A gentle offshore breeze ripples the face of the Atlantic breakers. Fresh off the still snowy mountains it carries with it a wintery hint of the txirimiri. This is the poetic – almost endearing – name by which the people of San Sebastián know their drizzle. For whole seasons the txirimiri seems to be the default weather system here. Pulling on my wetsuit, I begin to question the wisdom of my decision to come to San Sebastián so early in the Spanish summer on the trail of what is said to be a surfing revolution.
Carrying my board across the rain-pocked sand of La Zurriola beach I count about 30 surfers lined up along the clean, eight-foot faces. The Basques are a hardy race, tempered by a land of mist-shrouded mountains and rugged coastlines. Apparently it takes more than the nip of the txirimiri to keep the local surfers from their waves.
Tucked into the corner where Spain and France meet, San Sebastián seems to benefit as the focus point for any swell that is generated by the spiralling currents of the Bay of Biscay. To the east lies French Basque Country and to the west a rugged coastline of wave-smashed cliffs and wild, windswept beaches stretches unbroken to Fisterra – literally the End of the Land – in far off Galicia. San Sebastián’s Gipuzkoa province is particularly famed for spots like the legendary surf beach at Zarautz (10 minutes from the city) and the infamous Playa Gris, which seems almost to have acted as a magnet for some of the biggest waves in the history of surfing.
The city itself has two beaches with two very different characters. The immense sweeping arc of soft sand that is La Concha is a tranquil natural harbour and the ideal town beach. The great curving promenade here is fringed with Art Deco hotels and palaces, built way back when this was the prime summer getaway for Spanish royalty who came to take in the waters and breathe the cool air of green Spain. La Concha has been called the pearl of the Cantabrian Sea, but its Spanish name simply means ‘the shell’.
Beyond the plazas, palaces and tangled alleyways of the old town, across the river in Gros quarter, you find wild La Zurriola – a beach with an altogether different mood. The humble little quarter of Gros has now launched a bid to claim the title of European Capital of Surf. This seems unlikely, until you remember Gros is just an hour from legendary Mundaka, the river-mouth wave that is rated as one of the 10 best waves on the planet.
Riding on the swell of La Zurriola, San Sebastián is leading a World Surf Cities Network, a group of nine destinations striving to have more of an impact on one of the world’s fastest growing sports. Durban in South Africa and France’s Hossegor are already fixtures on any travelling surfer’s wishlist, along with Australia’s Gold Coast and Newcastle. The others – Ericeira (Portugal), Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (Spain), Arica (Chile) and Santos (Brazil) – are less well known, but are respected for truly world-class surf.
After a winter spent surfing balmier waves in Brazil, the chill seeping through my wetsuit is somewhat numbing. But there is more than one side to the surf revolution taking place on the Spanish north coast at the moment and I’m anxious to check it out. The board I’m now paddling out into the lineout is already getting some appraising looks – along with a few doubtfully raised eyebrows. It’s what is known as a parabolic shape: its curves go inwards where those on conventional boards go out. It’s a surfboard with a waist and hips. Engineers at Pamplona-based Trinity Board Sport perfected the design using aerodynamics software normally reserved for the production of wind turbines.
My first slide down the face and swooping bottom turn convinces me the hype about these boards is not overstated. It’s shorter than any board I would normally ride, but is very stable and extremely fast. So fast, in fact, that I arrive back at the top of the wave far quicker than expected. As I go flying up over the lip and the board goes spinning up into the spattering txirimiri, I have a moment to reflect that this isn’t the most impressive start to the session. By the time another set comes through, however, I’m prepared for the phenomenal acceleration. If it’s true that these are indeed the surfboards of the future then all I can say is ¡Viva la Revolución!
A few hours later I’m in a backstreet taberna, lifting a glass of Basque cider and drinking a toast to surfboards with hips and San Sebastián’s place as the capital of European surfing.
There can be nowhere in the world that is better for curing après-surf munchies than San Seb. There are more Michelin stars here per square metre than anywhere else in the world, but it is the celebrated pintxos that are the most alluring option when you have just returned, muscles buzzing, from the surf.
