Return to Albania

Last time I came to Albania I was apprehensive. I had been told it was a dump. It was a short stay and it exceeded expectations - sort of. Now, I'm drawn back by claims like this:

'The Albanian Riviera features stunning turquoise waters and white sand beaches at a fraction of the cost of Western European destinations'.

I'm in need of R and R. I've spent the whole summer (the best weather the UK has ever had) recuperating indoors after a back operation. So, I'm giving Albania another chance, this time the southern part. Though expectations were slightly dashed by a fellow traveller I was speaking to at the weekend. My Spanish friend assured me that 'Albania is awful and the beaches are row to row sunbeds'. Let's see.

My British Airways A320 plane only has 45 passengers on it. Is that hopeful or a warning sign?

Tirana to Vlorë

I'm starting with three nights in what is a very expensive hotel by Albanian standards. Google persuaded me into it. It's in Vlorë. I've read that Vlorë is Albania's third-largest city and 'the ultimate gateway to the stunning Albanian Riviera, uniquely positioned right where the Adriatic and Ionian seas cross paths'.

I’m here in October. Partly because I haven’t been well enough to travel till now and partly because I'm told it’s really crowded in the summer months. Lets hope Spanish friend's information relates to then.

Its a two hour drive, south from  Tirana (Mother Theresa) International Airport, via the (fairly) smooth A2 motorway. There's now a  Vlorë International Airport, but sadly it’s not open. It's finished, but is mired in corruption scandals and indictments and sits unused whilst court battles rage on.

Nobus Hotel - a Cash Crisis

I arrive at the Nobus Hotel, just south of the city, in the Rahime area, at two in the morning and am anxious to get to bed. But oh no, I have to pay up front first. To my exceeding frustration my credit card is refused, even though it is set up for payment in Albania. is refused. So now there is an interminable argument, during which I am  interrogated about how much cash I have in what currencies and encouraged to walk to the ATM! Eventually, the card machine accepts a lower amount and the receptionist clears out my wallet. Full payment or nothing. I know my bank does not limit credit card payments, so the cynical view would be that the hotel knows about this limit already (or has set it themselves), so as to 'encourage' cash payments.

My room is 402, but it takes me a while to realise, after overshooting on the lift, that it is on the third floor. The hundreds are on Ground Zero.

It is not a good start.

Nobus Hotel - and Luxury

I have very mixed feelings about my hotel and its value for money. I'm changing my mind every two minutes. My room is typical designer ‘ luxury’. Tiny, nowhere to store clothes except a rail and a few hangers. And oddly, nowhere to hang the four fluffy towels, except a couple of small  hooks.  Talking of fluffy. There is no sign of a bathrobe. A luxury hotel without fluffy bathrobes. That's a contradiction. And body lotion in two sample sized bottles that don't match and have clearly already been used.

However, morning brings a gorgeous view across the bay, clouds reflecting in the stillest of water. This is where the Albanian Riviera really begins. The  twisting coastal highway dramatic mountain backdrop could belong to the South of France. Sand gives way to smooth (ish) white pebbles, the crowds thin out, and the water turns an impossibly brilliant shade of turquoise.

I breakfast facing the panorama, teetering behind a glass balustrade. Sickly sweet orange juice that is definitely not freshly squeezed, cold fried eggs and frazzled omelette pieces.

The infinity swimming pool  is fabulous, at first glance, the water disappearing into the mountain vista across the bay. There’s an assortment of the mandatory beige parasols and double loungers with drapes. But don't look too hard. Slightly stained and mattress covers just beginning to split. And the bolsters attached to the mattresses just roll off the back of the bed, as soon as you attempt to lean on them. The pool water is freezing.  I'm told it’s even worse in the plunge pools that come with some of the rooms. But I don't have one of those.

Attentive bar staff, very expensive, but delicious sushi. And the same goes for the restaurant. Wonderful fish, London prices and indifferent service from a waiter who is more interested in his phone.

 The enigma continues. The beach club really struggles to hit the luxury vibe. It’s a five minute buggy ride away downhill and I'm advised not to walk because of the traffic.  I have to wait fifteen minutes for the driver to arrive though. And then he has to set up the music on his phone, so it can blare out as we navigate the hairpin bends.

There is little luxe about the very stained mattresses, under a motley collection of umbrellas and the shingle beach with a couple of pretty bays. The bar seems to be made of timber sheeting. It doesn’t help that that there’s some super duper wooden beds over the water on the little peninsula right next-door.  

The City of Vlorë: Where the Adriatic Meets the Ionian

Time to explore Vlorë. The palm and pine lined Lungomare Promenade (named after its Italian architect)  is a lively five-kilometre seaside walkway – the social heartbeat of Vlorë day and night. It’s lined with parks, gelato stands, open-air beach clubs, and chic restaurants. And unsurprisingly has a very Italian vibe. Rented cycle cruisers cause as much bedlam here as they do in Brighton. Just off to the west is Karaburun-Sazan Marine Park. Sazan is Albania's only real claim to an island. Once a highly restricted, secretive military base during the Cold War era, there are a medley of kiosks offering boat excursions here, from the harbour. It's it's currently been in the news as being under development. It's reported that Jared Kushner has taken an interest.

 Running alongside the city centre is Plazhi i Vjetër (Old Beach), wide and shallow. The other side of the harbour is Plazhi i Ri (New Beach), highly developed, buzzy, and fronted by plenty of lounge chair rentals and beach clubs.

At sunset,  the  palms illuminate whilst the Albanians indulge in their favourite pastime, the evening promenade. Driver guide Klajdi tells me that this is the summerside of the city. In winter, it is deserted and the facilities  all locked up.

Vlorë: The Cradle of Albanian Independence

The  old town is some five miles away in the winterside of town. This half of the city is apparently vibrant all year round. For Albanians, however, it is perhaps more important that this is the historic cradle of modern independence, where the national flag was proudly hoisted, on 28 November 1912.

The official Old Town is a small, pedestrianized inland pocket which functions more as a curated monument than an ancient neighbourhood.  Restored late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century candy coloured buildings, in a couple of  atmospheric stone alleys, the intersecting axes of Rruga Justin Godard and Rruga Ceno Sharra. Quiet boutique cafes where the locals meet for their morning coffee. There are museums (of course) and the Town Hall, multi colour painted to match the renovated Old Town vibe. It was built in 1918, its neo-classical architecture designed to mimic the civic buildings of Rome or Florence and so, ironically, became the Royal Italian Consulate in Albania during the interwar period. Following World War II, the incoming communist regime seized the property in 1944 and converted it into the permanent city hall.

In neighbouring Flag Square, the revered Independence Monument, marks the birth of modern Albania. Just down the road, sits the genuinely sixteenth-century Muradie Mosque, a masterwork designed by the Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan, built of alternating stone and brick layers. It looks very pretty in the pictures, but I can't see it. It’s shrouded in scaffolding.  

Zvërnec Monastery

Next, hidden away in the peaceful Narta Lagoon, just north of the city, a thirteenth  century Byzantine Orthodox monastery. It's accessed via a picturesque 270-metre wooden walkway (slightly dilapidated - watch out for the gaps) over the water. I read that the surrounding pine forests and wetlands are home to over 200 bird species, including flocks of wild flamingos. Though these are absent today.

Zvërnec Monastery (officially the Monastery of Saint Mary) is in classic Byzantine cross style: a central dome over a drum built from alternating layers of natural stone, red brick, and lime mortar. Inside, intricate woodworking, icons and fragments of centuries-old frescoes. Inexplicably there are neo Roman additions. An outer portico, a bell tower and a line of seven arches supported by six columns, Around this overgrown courtyards, monks' dormitories, and a tiny cemetery.

It's a rewarding visit. The once isolated island has a tranquil feel. Not so isolated today as the car park fills up and an ever increasing swarm of tourists meanders over the boarding. The islet's seclusion (no bridge in the old days) has bred several legends. Klajdi tells me a tortuously long and complicated story about a nun based here and a soldier who had an affair, and came to bad end. Google offers a completely different tale concerning a Norman knight and the wife of the region's Byzantine commander, who betrayed him for love of the knight and was subsequently imprisoned in the monastery. But as the Norman invasions predated the construction of the monastery it doesn't seem very likely to be true.

Berat: the City of a Thousand Windows

Through beautiful olive covered hills framed yet again by mountains, northeast of Vlorë to Berat. The city turns out to be a real treasure. This is authentic Ottoman-era architecture, a UNESCO World Heritage site recognized for its remarkably preserved, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Balkan residential architecture. The city’s nickname, the 'City of a Thousand Windows,' is entirely apposite. The houses are built in tiers up the steep terrain of the Osum River gorge, so their multi-windowed white facades face the valley, stacked vertically in uniform rows.

The traditionally Christian Gorica Quarter is across the river, but well connected by two bridges, one the seven-arched Ottoman stone Gorica Bridge. The traditionally Muslim merchant district, The Mangalem Quarter cascades down the hillside opposite. below the fortress.

All the houses follow the same format: the windowless ground floors built of thick, heavy stone, to act as stables and storage. The upper residential floors are cantilevered out, with timber frames and plaster, so as to maximize interior light and air circulation.

Nearly every Albanian town of substance has a castle and Berat is no exception. Set above The Mangalem Quarter this massive, thirteenth-century Kala (castle citadel) really does sprawl across the flat-topped hill. A town in itself, with winding streets, the Kala has been continuously occupied for over two millennia - roughly 100 families still reside here. Hidden inside its defensive stone walls are centuries-old stone houses, the ruins of the fifteenth-century Red Mosque, hidden Byzantine chapels, boutique shops and a multitude of compact ‘ authentic’ restaurants. And great views across the river plain and to the mountains beyond.  

South to Himarë

On check in, at Nobus, I was given a white plastic wrist band that wouldn’t snap closed, so I didn't wear it and nobody ever checked or asked for it. On check out, I’m forced to wear an orange wristband if I want to stay on the premises. Presumably this is to warn the staff to make sure I pay for anything that I order. The hotel today is swarming with Canadians acting like loud Americans. It is a good time to leave. 

Taxi driver Klajdi is taking me further south, down the Riviera coast, to Himarë and regaling me with more tales about the places we pass through. Add to that, stunning scenery. I'm enjoying my drive, through villages clinging to rugged limestone cliffs and peering down to the Adriatic Sea (very soon to be the Ionian Sea) .

South of Orikum, where the Ionian officially begins, we can either wind up the steep, hairpin turns of the Llogara Pass through the Ceraunian Mountain range, or take the Llogara Tunnel. The longest tunnel in the country, this roughly six-kilometre-tube cuts straight through the bedrock, below the national park, shaving 40 minutes off the trip. It's sort of a shame, to miss out on the panoramas of the high road, though we don't have to pay a toll. This is one of several projects in the country mired in corruption scandal. So it's not yet completed, whilst the arguments rage on.

The road then twists through the heart of the villages of Dhërmi and Vuno and their tightly packed stone houses. Historic old quarters rise sharply on the left and steep drop-offs fall away to the right.

The quiet settlement of Ilias has just 30 houses and is known as 'The Cursed Village'. Local folklore says that the Orthodox missionary, Saint Cosmas of Aetolia, visited the area in the late eighteenth century. When the villagers refused to give him water, he cursed the settlement, proclaiming, that they should not build any more houses (heaven knows why.) So, whenever a new house is built in Ilias, an older house in the village is mysteriously destroyed, collapses, or burns down, to keep the total count from rising. The village sits just above the extraordinary Gjipe Canyon and Beach, a hike or boat ride away.

It's a breath-taking but treacherous route and there have been several bad accidents. Klajdi tells me that he was involved, as a rescuer, in the most notorious modern accident occurred in, 2012, just north of Himarë. A bus carrying students and professors from the University of Elbasan lost control and plunged 80 metres down a steep ravine. Locals scrambled down to pull people out, both dead and alive (13 people were killed). A young Klajdi was able to wriggle in and access the bodies. He says it still haunts him.

Himarë

Potami, Himarë: It's all Greek to me

My next sojourn is in Potami, the southerly quiet part of the coastal town of Himarë. Potami is the Greek word for 'river' and sure enough, freshwater springs flow out from the Himarë Mountains here, and into the very end of the bay. There's a very large Greek community in these parts. Officially it looks very Greek and it sounds very Greek. My new host is called Dimitra and she is Greek. A lithe and slim  whirling dervish, always on the move tidying up looking after clients making sure everyone is ok.  She's wonderful.

My room, at the Potami Seashell, is about twice the size of the last  one. It has drawers to put my clothes in, and a towel rail and I'm right on the beach. There are several restaurants very close by. Admittedly the sunbeds look as if they’ve seen better days though there's even an allocated sunbed and umbrella with my room number on it.  Sadly some Lithuanians have already nabbed it today.

The pebble beach circling glassily clear water is owned by the hotel cat and her four kittens. Two tabby, two ginger. They ignore all the humans cooing and remain  totally focused on their kibble. Until that is, they spy someone with food. Especially the local cheese pastries. Then they leap on the relevant  sun bed and  coerce the owner until a portion is handed over. And it’s not long before they’re back for more. And of course the shingle is perfect as their giant litter tray. Otherwise it's peacefully perfect.

A couple of cafes on the beach itself, a minimarket (little is priced I think I'm being sized up to deteremine how much I might pay without protest, though at least it's end of the season). The Rondo Grill over the road is run by another member of Dimitra's family. His two look alike sons do the waiting. The food here is good enough for repeat visits. Tender marinated meat, Greek salads and miniature lamb shanks  baked in yogurt. They alternate Greek and Albanian music, I’m told, though I’m not sure I can tell the difference. They both involve linked arm dancing and stamping of feet.

Himarë Bay

It’s a half hour stroll to the other end of the bay. The block pavement has been engineered into an obstacle course over the years with dips and trip hazards, the occasional tree bursting through to completely block the path. The road lined with cafes, restaurants and more mini markets, boxes of fruit spilling down to the kerb higgledy piggledy,  sits beside one beach and then swerves uphill to avoid a rocky outcrop. The next beach on from Potami is Namos. 

I'm admiring the ubiquitous umbrellas beneath me.. No section of beach is unscathed. Some even have lace coverings, but most are straw or bamboo in traditional style. At the moment, many are covering empty spaces, surplus sunbeds forming ziggurats along the walls. Stacks of spare cones and heaps of metal poles with concrete bases also lie in wait, attesting to the crowds that may have been and gone, or are possibly expected. They even decorate one roof. It must indeed be horrendous in July and August.

A stretch of promenade above Sfageio Beach  and then a break, before a longer tree lined beachside walk and finally, Spile. This is definitely the upmarket end of town. They’ve even got sand, instead of shingle. Glass plated frontages, scores of sea food restaurants and kiosks advertising boat trips up and down the rocky coast. Canyons and blue holes. 'Seas the Day' tours. I like a good pun. Another member of Dimitra's family runs one of the boat tour companies. Sadly, I don’t think bumping my back about over the waves is a great idea.

