An irresistible aroma draws me out onto the terrace where I am momentarily distracted by just how green everything is – vines, fruit trees, fold after fold of forest-covered mountains all the way to the jagged peaks of the Apuan Alps. I follow my nose to the open-air kitchen beneath a slate roof where Gigliola Galanti, owner and chef extraordinaire at Agriturismo Saudon, is cooking rabbit and potatoes in a testo, or cast-iron pan, over an open fire of vine shoots.
As the summer sun’s rays slant low across the family’s terraced vineyards and vegetable garden, six of us sit down to a supper of fried zucchini flowers, salumi, roasted eggplant and the spectacular testo dish, all washed down with glasses of Saudon’s red wine, homemade from pollera, a local grape variety. By the end of the meal, Gigliola has challenged us to a game of bocce on the Pozzo di Mulazzo village pitch, not far from her sixth-century stone house. After a trouncing, we discover tiny Pozzo regularly fields one of Italy’s championship bocce teams.
Experiences such as these pepper adventures in Lunigiana, a tucked-away region straddling northern Tuscany and eastern Liguria. Its fertile river valleys are bordered on three sides by the Apennine Mountains and, in the south, by the Apuan Alps, source of Carrara marble. Less than an hour from cruise-ship–clogged Cinque Terre to the west and the touristy hill towns around Florence to the south, this ancient land of the moon – with its mysterious stone idols, medieval castles and walled hamlets – still moves to the rhythms of old ways.
Thanks to the efforts of the enterprising Farfalle in Cammino, a non-profit association of young local guides, interlopers can now draw aside the tourist curtain to immerse themselves in an Italy thought to have long disappeared. Now it’s possible to walk the ancient Via Francigena pilgrimage route, ride horses through chestnut forests, explore churches and castles in peace, bike along quiet country roads and feast on mouth-watering local dishes with new-found friends.
Lunigiana has a fascinating story to tell and Francesco Bola, president of Farfalle in Cammino, is here to share the tale. In the Museum of the Stele Statues, part of the walled town of Pontremoli situated at the confluence of the Magra and Verde rivers, I am gobsmacked by a collection of ancient anthropomorphic stone structures standing a metre-and-a-half high. More than 80 chiselled figures with their half-moon–shaped heads have been discovered all over Lunigiana. Dating as far back as 4000BC, these statues of weapon-wielding men and full-breasted women speak of a pre-Bronze Age culture many believe worshipped the moon. The Romans defeated them in the second century BC, and promptly built a temple to the moon at Luni.
Jumping a thousand years of history, Francesco points out a pilgrimage artefact that once adorned the facade of San Pietro church in Pontremoli – a twelfth-century carved stone labyrinth showing the one true way to Christian enlightenment. Pontremoli was first documented in the diaries of the Archbishop of Canterbury in 990AD as one of the places he slept on his Roman pilgrimage. The route he took on the Via Francigena is now being developed as the next great pilgrimage and is set to rival the overcrowded Camino de Santiago in Spain.
We get a visceral view of Italian history as we stroll the town’s narrow, winding streets. As we pass the Great Bell Tower, Francesco tells me hostilities between the rival factions of the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor were so fierce a wall was built through the heart of Pontremoli. Each side had its own central square, palaces, hospital and bridges, many of which still exist even though the wall has been torn down.
By the Renaissance, Pontremoli had evolved into a tax-free zone attracting wealthy merchants who built the grandiose, domed Chiesa Cattedrale Santa Maria Assunta on the site of a medieval church as thanks to the Virgin Mary for saving the city from the plague. Moving from the sacred to the everyday, we visit the baroque Palazzo Dosi Magnavacca, one of Pontremoli’s many elaborate town houses. Its ceilings and walls are embellished with allegorical trompe l’oeil paintings depicting Greek myths transposed with the faces of the merchant patriarchs.
