Waves collide against basalt cliffs, sending a cloud of salty spray into the air. Battered by wind and rain, it’s not an entirely pleasant day to be bumping across the North Atlantic, but I’m determined to reach Mykines, the westernmost isle of the remote Faroes and a paradise for migratory birds.
Although known for its breeding colonies of northern gannets, black guillemots and kittiwakes, it is the sweet and inquisitive stares of the puffins that have drawn me to the edge of the archipelago. With two unsuccessful scouting missions already behind me, I’m hopeful that today may be the day I spot these chubby little birds.
Twitchers aside, this remote and windswept cluster of 18 volcanic islands anchored between Scotland, Norway and Iceland remains largely under the radar, even as the popularity of Iceland soars. In my eyes though, it’s every bit as enticing.
Cruising alongside a slate-grey wall dressed in moss, I can see why these rugged landscapes are woven with legends of epic Viking voyages and whimsical folklore. It’s only my fourth day here and I am already acquainted with the tale of the seal woman who cursed local men and the greedy Icelandic giants who stand as spires of rock fixed in the landscape after trying to steal an island.
After 40 minutes of rocking and rolling on the ferry I’m relieved when a tiny marina wedged in a gap in the cliff comes into view. Scarcely more than a dozen inhabitants live in the island’s tiny settlement, a quintessentially Faroese village of manicured turf roofs and white window frames. A mosaic of dewy green fields carpets the way to the western peninsula, where puffins are known to nest. I march along the ridgeline under the watch of grazing sheep. Blades of grass poking through their teeth make them look like a scruffy gang of cowboys.
As I round a bend, a tornado of birds comes into view. Flashes of crimson speckle the horizon and I realise I underestimated the enormity of this spectacle. Puffins flounce through the air, furiously beating their wings in an attempt to keep portly bellies aloft, while thousands more ride the inky waves, their white bodies appearing like stars in a night sky.
After a series of loops in the aerial velodrome, several puffins land clumsily with glassy-eyed sardines drooping from their beaks. They disappear into burrows to feed expectant pufflings. At the westernmost point of the island a cackle of seabirds carries on the wind, rising from those breeding in the cliff walls. The stench of guano is almost unbearable.
A lighthouse pokes from the earth in the distance, kept company by a red-roofed keeper’s hut. To work out here, at what seems to be the end of the world, must be a beautiful but exceedingly lonely existence. Ferries to Mykines operate solely during summer, after which a helicopter is the only way to reach the isle. During harsh winters, storms can leave inhabitants stranded here for days at a time.
Looking back along Mykines toward the fjords undulating into the distance is tremendous. Rivulets have carved waves into the jet-black rock face over millions of years. I can’t ever remember setting foot anywhere more wild or at the mercy of the elements.
The days slide by in a blur of curious sheep, spectacular coastal roads and homes that would fit in the pages of any children’s fairytale. Although rain is almost constant and sombre skies unabating, it only seems to intensify the allure of the islands.
I marvel at the waterfall at Gásadalur that tumbles from a precipice toward the ocean, only to be whisked away by the wind, and wait for the incoming tide to flood the bay of Saksun and form a mirror of the sky. Later, I explore the medieval ruins of St Magnus Cathedral and contemplate indulging in the 17-course tasting menu at Kok, the only Michelin-starred restaurant in the archipelago. As I watch a tall ship with lowered sails pass narrow fjords and pinnacles of rock being assaulted by the northern seas, I wonder if perhaps they are the central characters of another local legend.
One surprisingly sunny day I venture north on the island of Streymoy along a serpentine road that delivers me to charming Tjørnuvík. Sat in the valley, this unassuming hamlet is hugged by a brilliant blue bay one might expect to find in the Caribbean rather than a moody archipelago so close to the Arctic Circle. Marking the horizon are the petrified figures of Risin and Kellingin, that sneaky giant and his wife, a witch, who unsuccessfully attempted to steal the islands and were transformed into sea stacks for their sins.
The scent of waffles pervades the centre of town, flowing from an open-air stand run by a couple who sit yammering on a wooden bench. Now that high season is over I may be today’s only customer. In this rare moment of warm autumn sunshine, waffles topped in cream and served with a side of jovial company are a welcome afternoon treat.
On the isle of Vágar sheep wend along the mossy banks of Sørvágsvatn, the largest lake in the islands, to a final incline leading to a ragged bluff. From here the curved lake appears to hover above the ocean, an optical illusion that has captured the imagination of keen photographers in recent years.