Pintxos are the local version of tapas. In San Sebastián these normally simple snacks have been refined to the point where, in even the humblest bars, they are haute cuisine. I head for the first bar I see and, as I step in onto the sawdust floor, find myself faced with an entire feast. More than 20 plates are lined up along the bar. Each is heaped with perfectly prepared snack-size morsels. The place is still empty but the old bartender is busy laying out more delicacies. I ask him if they normally offer such incredible variety.
“Sometimes more, never less,” he answers with a shrug. “It takes most of the afternoon for the chef to prepare everything, but here a bar isn’t worthy of the name if it doesn’t offer good pintxos.”
He offers me a plate and starts to talk me through the list: “Mountain ham with goat cheese on oiled bread, prawns in garlic mayonnaise, baby octopus with chillies…” It goes on.
Some of the offerings are from the mountains and fertile valleys of the surrounding region. There’s cured ham, black pudding, spicy del Padrón peppers and asparagus that the king himself once famously described as cojonudo (balls-out spectacular).
Mostly, however, the bar’s specialities reflect San Sebastián’s fishing background: tuna, salted bacalao cod, delicious grilled sardines, tangy pickled anchovies and the little percebes that are delicious until somebody points out that these giant barnacles are almost entirely just huge (relatively speaking) penises.
It’s no coincidence that some of the best pintxo places are in the network of cobblestone alleyways between the market and the port. The towering statue of the Madonna on her hilltop perch looms over the grand old Santa Maria church and the pretty little fishing port. The Basques are not generally religious people and many of the fishermen here believe that a freshly painted livery of the green, red and white of the Basque flag offers all the protection their boats will ever need against the terrible Bay of Biscay storms.
The little port is a particularly evocative place to wander if you want to grasp the character of old San Sebastián. A few tourists mosey to and from the naval museum or the wonderful aquarium, with its walk-through shark tunnel, and at weekends the cluster of little seafood restaurants rumbles with Basque banter. The Euskera language is spoken more in San Sebastián and the surrounding Gipuzkoa area than anywhere else in the Eu (Basque) region. The streets of Donostia, as the city is called locally, are signposted with strange-looking words that are liberally spiked with Zs, Xs and Ks.
Despite its dual languages San Sebastián is one of the easiest Spanish cities to come to terms with. Where the cities of Spain’s far south are sultry and temperamental and the ancient fortress-towns of the central plateau are conservatively aloof, San Sebastián strikes you at first sight as chic and sexy. Outwardly it seems to encapsulate the stylish side of the Spanish character, but there’s an easygoing backstreet ambience that lures you onward into long, lazy rambles through the old-town alleys. Whatever your temperament, there can be few cities in all of Europe where it is so easy to feel at home.
By the time I’ve sated my hunger and finished my bottle of cider the streetlights are starting to come on. Despite the drizzle all is well with the world. I pull my collar up and wander the cobbled streets to the wave-break wall – a battlement to hold back the interminable onslaught of the Biscay breakers – to check out La Zurriola again.
The rain seems to be coming down heavier and a few dark storm clouds are now blotting out the setting sun. I watch several teenaged schoolboy surfers sprinting down the beach to catch a last few waves before a damp darkness falls on surf city. With this level of dedication it will take more than the txirimiri to keep San Sebastián from taking her place as the queen of European surfing.
Give the sauna the cold shoulder and air your lumps and bumps at a cool –120ºC. Haikko Manor’s Super Cold Treatment claims to leech away sleep disorders, stress and unsightly skin conditions, and locals have employed the technique to treat pain and rheumatic diseases for centuries.
Shimmy into a set of togs, pull on a pair of mittens and colourful felt booties then top off your ensemble with ear warmers – so you part with your ills, not your ears.
A one- to three-minute stint in the icebox earns you a diploma and you’ll greet a reinvigorated, refreshed you. It may not banish all your aches and pains, but for a while you’ll be too numb to notice.
