Running with the llamas
Every September, on the second Saturday of the month, an event takes place in Hammond, Wisconsin that is like no other on the planet. The Running of the Llamas, now in its 19th year, is frivolous and at times farcical, but quite frankly, huge fun.
The llamas arrive
Pens keep them safe
The llamas are keen to be fussed
Sheila from Shady Ridge Farm
Dressing up is encouraged
The parade before the races
The parade is led by a piper
Some llamas run enthusiastically
Others less so!
The races are hard fought!
Winning a heat
The final
It’s not over until the llama crosses the finish line
Meet the overall winner for 2015
All over, it’s time to go home until next year
It’s not too late to get your hands on a free Kindle travel guide!
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Happy travels!
The best places to ride a horse on holiday
“This is so relaxing we could almost be on holiday.” So said my fellow novice during our riding lesson in Belfairs Woods this morning. She had a point, give or take a bit of extra bounce on the rising trot and a near miss with an excitable puppy. It got me thinking of the places I’d ridden on my travels and what it was that I’d enjoyed so much. Here are a few of my favourite excursions in the saddle.
Copan Ruinas, Honduras
Riding with the cowboys up near the border with Guatemala
Honduras’ reputation packs quite a punch, but the sleepy town of Copan Ruinas is about as far removed from the gang-related problems of San Pedro Sula as you can get, yet it’s only a short bus ride away. I did several rides while I was there, the first of which took me from Finca El Cisne, a coffee, cardamom and cattle and ranch, to the hills up by the Guatemalan border. Led by Carlos, whose folks own the ranch, the scene stealer that day wasn’t one of the horses, but instead the family Basset Hound, Chito, who happily bounded alongside us the whole way.
Moab, Utah
After the ride, back at Red Cliffs Lodge
Utah’s spectacular scenery was always going to be memorable, so following in the footsteps of none other than John Wayne himself, we spent a pleasant morning on horseback in the hills outside Moab. We followed the well-worn trail along Castle Creek and surveyed Castle Rock under blue skies and to a cacophony of farts provided by a horse called Gus.
San Antonio de Areco, Argentina
The skill of the gaucho is legendary
In Argentina a few years ago, I seized upon the chance to spend the day at La Cinacina ranch a few hours from Buenos Aires. From a typical asado to folkloric dancing, every aspect of gaucho life was recreated for us, but the highlight was without a doubt the riding. We novices had a go, with varying degrees of success ranging from inelegant dismounts (most of us) to a stallion who threw his rider (an unfortunate Italian) mid-canter. We dismounted, the experts showed us how it was done as they performed carreras de sortijas where at full gallop, they speared a tiny ring with the shortest of sticks. Now that’s skilful riding if I ever saw it.
Petra, Jordan
Horse and carriage exiting the Siq
Petra is reached through a narrow, dusty fault in the rock known as the Siq, and the entrance ticket includes a transfer on horseback to its entrance. Care needs to be taken when dealing with the horsemen, who can be very persistent in their requests for a tip, and the only equine transport through the Siq is via horse and carriage. I opted to finish my journey on foot, and savour the moment when the Treasury is revealed in all its crafted splendour.
And finally, here’s one I’d rather forget…
Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic
Never take a horse ride in the midday sun
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, so go the lyrics of the famous Noel Coward song, and how I wish I’d heeded those words two decades ago while trying out riding under a strong Caribbean sun. The horse was placid enough, but the sun was a whole other matter, and I ended up passing out from heatstroke in the bathroom of the restaurant where we’d stopped for lunch. That’ll teach me not to wear a hat!
How to save money on your N’Awlins vacation
New Orleans, pronounced N’Awlins by the locals, was tagged the Big Easy by gossip columnist Betty Guillaud in the 1970s. As that nickname suggests, it’s a laid back city, easy going and, in my opinion, the best place in the States to let your hair down and enjoy yourself. But to do that, you’ll need money, so rather than waste it on the boring aspects of your holiday spending, here’s how to make some cuts that won’t spoil your fun – and will allow you to divert your cash into things that will make your vacation memorable.
One of the French Quarter’s ornate balconies
Ditch the car
Forget what you’ve heard about needing a car in the USA, in the Big Easy it’ll just make things more difficult. Parking is hard to find, can be expensive and being towed if you get it wrong will really put a downer on your vacation. If you’re arriving by plane, then from the airport to the heart of the city, you have three options. First, a taxi – it’s a fixed rate of $33 for one or two people, with an additional charge for more than two. It’s convenient, and if you time your visit for hot and sultry summer, then it’s the coolest option too. Second, a shuttle – for $20, you can take a shared shuttle; they go round the houses, but it’s a saving if there’s one of you. Third, and cheapest of all, take the E2 bus for $2 (yes, you read that right, a saving of $31 on the cost of a taxi) to get right to the heart of downtown. From the centrally located Amtrak rail station, tram 49 gets you right into Canal Street for a budget-busting $1.25, with transfer to other trams or city buses for an additional $0.25.
Riverfront tram
Getting around
Much of the tourist area of New Orleans – think French Quarter, Faubourg Marigny and Downtown – is easily walkable. To get further afield, buy a $3 day pass for the city’s buses and trams and hop on and off to your heart’s content. Ride the green line to City Park, for the Botanical Gardens and Bayou Saint John, the historic St Charles Avenue tram for the beautiful mansions of the Garden District or the Riverfront tram for the eclectic shopping and ice cream daiquiris of the French Market. Check http://www.norta.com/ for current schedules.
Free self-guided walks around the Garden District are easy to find online
Choose your tours carefully
While much of New Orleans can be visited independently, for some things a tour is compulsory. Since Marie Laveau’s tomb at St Louis Cemetery #1 was spray-painted pink and smashed up with a baseball bat last year, visiting on your own has been impossible. To make sure your tour money does some good, and for a reasonably priced tour, try Save our Cemeteries http://www.saveourcemeteries.org/. The organisation works tirelessly to restore, repair and educate. Other cemeteries can be visited for nothing, including the atmospheric Lafayette cemetery in the Garden District. An excellent self-guided walk can be found at http://www.scsh.com/pdfs/Garden-Dist-tour-2.pdf
Lafayette cemetery
Taking a carriage ride around the French Quarter is a great way to get your bearings, but can be expensive. Rather than taking a private trip, opt for a place on a larger shared carriage, which costs $18 for a half hour tour compared to the $90 for up to four people if you don’t want to share.
Shared carriage around the French Quarter
If you want to get out on the river, the steamboat Natchez makes regular trips on the Mississippi several times a day. Eschew the expensive dinner cruise which costs a whopping $46 even without food ($77 with dinner) and board in the afternoon when cruises are better value at $29.50. You’ll still get all that jazz!
Look for coupons
Most hotel foyers have a stack of leaflets about nearby attractions and many of them include money-off vouchers. The free map given out across the city also has a few – I saved a couple of bucks off the $19.95 entrance fee at the excellent Mardi Gras World by ripping off a corner. The savings will soon add up.
Last year’s float being recycled at Mardi Gras World
See a band for free
Forget Bourbon Street, the action’s moved to Frenchmen Street where you’ll find a whole lot of great music for the price of a drink. While some clubs apply a nominal cover charge, many offer free entertainment. Try The Maison, where you can listen to a band while chowing down on tasty shrimp and grits. If you’re not too bothered about alcohol, ordering a soda gets you free refills.
Free music is easy to find throughout the French Quarter and Faubourg Marigny
Save money on drinks
A trip to N’Awlins wouldn’t really be complete without at least one cocktail but the cost of drinks in bars and restaurants will soon mount up. Take advantage of the city’s laid back attitude to drinking and get one to go from the Gazebo Café at French Market. Takeaway ice cream daiquiris, a speciality, cost $7.75, a saving of between two and four dollars off a typical indoor price. Carrying out a “to-go” cup is completely legal, though make sure it has a lid, and don’t get too intoxicated or you’ll fall foul of the authorities.
Got any tips of your own? I’d love it if you posted in my comments section!
The best view in town
New York’s skyline begs to be admired from the top of one of its skyscraper observation decks, but which should you choose? Read my guide to the three main contenders, the Empire State Building, Top of the Rock and the new kid on the block, One World Trade Center, to find out which is best for you. For all three, unless you ascend in the evening, expect long queues so book in advance online.
The glamorous one: Empire State
The Empire State Building
The Empire State has been impressing visitors to the Big Apple since it opened back in May 1931. From the minute you swing through its revolving doors into the lobby adorned with gilded Art Deco wall panels you can’t fail to be impressed. It’s featured in more Hollywood films than you could imagine and it’s just about the most iconic site New York has to offer.
Best bit: the view down Fifth Avenue from the windswept 86th Floor observation deck looking towards the World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty
Worst bit: the wind can be biting at this height, and you’re outside, so wrap up well or switch to the opposite side of the observation deck
Cost: $42 per adult (to visit the main 86th floor observatory and museum)
Opening hours: 8am to 2am daily, last elevator up 1.15am
Where to find it: 338-350 Fifth Avenue
The best view in town: Top of the Rock
Sunset at the Top of the Rock looking south to the Empire State Building
What the Empire State Building can’t offer is a view of the Empire State itself, which is where Top of the Rock trumps it. Offering split-level viewing platforms behind glass as well as an inside lounge with padded leather benches, this is also the place to get a close up look at the Chrysler Building.
Best bit: the glass panels have gaps big enough to squeeze a camera lens through but not so big to bring on the vertigo
Worst bit: finding your way out at the bottom can be difficult as the Rockefeller Center is a maze of corridors
Cost: $38 per adult for regular access
Opening hours: 8am to midnight daily, last elevator up 11pm
Where to find it: 50th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues
The new contender: One World Trade Center
The view south, overlooking the Statue of Liberty
Also known as the Freedom Tower, this, the tallest skyscraper in New York finally opened in May 2015, following the terrible collapse of the Twin Towers on 11 September 2001. It’s a lot more hi-tech than its competition, offering iPad rental for visitors to identify the city’s landmarks and guides that tell New York stories. There’s a surprise waiting as you exit the elevator but I won’t spoil it for you.