Leaning over the edge sends a bolt of adrenaline down to my feet. The Faroes are home to some of the tallest sea cliffs in the world, and although this one is more than high enough to send me trembling as I stumble away from the brink, it doesn’t even come close to qualifying for the top spot.
Later, Johannes Hansen, a local adventure guide, invites me in for a traditional feast. In his singsong accent, he relays the isle’s dark history, reawakening my sense of vertigo. According to legend, as a punishment for laziness or simply falling ill, slaves were tossed over the cliffs and into the angry sea. In a blissful daze after a few tots of homemade schnapps it’s hard to imagine these modern-day Vikings, with their cheerful, rosy cheeks, could possibly have ancestors – even fantasy ones – capable of such cruelty.
Conversation turns away from tales of malevolence and Johannes shares yarns about houses that have been transplanted between villages over the centuries, carefully shifted brick by brick, and explains why the Faroese always wear oversized hats jutting to the left – it’s so they can easily remove them when shaking hands with their right.
Famished, I work through a spread of unfamiliar meats. Skerpikjøt, a tender, wind-dried mutton that’s been hanging in Johannes’s shed for almost two years, gives off the funk of blue cheese. Dried flakes of fish and pilot whale blubber and flesh also feature on the menu. Although the annual grindadráp (whale hunt) is controversial on the international stage, locals fiercely defend the tradition. On these remote, rugged islands it’s difficult to survive on agriculture alone, and so whaling has sustained the communities through many harsh winters.
Overnight, mist envelops the homes of the 40,000 people living in the capital city of Tórshavn – almost the archipelago’s entire population – and I wake to a sea of white lapping at my window. Intent on embarking on a multi-isle road trip, I push on to the east along Highway 10. A bridge carries me over the sound between Streymoy and the isle of Eysturoy, where a sub-sea tunnel connects me to Borðoy and a ferry karts me to Kalsoy, a narrow island resembling a knobbly witch’s finger.
As is the case in many Nordic nations, the building philosophy seems to be “if we can’t go over it, we’ll have to go through it”. I lament the all-too-dim headlights guiding me into an unlit passage leading into the belly of a mountain. It spits me out at the village of Trøllanes, where I swap wheels for feet to reach my final destination. Perched by the Kallur Lighthouse, which stands sentinel on the emerald tip of the island, I watch the fog roll over the end of the earth.
Driving back between the fjords beneath a blanket of grey, I’ve come to realise that the melancholy skies lend well to the islands’ stark beauty and sinister legends. And yet, as if on cue, the clouds part and a halo of golden light spills across the landscape. Perhaps it’s a sign that I should do as the Faroese do and transplant my house brick by brick into this fabled landscape.
Swooping out of the lush green hills of Spain’s north coast into the wide valley around Pamplona, I’m struck with the feeling that this is the spot where sun-blessed Spain first conquers the drizzly north.
It’s difficult to imagine that just 40 minutes to the south there’s a landscape of shimmering desert plains and wind-sculpted natural monuments. That’s Navarre for you. This tiny province would fit into Tasmania six times, yet it’s among the most diverse regions in the country. Few visitors, however, ever see beyond the tangle of alleyways that is the setting for the world’s greatest fiesta.
By ancient royal decree this desert region – known as Bardenas Reales National Park, or the Badlands – is governed by the seven villages within its boundaries. One of only a handful of deserts in Europe, it’s so remote that the US Air Force has paid to use the area for target practice in fighter jet training.
But there are no fighter jets to slice the dawn haze as we unload our mountain bikes early this winter morning. Within an hour the Spanish sun has burnt off the mist and we’re cruising along a wide sandy trail. This camino real was once an ancient route for nomadic shepherds, but the only tracks I spy belong to a wild cat and, inexplicably, a set of bare human feet. Perhaps we’re following a hippie hiker or penitent pilgrim.
Our trail climbs steeply to a plateau that looks across a desolate valley and into much of Navarre. With dust under our wheels and desert sun on our backs we already feel a world away from the lush valleys of the Pyrenees and the twisting alleyways of old Pamplona.
I first came to the city in 1989 and developed an addiction to the place I wasn’t able to shake for 17 fiestas. But this normally sleepy city, an easy train ride from Barcelona, has a peacetime charm all its own. These days I return regularly to visit my teenage daughter Lucia, and to explore an even more fascinating side to this historic city when there isn’t a bull in sight.
Peering from an arrow slit in the battlements that protected the Portal de Francia (Gateway to France), it’s easy to imagine the awe early pilgrims must have felt as they approached these rearing walls from the wild passes of the Pyrenees.
