Get Lost

Right Royal Party

Orange wigs, congested canals, live music everywhere and lots of beer. Queen’s Day is most definitely the Netherlands’ most exuberant festival. It’s celebrated nationwide, but if you’re around during Queen’s Day, make sure you head to Amsterdam, capital of the Netherlands and host to the country’s wildest parties.

Although many Dutch residents couldn’t care less about the monarchy, they wouldn’t miss this national holiday for the world. Every year on 30 April more than 700,000 people converge on the capital for 24 hours of fun and frivolity. While the queen and her royal entourage engage in traditional folkish activity in some idyllic village somewhere in the provinces, the real hardcore partying is done in Amsterdam, queen or no queen.

“Do you know what is going on?” a baffled Japanese tourist asks me on the train to Amsterdam, via the airport. Judging by his suitcase he’s just arrived and apparently hasn’t got a clue what he’s stumbled upon. The train is jam-packed with people dressed in ridiculous orange outfits, the Dutch national colour. Orange wigs, big plastic crowns and flags complete the madness. So either the Dutch national soccer team has won the European final, which grips the country with similar revelry, or something else is going on. Yes, something else is most definitely going on. It’s Queen’s Day – the day the Dutch celebrate the birthday of Queen Beatrix. Well, actually her late mother’s birthday, as Queen Beatrix’s birthday is in January and temperatures below zero would seriously spoil the outdoor fun.

My attempt to explain the chaos is drowned out by a group of loudly singing young men. Some have bloodshot eyes – Queen’s Night on 29 April has become a big event in the past decade, especially in The Hague, and, although drinking on the train is forbidden on this day, the pungent smell of alcohol is everywhere. And it’s only 11 o’clock in the morning.

Once we arrive outside Amsterdam central station thirst takes over. “Wanna beer?” my companion asks. I’m sure it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world so I cave. I must admit that, despite the early hour, the cold fluid is magnificently refreshing. As the orange-coloured mass slowly moves straight onto the Damrak, we decide to turn right into the Jordaan area, arguably the most picturesque part of the city. Grab a random postcard and you’ll see the picture-perfect canals lined with stately mansions, Amsterdam’s pride and a striking backdrop for the colourful festivities.

By midday the streets are filled with people dancing to ear-splitting music pumping from large ghetto blasters carefully balanced on window panes. Holland isn’t known for its great climate and April can be chilly, but today the sun is blazing and everyone is peeling off layers of clothing and slopping on sunscreen. Overlooking the water you truly grasp the scale of the festivities. The canals are congested with dozens of boats trying to pass the narrow bridges, but no one seems to care as they cheerfully dance and sing along to the music. We’re probably safer on shore – the wobbly boats are so jammed with people it’s a miracle they still float.

Our first stop is cosy Café Thijssen, an Amsterdam institution located on the corner of Lindengracht and Brouwersgracht. You won’t find many tourists in this part of town and, although it’s crowded, it’s pleasant enough to linger for an hour or so. On a small stage just in front of the cafe, a klezmer band is playing traditional Jewish tunes. It’s impossible to stand still listening to these rousing melodies.

Queen’s Day is the only day of the year when people can get rid of unwanted stuff on the streets. Everything from clothing to old records, rickety furniture to trinkets is sold at bargain prices. “How much for the boots?” I ask a girl with pink hair. “For five euro they’re yours,” she replies. I gratefully swap my heels for the comfortable-looking boots. Heels are no match for Amsterdam’s cobbled streets.

“Beer for only one euro,” a boy no older than 10 yells from behind his home bar, installed on front of his porch. I wonder if it’s legal, but order two anyway. With great effort he carefully pours our beers, leaving more froth than liquid, but the sight is so endearing we instantly forgive him.

Morphing into orange. Image: Guus Schoonewille
Click to view gallery

Even people’s pets come out to play.
Click to view gallery

Taking advantage of my new comfy boots, we head for the Vondelpark – Amsterdam’s green lungs – a 30-minute walk from the Jordaan. Vondelpark is reserved exclusively for children on Queen’s Day and turns into a kiddies’ Valhalla. The Dutch merchant spirit reigns, with thousands of kids selling their old toys at the city’s largest street market. Being consciously childless – my interaction with kids is limited to the occasional children’s birthday bash with friends – even I can see that these kids deserve an A+ for effort. Don’t even think about bargaining; they know the value of their goods! No ghetto blasters are in this part of town. Instead, you’ll be treated to children showing off their skills on the violin, trumpet or flute; the off notes give away the fact they only started lessons recently. Enough children’s activities. It’s time to head back to where the grown-up partying is going on.