Best bit: the elevator ride takes you up 100 floors and whizzes through time as it does so giving you the brief chance to witness New York being built
Worst bit: the observation decks are behind glass, leaving photographers frustrated by reflections and dirty fingerprints
Cost: $40 per adult for general admission
Opening hours: 9am to midnight in summer, 8pm closing from September until Spring, last elevator 45 minutes before closing
Where to find it: West Street, corner of Vesey Street
My verdict
It’s still hard to beat the Empire State if you’re a first-time visitor to the city, but if you have time, plan to ascend the Top of the Rock too. It’s well worth doing one by day and the other at night for two very different experiences. Time at least one of them for sunset. I wasn’t as impressed by the One World Observation Deck because of the issues with getting a decent view of the city, especially once it got dark and the lights were switched on.
In March 2020, Edge opens at the Hudson Yards – watch this space for my review of New York’s fourth observation deck.
On the ancestor trail in NYC
I’ve reached NYC on my Hammond book research trip, following a successful expedition to Hammond, Maine. Unlike in Maine, there’s a chance that the New York Hammond has a connection to the family, as it was bought and named after one Abijah Hammond whose family emigrated from Lavenham, Suffolk. A wealthy NYC merchant, he bought and sold property, mostly in Greenwich Village (then a separate place) and made enough money to build a mansion at Throggs Neck which overlooks the East River on the fringes of what’s now the Bronx.
I caught the 6 (singing J-Lo songs in my head, of course) and then the Bx40 bus to find his house at Silver Beach. It’s now in poor state, with a couple of refurbished rooms being used as offices for the Silver Beach Association. The delightful Carol from SBA welcomed her unexpected visitor with open arms and told me a little about the house, which dates from 1795. As a non-profit co-op, they don’t have the money for repairs, unfortunately, but it was good to know the local residents still refer to Abijah’s place as “the mansion”.
It was a real privilege to be in Abijah’s home, more so as this place is not open to the public. There’ll be more of his story in the book, and it looks like there’s quite a story to tell from this colourful character.
The mansion
Entrance hallway – check out those marvellous carvings and door mouldings
Detail of carving found on all the doors
One of the rooms used by the SBA
Unrestored back room with wooden shutters and typical Georgian styling
The stairwell
The original gate posts
A Down East weekender
It took me a while to figure out why, if I was heading to the north east of the contiguous United States to visit Maine, everyone was referring to my trip as Down East. Surely it should be Up East? Or were the Canadians exerting some kind of hold over their neighbour’s tourist literature? Well, neither, as it turned out. The name originated from the time when ships used to sail from Boston. With the wind at their backs – down wind – they would head along the coast to Maine, hence the term Down East. As Boston was up wind, many Maine residents say they are going “up to Boston” when in fact they would be travelling south.
Sand Beach, Acadia National Park
Geography settled, let me tell you why, if you haven’t been here already, you should book a holiday to Maine as soon as you can. Specifically, plan a trip for Mount Desert Island and base yourself in Bar Harbor. This quaint little town, named after the sandbar that links the island to its smaller neighbour Bar Island, is the kind of place that on a sunny day you could easily see yourself staying for good. I’m reliably informed that last winter I’d have thought differently given that they had 130 inches of snow. My southern England brain cannot compute such weather statistics but I’m pretty certain that visiting between June and September is the way to go. I was there in mid-June, when enough tourist facilities were open to make it a pleasant vacation, but to take advantage of sunset tours and Acadia shuttles you should leave it until July.
On board the Miss Samantha with the other Julia
As we basked in temperatures in the mid-twenties under blue skies, Julia, our guide on the Miss Samantha Lobster and Seal tour, told us that this was the best weather they’d had this year after a wet spring. The water was calm enough for the skipper to cut the engine while we took a closer look at the harbour seals on Egg Rock and the sea flat enough for the mums and dads on board not to have to fret when their kids got near the sides when peering into the lobster traps.
Harbour seal at Egg Rock
At a little under two hours, this tour doesn’t head out into the open water like the four-hour whale watching trips do, but there haven’t been many sightings recently. In fact, we got to see an 11 year old dead specimen being towed back to the lab for an autopsy; this particular humpback had become entangled not once but three times in nets and lobster pot lines, so it was likely this may have at least contributed to her death.
Dead humpback whale being towed in for an autopsy
The humpback had been found washed up on Sand Beach, Acadia National Park’s longest stretch of sand, a week or so earlier. Acadia may not have the wow-factor of parks like Yosemite or Yellowstone, but its granite coastline has been eroded into blocky cliffs and fringed by evergreens, provides picture postcard views to show the folks back home. A short distance further on from Sand Beach was the park’s show stopper: Thunder Hole. There, the sea has eroded a narrow crack into a cave. As the tide enters, air is trapped in the cave and later forced out with a boom. It’s worth hanging around as the sight can vary from a bit of white water to a full on wave explosion.
Thunder Hole
A little further on, round Otter Point, hides a tiny cobble beach called Little Hunter’s Beach. It isn’t signed, so most people drive right by it, but if you know to look out for it, you won’t be disappointed. The cobbles are a pretty sight, ranging in colour from white to pink through to ochre and grey. Take a cushion and the bay is the perfect place to linger, though a sharp undertow makes it unsafe to swim.
Little Hunter’s Beach
Continuing on Acadia’s Loop Road, another must-stop is Jordan Pond House. Backing onto Jordan Pond, its cafe on the lawn has a view of North and South Bubble, two rounded peaks that look like a woman’s chest. It’s also the place to try a popover, a kind of cross between a sweet Yorkshire pudding and unfilled choux bun. Served warm, with butter and strawberry jam, they are deliciously more-ish. Of course, you can buy a packet of the mixture to recreate the moment back home.
Popovers at Jordan Pond House
Having rented a hire car with less power than a solar light in an Arctic winter, I pondered the wisdom of driving to the top of Cadillac Mountain. A Model A Ford rally was taking place, and seeing an 85 year old classic safely back down, I decided to give it a go. I needn’t have worried. The road was an easy climb and the views from the top over Frenchman Bay and the Atlantic were splendid. There was something wonderfully American about building a car park at the top of a mountain.
The view from the top of Cadillac Mountain
Back in Bar Harbor, I was happy to browse the gift stores, especially the excellent Bark Harbor pet shop. There was no hiding the fact that I was an out of towner in my Cool as a Moose T-shirt, never more so when I ate my first whole lobster. Diane, my server, was patient as she showed me where to twist and what to crack. The lobster was sweeter and juicier than anything I’d ever tasted before, though admittedly that amounted to lobster tails in chain restaurants. Butter dripping off my fingers, I washed it down with glasses of the local ale and stout on the verandah of the West Street Cafe. Did I really have to leave in the morning?
West Street Cafe
Need to know how to keep your costs down?
I travelled from Boston to Bangor with Concord Coach Lines, whose return ticket including free WiFi onboard cost $73. I stayed at the very central Mount Desert Street Motel in Bar Harbor at $87 per night for a room sleeping up to four. A budget but brand new rental car from Alamo via rentalcars.com worked out at £23 per day including recovery. A one day vehicle pass for Acadia NP cost $25 and the Lobster and Seal Tour was $29. Most places in Bar Harbor do early bird discounts if you eat before 6pm, meaning you can eat a lobster dinner for less than $20.
A bargain in Bar Harbor
Boats in Bar Harbor
From the most recent TripAdvisor reviews, I’d been a little trepidatious. I’d used Booking.com, my usual site when I’m looking for hotels, and found a little place right near the centre of Bar Harbor for an affordable price – when the average price was way out of my budget. It was called the Aurora Inn and Motel and it looked OK, nothing fancy but OK. The reviews were variable, but there were plenty of decent reviews to balance out the duds, so I booked. A few weeks later I had an email from the Quality Inn up the road saying that the hotel was being sold and did I want to transfer my booking? I chose not to, as the Aurora was closer to town, but as my travel dates got nearer, so the reviews got worse. Significantly worse. Pretty much every single one implored the traveller to stay away. I figured I’d see for myself, thinking that having rented a car, I could always stay further out of town to find something within my budget if the reviews were right.
The new sign
I reached the address to find that the motel that matched the pictures now had a new name, Mount Desert Street Motel. There was a little confusion when I pitched up in the office bearing a booking for the old place, but the new owner, Stephen Coston, was quick to reassure me that if there was an billing issue, he’d sort it. It seemed that, because the previous owners had already decided to sell, my booking, though recognised by Booking.com, had never been transferred onto the system, and therefore the new owners didn’t know to expect me. Fortunately, being early in the season, there were plenty of rooms.
Room at the motel
The Aurora Inn and Motel used to consist of three buildings. The rooms at the motel part of the Aurora Inn and Motel now form the Mount Desert Street Motel. Stephen and his mom Nancy run the place with the enthusiastic help of Gadget the dog. What was the Aurora Inn is being remodelled and will form an extension to another place, the Primrose Inn. And the rooms by the cafe, the part of the hotel that generated all the bad reviews, will now come under the Quality Inn, but hopefully with some improvements.
Mount Desert Street Motel
My room, I have to say, was an absolute steal at $87 per night, for a room that would sleep four. (Even better, my original booking was for a rate of $109, yet unprompted Stephen still let me have the discount rate.) For that I got the best night’s sleep of the trip so far, a genuine welcome and everything you’d expect from a US motel, including WiFi, loads of TV channels and a coffee machine and microwave in the room. The rooms have been remodelled with new soft furnishings and fresh paintwork. Most welcome was a decent hairdryer that actually dried hair. It was just a five minute walk into the heart of Bar Harbor. After a long but rewarding day exploring Acadia National Park, I was able to savour a much-wanted Allagash stout – something I couldn’t have done if I’d have stayed on the edge of town and driven in.