With no roads, no mobile signal and no electricity, Scotland’s Skiary is the ultimate destination for getting away from everything. The remote cottage, which accommodates just six guests at a time, is located on the shores of Loch Hourn in the northwest Scottish Highlands and is considered one of the most remote places to stay in Britain.
Skiary is only accessible by foot or by boat (don’t worry, your hosts will meet you where the road ends) and is completely disconnected from the stresses of the modern world. Your days are left free to explore the surrounds, unleash your creativity or clear your mind.
Pursue all those activities you’ve ever wanted to try, without technology and the frenzy of life to get in the way. Shoot some nature photography, fish in the loch or observe the wildlife. Local red deer visit at dusk and seals often perch on the rocks nearby.
As for accommodation, think warm, cosy fireplace with gourmet home-cooked meals. Although Skiary may be a digital detox, it’s surely an indulgence of simple pleasures.
Mild oxygen deprivation is all the rage in the elite sporting world, so head to the hills to train as the champions do. Boost your red blood cell count and pump up your haemoglobins as you tackle high-altitude training in Spain’s Sierra Nevada mountain range. Take advantage of a preparation program at Australia’s Bodyology Altitude Training Centre before jetting to Andalusia, where tuition is tough and the air is lean.
Perched at 2320 metres above sea level, the Centro de Alto Rendimiento (CAR Centre) boasts Olympic-sized everything, including multiple gymnasiums and a cycling track, swimming pool and soccer pitch.
Favoured by cycling king Cadel Evans and national swimming squads, it’s one of the world’s most acclaimed altitude training centres. Fly with the gods as you pelt around the outdoor athletics track, nestled between snowy mountains, and push your limit as you cycle, run and hike to 3395 metres.
The three-stage program alternates high and low living and training. After two intense weeks oxygen will feel so passé.
Sometimes life needs a spark. What better way to breathe fire into your life than learning to walk across hot coals in your bare feet. Learning to master firewalking can work for your self-development, confidence and team-building skills. Who knew?
Generations of civilisations have taken part in this timeless tradition, including the Vikings, Cretans and Samoans. It’s a case of mind over matter as you delicately pad through searing coals packing a temperature of up to 800ºC.
By the end of a Napkapu Firewalking Retreat you’ll feel as if you can achieve anything. And in that spirit, you may also like to try the retreat’s other offerings, such as glass walking, breaking arrows with your throat or putting needles through your hand. Go on, we know you want to.
If a snow-change is your answer to the suffocation of the city, then breathe in the fresh alpine air at Alpina Dolomites, considered one of the most luxurious ski resorts in Europe, and be rejuvenated from the inside out.
Perched atop Europe’s largest high-altitude plateau in the heart of the UNESCO World Heritage-listed Dolomites, this is the perfect place for intrepid skiers, mountain adventurers and snow–bunnies alike. The scenery – and the altitude – will leave you breathless, and that’s before you even tackle the activities beckoning in the great outdoors.
Adventure seekers can take to the slopes for snowboarding and cross- country skiing. Winter warmers can soak up the stunning panoramic views from the outdoor pool, then sweat it out at the Alpina spa in either the Finnish sauna or the aromatic steam baths.
A visit in summer will see the ice melt away to reveal a stunning alpine meadow ripe for hiking and horse riding. Plus, singing in high-altitude mountain air will do wonders for your lungs.
Up in the European High Arctic lies a snowy wasteland where, in the long dark winters, the sun never makes it above the horizon. It is a land prowled by the polar bear, one of the most fearsome predators to walk the earth. Set foot out of the main settlement and you have to be escorted by armed guards.
The archipelago of Svalbard lies off the coast of Norway, and the best way to explore it is on a cruise. Now the word ‘cruise’ normally strikes fear into my heart and conjures images of mega-liners ferrying hundreds, if not thousands, of people around some of the more unspoiled regions of the world. Then there’s the bingo, cheesy cabaret shows and hordes of octogenarian Americans with external plumbing.