From Vondelpark it’s only a short stroll to the Leidseplein, one of the city’s major squares, lined with watering holes and the famous Bulldog coffee shop, frequented more by tourists looking for an instant high than locals. The name coffee shop is deceiving as its main purpose is selling cannabis, although most also serve a strong cuppa, sandwiches and sweet pastry. “Come on and join us,” a guy in a group of hippie-like Italians yells from the crowded terrace. It’s tempting, but we decide to leave the psychedelic produce alone. The city is dizzying enough, and in these dense crowds you could easily become claustrophobic on dope. We make our way towards the main stage where an unknown DJ is spinning groovy tunes. Let’s test these boots for their dancing skills.

Mission accomplished, we head back through the narrow alleys towards an area known as the The Nine Streets, one of the hippest parts of town with plenty of boutiques, bars, restaurants and vintage stores. Away from the major squares, this is where the true spirit of Queen’s Day is best felt, with people of all ages merging into one happy crowd.

At about eight o’clock the streets slowly empty out, and what’s left is a crackling carpet of plastic beer cups. There are numerous Queen’s Day afterparties in town – hosting the best DJs – but as the diehards have been partying and drinking for the past 24 hours, many choose the enticing option of a refreshing shower and a comfortable bed.

Despite having new shoes my feet hurt, so we decide to grab a quick bite before heading back to the train station. Apparently we’re not the only ones craving a grease fix. The queue in the vegetarian falafel joint is long but the crispy pita bread with deep-fried chickpea balls drowned in garlic sauce is worth the wait. No need to grab a map to find your way back to the train station; just follow the stream of drunken people and you’ll get there eventually. With a little detour maybe…

Queen’s Day 2013 entered the record books as a historical date. In January Queen Beatrix announced her resignation after 33 years on the throne, passing the crown to her son, Crown Prince Willem-Alexander. The Netherlands got its first king in more than a century, and Queen’s Day became King’s Day in 2014. To accommodate his birthday, there was also a slight change of date to 27 April.

Did the date change alter the festivities? Not much. The fun-loving Dutch are known for their propensity to seize any occasion as an excuse for some serious partying. Whether in honour of the Queen or King, the beer tastes the same.

The Full Monte

There’s not much hope of remaining inconspicuous when you’re bobbing around in a bright orange kayak on the Bay of Kotor. Montenegro’s UNESCO Heritage-listed bay, directly across the Adriatic from Italy and close to the Croatian border, has featured in a few tugs of war over the centuries, and the remnants of these conflicts are all around – although some are well hidden, unlike me. Fortunately it’s all quiet on the western front these days, otherwise I’d be a sitting duck.

Despite its often-troubled past, Montenegro is slowly emerging from the shadows of the former Yugoslavia as a proud and sovereign state, having gained full independence from Serbia in 2006.

In the same year, the country burst onto the big screen with a starring role in the movie Casino Royale. James Bond sped along the Budva coast in a speedboat, lost a lot of money at the casino (actually filmed in the Czech Republic but that’s Hollywood for you) and then went on his way: Montenegro instantly became synonymous with the high-roller lifestyle. In reality, the place is slowly catching up with its own image.

Herceg Novi is the first major town south of the Croatian border, and it’s from here that the Bay of Kotor opens up to reveal many secrets. Our first lesson in espionage is to look beyond the obvious.

Striking out across the ripple-free bay, we dodge yachts and fishing boats to reach Montenegro’s Lustica Peninsula. The crossing hasn’t always been such smooth sailing. Directly opposite Herceg Novi lies Prevlaka Peninsula, a highly strategic territory situated on the southern tip of the Croatian border, once the source of much dispute.

From the water, both sides of the bay look mild and innocuous. Until we spot gaping black holes cut into the cliffs, that is. Tito’s submarine pens are a sobering sight. The formidable President of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia had tunnels chiselled out of the coastal rock face as a precaution against attack.

Cut into the coast like giant socket-holes, the holding pens are an eerie reminder of the days when this coast saw more soldiers than sun seekers and holiday-makers. The locals remember that era. Old men talk of summers spent learning battle techniques in the storerooms at the back of their shops – all part of their compulsory military service.

As I paddle into a submarine pen, the temperature drops as dramatically as the darkness descends. Straight away my sense of space disappears. Slicing a paddle through the dark is the only sign there’s water below. What else lies waiting beneath we don’t want to know. The guards and their guns are long gone, so hopefully the underwater war machines are too.