Allagash Black, tasty but strong!
The new owners have got some work to do to build their business, but I wish them well.
You can find them at 68 Mount Desert Street, Bar Harbor, Maine, just a few minutes’ drive from Acadia National Park. Reserve via email at reservations@mountdesertstreetmotel.com or by telephone on 207-288-8300.
Salzburg on two wheels
I was a small child when I first went to Salzburg and have very fond memories of this elegant Austrian city, though mostly of getting a soaking from the trick fountains at Schloss Hellbrunn on the outskirts of town.
The trick fountains of Hellbrunn; this one still caught me out!
Since then, most Christmases I’ve had a virtual revisit courtesy of the film The Sound of Music, which was partially filmed on location in the city. On a whistle-stop detour from Italy whilst working for Trainline Europe, I was fortunate enough to have just enough time to fit in Fräulein Maria’s Cycling Tour.
Rupert provides the words in case you’ve forgotten
Founded by Rupert Riedl back in 1999, his passion for both Salzburg and cycling was infectious and I was excited about joining the tour. He also signed off his emails “so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye” which meant I couldn’t wait to meet him.
Rupert’s bikes
Rupert was just as charming in real life and so was our guide Elise, a warm and friendly ex-pat Brit whose encouragement and enthusiasm helped to make this tour so thoroughly enjoyable from shaky start to racing finish. The bike, it has to be said, took a little getting used to; wider handlebars and a different style of gears to that which I’m used to had me wobbling around like a beginner and cornering in a panic. It didn’t take long before I’d got the hang of it, and with plenty of stops, it was a manageable and fun tour.
Rooftop views of Salzburg’s many churches made the climb worthwhile
I’m not super-fit (I’m not even fit) and was a little apprehensive about going uphill. Elise was quick to let us all know that she’d be walking part of the way up the steepest hill so we shouldn’t be embarrassed if we needed to do the same. She was also very partial to pastry and so her suggestion we stop by the beautiful cathedral for a bretzel was most welcome also.
Delicious bretzels, just the thing once you’ve worked up an appetite
The tour began at Mirabellplatz and headed straight into the Altstadt, the old town of the city where vehicles are banned. We parked our bikes in front of several recognisable movie locations including the Pferdeschwemme, where Maria and the children skip by singing “My favourite things” and the Felsenreitschule, now an open air theatre but in the movie where the Von Trapps perform on stage before their daring escape.
Residenzplatz
Residenzplatz with its beautiful fountain, the backdrop for “I have confidence”, was also a backdrop for one of several group photos which Elise took as a memento of our tour. It’s a thoughtful touch, and a bonus souvenir once downloaded from Facebook.
Some stops aren’t actually in the movie; the quaint cemetery at Sankt Peter’s abbey provided the inspiration for a set which was recreated in a Hollywood studio. Climbing up past the funicular to the hilltop fortress, we had some splendid views of Salzburg’s imposing fortress, its many churches and the mountains beyond.
The views are worth the uphill ride
At the Nonnberg, not only did we see a nun at the nunnery where Maria decides she’s not suited to the job, but we also saw the dodgy weld in its gate, the result of the film crew needing to film through a gap too small for the camera. It’s details like these that made me glad I was on a tour – I’d never have noticed it on my own.
The dodgy weld at the nunnery
Freewheeling downhill was a blast, and as we cut across the cycle path out of town, Elise put the soundtrack on and unleashed a whole tour group full of Maria-wannabes, some more in tune than others. We made for the Leopoldskron Palace and lake. It’s where Maria falls into the lake and where the film crew discovered to their horror that the young actress playing Gretel couldn’t swim. Fortunately, none of us fell in but we did play along for a photo.
Leopoldskron Palace and lake
With the music blaring and the breeze in my hair, this was my favourite part of the tour. As we belted out Lonely Goatherd, several passing walkers gave us a cheer and a round of applause, thoroughly deserved of course!
Outside Frohnburg Palace
Stopping at Frohnburg Palace, where Captain Von Trapp tears down the Nazi flag, there was plenty of time for more photos before a flat ride to Schloss Hellbrunn. Our stop there wasn’t for the fountains (though it’s an easy bus ride back) but instead for the gazebo where Liesl sings “I am sixteen going on seventeen”. Elise told us that during filming, the actress playing Liesl slipped off the marble benches and twisted her ankle.
The famous gazebo, now located at Schloss Hellbrunn
The filming schedule, already running late, didn’t permit any more delays, so she performed with a bandaged ankle. It was later retouched, but, this being the 1960s, it’s apparently very noticeable in the film if you know to look. Well now I know, I’d say that’s a pretty good excuse to put the film on one more time…
To book Rupert’s Fräulein Maria’s Cycling Tour, visit his website at http://www.mariasbicycletours.com. The tour costs 30 Euros, which is a bargain given how much ground you’ll cover and what a fantastic introduction it is to the city of Salzburg.
Eating Italy food tour – the highlight of my time in Rome
When I was invited to join a Twilight Trastevere Tour in Rome last week, I had an inkling it was going to be good. I just didn’t know how good.
Trastevere is a charming neighbourhood
Having been to Rome before, I was keen to ditch the fake Roman centurions down by the Colosseum and the crowds of people sitting on the Spanish Steps. The former working-class neighbourhood of Trastevere, in English meaning “across the Tiber”, buzzes at night and has a restaurant almost on every corner. Knowing where to start was the problem, and with limited time, I was keen to join Eating Italy’s tour so they could show me around. The tour takes in around eight to ten stops in an eclectic mix of delis and eateries, rounded off with a lesson in how to identify real gelato from the fakes. It would be the perfect way to spend an evening, I decided.
Da Enzo’s trattoria
Sebastiana, our knowledgeable and very entertaining guide, half Italian and half American, had the cultural knowledge and understanding to bridge both the places we were visiting and the largely American clientele who made up the tour group. She was effervescent, bubbling away (in a good way) like a chilled glass of Prosecco and just as welcome a companion on a sunny evening. Our first stop was to a tiny trattoria called Da Enzo al 29. Getting a table here is difficult, but we beat the crowd for a glass of Prosecco accompanied by a delicious starter of prosciutto, melon and a delicious cheese called burata. Here we were introduced to “aperitivo” – an Italian ritual firmly based around the understanding that one should never consume alcohol without food, something I should bring back to the UK with me, I felt.
The wine cellar at Spirito di Vino
The second stop on the tour took us underground and back in time. The Ristorante Spirito di Vino was once a synagogue, as evidenced by the Hebrew lettering on its stonework. There, in a wine cellar dating from the first century BC, we tried taster portions of three scrummy local favourites: frittata, a kind of spaghetti omelette (far tastier than that sounds), followed by Maiale di Mazio, a slow-roasted pork dish and favourite of Caesar, no less, and finally a whipped cauliflower and cheese dish. Iliana, the chef, clearly knew her stuff and if I hadn’t have been leaving on that evening’s night train, I’d have begged her for a table for dinner.
Innocenti’s
Afterwards, we strolled through the backstreets to a family-run biscotti place so local that it didn’t even have to have a sign outside. I’m not a nut fan, so passed on the hazelnut brutti ma buoni (it means “ugly but good”), but judging by the reactions of the rest of the group, I’d say I missed out on something good. The Innocenti family have run this place for years, with recipes little changed in half a century, and sell by weight. If you have a sweet tooth, this would be the place to hang out. Another neighbourhood “celebrity” was Signore Roberto who ran the nearby Antica Caciara, a cheese and meat deli that was our next port of call. Over a century of trading makes this a real gem of a place to sample the deliciously salty Pecorino Romano cheese made in the traditional way by Roberto’s uncle. Sebastiana taught us how to order: un etto being 100g and due etto, 200g. Now what was half a kilo, again?
Signore Roberto
From there, we moved on to meat, porchetta to be precise, at La Norcinera, named after Norcia, an Umbrian town where this pork comes from. This wasn’t like the tough, dry supermarket pork that we are forced to endure in the UK, its goodness sucked out by the healthy eating do-gooders. This was juicy, fatty, melt in the mouth pork, hung from hooks on racks on the ceiling to tempt even the most fastidious of dieters to fall off the wagon. Served on pizza bianca, I didn’t stand a chance.
Delectable porchetta
When Sebastiana described suppli’, our next offering, I have to admit, it didn’t sound as good. It was nothing to do with her skills as a host, but more to do with the fact that suppli’ are deep-fried and, despite skipping lunch, I was beginning to feel very full indeed. These fast food treats of rice cooked in tomato sauce and stuffed with cheese are to Roman nights out what a kebab is back home – except that they taste amazing! In spite of myself, I wolfed mine down in record time and could quite happily have gone back for seconds.
Suppli’
The penultimate stop was at Enoteca Ferrara. An enoteca is an Italian wine bar but remember, Italians never drink without food; here we had a private table in the al fresco dining area out back, where we prized delicious ravioli away from Sebastiana (it’s her favourite) and feasted on gnocchi and cacio e pepe, a kind of square-ish spaghetti, literally translating as “cheese and pepper”. Rich but not overpowering, it was a lesson in how pasta should be served, and utterly more-ish.
Sebastiana’s favourite ravioli
But there was one place left to visit, and the one for which no one wanted to be too full. Fatamorgana makes real gelato – not the fake stuff – but with an originality of flavours that sets it apart from its competitors. I couldn’t resist the zabaglione flavour, a dessert that Mum used to serve us years ago, while the more adventurous could opt for flavours such as rosebud and black sesame, pear and Gorgonzola cheese and even pink grapefruit with ginger, horseradish and preserved lemon peel.