This adventure could not be further from those stereotypes. The ship only berths around a hundred people, so it never feels crowded. Officially it is an expedition vessel, which means it carries a fleet of inflatable Zodiacs for excursions. It is also a certified ice breaker, meaning it can travel through the floe. There are many ships in the region that have to turn tail at the first sight of ice, making polar bear sightings far less likely. She also has a full complement of naturalists and explorers, who give lectures, pilot the Zodiacs and lead onshore landings. They also carry guns to defend the group from any roving polar bears who might turn up, so it’s worth keeping on their good side.
Our first sighting of a polar bear is less than auspicious; cruising through broken pack ice at a slow speed, we spot a lone male asleep, his head resting on a large pile of snow as if it were a pillow. He doesn’t stir as we chug closer, then when it seems impossible he hasn’t heard us, he looks over his shoulder and does a classic double take. His head drops back down sleepily then shoots back up in surprise as his brain registers the shock of seeing a large red ship steaming towards him. He jumps up and flees across the ice, jumps in the sea, swims 30 seconds to the next ice floe, hauls himself up, runs across it and jumps into the water again. He barely looks back at the ship as he disappears into the distance.
That night in the bar everyone feels quite deflated. Sure, we’ve seen our first polar bear, but the fabled white monster didn’t seem quite so big or scary!
Our next polar bear sighting is far more exciting. Everyone is called up on deck by the captain as, from the bridge, he spots a mother and two cubs. They are still some way off, but moving steadily towards the ship. Unlike the first bear, they don’t seem bothered by our presence – in fact, they are walking straight towards us, curiously sniffing the air.
The captain cuts the engines of the ship and we drift slowly. The three bears are on the other side of the ice floe moving towards us. They are calling to each other – a strange and haunting bellow that none of the expert naturalists have heard before. It seems they’re as excited as the rest of us.
The ship bumps softly sideways into the ice floe and stops. The bears are still approaching. One of the youngsters stands on its back legs to get a better view. It couldn’t look more cute if it tried. Its mother appears massive. She’s no more than 10 metres from the ship and looks at us inquisitively, seemingly deciding we are no threat. From this distance it’s possible to make out her massive front paws and the vicious claws she uses to stun seals before moving in for the kill. The bears are with us for almost half an hour before they start to move away, still bellowing to each other.
The next day we are even luckier, and spot a mother with three young cubs. Although they look cute and cuddly, we’re told that even at this age they would still probably attack a human if they had the chance. The mother would certainly pounce without a second’s hesitation to protect her young. The bears head from ice floe to ice floe, swimming between each. As they get out of the sea, the mother rolls on her back to push water from her fur to preserve her body temperature. The cubs follow suit. It is saddening to realise that the chances of all of these three cubs surviving is virtually nil. As the four of them swim off, one of the cubs is actually hitching a ride on the mother’s back, half out of the water and looking around smugly. I get the distinct feeling this will definitely be one of the cubs who does make it.
Svalbard consists of a number of islands. Most of them are uninhabited but there are a couple of settlements on the main island, Spitsbergen, including the enigmatic town of Longyearbyen. The west side of Svalbard is influenced by the Gulf Stream and so doesn’t experience as much ice, especially in the summertime. Off the east side of Spitsbergen lie the islands of Barentsoya, Edgeoya and Nordauslandet across the Hinlopen Strait. This area is shielded from the Gulf Stream and so far has more ice and therefore many more polar bears.
Since this is an expedition, not a tour, the boat is effectively free to go wherever it wants. Captain Heslop fits the bill for an expedition captain perfectly. Not only is he adventurous and dedicated, with an apparent flair for piloting a path through the frozen sea, but he also delivers his briefings like they’re stand-up comedy routines. It’s useful, since there are long hours of steaming through pack ice with little to see and the midnight sun means days literally do drag on forever.