“So many Tuscan towns are overcrowded with tacky souvenir shops, while here our culture is still intact,” Francesco tells me over lunch of rare-breed Zeri lamb with handmade pasta as we discuss the allure of the region. “I think Lunigiana defines the art of slow travel, where you can discover the soul of a place and enjoy its unique food.”
Following his advice, I walk with nature guide Franco Ressa on a bucolic section of the Via Francigena, which tracked the easiest route through the mountains and valleys for pilgrims and traders alike. We take centuries-old paths above olive groves and family vineyards, their vines staked between ash trees in the old way. Franco shows me ancient moss-covered stone walls that once anchored orchards and we savour an old-fashioned variety of local apple, called mela rotella, plucked from low-hanging trees in the woods. He takes me to one of the river’s many green pools, perfect for swimming, its large round boulders cool under our bare feet. Snacking on golden plums, we meander through tiny hamlets, each with a shrine and water fountain, and cross the arched sixteenth-century Groppodalosio Bridge, one of Via Francigena’s landmarks as it descends from Cisa Pass towards Pontremoli.
As he points out deer prints and porcupine trails, Franco tells me you can explore a host of different landscapes in Lunigiana. “There are chestnut and beech forests, not to mention blueberry meadows with glacial lakes in the Tuscan-Emilian Apennine National Park and marble quarries in the Apuan Alps whose ridgelines offer panoramas all the way to the coast. There are even canyoning adventures in Stretti di Giaredo, just 10 minutes from Pontremoli.”
Trying out another form of slow travel, I join Simona Polli, vice president of Farfalle in Cammino, on an electric bike adventure up hills to castles and down dales through acacia forests to medieval walled villages. In an inspired move, the group uses e-bikes for excursions around the rolling countryside. Note the word ‘rolling’ here is a euphemism for a landscape that would soon exhaust the energies of most amateur cyclists. Instead, these ingenious bicycles make you feel like a power pedaller – the harder you push, the faster you head up the hills. You can even recharge the bike’s batteries by going downhill in low gear.
It is the perfect way to traverse hamlets like Ponticello, where we fill our water bottles at the communal well, see stone tower houses where villagers used to barricade themselves against invaders, and navigate narrow tunnels where blacksmiths and cobblers plied their trade. We admire two more ‘warrior’ steles inside the stark eleventh-century Romanesque church of Pieve di Sorano, effortlessly cycle hills to explore Malgrate Castle, now the site of summer cultural festivals, and meander through the medieval market town of Bagnone, with its Ponte Vecchio bridge over a river torrent.
In the Byzantine walled village of Filetto, a popular antiques centre, we feast on Lunigiana’s famed testaroli, an oven-baked pancake cooked on a cast-iron griddle, cut into diamond shapes and cooked like pasta, before it’s served with parmesan and pesto. Here, too, I try another local specialty called lardo di Colonnata, a cold cut made from pork back fat covered with spices like sage, rosemary, salt and garlic and aged for six months in Carrara marble containers.
At the Agriturismo Montagne Verde, I meet three generations of the Maffei family, who have converted a monastic tower into a zero-kilometre restaurant championing all the delectable products from their farm and forests. They also restored the village of Apella into rooms and apartments, and planted vegetable plots that guests are encouraged to use. Here, they extract chestnut, acacia and wildflower honey from hives in the hills, and beside the swimming pool, with its drop-dead mountain views, is an historic chestnut drying mill, still used each autumn when local women bring in the harvest from the forest. It is the perfect base for hiking the Tuscan-Emilian Apennine National Park, which surrounds the property.
For all its history and beautiful geography, Lunigiana’s greatest treasure is its agriturismos (farmstays). Their fabulous food evokes a real sense of place and they offer terrific opportunities to meet locals who have a palpable connection with long-standing traditions. I learn, for instance, how to taste ultra-fine olive oil and pure natural honey, and how chestnuts have sustained a culture through feast and famine. Each family chef is as blow-me-away impressive as the next one, serving dish after exquisite dish – chestnut pancakes with ricotta and honey; sweet Treschietto onions; sgabei (fried bread) with homemade salumi; ripieni (stuffed vegetables); beef tagliata with porcini mushrooms; and chestnut semifreddo.