“We call this area Caída de los Amantes,” Spanish author Javier Muñoz tells me. “It means ‘lovers fall’. Young couples come up here and occasionally they get a bit carried away and roll straight off!”
Javier is not only an expert in Pamplona’s secret corners, but also in Ernest Hemingway’s celebrated love affair with Spain. So much so, he recently published a book on the subject called Eating with Hemingway. In The Sun Also Rises (the book that established Pamplona’s fiesta as the “hell-raising capital of the world”), Hemingway wrote of the empty plains that, at that time, still stretched from the foot of the city’s walls, and the twinkling lights on what he described as “the fort”.
These days the abandoned fort is almost unknown, even among locals, and the pot-holed road that winds up the mountainside to it seems like a fast track to wild Spain. My guide, Stephanie Mutsaerts, eases our car to a halt to let a flock of sheep cascade around us in a fluffy white avalanche. Stephanie left her home in Canada 20 years ago and, after cultivating her Spanish in Barcelona, found outdoor adventure calling her to Navarre.
“Here, we’re only 15 minutes from the city, but many of the townspeople are not even aware the old fort exists,” says Stephanie’s friend Ángel Ozcoidi, as we walk onto the summit of San Cristóbal Mountain. “Others refuse to come here. There’s such a brooding history around this place and some consider it bad luck.”
Now abandoned for decades, Fort Alfonso XII was built on the hill in 1878 following a series of civil wars. It served as a notorious prison until 1945.
Ángel grew up at the foot of the hill and still walks or cycles up here most weekends. He’s the perfect guide, leading us through secret passageways to forgotten dungeons and old gun emplacements. Skulking through dark rooms that once housed hundreds of revolutionaries and thousands of political prisoners gives me the spooks, so I’m grateful when we emerge into the sunlight to gaze down on the walls of Pamplona and the 450-year-old star-shaped citadel that’s considered one of the best-preserved medieval fortifications in Europe. Only in a city with as much historical wealth as Pamplona could the massive granite fortifications remain almost unnoticed up on this mount.
Forty minutes’ drive north-west of Pamplona you find the Bidasoa Valley, an area that is culturally Basque. And in towns such as Lesaka, you’ll rarely hear Spanish spoken in the streets. Lucia and I drive over to meet my friend Juan Carlos Pikabea, who comes from a Basque-speaking Lesaka family that can trace its roots back 500 years. The son of a timber merchant, Juan Carlos is now one of Navarre’s most celebrated artists and a man whose enthusiasm for local traditions seems almost limitless.
“Our fiesta falls in the same week as Pamplona’s,” Juan Carlos tells me. “Hemingway came here too but, luckily for us, he didn’t make it famous and Lesaka’s fiesta has remained pretty much as it was centuries ago.”
There can be few towns even in Spain where history is as spectacularly concentrated as in Lesaka. As we walk the streets Juan Carlos points out mansions, watchtowers and armouries that date back a thousand years or more. Without his guidance I’d never have noticed the demonic faces peering out from the corners of some of the houses, sculpted as guardians against the evil eye. Near the church he points out a torture post where criminals and those accused of witchcraft were once hung up, with spikes driven through their tongues. Lucia is horrified to hear that children who stole fruit from the orchards were slathered in honey and bound to the post, where they were left to be tormented by the sticky feet of thousands of flies and ants.
These days life in Bidasoa Valley is more peaceful, and people enjoy a quiet, rural existence that is closely linked to the changing seasons. The foothills of the Pyrenees seem to bleed colour in autumn, when the immense Irati Forest – Europe’s best-preserved beech and fir forest – explodes with flame-coloured foliage.
“This is when I get inspiration for painting,” Juan Carlos says, smiling as he guides Lucia and me through a masterclass in the studio above his family home. “Throughout the summer the landscape stays mostly green, but in autumn it seems to change almost by the hour.”
Lesaka lies just 20 minutes from the Basque coast and enjoys a mild climate that makes these forested valleys particularly rich. Even today the people of these villages seem to have remained inveterate hunter-gatherers.
Juan Carlos’s wife and daughters were out at dawn in a secret glade searching for setas, the wild mushrooms that are a local delicacy. It is only when we gather at the family table to sample the harvest with fresh-baked bread and robust Navarran wine that I realise why so many locals are dedicated to mushroom hunting.
Far up on the mountaintop above Lesaka a group of ‘fishermen’ also gather each day before dawn to spread their nets in a province that has no sea. They hoist their giant webs between a channel of soaring trees to catch the migrating pigeons that will end up in the asadores, or rotisserie restaurants, across the region – often served with chocolate sauce.
