It’s hard to forget what surrounds you when you settle into your unique accommodations at Quinta da Pacheca in the Douro Valley. These rolling hills have been home to vines for almost 500 years – back then they were the purview of local monasteries – and nothing about your environs lacks atmosphere.
Designed by owners Paulo Pereira and Maria do Céu Gonçalves, each of the 10 mega barrels has a pine exterior and an elegant fit-out that includes a round bed, private bathroom and deck overlooking the vines. Grab yourself a bottle of Pacheca Grande Reserva Tinta Roriz (aged for 18 months in oak barrels) or tawny port, since the region is famous for it, and stare out across the landscape. Otherwise, tour the vineyard, do a tasting, take a cooking class or tuck into a meal of traditional Portuguese cuisine in the restaurant.
Beneath the historic vineyards of Épernay in the Champagne district is a series of winding tunnels and hidden caves dug into the chalk. Some date back to Roman times and, apart from a period during World War I when the townspeople hid there to flee the conflict, they’ve been used to store and mature bottles of the region’s famous sparkling wine.
Until recently this labyrinth below UNESCO World Heritage-listed Avenue de Champagne was mostly off limits to the average punter. That’s now changing, with more maisons opening their doors. That includes Champagne Boizel, which has been in the same family for five generations and offers English-language tours of its tunnels at 11.30am and 4pm from Tuesday to Saturday. When you’re done, head to Atelier 1834, Boizel’s wine bar, where you can sip on its exceptional offerings by the glass.
Less than 24 hours ago I was lying on a stretcher in a Slovenian emergency room, defeated, deflated and dehydrated – the effects of attending a five-day heavy metal music festival in the scorching summer heat. But now I’m racing down route 209 on a road bike, crossing the turquoise Sava Bohinjka River and pedalling like a madman between lofty limestone mountains with peaks obscured by puffy cloud. I’m picking up serious speed too, making the painted lines on the bitumen blur into one continuous streak.
Thankfully, I’m yet to share this gorgeous mountain road with any cars on this summer’s day, and that’s because I’m cycling to one of Slovenia’s lesser-known attractions. Most visitors limit themselves to exploring Bled, a fairytale lake in the country’s northwest, famous for the baroque church rising from a thicket of green on the island at its centre, and the medieval castle that lords over its north shore.
But I’ve chosen to bypass the tourists and ride from Bled to the less developed Lake Bohinj, Slovenia’s largest and, in my opinion, most majestic alpine lake, just 26 kilometres away.
Assuming I don’t die on the way, I’m also hoping to visit Savica Waterfall, the lake’s main tributary, adding another four kilometres to the adventure. In total, 30 kilometres isn’t a great distance for a semi-fit cyclist. Then there’s me: out of shape, poorly equipped and about as experienced on two wheels as your average 10-year-old. Plus, there’s that whole emergency-room thing. I’m clearly out of my depth, and nearly out of breath – even at this early stage. Although I’m fairly confident I’ll make the distance there without puncturing like a tyre and having my stamina evaporate into thin mountain air, completing the return journey is another matter entirely.
Declaring its independence during Yugoslavia’s last gasps in the early 1990s, Slovenia, as a nation-state, is relatively new on the diplomatic stage. This novelty, however, belies the millennia of history etched into this small tract of Central European territory caught between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. As with much of Europe, the Romans left their mark here. In fact, Ljubljana, the compact capital, grew from the Roman settlement of Emona, which was founded more than 2000 years ago. The Roman Empire used it as a commercial hub from which to trade olive oil and wine for amber and bronze sourced from outlying provinces.