The pen runs about 80 metres into the rock. By day diving companies use it to simulate night dives and by night local teenagers bring in stereos and strobe lights for rave parties.

There’s plenty of space in here for a dance floor, but by torchlight the bare walls at the dead end of the tunnel have a sinister feel to them. We turn around and flee, with bubbles filtering up through the churning water as we speed out. Looking back you can’t see a single thing inside – this is definitely the place to disappear.

Stealth and camouflage are one thing, but the Montenegrins know how to stand their ground too. Our kayaking tour continues over open water to the abandoned Fort Mamula, built in the mid nineteenth-century by Austro-Hungarian general Lazar Mamula. The fort was once the country’s first line of defence, but it has definitely seen better days.

Holidaymakers at the beach near Forte Mare.
Click to view gallery

Kayakers emerging from one of the submarine pens.
Click to view gallery

Last used during WWII (as an Italian prison, with a dark reputation), the cylindrical keep has certainly seen some action. Crumbling staircases climb only halfway up the curved walls, and scrambling up to the outer tower is an at-your-own-risk adventure. From the top, the fort splays out over the small island with 360-degree views of the bay, but there’s a minefield of big sinkholes in the floor. That doesn’t stop those boisterous teenagers of course – the fort’s large doors are kept well oiled by partygoers, and ash circles on the roof mark out the summer’s top bonfire sites.

It would be a lonely night on the fort with just the island’s resident big black rabbits for company, their huge yellow eyes observing you suspiciously from  the dark. I pass on the opportunity. We didn’t bring enough supplies anyway, and the water levels in the man-made reservoir look to be dwindling.

Black Mountain, one of the only English-speaking tour operators in Herceg Novi, regularly plugs up the holes and commandeers the fort for survival sessions. They provide water, food and tents before setting groups against each other in night-time navigation games and team-building challenges.

Spies are supposed to be made of strong stuff, and running around dodging sinkholes and giant rabbits sounds like it would toughen us up, but instead we go swimming off the rocks. Spiky sea urchins are danger enough for me, but at least the clear water helps keep those enemies in sight.

After a long day of exploring, the 3.4-nautical-mile paddle back to Herceg Novi is punishing. Ferries and fishing boats leave waves in their wake and our arrival into the bay is not accomplished with any kind of stealth – certainly nothing like the entrance James Bond made. We collapse on the pebbly shore for hard-earned cocktails – shaken not stirred.

The view from the side of the road in the Durmitor Mountains.
Click to view gallery

There definitely aren’t any cocktails on offer during our next aquatic challenge, when we navigate the foreign policy of border patrols during a whitewater rafting mission down the Tara River. High in the Durmitor Mountains of northern Montenegro, the waterway traverses the country’s border with Bosnia and Herzegovina, raging across a tangled knot of invisible political lines.

The adventure begins before we’ve even seen the river. Seven hours into a bumpy drive from Herceg Novi, our bus jerks to a halt. Two officers climb onboard, each yelling “passport, passport, passport”. We’re scrambling for our documents when a young man in khaki leaps on too.

“They go rafting, they go rafting, they go rafting,” he chants back at the men. It’s a battle of quick-fire words and emphatic gesturing – my only contribution to the charade is a paddling motion that earns no points.

Grabbed by the arm, I’m scooped off the bus and into a jeep, gaining political immunity by virtue of being a rafter. My bag gets thrown into the back and we’re off, not even stopping in at the border-control booth before veering onto a dusty road winding down the mountain. I later learn that we’d been at the Bosnian border stop at Scepan Polje, and I was effectively smuggled back into Montenegro after looping into Bosnia by a few metres.

Kamp Grab, a cluster of quaint wooden cottages and grassy campsites tucked into an old oak forest, sits in the foothills of the mountains. The river is a hint of sparkling azure between the trees.

The family friendly camp seems to be a popular stop on the rafting route – picnic tables at the cafeteria are full of people in half-zipped wetsuits. We meet Russians who like to jeer at their comrades coming down the river and cheerful Norwegian families on orienteering adventures.

In preparation for tackling the river, I first try to conquer the biggest ploughman’s sandwich I’ve ever seen, made by an old woman in the open-air kitchen, who saws off great chunks of bread from wheel-sized loaves. The bread comes straight from the wood-fire oven. Slapped between two pieces are slices of the region’s infamous Njegusi ham, cured high in the mountains at Njegusi. In goes sheep-milk cheese and a few slices of tomato. It’s a hardy meal and has me ready for an afternoon nap, not a roller-coaster run on the whitewater rapids.

