrange 11-day holidays to Costa Rica visiting San José, Arenal, Monteverde, San Lucas Island and the Nicoya Peninsula.

MUST- PACK ITEM The biggest telephoto lens you can carry or aﬀord.

WHY GO Google ‘resplendent quetzal’ and you’ll have everything you need to know. Not enough? Well, know that Costa Rica is one of the world’s most biodiverse nations, is officially the happiest nation in Latin America, and – not coincidentally – also one of its safest. It is also home to some of the finest ecolodges in the world, almost all of which offer great access to birdlife.

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t was the food that took me to Egypt; the promise of charred at reads, fresh seafood on the coast, a undant fruit, and dishes inging with garlic and cumin. hough, in the end, the country worked its charm on me efore d even had a chance to taste anything. riving to my hotel in airo, the stark contrast etween old and new was immediately apparent, with tall, steel lue towers some covered in scaffolding and still eing uilt rising up among graceful, sand coloured minarets and mos ues. fter checking in, made my way up to the rooftop to catch my first, tantalising glimpse of the great limestone pyramids of i a, shadowed against the sky. How is it, wondered, that something so familiar can still e so astounding when you see it in person ater, in usy han el halili a aar, sipped mint tea from a rosewood ench and watched the hookah smokers opposite me and the passers y selfie taking tourists, languid cats, and vendors carrying trays of sweets and wheeling carts loaded high with at reads. hrough the pointed arches near y, the night was lit up y the glittering, e ewelled rass lamps that adorned the stall entrances inside, multicoloured rows of pashmina shawls and patterned rugs hung on the walls and tourists haggled over malachite ewellery and ala aster figurines. y senses were overwhelmed over oyed, really y the city. CAIRO’ S FO O D S CE N E

he ne t day egan with an amuse ouche of sorts from my tour guide asrine prickly pears, their rough, spiny e terior hiding a citrus like esh, and hi iscus iced tea, which had a crisp, almost cran erry like aftertaste. fterwards, we headed into the city centre for a late reakfast, taking our seats in a restaurant where the walls were decorated with photos of falafels. had to try the dynamite sandwich, asrine insisted chopped, hard oiled egg, oiled fava eans, mashed up falafel, tomatoes and a generous smearing of tahini, all served in a large, half moon pocket of grainy read and topped with parsley. n e plosion of avours, the sandwich deﬁnitely lived up to its name and within ust a couple of ites was having to mop up my face and hands with countless paper napkins. atiated, we made our way down towards the i a ecropolis, the view of the pyramids gradually opening up efore us. ere it not for the honking of tour uses, it was almost possi le to elieve had een transported ack in time. espite its familiarity, stood, dum struck, in front of the colossal phin , efore risking my asthma to crawl through what seemed like an endless, dimly lit passageway into the yramid of enkaure, the smallest of the three pyramids. hat evening, feet aching from our ancient e plorations, asrine and sat among dark, wood panelled walls and mosaic oors, eautifully lit y shimmering lamps, at elfela restaurant. e started with besara, a right green dip topped with crispy fried onions that is another fava ean speciality. ava eans have long een a staple in gypt legend says that amses oﬀered , ars of them to the god of the ile and in airo they can e found everywhere from asic street stalls and simple caf s to top end restaurants. had e pected besara to e similar to humous ut it was in fact courser, the avours of garlic, coriander and cumin plus a hint of dill com ining with the umami punch of the onions and copious amounts of olive oil. used the read it was served with to wipe the owl clean. e t came ta’amiya, or gyptian falafel, made with you ve guessed it fava eans. t elfela, the falafel encased a hard oiled egg, making it almost like a vegetarian cotch egg. he right green of the eans, and the spicy kick from the cumin and cayenne, provided a wonderful te ture and taste contrast to the soft and creamy eggs. After this, we tried koshary, one of gypt s national dishes and the perfect com ination of east and west layers of rice, lentils, pasta, chickpeas, tomatoes, spices, vinegar and again crispy onions. asrine told me that koshary traces some its origins ack to a one pot lentil and rice dish that we have in ndia, called khichdi. he dish, she said, arrived from the su continent when ndians stopped

