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Six of the coolest snow sleeps

Lodging to keep the chill at bay.

Climb the Gobbins

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.

Luke Skywalker’s Hideout

Star Wars: The Force Awakens may be set in a galaxy far far away, but you don’t need a spaceship to reach the craggy peaks of Skywalker’s secluded hideout. With the help of a sailing ship, or just a small boat, sci-fi fans can sail 12 kilometres off the west coast of Ireland to Skellig Michael, a rugged outcrop that transformed from medieval Christian monastery to Jedi hermitage for the film.

Rising improbably from the Atlantic, one of the highlights of Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way, the island has attracted both admirers and those seeking solitude for centuries. Monks moved ashore in the sixth century, enduring isolation and the occasional Viking rampage over the next 600 years, before abandoning the lonely outpost in the late twelfth century. During their time on the island they carved hundreds of stone steps to the summit, where they established an isolated monastery.

The Skelligs’ charms are not only confined to past glories. Along with their sister group, the Blaskets to the north, the Skelligs support some of the largest collections of manx sheerwater and puffins in the world.

Skellig Michael – and neighbouring Little Skellig – have featured in ancient Irish legends, but it wasn’t until 2014 that these remote peaks welcomed their strangest visitor yet… one of the biggest movie-making phenomena in history.

The World Heritage-listed ruins that sit on the island have remained incredibly well preserved thanks to their remote location and little interest from travellers until The Force Awakens hit the screen.

Lights, Camera…

Sometimes half the thrill is in the chase. I’d travelled across the globe to the northernmost tip of Sweden to hunt down the elusive northern lights and my expectations were high. We were in a ‘solar max’, the peak of an 11-year cycle when solar activity is more frequent and intense, so the odds of success were stacked in my favour.

About 200 kilometres north of the Arctic Circle, Abisko National Park is the mecca for aurora borealis hunters. The Aurora Sky Station, perched high atop Mount Nuolja, provides an awesome front-row seat for the unpredictable sky show, but I have to get there first. Cocooned in a full-body suit that minutes earlier seemed excessive, I endure a blustery 20-minute ride in an exposed chairlift to the top. The subzero conditions are so severe visitors are warned against wearing water-based moisturisers due to frostbite. The remote station has no electricity or running water and, for those who dare to bare, there is an ice-crusted drop toilet.

One of the trusty huskies on sled duty.
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A detailed science lesson on the chemistry on the aurora borealis ensues. Put simply, it’s the result of sun particles colliding with the gases in the earth’s upper atmosphere. I’ve settle in for a potentially long and fruitless wait when my guide hollers that the lights are outside playing. I clamber back into my cumbersome gear and rush outside in a tangle with my tripod. Through the slit of my balaclava, I desperately search the sky for my first glimpse. While easily confused as just bright cloud, the wispy white ribbon of light traversing the sky is unmistakable by its movement. Whoops of excitement ring out from my fellow sky watchers and I realise I’ve hit the jackpot on my first night. Lying back out of the punishing winds, my eyes soon adjust to the green tinge in those ‘clouds’. Continually in motion, the sheets of light separate and swirl like oil poured onto water. An intense pillar of light sways toward the ground like a belly-dancing tornado and luminous curtains of colour morph into countless formations before seeping away into the darkness. The performance is exhilarating yet all too fleeting.

A four-night stay equals four chances to witness the no-guarantee phenomenon and plenty of daylight hours to explore this winter wonderland. I sign up to mush my own dogsled through the vast national park. With no optional comfy passenger seat, I’m the captain of four hyperactive dogs stuck in overdrive. I clumsily manoeuvre each wriggling husky into its harness before clipping them onto the towline. Their excitement escalates as the team forms, culminating in a deafening chorus of impatience. A daunting tutorial outlines my responsibilities: avoid obstacles, don’t run the sled into the dogs, and under no circumstances let go. As soon as my foot releases the straining brake, induction is over and we fly into the woods. Juggling the icy footholds and braking system, I soon fall into rhythm with my four-legged ensemble.

Wrestling the sled through the rollercoaster-like terrain in a hammering blizzard is tough, yet the dogs never stall. Their long tongues flap back around their cheeks as they huff along, occasionally snapping a quenching mouthful of snow. The dogs’ passion to race is confirmed with the many indignant looks shot my way when I break their pace. We anchor for a short break and the pups promptly knock me into the powder in a scramble for affection. Each husky is as adorable and unique in personality as their decorative markings. As we sip hot lingonberry juice, the restless bundles are poised for any sign of departure.

That night I return to the sky station hoping for a repeat performance, however by the time I arrive the night sky has deteriorated into a white frenzy. After four hopeful hours napping by the fire, the weather nemesis declares it game over. It’s a taste of the frustrating, yet common, side of the aurora chase.

The key attraction of this region is the original Icehotel, located in the village of Jukkasjärvi beside the Torne River. This natural watercourse provides the 2000 tonnes of ice needed to rebuild the hotel every year. Each winter, commissioned artists transform blank rooms into original masterpieces in just three weeks. The entire set-up is a breathtaking organic art gallery. Every surface has been designed with purpose, stability and aesthetic in mind. Inside it feels surprisingly safe despite being devoid of any conventional materials, and I’m astounded by how many textures and hues are achieved from one resource.