Luckily the ship’s bar is open until the last person goes to bed, which, with 24 hours of sunshine, can be quite early in the morning. Most nights when he has finished piloting the ship or doing ‘captain things’, Captain Heslop comes down to the bar for a nightcap and to socialise with us dark-starved drunks. He tries a number of times to explain to me exactly what the captain does, as well as the difference between a ship and a boat, but I never quite manage to grasp it – certainly not after a night in the bar.
One of the most amazing things about the midnight sun is that it is always possible to go up on deck and look at the scenery, and I often find myself there at three or four in the morning. I never tire of this, especially on the east side of Svalbard where there is a lot more ice. Another factor keeping me on deck is the fact that I am in one of the cheaper, lower cabins. The sea level is just a few inches below the level of the porthole. As we make the crossing from the mainland of Norway to Svalbard past the atmospherically misty Bear Island (of Alistair MacLean fame) the seas are so rough my porthole seems to be under the water most of the time.
For three more days we try to make our way north in an attempt to circumnavigate the archipelago, and this results in some of our best wildlife sightings. We come across a number of walruses. These strange beasts are large and excessively fat; they haul out on the ice floes in garrulous and somewhat stinky groups. Fights break out with immediate aggression before quickly dissipating. They are so well equipped for the freezing, dark winters they often overheat in the summertime – even when sitting on ice! Their skins get pinker and pinker until they have to plunge into cold water to cool off.
We don’t spend the whole time on the ship, and often head to the Zodiacs, sometimes to cruise around looking for wildlife or to approach the towering faces of glaciers, other times for a full-scale landing.
Getting ready for an excursion takes time. Although this is summer, it’s still extremely cold and there’s often a biting wind. Waterproofs cover warm clothes and thermal underwear, and high waterproof boots complete the ensemble. Add a hat, gloves and a compulsory life jacket, and it’s difficult to walk down the gangway to the Zodiac, let alone step on to it.
Landings are even more difficult. The Zodiac is taken as close to the beach as possible but you have to wade the final few metres, all the while hoping the water is no deeper than your boots. Once on land a number of armed guides are close by in case of what is euphemistically called a “polar bear encounter”.
Although largely deserted, there are still signs of human life at a number of the landings. Unbelievably there are a number of hardy souls who used to spend the entire winter living in small, remote trapper’s huts. During this time of year the animals have thicker coats. In the case of the Arctic fox, the coat is a bushy white rather than the patchy brown it turns during summer. Trappers used to catch animals like the Arctic fox and the polar bear for their pelts, and in return were often hunted by the bears themselves. The icy conditions and permanent night must have tested the trappers to their limits. The huts are basic, to say the least, and a number still exhibit the claw marks of polar bears left when the animals attempted to fight their way in.
On the penultimate night of the expedition, we cruise into Hornsund, a spectacularly beautiful fjord, lined with craggy mountains that spawn great glaciers. The crew hosts a barbecue on the deck of the ship before an intrepid few board Zodiacs and head off for a midnight cruise. As we approach the Samrinbreen glacier I am struck by its size, and it just seems to get bigger the closer we venture. It seems to radiate waves of cold and we have to stay far enough away to avoid the huge chunks of ice that plunge to the sea.
Svalbard isn’t all about nature. One of the most fascinating spots is the old, deserted Russian mining settlement of Pyramiden. Until the 1925 Svalbard Treaty, when it became a part of Norway, the area was effectively open for any country to exploit. Even now, any citizen of the 40 signatories of the Svalbard Treaty has the right to come and settle here if they can find work.
Pyramiden was abandoned in 2000, although it looks like it has barely changed for decades. The place – a massive, sprawling, ugly complex – is pure fifties communist chic. But it has some architectural gems. There are a number of buildings for the mining and loading of coal, but also an Olympic-sized swimming pool, barracks for the miners and a sports centre. Communism seems to have lingered longer in Pyramiden than in the rest of the Soviet Union – in the centre of this ghost town is a prominent bust of Lenin, looking out over his deserted domain. For all of the facilities, life must have been harsh for the miners here, but it seems that in true Russian style they sought comfort in the bottle – there is a whole bar here, made entirely out of empty alcohol bottles.