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in gypt during orld ar the pasta was introduced y the gyptian talian community, and it didn t take long efore the dish ecame the domain of locals, with the addition of chickpeas, spices, onions and vinegar. here was much to try elsewhere in the city, too, in the days that followed. f there is one dish that reigns a ove all other gyptian street food, it is the stewed yes, you ve guessed it fava ean dish ful medames. topping to try it at a stall near l oe treet in ld airo, watched as the vendor served the ful medames straight from a large metal pot, efore topping it with oiled eggs, stewed onions, red peppers and handfuls of fresh parsley. s uee e of lemon rounded the dish oﬀ, adding a satisfying tang. his is another dish that has its origins elsewhere, this time in iddle astern and frican countries gypt s long history of trade is sometimes most o vious in its food. ut it wasn t all fava eans seafood was another highlight. t l ahrain, tried attered shrimp served with tahini in a pocket of warm aish baladi at read . he shrimp was eautifully crisp ut it was the read, fresh out of the oven and charred in places, that was the star of the show. nd then there was hawawshi, a dish had heard a lot a out efore my arrival minced meat a it like kofte in taste and te ture com ined with chillies, parsley and onions, wedged etween two layers of read and cooked in a wood ﬁred oven. t fast food oint l Hara , relished in the contrasting te tures of the meat and the spongy ut slightly crispy read, ut was left confused was it a pie or a sandwich m still undecided.

Heading off to explore, the early rays of the sun cast the western bank of the Nile in golden colours. BE YOND CAIRO

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Traditional Egyptian tea; Hawawshi; Cooking hawawshi. PREVIOUS PAGES CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Delivering bread in Old Cairo; A bowl of koshary; Boats in Alexandria’s harbour; Produce for sale at the sh market in Old Cairo; View of the mos ues of Sultan assan and Al Rifa’i in Cairo; Dates for sale in a market

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A café in a Cairo souk; A shopkeeper in a city souk; The Great Sphinx of Giza NEXT PAGE:

Camel riding in front of the yramids of Giza.

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ike any country, it would e a shame to only see and taste the capital, so headed down to u or on an hour train ourney that took me through the am er sands of the ahara. n this southern city, started my day with a rich, sweet, ra ic coffee that was served lack, full of chocolate and fruit avours. Heading off to e plore, the early rays of the sun cast the western ank of the ile in golden colours, the clear sky a ove dotted with hot air alloons. ater that day, my energy agging after wandering the ancient temples, ought a large netted ag of mi ed, fresh dates from a street stall. hey looked like little gemstones of various shades from golden yellow to a deep red. stood under the shade of a palm tree and indulged in their crisp, apple like freshness and sweetness while waited for a us that would take me to watch the sunset at the alley of the ings. finished my trip up north in le andria, where the ree e from the editerranean ea provided some respite from the dry desert heat and the catacom s of om l ho afa an incredi ly well preserved necropolis that shows the in uence of the reeks, omans and ancient gyptians on this port city. Here, especially, where gypt looks out towards urope, the history of thousands of years of trade seemed particularly tangi le. n the city s crowded market near the l omrok area, found vendors fanning seafood over right charcoal ames clams, shrimp, cra , s uid and mackerel, among others. y plate of ame grilled tilapia was accompanied y ripe tomatoes and saut ed onions, topped with parsley and utter. itting on a plastic chair at the corner of the street, mopped up every morsel of the smoky, cumin spiced fish and smiled at the chaotic scene around me locals argaining with stallholders over the catch of the day loud music ellowing the crackling sounds of food eing cooked motorcycles revving as they made their way through the crowd. gypt and its food had entirely into icated me.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE International ights arrive into Cairo International Airport, just over miles from the city centre. Trains run fre uently from Cairo to Luxor and Alexandria.

B E ST TIME TO VISIT September to February for warm days and bree y evenings.

CURRENCY

Egyptian pound

TIME ZONE GMT +2 FO OD Fava beans are a staple of the Egyptian diet look out for them in the likes of ful medames and ta’amiya Egyptian falafel and many dishes are served with a portion of aish baladi atbread . Fish and seafood are a highlight of the coastal regions.

WHERE TO STAY The St Regis Cairo ; Djorﬀ Palace Luxor ; Steinberger Cecil otel Alexandria

HOW TO DO IT Bellies En-Route oﬀers one-day food tours in Cairo and eliopolis for individuals and groups, lasting about four to ﬁve hours.

MUST- PACK ITEM A high-factor SPF, hat and comfortable walking shoes for exploring the temples and markets. Layers for cooler evenings.