But the rafts don’t wait, so I squeeze into my wetsuit and booties, jump back into the jeep and head to the flat, pebbled riverbank at Brstanovica. After a brief orientation from our Polish skipper (“Paddle forward when I say forward; paddle backwards when I say back”) we’re off. There are no straps or handholds, so my toes get wedged deep under the inflatable seat in front and I grip my paddle for dear life as we head through Europe’s longest canyon.

The Tara River Canyon takes up some 82 kilometres of the river’s 144 kilometre length, the rocky walls rising straight up from the banks. We bump and jolt through rapids, and several times get airborne after bouncing off the big boulders. About halfway through I remember to use my paddle.

The river runs fast and clear; you can see each pebble on the bed below when the water stops churning. A water snake cuts across the current, making the crossing to Bosnia without a second thought. In the silence after it slithers out of sight our guide tells us to watch the trees: “There’s men in the mountains over there,” he whispers. We’re floating down a natural border and at some points I could reach out and touch the Bosnian trees – but I don’t dare.

We pool into the shallows just below Kamp Grab, jumping into the icy water to scramble up the rocks. Hypothermia becomes the only danger now, but  with wetsuits rolled down and hands warming by the bonfire, we’ve made our escape.

Aegean Indulgence

The setting couldn’t be more captivating: the dining room faces a deep pelagic blue that fades to turquoise streaked with yellow as it approaches the shallows of the long, sandy crescent of Aegialis Beach. It is early June on the island of Amorgos, the southernmost point of the Cyclades, and high season hasn’t yet kicked in. There are few sun-worshippers and even fewer swimmers, but the stunning location of Hotel Aegialis, perched spectacularly over the eponymous village, ensures that it’s full.

Despite the usual international breakfast spread, it is the local fare everyone goes for here: the yoghurt and honey, the Amorgos nut-and-raisin muesli and those honey-smothered sweets for which Greece is so famous. The variety of baked products is startling. From wafer-thin filo delicacies to sesame-sprinkled loaves of bread, the resourceful islanders can produce a lot based on flour and water. Add some oil and the resulting xerotigana (dough sticks) are fried, dipped in honey and sprinkled with cinnamon and sesame seeds. Cracking under my teeth, they fill my mouth with an aromatic mixture of oil and honey. Add yeast and the resulting dough produces loukoumades (Greek donuts). These fried dumplings get the same honey-and-cinnamon treatment but, with their chewy soft centre, taste very different and gradually release the sticky, sweet syrup they’ve absorbed.

Preparing the filling for Drunk Amorgians, a local specialty.
Click to view gallery

Next to the loukoumades is a Cycladian staple. Amorgian pasteli consists mainly of honey, sesame seeds and herbs, boiled together and set over lemon leaves for flavour. Its high calorific value makes it the old-school equivalent of an energy bar. Homer mentions it in the Iliad, where it is consumed by Greek soldiers during the siege of Troy. Herodotus describes it, too, as does Aristophanes. I have a bite and my teeth stick in solidified goo. This must be the only confection where you can taste every individual kilojoule. I think of my waist to be unveiled later on the beach in all its dubious glory and set the rest aside.

Sweets are not part of a regular meal on Amorgos, but are instead usually reserved for special occasions. Pasteli and xerotigana feature heavily in village fetes and saints’ feasts, in family baptisms and marriages. Loukoumades are traditionally eaten on New Year’s Eve and every time there is ‘new oil’ from the olive press. This traditionally happens in late November and coincides with the feast of the Presentation of the Virgin, the biggest local festival. Spending the fresh November oil on loukoumades is an act of luxury, a gesture of defiant waste of the precious new harvest and a hopeful celebration of a year of plenty.

The only thing I would never expect to be added to dough is wine. But then I ask what the savoury turnovers I am stuffing myself with are called. “Drunk Amorgians” is the reply. Because, yes, wine is used in their preparation. Their light, crumbly pastry fuses with the tangy cheese-and-egg filling and the discreet scent of mountain herbs to produce a subtle contrast of flavours, the attribute of a unique dish.

Later Irene Yannakopoulos, the owner, manager and chef at Hotel Aegialis, demonstrates to me how she cooks these traditional sweets and pies. She’s wearing kitchen gloves and standing behind shining stainless-steel bowls, presiding over tablecloths as white as the island’s lime-washed houses. She does this each Sunday and Wednesday, teaching visitors to the island how to make some of the simple baked goods that make a visit to this part of the world so memorable.

This must be the only confection where you can taste every individual kilojoule.