With no shortage of inspiration, I try my hand at ice sculpting, led by a professional artist who guides the class through the basics of transforming a chunk of ice. Armed with only a chisel and my imagination, I find it quite therapeutic whittling away in the silence. But my attempts at a masterpiece are a miserable failure and I soon discover carving frozen water is a unique talent.

A long exposure captures the dancing northern lights and star trails over Lapland in northern Sweden. Image: Babak Tafreshi
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I’m left to drown my sorrows surrounded by the artistic brilliance of others at the Icebar. Everything, even the seats, is carved from ice, yet all is surprisingly comfortable in –5ºC. Psychedelic light installations add another dimension to the room, yet, together with the old-school music, it feels reminiscent of an underage disco. My ice glass, chilling a vibrant vodka cocktail, melts in my hand and fuses to the bar. There’s plenty more where it came from though; almost one million ice glasses are carved every year.

Warm, cosy hotel rooms with all the regular mod-cons are available, but I’m in the depths of the Arctic and hardly about to pass up the opportunity to brave a memorable night on the ice. The survival briefing: don’t overdress as sweat will make you cold, any belongings in the room will freeze and avoid drinking before bed. My designated suite is Rain of Memories, a dreamlike space with raindrops decorating the floor and glass straws suspended from the ceiling like an elaborate wind chime. My bed on ice, adorned with a few reindeer hides, seems absurdly inadequate. Dressed only in thermals and a beanie, I scramble into my sleeping bag and pull the drawstring tight. It’s eerily silent within the naturally insulated walls, even if the room is minus a door. While my body remains surprisingly toasty, my exposed face feels like it’s stuck headfirst in a freezer. The burning cold wakes me regularly during the night. My relief in the morning fades when I remember the chilled snowsuit that awaits. It may not be the most peaceful night’s sleep, but sleeping amid 3D frozen art is a whimsical adventure not to be missed. Very few get to join the exclusive club, as soon my suite will melt and flow back to the river.

It’s a harsh environment better suited to the Sámi, the indigenous people of Sápmi, an ancestral region spanning Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. Their nomadic culture revolves around herding reindeer, however traditional methods have steadily succumbed to modern influences, like the snowmobile. Reindeer Lodge is the only place in Sweden where you can handle your own traditional sled in open terrain. The enchanting Rudolf icons, with their branch-like antlers and steaming fluffy noses, prove deceiving. As I patt my reindeer, Skivdngi, it rewards me with a feisty sidewards kick – a timely reminder these beasts were originally wild creatures.

The reindeers’ handler, Nils, demonstrates how to bellow directions and be firm on the reins, insisting I assert myself as boss. But I’m not fooling Skivdngi, who ignores my not-so-gentle attempts to rouse him. The old-world mode of transport jars the joints over each bump, even at the maximum pace of a trot. As we track through woods beautified by waist-high snow, it’s surreal to be in the presence of such a fabled animal. I’m captivated by his ornate antlers, which, like a unique fingerprint, regrow identically every year. Nils prepares a traditional lunch inside his toasty lavvu (tipi) while discussing Sámi beliefs and traditions. The trip finishes with a delicious meal of tender smoked reindeer slathered in lingonberry jam, and comes with pangs of guilt as I spot Skivdngi resting just outside.

My final night of aurora hunting finds me going full throttle on a snowmobile as I test out the region’s third curious mode of transport. I fight against the powerful machine as I try to direct its defiant skis through the winding tracks, following a chain of red tail lights snaking through the woods. Restricted to a tunnel of light and deafened by the engine roar, my senses are on high alert as I keep a lookout for any darting reindeer. Eventually we stop at a desolate wooden hut to defrost and stretch our tense bodies. Teases of green dance high in a sky where the cloud refuses to clear. Over a hearty dinner of reindeer and moose stew, we all concede the magic has eluded us tonight.

In the morning on board the airport shuttle, everyone has a tale about the legendary lights. But at least half of the passengers missed out on seeing them in action. The aurora borealis is quite the tease and lives up to its legend. I was one of the lucky ones, yet the addictive spectacle left me wanting more.

Pay Your Way

The shudder of the stopping train wakes you from your sleep. It is a frosty Siberian morning and Russian border guards are rapping on the door of your compartment. There seems to be a problem.

A short walk through the cold morning air to a dingy basement storeroom reveals what the problem is. There, behind a wooden counter, is the bike you’ve been travelling with for three months. Through broken English and a Russian phrasebook you discover there is a ‘special fee’ you’ll have to pay to retrieve your bike from customs. You ask what the said ‘fee’ is and the guards shrug, talk quickly among themselves and determine it is US$50. They are struggling to conceal their smirks. From outside, you hear your train preparing to depart. You quickly pay, wheel your bike back to the train, and rattle on into Russia, pissed off: that ‘fee’ was your daily budget. At the same time, you’re happy to have your bike.

While this scenario is relatively black and white – pay the bribe or kiss your bike goodbye – many travellers find themselves in situations not so cut and dry. For travellers from western democracies, such as Australia, journeying overseas is often the first time they will be confronted by a demand to pay a bribe. But for many locals in developing countries in Asia, Africa, South America and elsewhere, bribery is part of life. For westerners travelling to those destinations, the decision whether to pay a bribe often presents an ethical dilemma.