WHY GO For delicious, underrated food that won’t break the bank, as well as the desert ruins and stunning views over the Nile.

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The coastal city of Hamada, in the southwest of Japan, is home to the Kakitas, a family of artisans who have been making Iwami Kagura masks since the early 1970s. Kagura – which literally translates to ‘god entertainment’ – is a form of Shinto ceremonial dance that re-enacts tales from Japanese folklore. The Iwami region is famous for using washi (a lightweight but durable type of paper) in mask making, which is layered onto the inside of clay moulds. PHOTO ESSAY BY JOÃO MAIA

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A Kagura actor performs as Susanoo-no-Mikoto, a hero from Japanese myths.

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L E F T:

Mr Katsuro Kakita, the master artisan, paints the details on one of his demon masks. A clay mould is meticulously made for each mask; Mr Kenji Kakita chooses a hot poker to make eye holes in the mask; Mr Kenji Kakita blows the smoke away after puncturing holes in the mask.

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An actor playing the princess, who is rescued from dragons by the hero Susanoo-no-Mikoto in one of the legends portrayed in Iwami Kagura.

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TOP:

Making holes in a mask in order to apply hairs to form a beard. MIDDLE:

Mr Kenji Kakita shows the moulds for the upper part of two dragon masks. BOTTOM:

A princess mask welcomes visitors to the Kakita workshop. RIGHT:

A performer plays the role of Ebisu, the smiling god of good fortune.

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An actor in an old man mask during a performance at Sanku Shinto Shrine, on the outskirts of Hamada city.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The nearest airport is Izumo Enmusubi Airport, about 70 miles to the east of Hamada and connected by train. Public transport is limited for travelling around Hamada prefecture, so it’s best to hire a car.

B E ST TIME TO GO While Iwami Kagura performances are held year-round, the best time to visit is in October and November when there are more venues to choose from.

CURRENCY

Yen

TIME ZONE

GMT +9

FO OD All kinds of Japanese cuisine can be sampled in Hamada city, from tonkatsu to sushi.

WHERE TO STAY Hamada city has a good range of hotels and ryokan; the latter oﬀer a more traditional experience.

HOW TO DO IT There are a number of venues for Iwami Kagura performances in Hamada; the most authentic setting is Sanku Shinto Shrine, which has a performance every Saturday at 8pm.

MUST- PACK ITEMS A warm coat: most Iwami Kagura performances are held in the evening – and sometimes outside – when it can get quite chilly.

WHY GO To experience Japanese culture and traditions away from its biggest, most famous cities, and to gain an insight into Shinto ceremonies.

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R U G G E D , B L O O D - R E D R AW,

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here is nowhere on earth where you can adventure quite like Karijini. The national park pulses in the remote, semi-arid heart of the Pilbara, a sparsely populated region in north Western Australia (WA), the country’s largest state. Stretching for 197,000 square miles, from the Indian Ocean eaches and oﬀshore islands of the Dampier Archipelago in the west, across mountain ranges, gorges and rivers to the eastern dunes of the Great Sandy Desert and the Northern Territory border beyond, the Pilbara revels in rugged Australian wilderness. While much of its southern half is inaccessible, the park’s northern section is a thrilling geological wonderland, teeming with tumbling waterfalls, spectacular chasms and jade pools; created and protected, as the Traditional Owners believe, by Ancestral Spirits from the Dreamtime. Karijini’s sanguine earth, bloodwood trees – and perhaps those powerful spirits – beckon us with their siren song and, entranced by the call, we unblinkingly comply, with a 16hour detour from our planned, original route. Into this spiritual sanctum we go, clanking along corrugated red gravel roads in a canary yellow campervan, scrawled with screaming gra ti. ‘Jethro Tull!’, it boldly announces

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to the world from its passenger side; ‘We Take Acid To Make The World Seem Normal!’, it triumphantly bellows from its rear. The last camper for rent in the coastal town of Exmouth, we’ve no choice but to jump in, hoping Australia’s cops won’t take Jethro’s messaging to heart, and that he ll run infinitely more smoothly than his engine’s spluttering outbursts suggest. The Pilbara is an ancient land. Among the oldest places on Earth, its rock has revealed fossils of 3.45-billion-year-old stromatolites, which pre-date any other terrestrial forms of life. Rich in iron and other minerals, NASA scientists have come here to prepare for missions to Mars, the region’s similar rock composition and evidence of ancient organisms informing future expeditions and the search for extraterrestrial life on the Red Planet. Twice the size of Great Britain, but with a population of between 60,000 and 70,000 people, the Pilbara could seem isolating, unnerving and otherworldly to some, but for us, venturing into its core, it offers sublime solitude and a unique opportunity to travel back in geological time, while being mesmerised in the moment. Tarmac gives way to corrugated, dusty tracks, signalling adventure ahead, while road signs warn of wandering cattle and kangaroos. n upended, stiff and loated bull serves as a reminder to