Even before the arrival of the Romans, earlier Celtic tribes and Neanderthals, Slovenia’s geology and rugged landscape had been refined by Mother Nature for millions of years. The culmination of her work here is the Bohinj Basin and its pearl, Lake Bohinj, which was formed by glaciers during the last ice age. The lake and the surrounding region flaunt rich biodiversity, including dozens of species of alpine flowers and wildlife such as ibex, rare chamois (goat-antelopes native to Europe) and golden eagles. More than two-thirds of Bohinj lies within Slovenia’s only national park, Triglav, which has protected the region from mass development and left its nature relatively untouched. This is where Slovenians come to experience the great outdoors in its purest form, and I’m keen to get in on the action.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote “it is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them”. Twenty minutes into the ride it’s apparent that Bohinj is making me work for my education, and I struggle to climb fierce mountains (they’re probably just hills) that never seem to end. But for every incline I’m compensated with postcard views of the Julian Alps and dreamy vistas of gushing rivers, rustic hamlets and thick forest – in other words, the slog is totally worth it. Threading my way like a needle through the landscape, I cycle over immense concrete bridges dwarfed by the surrounding mountains that throw their shadows on the road like an eclipse of the sun. I speed past patient locals fly-fishing in the turquoise river below. And I pedal beyond rusted road signs introducing places I cannot pronounce.
I round a bend, the limestone corridor opens into a wide meadow carpeted with blooming purple and golden wildflowers, and the shadow I’ve been riding in brightens by degrees until consumed by the sun. In the distance I spot cows grazing among wooden farmhouses and lonely toplarji, freestanding wooden hay-racks complete with roofs and storage lofts that are used for drying wheat and hay. Unique to Slovenia and particularly prevalent in the Bohinj region, the best toplarji are found in the nearby town of Studor, where they’re well-preserved and still very much in use. Further down the road, a congregation of roofs indicates an upcoming town and I catch a glimpse of sparkling Lake Bohinj on the horizon, oasis-like in its appeal. An arrow of excitement pierces me, and I drop to a lower gear and ride like a parched man in a desert, mouth agape and legs firing on all cylinders.
Ribcev Laz isn’t the largest of the 24 settlements scattered throughout Bohinj. That accolade belongs to the 1700-person town of Bohinjska Bistrica, which has served as the major gateway to the region since a railway connected it to the rest of the country more than a century ago. But pint-sized Ribcev Laz claims the most idyllic location. Sitting on the eastern shore of Lake Bohinj, the town offers splendid views of the valley, including the 1800-metre-high Mount Vogel, Slovenia’s premier ski resort. Surrounded by limestone mountains wearing patchy beards of vegetation and spindly evergreens, Lake Bohinj holds more than 100 million cubic metres of water – which isn’t more than a bucketful, says an old Bohinj joke, if the bucket is large enough. Stretching for more thab four kilometres long and a kilometre wide, it looks more like a small emerald sea than a lake.
At the local tourist office, I’m informed that the lake acquires its green tint from the minerals and sediments found in the glacial waters that feed it. I also learn that 15 marked bike trails skirt the lake, as well as a 12-kilometre path that you can trek for four to five hours. You can also jump on a boat captained by friendly locals and enjoy a 30-minute cruise on the lake’s protected waters. No combustion engines are allowed in the Triglav National Park, I’m told, and so these vessels are all electric and environmentally friendly. For the moment, though, I’m content to just stand and admire the water from the shore. These are the types of vistas that capture the attention and lenses of photographers, locals and travellers alike, and I’m hooked.
Although the lake freezes in winter, in summer the water temperature rises to a pleasant 22°C, making it perfect for swimming, especially after a blistering bike ride. Shrugging off my backpack, I wade into the translucent water and dunk myself under. It’s cold, but refreshing. A kayaking competition is underway nearby, where pre-teens manoeuvre vessels with skill to the cheers of an onlooking crowd. It’s an impressive show, but I’m totally beat, and so I retire to the banks, roll my towel into a pillow and lie down. Eyes closed, I rest my weary limbs as the wind plays with the leaves overhead and pockets of sun emerge from behind clouds to toast me dry.