Fatamorgana’s artisan ice cream parlour
And how to tell the real thing from the imposter? Well, you’ll just have to take the tour yourself to find out…
To find out more and to book a tour online, head to Eating Italy Food Tours in Rome here: http://www.eatingitalyfoodtours.com/
An unexpected trip up Mount Vesuvius
Its top shrouded in cloud, the great hulk of Mount Vesuvius looms over the Bay of Naples, an ever present reminder that the residents of this area could one day face an unimaginable disaster. But the last significant eruption of Vesuvius was way back in 1944, and of course, its most famous eruption in AD79 wiped out Pompeii and Herculaneum before they knew what had happened.
Vesuvius won’t let you forget it’s still active
Definitely worth the hike!
I’d come to Ercolano Scavi station on the Circumvesuviana train from Naples’ Garibaldi station, itself buried under Napoli Centrale, to see for myself what Herculaneum looked like. As I exited the station, a sign advertising Vesuvius trips by bus caught my eye. Having spoken to the charming and very helpful Agostino, I was invited to join them as a guest on the next tour and I jumped at the chance to step onto a volcano I’d previously only read about.
Erculano Scavi station on the Circumvesuviana railway line
The company, Vesuvio Express, usually operate tours on a very comfortable coach, but as there was extra demand, the company laid on an eight-seater minibus for some of us. It’s worth asking if you are a large party whether they might be able to do this for you. The 15km trip up to the ticketing area, about a kilometre below the crater, took less than half an hour and our accommodating driver paused for us to get some photos of the Bay of Naples, pointing out the island of Capri and lava flows from 1944.
View over the Bay of Naples with 1944 lava flows in the foreground
At the top, it was a moderately tough climb for someone who lives in flat Essex, but manageable. Some people found it easier to hike up with the aid of a wooden stick, bought from someone about to finish their hike for a going rate of a Euro. Don’t be afraid to ask someone to sell one on! Fitter souls would manage the hike in around 15-20 minutes, but it took me just under half an hour to reach the crater rim, having stopped countless times to take photos.
Not surprisingly, this is a volcano that is very closely monitored!
The cloud was low, good hiking weather, though not great for the views back down to the bay, though that made me focus on the closer scenery, such as hardy flowering shrubs and a huge lava bomb by the side of the path.
A typical scene on the slopes of the volcano
Lava bomb in front of lava from a different eruption, hence the different colours
The volcano is impressive, with a large crater that puffs sulphury smoke. You’ll notice the smell of rotten eggs if you get downwind, but it wasn’t too strong.
First look at the crater
The gravel path alongside the crater leads to some steps; go up these and follow the trail to a second crater for a wow factor end to your climb. Coming down was faster, though I did skid a few times on the gravel. The trouble with a surprise hike is that you aren’t wearing your hiking boots!
The gravel path back down to the parking lot
Vesuvio Express charges just 20 Euros for this fascinating trip, half for the ride up and half for the ticket onto Vesuvius’ high trail. School groups receive a discount. They allow a generous 90 minutes at the top, which is ample time for even slow walkers to have plenty of time to absorb the views. Pre-booking isn’t essential. Tours begin around 9.30am daily and depart approximately every forty minutes. They’ll even store your bags in their office if you need them to. I definitely recommend this as a trip if you’re in the area.
The Vesuvio Express bus
To Florence, for some sunshine!
Beautiful Florence never looks more charming than it does when the sun is shining. Here are some of my favourite shots from this trip. The sun was reluctant to make an appearance at first, but when it did, wow, what a show!
The city’s famous domed marble cathedral and tower
A cathedral that’s world-class
Perfect reflections on the still water, River Arno
Pasta-making
Dusk falls over the River Arno
Reflections on the water, River Arno, with the famous Ponte Vecchio to the left of the shot
A classic Italian riverfront scene
A plane departs as the sun sets
The Cinque Terre
Today’s visit to the Cinque Terre was tinged with disappointment as much of the Sientero Azzurro was closed and the weather, though mostly dry, remained resolutely cloudy pretty much all day. Even this early in the season, crowds are building, so I’m not sure I’d want to risk a later visit to improve my chances of sunshine. Trains saved the day for speedy transfers between villages, but for wow factor views I was glad I took to the sea.
Manarola, as viewed from Corniglia
A splash of colour on a wall in Corniglia
Vernazza as viewed from the stairwell of its ancient tower
Typical local produce on sale in Vernazza
Cliff top Corniglia as seen from the boat
A day out on Lake Como
An easy half hour train ride from Milan, Lake Como is worth seeing for a day out if, like me, you don’t have time in your schedule for a longer visit. EuroCity and Regionale trains arrive at Como San Giovanni station and from there it’s a short stroll down to the lake shore.
A boat trip gives you the opportunity to see lots of Como’s villages
From there, you can take a boat ride onto Lago di Como. If you only have a day, an express boat will save you time. I took one to Bellagio, paying just under 15 Euros; there’s a supplement for the fast boat which bumps up the price by about half. The vessel makes a few stops as it heads for this pretty village, passing George Clooney’s Villa Oleandra in Laglio on the way.
Laglio, where George Clooney owns a villa.
On a sunny day, with the snowcapped peaks of the Alps in the background, it’s a beautiful ride. Sit on the left hand side of the boat to get the best views as you aren’t supposed to switch seats once underway.
The Alps rising behind Lake Como
In Bellagio itself, there’s an attractive waterfront with gardens overlooking the lake and the Alps. Cafes line the street behind. You’ll pay a premium to sit and look at this view, but prices aren’t exorbitant.
The waterfront is packed with restaurants and hotels
I wanted something a little different, and had lunch at Cava Turacciolo. It’s a bar serving food, crammed full of bottles of wine from all over Italy. I’m not a wine connoisseur but they indulged my inappropriate choice of spumante without making me feel it wasn’t suitable. I didn’t care – it was like drinking alcoholic honey – and I really couldn’t resist a second glass.
Heaven for wine aficionados
To walk off lunch, I climbed the steps up to the main street, not as tough as it looked as the steps were shallow. At the top, there were plenty of shops to browse, including several selling silk, which is a speciality of Como. There’s also a church and tower.
Don’t be so focused on where you’re going you forget to look down side streets
On account of the extended window shopping, I didn’t have time for the gardens for which Bellagio is known, such as the Villa Melzi D’Eril. I caught a glimpse of it on the bus back to Como, a much cheaper option than the boat at less than 4 Euros. Sit on the right hand side when you return to Como for the best views as it hugs the lakeshore most of the way back.
View from the C30 bus
The bus drivers of New Zealand
So often, it’s the people that make a place memorable more than the sights themselves. To really engage with a place, there needs to be a connection, and it’s the human interactions that facilitate that. I’ve been thinking about which places have the warmest and most welcoming locals, and I have to say New Zealand comes high up the list. I spent a week in South Island using the reliable bus system to see the main sights, but didn’t realise just how much I’d enjoy the journeys between those places. Here’s a piece I wrote for myWanderlust not long after I returned.
Inside the man there was a scruffy boy itching to get out.
The commentary as we edged down South Island’s west coast may have been aimed at adults, but tales of Australians landing planes upside down in the swamp came right out of Boys Own. With his untamed mop of greasy ginger hair, Dave was one of those people where you could still vividly imagine what he’d have looked like as a lad, scraped knees and all. Heading south from Greymouth into country country, everyone got a cheery wave, but then Dave knew most people. When it came to the drop off, he flicked the rolled up newspaper expertly through the window hatch as he once had from his push bike, slowing only slightly before checking his wing mirror to smugly inform us it had landed accurately.
“Yup, that’ll do ya. That paper’s printed at midday. If I didn’t run it through, they wouldn’t get it until tomorrow. No point in old news, is there?”
Bridge between Greymouth and Hokitika as navigated by Dave the bus driver
Dave told us he had the best job in the country but salt and pepper haired George disagreed. Picking up the baton from Franz Josef, he made sure everyone had visited the glaciers, threatening to leave us behind if we couldn’t tell him enough about what he insisted we should have seen.
Yes, I passed the test! Proof I visited Franz Josef glacier.
He wound us expertly round impossibly tight turns to deposit us at viewpoints framed with the ubiquitous but elegant tree fern, fronds shimmying like a Twenties flapper. Jovial when on the move, he was quick to chastise anyone who dared hold up the coach. At breakfast, out of serendipitous necessity swapping a motorway service station for a salmon farm deep in the forest, he joined me at my table. The conversation flitted back and forth as George downed his second cup of tea. Gruff George, it turned out, was a gentle man underneath; having lost his wife to cancer, he confided that meeting people on his bus had helped him through the tough times.
Wheezy Pete, with a capacious belly nurtured over many years supping good beer, shook our hands as we returned from a roadside hike to a waterfall. George introduced his replacement and pointed to the bus parked on the opposite side of the road.
Awesome NZ just about sums it up!
“You lot are hard work,” he chuckled, “there are only four on that other bus, I’m off back to Franz for a quiet life.”
And so the thirteen of us headed for Queenstown, encroaching steadily on snow-capped mountains as we edged alongside Lake Wanaka. Pete pointed out the world’s oldest bungee jump, offering a free ride to anyone who took up the challenge.
A few days passed before I met Dione. Dione was different, the first driver under forty, with a baseball cap and an exceptionally good knowledge of sheep. When not talking farming, he spoke incessantly of the weather.
“We have two hundred days of rain down here, bringing seven metres of water every year. For you folks that measure in millimetres, that’s a lot of rain!”
But he had the most spectacular drive, through the mountains down to Milford Sound. Skirt folds of Rimu trees parted to reveal the tiniest slivers of silvery petticoat cascading into puddles that blurred onto the water below. Our day was sunny, the deep azure of the sky framing the sheer cliffs of the fjord and diamonds pricking the water.