The first-known record of la palomera (the pigeoning) tradition was 640 years ago, when the people of the mountain town of Etxalar complained to the Catholic Church about a local priest who was holding morning mass at 4am so he could go pigeon hunting by daybreak. Since then, the pigeon-netters of Etxalar have honed their skills into a science. During October and November, flocks of up to 100,000 migrating pigeons pass daily through trees that form a narrow corridor where France meets Spain. When the birds get close, hunters in watchtowers lob wooden decoys (whitewashed ping-pong bats work a treat); thinking the flashes of white are hawks on the prowl the pigeons dive, aiming for the safety of the trees. Their evasive flight directs them straight into the waiting nets. One of the chaps blows on a brass horn to signal to the other hunters that they can now open fire with their shotguns, snuffing out the unfortunate birds.
Playing our part to support local tradition Lucia, Stephanie, local guide Alfonso Bermejo and I head to a typical mountain asador to dine on roasted pigeon. One of Spain’s great underrated traditions, sobremesa (over the table) means to extend a meal through the pleasures of coffee and liquor and, most importantly, conversation.
“Navarran rural cuisine, as you know, is among Europe’s best,” says Alfonso as we ponder life over a glass of herbal liquor. “But San Sebastián [just an hour’s drive away] has overtaken us in the eyes of the world. Our wine is just as incredible but, through clever marketing, the region of La Rioja has become a worldwide name. We also have world-class olive oil, but most locals don’t even realise it. Navarrans in general aren’t good at promotion.”
It does seem strange the only tourists who visit Navarre come for either San Fermín, which was promoted initially by an American writer, or for the Camino de Santiago – of which only five or six days are spent in the province. Yet this tiny region is slowly becoming known as a modern-day place of pilgrimage for tourists who want to sample the real Spain. The word is finally out on what the world’s hell-raising capital does in its downtime.
There is something undeniably romantic about travelling by train around Great Britain. Perhaps it is the grand architecture of the historic railway stations, or the endless vistas of pristine countryside and quaint villages passing by the window. Whatever the reason, journeying by train adds a real sense of adventure to any trip and is one of the most scenic and relaxing ways to discover the real Britain.
Hop on board and travel into regional vibrancy where you’ll discover and explore ancient castles and cathedrals, coastal seaside towns and rolling green fields. England’s north projects warmth and romance with its astonishingly beautiful landscape that is unmatched around the country. Intriguing cities full of history await, such as Manchester, and further north you will uncover the Lake District, an area of whimsical beauty that has tugged at the hearts of poets and artists for centuries. Pay a visit to York, formally the capital of Viking territory, as well as the little fishing town of Whitby to concluding your time in England’s north.
In the rugged southwest of England you’ll find a landscape dotted with fishing villages, secret coves and beautiful beaches. Take to the dramatic coastline of Cornwall and breathe deeply from the salty sea air as you work up a hunger for the region’s hearty fare, and when you’re this close to the water you can expect superb seafood. One of the most well-known towns in the southwest is Bath, popular for its natural hot springs and historical charm. Step back in time as you wander through the eighteenth-century Georgian architecture and, if you’re a Pride and Prejudice fan, you’ll discover the myriad facets of the world that Jane Austen and her characters inhabited. If it’s a quintessentially regional experience you’re after, a visit to the Cotswolds is a must. Covering a huge area of just over 2070 square kilometres, you’ll find villages of honey-coloured stone, rolling hills, lively markets and some of the country’s greatest palaces and castles.
Get up close and personal with local customs, experience unique flavours and discover the charm of Great Britain. Every adventure here is unique.
Its 17 rooms are a lesson in combining colour, texture and a touch of history, and there’s none other to thank for such eye-catching interiors than fashion guru Christian Lacroix. The French designer has given each room its own flamboyant style at Hôtel du Petit Moulin, with panoramic wallpapers, patterned soft furnishings and rich hues. The building was constructed in the seventeenth century and is recognised as Paris’s very first boulangerie. It’s said author and poet Victor Hugo used to buy his bread from here, though there’s no restaurant on site today. What does remain, however, is the dreamy, original facade.
There’s no need to fret over the lack of on-site eating options, as these boutique digs are conveniently located in one of Paris’s most central and happening neighbourhoods, Haut Marais: a short stroll takes you to fine brasseries, charming cafes and a host of other attractions. At nearby sister hotel, Pavillion de la Reine, guests can use the spa and fitness room, and borrow bicycles for pedalling around town.