Following a bus ride through the darkness from our pick up point in Split, we arrived at Betina Marina on Murter Island. This was where my life as a deckhand was to begin. From the moment I set foot on Stella, the yacht that was to be my home for the next week, I should have known I was in for a rough ride. A violent storm immediately whipped up and I had visions of being sucked into the Adriatic Sea, dashed against rocks and swallowed by a whale, along with every other calamity imaginable for a committed land-lover like myself.
Stella is a great name for a woman. For a boat, I’m not so sure. One look inside the hold and I had the sneaking suspicion that my week was going to be far from stellar. They couldn’t really name a boat ‘Cramped and Small’ though, eh? Actually, small doesn’t really do it justice. It doesn’t really express the sheer lack of space I had for clothes, food, books and my massive backpack full of glam sailing gear. ‘Bijou and compact’ is how an estate agent might generously describe it. Never mind swinging a cat, being able to swing a sock would’ve been nice.
The kitchen was equally bijou – two cooking rings and a sink that had both kinds of water, fresh and sea. All the mod cons then. But rather than having a sign warning Danger Salt Water, the experienced crew waited until unsuspecting and overtired guests boiled up a cup of delightful seawater mixed with diesel and harbour debris. After drinking some, I understood why so many people get seasick on their maiden voyage. It took all my powers of concentration to stop myself vomiting on the spot.
Continuing my tour of Stella’s bowels, the captain gave me a quick lesson in how to pump water in and out of the toilet. The nearest I was going to get to an en suite bathroom on this voyage was a dip in the surrounding sea. A rather unpleasant surprise was that I had to share these waters with a naked Austrian, several pot-bellied Hungarian men, jellyfish – poisonous for all I knew – and the occasional frisky dolphin. Somewhere inside my head a tiny voice was telling me this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Unfortunately that voice couldn’t be heard above the sound of my fellow travellers, a group of posh English girls. They ensured breakfasts were a noisy affair, full of Hello!-style gossip about Prada bags and shagging celebrities, interspersed with the whistling of the ship’s kettle. All notions of losing weight were also abandoned on day one as the ship’s captain fed us regular doses of large sugary Croatian pastries, surprisingly good at soaking up the night’s alcohol.
Despite there being 1185 islands and islets along the Dalmatian coast, only 66 islands are inhabited. Even with excellent maps and years of sailing experience, it can be difficult to tell one island from another. From Murter Island, our training route would take us through Sibenik and Kaninska. The town of Murter itself, one of three townships on the island, is a beautiful and relaxed locale of 750 inhabitants. Each such island settlement has a picture-postcard market square with dramatic statues of famous Croats doing famous Croatian things. Old ladies tend to huddle around them, selling onions and long strings of garlic. Artisan work and unusual shell souvenirs can also be purchased. My favourite stalls sold handmade bowls, crazy rock statues and idyllic island paintings.
As the weather on the first morning was bad, we took the opportunity to learn how to drive our little tub: parallel parking, three-point turns in the harbour, that sort of thing. To make life a little more interesting, our teacher Gary – who’d no doubt describe himself as ‘fun-loving’ – decided I should practise this next to the most expensive yachts in Murter’s port.
Throw into the mix some heavy rush-hour harbour traffic, stormy conditions, an inexperienced crew and a nauseous novice behind the wheel and you’ll understand the looks of sheer terror on the faces of the multi-millionaire skippers as I inexpertly reversed backwards, noisily crunching gears and narrowly missing their precious and immaculate million-dollar boats. I suspect that it was only my sparkly bikini that saved me from the onslaught of “women simply shouldn’t be allowed to drive boats or sail them for that matter”.
Next came hoisting the sails. This may sound easy enough to you, sitting at home on your sofa, reading this with a nice glass of red wine in one hand. However, this actually requires a nine-point set of manoeuvres, undertaken with military precision to avoid having the things drooping all over the crew. First, I battened down all the hatches – it always seems to work in the movies – and checked the head winds. I didn’t really know what I was doing but, giving a good impression that I did, I released the sail ties and pulled up the main sail by the halyard, which finally released the topping lift and tightened the kicking strap and main sheet. And crossed my fingers. And it worked. It must’ve been the fingers that did it.