Swati Ramanathan, founder of online Indian anti-corruption platform www.ipaidabribe.com, says there are a few key things foreign travellers should keep in mind when confronted with a bribery situation. “I think the first judgement call that one has to make as a tourist is, ‘How risky is it for me to stand up for my principles?’ Because it’s never about the $20, it’s about the principle of it.”

Ramanathan says tourists should consider the safety of the situation first. “And I think you should never compromise personal safety, because you have to live to tell the tale. I think the prudent thing to do is to get away from the situation safe and intact, but then make it public.”

ipaidabribe.com provides a platform for Indians to report on the nature, location and cost of corruption they experience. Ramanathan says creating a snapshot of bribes occurring across the country – listed by city and government department – thereby quantifying the scale of the problem, pressures governments to improve governance systems and reduce the scope for corruption. The organisation has established websites in other developing countries such as Kenya, Zimbabwe and Pakistan. Ramanathan encourages travellers to also use the sites to record any bribes paid.

The Bangalore-based social campaigner says foreigners can play a role in highlighting corruption in the countries they visit. Ramanathan says now, more than ever, ordinary people have the power to raise awareness of corruption. “If you have had an experience, then I think people need to know about it,” she says. “There’s no point in hiding it.” Ramanathan says while mainstream social media, including Facebook, Twitter and travel blogs, can play a role, www.ipaidabribe.com has the potential to actually influence authorities. “I think that is the value of our platform. You are sharing stories which are specifically to do with this kind of corruption,” she says. “Policy makers look at this, anti- corruption fighters look at this.”

Ramanathan says there are, however, times when tourists should think about making a point. She says in situations that are simply annoying, rather than dangerous, foreign travellers should consider standing up for their principles and letting corrupt officials know they are not happy with the situation. However, she cautions tourists to remember it is more often the system, rather than the individual, which is inherently corrupt.

Melbourne-based social entrepreneur Lisa Zheng says as visitors to foreign countries, travellers are often not aware of the complexities behind particular bribery situations. Having grown up in China, and as founder of Australian not-for-profit Hand Up Australia – which runs cultural exchanges for students to developing countries including Ghana, Kenya, Ecuador and Nicaragua – Zheng has firsthand experience of bribery in developing countries.

“For example, when I was travelling in Sri Lanka last year with my husband and parents-in-law, we were asked to pay a bribe by traffic police who stopped our vehicle and told our driver we were going over the speed limit,” Zheng says. “The penalty was either for our driver to go to the police station and pick up an official fine or to pay a ‘small fine’ to the cops there and then, and be on our way – the price was 500 rupees [AU$4]. The driver paid the police off and we continued on, with the understanding we would pay the driver later.” While the situation annoyed her, an explanation by her driver made Zheng realise how complex the situation is for many locals in developing countries.

“The thing with driving in Sri Lanka is the infrastructure has largely not been upgraded since the 25-year civil war ended in 2009, so following the road laws means you would not get anywhere. Breaking the law is a necessity to get efficiency, so the norm is to pay bribes. I was annoyed by this obscure norm that people with power have created to get money off civilians, but when I asked why do the policemen do this, I was told that they get paid very little so they use a broken system as an excuse to extract money.”

Having lived in China and travelled to many developing countries, Zheng admits she would probably pay a bribe if it ensured her safety and sanity. “Often it’s petty, driven by inequality in a political or social system, so I think it serves everyone to do what you have to do and move on,” she says.

But Zheng’s advice for tourists is to deal with each situation on its own merits. “The strongest emotion for me from these situations is that I am thankful I live in a country with a robust and equitable public system,” she says.

In the end it often boils down to a simple question: how much do you value your bike?

The Green Thrills of Wales

Of all the reasons to jump off a cliff, a good cup of tea may not seem like the most logical. Nevertheless, as I stare down to where the waves crash over the rocks below, my thoughts keep returning to tea. I brace for the leap on the small ledge and with a quick thrust of my legs I spring up and out, hurtling down towards the ocean.

While tea was not the reason for my jump, the sport known as coasteering – a blend of rock climbing, potholing and cliff jumping – owes its origins to the British desire for tea. In the mid-eighteenth century, extortionate customs taxes meant that tea, chocolate and brandy were luxury items. However, local fisherman and sailors were not going to go without their daily cuppa. Under the cover of darkness they would sneak illegal shipments from their boats to the water’s edge, traversing the Pembrokeshire cliffs to seek out sheltered caves and coves in which to hide their contraband.

There are no longer taxmen to avoid, but like the smugglers before us, our small gang of intrepid coasteerers is clambering over rocks, squeezing through watery passages and willingly diving into jellyfish-infested seas. Chris, our instructor, is next up onto the ledge and, after guiding more than 200 coasteering groups along these cliffs, a simple feet-first jump is no longer a big enough thrill for him. Instead, he performs a showy back flip off the rock, gracefully entering the water with barely a ripple. The rest of the group takes turns to plunge into the waves. Once everyone has received a decent dunking we swim on, seeking out the next test of our nerves.