I’ll settle for a cheese pasty from a roadside booth. One of last  night's waiters from the Rondo is loitering outside. He tells me this place is run by his cousin. Definitely a family affair in this town.

 I smuggle my triangular treat  onto the beach, watching out for felines. I’m safe. No harassment today, though I’m surrounded by the beating wings of  sparrows descending, as soon as I shake the crumbs off my towel. 

Himarë Old Town

Today, a trip to Himarë Castle and Old Town, which turn out to be the same thing. A 12 euro taxi ride away, they are perched on Barbaka Hill, on the edge of a dramatic gorge, the stream rushing down to the beach, at Spile, 200 metres below.  In fact, dramatic views all round, mountains and coast. I've been charged three euros to climb up here, by a lady strategically placed in the car park,  though its hard to define exactly what I'm paying for.  Ruined stone walls, a turret or two and roofless stone shells. But also some prettily restored houses, their owners canny enough to create terraces overlooking the best views and  charge for Greek coffee and ouzo.

This unpolished hilltop citadel that has been continuously occupied for over 2,500 years. At the base of the fortress lie dry-stacked megalithic stone blocks carved by the ancient Greek Chaonian tribe in the fourth and fifth centuries BC. Medieval masonry, lime mortar, and arched gates sit directly on top of the ancient stones, reflecting later expansions by the Byzantine Empire and the Republic of Venice. Then, there are the tightly packed, traditional multi-story stone houses built primarily in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Dimitra has told me to only do as much as I am able. If I had only  done as much as I wanted to I wouldn’t have made it to the entrance. It's a steep and uneven climb, to an arch which might be the way in. But I’m not going back after I’ve paid up. So I wobble round, avoiding the rabbit droppings, savouring the panoramas and hoping my vertebrae won't take exception. And, that I maintain my footing, in any case. Some drops are fenced off. Some aren't.

Sarandë

Another expedition with Klajdi. He plays awful soul jazz all the time and berates me for drinking Coca Cola. 'So much sugar!' Meanwhile, he stuffs bags of flavoured chips, as he is driving. I’m saying nothing.

Down the coast, keeping Corfu alongside and an ever lovely mountain backdrop, to Sarandë, a port/resort city, with a buzzy quay and two 'pirate ships' on a horseshoe-shaped bay, edged by beaches and a promenade. The streets are narrow, there are no parking areas and the traffic consequently bad, as cars pull out and do three point turns, while everyone waits. At least that gives me time to check out remains of a fifth-century synagogue, later an early Christian basilica. I can just make out intricate floor mosaics are still evident. The sixteenth-century Lëkurësi Castle sits on a hilltop, above the town.

Ksamil

Ksamil is right on the Greek border. It was once very beautiful, a sleepy relaxing designation with white silica sand and the clearest of water. Miniature islands dot the bay. Today it has been curated within an inch of its life. Concrete boardwalks sunbeds and beach clubs abound. The 'European Maldives' is rammed, especially in high season, traffic gridlocks, and music blasts from every corner. Almost every patch of sand is privatized. A sunbed and umbrella here could set you back over €50 a day.

The Blue Eye

I'm not quite sure what the Blue Eye is but it is on all the tourist itineraries so Ive asked to go there. It turns out to be very blue indeed. A swirling spring at the end of a lake emanating from a vertical underwater cave (karst spring). It pumps out over 18,400 litres of water per second. The jet-black depths of the underwater cave resemble the pupil of an eye, while the surrounding shallow limestone pool glows in a vibrant, neon turquoise iris. Divers have descended 50 metres into the opening, but the intense upward water pressure pushes people back to the surface. So, the depth remains unknown.

You can either struggle along an undulating and not hugely scenic path for thirty minutes or so (it's over a mile) or hop on a toy train for three euros each way. At the other end, a bridge over a tumbling stream to The Eye. It’s worth the trip.

Lazarat - the Narco Village

Now we're heading to Gjirokaster -it's positioned at the head of the long flat Drina Valley. Past Lake Doftia and through the village of Lazarat. It's famous for all the wrong reasons. Early this century, Albania became the European centre for growing herbal marijuana. According to the Italian police, there were hundreds of marijuana plantations for export.

Lazarat gained international notoriety as the 'cannabis capital of Europe', producing an estimated 900 tons of marijuana annually, and generating over $6 billion a year- nearly half of Albania's official GDP at the time. Shielded for years by heavily armed local traffickers and political complicity, this lawless narco-state came to a violent end, in June 2014. Desperate for EU candidacy, the Albanian government deployed hundreds of special forces police, who fought a multi-week battle against rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, and machine guns to finally seize the village, dismantle the syndicates, and torch the fields.

Gjirokaster: The City of Stone

UNESCO recognised Gjirokastër is built like a flight of stairs on a 30-degree mountain slope: your neighbour's foundation sits directly above your roof. The town climbs 150 vertical metres from the valley to its fortress, forcing the entire layout into a maze of steep, tiered stone walls which prevent the streets from sliding down the hillside.

The town began life as a Byzantine outpost in 1336, called Argyrokastro, before the Ottomans took over, in 1418. During the 1700s and 1800s, local landowners accumulated wealth from regional trading and built kullas - stone tower houses designed specifically for warfare. These homes had thick, windowless ground floors, built to keep out rival clans during local blood feuds. In 1812, a ruthless local ruler named Ali Pasha took over the hilltop fortress, expanding the walls and adding an aqueduct to keep 5,000 soldiers supplied with water.

In the 1900s, the town became famous as the birthplace of Albania's communist dictator, Enver Hoxha. He used the old fortress as a prison for political enemies,. But he also declared Gjirokastër a museum city.' This label saved the historic centre, as it became illegal to tear down or modernize the old buildings. Because of that law, the old market still stands exactly as it was, with sharp, angled cobblestone alleys, too steep and slick for cars to drive on.

The castle is again the number one sight here, towering over the city.  But this one, thanks to Hoxha, is renovated and battle ready. Two museums full of armaments, for which you have to pay extra and lots more artillery, stacked in arches. there's even (supposedly) the wreck of an American spy plane, brought down in 1957.

Great views down across the city. And not a shop inside the walls. Which is unfortunate, as the toe piece on my flip flop is broken and it isn't very easy to walk.  I try barefoot, but shingle and sharp cobbles are not at all comfortable. Finally Klajdi finds a shoelace and I manage to bind the shoe to my foot. The City of Stone is spread beneath u,s the old town up near the castle, myriad stone steps, churches and bazaars.

It's been a very long day. We take the new road back to Sarandë: a tunnel and twisting bends, blasted through  the mountains.

Home Time and a Spanner in the Works

I'm sorry to leave, but the weather agrees that it's time to go. It been perfect for my whole stay, but now it's starting to cloud over and rain. Klajdi is once more acting as chauffeur. On the way to the airport, the car breaks down on a busy two lane highway. Klajdi pops over the gantry to buy a spanner from a fortuitously placed hardware shop and fixes it. Only 20 minutes or so of adrenalin.

High Expectations

‘I would tell you a joke about a mountain, but I'm worried you wouldn't get over it.’

It’s no secret that I love scenery – nature is truly amazing and awe inspiring. And beaches and azure water rate very highly in my mind. But mountain vistas are up there too. It’s a subject on which I can range far and wide – sorry, but there’s a lot of scope for puns in this subject. There actually is a mountain in Pakistan called  Pun Mah. That’s hill-arious and it’s all downhill from here...............  

Mountains, a vast natural playground offering, ironically,  both high-adrenaline adventure and peaceful isolation. There are the rugged terrain technical challenges like rock climbing, mountaineering, scrambling, and mountain biking. Also on the sporting list; hiking, backpacking, horse riding, and trail running.

I can’t think of much that’s more satisfying than a walk at altitude, with great views. Though backpacking I’ve given up. Much too strenuous. Being at one with nature may be a cliché, but the peace and spiritual awareness that I’ve found in the mountains at times, is so wonderfully satisfying  it’s hard to describe satisfactorily. Perhaps the vast scale shrinks our personal worries and makes us feel more connected to the world

That’s why the alpine environment also offers  a sanctuary for leisure and creativity, drawing people to camp (I keep trying to give that up too)  under clear unpolluted skies, photograph and paint dramatic landscapes or diverse wildlife, and generally escape the stress of city life.

Mountain Weather (or Not)

Weather, of course, is a crucial factor.  Alpine weather is notoriously changeable. Clear, sunny skies provide the perfect window for high-altitude trekking, peak bagging, and technical climbs, but the famously unpredictable alpine climate means sudden afternoon thunderstorms can quickly force adventurers below the tree line to avoid exposed ridges and lightning. When rain moves in, slick rock faces and washed-out dirt trails pivot outdoor plans toward lower-altitude forested walks or cosy indoor village exploration.

As the seasons shift, freezing temperatures and heavy snowfall completely transform the landscape, shutting down summer trails, but opening up the slopes for a whole new season of skiing, snowboarding, ice climbing, and snowshoeing.

Mountains Affect the Weather (The Rain Shadow Effect)

Mountains, in their turn, heavily influence weather patterns. They act as massive walls which block weather systems. When wet air hits a mountain, it’s forced upward, cools down, and dumps rain on one side. By the time the air crosses to the other side, it’s completely dry. A lush forest on one side of a mountain range and a desert on the other.

Mountains Matter for Human Survival

Mountains are also massively important geographically. They act as the world’s water towers, supplying fresh water to more than half of the human population. They’re also home to about half of the world's biodiversity hotspots, providing habitats for  thousands of unique plant and animal species that can't survive anywhere else.

Travelling at Altitude

When travelling at altitude: first of all, take the right gear – as I’ve discovered it's not a good idea to be blasé about that unpredictable weather. The technical stuff, like ski gear, isn’t cheap. But mountain sports without the right gear are just plain dangerous.

Second, be prepared for altitude. Anything over 6,000 feet can cause problems. Lack of breath and giddiness. the thin air changes brain chemistry and perceptions at extreme heights.

 Not to mention the fact that tea tastes odd, as the water doesn’t boil at a high enough temperature. Water boils at 71 degrees Celsius on the top of Everest.  That particular location may not be as issue for you, but sickness might.

 I had been fine on visits to mountains until I was in Bolivia, much more recently. For some reason then I was quite badly affected with altitude sickness. Coca leaves ( handed out by the handful) may help. But I needed Diamox. Doctors may prescribe it before you go.

Tips for High-Altitude Travel

• Acclimatise slowly: Spend a day or two resting at base altitude before doing any heavy physical activity.
• Keep drinking: The air is incredibly dry up high, and your body breathes faster, meaning you lose water rapidly.
• Pack for four seasons:
• Don't forget UV protection: The atmosphere is thinner, so sunburn happens significantly faster, at high altitudes.

Transport at Altitude

Historically, alpine travels relied entirely on wooden sledges, or strings of pack animals like mules and yaks to haul cargo over treacherous, unpaved trails and was often entirely on foot. I can still choose traditional human-powered trekking, or guided pack-animal trips if I want to step off the beaten path and play the role of early explorer. But today, my  journeys through the peaks mainly rely on highly engineered, high-speed transit that transforms what used to be a gruelling expedition into ( I hope) a comfortable, scenic adventure. Instead of facing days of intense physical exhaustion on foot, I can now effortlessly glide over deep chasms in climate-controlled aerial gondolas, ride specialized cogwheel trains through solid rock tunnels, or drive over superbly engineered mountain roads.

Navigating those mountain roads isn’t easy. Switchback routes, with endless hairpin bends require skilled driving,  using low gears for engine braking on long downhills, to prevent the brakes from overheating. And, a head for heights, as you try to concentrate on the road ahead and not peer over the sheer drops to the side.  Winter conditions may require snow chains for tyre grip.  But it’s definitely worth it, if there are enough viewpoints to pull off and admire those panoramas.

 For a more relaxing journey, up from the valleys, specialized rack (or cogwheel) trains use toothed centre rails to climb steep inclines directly through the peaks (Cogwheel trains can safely climb slopes of 45% to nearly 50%. Ordinary trains can only do 10%) ). To reach high-altitude viewpoints, ski resorts, (often doubling as  hiking trailheads in the summer)  utilize aerial gondolas, cable cars, and funiculars, which lift me comfortably over deep chasms in minutes. Walking may still be on the agenda, once I’m up there, of course. Not many roads up top.

Over-tourism in the Mountains

Alpine environments are fragile and not always well looked after, as profit nowadays wins out over future  business and sustainability. Everest is nowadays notorious for litter and traffic jams. Ski resorts are having to rely increasingly on artificial snow making, which uses energy and drains local water supplies.

So, I  try not to get frustrated about reservation systems, entry caps, or mandatory local guides to protect the trails and wildlife

Which Mountains to Visit?

Spiritual and Cultural Significance

Given their propensity for awe and wonder it’s not surprising that cultures across the globe, for thousands of years, have treated mountains as sacred places, homes of gods, or bridges between earth and heaven, like:

•  Mount Olympus (home to the gods) or Mount Parnassus (the navel of the world and the site of the Oracle of Delphi) in Greece
•  Mount Fuji in Japan (Personified as a living deity in Shintoism and Buddhism) and absolutely worth the trip, especially at cherry blossom time
• Machu Picchu, in Peru (surrounded by holy mountains). There’s definitely  something extraordinarily peaceful and relaxing in the atmosphere, in places like this
• Denali, in Alaska, often lost in clouds and a deeply sacred and holy mountain to the indigenous peoples of Alaska. The Koyukon Athabaskan people bestowed the name Denali, a term meaning 'The High One' or 'The Great One'
• Or even Glastonbury Tor, in England.

Scenic Train Journeys

Let the train take the strain. And book on one of the world's most scenic mountain railways

Europe

The Swiss Alps are favourites:

• The Glacier Express (Switzerland): known as the world’s slowest express train, this route connects Zermatt and St. Moritz. The journey travels across 291 bridges and via 91 tunnels, offering panoramic views of snow-capped peaks and sheer rock walls through glass-roofed carriages.
• The Bernina Express (Switzerland to Italy): this UNESCO World Heritage line climbs up to the Bernina Pass at 2,253 metres above sea level without using a cogwheel system. It features the famous Brusio spiral viaduct, where the train loops 360 degrees to navigate the intense drop in elevation.
• The Jungfrau Railway (Switzerland): a cogwheel train that blasts directly through the rock face of the Eiger Mountain to reach Jungfraujoch, the highest railway station in Europe at 3,454 metres, rewarding the traveller with close-up views of the massive Aletsch Glacier.