After a swig of gin (we didn’t have any rum), I managed to sail to the next island along the coast with my crew tacking all the way. I started feeling like I was born for this sailing stuff after all. Being from an island race, there must be some salt in my blood somewhere? Instead of acknowledging the brilliance of Juliet the Salty Sea Dog, Gary, our long-suffering teacher, simply thought we were a group of lushes tucking into the grog so early in the morning. He probably had lots of interesting ideas about what to do with drunken lady sailors, but luckily for us there are no breathalysers on the open sea and walking the plank is no longer in vogue.
On our second day at sea, we sailed past Vodice and a Venetian fort, built in 1433 to protect the Croatians from pirates such as Guiskard. As my sailing improved, I discovered that distances on maps that would take just an hour by car take you all day to sail. And that’s assuming poor navigation doesn’t steer you on a massive detour. This can happen with no land in sight and only the endless open sea for guidance.
Days three and four were spent in Skradin port and Krka National Park, famed for its seven stepped waterfalls and 860 species and subspecies of plants. After climbing to the top of this gorgeous spot, I was rewarded by a swim in the pool at the bottom of the waterfalls. Croatians claim that the pool is full of mineral properties that are excellent for the skin and will make even the most sea-battered faces look smooth again. It certainly helped untangle my knotted, salty hair and, after a couple of hours swimming, I felt like I’d been through a body, mind and soul makeover. After a quick picnic of slabs of fresh home-baked bread stuffed full of the catch of the day, we retrieved the boat’s harbour documents and paid the nightly docking fee before heading out to another island and another day on the water.
By the end of the week I had adjusted to sea life and I even found myself swaying when we made dry land. Everything away from Stella seemed huge by comparison, even the smallest bijou restaurants we discovered in the harbour. I was converted and having sampled only a few of Croatia’s islands, I had a feeling I would be back. The attraction of running away to sea was evident: waking up every day and being able to discover new places by simply going where the wind takes you.
“Buda is like a garden, Pest is like a factory,” say the locals in Budapest, capital of Hungary.
The pretty central European city is loved for its crumbling post-Communist grandeur, folksy culture and pocket-friendly prices. Yet, partying here in the non-political sense is a relatively new concept – from 1949 to 1989 the country was part of the Eastern Bloc and uncontrolled gatherings were forbidden. Now, the new generation of Hungarians, or Magyars, live it up like lab rats on caffeine, with an art-infused nightlife that’s possible to see any day of the week.
6pm
Downtown Budapest is the perfect place to start the evening’s festivities. It’s relatively small with a vibe that swings from modern to kitsch, and cosy village to grand metropolis. If you’re here in summer, make the most of the late evening sunshine at venues like Gödör, a relaxed outdoor cafe, nightclub and art space set below street level. Gödör has an outdoor stage offering free concerts and an ancient amphitheatre feel. Whatever the weather, it’s the perfect place to ease yourself into a long night ahead. It also loans bikes for free, so if you’re planning on covering a bit of ground, you could consider hiring one. But be warned: Buda is no Amsterdam. The cobblestoned streets, left-hand driving and lack of bike lanes make cycling here a bit of an adventure. Thankfully, there are also public buses, trams, trolleys, taxis and an underground metro service – Europe’s first. The beer’s pretty good, too. Gödör Klub
Erzsébet Square District V, Pest godorklub.hu
8.30pm
A hop, skip and a bike- or taxi-ride away, and you’re in the hip and happening District IX. Try Cökxpôn, a bar-cum-teahouse-cum-tent where music, theatre, dance and visuals take centre stage. It’ll give you a taster of the Sziget Festival, one of Europe’s largest events, which is held every August on the island of Óbudai in the Danube. The Cökxpôn crew run a pop-up there every year. Performances at Cökxpôn start around 9 or 10pm. Don’t be surprised if someone asks you to take your shoes off and let loose during a gig – visitors are encouraged to immerse themselves in a ‘collective spiritual experience’. Cökxpôn cokxponambient.hu