On my final day, I explore the countryside on horseback with Andrea Verdoni from Il Picchio Verde Agriturismo. We follow tree-lined trails beside farms and olive groves, slosh through streams under stone bridges, and canter across fields burnished gold by the afternoon sun. Finally, we clip-clop up a cobblestone path to the fortified hilltop village of Cassolana Monti, with another castle wedged into the rock under enormous spreading oak trees. It feels like the centuries have fallen away and the lord of the manor will welcome us with trumpets and a banquet. Yet I can’t imagine how anything could better the feasts I have already enjoyed from this ancient landscape as enchanting as it is real.
Where is it? She usually leave it ’ere somewhere,” Nicolas says, rummaging around in the damp undergrowth. “Voila! ’ere it is,” he exclaims, tugging on something jammed between two moss-covered stones. With a knowing glint in his eye, he carefully coaxes a dirty green bottle out from its hiding spot.
I nearly choke on my trail mix. “Is that a bottle of…” “Absinthe, oui,” Nicolas says, finishing my sentence. He gives the bottle a rough wipe down with his wrinkled hands and, in a swift pirate-esque moment, rips the cork out with his teeth. The dank forest air is instantly filled with the sweet aroma of aniseed and wormwood.
Nicolas produces two small glasses from his backpack and splashes some light-green liquor into each, before carefully topping them up with fresh spring water from a trickling fountain. Needless to say, this is a far cry from the flaming sugar cubes and mornings of amnesia that tend to accompany absinthe drinking back home.
It’s not yet noon and I look up from my glass, staring deep into the lush valleys of the Swiss Alps. “Who on earth leaves bottles of absinthe hidden in the forest?” I ask my hiking companion. “La fée verte, the green fairy,” Nicolas says. “She leaves them everywhere, always she has done this.” I’m dubious and pretty sure the wormwood has already taken effect, but something about this mystical environment makes me believe him. Besides, I don’t care what colour she is – if a fairy is willing to stash booze in the forest for thirsty hikers to stumble across, then she is my kind of fairy. Leaving a buck for a tooth seems pretty lame by comparison.
I arrived in Val-de-Travers, in Neuchâtel, western Switzerland, not really knowing a single thing about the place. When I thought of Switzerland, I imagined meticulous watchmakers with curly moustaches, plump chocolatiers and rosy-cheeked women in aprons singing in the hills. I honestly never thought I would find myself in the absinthe mecca, the birthplace of this often feared, always misunderstood, potent liquor that is reputed to have hallucinogenic properties.
Illegal in its nation of origin until 2005, and still outlawed in many countries today, absinthe elicits an intrigue unlike any other liquor on Earth. On one hand, it has been condemned by lawmakers, the church and society for a century. On the other hand, it has been revered as the elixir of creativity and worshipped as a cultural icon of nineteenth-century impressionist artists, writers and poets. Among absinthe’s prophets were Oscar Wilde, Vincent van Gogh and Picasso. The reason for this love–hate relationship lies in its magical ingredient: the allegedly hallucinogenic, locally grown herb artemisia absinthium, commonly known as wormwood.
“Bah, oui, you will go crazy,” Nicolas says. “But you must ’ave at least 60 glasses for it to do this. Most days I ’ave just 40!” I’m not sure if Nicolas is joking or not. Either way, I reckon it’s safe, although the forest does appear a little more vivid after my second glass. Nicolas, like most absinthe producers here, once operated a clandestine distillery, and still talks fondly of his days as an outlaw. I get the feeling he misses it, as though legalising absinthe took a bit of the fun out of it. I’ve tasted the nectar of the green fairy and, I must admit, I’m hooked. It’s like no other drink I’ve tried before, and nothing like the fluorescent-green rocket fuel they call absinthe back home. It’s delicate and delicious, has a sweet aniseed taste, not dissimilar to pastis, and carries a bouquet of fragrant herbs. However, there is one distinctive bitter herbal note that sings out above the rest. It’s the wormwood, I just know it.