The Americas

• The Rocky Mountaineer (Canada): operating through the heart of the Canadian Rockies, this luxury daylight-only train chugs past jagged peaks, deep river canyons, and rushing waters, along routes connecting Vancouver to Banff, or Jasper. I used the much cheaper but very well organised national tourist  train VIA Rail, instead.
• The Hiram Bingham / PeruRail (Peru): this high-altitude line tracks the rushing Urubamba River through the Sacred Valley, climbing steadily up into the cloud forests to bring tourists directly to Aguas Calientes at the foot of Machu Picchu.

Asia

• The Toy Trains of India  - the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway and the Kalka-Shimla Toy Train. The former, narrow-gauge steam railway uses a series of loops and zigzags (switchbacks) to claw its way up the lower Himalayas, giving riders sweeping views of tea plantations and Mount Kanchenjunga.  The UNESCO World Heritage Shimla Train, usually relies on diesel nowadays, but offers a (very) slow-paced journey (5-6 hours) through the stunning Shivalik foothills of the Himalayas. It climbs gradually from 656 metres up to 2,076 metres, while steering through 102 tunnels, 864 bridges, and 919 sharp bends.  As well as the scenery, there’s plenty of enjoyment from watching the locals both on and off the train

Oceania

• The TranzAlpine (New Zealand): Crossing the South Island, this train scales the dramatic Southern Alps: traversing breathtaking viaducts (it’s always fun trying to capture the ends of the train in the photos) and offering views of clear alpine rivers and deep beech forests.

The Challenge of the Highest

Most of us are fascinated by the biggest and tallest. The highest  mountains in the world are also the newest and sharpest.  The Himalayas were formed by two massive landmasses (India and Asia) crashing into each other (only 50 million years ago), and they are still growing taller every year. Between 80 and 55 million years ago, during a massive mountain-building era known as the Laramide Orogeny, the ancient Farallon tectonic plate slid from the Pacific Ocean and beneath the edge of the North American plate, at an unusually shallow, nearly flat angle. It squeezed, crinkled, and pushed up the overlying crust, creating the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains, far from the ocean. The Andes was again built  by a westerly oceanic (Nazca) plate, sliding underneath the continental plate, to create the longest continental mountain range in the world.

And the quest for personal fulfilment leads us to want to climb these highest peaks (Cue Climb Every Mountain). There’s the Seven Summits – scaling the highest mountain on very continent. ( Can you name them by the way?) I met an American cardiologist in Iraq, who had done this. Though even this is contentious as there is debate over which exactly is the highest mountain on at least two continents and that centres on exactly how you define the continents. Elbrus or Mont Blanc in Europe (Elbrus is in Russia). Australia is even more difficult depending on whether you're talking the island, the continent of Australasia or Oceania. Mount Wilhelm, on New Guinea, is geographically in Oceania, but geopolitically in Asia, along with the rest of Indonesia. I suppose the answer is to climb all the contenders.

Q What is the most dangerous mountain in the world?

A Kill-a-man-jaro.

In the UK, we have mountain challenges galore, even though our mountains may be puny in comparison with the world’s highest ranges. They are still demanding (and sometimes technical) climbs. We have the Three Peaks Challenge (highest national peaks, Snowdonia, Scafell Pike and Ben Nevis all done consecutively in one day, if you drive between them. Some run.) And hikers enjoy Munro Bagging. That’s attempting to climb all 282 Scottish peaks over 3,000 feet.

In England, we have Wainwright Bagging. These are 214 Lake District fells identified by Lake District fan, Alfred Wainwright, who wrote seven guide books on the area. The Wainwrights are not chosen by height, but according to general appeal and scenic value.

When younger and fitter, I used to lap up this sort of thing. But I’ve never aspired to climbing. I go giddy two metres away from a cliff edge. I have, however, seen Everest, from a small tourist plane.  (These crash all too  often at Kathmandu Airport.)

Skiing

I used to ski regularly too. Though never with great élan. I liked the cruisy blues and mid-range red pistes. The blacks (if properly labelled) usually resulted in far too much side stepping or scuffing. Skiing is sublime when the sun is out and you reach the top, for those fabulous views across the range and down to the valleys. There may even be an atmospheric café or a schnapps ice bar to hand. Though I’m not sure that improves my skiing.

It took me some time to master the lift system. The being scared of heights thing is not conducive. But after a while I didn’t mind being dangled in a chair over a vast ravine so much. And I learned the art of sitting on a T bar without catapulting off the poor person on the other side (it’s insisting on riding them alone) or capturing the button on a Poma lift and not getting bounced off.

Getting off a chairlift is still in need of improvement. It’s the jumping off and keeping your balance that's the issue. During my one and only foray into Scottish skiing, at Glencoe, I had to carry my skis (far too far) up to the ski station and onto the lift. There was no snow at these lower heights.  There wasn’t much at the top; it was boilerplate icy and so foggy you couldn’t see the run anyway. (It's called a white-out in the mountains.) But it didn’t matter. I over-balanced getting off the lift and fell over. The next chair through caught the back of my head and knocked me out.  

Skiing in mainland Europe is generally very different. France is super organised, with self-catering accommodation, by the lifts, huge ski areas and excellent take-out food (of course). Austria – far more character, night life, good food, chalet style inns, pretty views and longer walks carrying your skis. Switzerland somewhere between the two. At a price. Italy – variable, sometimes cheaper. Bulgaria - well…

I only skied once in the Americas – in Canada. It was surprising, with beautiful wide slopes and upmarket catering. Carpets in the piste side eateries.

Simply Scenic

But forget all the activity. Mountains are just gorgeous.

What singles out the best? Height has to be a factor, but an individual mountain may not have a great profile. It depends on the difference between the height of its peak and the land around it. Some of the most impressive mountains are the volcanoes of Latin America, or Indonesia, for this reason.

My favourites: the Andes range (it really is awesome), especially Patagonia. Spring walks in Torres del Paine are fabulous. The volcanoes of Chile are also wonderful - but best seen from the air.  

A close second, the mountains of the Karakorum Highway, in Pakistan, especially the jagged Hunza range, running down to Lake Attabad. The vistas, where the Karakorum and Himalayas ranges meet, and up to Nanga Parbat, are simply stunning. It’s a shame the road is so bad (and occasionally terrifying).

For amazing colour, I need to mention the Pamir Mountains, on the Kashgar Road to Kyrgyzstan, and throw in the Tien Shan Mountains too.

To summit all up, I’ve had some great times, in the mountains.

Booking Accommodation as a Solo Traveller

So, you know here you’re going and you’ve booked your transport. Now for somewhere to stay.

It’s a truism to say that where you stay can make or break a trip. I have learnt this partly by reading the small print and partly by making the usual traveller’s mistakes: assuming a 'good deal' really is good, trusting a platform to sort things out, underestimating how far somewhere is from the station, or discovering too late that a single room can mean 'tiny room with a view of the bins'.

So this is not just a list of booking tips, it’s a practical routine I now try to follow before I commit money, time and holiday expectations to yet another bed in yet another place.

Choose the Stay That Suits the Trip

First, decide your style of accommodation. More pampering in a hotel: a hotel usually means more service, more predictability and, if you are lucky, breakfast, reception staff and someone to sort out problems. Travelling solo, I usually plump for a hotel - more chance of someone (other guests) to talk to and nearly always, a person at the desk, to advise on exploration. Or there are hostels in many large cities - less expensive, less comfort, more company.

I'm also very happy with a good Airbnb room. Again, it may offer more opportunities to be sociable and a host who can help orientate me. Airbnb hosts generally like meeting people, have good knowledge and a vested interest in making you happy. First of all, I'm interacting them them daily and secondly, good Airbnb reviews are essential to the business. Airbnb aren't really happy with anything under five stars - which they view as normal. Collecting good reviews turns you into a Superhost.

Another option is a whole place to myself. An apartment offers more freedom, more space and the possibility of cooking (if that is a good thing?)). But, no daily maid service here, no front desk (usually) and a host who may be hard to contact. This means relying heavily on reviews, photographs and house rules being accurate.

My list of points to look for includes secure entry, well-lit surroundings and repeated comments about safety and cleanliness in reviews. Also, depending on where this is advertised, to allow for cultural differences: 'standard' and indeed 'Five Star' can mean very different things in different countries.

Location and Transport

Location matters as much as the bed, and this is where I have learned to be much more cautious. To check how close the accommodation is to public transport, the places I actually want to visit, shops, restaurants and safe routes back after dark. A bargain hotel is not a bargain if it requires an expensive taxi every night, or a stressful transfer after a late flight. I can tell you it's no fun wheeling a suitcase a mile up a cobbled hill, or trying to direct a grumpy taxi driver in a labyrinth of city streets. Before booking, check the route from the airport, station or ferry port, the cost of local transport, the time of the last train or bus, and whether the neighbourhood is practical for the way you travel.

Late arrivals mean making sure check-in is possible and that there is a staffed desk, a key safe, a code or a host who expects a phone call.

If I'm relying on public transport, I have to remember to look carefully at the map, rather than just the distance. A hotel two miles away with a direct tram may be easier than one half a mile away, up a hill, with no pavement. If I'm moving on every day, being close to a station matters more than charm. If I'm staying put for a week, a slightly quieter area with good buses might be ideal. if I've got a big suitcase or an early departure, 'near' may not be near enough.

If I'm renting a car, parking is crucial. Is it guaranteed, paid, secure or simply 'nearby'? I've known 'parking available' to mean tiny car park, six spaces, first come first served. Or even worse - 'You should have called to reserve it'.

AI - A Planning Assistant, Not a Final Authority

I’m finding AI to be increasingly useful at the messy beginning of travel planning. Used carefully (and cautiously) it has a whole host of skills: recommending destinations, comparing neighbourhoods, suggesting itineraries, grouping activities by location, (with planned routes) producing packing lists, drafting messages to hotels, translating questions and arranging all kinds of transport.

But it only works well if I give it detailed context: goals, destination(s) dates, budget, reasons for travel, preferred pace, interests, dislikes, accommodation style and preferred modes of travel.

Prompts That Make AI Useful

Recently, for example, I used this prompt: 'I am travelling to Lisbon for five nights in June, solo, mid-range, and I prefer safe neighbourhoods near the Praça Marquês de Pombal. Find me a hotel.' I knew the Praça was a central transport hub, but you could instead replace it 'with easy public transport and local restaurants rather than nightlife'. Or: 'Compare three areas to stay, including pros, cons and transport links.' Or: 'Here are three accommodation options. Compare them for location, cancellation terms, hidden costs, check-in arrangements and likely convenience.' You could also paste in a list of possible hotels or apartments and ask AI to produce a comparison table, a list of questions to ask the property, or a warning list of anything that looks unclear.

Moreover AI never gets upset if I ask it to change something or add in extras. The only limitation is the credit on the plan you have. ChatGPT has strict limits on what you can do each day, unless you pay. Google is unlimited, but less reliable. Under my questioning, Google happily admitted that it is programmed to sound confident, even if it is unsure about an answer!

My German Test Run

The first time I got to grips with AI, it planned me a trip to Hamburg. It gave me some really useful tips on places to visit and told me about the cheap German train pass and how to buy one. Brilliant. It also planned my day trips for me. Not so great, as it turned out the main train line to Berlin, which I needed to use, was closed for repairs all summer.

So, never let AI be the final authority. AI only presents what if finds online. It doesn't know if it is correct. Prices, opening hours, routes, visa rules, cancellation terms and availability change constantly. Ask AI to help you organise the research, then verify the facts on official transport sites, hotel pages, booking confirmations and current reviews. AI is excellent for asking better questions and spotting what you may have forgotten; it is not a substitute for reading the small print or checking the actual booking page.

My Baltics Itinerary

I've just used Google to plan me a summer trip to the Baltics. It did a pretty good job of producing a detailed itinerary with buses, and trains, reasonably priced and well located accommodation and key sights to visit, with directions and distance from my lodgings. It even priced it all up for me.

I asked ChatGPT to check it. It congratulated me (patronisingly I thought) on producing 'a better than average' plan, then suggested a few minor tweaks. Nothing major. The itinerary is now parked, ready to be revived - and, of course, checked manually by me - before I go ahead next year.

When to Book

Timing can matter almost as much as the site you use. I usually book well ahead for better availability and steadier rates,- not to mention peace of mind. Google tells me the optimum time is one to three months beforehand, but don't try that, in January, in the Bahamas. Last-minute deals can pop up if hotels have empty rooms to shift, but I've been badly bitten in cities, especially on a Saturday night, when late rates can soar.

I do try to make my dates flexible, (compare weekdays with weekends), and look at off-season or shoulder-season prices. Occasionally, I set price alerts, on booking platforms, or travel search sites so I can see whether a place I like the look of is dropping or rising, rather than relying on one snapshot.

Use Reviews, But Read Them Like a Detective

TripAdvisor, booking platforms and map reviews are useful, but they are not gospel. I use them, but I try to read them forensically. I don’t just look at the numerical scores. I read the most recent reviews, check the traveller photos, as well as the official ones, and match the pictures to the written description. I particularly look for comments on room size, stairs, lifts, bathrooms, cleanliness, noise, heating or air-conditioning, and whether the promised facilities really exist. If the room type, bathroom arrangements, parking, breakfast or check-in procedure are unclear, I message the property before booking. A vague answer is information too - as is being ignored.

One angry review may tell you more about the reviewer than the room, and one glowing review may be meaningless. If several people mention the same thing - noise, weak Wi-Fi, steep stairs, poor cleaning, helpful staff, a wonderful breakfast or a misleading distance from town then it is more likely to be be a true reflection. I click on the one and two-star reviews, and avoid if there are a lot of them.

I try to be especially alert to reviews that sound excessively dramatic or suspiciously similar to each other. Many are, sadly, fake - written by the accommodation providers themselves. Or, occasionally by their enemies/competition who write ridiculous undermining comments. I have honestly seen reviews that say 'the place is alive with cockroaches' or 'I was badly bitten by bedbugs'. It's a good deterrent.

Compare Platforms

I used to think there were lots of independent booking sites, but I've discovered (my friend Google again) that many sit under a few large travel groups. Booking Holdings includes brands such as Booking.com, Kayak, Priceline and Agoda; Expedia Group includes Expedia (of course), Hotels.com, Vrbo, Orbitz, Travelocity and Trivago. Lastminute.com is another familiar name people may compare when looking for late deals or packages. It is a stand-alone company, but no longer British-owned, and another behemoth.

It is still worth comparing prices, but don't assume that every site represents a genuinely different route to the property, or that the lowest headline price will remain the lowest, once extras are added. I have also seen prices shown through comparison sites mysteriously increase when I land on the booking platform itself. That cost may still be the best option, but it should be a conscious choice.

Watch the Extras

I've found I also need to be forensic when looking at the final price. Taxes, city charges, cleaning fees, resort fees, breakfast, Wi-Fi, parking and payment charges don't always appear until late in the process. Cleaning fees can add appreciable amounts to short self-catering stays, and sites do not always display taxes in the way you expect; on some platforms (like Booking.com) you can change the settings to show them more clearly.