10.30pm
Head across the river to A38: a decommissioned 1968 Ukrainian stone-hauling barge. It’s now a floating restaurant and terrace bar by day and kick-arse club by night. Think jazz, blues, electronic, hip-hop, reggae and even classical. There are more than 20 types of the native plonk – a potent fruit brandy called pálinka that’s got an alcohol content of between 37 and 86 per cent – on offer. Knock a couple back before moving on to better-known evils like beer. Or try the bar’s own flaming cocktail creation, Massive Attack. It’s enough to, er, sink a ship. A38 Just south of Petöfi Bridge District I, Buda a38.hu
Midnight
There’s just one catch about this next spot: it’s officially in Outer Pest. Leafy, quiet District XIV, to be precise. Although the neighbourhood is quiet the bars are anything but. Dürer Kert ticks two of the nightlife must-dos in Budapest: 1) It’s a kertek (garden) bar. 2) It’s a romkocsma, a ruined pub temporarily established in a dilapidated building earmarked for demolition. This one is in a former university arts faculty next to City Park, and has a large lamp-lit garden. Inside the vibe is student share house meets art studio. Cheap drinks, foosball, table tennis, darts, a lucky dip of live music and the likelihood of meeting switched-on young locals make the hike worth it. Dürer Kert
Ajtósi Dürer sor 19–21 District XIV, Pest durerkert.com
1am
Ready to get into the thick of things? Head to Szimpla: the first and most renowned of Budapest’s romkocsma. It’s located in District VII, which was home to a flourishing Jewish community before World War II. This area is notably neglected and run down, meaning that Szimpla is infused with a near-lethal dose of shabby chic. Listen to local gypsy bands, play backgammon or eat pizza by the slice. Szimpla
Kazinczy utca 14 District VII, Pest szimpla.hu
2am
If you’re still not ready to call it a night, get over to District VI, Budapest’s cultural centre. Think wide, sycamore-lined boulevards, cafes on sidewalks, the Opera House and a club called Instant. Another feather in Budapest’s burgeoning romkocsma cap, Instant is made of two houses decorated to the eyeballs with the trappings of an enchanted forest. The biggest of the ruined pubs, it boasts 23 rooms, six bars, two gardens, three dance floors, multiple art exhibitions and pumping music. Now’s a good time to try a ‘simple’ toast in Magyar, the local language – Kedves egeszsegere! Instant Nagymezö utca 38 District VI, Pest instant.co.hu
It gets totally wild when scantily clad Sitgetans take over the Catalonian city during their Carnival. Even in the chilly weather (it’s Europe in February, after all), a full covering is optional and debauchery rules the streets after dark.
When it first gets going, Sitges is essentially a party that attracts the LGBQTI crowd, but after the initial four days it becomes slightly more like Carnival in other parts of the world, albeit with a rainbow hue.
It all begins on Fat Thursday – they call it Dijou Gras here – and the Gran Rua (King’s Parade). Costumed ‘queens’ shimmy down the street and the King of the Carnival reads his proclamation to start proceedings. From then until the ceremonial burying of the sardine on Ash Wednesday the town becomes a heaving, swaying mass of humanity.
The two biggest events, however, are the Debauchery Parade on Sunday night and the Extermination Parade on Tuesday evening. A procession of floats, pumping out tunes and surrounded by dancers, cruises through the streets. Drag performers and dancers from all over Europe strut beside them, as up to 300,000 people from all corners of the globe shimmy on the sidelines. Then, when the parading is done, the Sitges nightlife keeps the party going until well past dawn.
During the day, if you manage to wake up, things are often a little calmer. You’ll see costumed children and folk dancing, take part in a game that’s a bit like bingo called the Great Carnival Quinto, and hook into the traditional feasts held at different points around the city. Try xató (cold cod salad), but hold on to your plate since the carnival jesters have been known to start food fights.
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