“The cuisine of Amorgos,” Irene says, “like that of every other Cycladic island, depends on its own produce. In the closed, subsistence society of old, you lived from your farm’s own yield.”

She points at the breakfast spread and explains the ingredients her home island produces: “Olive oil, wine and wheat to make flour; fruit, mostly pears, raisins and figs, which we air-dry to preserve. Then there are nuts, pulses and a range of garden vegetables and herbs, like thyme and mint, both of which grow wild. Everything you see there has been grown on Amorgos since time immemorial.

“In my youth, everyone had their own goats and sheep for milk, cheese or yoghurt and chickens for eggs. We ate much less meat than we do today.” On the dry, sun-baked Greek islands the boundless Aegean ensured that seafood was always available, so farm animals were more valuable for what they supplied than for their meat.

“And as sugar came later, we used honey from beehives – and still do in our traditional sweets.”

Born and bred on Aegialis, Irene left as a teenager, not by choice but by necessity. “Forty years ago, the only high school on the island was in Chora, the capital, two hours away on foot from home,” she says.

I try to imagine her walking to school, chewing on a pasteli bar for endurance. I look at the winding coastal highway that snakes out of the village below. Aegialis was only connected by road with the capital Chora, 18 kilometres away, in 1989. It was then that electricity also arrived, too late to change the eating habits of the locals. For what Irene has accidentally just given me was a short, concise summary of that famous Mediterranean diet.

Methisena Amorgiana (Drunk Amorgians)

A platter of Drunk Amorgians.
Click to view gallery

Makes 25

INGREDIENTS
Dough
1 cup olive oil
1 cup dry white wine
3 cups self-raising flour
1 tsp salt

Filling
2 eggs
3 heaped tbsp chopped mint leaves
3 heaped tbsp chopped anise (fennel fronds)
1 onion, finely chopped
¾ cup crumbled feta

METHOD
Preheat the oven to 165ºC. Oil and lightly dust two trays.

To make the dough, combine the oil and wine in a bowl, and fold in the flour and salt. Turn the dough out on to a floured board and knead until it is firm.

For the filling, break the eggs into a bowl and add the mint, anise, onion and feta and combine. You want the filling to be quite solid, so add a little bit more feta if it’s too loose. Season the mixture with salt and pepper.

Using a spoon, cut the dough into small balls then press them on the kitchen counter to make disks about 10 centimetres in diameter. Put a spoonful of filling on the centre of each one and fold it in half. Use the tines of a fork to seal each parcel.

Place the turnovers on the prepared trays and bake in the oven for 25 minutes or until golden. Serve with a classic Greek salad.

You can also use this dough to make sweet amorgianas. For the filling, use a good dollop of your favourite marmalade or jam. Once they’re baked, dust with icing sugar to serve.

Journey to the centre of the Earth

Hanging above a deep and seemingly endless black hole, the window cleaner’s basket in which I am standing jerks to life and begins to drop. After a nailbiting couple of minutes descending in the dark, we touch down. I am now inside a volcano.

Iceland is an incredible world of fire and ice, topped with creaking glaciers, bubbling mud pools, geysers and an astonishing country-length crack in the ground that marks the continental divide between Europe and the Americas.

But there is nothing more spectacular than this.

After clattering down a narrow chute, past sharp, spiked rock walls and a deep, red blowhole that mimics the jaws of hell, we have a gentle landing at the bottom of Thrihnukagigur volcano’s cavernous magma chamber, the only accessible one of its kind in the world.

It takes six minutes to lower into the cave.
Click to view gallery

Stepping out across the boulder-strewn floor, it is hard to stay upright as I stumble my way around, taking in a roof blotched with volcanic deposits that look like a modern art version of the Sistine Chapel, painted by a rather disturbed and angry artist.

The silence is eerie, the only noise comes from the continuous plop of water drops seeping through the earth, hitting the ground and echoing through the damp air. Coupled with the psychedelic views, the experience is mesmerising.

All too soon, it’s time to return to the surface. “You can stay down here if you want,” offers my guide, Bjorn, with a cheeky smile. “Take my radio and we’ll come back down and pick you up in 15 minutes or so. It’ll be fine.”

The chance to experience complete isolation from the world in this incredible place is tempting. But then I remember that we’re sitting right on top of the lava hotbed that caused Eyjafjallajökull to violently rumble to life in 2010 without warning, just 100 kilometres away. Erm, maybe next time…

Fright Night

I’m standing at the side of a gently sloping, snow-covered cobblestone street in the old centre of Zell am See in the Austrian Alps, along with several thousand of the town’s inhabitants.