Sometimes breakfast is included; sometimes a 'deal' becomes less attractive once you add luggage, room safe (yes, some mean places charge extra), parking, transfers or a cleaning fee.

Airbnb Requires More Research

Airbnb reviews and house rules deserve especially careful reading, and the online details are not always as explicit as I might hope. On Airbnb I always message the host and check; it is usually very easy to do this through the Airbnb site. Sometimes it is obligatory - you may have to be vetted before you can be accepted and promise not to have any parties!

My Bequia Airbnb came with a generous supply of mosquitoes. There were plenty of anti-insect contraptions, but I had to provide the tablets and coils myself. It was also up a very steep hill. My host was in England, though I didn't find that out till I arrived. It didn't stop her sending messages every day instructing me about what I could or shouldn't do.

Then Go Direct

Once I have found somewhere I like, I search for the property’s own website. Though is is not always straightforward. Smaller places may have an old website, only provide an email address, and simply fail to reply to that. Some hotel chains do not use the big platforms at all; Premier Inn in the UK, for example, is generally booked direct. Some chains offer lower prices/member rates if you join their loyalty scheme. It does not always beat the platform price, even when a chain claims it will, but it is worth checking, before you book.

Once all the costing information is gathered it's time to to contact the property directly and negotiate. To ask whether they can offer a better rate, a discount for a longer stay, breakfast included, a quieter room or a more flexible arrangement. The worst they can do is say no, and sometimes they can offer something the platform cannot.

I've found that hotels are also increasingly using WhatsApp (so no cost international calling). In the Maldives, for example, the main contact telephone numbers given were WhatsApp numbers - with varying levels of response. Direct contact with just one responsive person is so helpful. My useful Maldives people gave me room upgrades, help with arranging transport (including flights), tours and sightseeing suggestions, ferry bookings and even other hotel recommendations.

Understand Who Will Help If Things Go Wrong

Platforms are convenient and often cheaper, especially for flexible cancellation deals, but they may be far less helpful once you arrive and the room is filthy, the property is closed, the pictures were more than flattering, or the host cannot be found. In practice, you often have to negotiate with the accommodation provider yourself. That risk is greater with self-catering accommodation and privately managed apartments than with mainstream hotels, where at least there is usually a reception desk and a chain of responsibility.

When the Platform Shrugs

I have had some very bad experiences with Booking.com. In Israel, an apartment I booked was dirty and half decorated. Booking.com told me they were just a platform and that I had to take it up with the host.

Even more worryingly, in Baku recently, the hotel I had booked turned out to be closed. The hotel then told Booking.com that I had cancelled, and this was simply accepted by them, while I was wandering the streets in search of accommodation, at ten at night. They ignored all my requests to do something about it and the hotel keeps advertising on their site.

Booking direct may give more peace of mind because you have straightforward communication with the property. But be very cautious about places with self check in, where you never get to meet the host.

Different Platforms, Different Safety Nets

Airbnb, for example, can be less easy to communicate with at first, and you usually have to pay at least part of the cost up front, but, in my experience, it has better procedures when dealing with dissatisfied customers, once you get through (and that can take time - they're USA based). It tends to support the customer rather than the host - bad news if you’re hosting, as I know to my cost.

My point is not that one route is always better than another. The point is to find out who is responsible and to be clear about how I will get help before I need it.

Cancellation, Payment and Protection

I never used to worry about cancellation charges. What's going to stop me going?' I always thought. But I've had to postpone a few trips during Covid, and lately, due to my back operation and I've become much more aware of evaluating my booking risks.

I’ve learned, to my cost, that cancellation terms are not for decoration and to read them properly, especially if my plans involve uncertain transport, visas, health issues, moving between places or other travellers. Paying more for late cancellation may be sensible if there is any doubt. Free cancellation can cost considerably more, and sometimes 'free cancellation', if you read the small print, means you pay now and have to wait for a refund (which might take some time) if you cancel. Hotels.com often wants payment up front, which may be acceptable, to secure the price on offer, but check exactly what the terms are and what happens if you need to cancel. I've discovered hotels will nearly always be amenable to change the date, however, charging any price differential.

Some small print which may be helpful:

'If you book travel services together - for example flights and accommodation as a package - you may have stronger protection than if you book each element separately. In the UK, package holidays generally require financial protection, and ABTA explains that this protection is designed to help with refunds or getting travellers home if a package organiser fails. If you book a flight-inclusive package, look for ATOL protection too. This matters because a 'flight plus hotel' deal can look like a bargain, but the important protection depends on exactly what you have bought and who has sold it to you.

For separate bookings, your protection may depend on the supplier’s terms, your travel insurance, your card provider and the evidence you kept. Paying by credit card can give an additional route to challenge certain problems, and debit-card chargeback may sometimes help too, but neither should be treated as a substitute for reading the terms before you click “book”. Travel insurance is also not magic: check whether it covers cancellation, delay, accommodation failure, medical issues and the kind of travel you are actually doing. There will be limitations and exemptions.

Keep confirmations, screenshots, messages and receipts in one folder so you can prove what was promised, what you paid and when you were allowed to cancel.'

When the Refund Goes Quiet

During Covid-related cancellations, I had particularly bad experiences trying to communicate with Expedia and Lastminute.com. Nobody seemed reachable (no phone numbers), nobody seemed interested (emails ignored), and I eventually pursued my refund through my credit card provider.

Solo Travellers and Single Rooms

Single room supplements remain one of the curses of solo travel. Some places offer genuine single rates, sometimes in rooms that are perfectly adequate and sometimes in rooms that resemble cupboards. Others simply charge the same as for two people in a double room, even when breakfast for two is included. I have learnt to compare the total cost, not just the headline nightly rate, and to ask myself whether 'single' means good value or just the worst room in the building. Single supplements, at times, can double the accommodation cost for a person sharing on a tour, or cruise. Some cruise companies now operate singles only ships, but I've read numerous complaints that the cabins are no cheaper than standard double rooms. You really have to bite the bullet here and read all the small print - or call and ask.

Many companies offer to pair a solo traveller up with another, to waive the supplement. It can be a good way to make friends. But it's not for me any longer. I've suffered too much from folk who snore, or bounce in late at night and put the light on, or get up at 5 a.m., to do their hair.

Be Cautious Booking for Other People

If you are booking rooms for others, get the money up front unless you trust them absolutely. (I've been burned here too.) Otherwise, if they change their minds, forget they agreed, find something cheaper, or fail to turn up, your card may get charged no-show fees, even if the terms were pay on arrival.

Paying Ahead to Choose Your Room Location?

This was a new one to me. I was being organised and booking ahead for a hotel, in the UK, so I could go to a friend’s birthday party this autumn. Travelodge was cheap, so I booked a standard room. I was then offered a choice of room location, complete with a map of the floor, at a cost of up to £14.99 extra. I declined, so no doubt I shall end up with Saturday-night High Street noise. I do hope this does not catch on. It's bad enough on airlines, being allocated the middle seat if you do not pay up

Loyalty Schemes and Upgrades

Hotel loyalty schemes are usually worth joining if they cost nothing, even if you do not travel constantly. The real discounts often only build if you keep using the same chain, but small benefits can still appear: free water, Wi-Fi, late checkout, points, occasional room upgrades or a surprise reduction on a future booking. I'm signed up to schemes such as IHG, Hilton, Marriott Bonvoy, World of Hyatt, Radisson Hotels and Accor; Accor gave me my last booking completely free, unexpectedly, because I had accrued points I didn't even know I had.

And when you arrive, it rarely hurts to ask politely whether an upgrade is available, especially if the hotel is not full. You can also try in advance, if you have a special reason for wanting a quieter room, a better view or extra space. It will not always work, but the answer is certainly no if you never ask.

My Booking Routine

1. Decide what kind of stay: hotel, apartment, hostel, homestay, self-catering place or package deal.
2. Use AI to compare, organise and question all of the following, then verify every important detail yourself.
3. Compare different booking dates, weekdays and off-season options, and set price alerts where useful.
4. Choose by location and total price first; then use the photos and description to check that the place matches what you need.
5. Read recent reviews carefully, looking for repeated patterns rather than isolated praise or angry complaints.
6. Check the final price, including taxes, cleaning fees, breakfast, Wi-Fi, parking, luggage, transfers and other extras.
7. Compare platforms, including familiar names such as Booking.com, Expedia, Airbnb and lastminute.com, but remember many brands sit within the same groups.
8. Check the property’s own website or chain loyalty rate before booking, and consider asking directly for a better deal.
9. Read cancellation, payment and no-show terms carefully before you commit.
10. Check what protection applies: package protection, ATOL where relevant, insurance, credit card or chargeback routes.
11. Check transport links, late arrival arrangements, parking and the route from your arrival point.
12. Keep screenshots, confirmations and messages all together.

Final Thought

The best travel booking is not necessarily the cheapest. It is the one where the location works, the terms are clear, the risks are acceptable and you know who to contact if something goes wrong. I still like a bargain, and I still compare sites, but I now try to book with a little more suspicion and a lot more preparation. Do the boring checks before you travel, and the trip itself has a much better chance of feeling like a holiday..

Happy Travels!

To Lisbon or not to Lisbon?

Lisbon 2026 so very nearly didn’t happen.  I am waiting (as for the last four years) for a hospital date, for my back operation. As always, it doesn’t come through, so I agree, last minute, that I will attend the Most Travelled People (MTP)  ‘Grandmasters’ Annual Lunch, near Lisbon.  Just as I am hovering, with my cursor, over the EasyJet website, ready to book, with a few extra days for sightseeing, all the flights on offer disappear. A transport strike called in Portugal for June 3^rd. To coincide with a holiday on June 4^th. So the workers get five days off in a row, if the play their cards right. (This is all explained to me later, by a cab driver.)

To cut a long story short, I end up booking a flight to Porto, in the north of Portugal. The only one going on June 4^th. Charles, the co-owner of MTP says he will give me a lift from there to Lisbon. Sounds good. Charles is very keen for me to come and has been WhatsApping me relentlessly. They are hoping to break the world record for the largest number of people who have been to every country in the world, in one place.

Then, of course my operation date, comes through. It's in two weeks. I fit my pre-op consultation into my journey to Gatwick. The jitters seem to have got to me. Over the day it transpires that I've queued for the bus, when I drove in my car, have handed the nurse a urine specimen containing vitamin D capsules (she said they might affect the result) and  forgotten to pack my make-up, swimsuit and phone charger.

Getting to Lisbon

The plane leaves late and there's a long queue at immigration, for the new Schengen area checking and fingerprinting. It seems to be moving reasonably fast however,  until all the men down-tools  and disappear to the staffroom. Fifteen minutes later they're all back again. And I'm out. No fingerprinting. My taxi driver has capitalized on the fact that my booked  driver has embraced the holiday spirit and not turned up and combined two bookings into one. It's after midnight. But I'm here.

Charles messages. He's arranged for me to travel instead with Jaime, who has been to every country in the world, both poles and space.

Jaime messages. We are going straight to Lisbon.  No stopping. He has a meeting. O good. Very little time to revisit Porto (read about my last visit here). But plenty of time to hear all about Jaime's adventures. This Panamanian has done plenty. He’s even commissioned a film crew to follow him around. They're making a documentary, which they hope to show at Cannes. He sent them home yesterday, so I won’t be featuring.

 But we do stop off at the giant Lisbon Aqueduct, to pose for a picture. The eighteenth century Águas Livres Aqueduct (it survived the earthquake almost intact) is one of Lisbon's best-known landmarks, extending nearly nine miles (it's part of a 36 mile network of canals, galleries, reservoirs, and distribution systems). One of its arches is the Arco Grande, one of the tallest pointed masonry arches in the world, but sadly, I'm not sure which one it is.

The Hotel Fenix Music

This time I have an extremely well located hotel, right on the Praça Marques de Pombal. It's a nice hotel too, with views over the Edward VII Park and the jacaranda trees and some snazzy features. The blinds automatically go up and down, as I leave or enter the room.

This will be my base for my excursions around the capital. Read more about my explorations in Lisbon itself here.

The Most Travelled People's Mega Meet Up

Luis Amaral is the co-owner of MTP and he lives in Azeitao, south of Lisbon. For the last few years, he's been holding a lunch annually, at his house, for folk who have been to all 193 UN countries. They're called Grandmasters, in MTP. Last year, I was in Pitcairn. This year, Charles and Luis are aiming to break the world record for the number of Grandmasters in one place. I almost wrote palace then instead of place, thanks to the predictive text, but palace might be a better word. Mansion at the very least. It's a stunning house, with a huge terrace, quirky swimming pool, manicured gardens, (scattered sculptures by recognised artists throughout) and a vineyard stretching to the horizon.

But, I have digressed. There are 103 of us Grandmasters, plus others, amounting to not far shy of 200 persons altogether, massing on the terrace for speeches, wine, cocktails, (amazing bar) hors d'oeuvres (with oyster station) and mingling. Then, lunch in the grounds, at a table which is 100 metres long. We're served, from a smoking barbecue, by a scurrying Sardine Crew, until we can't possibly eat any more. The food is delicious. I doubt Buckingham Palace could have done any better.

MTP have definitely achieved their record and Euronews are here too, reporting. We are photographed collecting certificates and commemorative globes and in every conceivable group, including drone footage of us forming the 103. So many people, it's hard to have meaningful conversations, but it's lovely to meet folk I've only seen on Facebook before. There are also several familiar faces from Azerbaijan, and it's very good to catch up.

Monastery Hopping Around Lisbon

Not content with a sumptuous banquet, Luis of MTP has also arranged tours for us. Lisbon is magnetic, but its real magic lies in the loops you can trace just outside the city limits. Today, it's a bus trip, for forty or so, of us, to three UNESCO World Heritage sites, to the north of Lisbon - the monasteries at Alcobaça, Batalha and Tomar. (Known as The Three Monasteries Loop.)

Alcobaça: Cistercian Minimalism

The Monastery of Alcobaça (Mosteiro de Santa Maria de Alcobaça) is touted as a masterpiece of Cistercian Gothic art. It was founded, in 1153, by Portugal's first king, Afonso Henriques. It famously houses the Tragic Royal Tombs: the intricately carved, spine-to-spine (across the aisle) tombs of King Pedro I and his murdered mistress, Inês de Castro. Legend says that, positioned this way, the lovers will look at each other immediately upon resurrecting, on Judgement Day. But they were only moved there, to these prominent positions, last century. Some of the limestone panelling on them was destroyed by Napoleon's troops - they say. (But they say that about the Sphinx too.)

The church is the largest Cistercian Gothic structure in Europe and the longest church in Portugal (106 metres), boasting soaring, minimalist white pillars that form a dramatic, light-filled hall.