But there’s still one more mountain to climb. A four-kilometre road winding its way up a peak stands between me and the final to-do on my itinerary: Savica Waterfall. Setting off from the tiny hamlet of Ukanc on the western shore of the lake, I cycle through a tapestry of browns, greens and grey, made up of damp-smelling forest carpeted with decaying leaves and rocks partially hidden under spongy moss. The canopy above has darkened the scene and the twisted tree roots resemble the bony fingers of some unearthed forest monster, ready to rise up and devour me at a moment’s notice. Each hill I crest – there are many – is a triumph of will, and 10 minutes into the belly of the beast I’m running on fumes. There are no other cyclists on the road, and when the occasional car does pass me I’m certain I appear as a picture of desperation in the rear-view mirror. The choice to give up, turn back and drown my sorrows with a cold Laško beer is almost irresistible. But I push on, determined to reach the top of the calf-burner and embark on the last leg of my journey.
After a gruelling 45-minute ascent I finally reach the waterfall’s entrance. I lock my bike, guzzle some water and set off on the short hike to the falls. It takes 20 minutes’ worth of sweat, climbing up 500 slippery steps and over thundering rapids and crystalline streams to reach the viewing platform facing the vertiginous waterfall. From up here the sound of water cascading over the rock face and plunging 78 metres into a frothy turquoise pool is at a roaring intensity. An Italian family asks me to take their photo, and I’m only too happy to oblige. I’ve reached the end of my challenge, collected my reward, and it’s downhill from here.
Back at the restaurant by the entrance, I tuck into a not-so-Slovenian burger, fries and an icy beer. I think about the falls and the power of the water that carved its way through rock over thousands of years, eventually forming a gorge. It reminds me of my own struggle to get here. Like the unending flow, it was sheer will and persistence that fuelled my journey. But even willpower can run dry, and so I return to Bled by bus later in the afternoon. It’s that or risk visiting another Slovenian emergency room.
I’m heading north. Almost as far north as you can go before leaving civilisation behind. My final destination is Svalbard, a Norwegian archipelago sitting at almost 80 degrees north – well within the Arctic Circle. It’s late November and I’m told the polar night is in full swing, meaning the sun has taken leave and will not reappear for another 90 days.
There will be light though. Well, at least that’s what I’m searching for. It’s here that particles from the sun, attracted to the Earth’s magnetic poles, collide with the atmosphere and create a light show electrifying the long winter nights. The northern lights beckon me, and I can think of nowhere better to experience them than the unadulterated darkness of Svalbard.
American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “To find the journey’s end in every step of the road … is wisdom.” While the great Robert Louis Stevenson mused, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” Both wise men echo an ancient Taoist saying: “The journey is the reward.” It’s a philosophy I strive to embrace, although I’ve had doubts ever since I suffered a 48-hour non-stop bus journey through India with my bowels begging for Bombay’s porcelain. Yet, as I sit down to lunch on board the MS Kong Harald – a Hurtigruten passenger ferry currently docked off the Norwegian coastal town of Trondheim – at the start of my journey, I embrace once again the writings of Emerson and Stevenson.
An enormous fish tank sits front and centre of Kysten restaurant, one of three on board. Inside, Norwegian red king crabs the size of steering wheels vie for space. Each crustacean has a tag with a QR code linking to information about where and when the creature was caught and details of its captor. I’ve chosen what looks to be the plumpest crab and, having scanned the code, find myself toasting a Norwegian fisherman named Ole who caught my lunch near Finnmark, the northernmost point of mainland Norway.
Ole has been a fisherman for 53 years and fancies Swedish music. Judging from his photos, I’m certain ABBA doesn’t feature on his playlist.
“Ole, my new faraway friend,” I think to myself while cracking into the crab and trying to shake the lyrics of ‘Mamma Mia’ from my mind, “this setting is not what I was expecting.”
In fact, nothing about the MS Kong Harald is as I expected. Shouldn’t riding a passenger ferry be a crowded, uncomfortable and all-round unpleasant affair? Aren’t they designed to ship passengers from A to B in a perfunctory fashion? Instead, the ship boasts a range of bars and restaurants, a bakery, an ice-creamery and two outdoor hot tubs that prove quite popular, even in the chill of winter. It is one of 11 Hurtigruten ships cruising a constant circuit and picking up and dropping off cargo along the way.