Coasteering has become popular all over the UK, but here on the scenic St Davids peninsula in southwest Wales, conditions are especially suited to the sport. As Chris explains, the area boasts cliffs facing to the east, south and west, so there’s always a coasteering route sheltered from the wind or, alternatively, for the more adventurous, a course that takes the full brunt of the weather. West Wales also experiences one of the largest tidal ranges in the world, which means routes across the cliffs change by the hour and a fissure that is high above the waterline in the morning can be submerged by the afternoon.

After a few more rock climbs and jumps from increasingly higher ledges, Chris discovers a tight underwater sump. With barely enough room to squeeze through when dry, now that it is underwater it offers a lung-bursting trial. Several members of the group back down from the challenge, but I step up to the narrow opening, take a deep breath and dive down. The salt water stings my eyes, making it hard to scan ahead. With my buoyancy aid and climbing helmet adding bulk, the channel is also a tighter squeeze than I’d first thought. I kick my legs hard in an effort to struggle forward, but my lungs quickly begin to burn, begging for air. A chunk of light comes into view, marking the end of passage, so I grab the walls of the cave to propel myself forward. Tiny, razor-sharp barnacles lining the cave walls slice into my palms, but I pay no attention to the pain and, with a final shove, power forward and upwards, breaking the surface for some welcome air.

Our cliff run ends with a climb up an old smuggler’s trail to the clifftop, where we settle to assess the damage the barnacles have inflicted on our shoes and hands. The views here are spectacular, stretching far out over the Atlantic Ocean. The entire area is a protected national park and one of the best locations in Britain for wildlife spotting. Colonies of seabirds, including puffins, kittiwakes, gannets and guillemots, nest here before flying to warmer climates for the winter. Peregrine falcons swoop down the cliffs after small prey, Atlantic grey seals patrol the coastline and, further offshore, porpoises, dolphins and whales (including minkes, pilot whales and orcas) are often spotted making their way towards the Irish Sea.

The region’s wildlife has as much appeal as the adrenaline of its adventure sports. TYF, the organisation that runs the coasteering trips, recognises this with its strict environmental policy. Chris reports to us that all of TYF’s activities, including sea kayaking, rockclimbing and surfing, are conducted well away from breeding areas and sensitive wildlife zones, and close enough to the TYF headquarters that they can be reached by walking rather than driving. Battered shoes, chopped up by the barnacles, are kept and offered to future adventurers; old equipment is sold off or donated rather than thrown out; and upon returning to the base we discover TYF’s packed lunches are stuffed full of Fair Trade chocolate, locally grown apples and organic cheese sandwiches.

TYF’s eco-policy stretches further than its adventure activities. The group runs a store on St Davids high street selling eco-friendly gear and also operates Wales’s first organic-certified, carbon-neutral hotel, Twr Y Felin. The hotel, which inspired the organisation’s name, is a converted windmill that has retained its spiral staircase up to the peak of the original mill tower. Guests here have wind-up radios in their rooms, the bar is stocked with organic beers and wines and discounted room rates are offered to anyone who arrives by bicycle.

The founder of TYF, Andy Middleton, has also made it his mission to spread a green vibe throughout St Davids. He heads the eco-city project – an endeavour to make St Davids the UK’s first carbon-neutral city. St Davids has a head start over other cities in this enterprise. With a population of less than 2000, it is, in reality, a small village, complete with pastel-coloured cottages and a village hall. Rather than the smog of petrol fumes, the only smell hanging in the air is the tang of real ale wafting from the local pubs. St Davids’ status as a city is due to its cathedral – an imposing building that dates back as far as the twelfth century, built from vast blocks of stone hewn from nearby quarries. It was created in honour of Dewi Sant, the patron saint of Wales, who established a religious site here in the sixth century.

Despite its small size the city already boasts several green initiatives that would be the envy of larger cities. Drivers can fill up at a local bio-diesel fuel pump, the local surf cafe is powered by solar panels and wind turbines, restaurants and delis serve organic meat and veg, and a free minibus service, nicknamed the Puffin Shuttle, hauls surfers and tourists down to the beaches. It is this service that I take to head down to the nearby Whitesands Bay to experience another of St Davids’ green firsts – a trip on a bio-diesel-powered jet boat.

With the afternoon sun still high in the sky I wade knee-deep into the water to clamber aboard the banana yellow RIB – the same type of boat used on river adventures in New Zealand. After everyone has claimed a perch on the edge and donned vital waterproofs and lifejackets, we set off towards Ramsey Island, a wildlife reserve a couple of kilometres from the mainland. As soon as the boat hits deep water the skipper throws the throttle open and the jets blast. The only thing preventing me from flying overboard is my white-knuckle grip on a small plastic handle. After just a couple of minutes and several soakings from the high-octane twists and turns, I’m already as wet as I would be if I had fallen in.

Aside from a little fun, the purpose of our trip to the island is to spot some of the seals that dwell in the area. As we close in on a small cove, we hear the seals before we see them, their barking calls echoing off the cliff face. Thanks to the RIB’s onboard motors the skipper is able to glide close to the rocks without the risk of a propeller injuring any seals beneath the surface. My fellow passengers’ yelps of delight signal our first seal has been spotted. The mottled grey head peeks out above the water, staring at us with as much interest as we have in it.