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Weano Gorge. THIS PAGE LEFT TO RIGHT:

A gum tree growing in Karijini National Park; Joffre Gorge.

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stay alert, while the camper’s dashboard sticker urges us to ‘Toot your horn for wedge-tailed eagles!’, hoping a honk will shoo Australia’s largest raptors safely away from roadkill, as we bump on by. Wildlife here is as prehistorically charged as the landscape, and we stop for a closer look as a 4ft-long, patterned perentie lizard casually swaggers along the road, having clearly missed the turn oﬀ for Jurassic Park. Without the growling engine or the clack of the track, we tune in to the

infra-red sauna, the sun’s rays penetrate to human bone and bake the land: in the Pilbara, you can smell the heat as it warms the gum trees and soil, unleashing intoxicating, distinctly outback aromas into the arid air which you carry, bottled inside you, forever. Even en route to the national park, there are geological wonders to explore, and sights to sideline the journey in hand: what is truly discovered, if you never strike out from the trail? Mysterious jumbles of

Scrambling to the top, we watch Western Australia’s burning red ball drop below the horizon.

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Oxer Lookout in Karijini National Park; Cape Keraudren, east of Port Hedland.

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outback sound of silence, broken only by the softest breath of wind, sporadic hums of insects and Australia’s largest lizard beating a retreat into the bush. The heat here is intense. Scorched black rocks and charcoal grey trees bear the scars of recent ush ﬁres though part of the Pilbara’s natural cycle, the ﬁres are intensifying here, as in other parts of the world, due to the very real and present danger of climate change. The Pilbara’s Marble Bar is consistently one of the hottest places on Earth, while in January 2022, the coastal town of Onslow saw the mercury rise to a sweltering 50.7°C, equalling the country’s highest temperature on record. Like an

glowing red rocks beckon us to scale them at sunset. Scrambling to the top, we watch Western Australia’s burning red ball drop below the horizon, stealing our shadows and throwing a billion pieces of silver into the sky in return. or conﬁrmed daydreamers and dalliers, a campervan is the perfect way to travel. Like a snail or a tortoise, home is wherever we are. When we lose the light, fatigue sets in or we underestimate the country’s vast distances again, we pull over in the great wilderness and retreat safely into our four-wheeled shell. In the morning, Jethro – incredibly – roars back to life and we rumble on to Karijini.

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Hamersley Gorge.

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A family exploring Karijini National Park.

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Today, it retains a deep significance for indigenous people, with many sites relating to creation stories.

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Hamersley Gorge.

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Female red kangaroo with a joey in its pouch; Camper trippin’ in Karijini National Park.

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As far as our eyes can see is ancestral Aboriginal land: Karijini is Banyjima, Kurrama and Innawonga country. Designated in 1969 and originally named Hamersley National Park, it was renamed to honour the Banyjima Traditional Custodians, who called this region ‘Karijini’ – ‘The Hilly Place’. Over 2,500 million years ago, iron-rich sediments began to settle on a seabed, layering and compressing

over millennia into rock, before tectonic plates collided and cracked, elevating the ranges. When sea levels dropped, rivers carved precipitous gorges, exposing the ancient banded iron formations and dazzling multicoloured strata that lure travellers to this unique national park today. With its shaded streams and pools providing a permanent water source in an endless dry terrain, and natural caverns perfect for shelter, Karijini has long been a traditional gathering place. Aboriginal settlement here dates back an astonishing 30,000 to 40,000 years. Today, it retains a deep signiﬁcance for indigenous peoples, with many sites relating to creation stories from the Dreamtime. Punurrunha (Mount Bruce) is a ‘men’s place’, important in Aboriginal law, while Jubara (Fern Pool) is a