The monastery was built on land granted in return for support for Portuguese independence, from the Cistercian monks. They chose the area as there is an abundance of water from the two rivers Alcoa and Baça (guess how the town got its name?). Later, they built in a channel which diverted the Alcoa directly through their kitchen, to provide fresh running water and live fish, direct to the cooking monks.

The town is charming, with the rivers gurgling through the centre. And there's even a nineteenth century market, necessitating full costume dress from the stall holders, in full swing.

Batalha: Flamboyant Gothic meets Manueline

If Alcobaça represents quiet monastic withdrawal, Batalha is a loud assertion of military triumph. Erected to mark Portugal’s 1385 battlefield victory over Castile (who had tried to impose their own king), this complex celebrates a country actively reinventing its identity. The church interior remains solidly and traditional, the most complete Gothic building in the country - narrow, towering, and lit by fifteenth-century stained glass. It holds the tomb of King John I (who commissioned it) and his English wife Philippa. On the north side are the monks old living and working areas: the cloisters (the largest in  the country) and the Chapter House.

On the other side, the chapels are a very different matter - they're known as the Capelas Imperfeitas (Unfinished Chapels) for a reason. Frozen in time - a collision between two royal construction projects. The thick, plain stone pillars and the outer structure are rugged, functional medieval masonry, left behind from the original 1430s layout. The first attempt at building the chapel ceased when first King John and then his architect died. The chapel was left roofless. Decades later, Manuel I brought in a new architect to update the space using the hyper-detailed Manueline style. But then he pulled the architect (and his funds) out, midway through the project, to concentrate on his Belém Maritime Monuments. The building was left half-carved, with deeply chiselled stone lace, sea ropes, and royal emblems, while the upper halves abruptly strip back to raw, bare medieval building blocks terminating sharply against the open sky.

Tomar (Convent of Christ): An Architectural Layer Cake

The Convent of Christ in Tomar abandons monastic peace altogether, in favour of military and occult history. It was founded in 1160, as a headquarters for the Knights Templar and as an impenetrable Romanesque fortress, to defend the young kingdom's borders.

The Knights Templars had developed the first sophisticated international banking system for travellers, become wealthy and loaned money to royalty. That led to their downfall. Philip IV of France had borrowed astronomical sums from them, to finance his costly territorial wars, against England and Flanders. Unable to repay his massive debts, Philip decided to eliminate his creditors instead. On the morning of Friday, 13 October 1307 (hence unlucky Friday 13th) , he launched nationwide, dawn raids, to arrest the Templars across France, on fabricated charges of heresy, fraud, and sodomy. He destroyed the order and forced Pope Clement V to officially dissolve them, in 1312.

King Denis of Portugal however, had a more pragmatic view. He recognised that attacking the Tomor stronghold (already proven to be impenetrable) would trigger a catastrophic civil war. The Templars didn't just fight; they were major land developers. They took over war-torn, abandoned territories, brought advanced irrigation systems to river valleys, and built fortified towns. as they answered directly to the pope (and not to the local church) it was a bit like having a private army. So, King Denis negotiated a loophole with the Papacy: in 1319, he officially rebranded the Templars as a brand-new Portuguese organization called the Order of Christ (Ordem de Cristo).Under this new name, the knights kept all their original property, wealth, and secrets, staying safely on Portuguese soil. It was this saved wealth and maritime knowledge which later funded Portugal's Age of Discovery.

The physical structure of Tomar documents Portuguese power, beginning with the initial Romanesque period, which produced the outer defensive battlements and the iconic Charola, a 16-sided round church modelled after the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, explicitly designed so medieval knights could attend religious mass on horseback.

Phase Two (1420–1460) shifted the fortress into a functional launchpad for global exploration under Prince Henry the Navigator. He appointed himself Grand Master and added the austere, pointed Gothic Cemetery and Washing Cloisters to house his expanding court of astronomers and cartographers. Henry did not go out to sea himself. Instead, he used the Order of Christ's treasury as a private venture capital fund, to design the revolutionary caravel ships, To show exactly who was paying for the voyages, the sails of every single Portuguese ship were painted with the large, iconic red cross of the Order of Christ

As maritime wealth poured into the kingdom, from new global trade routes, King Manuel I commissioned Phase Three (1510–1515), transforming the medieval site into an imperial showpiece, in the Manueline style (of course). That's when the famous Chapterhouse Window (stone sea ropes, anchors, corals, and armillary spheres) was added, together with the explosion of colour, gold leaf, and carvings, in the main church. The final era of Tomar's construction shifted away from the maritime and saw King John III order a massive physical expansion, completely outside the original medieval castle walls, with Renaissance geometry replacing Manueline flourishes.

The South Atlantic Loop - A Day of Microclimates, Mountain Monsters, and Salt Air

Today, I'm trading the city streets for a curated loop that climbs through misty mountain peaks, drops onto the western edge of Europe, and flattens out into a sharp, bright beach town. All it takes is a window seat on a tour bus, a winding ribbon of tarmac, and a willingness to be thoroughly windblown.

The Edge of the World: Cabo da Roca

Our bus turns west, leaving the urban fringe behind, as the concrete valleys give way to low, wind-battered scrub. The road to Cabo da Roca clings tightly to the granite cliffs. Then, the land simply run out of options. The bus doors hiss open at the cape, and a cold, heavy gale hits immediately. Cabo da Roca marks the westernmost point of mainland Europe and that's just how it feels. There is a lonely red-domed lighthouse, a stone monument marking the coordinates, and then… nothing. Just sheer cliffs dropping 140 metres straight into a churning, frothing ocean. Walking the dirt coastal paths away from the main lookout, the air is fierce, freezing, and tastes entirely of salt. Looking west, there is a distinct, stark reality to knowing that the next stop across that horizon is North America.

Sintra: A Mountain Monster and a Plethora of Palaces

We pile back into the bus (after waiting for the stragglers - already) and head inland, leaving the exposed coastline for the dense, fern-choked forests of the Sintra hills. The tour drops us right into the old town centre of Sintra. Sintra is dominated by a massive, jagged granite ridge which rises abruptly from the surrounding plains, a mountain monster, trapping a dark, damp microclimate right over the town. The misty landscapes have led to a great variety of flora and the planting of eucalyptus, for use in the paper industry. It's a very dry wood and it also causes a lot of fires.

Long before it became a tourist hotspot, the Romans designated these misty peaks as the 'Sacred Mountain' or the 'Mountains of the Moon'. By the eighth century, the Moors had taken took control, building heavy stone fortifications high on the rocky crests, to guard the agricultural valley below. When Christian forces retook the region, during the Reconquista, in 1147, they didn't tear down the Islamic structures; instead, Portuguese kings adapted them. Plenty of Moorish influence, such as glass tiles, remains. And, the castle still stares down at us,

Because Sintra’s mountain air stayed cool, while Lisbon baked in the summer, the town slowly evolved from a military outpost into an exclusive aristocratic retreat. Monarchs built their summer residences directly on top of the old Moorish foundations. When the railway connected Sintra to Lisbon, in 1887, the wealthy bourgeoisie flocked here to construct increasingly elaborate estates, turning a rugged mountain into a playground of architecture. It's still a celebrity magnet, with famous residents ranging from Hans Christian Anderson, to Strauss, to Madonna.

Today, the historical centre of town is a dense maze of steep, narrow cobblestone alleys. Pastel-coloured buildings lean over the roads, in turn packed with small independent shops selling local embroidery and tiny bakeries venting the sweet smell of travesseiros - the local almond pastry.

Dominating the town square is the National Palace, its skyline dominated by two massive, thirty-metre-high white conical chimneys, rising above the royal kitchens. Down the road, sits the bizarrely extravagant Town Hall, featuring a clock tower topped with green, blue and white glazed tiles. To be frank, I'm not overwhelmed. It's not charming or enticing. Just a touch clinical. And packed with tourists.

Quinta da Regaleira - The Mystical Palace

Quinta da Regaleira is a prime example of architects being 'overly playful'. From the centre of Sintra, it's an uphill walk (sadly) along mountain roads, (with streams of other tourists) to reach this estate, engineered around early twentieth-century mysticism and occult symbolism. Though it looks medieval (from a distance), it is actually only 116 years old, completed in 1910. The palace is a Neo-Manueline creation, covered in stone-carved sea monsters. Stepping inside reveals heavy, dark grandeur: heavily carved woodwork, royal portraits, and a top-floor laboratory, carved with hidden Masonic and alchemical symbols.

But the real attraction here is out in the dense, vegetation draped, gardens. The Initiation Well involves more tramping up hairpin slopes, past sundry turrets, bastions and other mock medieval paraphernalia. Join the queue and then descend the spiral staircases, as if inside an inverted Tower of Pisa. It's not really a well at all. Symbols of the Knights Templar and hidden masonry cues are built directly into the walls, fountains, and grottoes at every turn of the 27-meter drop. There are nine landings, which some theorize represent The Nine Circles of Hell, in Dante's Divine Comedy.

The wealthy owner, António Augusto Carvalho Monteiro, was fascinated by secret societies, Freemasonry, and the Knights Templar. He worked with Italian architect Luigi Manini to design the well 'as a physical, architectural metaphor for a spiritual journey of death and rebirth'. This journey ends with an exit via a network of 'secret' dark, damp tunnels, carved through the bedrock, to reach a small waterfall.

Pena Palace: An Opera Set in Stone

The bus grunts up the vertical switchbacks, hugging curves so tight the pine branches slap the glass. At the top of the hill (above the Moorish Palace), surveying Sintra, sits Pena Palace. If Quinta da Regaleira is odd, Pena is extraordinary. In the 1500s, King Manuel I built a quiet, isolated monastery here, for 18 silent monks. After the great 1755 earthquake reduced it to ruins, King Ferdinand II bought the entire hill, in 1838. He took the ruined monastery and added another palace, 'transforming it into a wild, romantic summer retreat', intentionally designed to look like an opera stage set.

No mist today, but patches of sun, illuminating mustard-yellow towers that collide with cherry-red battlements. These are guarded by stone tritons and other mythological monsters, carved into the doorways. Terraces are topped by merlons, which look as if they’ve come off a Christmas cake. Pena is the second most visited monument in Portugal (it's packed with visitors today) and there is no polite way to describe it. Garish and tacky. Las Vegas's Excalibur meets Portmeirion meets Toy Town.

The palace rooms are, for the most part, surprisingly intimate, compared to the bombastic exterior. They're filled with heavy carved wood and intricate porcelain, and the walls are covered in glossy tiles. Preserved time capsules from 1910, the year the Portuguese monarchy fell and the royals fled into exile. From the windows and open terraces, unobstructed views (well if you don't count all the tourists in the way) down, across the valley.

This is the 20 Euro experience - self guided. For 75 Euros I would get an Official Palace Guide and a comprehensive, 90-minute guided walk through the entire palace interior (both the old monastery and new palace sections), the outside terraces, and the surrounding park grounds and chalets. They're highly exclusive I'm told - only five a day - capped at a maximum of (only ?) 25 people per group to 'keep the experience intimate'. OR, for just 150 euros, a 'Theatrical Visit to the Palace'. This is an exclusive (of course) evening tour which includes a live historical performance re-enacting the dramatic escape of the last Queen of Portugal from the palace.

Cascais: The Pearl of the Portuguese Riviera

Leaving the mountain forest and the odd cork tree, behind, the bus turns south toward the coast. The rugged, cliffs slowly smooth out, opening up into the wide, pale sands of Guincho Beach where kite-surfers actively seek out the gale. Past the Boca do Inferno ( Mouth of Hell) cliff viewpoint, before we are dropped us off in Cascais.

Cascais is a complete shift in pace, built entirely around the tension between its two distinct histories. For centuries, it was a humble, fortified fishing village facing the open Atlantic. That changed in 1870 when King Luís I designated its old fortress as his official summer residence, instantly drawing the Portuguese nobility, who built extravagant nineteenth-century villas along the waterfront. During World War II, neutral Portugal turned the town into a luxurious sanctuary for exiled European royalty and international spies (The Palace Hotel in nearby Estoril is famous spy hang out). This history of wealth earned it the nickname - 'The Portuguese Riviera'.

Here, once through the modern shopping streets, there are cobblestone lanes are lined with bright bougainvillea vines, luxury yachts sit tied up in the marina, and the crowd lounges on the sand, under the clear afternoon heat, enjoying the slow, easy hum of beach life. Tavernas with proper written menus on blackboards ooze a more sophisticated lifestyle. for me, a scoop of basil-and-strawberry gelato, a seat on the stone sea wall, and a view of the colourful fishing boats, bobbing on the tide in the harbour.

The Victory Lap

The coastal road back toward Lisbon doesn't just run near the water - the tarmac traces the exact edge of the Tagus Estuary shoreline, winding past the numerous forts built to keep out those pesky Spanish.

I've packed a lot in today, but bus tours are undoubtedly hell. Once more, never again. Seats with the smallest pitch possible. No chance of extracting my bag if I put it by my feet. Waiting for explanations in all the different languages and dozing off before the English comes round again. Waiting for people who are late. Waiting for the bus to arrive. Waiting for the transfer bus. Too many effing people everywhere. All stepping into your photo, as soon as you press the shutter. 

The Golden Heart of Alentejo: Évora's Ancient Echoes

So, today, I'm planning my own tour, though it's still by bus, and taking myself east to Évora. Getting to Évora is also fraught. The Metro is fairly straightforward; you can just tap in using your credit card. And there are only two lines here, at Marques de Pombal, so only three possibilities for going wrong.

But arriving at the zoo is quite another matter. Where is the bus station? Google's directions are unfathomable, once again. I ask a man in a booth, who points me up the road. No signposts. There's a bus station car park entrance. So I keep going, up the hill. Now I'm looking down on the buses. Back down the road  and into the car park entrance. A little man at the ticket counter sells me a ticket. Google has the times of the buses wrong too, thankfully. But my little man doesn’t tell me the seats are reserved. He's put me in the aisle. Fortunately, I'm there first and the guy who's been given the window seat doesn't seem to mind.

Over the Vasco da Gama Bridge and into Alentejo. This is is a vast, rural region in south-central Portugal, stretching from the Tagus River down to the northern borders of the Algarve. Known for its slow-paced, rustic lifestyle, rolling plains, and culinary heritage, the area is defined by endless cork forests, vineyards, and medieval hilltop villages. Lisbon's fresh, coastal air disappears, replaced by the dry, baking heat of the southern plains, as my bus heads inland.

Évora is the capital of Alentejo, a museum-city enclosed within ancient, intact medieval walls. Left entirely undamaged by the catastrophic 1755 earthquake, its historic centre is a preserved time capsule, where Roman ruins, Moorish alleyways, and grand Gothic towers share the same cobblestone streets.

