Travel Writing Library

I was tired. A long day spent travelling the pink city of Jaipur and its beautiful palaces in the scorching sun had bought fatigue over me and my friends.

Wandering a little too casually through an ancient Athenian site, my sightseeing companion began to clamber over the Ancient Greek walls.

What was the name of the bay we were just in, the one with the mussel farm. I look up and ask Penny, the Pelorus Express Mail Boats second in command.

I had an wow, oh my god moment right there and then, but I didnt utter the words. Not only because at that time I could barely speak any Spanish.

I am in Chiang Mai, Thailand, heading towards my first mountain trek. I am with fellow tourist Ani and guides Mr G and Chai.

My head, wedged between the seat and the window, pops out of its awkward position as we come to a stop at the bus station.

I am going for a walk in the Berkeley hills. I met the group of walkers on Euclid Avenue at the entrance to the Rose Garden, a theater of rose bushes laid out in terraces on the hillside.

Standing in front of a dark, wet, sewer-hole, flames of my desires flash before my eyes. This was it. One of the secret tunnels that lead to Paris underworld.

There’s no way I’m eating rotten food. But it’s an Icelandic delicacy.

The trip was designed to be a reinvigorating journey from Accra, on the coast, all the way up to the North