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sacred ‘women’s place’, where the Creation Serpent lived after travelling across the Pilbara’s pindan-red earth, forming its many rivers and streams. The Pilbara is also deeply significant for the ustralian economy, with the region’s iron ore and li uefied natural gas industries valued at over AU$70 billion. WA has the largest iron-ore reserves in the world, and the Hamersley Range is home to 80% of the country’s ore deposits. Karijini’s nearest settlement, Tom Price, is a mining town that services one of 16 mines owned and operated by Rio Tinto, while BHP operates another five. ron ore e cavated here is largely shipped to Asia from docks like Port Hedland on the north coast, the world’s biggest bulk-export terminal, transporting half a billion tons of ore a year. Rio Tinto has agreements in place with nine Aboriginal Traditional Owner groups to mine on their lands, a relationship which was rocked in 2020 when the mining company blew up an Aboriginal heritage site at Juukan Gorge that had evidence of 46,000 years of human occupation. The planned explosion reduced two of the Pilbara’s ancient sacred rock shelters, dating from the Ice Age, to rubble. The CEO’s resignation, apologies and renewed commitments to respect country and culture followed, but such a tragic loss will not easily be forgotten. Hiking many of the park’s trails and creeks, we’re completely alone, balancing on smooth, iridescent ledges, hopscotching geometrical stepping stones, navigating vertiginous drops and crossing rivers as peeling paperbark trees drip leaves from above. Strong roots anchor in aged soils, while extended branches provide sprung diving platforms to launch into welcoming pools when depths allow. While Australia’s ‘Top End’ is known for its toothy terrors, Karijini

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Rolling onto our backs, we watch fruit bats and cockatoos squabble in the canopy overhead.

is liberatingly crocodile-free, leaving us free to snorkel and splash without a ‘saltie’ or ‘freshie’ in sight. At every opportunity, we’re in. Showering under waterfalls before breakfast eside cormorants fishing for theirs; shedding clothes, camera gear and backpacks as we trek, spider walk and swim deeper into the park s stratified ravines. At Fern Pool, we respectfully slip into the turquoise waters at the end of Dales Gorge, mindful of Jubara’s spirit still languishing within. The Creation Serpent’s place of rest resonates with magic. Dappled in sunlight, we snorkel above submerged tangles of trees and dip behind invigorating cascades. Rolling onto our backs, we watch fruit bats and cockatoos squabble in the canopy overhead and, while oating free, start to feel anchored to this ancient Eden. rying off, we return to the trail, where a serpent of the venomous kind slithers across the track. Non-aggressive by nature, the Western brown remains one of Australia’s most dangerous snakes. Slender and stretching up to 6ft long, an untreated bite can be fatal: its Aboriginal name is ‘gwardar’,

meaning ‘go the long way around’. Karijini’s other critters require less of a wide berth. Red kangaroos and rock wallabies; chirping geckos, birds and bats; plus elusive echidnas – quill-covered mammals which snu e through the undergrowth, slurping up ants. These unique, otherworldly wonders add to Karijni’s supernaturally charged dioramas. Adrenalin pumps as we explore the arterial gorges of this remote realm, but when dusk falls, the campground provides the breathing space to decompress. Freeing our feet from our hiking boots, we cook up veggie burritos and sink a glass of ros , ust as the ﬁrst pink blush of sunset hits the sky. The outback’s night-time soundtrack kicks in, with ocks of white little corellas squawking their way back to their roosts, accompanied by a sweeping, katydid chorus. A full silver moon rises over the sparkling mist of the Milky Way, transforming the surrounding gum trees to ghosts, and we climb up onto Jethro’s roof to convene more closely with the heavens. Karijini sleeps, as though we are the only ones left alive, in a world full of stars.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Punurrunha (Mount Bruce); Fern Pool; Mount Nameless; A boat sails around the Buccaneer Archipelago, oﬀ the Dampier eninsula NEXT PAGE:

Circular Pool.

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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The nearest airports to Karijini National Park are Paraburdoo (approx 90 miles) and Newman (approx 130 miles) airports. The park is around 1,020 miles (18 hours) from Perth, via National Route 1. There are no fuel stations within Karijini National Park, so ﬁll up before you enter.

B E ST TIME TO GO May to October is the best time to visit Karijini National Park, when day temperatures are cooler, although the temperature can drop signiﬁcantly at night. Note that the water in gorge pools can be extremely cold, especially between April and September, when hypothermia can occur.