Praça do Giraldo

This is very different to the clammer at Sintra. Steadily up hill (again) through the solid city walls, along almost deserted streets for ten minutes (overly warm already) and into the Praça do Giraldo, the central heartbeat of the city - it has pretensions to being lively. Arcaded sixteenth-century buildings overlook outdoor café terraces, where locals sip espresso, beside a massive, white marble Baroque fountain.

The Ancient Core: Évora Cathedral and The Roman Temple

Google strikes again, as I attempt to locate the correct turning for the cathedral. This is a narrow alley, lined with souvenir shops, most of them selling the ubiquitous cork, in one form or another. It's uphill, of course, to the city's highest point.

The Cathedral of Évora is the largest medieval cathedral in Portugal. Built right after the Christian Reconquista, its fortress-like stone towers (more stolidity) blend Romanesque and Gothic styles. You can only see inside, however, with a five euro ticket. And the first challenge is climbing the 135 narrow steps, to the open stone rooftop. The second, is staying upright, as the vertigo inducing roof slopes slightly, threatening to send me hurling over the crenellated edges, large gaps between the merlons beckoning, as I teeter. The signs warning of danger aren't helpful. But there's a good close up view of the Disneyesque towers (two at the front and the Gothic lantern tower to the rear) and it delivers a panorama over the golden, olive-grove-dotted Alentejo plains.

Right next door, in the centre of its own square, is the The Roman Temple, often (apparently incorrectly) called the Temple of Diana. Erected in the first century BC, to honour Emperor Augustus, fourteen of its original Corinthian columns remain perfectly intact.

Underneath the Arches: The Água de Prata Aqueduct

Another battle with Google, incapable of giving unambiguous directions and still taking me uphill, for another ten minutes, despite the fact I'm supposedly at the highest point. Northwest, toward the edge of the historic centre and the Água de Prata Aqueduct (Aqueduct of Silver Water). Finished in 1537, by royal architect Francisco de Arruda (the same man who designed Lisbon’s Belém Tower), this massive, 18-kilometre limestone structure was a marvel of Renaissance engineering. It originally carried clean mountain water directly to the main square.

The aqueduct slices through the city walls and it's clear that no space has been wasted, in these tight urban streets. Over the centuries, locals have built their houses and shops directly into the tall granite arches. Living rooms are framed by 500-year-old bays, front doors are cut straight between the massive pillars, and chimneys peek out from the top of the stone channels.

Alentejo Flavour

The temperature climbs as the day progresses. The narrow, winding Moorish alleyways offer much-needed shade. The walls are whitewashed, painted with limestone, an ancient Arabic technique designed to disinfect the stones and reflect the scorching southern sun.

The tavernas offer. Alentejan cuisine, heavy, rustic, and very distinct from the coast. Black Iberico pork and garlic-and-coriander bread soup is typical

A Confrontation with Mortality: the Capela dos Ossos

At last, a descent, towards the southern wall of the city, to the Igreja de São Francisco. The main church is another soaring example of Manueline-Gothic architecture, but its most famous (and paying) feature is the attached Capela dos Ossos (Chapel of Bones).

Above the heavy stone doorway, a carved warning reads: 'Nós ossos que aqui estamos, pelos vossos esperamos' (We bones that are here, await yours). Inside, the air is cool, dim, and completely silent. Franciscan monks, in the seventeenth century built the chapel to solve a practical space crisis - 43 overcrowded local cemeteries were eating up valuable city land. The monks exhumed an estimated 5,000 skeletons and carefully arranged them into the architecture itself. Skulls, femurs, and ribs are stacked like bricks, forming the pillars, arches, and walls of the room, a visual memento mori on the fleeting nature of material wealth.

Upstairs is more museum: artworks, religious artefacts and a collection of bad taste nativity scenes.

The Green Retreat: The Jardim Público de Évora

Right next door, the less disturbing atmosphere of the Jardim Público de Évora (Public Garden). This ribbon like nineteenth-century park, is built directly over what used to be the royal vegetable gardens of the adjacent palace.

It's a shaded (if dusty) oasis of exotic trees, rose gardens, and a classic old bandstand. It is also home to a huge flock of resident peacocks which casually roam the lawns, calling loudly and perch on top of the Ruínas Fingidas (Fake Ruins). These are a collection of Manueline window frames salvaged from demolished historical buildings around the city and rebuilt here to look like a romantic, ruined castle tower. Also tucked into the greenery is the Palácio de Dom Manuel, a hybrid royal pavilion where explorer Vasco da Gama was officially given command of his historic expedition to India, in 1497.

Return to Lisbon

Time to wrap up a day that feels entirely removed from the fast pace of Lisbon. Decanting, back at Lisbon's Sete Rios Bus Station I find a direct route back to the Metro via a main entrance. I'm not telling Google about it.

And Home

At Lisbon Airport (Humberto Delgado). I've arrived three hours before as instructed. And I'm glad I only have carry-on, as the  check in desk doesn't open for another hour. Words fail me. Except for rude ones that is. Through security and then to passport control. Here, I have to proceed to an electronic booth and scan my passport, to be told I have to go on, to a manual checking desk. Well honestly. Why don't they just send you there? In the event, there's hardly a queue at all. 'Have a good one', says the immigration officer, not at all ironically. I've not been fingerprinted in or out or stamped in or out. I suppose that’s  both good and bad.  

The international departure section is narrow and uncomfortable. Snaking lines of passengers trying to get out of the terminal are clogging it up. Long queues for the few eateries and even fewer toilets. The cramped layout here reminds me of Gatwick.  But wait, they’re both managed by Da Vinci Airports.

Read more about Portugal here

Grenada 2026

This is my third visit to Grenada, but I’m not staying very long this time. (Read about my last trips here.) I’m in the southern Caribbean, island hopping through to Carriacou and then on to St Vincent and the Grenadines. But not in that order. Bequia and Mustique beckon, before I reach Kingstown, the capital of St Vincent.

The BA flight is another exercise in endurance. It’s going via St Lucia and it’s packed. The amount of leg room in cattle class is minuscule. There’s far too much hand luggage and my carefully placed bag opposite and above me is moved further to the back of the plane, to accommodate everyone else who has not complied with the rules.  Grrrrr.

‘Never again,’ I declaim. ‘Never again’. And we haven’t even taken off yet.

Immigration at Granada is relatively straightforward, except that I hadn’t realised they now require an online form to be completed for customs and immigration. My guest house is basic and battered. And I hadn’t realised that I have to share a bathroom. But it’s cheap and only five minutes’ walk from the ferry.

Otherwise, things aren’t going wildly well. The port at capital St George's is quiet in the late spring dusk. The ATM isn’t working and neither is the global e-sim I bought from Airalo. Their chat support is dreadful. I have to use Wi-Fi to contact them, but need to turn it off every time they ask me to  check the settings and see if the sim is working. Every time I do this the chat closes and a new agent appears and asks me exactly the same questions and demands exactly the same screenshots. Then he doesn’t respond to these or indeed to any of my questions. After three hours of torture, when I’m well overdue sleep, I demand a refund. Don’t use Airalo!

Ferry to Carriacou

Things look better in the morning sun though, even though I already have one mosquito bite. St George's Harbour remains tranquil and pretty; a wander round the wharf and it's time to catch a ferry to Carriacou. This is now new territory.

Tine always passes slowly on a pitching ferry, especially when the boat emerges from the lee of Grenada island. ‘Get ready for the fun’, announces the captain. A couple in the scrimmage that vaguely passed for a ticket queue on the quay, tell me that there is nothing to see on this journey, so I resign myself to just gripping my seat and watching the horizon (and the other passengers). However, we roll past islets: Ronde and other smaller rocky dots. There's even an arch named London Bridge. Then, a submerged volcano, marked by Diamond Rock, with a small chimney to one side; the volcano is called Kick 'em Jenny. She erupted in 2015. She has a dormant subterranean friend, called Kick 'em Jack.

There are more islets south of Carriacou. and even when there's no island in sight, there's entertainment from a touring group of teenagers, singing religious music. Sadly, it's not the upbeat Gospel type.

Eventually, we heave into Tyrell Bay, at Carriacou.

Carriacou

• Carriacou (Kayryouacou) means Land of Reefs. They were pristine until Hurricane Beryl.
• The island is 13 square miles; it's the largest of the Grenadines, both Grenadian and Vincentian.
• Natives of Carriacou are called kayaks.
• Carriacou has a tranquil low-key atmosphere and is known for its traditional boat building.
• Despite Carriacou and Petite Martinique being guaranteed local government by the Grenadian constitution, no such local government has ever been established

Looking Down on Carriacou

Carriacou is curvaceous. Arced bays and small, but steep hills (almost 1,000 feet,) rising in wavy lines behind the bays. My apartment, it turns out, is right on top of one of those hills. Amazing views from both sides and even a raised bed, so that I can see the panorama from there,  through the plate glass windows. Tyrell Bay with its port to one side and Manchineel Bay to the other. Manchineel trees, along with sea grape, are common on the beaches here. They bear fruits which look like apples but are poisonous (as are the bark and leaves. So it's called The Tree of Death. That’s a much less romantic name for the bay.

There are several apartments on the site here. One is occupied by German marine biologists, Ina and Jonathan, who came over on the ferry with me. They’re doing research on the sargassum weed, which is an increasing problem in the Caribbean. From the plane, it looks like giant oil slicks, spilling across the ocean, Jackson Pollock style.

 Another flat  is currently home to a family whose home was destroyed in Hurricane Beryl.

Hurricane Beryl

• Hurricane Beryl was an extremely rare and destructive tropical cyclone, which hit parts of the Caribbean, the Yucatán Peninsula, and the Gulf Coast of the United States, in late June and early July 2024. The  storm was so intense that it broke countless meteorological records. And it caused huge amounts of damage, especially on Grenada's northern islands of Carriacou and Petite Martinique, damaging or destroying 99% of buildings on the former and 70% on the latter.
• Several of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines' southern islands, such as Canouan, Mayreau, and Union Island, had 80%-90% of dwellings damaged to some degree.
• Beryl caused 73 deaths, including  eight in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, and six  in Grenada
• Damage costs were  $231 million in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines and $218 million in Grenada,

Trials and Tribulations

As I’ve said, all too often, there’s always a problem in paradise. This time it’s dust. I’m trying not to touch the surfaces in my rental, or the top of the fridge door. Those micro ants that follow me everywhere have pre-empted my stay and  are already  swarming over the bedhead.  Wife Ayeesha has also charged me 10 dollars for a beach towel. Time will tell if that’s EC or US. But I’m not overly optimistic.

And there are two paths up here. One is an almost vertical ascent. The other is more gradual, but unmade and uneven. On that route, goats amble across and bleat at me. A dog barks unrelentingly. I can’t see if he’s fenced in or not.

 It has to be the steep option. The top part of the route wanders through the terraced property garden. There are netted cages, full of quails. They startle every time I walk past, soaring up to the roof and falling down as they hit the roof. They must have very poor memories, but I feel very guilty.   A sad sea turtle has been housed  in a stone tank about twice his size. I’m  really  sorry for him, as he pokes his head out.

Owner Davidson mitigates the strain by offering to collect me every time I go down the hill, but now he’s gone to New York. His wife seems less keen.

And, I’ve tried to buy a roaming add-on. from Lebara, but that also doesn’t work. Another three hours wasted as I ‘chat’. Apparently they don't actually have proper contracts with the local providers, but try to piggy-back on others. Don't use them either!

Tyrell Bay

The main beach below us is Tyrell Bay. Narrow, and a mixture of coarse beige sand and shells. It’s not the prettiest in the area, by a long way. But the water is lovely, with swirls of turquoise in the sapphire  and there are maybe a hundred bobbing boats, both working and yachts. Some fishermen  are casting a net for the shoals of jacks who have come inshore. The swooping gulls around them suggest they are doing well and the net looks to be heavy, as they haul it back on-board. Two of the men don snorkels and dive into the water to assist.

There are shacks  dotted along the edge of the beach. They vary from colourful to tatty awnings, stretched over drift wood. They have small windows, so it’s hard to see what they’re for, or if they’re selling anything. Some are packed with locals,  as far as I can tell. And I've read that there are over 100 rum bars on the island. (Hanging out is called 'liming' here.) Perhaps I have my answer. Though protruding pineapple spikes suggest fruit in some. And another has a counter and the fishermen are using it to fillet their catch.  

I’m the only person relaxing on the sand. A few people wander by. Tourists or locals. Who knows? I’m twice mistaken for a local and asked for directions. Maybe they don’t get tourists here?

Argyle

Behind the bay is the district of Argyle. Two supermarkets. Some small shops and a couple of cafes. At the far end of the beach, the Slipway Restaurant offers tasty rich food and incredibly strong daiquiris. It’s a struggle to stay upright and finish my meal. The Lambi Queen is less pleasing, as BBQ chicken turns out to be cold chicken with sauce poured over it. There were only two choices - other customers are thin on the ground. There’s Christian pop music on the LCD screen. Sadly, it's not the upbeat gospel style here either.

The Cheese Conundrum

The main supermarket has huge gaps on the shelves. ‘Supply issues’,  Davidson explains. ‘But also a matter of what sells.’ Apparently, yogurt isn’t a thing here.

Short on choice, I buy apples and three tubs of cheese triangles. The Happy Cow, English version.  Well, I thought I had. There are now only two in my bag. 'You only bought two,' the check-out girl explains. But my receipt confirms otherwise. She sends me to the shelves, to find a replacement.  What can possibly have happened to the one that disappeared?

My bathroom light isn’t working. The micro ants have eaten away the wiring.

Paradise Bay

The family who own my apartment are Seventh  Day Adventists. Ayeesha says a prayer before she taxis me, at a price, to the next curve along. Past the sub district of Belmont to Lesterre.  Ayeesha explains that it’s quiet today, as it’s a public holiday, Emancipation Day. Except it’s not, it’s Labour Day. The public service workers are making the point by celebrating in their uniforms.  Whatever, nearly everything is shut. There’s a piece of information I could have done with in advance.

This beach  is an entirely different kettle of fish to Tyrell Bay. Literally. It’s utterly gorgeous. Soft yellow sand jade water and islets floating ahead.  Just a few boats and less sea grass. The water demands you enter. Though it’s surprisingly cool for a few minutes. Crabs wobble along sideways, their eyes on stalks, and then zoom into their burrows. Songbirds chirrup from the sea grape and frigate birds wheel and dive. Picture perfect. Here, the beach fills up as the day progresses. Little launches whizz holidaymakers over to the pair of islets: Sandy Island and Mabouya. It's definitely a contender for the Best Beach in the World List.

Lunch in an  upmarket Beach Club – heavenly sweet and spicy chicken wings and curried conch, which they call lambi here.  The bar serves every cocktail ever invented and more.

This place actually is called  Paradise Bay,  and not for nothing.