I’m keen to see this mystical wormwood plant for myself so I ask Nicolas if he can take me to a local plantation. It’s not exactly a difficult request since just about everyone in the valley grows wormwood in their backyard; however, he knows of a grower nearby who is also an ex-bootlegger. He has a decent wormwood plot sitting outside his micro-distillery, Nicolas says, so we take a short stroll to the town of Boveresse to check it out.
Francis is kneeling among a small patch of silver-green plants in a pretty little garden flourishing in the shadow of a large, old-fashioned Swiss country mansion. The old building is covered with painted green window shutters that were no doubt used not so long ago to hide illegal goings-on from the prying eyes of local police officers and informants.
He looks up from his prized garden of wormwood plants and, with a big smile, beckons me to come and take a closer look. On close inspection, I’m a bit disappointed. I guess I kind of expected this infamous plant to have menacing purple flowers or at least spikes.
But, no, it’s quite simply a low-lying herb with pretty leaves sprouting from a soft stalk. Nicolas, obviously enjoying my enthusiasm for his life-long passion, crouches next to me, plucks a small green leaf and stuffs it in his mouth. With a playful smile he screws up his face up. “Tres amer!” Translated it means very bitter, although I know he’s secretly enjoying it. I follow suit and bite off a small piece of wormwood leaf. It’s bitter, sure, but it’s also surprisingly delicious. It has that exact herbal note I had fallen in love with in the absinthe we drank earlier in the forest.
I’ve tasted the nectar of the green fairy and, I must admit, I’m hooked. It’s like no other drink I’ve tried before, and nothing like the fluorescent-green rocket fuel they call absinthe back home.
We clunk our way up the mansion’s creaky wooden stairs, following Francis’s son and heir to the family distillery as he leads us up to the drying room. Still in use today, it is here his father once hid his precious wormwood harvest. At the top of a tight spiral of wooden stairs we emerge into a dark attic. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, my nostrils are filled with the most beautiful herbal aroma. It’s scrumptious, and I find myself breathing as deeply as I can through my nose, savouring the delicious fragrance.
Beams of light stream through small cracks in the wooden walls, catching plumes of dancing dust particles and illuminating hundreds of bouquets hanging from the rafters. There is wormwood everywhere. Like most artisanal absinthe producers in the region, Francis has his own family recipe that includes a unique blend of homegrown wormwood and herbs, including green anise, fennel, peppermint, hyssop, coriander, cardamom, elecampane, star anise, licorice, dittany, angelica and many other (sometimes secret) botanicals.
Back at the cellar door, I sample the house produce (La Valote Martin), and get myself a small takeaway bottle. I’ve got a train to catch – more villages and distilleries await.
During my time in Val-de-Travers I visit many small, family-run artisanal distillers. The majority have been producing absinthe for generations and are proud to proclaim they continued to do so illegally during prohibition. Most grow wormwood, often in their backyard, and produce their own style of absinthe. Every family recipe is unique, using different herbal blends and varied amounts of wormwood, which is still heavily restricted by law today.
There are more than 20 absinthe distilleries along the Absinthe Route, just about all of which have a cellar door where you can taste their produce and buy a bottle to take home. All of the bars and restaurants serve local absinthe, and every afternoon around 5pm is l’heure vert (the green hour), when you can see locals sitting in bars and cafes around tabletop water towers happily chatting away over cloudy green glasses. This region is the Châteauneuf-du-Pape of absinthe.