Hurtigruten has been servicing the Norwegian coast since 1893, transporting local passengers, freight, mail and visitors to 34 ports that span from Bergen in the south all the way up to Kirkenes in the north. As passenger numbers grew and freight trade slowed, the Hurtigruten team realised travellers were interested in learning more about the Nordic nation. They introduced activities for passengers at each port and now offer more than 60 experiences, ranging from snowmobiling and coastal walks to quad biking and dining like a Viking. Add in a refurbished fleet, and a ‘coastal kitchen’ policy that ensures the fresh local produce purchased at each port dictates the day’s menu, and you’ve got a journey of which Emerson and Stevenson would surely approve.
With the bow pointing north, we spend three days at sea, stopping at 13 ports on our way to Tromsø. Sometimes the ferry pauses for just 15 minutes, although more often we dock for up to four hours. Coastal port towns like Bodø and Ornes appear to have been lifted straight from the movie Frozen. Light from houses flickers off the snow and frosty peaks rise sharply behind them. I join a coastal walk in Bodø and find the path busy with locals. Not even the challenge of winter twilight is enough to keep the outdoorsy Norwegians locked up at home.
We pass through the tight fjords of the Lofoten Islands, where the dark outlines of craggy mountains loom ominously over the ship. It must be breathtaking in the light, but they hold an eerie allure in the cold darkness. One afternoon a passenger spots a sparkle in the inky sky. In an instant the decks teem with tourists and locals alike, all hoping for a glimpse of the aurora. I’m told they’re quite common on this passage. I think I see something of a shimmer, but it may just have been the reflection of a camera flash.
As November creeps to a close and we venture further north darkness devours more sunlight. The few remaining daylight hours become bitingly cold. In the south in Oslo, Norway’s small but busy capital, the sun sets after 4pm, but now, as we cruise closer to Tromsø, it pokes its head above the horizon at 9am and sinks by 1pm each day. Despite the brief window of light, the views are still spectacular.
Lengthy nights make sundowners a dangerous proposition. Inevitably, we find ourselves at the Explorer Lounge and Bar on the top deck of the ship. From here you can toast the ever-changing vistas that unfold before you. I meet Tor, who resembles a cross between Asterix the Gaul and a hipster hairdresser. Tor is returning to his village in the Lofoten Islands and has a penchant for Norwegian aquavit, a rather potent local spirit.
Sara, the Swedish bartender, teaches us a Swedish drinking song, which translates to:
“Something naked, blue and swollen,
Is hanging from the ceiling,
What could it be?
It’s old Aunt Sonya!”
While no one can explain the origins, I am rather worried about old Aunt Sonya’s family.
“It is not as strange as the one where the boy makes a poo in the waffle iron,” Sara explains earnestly. I’m not sure I agree.
As we disembark the MS Kong Harald in Tromsø I watch as a tractor, containers and a small car are loaded into the hold. A Canadian couple sporting maple leaves on their bags crosses my path as they board. “It is such a great trip!” the wife exclaims. “We haven’t been snowmobiling yet,” she tells me, “but there’s been a snowfall further north.” They are travelling all the way up to Kirkenes and back to Bergen again, revisiting all 34 ports.
After an extensive crawl between Tromsø’s craft beer joints – did I mention Arctic sundowners are dangerous? – we fly north into the dark polar nights of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, and the only city in Svalbard.
Longyearbyen translates to Longyear City in Norwegian, and owes its name to John Longyear, who started the Arctic Coal Company back in 1906. Mining is tough business anywhere in the world, but through an Arctic winter in 24-hour darkness? I can almost hear the miners crying, “Fuck, it’s been a long year!”