Labour Day

It seems they take Labour Day very seriously  here. Even though Ayeesha didn’t know that it was Labour Day. The ferries from Grenada are crammed and the beaches fill up, as dusk advances. The music lasts until midnight, echoing around the hills and bypassing my earplugs. The amplifiers in the Caribbean are far bigger than those anywhere else.

Carriacou and Some More Grenadines - with Froggy

Next day finds me blearily setting off for a round the island adventure. Crystal from  Michigan is also along for the ride.  Captain Froggy, distinctive in neon yellow hoodie, drives us  to the tiny airport, to pick up Polish Maria and Eryk, who live in London. They’re over from Grenada,  for the day.

First, a drive up to Windward, on the north-eastern side of the island. This is the home of the traditional  ship building industry. Then, onto Froggy’s specially designed boat. This has to be the most photogenic vessel ever. Though I’m a little nonplussed when he christens the deck with vodka and then has a shot himself, before climbing behind the wheel. It’s a ritual he repeats several times, over the course of the day.

Petite Martinique

Two and half miles from Carriacou across a bumpy sea, and we're alongside Petite Martinique. To its right, its Mini Me version - Petite Dominique.

Petite Martinique

• Petite Martinique, in the Grenadian Grenadines, is just over one tenth the size of Carriacou and has a population of 900
• The Capital of Petite Martinique is Madame Pierre Town, in the north of the island. It's named after the wife of the first settler on Petite Martinique, a Mr. Pierre, from Martinique, who left his home island shortly after 1700, seeking new fertile land to grow sugarcane and cotton. His proper full name was Pierre Philip.
• It is thought that he named the island Petit (little) Martinique because he thought its shape resembled that of Martinique.
• This is another volcanic island, dominated by a 700 foot central peak

Petit St Vincent (St Vincent and the Grenadines)

Next up, the sandy beaches of privately owned Petit St Vincent (known locally as PSV), a one island resort. (It seems that every major island has a smaller version.) And we’ve snuck over the border into St Vincent and the Grenadines (SVG) now. Petit St Vincent is the southernmost island in the Saint Vincent and the Grenadines chain. The diving centre on the island was opened by Jean Michel Cousteau, in 2014. Needless to say, we're not landing here.

Mopion Island

 But there is a stop at nearby Mopion Island, also in St Vincent and the Grenadines. It’s just a sandbar, with one straw umbrella on it, and some very welcome limpid water. Castaway fantasies are made here.

Jack a Dan and Sandy Island

Back into Grenadian territory and down the leeward side of Carriacou, past capital Hillsborough, to  the underwater sculpture park on the island of Jack a Dan.  Named A World Adrift it was designed by artist Jason deCaires Taylor (who designed the main sculpture park on Grenada) and features 30 sculptures of boats, to honour the island's boat-building heritage.

It’s a good job he did,  as Beryl has wreaked havoc on the reefs. There’s very little live coral. Plenty of tiny fish and not much which is larger.

Now we've reached Paradise Bay and Sandy Island. This is an even bigger sand bar, as the name suggests and time for another swim. Round the next peninsula, eventually  to Manchineel Bay. Froggy has been manhandling us on and off  the roof of the boat, where he has secured four chairs for us to admire the scenery in comfort.

He suggests we go back up again for our return to windward side. I’m more cautious. Will there be splash? Will my camera be safe? Froggy says  it will be fine. Maybe it was the vodka talking.  There are waves, pretty big ones and plenty of splash. I’m not impressed. We moor at Saline Island and swim with turtles, (they look much happier than the ones in the tank) before heading back to the Tyrell Bay.

Ferry Nearly There

Maria and Eryk are due to catch the ferry back to Grenada here. Except, it’s leaving, as we arrive. The morning ferry, it seems, left at midnight, packed with drunken revellers, so there wasn’t in fact a proper morning ferry. The folk booked on the morning ferry have just left on the afternoon ferry, which has departed early. There’s pandemonium for a while, whilst no-one seems to know what happens next.

 But then a lady emerges and it seems probable that this ferry will make another journey. There are other ferries in port, but no crew. It’s a four hour turn around. Ina and Jonathan are also waiting in the queue.  I was going to Slipway for dinner, so they all head down there with me. I’m slightly worse for wear by the time I leave for home. The German couple are very happy. Jonathan has proposed underwater, using a micro tie as a ring.

(Read more about Grenada here.)

Off to Bequia - Over Robinson Crusoe Islands with Chic

Next stop for me is Bequia, but that’s in SVG and there are no scheduled international  boat trips. So I’m paying an exorbitant price to fly there. It takes 14 minutes, in my 19-seater plane, bouncing through a few clouds and flying low over the some of the most beautiful of the Grenadines: Union Island, Mayreau, the Tobago Cays  and Canouan. Canouan is white sands, luxury villas and half taken up by the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

Union Island

The other three islands, I've already visited, on a delightful day trip to the Grenadines. from St Lucia, in a small plane. We flew into Union Island first. Another volcanic silhouette. This one is known as 'The Tahiti of the West Indies'. The highest peak is Mount Taboi, 999 feet (304 metres) above sea level.

Palm Island

Then, a catamaran to Palm Island, another private island, solely accessibly by boat. It's only a mile from Union Island, which we can still see across the clear turquoise channel which takes us to our pristine sand. This was once a deserted swamp known as Prune Island (I don't know if the two things are connected) - before the eponymous palms were planted.

Mayreau

And onto Mayreau, the tranquil, smallest inhabited island of the Grenadines, with a population of about 271. The island’s only village is perched on Station Hill. Iconic, half-moon, Salt Whistle Bay is the major attraction with the prescribed powdery white sands, coconut palm trees and crystal-clear turquoise waters. The beach is a narrow isthmus, separating the Caribbean Sea from the Atlantic side of the island, and features small, rustic beach bars and restaurants, serving local food and drinks. Saline Bay is the main arrival point, where the ferry docks. Here, there's a long, calm beach, dining options, and a view of the local salt pond.

Tobago Cays

Last, on this trip, Tobago Cays, the so called Jewel in the Crown of the gems that are the Grenadines, a natural marine park, with colourful coral reefs and wafting green sea turtles, The islets are deserted – your Robinson Crusoe island stereotype - and stunningly gorgeous. This is, without doubt, one of the loveliest areas in the Caribbean.

Bequia

• Bequia is a tiny Caribbean island covering just seven square miles.
• Bequia Means 'Island of the Clouds: The name originates from the ancient indigenous Arawak language.
• Bequia's massive natural harbour, Admiralty Bay, once a legendary pirate hangout now makes a Caribbean hub for international sailors and superyachts.
• The locals successfully resisted mass tourism, so there are zero high-rise hotels, chain restaurants, or cruise ship crowds. Beach Royalty:
• The island is culinary-famous for its local beachfront eateries serving up fresh, world-class lobster pizzas.
• Bequia has a fierce seafaring heritage, and is still famous today for hand-carved model ships and traditional wooden boatbuilding

Across Bequia

The Bequia airport staff are especially grumpy. I’m the only passenger who’s disembarked here, so I assume they’ve had to keep the airport open for me. No wonder my ticket was expensive. It was only half the price to go on, all the way, to St Vincent.

It's a rustic  run from the airport, in the south, to the capital (of all the Grenadines not in Grenada,) Port Elizabeth. Steep roads clinging to the sides of the hills, fishing boats and fishing paraphernalia.  Driver Julian has one of the local open sided dollar taxis. Pick ups,with seats along each side. He doesn’t have any change. For that matter, no-one has any change for my 100 XCD notes presented by the ATM.

Shades of Blue

My charming Shades of Blue villa here has an even better view across Admiralty Bay and Princess Margaret Beach, than the one in Carriacou, a stretch of water that just about qualifies as a swimming pool and sunbeds, on a terrace.

Mosquitoes

The flaw here, in this paradise, is mosquitoes. I’m already covered in itchy bites, despite the two layers of insect repellent I applied. You can’t leave one tiny gap.  

Landlady Monica (not in residence at the moment, she’s in England) has written a whole  page in her Blue Manual on this subject. Apparently they thrive in this area due to the lush undergrowth. The itching is bad enough, but the female  Aedes aegypti variety  can transmit Dengue, Zika, and Chikungunya. Mmmm. I can hardly see them. they're the zoom across your vision type, like floaters.

There’s netting round the bed, but I’ve always struggled with mosquito curtains.  They only work if you can make sure none of the little critters are left inside when you drop them. And there are at least two, perched up high, laughing at me. It seems  I’ve offered myself up as a human sacrifice.

The apartment is armed with a whole box of tricks to combat the problem. Plug in mat vaporisers (no mats supplied), a zapper which I don’t understand at all and another racket shaped zapper. That requires batteries and you fry the prey. But, as the insects are perching on the furniture, or the netting, I’m  not going to be trying it. There are enough warnings about not using coils on the lovely wooden countertops'. On every email I’ve been sent. And there have been a few. And anyway, it needs batteries (not supplied).

Monica also says to spray the room with insecticide, when I go out. But I have to buy it. There’s a small gecko skittering around on my ceiling. I shall have to encourage him to eat more insects. And to fetch his friends. The Bug Mat, even when activated, is doing very little, it seems.

Princess Margaret (or Tony Gibbons) Beach

I’m directly above the beach and Jack’s Bar (expensive as it belongs to exclusive Bequia Beach Hotel, but serves mainly burger type food). There are a lot of steps down to more translucent water and a beautiful stretch of golden sand. It’s called Princess Margaret Beach, as she deigned to swim here on her honeymoon. Before that it was called Tony Gibbons Beach. (No-one seems to know who he was.)

Sunbeds for 16 USD at the bar. And they can't even be bothered to come and ask if you would like an overpriced drink. Out in Admiralty Bay, maybe another hundred boats bobbing. But these all belong to the yachting fraternity, and are mainly catamarans. Their tenders are lined up alongside Jack’s jetty. Bequia is lauded for its magical atmosphere. It’s definitely attracting the monied classes.  

Further along the beach, more bars of the rustic type, some of them sheltering under tented canopies. They all offer beer and rum punch. They also have basic beach beds for 10 USD - no mattresses and umbrellas.

Lower Bay

To the south of Princess Margaret Beach, over a headland, is Lower Bay. It’s very similar, but  smaller and wilder, with a couple of beach bars, linked to hotels over the road.  And there are fewer of those yachts off shore. I’m accompanied on my struggle up the steps by a small  brown and white dog, who settles under the sunbed next to mine. He's today's companion. If you don't count the lizard. Yesterday, a young cat leapt onto my lap, at Jack's Bar.

Port Elizabeth

There’s a walkway from Jack’s, all the way into the centre of  Port Elizabeth. Part boardwalk, part stone pavement, part through a plantation area. It takes about half an hour to get there. Port Elizabeth was named after Queen Elizabeth (it's all royal connections here), but in 1937, at the coronation of her parents, when she was just a princess. The beachside walk is home to a row of  restaurants serving pizza, burgers seafood and rotis with curries.  Mac's mutton curry is very tasty. Though I have competition from the Carib grackles - birds who have no compunction in hopping right up to my plate to steal some morsels. A local at the next table tells me they're known as sweets around here.

The town is the epitome of shabby chic Caribbean charm. Colourful shacks, boutiques  and bars, mainly gingerbread style, with frilly facias, and a  couple of cannabis shops. The coast road, at the town proper  is lined with booths, running up to the ferry port. Vendors touting fruit, juices and trinkets. Inland, supermarkets, banks and more bars. Knights Trading has fairly well stocked shelves and there’s even (sweet) yogurt, along with  some supercilious service. I have to go to a special till to pay with a credit card. The lady in charge can’t even bring herself to look at me, as she hands me the receipt.

Today’s missive from Monica reminds me that I  must remember to wind the sun umbrella down, if I use it.

Mustique -  A Jolly Good Day Out

Mustique

• Mustique is a billionaire's playground, a completely private, ultra-exclusive two-square-mile island famously owned by its wealthy residents.
• This is the ultimate paparazzi-free hideaway for icons like Mick Jagger, Tommy Hilfiger, and the British Royal Family.
• Guests zip around the island's lush hills and wild beaches in open-air golf carts called 'mules'.
• Basil’s Bar: this legendary, over-water beach shack is globally famous for impromptu jam sessions and star-studded cocktail parties.
• To protect its raw Caribbean beauty, the island enforces a strict ban on high-rise hotels, streetlights, and plastic.

My boat trip to Mustique is shared with four London husbands, who are on a Lads Only Holiday. Larry originally comes from St Vincent and wanted to share the culture and gorgeous scenery with his friends, Camillo, Marc and (George Clooney look alike, they say) Milton. They’re great company and allow me to share in their round the island  taxi and lunch, so it's much cheaper for me too.  

The sailing boat, captained by Alan, takes over two hours to reach Mustique; the wind is against us. Alan has a thick accent and is hard to understand. It’s not helped by the fact that he only seems to have one tooth at the front of his mouth. But he seems to know what he is doing. Shimmying up the mast, when the main sail gets tangled.  His sailor assistant seems less practised and even we can understand when Alan bellows. ‘Not yet. Wait till I say so.’  ‘Not like that !’

We munch on banana bread, before hugging the coast of Bequia round the southerly headland dotted with abandoned stone houses. These ruins were once part of the Moonhole community, a settlement was founded, in the 1960s, by NYC advertising executives Thomas and Gladys Johnston as an eco-conscious community. The houses were built directly into the cliffs, using local stones and whale bone fragments, designed with open layouts and no electricity.

North again, past the airport and Paget Farm, the fishing and boat building area and the most populous part of the island. Then, across to Petit Mustique(!) with its old whaling station and Mustique itself.  We moor, in Britannia Bay, by the famous Basil's Bar.

There are only three taxi drivers on the island. Most of the villas have fleets of those golf cart 'mules' for their guests.  Picky, our driver, is well named. He’s exceptionally stiff with us, answering questions unenthusiastically, until we laugh at his stories of flag waving, as a school boy, whenever Princess Margaret arrived. Then, he thaws.

Mustique is even more groomed than I expected. Abundant exotic flowers, immaculate roads, gingerbread shops and public buildings. Even the airport runway is perfectly smooth. (This is a short take-off and landing (STOL) runway, with sloped ends, so its limited to small planes - and private jets).There are only 206 permanent residents, but over 1000 islanders, including all the staff, cooks and butlers, to service the one hotel and  85 or so villas.

Picky points out the most famous residents’ houses: Mick Jagger, David Bowie, Brian Adams, Tommy Hilfiger, Mark Healey (of MFI)  - who has built a monstrosity of a mansion on the highest hill. He seems especially fond of Mick Jagger. Mick is said to serve at Basil's and he hosts an annual party which funds the primary school and other educational bursaries extremely well. I wouldn't mind a job there. Most of the properties have more or less private access to the fluffiest of white sand. Once vaunted Macaroni Beach, on the wilder Atlantic coast, however, is now covered in the sargassum weed, which piles up as fast as they remove it.