CURRENCY Australian dollar TIME ZONE GMT +8 FO OD There are no supermarkets within Karijini, so stock up on supplies before you go and take plenty of drinking water with you. The only restaurant is at Karijini Eco Retreat, which serves contemporary meals with an Australian bush-tucker twist. The retreat also has a takeaway Burger Bar, and Camp Bush Kitchens with barbecues.

WHERE TO STAY Aboriginal-owned Karijini Eco Retreat is the park’s lone resort, sitting lightly within bushland near Joﬀre Gorge. The only other place to stay is Dales Campground; Dales Gorge, Fortescue Falls, Circular Pool and Fern Pool are all nearby.

HOW TO DO IT Lestok Tours and The Flying Sandgroper oﬀer guided tours of the national park and Pilbara, while Space Chameleon Adventure Co. leads canyoning, abseiling and climbing tours of Karijini. The Warlu Way App has top tips and maps for planning a self-drive trip of the Pilbara, and can be accessed through Destination Pilbara’s website.

MUST- PACK ITEM Swimwear, a waterproof bag and camera, and a lightweight towel for trekking and swimming through the gorges. It’s a good idea to have a change of shoes, too, as they’re likely to get wet.

WHY GO To experience Australia at its most beautifully wild and rugged best: and to forge your own adventure away from the country’s well-trodden paths.

Photo Credits: All photos by Tourism Western Australia with the exception of: P163 – Jessicaknaupe | Dreamstime; P169 - Bennymarty | Dreamstime; P169 - Lauren Jarvis; P170 - Cbork7 | Dreamstime; P171 - Cbork7 | Dreamstime; P172 & P173 - Tom Price.

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C O N T R I B U TO R S

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. e writes and shoots for publications such as BBC Travel, The Telegraph and The Guardian, and is the K Editor of award-winning travel maga ine American Trails.

simonurwin.com Simon rwinPhoto

M A R CO B OT T I G E L L I Marco is an internationally award-winning travel photographer and leader of premium photo tours on almost every continent. e spends his professional life witnessing the beauty of our planet through landscape and travel photography, focusing exclusively on high- uality commercial travel photography. is work has been featured in National Geographic Traveller, Lonely Planet, GEO, Rough Guides, Fodor’s, DK, and many other top-tier publications worldwide.

marcobottigelli.com marcobottigelli

L E E CO B A J Lee started her career in travel as a ight attendant, before studying for a degree in English and Creative Writing, which led to a pivot into freelance travel writing. Raised and based in ong Kong, Lee has spent the last decade criss-crossing Asia in search of forgotten paths and emerging trends. er work regularly appears in a number of the world’s top titles, including The Times, The Telegraph, National Geographic Traveller, Condé Nast Traveller and more.

leecobaj.com Lee Cobaj

M A RY N OVA KOV I C H Mary is an award-winning travel journalist based in ertfordshire. She writes regularly for publications including The Guardian, The Independent and The Times, and is also contributing travel editor of The Lady maga ine. Croatia, where her parents were born, is a particular favourite, and she’s also busy exploring France, Italy, Serbia and other European countries. When she’s not hiking or writing about food, she’s on the ski slopes as soon as winter comes.

marynovakovich. contently.com mary novakovich

S U E WAT T Sue is a freelance writer based in London who specialises in African travel and conservation. er addiction to Africa began nearly twenty years ago after spending eight months travelling across the continent on a belated gap year. She’s been returning ever since, now as an awardwinning travel writer published in leading K newspapers and maga ines, including The Times, The Telegraph, The Independent, BBC Wildlife, Travel Africa and Wanderlust.

suewatt.co.uk suewattUK

M A R K S T R AT TO N Mark is ﬁrst and foremost a traveller, both independent and persistent, who writes, photographs, and dabbles a bit in radio. e loves the remote corners of the world and all animals, and turns his words for national K titles and BBC radio written from either his laptop on the go or his wild Dartmoor base.

markstrattontravels.com MarkofDartmoor

W I L L I A M FL E E S O N William lives and writes in Washington, DC. Formerly a reporter, his writing has appeared in National Geographic, Newsweek, The Washington Independent Review of Books, and elsewhere. In long-form narrative he was a ﬁnalist for the New Millennium Writing Award . e speaks good French and bad Russian, and used to play drums in Nashville.