“Jeez, you guys are lucky. Even the keas are behaving today – yesterday those bloody parrots flew into the bus and shat all over the dash.”
Kea inspecting the bus for Dione
Wiry Tom knew he had the rough end of the deal, for it was he who would remove us from the crisp air of the mountains and carry us across the Canterbury Plain in all its sheep-strewn monotony. He tried his best with Mount Cook, but our wonder at the beauty of New Zealand’s highest peak was tainted by the knowledge of what was to come. I passed the time trying to figure out which Hollywood movie actor he reminded me of; a cop, no, the President? It was a twelve hour ride and I reached Christchurch none the wiser.
The road to Mount Cook
Yes, Dione was indeed different. He was the only one who wasn’t a scheduled bus driver, our driver-guide on a coach tour to one of the country’s best known attractions. In New Zealand, buses aren’t just there to take their passengers from point to point. To be a bus driver on South Island you needed a sense of humour and a good head for facts. I’d say a good aim and experience as a paper boy got you a long way too.
Mapunda’s story
As a keen proponent of independent travel, you might be surprised to find I’m also an advocate of hiring a good guide. While it’s great to wander aimlessly round a city stumbling over its hidden and not so hidden attractions, there are some destinations where a guide will significantly enhance your experience. Sometimes, as in Cappadocia, hiking for the first time after injuring my back, I was grateful not only for my guide’s navigational ability but for a helping hand over what were at the time quite challenging boulders and slippery gravel paths. My favourite guide, by a considerable margin, was the inimitable Mapunda, with whom I spent an exhilarating, and at times hysterical, few days amidst some of Tanzania’s most beautiful scenery. Here’s why we had such a fun time:
“Let me tell you why I am named Mapunda. A long time ago, my ancestors lived in South Africa. They embarked on a long journey, crossing Mozambique before settling in the south of Tanzania. Along the way, they killed zebra to eat. It was the way they survived. Because of the zebra, I am here today. And in my language, the word for zebra is mapunda.”
Mapunda
Mapunda went by the nickname Zebraman. He had worked as a driver for a safari company based in Arusha, in the north of Tanzania, for the past eight years. Before that, until the threat from poaching got too dangerous, he was a ranger at Tarangire National Park. But Mapunda had a secret. He dreamt of owning his own safari company and working for himself. This was a huge endeavour. To buy a brand new safari vehicle outright would cost over $60,000, so he planned to rent. On the side, he dreamed, it would have a zebra logo, black and white not only being the colours of the animal after which he was named, but also, he added, for the black and white people that would all be welcome to travel in it. Proudly, he gave me his business card, bearing the logo of two zebras facing in opposite directions watching for lions. As he shared his plans, his eyes lost their customary sad, wistful appearance and shone brightly. It was clear this meant the world to him.
Tarangire, our first stop, is known for its elephants, a childhood favourite of mine. The first thing Mapunda pointed out, however, was not a living creature. Instead, he showed me the house he lived in during his ranger days. He spoke with fondness, apologising unnecessarily for delaying the start of our safari. Later, his ranger experience paid dividends as he always knew the best places to find the animals, even during their midday nap. Without malice, he was dismissive of many of the other drivers, tutting after they asked him where the best spots were, or, worse still, follow him to tailgate on the wildlife he had found. He always helped them, though.
Coming in dry season, the grass was dry and river levels low. We forded the Tarangire River several times during the course of the day, watching zebras and wildebeest linger bravely for a drink whilst keeping a watchful eye out for any hungry lions that might pick off their weakest. Impalas grazed under five hundred year old baobab trees, skittish as Mapunda cut the engine and pulled alongside. Nonchalant giraffes munched on the highest leaves, their long thick tongues gently caressing each stem as they made their choice.
As we ate our sandwiches, Mapunda taught me some Swahili. ‘Tembo’ meant elephant, ‘simba,’ lion; ‘nina taka’ translated as ‘I want’. After lunch, it was time to try it out.
“Nina taka tembo.”
The elephant, grazing a few short metres away from the vehicle, flapped his ears wide and lifted his trunk, warning us off. I was transfixed.
Male elephant scratching on a tree stump
Eventually, Mapunda asked if I was ready to go.
“Sawa sawa,” I answered. “OK.”
We headed down to the river, rewarded by the sight of more of these magnificent creatures blowing water and quenching their thirst. Others, further up the river, wallowed in the mud in the shallows, rolling onto their backs with the bliss that comes from cooling off from the relentless sun. Each encounter left me wanting more.
Mapunda was patient, indulging me. Click, click, click. Mapunda was keen to make sure I was getting good shots, and enthused when I showed him what I’d taken.
“Nina taka simba? Or more elephants, Julia? Or a zebra. Why don’t you like my zebras?” he teased.
It became a regular joke that if I saw elephants, I was happy. Equally, he would laugh when I would fake that the zebras were the highlight of that particular drive. We got each other. Sometimes a look was all it took to have us both hooting with laughter.
Mapunda’s beloved zebras
Mapunda and I joked that I said “Nina taka” and what I wished for immediately came true. Perhaps I should have said “Nina taka lottery win” or for Mapunda, “Nina taka lots of clients for the new business.”
Each day, Mapunda was punctual, eyes bright, grin wide. His enthusiasm was infectious: I felt lucky to be spending time with someone with such a zest for life. I’d been on safari before, but this time, the memories have endured, more than just the animals I spotted, and I reckon that’s mostly down to Mapunda. Every now and then I get an email from him. The business is slowly getting up and running and his gratitude to each client is a reminder that we should all count our blessings.
Six feet up a mountain
Later this month, I’m off to Italy to review trains on behalf of Trenitalia and Trainline Europe, but I shall also be making a brief detour north of the border into Austria. I first visited at the tender age of nine months and since then it’s remained one of my favourite countries for a summertime visit. One of my most treasured memories is from a trip I took with my golden retriever Einstein a few years ago. The Pet Passport Scheme has made taking a pet abroad a simple and easy process. So long as I pack his favourite soft toy, Einstein happily travels in the boot of the car and loves nothing better than to give customs officials a surprise when they open up the tailgate to check what they expect to be luggage.
Here’s what happened when Einstein and I decided to take to the hills…
My walking companion, Einstein
There was no way either of us was walking up.
Both of us were far too lazy for that, so I’d decided on the gondola. It was located up a gravel track, steep enough to confirm that the decision was a correct one. He looked at me expectantly, checking to make sure I wasn’t going to change my mind and demand that we walk to the top. I looked up the mountain and then at him and then climbed the few steps to the ticket office.
“Ein und ein Hund, bitte.” That was about as far as my German went (grammatically appalling I expect) but taking a dog on a gondola was common practice here and the woman slid me my ticket without comment.
Inside, we hit a snag. The gondola couldn’t stop and the dog wouldn’t move. Einstein was having none of it, digging his back paws firmly into the ground and refusing to go near the terrifying machine with its hum and its swing. Lifting him was not an option; he’s 32kg of solid golden retriever. After several aborted attempts, we managed to board, me first and Einstein preferring to jump into the unknown than remain behind without me.
This walking business was tougher than we thought.
Time for a rest
At the upper station, we got off with somewhat less drama and took off at a slight run in the direction of down. Unfortunately, the path passed within a couple of feet of a toboggan run and a couple of kids flew past us, screaming and laughing. Slothful Einstein sensed his chance to speed our return to the village cafe where we’d both enjoyed a splendid Austrian breakfast, and dragged me forward in an attempt to slide down the mountain instead of walk. I yanked hard on his lead and disaster was averted.
Once we actually got into a proper routine, the walk down the meadow and along the mountain stream was really rather pleasant. From time to time, we’d pause to admire the view of the Wilder Kaiser in front of us. Stray clouds caught on craggy summit ridges. Geranium-adorned chalets peaked out from behind pine tree plantations down in the valley.
This area, in the Austrian Tirol, is one of my favourite. I’ve been walking in these mountains, off and on, since I was four years old. In the early days, I remember walks with my younger sister, a lot of cows and bellowing thunder – or was that a lot of thunder and bellowing cows? We got wet, she got chased, that I do remember. Later, as a student, I took Wilder walks, (that’s vill-der, not wild-er) and watched the cows being herded down to the village complete with flower-adorned headdresses for the annual Alm Festival. I always feel calm on these pastures, totally relaxed, breathing in the crisp mountain air and letting the freedom envelope the whole of my being.
Relief for hot paws
That day, the sun shone on Einy and I, but the mountain stream was still icy cold and perfect for soaking tired paws as we trundled downhill. I chattered, he listened, ambling beside me obediently unless he saw a squirrel or a bird or a hiker. Aside from the odd cattle grid, always problematic, the walk passed without further incident and, down in the valley, we reached the main road.
Where was the village?
“Oh, bugger, Einstein. The village has moved. Not sure the last part of our walk is going to be as scenic…”
Yes, this walking business was tougher than we thought, I decided, as we finished our walk along hard pavements. But if you have to tough it out, then tough it out with the Wilder Kaiser in front of you, I’d say.
And so would Einstein, if he could talk.
How to save money on your South American trip
Many people might rule out a holiday in South America on the grounds that it is too expensive, but there are ways to save money and make that dream trip an affordable reality. Here’s what you need to know:
Book independently
Tour operator prices to Latin America are often prohibitively expensive. Although some operators offer good value, such as Llama Travel and Journey Latin America’s value range, typical tour prices are high. Unpackage your trip and book it yourself. Get decent insurance and make sure that your Transatlantic flights aren’t going to be affected by a cancelled or delayed short haul connection by purchasing all legs as a through ticket. Don’t be tempted to book airport transfers or tours in advance for the popular destinations as you’ll pay a premium and it’s simple to arrange these on arrival.