Like TYF, the boat crew has a strict policy of not disturbing the seals, especially during the breeding seasons. As we tour the nooks and crannies of the island, the skipper provides a short lesson on marine life, natural history and wildlife conservation. Before we return to Whitesands Bay, we stop to meet the Bitches – a cauldron of bubbling, churning rapids that stretches between the island and the mainland. While the Bitches were so named on account of the high number of shipwrecks they have caused, kayakers and surfers now seek them out to test themselves on waves of up to seven metres. Such is their power the annual Bitches Rodeo has become one of the UK’s most demanding whitewater events. The channel may yet serve as the site of Britain’s first tidal power generator – a possible solution to the clean energy desires of St Davids.

I arrive back on shore with the prospect of kitesurfing, cycling and hiking ahead of me. I’m not alone. St Davids has become a magnet for green thrill seekers and the city’s population swells each summer with adrenaline hunters. The eco-friendly theme isn’t restricted to the west coast. It may only be a few hours from London, but the proud country of Wales is establishing itself as a clean and green adventure playground for all ages. St Davids is a great place to begin your Welsh ecoadventure. You will also have considerably less trouble pronouncing its name than the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

After Dark in Istanbul

Many cities claim to be 24-hour cities, but Istanbul actually walks the talk. Dusk is when the city really starts to come alive and after dark is when the locals come out to play. Over the bridge in the backstreets of Beyoglu, not too far from the tourist enclave of Sultanahmet, is where Istanbul’s residents while away their nights sipping Efes beer, listening to smooth jazz, grazing on scrumptious mezze and literally dancing in the labyrinthine streets.

Come five o’clock, having finished work for the day, Istanbul’s locals alight from buses and trains at the transport hub of Taksim Square and stream down the crowded main drag of Beyog˘lu, Istiklal Caddesi, a long pedestrian boulevard that runs from Taksim down the hill to Tünel Square. Beyog˘lu is Istanbul’s shopping and entertainment heart, with hundreds of traffic-free streets and alleys crammed with shopping arcades, markets, cafes, bars, restaurants, pubs, clubs, performance spaces, galleries, cinemas and theatres. Everything is open late and the area always hums. Early evening is shopping time, so go with the flow, browse the boutiques as you amble down the busy artery.

Mosques at dusk, as seen from the bars under the Galata Bridge.
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Slip into one of the countless alleys off Istiklal Caddesi to kickstart your night with some caffeine and glasses of fragrant tea or tiny cups of muddy Turkish coffee. Istanbul’s locals never stop at one…so knock back a couple. The lanes are lined with tiny cafes with wooden decks strewn with vibrant Turkish kilims and miniscule wooden stools, where old men play backgammon and puff on the ubiquitous aromatic narghile, or water pipe.

Continue your stroll down Istiklal Caddesi, detouring into side streets if a quirky cafe, funky boutique or hip little bar catches your eye. Nowhere is Istanbul’s bohemian vibe more evident than in Beyog˘lu’s backstreets and hilly quarters, such as the arty residential areas of Cihangir and Çukurcuma.

Don’t stray far, however, as your destination lies at the base at Galata Bridge, where Istanbul’s fishermen will be reeling in their lines for the day. Take the stairs down to the lower level beneath the road where you can sip your first icy Efes beer as you savour the sunset and the striking silhouettes of the colossal mosques across the water.

Skip the hard slog back up the hill and take the funicular to Tünel, then jump on the antique wooden tram and head toward Taksim. It’s fun as much for the sight of the local kids swinging off the tram doors to catch a free ride, as it is for the vantage point it gives of the heaving mass of people that have by now descended upon Istiklal Caddesi. Alight when you spot a line of locals at a stand selling pretzels or chestnuts, so you can also partake in a popular Turkish pastime – snacking.

Zip down Solakzade Sokak, a narrow lane off Istiklal Cadessi that’s lined with small bars with tiny stools and tables on their terraces outside. Early in the night they’re all packed with locals sipping beers as they listen to roving musicians playing Turkish saz, but later the hard partying goes into the early hours of the morning. Blue-lit bar Mr Bliss is the pick of the bunch. Inside, there’s barely enough room for the band that plays several times a week, headed by Black Sea folk-rocker Aydoˇgan Topal, who performs an original blend of highly contagious pop, rock and folk music from the Laz region that gets locals energetically dancing and singing.
Mr Bliss
5A Solakzade Sokak

It’s dinner time! Bafflingly, the guidebooks often dismiss as ‘touristy’ the narrow lane of Nevizade Sokak, lined with dozens of busy meyhanes (taverns) and dimly lit pubs. This is a myth and a blessing in disguise, as most of the people lingering over long meals of never-ending courses of mezze – traditional Turkish tapas-size dishes such as hamsi tursu (marinated anchovy) and patlican soslu (aubergine salad) – are locals. Any spot is fine for a drink, but you’ll find the tastiest food at Imroz, where the tables are generally packed with big groups of Turkish friends and work colleagues. Select your mezze from a tray the waiter brings to the table and order a bottle of raki to wash it down.
Imroz
24 Nevizade Sokak