With most of the coalmines now closed tourism has become the primary industry alongside scientific research. On arrival, I join a two-hour Maxi Taxi tour with Vigor, who’s an ex-miner himself. He drives us out of the city and up a mountain pass to the Svalbard Satellite Station. In the 10am darkness I can make out two huge satellite dishes. I feel as though I’ve walked onto the set of an M Night Shyamalan film, especially when we stop at the Global Seed Vault, which turns out to be a lone door with a shining emerald glass front on an otherwise bare mountainside. The vault holds back-ups of the world’s crop collections, kept safe from any global disasters that may come to pass.
Vigor turns out to be a kind of Svalbard Siri. He knows everything there is to know about the place, including where to find the only graveyard. Apparently it’s illegal to die up here, as your body can’t decompose in the ground’s permafrost. He gives us a full rundown of the city centre’s best restaurants and bars. “Have fish of the day at Gruvelageret,” Vigor advises. “It’s whale.”
It’s an odd feeling to pass days in constant night and I can see how some people struggle to live here. So far the skies over Longyearbyen have been covered with cloud, but despite the cold there’s no sign of snow. On my hotel door is a picture of Ivan Starostin, a Russian trapper who holds the record for enduring the most winters in Svalbard. He spent 39 winters here in the 1700s, catching polar bears and Arctic foxes. In the name of Ivan I decide to toughen up.
One evening I head out of town to dine at Camp Barentsz, named after Dutch explorer Willem Barentsz, who first discovered Svalbard in 1596. Winter ice crushed his ship during one expedition, and the camp hosts northern light spotting evenings in a replica of the hut his crew built from the boat’s debris. We dine on reindeer stew and sip hot wine as we hear how the pioneers huddled around a fire while frostbite nipped at their backs. One of the first things they constructed was an hourglass to give them a sense of structure in the four months of darkness. The aurora borealis must have been like fireworks to those hardened sailors as they tried desperately to survive. Tonight, however, it’s overcast and we leave camp without even seeing a star.
Anika, a Svalbard local, tells me she collapsed upon first seeing the lights when she arrived in Longyearbyen nearly 10 years ago. “Was it spiritual?” I ask her. “Is it that spectacular?”
“Not quite,” Anika says, laughing. “I just had my head back so far, staring up for so long, that I fainted from lack of blood flow.”
I ask Anika if she thinks she might break Ivan’s record of 39 winters. She chuckles but doesn’t dismiss the challenge. “There’s so much to do here,” she says. “When the snow comes we can snowmobile for days on fresh powder and sleep out in old trappers’ huts at night. There’s dog sledding into ice caves, cross-country skiing, polar bear spotting… And that’s just in winter.”
On my final evening I head to Svalbard Bryggeri, the northernmost brewery in the world. Robert, a former miner, now brew master, fought hard to change a law that barred alcohol from being manufactured in Svalbard back in 2015. This year he’s hoping to produce up to 250,000 litres of beer, brewed with 16 per cent local glacial water. Folks are thirsty up here.
Robert suggests I try a Spitsbergen stout. “Drink enough of this and you will see the northern lights with your eyes closed,” he offers.
“The lights aren’t everything, Robert,” I unconvincingly reply between sips. “The journey has been the reward.”
Some adventures are tours with a mere flavouring of what an authentic experience would really be like. Others, like Hurtigruten’s multi-day snowmobile expeditions, are most certainly the real deal. Think hundreds of kilometres on a high-powered snowmobile covering mountains, glaciers, moraines and ice fjords. Add to this the variability of weather and wildlife and you have yourself the perfect mix of action and adventure.
Although not essential, previous snowmobile experience is recommended. Moments after leaving Svalbard’s largest town of Longyearbyen, it’s throttles open for a high-speed introduction to Svalbard exploration. This is an open ride into polar bear country, so pack binoculars and a camera with a zoom lens.
An attitude of flexibility is essential in the Arctic, since itineraries can change with the conditions, but opportunities exist to cross sea ice and visit impossibly blue glacial ice walls that present like a scene from Game of Thrones. Overnight stays at remote lodges far from any possible light pollution increase your chance to experience a dramatic northern lights show.