Llama feeding in the village of Toconao
Book your trip for shoulder season
Peak period flights to South America are expensive, there’s no getting round it. But if you can be flexible with your dates, then it is possible to slash the cost of your Transatlantic fare. For example, travelling in the shoulder seasons (spring and autumn) can reduce prices significantly. Don’t rule out the southern hemisphere winter. Air France flights from London to Lima last June were on sale for a little over £500 (compared to over £1000 in August) and if your planned destination is up in the Andes such as Cusco in Peru or San Pedro de Atacama in Chile then it will be dry and sunny during the daytime – just pack a thick fleece and jacket for the evenings.
Don’t assume the European route will be the cheapest
There are few direct flights to Latin America, meaning demand often outstrips supply which pushes the prices up. Use a flight comparison website to see which routes are cheapest for the dates you wish to travel; many people consider the US and European hubs such as Amsterdam, Paris and Madrid, but there are often deals to be had to west coast destinations via Brazil or Argentina with LATAM. At the time of writing, LAN were offering return fares to Rio for £419. If you’re on a really tight budget but have bags of time, you could consider reaching your final destination overland from Rio or Buenos Aires.
Hubbing through Buenos Aires could save you a packet
Do your homework on internal flights
Sometimes, overnight buses provide a cheap and surprisingly comfortable alternative to flying. Many large bus companies in Latin America offer cama or semi-cama seating – large spacious seats which recline far enough for you to have a good night’s sleep. Stick to a reputable operator which will use two drivers and ensure they are drug-tested and safe to go behind the wheel. Try Cruz del Sur, for example, between Arequipa and Cusco. If you do need to fly, check the terms and conditions before purchasing. LAN offers sizeable discounts on its internal flights in Chile if you book from a Chilean website (use free software such as Tor) or via a Chilean travel agent – and you don’t have to be Chilean national to take advantage of them. This isn’t the case for all countries; in Argentina, discounted prices are for nationals only.
Valle de la Luna, Chile
Don’t rule out hostels and guest houses
Private rooms in hostels increasingly come with private bathrooms and can be a fraction of the cost of a similar quality hotel room. They’re also a good way to meet other like-minded travellers who might be willing to split the cost of tours with you. Use a reliable website such as Booking.com or Hostelbookers.com to fix up your accommodation in advance – use the free cancellation option, monitoring prices so you can cancel and rebook if prices fall before you leave. Check locations carefully so that you are within walking distance of transport operators or the attractions you want to visit.
Package up tours
If you do decide to book tours, some operators will bundle up different day and half-day excursions offering a discount for cash. If you’re booking for the next few days ahead, they’ll be keen to fill their minibus and will want to make sure you don’t take your business elsewhere. This works well where it’s normal to take tours rather than use public transport to visit sites of interest, such as the Sacred Valley near Cusco and Los Flamencos National Reserve in the Chilean Atacama.
Inti Raymi celebrations take place in Cusco each June
Consider self-drive
In Chilean Patagonia, accommodation providers in the Torres del Paine National Park offered expensive all-inclusive packages. Self-drive from Punta Arenas (four hours) or Puerto Natales (one hour) and drive yourself round the park. Stock up at the supermarket in Puerto Natales for provisions to save buying expensive box lunches from the hotel (and make sure you have a full tank of petrol). The maps and information provided by the visitor centre are excellent and you won’t have wasted money on a guide.
The Torres del Paine National Park
Around San Pedro de Atacama
Despite its diminutive size, the village of San Pedro de Atacama, a desert oasis of adobe homes set around an attractive square, features on many people’s itineraries when they head for Chile. Reached by bus from nearby Calama, a two-hour flight from the capital Santiago, San Pedro is perfectly placed as a base from which to explore the picturesque scenery of Los Flamencos National Reserve. Tourists can explore lagoons framed by snow-capped volcanoes high in the altiplano, wander across salt pans or see dawn break at the atmospheric El Tatio geyser field. Despite a growing number of visitors, if choose your operator carefully it’s still possible to have a magical experience. I chose Desert Adventure: the guiding was excellent and the tours unrushed. Here are some of my favourite photos from the trip.
Laguna Miscanti with Cerro Miscanti in the background
Vicuña graze the altiplano in family groups
Salar Aguas Calientes – all the colours of the Caribbean but none of the heat!
Salar Aguas Calientes – almost like a watercolour
Flamingo spotting at Laguna Chaxa
Llama feeding in the village of Toconao
Valle de la Luna
Sunset at Valle de la Luna
Sunrise at El Tatio geyser field
Atmospheric El Tatio
The rustic church at the village of Macucha, famed for its delicious anticuchos de llama
One of the dogs that gives the village its nickname – San Perro de Atacama
Easter Island in pictures
Easter Island, the second most isolated island on the planet, yet famous the world over for the moai which stand sentinel, their backs to its shores. Spending Easter here has been a blessing, the island’s beauty a revelation and the warmth of its people ensuring the memories go beyond mere statues.
Sunrise at Tongariki, site of the greatest number of moai
Long shadows in the morning’s first hour of daylight, beginning in April at a civilised 8am
Sunrise in full colour
Heading north to the coast, but watch out for horses, wild or herded
The moai quarry, Rano Raraku
The kneeling moai at Rano Raraku
Moai quarried right out of the stone cliffs
The beach at Anakena, one of only two sandy shores on an island characterised by rocky cliffs
Ahu Nau Nau: Sand piled up right
behind the ahu (platform) on which stand seven moai
Close up shot of one of the moai at Anakena
Puna Pau top knot quarry
The seven moai at Ahu Akivi, unusual in that they face the sea
Visitors are requested to respect the island’s heritage and keep off the ahu, but the horses don’t always get the message
Rano Kau crater, near the main settlement of Hanga Roa
Vivid colours of the vegetation on the crater rim
The unusual buildings at Orongo
Hanga Roa’s quirky cemetery
Sunset at Ahu Vai Uri, Tahai
Rapa Nui flag – at present the Chilean government aren’t collecting (aren’t able to collect?) the National Park fee; the Rapanui people have roadblocks and are recording visitor details
Boeing Dreamliner takes off to begin its five hour journey back to Santiago on the mainland
Looking back on my trip to Tanna, Vanuatu
The news that Cyclone Pam had ripped through the island nation of Vanuatu in the South Pacific broke last week and, some days later, relief and rescue teams reached the outlying island of Tanna where I spend a week in 2013. While loss of life hasn’t been as great as first feared, given that this was a Category 5 storm the islands have been hit hard. Knowing that Tanna Lodge, where I stayed, had its own generator, I sent an email, not knowing whether they’d receive it. Internet and phone connections are down across the outlying islands. Via a satellite phone, I heard on Sunday morning that the staff and buildings had miraculously survived unscathed, though the lush gardens have been devastated.
Tanna Lodge
Tropical vegetation grows back quickly, and I would urge you to consider visiting to give the islanders the much needed income to help them get back on their feet. In the meantime, I wanted to share a story I wrote shortly after returning from Tanna. The island has many kastom villages, where residents live a traditional lifestyle and some even worship our very own Prince Philip…
The Road to Yakel
Ozzy Osbourne would have loved this, but I was not Ozzy.
Heading for Yakel and expecting Tanna’s regular mode of transport, the dusty but trusty pick-up, I was caught unawares by the invitation to jump on the back of a canary yellow quad bike. Ned, my driver and guide, instructed me to hold on tight. Mild panic set in. I’d happily travelled in all manner of rustic transport from tuk tuks to donkey carts but I’d always steered clear of quads out of a not so irrational fear that they’d be certain to topple over. What was I doing? I didn’t even have a helmet.
The quad bike reaches Yakel
Ned set off at speed up the steep mountain track with the confidence of youth, a wide grin across his face and palm trees reflecting in his sunglasses. Behind him, my mouth clamped tightly into a nervous grimace. Try as I might my mind kept wandering to a story I’d read about Ozzy and his love of quad bikes despite almost dying after crashing one in the grounds of his home. Was he crazy? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t have to contend with a rutted dirt track liberally dusted with volcanic ash and loose gravel. Keep calm, I muttered, reminding myself there was a hospital on the other side of the island.
The ruts deepened into terrifyingly deep chasms and muddy crevasses. Ned, ever cheerful, pointed out the school to our right, funded by Australia. With all their mineral wealth couldn’t they have added to the budget and filled the holes in the road, I wondered? I gripped the handles more tightly than before. One false move and we’d overturn. Tense, I silently willed Ned onwards, wordlessly reminding him to keep left, no right, mind the tree roots, watch that squealing piglet! Up and up we climbed, pausing momentarily here and there to change into a lower gear when the gradient steepened even more.
Higher into the rainforest, the view below became more dramatic where Mt Yasur’s ancient lava flows had once oozed out to sea, but all I could think about was survival. Every approaching village inspired hope. Would this be Yakel? As Ned sped up, the quad bike emitting a throaty roar, we passed clusters of straw and thatch shacks. All looked promising. None, alas, were Yakel. As we bumped and thumped up the interminable track, I implored whatever local God might be listening to make Yakel the next settlement or at the very least, let me get off and walk.
Yakel kids playing in the tree
My plea fell on deaf ears. Instead of our destination, the Gods presented us with a bridge made from crudely tied logs, gaps surely big enough to lodge a wheel and pitch us into the river below. I peered over. Weathered lava bombs ejected from the volcano sat where water should have been. We picked our way over a second and then a third bridge of the same quality. Concrete? Why had no one thought of concrete? I could feel the logs give slightly as young Ned inched across. Even he’d paused before tackling this hurdle, I noted. Would it be better or worse if I shut my eyes?