Strings of fairy lights illuminate the quaint buildings, festooned with Christmas decorations. Families and friends chat and laugh, digging gloved hands deep into coat pockets to stay warm. It’s a cheery scene until silence suddenly sweeps over the crowd as the white snow at the top of the hill darkens and scores of terrifying-looking, fur-covered horned beasts brandishing whips and chains appear and descend en masse toward us. Fear replaces the smiles on  the children’s faces.

An easy train ride from Vienna, Austria’s laid-back lakeside resort town of Zell am See is usually a sedate hamlet best known to foreign visitors as an affordable winter sports destination, thanks to its reliable early-season snow and great value accommodation. A ski lift in the centre of town whizzes people up to Schmittenhöhe Mountain in minutes and a low-key après-ski scene, offering little more than cosy bars and a delightful Christmas market, ensures most people focus their energy on the snow during daylight hours and chilling out in the evenings. Except for one evening of the season. My snowboarding husband and I have come to see what it’s all about.

Fear appears on the faces of young locals as a demon approaches.
Click to view gallery

Stroll around Zell am See most nights in early winter and things are quiet. Soon after the snow-sports enthusiasts have alighted from the last lifts and trudged back to their chalets and hotels with skies on their shoulders and snowboards under their arms, shopkeepers start to lock up and head to their local bar for something warming before heading home. Travellers like us, here for the early snow, head to the supermarket to pick up wine and cheese or to a pizzeria for an early dinner, while families take a stroll around the traffic-free streets, little ones on their shoulders, to admire the decorations.

Once the Christmas market opens groups of friends, families and couples, locals and tourists alike, do a lap of the dozen or so craft stalls in wooden cabins, browsing lavender sachets, wooden toys and woollen beanies, scarves and socks knitted by little old ladies. Afterwards, they line up for soothing cups of glühwein (mulled wine) and sizzling sausages served in soft rolls, taking their mittens off to warm their icy hands over open gas stoves in between sips and bites. It’s yuletide gaiety. Enter the demons.

It all begins fairly quietly on 5 December, the Eve of St Nicholas Day in Austria and other European alpine countries, where, it turns out, Saint Nic has a devilish sidekick called Krampus.  It’s his night, Krampusnacht, and he’s about to appear and terrorise the town in a Krampus ‘run’ called Krampuslauf.

Krampus, I soon learn, means ‘claw’, and while Saint Nic’s beast-like mate appears in many incarnations he usually sports long, sharp claws, hooves, goat horns, a hairy brown or black coat and a long, lolling tongue that I’d rather he kept in his mouth. Unfortunately, there is more than one. While the Krampus characters traditionally represented different wild pagan spirits from Germanic folklore, these days they look more like guys from one of those Nordic heavy metal bands having a bad hair day. And while the Krampus creatures traditionally carried birch branches, nowadays they’re replaced with more menacing whips and more painful chains.

Either way, Krampus in no way resembles the rotund, rosy-cheeked, white-haired, sack-of-presents-carrying Father Christmas I wanted to cuddle and whose beard I dreamed of tugging as a child. Krampus is the anti-Santa, the devil incarnate, and when I see him – multiplied – for the first time, like a child I just want to get as far away as I can. Which is exactly what it seems the poor little kids of Zell am See want to do when, at 7pm at the top of that snow-dusted street, the terrifying monsters appear and commence their procession of terror through the town.

You see, in this part of Europe, if children have been nice during the year they’re destined to receive lovely presents from Saint Nicholas on 6 December. But if they’ve been naughty they instead get a nightmare-inducing scare if they’re little, a spanking if they’re a bit older, and if they’re a teenager they’re probably up for a beating from the demonic Krampus. It’s during the previous day the poor things figure out if they’ve been naughty  or nice.

If the kids are lucky or have kind parents, mum or dad will conceal them, allowing them to watch from between their legs or beneath their coats. But if they’re not and a child is singled out by the Krampus, at best they can expect a swat with a birch branch, at worst a thorough whipping.

Energised by a morning on the snow and fuelled by an afternoon drinking the bitter herbal alcoholic spirit Jägermeister, I get the impression the sadistic monsters are enjoying their night of fancy dress a little too much. Nobody is safe. When my husband and I, legs and arms stinging despite our layers of winter woollies, agree we’ve had enough pain for a while – after all, the procession continues for two hours – we decide to temporarily escape the madness.

We retreat to a bar, rubbing the welts that are no doubt appearing on our legs and arms beneath our coats, and find the bartender shaking her head as the screams of terrified children follow us inside. “They’re idiots,” she says of the Krampus beasts, pouring us glasses of steaming mulled wine. “They run riot. They’re usually drunk by now and their sweaty suits stink,” she says, crinkling up her nose.