On the other side of Istiklal Cadessi you’ll find yet another skinny street, Acara Sokak – this one rather steep – and at its base, at number 5, an atmospheric basement music venue called Alt Club. Duck through the heavy velvet drapes, head downstairs and settle into a seat at round wooden tables or prop yourself up at the bar for some of the city’s best independent Turkish music and fine jazz. If renowned Turkish jazz trumpet-player Imer Demirer and his superb quartet (including talented pianist Serkan Özyılmaz) are playing, plan to stay a while.
Alt Club
5 Acara Sokak

A musical duo perform outside a cafe-bar in a lane off Istiklal Cadessi.
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Take a short stroll down Istiklal Cadessi, off Tünel Square, and you’ll find the nightlife quarter of Asmalimescit. This is home to cafes and bars that are laid-back by day but later start pulsing with boisterous locals spilling out onto the streets, and clubs blaring all sorts of music well into the wee hours. Simply take your pick depending on your taste. On Sehbender Sokak, Babylon caters to all styles of music with indie bands and experimental films projected on the walls some nights, while others see local DJs drawing the hipsters in.
Babylon
3 Sehbender Sokak
babylon.com.tr

Cooks take a break at one of the many busy late-night kebab spots on Istiklal Cadessi.
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If you’ve worked up an appetite with all that dancing, head up the hill to Taksim for some top Turkish fast food to soak up all the alcohol. You will find late-night eateries dotted all along the drag, but up on the square you’ll stumble across a row of kebab joints doing a roaring trade until morning.

Tuck into a kebab or pide before heading back to the hotel for some well earned rest – because if you’re staying in the city longer, trust us, you will want to do the whole thing all over again the next night.

All that jazz

I’ve been told to avoid the weekend, but why? I like the crowds that stream downhill from the train station, and the partygoers perched like seagulls on rocks along the lakeshore, gabbing and jostling for space. In the Jazz Cafe, the evening audience sways, dense and sweaty. The elbow-to-elbow vibe is electric, but I still feel I’m the only one in the room as Anna Calvi moans into the microphone about the devil and desire. Her lips are a red slash, moody as her riffs.

The British singer and guitarist – so good she’s been compared to Jimi Hendrix – is a brooding presence on the stage, even across an undulation of heads. She sings with blues seduction and Goth edginess, plus a hint of flamenco passion in the way she strums her guitar and moans in the back of her throat. Maybe it’s just the humid summer night, but I’m hot under the collar.

Calvi has described her music as a mix of danger and exhilaration. Frankly, those aren’t adjectives that normally get an outing in the prim Swiss town of Montreux. Eleven months of the year, you could skip through it on a day trip with ‘pleasant’ your most intense description. The dukes of Savoy built a whopping castle just along Lake Geneva foreshore that’s now a prime tourist attraction, which brings most people here. Montreux got its start as a tourist spot in the nineteenth century, when it was favoured by the British and Russian nobility for their winter retreats. (A balmy climate allows palm trees and figs to flourish, bringing a touch of the Mediterranean to Switzerland.) Now wealthy tax-evaders skulk in big villas with alpine views as Chinese tour groups traipse past beneath their windows.

Standing room only at one of many packed concerts at the Montreux Jazz Festival.
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Entertaining the crowds at a concert at the Montreux Jazz Festival.
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In short, Montreux is probably not a place you’d generally need to linger unless you have a blue rinse and an offshore account. The month of July is a different matter, however. July brings the three-week Montreux Jazz Festival to town, and you should stay as long as you can. Then, music oozes from this little lakeshore town’s every pore. It becomes sultry and unpredictable. You might catch an anti-establishment jazz singer croaking about poverty in South Africa. Or Herbie Hancock – improbably but rather splendidly – performing a duet with Chinese classical pianist Lang Lang. Swedish folk-rock drifting from a local late-night bar might make you stop in your slightly inebriated tracks and think: this place is wonderful.

When I was last at the Jazz Festival in 2011, Carlos Santana, Sting and Paul Simon were among the headline acts. A Sunday tribute jam featured BB King, and it was truly amazing to watch some of the world’s top guitarists on stage, strumming to each other in a two-hour jam session. BB King was 86 and didn’t make much music, but you could tell the other musicians were energised just by the legend’s presence.

That’s what I like about the Montreux Jazz Festival: the chance to see the world’s best, as well as obscure acts that just catch your ear. The event has been around since 1967 and, from the beginning, attracted big jazz names such as Ella Fitzgerald, Keith Jarrett and Nina Simone. But by the 1970s, it was already featuring soul, blues and rock artists, and causing a stir with the appearance of the likes of Prince, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. In 1970, Frank Zappa was performing at the Montreux Casino when a fan fired a flare gun and burned the place down, an event recorded in the Deep Purple song, ‘Smoke on the Water’. By the 1980s, the program had become very international – Brazilian music in particular has always been favoured – and mainstream pop and rock artists were increasingly invited. Despite its name, the Montreux Jazz Festival isn’t really a jazz festival anymore. You can expect anyone from Alicia Keys to the Black Eyed Peas or Phil Collins to play.