Tucked away in quaint little villages along the trail are countless restaurants and, to my surprise, many of them utilise wormwood in their regional cuisine. (It really is considered a herb here in the valley.) For me, the standout dishes are beef fillet in absinthe gravy and absinthe soufflé. Far from a gimmick, the gravy is heavily infused with the liquor, giving it a great kick and bitter-spice note I just can’t get enough of. The soufflé comes with a pool of absinthe in the centre and is served with an entire bottle of the stuff on the side, “Just in case you wanted more…” God, I love this place.
I couldn’t be more impressed and surprised by what I’ve found here. Imagining a group of people who operated for a century as backyard bootleggers, I had expected to encounter a heavy-drinking, cagey bunch of moonshine-trippers with chips on their shoulders. But this vision could not have been further from the truth. This mind-bogglingly lush, beautiful valley is home to a community of proud, intelligent, moderate, friendly artists who love what they produce and are more than happy to share their secrets with visitors. Join the trail and chances are you will get stuck at each cellar door for hours, sipping absinthe as locals regale you with daring tales from their days as clandestine distillers and tall stories about the green fairy. And, if you’re lucky, you just might find a bottle of absinthe stashed in the forest.
In the middle of a frozen lake, Fredrik Broman is trying to free an immobilised snowmobile. It’s a stunning day with blue skies above and –20°C on the thermometer. “The powder is only a few feet deep here, but there is ice beneath it – smooth, flat, skating ice,” says Fredrik as he works. “There’s no traction for heavy machines.”
As he bounces his weight on the rear of the vehicle, Fredrik revs the throttle and gets just enough bite into the mush to push off the clearing and back onto the trail. Knowing how to get your mobile moving again after getting ditched, sliding on wet ice or tumbling down a bank is an everyday survival skill in the Arctic. It’s not nearly one of Fredrik’s most impressive, though. Once he left the trail in late winter and found himself chest deep in freezing water. “You get out of the wet clothes quick as possible and head for a cabin,” he explains. “Oh ya, I was naked. Naked is warmer than wet.”
The human body does adapt to Arctic cold, but nude is still nude and you can’t stay warm for very long here once disrobed. While he may have beaten the elements on that occasion, Fredrik isn’t planning a repeat episode any time soon.
Snowmobiles are a way of life in Lapland, replacing skis and reindeer as the most common form of modern transportation. It takes little training to get the hang of the throttle and steering using your body as a counterweight. There is always the possibility of it all going a bit wrong and consequently ploughing into a snowdrift, which is momentarily terrifying until the powder acts as the world’s coolest cushion.
The snowmobile safari from the Aurora Safari Camp, in Gunnarsbyn, to Brändön Lodge is a four-hour ride, taking in a series of forests, glacial lakes and a jaunt onto the Bay of Finland. An hour from the coast, we stop on sea ice to watch the sun mingle with the horizon. In February, Fredrik tells me, the ice below our feet is thick enough for freighters to drive on top of the ocean.
Out here the snow is never still. Instead it’s blown by the wind into drifts big enough to hide a truck. Fredrik likes to take travellers on overnight trips into the wilderness, digging a cave into the massive mounds to act as lodging. After he picks out a suitable drift, we begin to shovel. It doesn’t pay to get too carried away, though, since a small cave is a warm cave. “You get the right snow and it traps the warmth inside,” he explains. “Body heat and a sleeping bag are all you need to stay cosy.”
Sleeping inside the icy chamber is a ball, but it gets even better when Fredrik fries up reindeer jerky in a pan of butter and serves it with a mug of hot lingonberry juice. Steam rises above the pan and freezes on the ceiling. Warmth is a relative concept; as the mercury outside drops to –32°C overnight we stay toasty at around 10°C inside.
Survival in the Arctic doesn’t have to be a hardship – it’s not a battle with the elements, but more of a dance. When the temperature drops below –20°C it becomes a different kind of cold, one that keeps the cap of ice on a river solid and bestows clear skies at night for watching the aurora borealis. It’s a dry chill, which somehow makes it easier to stay warm. Minus two degrees can get wet; –20°C does not.