When we emerge 10 minutes later, a teenage boy is on the ground, obviously having been knocked out in the cold after a hiding and having slipped over on the ice. The ugly ogres continue to stream down the street, chasing teenage girls, flogging boys and hauling small children over their shoulders and running off with them down the street. We decide to stick to the back row for the rest of the show.

As the last of the Krampus monsters disappears in the direction of the main square, toward the towering Christmas tree glittering with glass baubles and shiny gifts, we make our way to an outdoor bar for some more glühwein.

Turn up the music, add another layer or three, grab a whip and fill your pockets with tiny bottles of Jägermeister, and it’s probably an interesting night out. But it sure as hell isn’t a very nice thing to do with little kids.

Wales

Rugby, dragons and places with weird names that defy all the normal rules of pronunciation… If you’ve never been to Wales they might your only points of reference for this small country hanging off England’s northwest.

But a visit – quick or otherwise – will no doubt surprise. Cardiff is the capital, although its size is eclipsed by many other cities in the UK. It is, however, a cool mix of innovative modernity and historical sites. Don’t miss Cardiff Castle in the centre of the city, then catch a show or an exhibition at the Wales Millennium Centre.

Most of the Welsh population lives in its southern reaches, so head north for some respite. Snowdonia National Park has it all, with lakes, peaks and tiny villages. Go walking through the mountains or along beaches, cycle trails or fish for wild trout in the Mawddach river. These more northern areas are also where you’re more likely to hear people speaking Welsh. Chances are you won’t understand any of this Celtic language, although it may be helpful to know that Iechyd da i chwi yn awr ac yn oesoedd is the traditional greeting and means “Good health to you now and forever”.

You might also want to visit the town with the longest name in the English-speaking world. Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch means “St Mary’s Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel near a Rapid Whirlpool and the Church of St Tysilio near the Red Cave”. Good luck asking for directions.

Turkey

If there is any other country in the world that quite so magnificently straddles the eastern and western worlds we’d like to hear about it. Most travellers make the mistake of heading to Turkey with 10 days or so marked out in their itineraries and leave wishing they’d put aside a month to delve deeply into the landscapes, history and culture.

Bustling Istanbul, divided by the Bosphorus, deserves 10 days itself. By day, you’ll be astonished by the magnificence of the Aya Sofya, Topkapi Palace and Sultan Ahmed Mosque (known by most as the Blue Mosque), be stilled by the haunting call to prayer, have your body scrubbed raw at steamy bathhouses and battle against the crowds in the Grand Bazaar. At night, there are hip rooftop bars, sophisticated restaurants, and clubs and pubs to suit any occasion.

Aussies and Kiwis often set out on a sombre pilgrimage to Gallipoli, but, if you’re in the country for Anzac Day and don’t fancy the crowds, put it off till later in the trip (it’s still a haunting spot when ceremonies aren’t taking place) and instead head south. This is the beginning of the summer season, so you’ll discover the beaches near Fethiye and Oludinez blissfully deserted.

The white travertines of Pamukkale (the name means cotton castle) and the ruins of the spa city of Hierapolis are worth a visit. Take your time and check out the ancient theatre before taking a plunge in the Sacred Pool – complete with collapsed columns beneath the surface – of the Roman baths.

Another incredible landscape is Cappadocia, in the centre of the country. Everyone seems to do a balloon ride over the fairy chimneys and they all say it’s something not to miss.

There are plenty of of Roman ruins across the country, but some of the best can be found at Ephesus, a short drive from the beachside town of Kusadasi. Sure, it gets crowded, but even the hoards can’t detract from the sheer scale of the Library of Celcus, the theatre and the other monuments that survive here. The terraced houses, excavated complete with their fresco’d walls and mosaic floors, are a highlight.

Kusadasi itself is a pleasant base for exploring the western Aegean coast, although it can be slightly overrun by tourists on package holidays, who frequent its Irish bars and the cafes serving full English breakfasts. It’s pretty easy to get away from the crowds even here, though – take a boat trip to Izmir or just jump on one of the local buses and head to the beaches in Dilek National Park. Take a bottle of water and a few snacks, paddle in the water and lie in the sun.

There’s so much more to explore in this vast and diverse country. Just make sure you give yourself enough time.

Switzerland

Is this the most beautiful country in the world? In all likelihood, especially if sunshine, lush meadows and snowy peaks are your idea of postcard perfect.