Statue of Freddie Mercury on the waterfront at Montreux.
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The big stars attract big-ticket prices and play in the two main venues, the Stravinsky Auditorium and Miles Davis Hall. But what’s great about the Montreux Jazz Festival is that the music just seems to trickle down everywhere, and lots of it is free. You can attend the best voice, guitar and piano competitions for nix and hope to catch the next star on the cusp of being discovered. Jam sessions are a late-night option at the Montreux Jazz Club, while DJs keep going until dawn at the Montreux Jazz Cafe and Studio 41. You can attend free music workshops too, and learn how to make those guitar strings twang from some of the masters of the trade.

I find music in the most unexpected places: in a train carriage, on one of the lake steamers that I catch for a scenic ride to Chillon Castle, in local restaurants and cafes where a sort of fringe festival has ivories tinkling. In the evenings at Vernex Park, I join picnickers on the grass under giant trees and drink wine to the sounds of Russian jazz one night, samba the next, as the moon shimmers over the lake.

What I like too is that the Montreux of the other 11 months never really goes away, underneath it all. It’s a grand old resort town with yellow-shuttered hotels and wrinkled people flopping in pocket-sized swimming pools. Jaunty marigolds are planted in neat rows along the waterfront, tablecloths in cafes are flawlessly ironed. The air smells of lake water, starch and Perrier with a twist of lemon. Out on the blue waters of Lake Geneva, yachts are tied up in parallel lines and festooned with brightly coloured squares of plastic to keep seagulls from crapping on the decks. The snow-dusted fangs of mountains loom on the horizon. It seems like the last place on Earth where you’d find one of the world’s best music festivals.

The Swiss staidness of Montreux is redeemed in unexpected ways, not least by a flamboyant statue of Freddie Mercury, slap-bang on the waterfront in his trademark strutting pose. Queen recorded several albums here at Mountain Studios prior to Freddie Mercury’s death in 1991. Montreux inspired one of the last songs Queen recorded, ‘A Winter’s Tale’ from the album Made in Heaven. “Seagulls are flying over / Swans are floating by” go the lyrics: Mercury too was apparently seduced by the chocolate-box kitsch of this absurdly pretty place.

The swans are a little jittery during the Jazz Festival. Visitors are out in rowing boats and sometimes they jump overboard from sheer giddiness, producing piercing screams from those who haven’t, until that moment, realised this water comes from alpine snow-melt, frigid even in summer. Among the promenade’s flowerbeds, Brazilians in pink feathers shimmy as the smell of satay sticks wafts from a food stand. Diana Krall passes by in a floppy sunhat. Plastic Heineken cups are scattered like confetti on the grass, though not for long. The Swiss soon have them swept away, and the lakeshore pristine for the start of another day. The music might be wantonly seductive, but there are civic standards to maintain.

Video Killed The Ruskiwood Star

I’m in a train station waiting room at 1am on a Saturday morning. The station is in Omsk, Siberia. Siberia is a long way from home. And I’m nervous because they just started kicking people out who don’t have a ticket. I’m not waiting for a train, I’m waiting for the safety of daylight to look for a hotel. Language barriers and the sheer lack of an Omsk tourist industry have left me homeless after a late-night arrival.

A gruff-looking inspector asks for my ticket and I hand him my used papers. He looks inquiringly and I blab something about waiting for the next train to Moscow. He’s unconvinced, mainly because the only word he understands is “Moscow”. Old Russians hate it when you don’t speak their language. No patience, no interest. He’s not sure if my claim is legit, so he’s about to order me out. The waiting room is for passengers only.

The fella next to me interjects. He’s been watching me and says something to the inspector that makes him hesitate. The inspector then shifts his attention to my seat-mate’s ticket. He walks away. I sigh. A reprieve.

“Hello man,” says the guy next to me. I size him up. He doesn’t look like a crook and he just helped me out. But I’m alone. In the middle of Siberia. In the middle of the night and my hackles are up. I smile back, nonetheless, and put on my broadest Aussie accent.

“G’day Mate! Gee, this isn’t exactly the Qantas Club, is it?!” Blank stare, toothy grin. Somewhere crickets are chirping. Clearly I’ve overplayed the accent a bit. “Sorry, you speak too queeekly,” the man says. “You are American?”

“Nah mate, I’m Australian.” We exchange names. Ivan’s smile becomes electric. “Osster-alian! I never met someone from here.”

“Well, I’m honoured to be the first,” I respond. Ivan then tells me that I’m only the second native English speaker he has ever met. The first was an American just four hours ago. I’m stunned.

It turns out old Ivan and his mates are movie buffs. They meet up weekly to watch Hollywood movies, practising their English with one-liners and clichéd phrases. They don’t have tutors. They just figure it out. They discover the world through cinema. Now Ivan is testing his linguistic skills – first with a Yank, then with an Aussie. And man, he passes with flying colours!

We have a brilliant discussion and I discover that Ivan knows more about the world, and Australia, than I’d ever expected. It’s remarkable considering Ivan hasn’t been outside Siberia. He hasn’t even made it to Moscow. When he learns that I’m running marathons around the world, he’s shocked, but gracious. I’d have been jealous.