Although there are never any wildlife guarantees, polar bear sightings are common enough for safety to remain paramount. Should you come across one of these white giants on the move, know, with certainty, that as it fixes you within its gaze it genuinely sees an opportunity for a meal.
Pro tip: when your guide tells you to stop taking pictures and fire up your snowmobile as the bears lope towards you, just do it.
Some may call a heli-skiing expedition through volcanoes an epic experience, others may call it bonkers. Home to the greatest concentration of active volcanoes in the world, Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula has remained relatively untouched by humans. In keeping with this, the guided expedition chartered by private helicopter is limited to just six avid skiers.
Take flight to the summits of blazing volcanoes, drinking in unencumbered vistas puckered by jagged peaks blanketed in undisturbed powder and the glowing red eyes of molten lava, and fang down up to 3000 vertical metres of staggering virgin slopes to beaches and hot springs at the base. If you’re lucky, you might find yourself racing down the mountain beside one of the local brown bears. Only the adventurous need apply.
While it’s the south of Spain that is best known for flamenco, there is one institution in Madrid that does it in spectacular fashion. Corral de la Moreria is home to the most talented, authentic and powerful dancers the world has to offer, and their epic shows change every eight days (just in case you’re going to be in Madrid for a while).
Here, the dancers perform the flamenco of the streets accompanied by musicians who are at the top of their game. There are two shows each night, and you can either book to have dinner before it starts or simply just grab a ticket to watch the exquisite performance.
Welcome to the granddaddy of Madrid eateries. With its gold-leaf interior, wine catacombs and fascinating heritage, you better believe dining at Sobrino de Botín is quite the experience. It opened in 1725 and is now the oldest continually operating restaurant in the world (at least according to the Guinness Book of Records). In the past Spanish writer María Dueñas, Graham Greene and, perhaps unsurprisingly, Ernest Hemingway – the restaurant gets a mention in both The Sun Also Rises and Death in the Afternoon – have all sat at its tables, spread across four dining rooms.
Don’t come for the spectacle or its pedigree though. Here, it’s all about the food. Whether you fancy the scrambled eggs with black sausage and potatoes or the inky baby squid served with rice, you’ll walk away satisfied. We do have one very strong recommendation for you, though: the roast suckling pig, Botín’s specialty, is the dish to order. Such is the demand, special Segovia suckling pigs are delivered to the restaurant three or four times a week. They’ve been cooking it the same way in the same wood-fired ovens for a couple of centuries now and, man, have they nailed the right way to do it. This is the sort of meal you’ll be talking about for years to come.
If you’re the sort of person who watches a bit of reality TV, has a hot Milo and is in bed by 10pm on a Monday night, you’re probably going to want to move on right about now. However, if you treat every night like an equal opportunity party while you’re on holiday, you’ll be completely sorted in the Spanish capital Madrid.
Once you’ve eaten all the tapas, watched some flamenco and the people promenading on Plaza Santa Ana, and tasted both sherry and locally brewed cerveza, it’s time to dance it out at Fucking Monday. This temple to debauchery has a vast dance floor, rows of bars and even a slick lounge upstairs that hosts an all-night beer pong tournament. Here you’ll discover the kind of fun that can make you want to keep partying, fuelled by cheap drinks and the crowd’s fierce energy, right through till dawn.
The peculiar trees in Poland’s Crooked Forest in Krzywy Las look more like an upside down question mark – a fitting shape for the puzzling place. Shrouded in mystery, the trees were planted in the 1920s and 30s, however the question behind the warped shape of these pines, while largely debated for decades, remains unknown.
Some theorise that tanks passing during World War Two pushed them aside and they have been stuck ever since. Others believe they were covered by a heavy snowstorm in the early years of their lives and when spring came they could no longer stand tall. Surrounded by a larger forest of straight growing pines unaffected by this bizarre event, the true reason is likely to remain a secret.
A thirty-minute drive from the city of Szczecin in Poland’s northwest, the forest is easily accessible for those who are keen walkamong the unusual formations and ponder the theories of this fascinating enigma.
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