Just a short sled ride from his home, we meet two of Fredrik’s good friends, Pär Kassberg and Richard Karlsson, both of whom work with dogs to get around during winter. Pär often cooks a meal over the fire for guests at the Aurora Safari Camp and Richard can be relied on to bring a team of his Siberian huskies for a joy-ride.
The safari camp sits on the edge of a glacial lake, offering uninterrupted views of the Swedish wilderness. The canvas tents are an upgrade from the snow cave in every possible way. Akin to the traditional Sami lavvo, they are similar to the digs Fredrik came across when he was working in Africa. A wood heater in the middle of each tent pumps out serious heat, making it toasty warm.
Before the sun sets, we leave the camp to stand on the edge of the lake and observe the sky’s changing colours as the darkness approaches. The landscape is cloaked in silence. Had the men not alerted me to their imminent arrival, I would never have heard the approach of Richard’s dog team.
Handcrafted from timber and twine by a 67-year-old man in Kiruna, Sweden’s northernmost town, Richard’s sled is a work of art. This mode of transport is the polar opposite of the snowmobile – the thin timber rails yield to the environment with grace. Only the sound of the dogs panting competes with the shush of snow beneath the rails.
The huskies’ power isn’t obvious until you witness the launch of the sled. The front rails leap a foot off the ground and I’m thrown backwards with the acceleration. We bounce along for 50 metres before Richard commands the dogs to ease off the pace.
Richard listens to his huskies and trusts their judgement. They possess an ability to avoid danger, aware of subtle patterns in the snow that might conceal hidden traps beneath. They also have a keen sense of survival when confronted with wild animals of the Arctic. “They regard the reindeer as prey,” Richard explains, “but the moose they have respect for. They’ll stare it down, but they know better than to start a fight.”
Richard can guide the dogs away from chance encounters with moose, but reindeer present a different challenge. Although they’re bred to run rather than kill, the pack can decide to chase the deer – on one occasion, Richard needed to muster all his skills and drop steel anchors into the snow to stop them.
“They get into a prey mode and they go crazy,” he says. “I couldn’t turn them around and couldn’t get them to brake. They see a herd of reindeer and they just want to take one down. I was really worried my lines weren’t going to hold – the ropes were straining away from the sled under their force.”
The trails across the rivers and through forests are essential to survival in winter. Fresh falls are packed down by snowmobile traffic before the trails freeze hard again. With each big dump of snow the ritual is repeated so the dog teams are able to do their thing.
I witness the cycle in action. While I’m asleep in the safari tent, the frozen landscape is covered by a massive fall of snow. As I emerge from my haven in the morning, there is no evidence of the tracks that were there just hours earlier. Even the snowmobiles are camouflaged in a fresh layer of white.
Pär makes us breakfast before setting out to clear the trails. Beneath the dump of fresh powder is the threat of unfrozen pools of water that can trap a snowmobile and ruin the day, or worse. On one occasion, Pär and his son both ended up in trouble when one of their snowmobiles became stuck in the ice and the pair slipped into the lake through a crack while they were trying to extricate it.
After dragging themselves from the frigid water, they took turns to jog behind the other snowmobile. In this case, it was far better to be jogging, an activity that at least keeps you warm, than sitting astride the snowmobile, the cold air turning your drenched clothes to ice. “By the time we reached the cabin our legs had turned blue and the feeling in our toes had been lost,” Pär recalls. “The pain began in earnest as things began to warm up and feeling returned.”
It wasn’t enough to get him to admit defeat and seek assistance: “Pure northern men don’t need to call for help. I’ve never made one call in my life. I always get myself out of trouble.”