My thighs burned from the Herculean task of keeping my body wedged up against the back of the slippery seat. Knuckles rose milky white against my sunbrowned hands which had petrified round the handles I had been told to grip. Ned would have to prise me off this thing if we ever reached Yakel. It became a battle of mind over body, but it didn’t help that my mind was still flitting between various scenes of doom which all ended back at Lenakel hospital. Just as I was thinking I couldn’t take much more of this torture, the track widened into a nakamal, a large clearing under the shade of several banyan trees. A smiling man clad only in a namba emerged from the rainforest. The namba, or penis sheath, identified Yakel as a kastom village, where people lived by the simple ways of their ancestors and, in this particular case, had a special fondness for Prince Philip.
Welcome to Yakel, he said, uttering words that were as magical as the forest itself. The emotion I felt was relief rather than euphoria. I still had to go back; downhill was going to be even more terrifying than uphill. But as the other villagers slowly filtered in and began to dance to the sound of their own rhythmic chanting, it was all worth it.
Yakel villagers dance for their visitor
Throwback Thursday: the old man and his cigarettes
Before the present conflict kicked off, I visited Syria, spending a few enjoyable days exploring Damascus, Hama and Aleppo before crossing the border into Jordan. It saddens me to see what has happened to this once beautiful country, but I have fond memories of this trip, and especially when I think back to my journey to Jordan’s capital city, Amman…
Straight Street, Damascus
The taxi driver and his assistant scratched their heads as they unpacked the contents of the boot for the third time. My guidebook had said that service taxis only left when full but this was really stretching the concept. My small suitcase was not the problem. My three travelling companions, a Jordanian man and his two daughters, had with them ten or so large bags of assorted shapes, with most of their purchases loosely tied in black plastic sacks. The souks of Damascus were considerably cheaper than those of Amman and the family had taken full advantage.
At 6am the bus station had been almost deserted and my driver and his hustler had decided to try their luck on the main highway. And so it was that we found ourselves by the side of the road surrounded by packages. As the family’s taxi reversed towards us down the main road and popped open its boot, it was clear this was not going to be a fast transfer. Finally, the sixth, or so, attempt at loading the boot was successful – only a handful of bags on laps – and we were on our way. I considered myself lucky to have the front seat and only a small backpack; I had more space than anyone. The hustler balanced precariously the front driver’s seat as we careered along the road, leaning out of the door so as not to interfere with driver’s control of the pedals and trying to keep the door as close to its frame as was possible. Somehow, he was still in one piece when we dropped him off and set off for the border.
Our driver was in a tremendous hurry. It seemed a matter of personal pride to overtake every vehicle on the road, creating a third lane if need be to ensure that the brake wasn’t required. At breakneck speed, we hurtled through the Damascene suburbs and out onto the main road, scattering trucks, vans and cars by the wayside as we passed. No horn was necessary, such was his unwavering determination to push his way through. Each successful manoeuvre spurred him on more. And then, cornering on two wheels (or so it felt), we pulled in to a bunch of roadside shops and parked up with a jolt out front. For twenty minutes negotiations continued and finally our driver emerged with a box of perfumed tissues, large size and pink, and a two litre bottle of water. The almost full box of similarly fragranced yet blue tissues, and an untouched bottle of water in the passenger footwell were clearly insufficient for his needs.
As abruptly as we had pulled in, we were back on the road and, with the impatience of youth, soon accelerated back up to full speed. Fidgeting between lanes, and often straddling them as was the custom, he continued with his quest to overtake every other vehicle in Syria. Reaching a small town twenty kilometres from the border, we parked up with a small group of other service taxis and loaded the three Jordanians and their considerable luggage into one of them. Several hundred Syrian pound notes were handed over to their new driver. Even without me, it was a squeeze, and the back seat was still covered in black sacks next to the two young women. Taking the pink tissues, but neither bottle of water, the racing driver got out. I was introduced to his “father” who was to take me across the border. A leathery, slim fellow with brown jacket and a worried frown permanently on his face, he was a more considerate road user than his predecessor, though no less fast. After stopping briefly to collect the car’s paperwork, we were on our way.
Some reports had suggested that the border formalities could take up to five hours, but at 8.30am the Nasib border was quiet. The Syrian border officials were courteous and thorough, and, aside from a surprise 500 SYP departure tax not mentioned in my guidebook, I crossed into no man’s land without incident. When I emerged from the immigration building, however, my driver was nowhere in sight. I waited for some time in the sunshine until finally he emerged from the direction of the duty free shop clutching a large bag of cigarettes. Leaving one pack of 200 smokes in the bag, he stripped off the cellophane wrapping of the other two and threw it, together with the cardboard cases onto the floor. Every compartment of the taxi was used to store the now loose packets, two in the ashtray, six so perfectly in the armrest it could have been designed for the purpose and three more under the passenger sun visor. What wouldn’t fit were carefully placed, slowly and very deliberately, in his many pockets. Finally, we were ready to set off. Around the corner, a couple of dollars were palmed to an official, a friend, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, we entered the Jordanian zone.
Each car arriving at the Jabir crossing is searched meticulously, first passing over the top of an official in a pit and then, boot and bonnet open, undergoing a thorough investigation of the rest of the car. My suitcase was opened and questions asked about a small packet of paracetamol tablets. Inexplicably, the driver’s cache of cigarettes remained intact. I didn’t see a packet exchange hands. Money changed and visa purchased, we entered Jordan.
Before dropping me in the Abdali district, we had one last stop to make. Calling in on his customer by a parade of shops, the cigarettes were painstakingly retrieved from each of their hiding places and the carrier bag eventually handed over in exchange for 24 JD. One very happy old man turned his taxi around and headed back to the border.
The best beach in Haiti
Nothing much happened in a hurry in Port Salut.
The village sprawled beside the soft white sands of Pointe Sable, on Haiti’s southern coast about a half hour from the noisy bustle of Les Cayes. It was no small relief to arrive. My coccyx was numb after a ride in the most cramped and overloaded tap tap I’d had the misfortune to flag down. Not for the first time this trip, I wondered whether my days of travelling like this, eschewing comfort for a more authentic experience, were numbered.
Overloaded tap taps are the only public transport to Port Salut
The half-hour ride had stretched to five times that, delayed by the need to fill the vehicle to three times a sensible capacity, then tie and retie a large assortment of sacks and packages to the roof. Finally, the driver turned over the engine but instead of leaving, we waited while he carried out urgent mechanical work with much tutting coming from under the rusty bonnet. All the while we sweated under a relentless sun, listening to the football on someone’s portable radio. There wasn’t a murmur of complaint; such delays were clearly the norm. These tap taps had once been shiny new pick up trucks, but were now zombified skeletons, shadows of their former selves. Bereft of various body panels they were held together with frayed bits of rope that disintegrated and wafted fibres into my eyes, . Eventually we had left the goats and stray dogs to scavenge in the filthy depot, only to stop a few kilometres down the road at the edge of a rice paddy while the driver acquired sufficient water to cool the already overheated engine and finish the journey.
Missing the unmarked turn off from the main road, I’d been dropped at the far end of the beach road. I told the conductor I needed to find my lodgings.
“Is it far?” I asked in schoolgirl French, unsure if I’d been understood.
A shrug.
“Combien de kilometres?” I tried again. The conductor glanced at his other passengers.
“Cinq, je pense,” came the collective reply.
Inwardly cursing that I’d relied on my own inadequate observation rather than asking the conductor a little earlier, I resigned myself to a long (albeit scenic) trudge laden with luggage. A young man pulled alongside me on a motorbike and offered me a ride. Asking how much, he’d shaken his head and told me he was offering out of kindness. Gratefully, I accepted. Such a willingness to help was common amongst Haitians, I’d found, one of the delights of visiting a place where tourism was at an embryonic stage.
In the end, it was less than a kilometre. Bathed in the soft peach of late afternoon, the Auberge du Rayon Vert – the Inn of the Green Ray – looked as if it had been transported straight from rural France. Dumping my bags, I watched the sun settle languidly into the horizon and headed to the terrace to eat. The menu, chalked carelessly on a board, gave no inkling that the food served was to be the most delicious I’d have anywhere in the country. I feasted on creamy goat’s cheese enclosed by an exquisitely pink fillet of beef. The sky turned to blood orange before I sank into a deep slumber under crisp sheets.
L’Auberge du Rayon Vert
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of the Caribbean lapping at the shore and set off to explore Port Salut. Popular with Haitians from Port au Prince as a weekend retreat, I wasn’t surprised to see half-built houses strung out along the main road which I presumed to be holiday homes in the making. Hot pink bougainvillea made a welcome change from the ubiquitous grey concrete of the building plots and beach shacks.
Bougainvillea
Changing some dollars at the hardware store, I doubled back to the beach. Crudely fashioned dugouts on the sand didn’t look seaworthy. The flaking turquoise paint was photogenically shabby but didn’t appear to my untrained eye to be watertight. Piles of netting heaped in their bows indicated otherwise. A group of fishermen dragged a gnarled wooden boat out of the sea, their scant catch inadequate recompense for their labour.
Old wooden boats in the beach
A little further on, a cluster of beach bars catered to a largely local population. At this hour their plastic chairs and tables were deserted save for a group of men idly chatting into mobile phones. They looked up briefly to say hello. An old man slept soundly on a concrete bench, his forehead deeply lined and his feet calloused. Children giggled and pointed, “Blan, blan!” I smiled back. One of the bars was painted with a colourful mural of tourists waterskiing, which struck me as just about as far removed from reality in this backwater as you could get. Opposite, a six-point guide to cholera prevention on a painted billboard seemed a whole lot more relevant.
Fishing boat on Pointe Sable
Opposite the auberge, another catch was being landed. A group of villagers were hauling in their net, dragging its colourful floats into a horseshoe to corral the fish into an ever diminishing trap. But for all their toil, the results were meagre, a few fish the size of sprats tossed into a wicker basket guarded by a small child.