And the chocolate! Oh, the chocolate. It alone makes a visit worthwhile.

There’s no doubt this is a nation that will bring out the outdoors in even the most committed homebody. Cruise across Lake Geneva, jump on two wheels to explore the country’s 20,000 kilometres of cycle trails, and paraglide over the magnificent mountainous landscape. Come winter, everyone heads to the snow for those quintessential alpine conditions. Switzerland has 57 peaks higher than 4000 metres (the most of any country in Europe), world-famous resorts and plenty of opportunities to partake in winter activities beyond downhill skiing. Try the cross-country variety, snowshoeing, airboarding (for the uninitiated, they’re like inflatable boogie boards) and tobogganing for a little diversity in your cold-climate adventure.

Each of its cities has its own personality. Bern revels in its old-world charms (part of the city is a UNESCO World Heritage site). There’s shopping aplenty in the six kilometres of arcades known as lauben, museums and galleries like Albert Einstein House and Centrum Paul Klee, and beautiful Bear Park (yes, it is home to a family of bears) with its elevated rose garden.

Don’t be put off by Zurich’s reputation as Switzerland’s financial centre because there’s plenty more on offer, including international design, a mass of art galleries and museums (more than 150 all together), hip nightlife and an idyllic setting where the Limmat River meets Lake Zurich.

Then there’s Geneva. With people from across the world living and working at its multitude of diplomatic organisations, including the United Nations and Red Cross, it fairly hums. Built along the shores of Lake Geneva, it offers cultural highlights, international cuisine and, at stores like Favarger and Teuscher, some of the finest chocolate you could possibly wrap your lips around.

Sweden

The Swedes have a reputation; they’re Europe’s denizens of style. Wandering the streets of Stockholm everything looks as though it’s been ripped straight from the pages of either a fashion or lifestyle magazine. It doesn’t hurt that everyone seems to be tall, blonde and the picture of good health. But there’s another side to this Scandi nation, with its stretches of windswept coastline, cascading waterfalls and frigid expanses of the tundra high up in the Arctic Circle. (Fun fact: the world’s oldest living tree, a five-metre spruce called Old Tjikko, can be found in the Dalarna province in central Sweden. It’s thought to have sprouted about 9500 years ago during the last Ice Age.)

For the adventurer, there’s a bit of everything: ice yachting on frozen lakes, diving on wrecks in the Baltic Ocean and climbing frozen waterfalls in the Abisko canyon. Of course, there’s the famous stuff as well, but having seen a million photographs of the Icehotel, rebuilt each year when winter comes to the village of Jukkasjärvi, or the glowing aurora borealis doesn’t make them any less impressive when you finally experience them in real life.

On the other side of the coin, urbanistas should beat a path to the country’s south and the city of Malmö. Plotted around picturesque Gamla Staden (Old Town), the rest of the city is contemporary and dynamic, with a population formed from a huge range of nations (some 150 in all). Marvel at the Turning Torso, Santiago Calatrava’s 190-metre-tall building at Western Harbour. Gather with the locals at Lilla Torg, a popular city square, at the beginning of a night out. If you’re travelling solo, sign up for a guided tour for singles at the outstanding contemporary art gallery, Moderna Museet. This is a city worth more than a perfunctory overnight stay.

Spain

How can you go wrong in a country laden with sangria, paella and a never-ending onslaught of tapas?

The popularity of Spain as a destination can be attributed not just to its people’s reputation as sexy and passionate, but also its diverse regions. Barcelona is the ultimate beachside city, where you can promenade along Las Ramblas, eat pizza slices or seafood platters at La Boqueria Food Market, and clamber up the winding staircases at Gaudí’s almost-finished masterpiece, Sagrada Família. In Madrid you can run with hipster elite, have a cold beer at one of the bars around Plaza de la Cebada, hunt for treasure at Sunday’s El Rastro flea market or hang out with the masters at Museo Reina Sofía, where you can see Picasso’s famous Guernica.

Food lovers will want to book a stay on the Bay of Biscay, where San Sebastián has been anointed Europe’s – maybe even the world’s – best gourmet destination, with its full offering from simple pintxos bars to Michelin-starred restaurants.

Then there’s Granada with its palace and fort complex Alhambra, the Guggenheim in Bilbao and skiing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. While you may party hard in Ibiza, there are other island beauties like Formossa, Santander and Majorca. Festivals such as La Tomatina in Buñol and Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls draw international partygoers. The truth is you could spend months in this beguiling country and never discover all its treasures.

WHICH LETTER DOES YOUR DESTINATION START WITH?

region: Europe