While there’s no need for him to demonstrate his survival skills this trip, I do get to see – and eat – plenty of Pär’s cooking. Lunch at the camp turns into an event when the murrika (a concave steel plate) is swung over an open fire pit to fry up salmon and char. The boys stand by the fire, poking at the murrika and chatting while falling snowflakes gather in their beards and the smoke from the fire infuses the fish.
On the last day of my stay I meet Lars, a Sami man, and his reindeer herd in the town of Flakaberg. Sami people have relied on reindeer for thousands of years, owing their Arctic survival to the clothing, transport, meat and tools provided by the animals.
Every spring, Lars tells me, the reindeer and their herdsmen head deep into Lapland where wide open pastures are better for calving. Their migration takes place before the ice melts, making the journey possible by sled or snowmobile. This is also the time the Sami people gather to trade reindeer skins. Flakaberg was once the site of the annual market, but for the past 410 years the town of Jokkmokk, a few hours away, has been its home.
You can still buy reindeer skins or take a bite of the animal’s meat cooked on a murrika at the Jokkmokk Winter Market. The bitter cold and remote location mean only the most adventurous of travellers find themselves here. Instead, you’ll discover most visitors are actually locals. Many of the market stalls have a modern feel to them, but some gems remain: you can buy drinks prepared from wild Arctic berries, smoked fish caught in glacial lakes, and Sami handicrafts.
Fredrik and Pär show me some of the market’s more artistic treasures, including a presentation on wild foraging by local culinary expert Eva Gunnare and a fire-dancing performance at sunset. Embers and flames drift across the snow in a display of light and movement.
There are also opportunities to connect more deeply with the culture. Three days of reindeer racing take place on frozen Lake Jokkmokk, and one of the best Sami museums in the Arctic can be found here, along with Sami training colleges celebrating traditional crafts and survival skills.
My favourite treasures in Jokkmokk, though, are the snow balls. Local artist Cecilia Lundin has spent decades perfecting these modern igloos. First she carves blocks of ice from the river then moulds them into balls, before using snow to ‘glue’ them together and render them smooth. Only the Swedish can turn survival into art. You enter the snow ball through a circular portal and emerge into a dome of tranquility. There’s room for two inside and a little nook at the back holds a candle for light. In the long dark of the Swedish winter, it is one of life’s necessities.
Located in the young, hip 11th arrondissement near the Place de Bastille, this nightclub-cocktail bar hybrid is the perfect place to get in sync with the beating heart of Parisian nightlife.
Badaboum has made a name for itself hosting top international techno DJs in the intimate, 350-person floor space, where stark industrial decor and geometric neon light installations give the place a psychedelic air.
If the club scene is not your thing, the bar alone is worth a visit. Kick back with an expertly crafted cocktail and a plate of tapas in the cosy, warmly lit downstairs area, or get comfy in the lounge-inspired Secret Room upstairs.
In a former life, the A38 was a Ukrainian stone hauler used to transport gravel across international waters. Today it has transformed into the ultimate floating bar and music venue, and is permanently moored on the banks of the Danube in Budapest.
A hall that once stored mounds of rocks now pumps out rock ‘n roll, former equipment bays boast art exhibitions, a selection of bars tempts thirsty revelers, and there’s even an on-board restaurant that serves hearty Hungarian fare.
While it no longer sails to distant waters, the ship still pulls a worldly crew with international acts thrashing its stage and DJs hitting the decks. For something more cultural, check out the program of film screenings, literature readings and food and wine festivals.
Satisfy all your senses at a one-of-a-kind Berlin cocktail bar. Fragrances, the crowning jewel of the city’s Ritz-Carlton, is the first watering hole in the world dedicated to combining cocktails with perfume.
Each drink is inspired by a unique fragrance from renowned brands such as Yves Saint Laurent, Giorgio Armani and Guerlain. “At Fragrances, we want our guests not only to enjoy their drinks, but to experience them,” explains cocktail creator and bar manager Arnd Heissen.