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RUDOLF ABRAHAM Rudolf is an award-winning travel writer, photographer and guidebook author specialising in Central and Eastern Europe. e’s the author of over a do en books, writing for Bradt, Cicerone and DK Eyewitness, and his articles and images are published widely including in Hidden Europe, The Independent, National Geographic Traveller and Wanderlust. e clocked up several hundred miles hiking in Sal kammergut while researching and writing a guidebook for Cicerone.

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S H A FI K M EG H J I Shaﬁk is an award-winning travel writer, journalist and author based in south London. Specialising in Latin America and South Asia, he has worked on all seven continents, co-authoring more than guidebooks for DK Eyewitness and Rough Guides, and writing for the likes of BBC Travel, Wanderlust, Lonely Planet and Atlas Obscura. is new book, Crossed oﬀ the Map: Travels in Bolivia, was published in March.

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C L A I R E N AY LO R Claire is a London-based freelance writer and editor. After several years in business publishing, she joined the team at DK Eyewitness, where she got to be creative on layout and new content ideas. Later, she managed editorial schedules at Lonely Planet, contributed to travel books and wrote online articles. Claire specialises in K content on family travel and art and culture. Recently named One of Our Favourite Parents’ by her kids, she loves road trips and the seaside.

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ROSS CL ARKE Ross is a travel, food and wine writer for publications such as The Times, BBC Travel and National Geographic Traveller. When he’s not hopping between his beloved Canary Islands, he can be found exploring his homeland of Wales. A former editor for British Airways and Mandarin Oriental, Ross is also a lecturer in journalism at Cardiﬀ niversity. e publishes a regular Substack newsletter all about Welsh food and culture called The Welsh Kitchen. 174

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JA M I E L A FFE RT Y jamielafferty.com Mega eid

Jamie is a travel writer and photographer from Glasgow, Scotland. e has tried for a long time to ignore the intoxicating call of birds around the world, but is beginning to accept that he is fighting a losing battle. is last hope of finding love rests on doing so before he buys his first field guide and set of camou aged clothing and sets off into the countryside to live life as a fully edged twitcher.

R A S H M I N A R AYA N rashminarayan.contently.com Rashmi Narayan

Rashmi is a journalist and a constant learner who turns her curiosity into exploring the world through food and drink. She writes features for a wide range of publications and websites including Lovefood.com, Culture Trip, Time Out and Tonic Magazine. She lives in London with an ever-growing collection of books, steam trains and a usually well-stocked cabinet of single malt whisky.

J OÃO M A I A jmaia-photography.net jhmaia

Passionate about travelling since he can remember, João’s photographic journey began in 2004 with natural landscape photography. He fell in love with Japan on his ﬁrst trip to the country, and started introducing cities, people and traditions as his subjects. Today he focuses on photographing traditional festivals and craftsmanship. His purpose is to document these traditions wherever he goes, as well as the eﬀort of the people who struggle to keep them alive.

L AU R E N JA RV I S laurenjarvistravels

Lauren is Travel Editor of Breathe, the bimonthly women’s lifestyle maga ine, and a freelance editorial travel specialist. She is also the former Editorial Director of the K edition of National Geographic Kids, the world’s biggest maga ine 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.

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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 JRN . e is also a freelance writer and photographer, based in the southeast of the K. 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 JRN , as well as an accomplished travel and lifestyle photographer. is -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 K. She is currently writing North Coast 500: Britain’s Ultimate Road Trip for arperCollins, which will be published in September .

S I M O N W I L L M O R E – S U B - E D I TO R siwillmore.com SiWillmore

Si is a travel writer, editor and speaker, with words in Wanderlust, National Geographic and more. e’s contributed to books for Rough Guides and Frommer’s and is the digital manager at Bradt Guides. e’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 maga ines for Thomas Cook, Condor, Jet .com, Tui and PrivatAir, and created coﬀee-table books for Lonely Planet. But her favourite bit Travelling Jo has ip lined over the sea in aiti and learned golf with the pros in Spain all in the name of the job. 175

THANK YOU TO OUR SPONSORS As an independent magazine that is entirely created by freelancers, we are incredibly grateful to these wonderful tourism boards and companies who have supported Issue Two of JRNY. Without their support, we wouldn’t be able to commission the amazing writers, photographers, editors and designers who bring this magazine to life. But we are also thankful for each and every purchase of the magazine. Your support inspires us to strive to make each issue even better than the last. Kav Dadfar

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