Then, as Ivan picks up his kit to leave, giving me a warm handshake, I realise I’m jealous. Ivan speaks English and Russian. He knows plenty about my world, because he has made the effort to discover the nuances of my culture in my own language. I’ve had this growing feeling that everyone I meet is a whole lot smarter than me and it’s largely because they can understand me. But I’m not learning how to understand them. What’s that adage? You’re not learning anything if you’re doing all the talking.

I lie on my bench, gripping the handle of my pack, and consider my predicament. I’m spending more than $100,000 to see as many countries as possible in a year. I’m on an adventure of discovery. I’m here to get cultured, but I can’t read anything and most people can’t converse with me.

It begs a question. What if Hollywood wasn’t the centre of the film world and, arguably, modern pop culture? Imagine if the Russians spent as much as the Americans on cinematic rubbish with whizzbang effects. Instead of a Cold War with outrageously expensive nukes, they could have had a glitzy film blitz – winning the world’s hearts and minds through entertainment! I’d be fluent in Slavic, having grown up with Tsar Wars and Saving Comrade Rybakov.

I’m from the lucky country, but still I feel jibbed. Could it be a lack of decent movie choices that makes me ignorant? Or am I just a lazy bugger who should have done his homework by watching The Barber Of Siberia instead of Friday night football?

I wonder if I can make amends. If I watch a Russian movie every day I’m here, with subtitles of course, perhaps I’ll get the hang of it? I vow to get online and find Russia’s top 10 action movies; I’ll replay the coolest lines so that I can use them in conversation. Imagine, the locals would welcome me as a connoisseur of Russian cinema. I’d make friends and know how to book a hotel room.

And I wouldn’t be lying on a godforsaken bench, in the middle of Siberia, waiting for daylight.

Board Games with Stalin

All we have left for the morning fire is bark and Turkish newspapers flecked with candle wax and mutton grease. We’re in a six square metre cabin on the east side of the Rikoti Pass, just upslope from Surami, Georgia. Two days ago, we were admiring palm trees on the Black Sea coast, but here it’s cold. Snow fell overnight. Loading up the bikes, I hobble back inside for the last set of bags and the canvas backgammon board still spread on the table.

“How’s the Achilles?” John asks. My eyebrows arch and I shake my head: “Not great.” His sprained ankle is on the mend, but my tendons are getting worse.

Last night, two round women wrapped in tattered shawls and scarves had motioned us into the cabin, bustling about with kindling as they closed down their roadside soup dispensary. This morning, the Likhi Range is hung with cloud, and smoke sits on the ground and weaves into the forest. Just down from the cabin, we pause in the yard of the Kvirackhovlobis Church. I stretch, shiver and grimace. Wind plays on a twisted hornbeam nearby, swinging a green-black copper bell hung on jute.

We stop in Gori for lunch: khachapuri and khinkali, cheese bread and meat dumplings. Stalin was born here. Georgia is one of the few places still proud of the man, and a museum about his life flanks the square. A giant bronze statue of him once stood outside, but in 2010 it was removed in the dead of night by a government looking to Westernise. We stretch awkwardly in the warm cafe, plotting our escape. The pain  is getting worse and I know I shouldn’t push on to Tbilisi, so instead we head for the train station.

Two old men play in the shelter of a collapsing bus stop; the crack of wooden pieces on a wooden board and the tinkle of tiny dice compete with the howling wind. We pass them, and wheel our bikes into the Gori train station, dodging puddles in the dim, faded entry hall. Parcels tied with plastic twine line one wall, and a few solitary mounds of fabric indicate pensioners queuing for sport. A disc of plaster lets go, sending a wet comet to the floor and leaving drifting particles in its wake. A short woman in technicolour robes emerges with broom and bucket to clean up the mess, the latest attempt in her comic quest to keep the ceiling off the floor.

We buy tickets to Tbilisi by drawing a picture of a train, clock and bicycle and settle in to wait. There is no lighting or heat, and the cheap concrete seems to soak up any ambient warmth, leaving a damp chill to settle over the waiting passengers. We set to playing with gloved hands, matching the rhythm of the men outside. I win once, and John three times before we notice the two-and-a-half-metre statue of Stalin staring at us from the next room. He has been hiding here where no tourist will find him, while everywhere else in the old empire his likeness has been torn down. We play for six hours, freezing, reading when we get bored then starting up again under his marble gaze.

One of the old ladies strides up to us, pulling our tickets from our hands and shouting. We carry our gear across the tracks to the far platform and wait. A minute later, an hour late, a train appears and begins to slow. We prepare for a fight to get our bikes on board, but it doesn’t stop. The train blasts its horn and sails past the platform, casting on us rows of glassed, curious eyes. In Georgia, we are told, getting on a train is more like hailing a taxi. We trade tickets for a fist full of lari, minus a fee, and exit to the street. The players have packed up and gone home.

“To Tbilisi?” comes a shout from an idling car. At our nod, the driver reaches out and puts a magnetic cone on his roof. His name is Boris, and he’ll do it for 80 lari (about AU$50). He taps the homemade rack on his Lada and smiles a ruin of gold teeth. We pile in and he hands us apples, shining red in startling contrast to the muted tones of the station. We set off, stopping only so we can buy the tank of natural gas needed to make it to the capital.

WHICH LETTER DOES YOUR DESTINATION START WITH?

region: Europe