Instead of poring over a traditional cocktail list, patrons are invited to choose their favourite fragrance and let their nose lead them to a matching cocktail. The bar also runs workshops where guests can create their own personal scent under the guidance of a perfume expert.
From the eighth to the tenth centuries, this was the land of the original Vikings. From here they set forth across Europe, raping and pillaging as they went. A lot has changed since those days. Denmark in the twenty-first century is one of the most socially progressive nations in the world, and constantly tops lists of both the most liveable and happiest places on earth.
The country itself consists of one large peninsula, known as Jutland, and 443 named islands. If you ever wondered where ‘Old’ Zealand was, you’ve found it. To Jutland’s east, this large island is the location of the Danish capital, Copenhagen. If cutting-edge design, fashion, art and cuisine are high on your list of favoured amenities in a destination you’ve come to the right place. Once you’ve been wowed by the monumental form of the Royal Danish Opera House or shopped till you dropped in the local fashion and design stores around Kongens Nytorv (the King’s New Square), settle at a table at one of the world’s most acclaimed restaurants, Noma.
Of course, it’s not all about the contemporary in this exciting city. It’s also been home to the country’s royal family for about 900 years. The outstanding Tivoli Gardens was the inspiration for the various Disneylands, Nyhavn Harbor is lined with colourful gable houses, and, just a short walk away, at Kastellet, you’ll see Edvard Eriksen’s The Little Mermaid statue.
On Zealand, you’ll also discover Roskilde, famous for its World Heritage-listed cathedral and eponymous rock festival.
Jutland, connected to mainland Europe at Germany, is a land of contrasts. Its rugged west coast is buffeted by winds from the North Sea, its Lake District is a picturesque landscape of forests, hills and, of course, lakes, while the region around Ebeltoft is a beachside summer refuge for many Danes.
Aarhus, the country’s second largest city (although it is more like a large town), is on Jutland’s east coast. It’s an excellent place to discover hygge, an altogether Danish ‘feeling’ that lies somewhere between cosiness and contentment.
Sometimes the most memorable nights out end in the bathroom, so why not cut out the middle man and open a bar in an old Victorian public lavatory?
Embedded in the heart of Kentish Town, the underground toilet-tavern of Ladies & Gentlemen is all kinds of cosy – think intimate candlelit tables, soft jazz tunes and friendly staff who’ll make you feel like a regular beneath a smattering of (squeaky clean) cisterns.
The cocktail list is bursting with homemade liqueurs and gin straight from a 16-litre copper still. Each is infused with locally sourced botanicals, including the bar’s very own Highwayman Gin. There’s also a Gin Club every Tuesday night, where you’ll learn how to perfect the art of distilling spirits – you even get a small takeaway bottle to enjoy at home.
The Gobbins cliff path wraps its way around the dramatic coast of County Antrim in Northern Ireland – and you’ll find the highway to exhilaration if you take up the challenge of this mile of wonder.
The magnificently restored Edwardian attraction features a series of tubular and suspension bridges, a staircase, caves and tunnels carved through the basalt. It offers a white-knuckle mix of adventure, rugged beauty, spectacular views, heritage, flora and fauna. In all, walkers must brave 23 metal bridges and water-splashed gantries installed along sheer cliff faces. Strictly for thrill-seekers and those who can handle a bracing climb, the route offers not just a walk along a cliff top but also below sea-level experiences of the caves and bridges.
Just a short drive from Belfast, the Gobbins is in Islandmagee, a welcoming peninsula just off the start of the Causeway Coastal Route, and another jewel in its crown. The site also boasts a visitor centre featuring an exhibition on the building of the Gobbins, its history from Edwardian times and the geology and ecology of Islandmagee. If you are not up to the walk, a more relaxing way to see the entire Gobbins Cliff Path is on one of the boat tours from Islandmagee. Near to the celebrated sites of the Giant’s Causeway, the Glens of Antrim, Bushmills Distillery, Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge and much more, the Gobbins is a reimagined triumph waiting to be explored.
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