Most travellers’ itineraries include a museum or gallery, perhaps even two or three, but sometimes there are only so many ancient pieces of pottery or deftly crafted eighteenth-century landscapes one can view before going cross-eyed with boredom. In a celebration of the truly absurd, we bring you six of the strangest museums you’ll ever have the opportunity to visit.
There are some amazing sights to be seen in the UK, however Wales often gets overlooked. It shouldn’t. One of the best ways to immerse yourself in Wales’s dramatic landscapes and fascinating Celtic culture is with a stay at Epic Retreats, a new pop-up glamping experience in the country’s northern wilds.
Appearing in two locations – deep within the valley of Llanfihangel y Pennant in the heart of Southern Snowdonia and along the fringes of golden beaches in Llŷn Peninsula – you’ll find eight unique abodes, complete with a luxe bed, ensuite and wood burner or stove. Each one is a winning design created by architects from around the globe, and each features a unique backstory inspired by the ancient mythology and natural beauty of Wales.
There’s the Animated Forest, which draws on the Welsh Poem Cad Goddeu; The Battle of the Trees, with its design resembling a creature making its way through the woodland; and the wide and glassy Dragon’s Eye, offering outstanding views from its circular rotating bed and, when lit up at night, the very image of an eye peering out through the darkness. For stargazers, the Sky Hut, with a ceiling that cracks open to reveal the heavens above – based on the tale of Cadair Idris, a mountain created by a giant warrior poet to best view the stars. There’s also a breakfast tent, communal area and staff on site 24-hours a day.
Depending on your length of stay you can choose to explore the surrounding area at your leisure, or take part in a stack of adventure-filled activities crafted by Cambria Tours that will take you deep into the pages of Welsh history, including learning how to forage in the wilderness, local wine and beer tastings, hiking through Snowdonia National Park and discovering archaeological wonders.
In the evenings settle in around a crackling campfire and tuck into a hot, fresh meal crafted from local produce while being serenaded by your live entertainment as the sun sinks down below the mountains, reminiscing on myths and legends. Now that’s epic.
If you want to impress travel pals with your local know-how then
this is the place to be. A drinking den that’s hidden behind an unmarked door at the back of a matchstick-box-sized Mexican restaurant, Candelaria basically ticks every box on the hip hit list: the front is a sparsely decorated taco stand, the back a candlelit clandestine bar.
Try authentic tacos and quesadillas, and affordable cocktails from a menu that favours agave spirits, such as mezcal and tequila; wannabe connoisseurs can even dabble in a flight of four for US$35. Those feeling less intrepid should give Al Son de la Batanga (made with Olmeca Altos Tequila Blanco, Amaro Montenegro, fresh lime juice and Chinotto) a whirl, or perhaps La Guèpe Verte (chilli-infused tequila blanco, fresh lime juice, agave syrup, coriander leaves and cucumber). There are even special brunch cocktails on offer at weekends between 12pm and 4pm.
Located in Paris’ quiet 3rd arrondissement it’s perfect for a quick nightcap, but also plenty close to the bustling Latin Quarter and the more suave Le Marais.
Indulge in an unusual sleepover at Amsterdam’s pop-up Urban Campsite. In its third incarnation, this weird and wonderful take on tenting has sprouted at Amsterdam’s Science Park. This year’s event (on until 1 September) explores the “the art of tech living”, while past iterations include the “art-sleep-experience” set on an artificial island, and a far simpler event at the Vliegenbos campsite back in 2013. Take your pick of 14 unique sleeping quarters, from a dumpster dubbed Dakloos (homeless) complete with sliding roof, to Tubalow (sewer-cum-bungalow), and even a Leonardo da Vinci-inspired tent covered in giant pick-up-sticks.
Relax in your own biodegradable B&B Foam Home, or live out your space exploration fantasies in Universe 9, a 360-degree rotating research ship. For a night in the slow lane opt for the Slow Camper – a refurbished 70s-era electric van and turn your world upside down in the Big Box.
Set in a former vacuum factory in the arty district of Neukölln, this urban campsite offers all the charm of a night under canvas without the bugs and other beasts that go bump in the night. The site’s ‘creative playground’ is scattered with revamped caravans and quirky wooden cottages, each individually styled for a unique stay. There are also regular rooms with ensuites for a more mainstream getaway and an on-site cafe for a hearty slice of city sustenance.
With a garden complete with a hammock and swing strung up between wildflowers, tumbling beans and corn, the Hüettenpalast is so chill it’s easy to forget the big smoke is just metres from this hillbilly haven. Thankfully the friendly hosts have made life easy on weary travellers by compiling a list of the local shops and cafes that most merit exploring. And word on the street is a sauna will even be added to the fold in the not too distant future… watch this space.
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