By far the best thing to do, or more accurately, not do, as it involved very little effort at all, was to relax on one of the hotel’s beach chairs and watch the world go by. This wasn’t an arduous task; there wasn’t much world to go by. The palms that edged the beach swayed almost imperceptibly in the breeze, fidgeting the shade. From my vantage point, I watched as delicate ghost crabs scuttled about their business before retreating from the heat into burrows drilled deep into the damp sand. A trio of avocets tapped away at the water’s edge while a lone pelican cruised overhead.
The perfect place to do nothing
The sun was now high in the sky. A single wisp of cloud hung like a vapid crescent moon. Traffic was limited to a few motos and the odd 4×4 – the auberge was a popular weekend hangout for the UN police and NGO personnel working in the area. Out towards the horizon, a small boat with tattered sails bobbed on a sea pricked with diamonds. The voice of an occasional hawker interrupted the sound of the waves’ ebb and flow, offering straw hats and fresh coconuts. They approached gently as they offered their wares; there was no need to be pushy. A young girl wandered up, carrying a large straw bag.
“Would you like mamba, ma’am?”
For a minute, I was alarmed, fearful she might produce a snake. It turned out mamba was a kind of peanut butter. The large jar being proffered would have been a tempting purchase had it not been made of heavy glass clearly unsuited to moto rides. Eventually, I dozed off under the shade of a tree, its dense bunches of fat leaves creating a natural sun umbrella. After all, nothing much happened in a hurry in Port Salut, so how else was I going to kill time before dinner?
Sunset at Pointe Sable
A beginner’s guide to Dalmatia
Dalmatia is the region of the Adriatic extending from the Croatian town of Zadar in the north down to Kotor, Montenegro in the south. Rising sea levels once drowned the lower parts of glacial valleys leaving a string of islands reminiscent of the spots and splodges on the backs of the dogs which share the region’s name. Long a favourite of the Italians, this beautiful stretch of coastline has become increasingly popular with UK visitors over the past few years, with those in the know finding a Mediterranean holiday at a fraction of the price of more established destinations. The most scenic part of the region links the historic cities of Split and Dubrovnik, so this blog will focus on making a journey between the two.
Getting there
The region is much better connected than it was a decade ago, emphasising the area’s tourist resurgence. British Airways has direct summer season flights to both Split and Dubrovnik, flying to the latter a couple of times a week in winter. The budget airline easyJet flies to Split and Dubrovnik offering flights to the region from Luton, Gatwick, Stansted, Manchester, Newcastle and Bristol. Ryanair serves Zadar. Other airlines operating flights to Split and/or Dubrovnik include Wizz Air, Thomsonfly, Norwegian, Monarch and Jet2. As with BA, there are considerably more flights in summer. To get to the area with Croatia Airlines you’ll need to hub through Zagreb and change planes. For an up to date list of flight schedules, try http://www.visit-croatia.co.uk/index.php/getting-to-croatia/flights-to-croatia-from-the-uk-ireland/.
Getting around
If you’re beginning your trip in the Croatian capital, a train service links Zagreb to Split but even the fast train takes almost six hours – strictly a journey for aficionados. A convenient bus network links the mainland towns. The Visit Croatia website is invaluable and lists the bus companies here http://www.visit-croatia.co.uk/index.php/travelling-around-croatia/bus-travel-in-croatia/. Autotrans offer the facility to make online bookings. A fleet of ferries facilitates island hopping. Taxis are cheap in the region but where the old towns are characterised by labyrinthine alleyways, it’s best to explore on foot.
Narrow streets lend themselves to exploring on foot
What to see
Split
Split is the Adriatic’s main ferry port, its quayside thronging with workers as well as tourists. The city’s residents are always on the go and business is conducted frenetically and noisily. The mild and sunny climate makes for an outdoor cafe culture in all but the depths of winter.
Split has a vibrant cafe culture
Undisputedly, the jewel of Split’s crown is Diocletian’s Palace. Roman emperor Diocletian came here to retire, commissioning an elaborate fortified palace which is now a UNESCO world heritage site. Some time after Diocletian’s death, the palace fell into a state of disrepair, but was seized upon by refugees fleeing from the town of Salona, five kilometres inland and a Roman stronghold thought to be the birthplace of the emperor himself. These new residents added their own fortifications to the palace, building on the original two-metre thick walls, towers and keeps of the original design. Split grew steadily, forging trading links with the interior and was eventually absorbed into the Hungaro-Croatian empire in the eleventh century.
Diocletian’s Palace, by Ballota, courtesy of Wikicommons CC BY-SA 4.0
Now, Diocletian’s Palace blends almost seamlessly with the mediaeval buildings that crowd its western flank. The narrow alleyways beg to be explored at a snail’s pace before heading back to the waterfront Riva to while away the afternoon over a glass or two of wine.
Split
Mostar
It’s worth making a detour inland to the town of Mostar in neighbouring Bosnia-Herzegovina. A three and a half hour bus ride from the coast (see timetables here http://www.buscroatia.com/split-mostar/), pockmarked buildings still bear the scars of the bullets that so recently ripped out its heart. The conflict in 1993 saw the destruction of the town’s iconic Stari Most bridge, a sixteenth century structure spanning the Nevetna River. In peace time, the town’s young daredevils once dived from its ledge outdoing each other in bravado and skill. The bridge was blown up by the Croats. Some say it was destroyed for strategic reasons, but others believe that it was a deliberate act of vandalism intended to enrage.
Mostar, Stari Most
Today, the bridge has been rebuilt, a simple engraved stone acting as a reminder to the futility of war. The streets it connects are lined with souvenir shops, selling tin hats and bullets alongside postcards and nick nacks. This old town district was originally settled by Ottomans and the area has a distinctly Turkish feel. Many of Mostar’s mansions were severely damaged by the shelling, but it’s worth checking out the Muslibegovic House which was miraculously untouched. Owner Tadz, will show you round and offer you a room in this museum-guest house hybrid. Book through online agencies such as booking.com or visit the website http://www.muslibegovichouse.com/.
A poignant reminder of a recent conflict
The islands
The mountains that hem the coastal strip from the interior force the focus out to sea and it’s hard to spend any length of time looking out at the sparkling Adriatic without resisting the urge to hop on a boat. There’s an island for everyone. Šolta, close to Split, is a sleepy place characterised by quiet lanes and yachts bobbing serenely in tiny inlets. Base yourself near the harbour in Maslinica. Neighbouring Brač is perfect for beach lovers; try those at Zlatni Rat, Bol and Supetar. Better known Hvar has a fashionable old town packed with bars and clubs, palaces and chapels, a kind of offshore mini-Dubrovnik without the cruise ships. Known for its olive groves, Korčula offers a similar variety to Hvar but on a smaller scale. Further off the beaten track, if you want to escape the crowds, try the island of Vis, popular with urban escapees from the Croatian capital, Zagreb.
Boats, Dubrovnik harbour
If you’re based in Dubrovnik, the islands of Koločep, Lopud and Šipanhen are all within easy reach. Sold to the city of Dubrovnik in 1333 by the kings of Bosnia, Mljet is do-able as a day trip, but those staying for longer are rewarded with beautiful countryside and much sought after peace and quiet. The west of the island has been designated a national park, the highlights of which are two saltwater lakes framed by pristine woodland. You could even spot a mongoose, imported from India in an attempt to rid Mljet of its persistent snake problems.
Dubrovnik
Get Dubrovnik wrong, and you battle hordes of cruise ship passengers clogging the narrow streets of the Old Town, tacky souvenirs and unappetising food. That’s not to say don’t visit, just do your homework first. Best in spring or summer (avoid January when many business owners take the month off) the crowds ease when the day trippers leave in late afternoon. Restaurants offering al fresco dining tout for custom, but get off the main drag to avoid inflated prices.
Dubrovnik
The city has a long history. Originally settled in the seventh century, it became an important trading post, a neutral port between the Ottomans and the West. The money generated by sales of wool, hides, wheat and even slaves underpinned the city’s cultural development. The Sponza Palace, Rector’s Palace and the fountains designed by Onofrio della Cava are evidence of this building boom.
Rector’s Palace, Dubrovnik
Climb the walls of the fortified Old Town for stunning views across terracotta rooftops to the Adriatic, hidden courtyards revealing themselves to those high enough to peer over their walls. The sea pounds away but is no match for the thick stone that Michelozzo Michelozzi and Juraj Dalmatinac designed to protect the city from the waves. After 1995, war damage was repaired speedily and you’d be forgiven for thinking the city was spared; only newer tiles and patched walls give it away.
A fortified city, Dubrovnik’s thick walls were designed to protect from waves as well as invaders
The compact Old Town is a delight to wander aimlessly, but accommodation is expensive. It’s worth considering renting an apartment or staying just outside the city walls to achieve better value for money. Some people stay in the resorts of Cavtat or Župa Dubrovačka and visit Dubrovnik just for the day, but it’s worth basing yourself in the city for at least part of your stay.
Moving on
The pretty town of Kotor to the south of Dubrovnik across the border in Montenegro lies at the head of a fjord. Like Dubrovnik, it has a sprawling Old Town and a thriving cafe culture.
Kotor
It’s worth taking a boat trip out on the fjord if the weather is fine; there are some pretty churches at the water’s edge. Also, make the effort to climb to the castle at the top of the hill – the views are spectacular on a clear day.
Kotor’s fjord side setting – better luck with the weather than I had!
As a beginner’s guide, this blog post isn’t intended to be complete, but there are lots more resources on the web to help you plan a trip. Try the Croatia traveller site here: http://www.croatiatraveller.com/Dalmatia.htm
For Northern Dalmatia, fly into Zadar and then head out from there. Rough Guides have a comprehensive description on their website here: http://www.roughguides.com/destinations/europe/croatia/northern-dalmatia/
For specific attractions, the Lonely Planet is a good bet. Find the relevant Croatia section here: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/croatia
Finally, for accommodation, I find http://www.booking.com reliable and the reviews generally accurate.
Julia's Travels 