Picky knows the rental price of all the villas. The cheapest is 17,000 USD a week, but most are around 40000 USD. You can’t even rent here, let alone buy, without the approval of the Mustique Company, who manage everything, including all the staff.  It is  owned by the islanders and originally established by Colin Tennant (his statue is in the centre of the island), who bought the island and gave some land to Princess Margaret. She built a house, which she visited regularly, bringing various guests to amuse the media. Her villa (sold by her family) is in the very private non accessible south. It was a very clever move of Tennant's, resulting in one of the most exclusive and private retreats in the world.

Lunch at The View restaurant. The panorama across the bay is indeed lovely, though the claim that this is a place serving local food has to be taken with a pinch of salt. And it takes a long time to come. Followed by a quick cocktail at Basil's, over the water. This legendary institution has Indonesian architecture in the ceiling, a piece of an Ariane space rocket outside and mixed reviews on Trip Advisor:

'Having now been there, I now have absolutely idea what the fuss is about. It’s a scruffy rustic bar, partly on stilts in the sea and partly on land. The cocktails were great, the food was really poor quality and you wait an eternity to get it. The adjacent beach is lovely, but if you’re waiting for food you may not have time to enjoy it. Unless you’re staying in Mustique I really wouldn’t waste any time going to Basil's. You would normally travel there from Bequi, my advice is stay there, it’s way nicer.'

Then, back to Bequia, tacking north east and round the privately owned  Isle a Quatre and accompanying islets this time. It was a jolly good day out.  

The Boys are Back in Town

Monica is still sending missives. 'It’s very impolite not to greet the locals when you pass them on the street,' she says. Alongside the list of things I need to do to check out.

The Gang of Four Men are on the same ferry as me, to St Vincent, the main island in St Vincent and the Grenadines (the clue is in the name). It’s only an hour, and this time the vessel is almost empty. There are two that ply this route and several more in  Kingstown Harbour, waiting to set off for other islands. ‘Perhaps they could sell some to Scotland’, quips Milton.

Kingstown - The City of Arches

Bustling Kingstown, the capital and largest city, of SVG is very much based around the port. It’s vibrant, rather than pretty, with stalls and booths rammed into spaces (or not even spaces) on the pavements and spilling into the roads. Like most Caribbean towns this one sprawls up steep hillsides, but this island has streams and fresh water. The town is split by the North ‘River’, finding its way under makeshift concrete bridges and through  culverts, to the sea.

Apparently, Kingstown, is often called the 'City of Arches', due to its numerous traditional stone archways. For me, the stand out piece of architecture (no contest) is the extraordinary Cathedral of the Assumption of Our Lady ( or St Mary’s). Its history dates back to a first structure, erected in stages from 1823, although the present building was completed in the 1930s.  How to describe it, with its two towers, one with cut outs? It is a combination of Moorish, Romanesque, Byzantine, Venetian and Flemish. Google says it contrasts strongly with the rest of the town. That’s an understatement.

Directly opposite, is the much more sedate cream Anglican church. That one gives its name to the parish of St George. The courthouse is also singled out, in guide books, as a distinctive building. It's actually the House of Assembly and Court House building constructed in 1798, by the British. It serves as the legislative body for the country. Behind, is is the prison (so you don't have to walk far after your trial). Opposite, the stalls of the central market. The old Public Library (now the National Trust) was sponsored by Andrew Carnegie, the philanthropic steelmaker. Most of the other buildings are wooden with some brick (brought as ballast from England) and volcanic stone. There’s a lot of peeling paintwork.

Pitaya Suites

My apartment Airbnb here is lovely. Beautifully organised with a hostess who is a great communicator. Sadly though, it’s up the hill, on the edge of town. Everywhere in the Caribbean is up a hill. It’s called Pitaya Suites, after the dragon fruit which she cultivates in the garden. It’s a nocturnal flowering plant and the flowers are spectacular, opening after dark and lasting only until dawn, when they wilt. Clare pollinates the flowers manually to ensure that they fruit. I will take the bizarrely shaped  dragon fruit more seriously in future. Although the purple fruit is so unusual that maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Opposite, on the Leeward Highway, is the Massy Supermarket. This is more like it. A whole cabinet of yogurt. There’s even pots of granola. Wraps. Sandwiches. And take away meals.  

The SVG Botanical Gardens

Even further up the hill, on the Leeward Highway, out of town, are The SVG Botanical Gardens, billed as one of the most important and popular sites in St Vincent. These are The Oldest Botanical Gardens in the Western Hemisphere (established in 1765).  They are arranged even further up the hill, of course, and their 20 acres comprise  a palm lined hibiscus walk, what is called a Doric temple, but is actually a diminutive  green dome on columns (the central feature), a smallish lily pond, a breadfruit tree grown from a sucker of the trees on the Bounty and a conservation aviary.

This is where the endemic St Vincent parrot (Amazona guildingii) has been bred and saved from extinction. This is the national bird. Subtly pretty, rather than flamboyant, the parrots are sadly enclosed in what seem to me to be too  small enclosures. I suppose that’s better than being eradicated. Over the years they have been hunted for food, trapped for the cage-bird trade and suffered habitat loss due to deforestation. The introduction of the nine-banded armadillo didn't help. They undermine large trees, causing them to topple.

Fort Charlotte

Today, I have taxi driver Fitz, a true Rasta, in his tricoloured hat, he even says ‘Right on Man’. West, along the coast road to Fort Charlotte, 600 feet above the town, on Berkshire Hill. It was begun in 1763, after the British had vanquished the French colonists and  not completed  until 1806. So, begun under George III, named after his wife and completed in the reign of George IV. Great views across to Bequia and the Grenadines, as well as the port. It was intended to house approximately 600 soldiers and a battery of over 30 cannons. But here, the cannons point inland to protect against attack, rather than out to sea, with the main threat deemed to come from the Carib Indians.

The fort has officially been closed for several years, for renovations, but the hoardings are easily moved aside and a self-appointed guide takes me round, at a cost of 10 USD. I'm not sure it's value for money. His knowledge is sketchy and the tour short. But it's very windy and he makes sure I’m not blown over the edge.

The Leeward Side of St Vincent – Another Jolly Good Day Out

I’m back on the Leeward Highway, waiting to be picked up by The Lads, in their taxi. Randy’s Drink Outlet over the road is unexpectedly belting out gospel music. It’s a busy road. The many dollar taxis zooming by toot, in case I would like a ride. That’s kind of them.

Dark View Falls

St. Vincent is the rugged, volcanic mainland of the country, offering an adventurous contrast to its flatter resort-island neighbours. Here, it's raw, dramatic landscapes, dense rainforests, and rich cultural heritage. We’re heading up the west coast, to see Dark View Falls. The island is astonishingly craggy, with the steepest of peaks and the deepest of valleys. The road twists and turns between them, sometimes hugging the coast and sometimes winding right into the rain forest. The guide books say to leave the driving to the locals and I can see why. Driver Ken, who runs Naz's Tours, from his caravan minibus, is not deterred. Mind you, it's what he’s used to. He’s phlegmatic the whole way, with just the right blend of caution and speed.

So, we are treated to  varying scenic views on this, the drier side of St Vincent; it reminds me at times of Jamaica. We sweep through assorted villages, each with their own roadside bars, soccer/cricket pitches  and, of course, a church. Volcano Soufriere looms in the distance. It's a long hike to the top, and it's still active. The most recent eruption was in April 2021.

From Chateaubelair, it's an unmade road, to the falls. Then a wobbling bamboo bridge. That's the most exciting moment. The cascades, in two sections, upper and lower (18 metres high), are pretty enough, but it's definitely a case of travelling hopefully is better than arriving. I’m not tempted into the shallow pool.

This is more or less as far as the highway goes. Attempts to join the roads up the east and west coasts have stalled, due to the magnitude of the project – and costs.

Walliabou Bay

Turning back, we head to Walliabou Bay, which doubled as Port Royal, in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. The owners of the establishments here  have capitalised on this fact to the absolute utmost, extending the sets and their contents and erecting huge pirate statues, complete with skeletons and coffins. I don't recall those in the movie. I shall have to check.

Cam has gone fully rogue today. He's bought a hat with fake dreadlocks attached and makes use of every one of the props on display.

The Leeward Coast

It is one and a half miles to Barouallie (known locally as Bagga), a fishing village known for its unique harvesting of blackfish. In this deeply rooted Vincentian tradition, 'blackfish' refers to the short-finned pilot whale (and occasionally other small marine mammals). The community utilises the entire animal, processing it into two primary local delicacies: blackfish meat (the flesh is typically salted and dried, turning black, and is then often stewed or cooked similarly to salt cod) and crips (the skin and blubber are rendered in large metal drums, to produce a gelatinous, salty, and meaty delicacy. Thankfully, I can't see any on sale.

There's ongoing development (if slow) in most of the black sand bays. Cumberland Bay stoically awaits more construction. Google says it's perhaps the best known yacht anchorage on the island of St. Vincent, but the empty ocean here belies this suggestion. Further south, Black Sands Resort, at aptly named Peter's Hope, a ghost town of empty villas from one failed project,  has stood empty for ten years, awaiting direction. Sandals Resorts have commandeered Buccament Bay and, distaining the black sand, have covered it with the imported white variety.

We choose Mount Wynne Beach for our swim. Refreshingly clear water and some snorkelling on the rocky headland, with shoals of yellow finned fish and a few other colourful sea creatures.

There’s a (perhaps) surprising amount of industry in the areas further south. Container ports, mills, fishing. and some entertaining and idiosyncratic names: Questelles, Buddy gutter, Campden Park, Buccament, Petit Bordel (usually known just as petit!) and Kertains. We finish with views across the port of Kingstown, and across again, to Bequia.

The Windward Coast of St Vincent

Larry and the Fun Bunch are leaving before me. Time to explore the windward coast of the island. This time it’s Rasta Fitz again. He’s a careful driver and considerate towards me, but I wish he would stop asking me if he can come with me when I leave........

The Belmont Look Out

Into the interior first, for the Belmont Look Out. A great opportunity to savour a cross section of the island. This is an extinct volcano crater, emerald green with lush fertile soil, the agricultural heart of St Vincent. 

The Black Point Tunnel

The eastern, Atlantic Coast, is wild, with plenty of  breakers (and lots more sargassum) on the jet black sand, as you would expect. But the inland scenery is not quite as  dramatic, the road less twisty. It's replete with coconut palms, impressive villas and pretty gardens.

Towards the top of the highway, on this side, is Georgetown, the old capital.  The main export here was sugar. They even blasted a tunnel, about 360 feet long, through the rock, at Black Point, using slave labour for the digging. Considered a marvel of engineering for its time, the tunnel enabled easier transport of sugar, from the mills of Grand Sable Estate, to the wharf at Byrea.

Villa Beach

On the south-east corner one, of the best beaches on St Vincent (the Grenadines definitely have the edge here). Villa Beach  is a yellowish stretch of sand, lined with hotels in Indian Bay. Some rocky outcrops dot the ocean and  opposite is Young Island, another privately owned up-market island resort. That looks to have a lovely beach.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Back to Grenada, on InterCaribbean Airways, then home. I'm apprehensive, as I've read that they weigh you, your luggage and your carry on and are very strict, using the information to tell you where to sit. In the event, only my case is weighed and the check in guy tells me it’s free seating.

The airport is new. The old one is further south being turned into a shopping mall and hospital. The escalator into the departure lounge isn’t working and the whole food court is shut. It’s six in the evening. I really don't want to leave.

Grenada - Facts and Factoids

• So, let's talk about Grenada. Grenada is one main island, also called Grenada, and several smaller surrounding islands. It's at the southern end of the Grenadines chain. It's slightly confusing. Most of the Grenadines belong to St Vincent and the Grenadines, but a few of these islands belong (as one would expect from the name) to Grenada.
• The principal small islands in Grenada (and the only other inhabited islands) are Carriacou and Petite Martinique.
• The Tri-Island State is a nickname used to describe the entire country, as the nation consists of three main inhabited islands.
• Grenada is famous for the production of spices, which is how it got its nickname 'Island of Spice'. Nutmeg is one of the country’s major exports. ( It's even on the national flag). Grenada supplies nearly 40 per cent of the world’s annual crop. Cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, allspice, bay leaves orange/citrus peels, wild coffee (used by the locals) and turmeric are also produced.
• So, Grenada is known as The Spice Island and the whole nation's PR name is The Spice of the Caribbean:. the locals call the country Greenz.
• The red border on the flag of Grenada symbolises the courage of its people. The six small yellow stars dotted along the border represent the six parishes of Grenada. The yellow triangles symbolise the nation’s warm weather and the warmth of its people, the green, the islands’ vegetation and agriculture. There's also the nutmeg, of course.
• Grenada is volcanic, which makes for mountains, covered in dense, vibrant tropical rainforests and agricultural vegetation (rich volcanic soil leading to intensely fertile terrain ).

A Brief History of Grenada

• Christopher Columbus sighted Grenada in 1498, during his third voyage to the Americas. Before the arrival of the Europeans, Grenada was inhabited by the indigenous Carib peoples. They successfully resisted colonisation, until the French took over, in 1649.
• 'La Grenade' (it's believed that the name Grenada is an anglicization of Granada, after the Spanish city) was colonised by Jacques Dyel du Parquet, the governor of Martinique. The French began their colonisation with a series of skirmishes that virtually exterminated the island's native Carib population.

• Over a hundred years later, Grenada was ceded to the British under the Treaty of Paris, in 1763. British rule continued until independence, in 1974.
• There was a brief interlude in democracy, in 1979, when the Marxist–Leninist New Jewel Movement overthrew the government in a bloodless coup d'état and established the People's Revolutionary Government (PRG), headed by Maurice Bishop. Bishop was subsequently arrested and executed by members of the People's Revolutionary Army, prompting a U.S.- led invasion (it lasted 8 days) in October 1983 and the installation of an American approved government. They still named the main airport after Mr Bishop.

What to do in Grenada?

This is one of the nicest parts of the Caribbean. Friendly people. Beautiful beaches. Water sports galore and some gorgeous scenery.

Read about my visits here:

• Grenada - A Solo with Singles Holiday on the Spice Island
• Grenada - Grenada to St Vincent - Island Hopping in the Grenadines

Getting to Nakhchivan

Our again, slightly diminished group of famous explorers, having visited Karabakh, is now heading for the Azerbaijani exclave that is Nakhchivan. Plane is the only practical way to get to Nakhchivan, as the Armenian borders are closed. There's a bus, which travels via Iran (!), or you can come overland from the Turkish side. It's not surprising that Nakhchivan has very few visitors from the west. Our domestic flight, across Armenia, is awful. Cloud the whole way and lots of turbulence. Poor Harry holds my hand and tries to distract me.

There's also some trepidation in regards to Nakhchivan Airport. It was hit by a drone in the early stages of Trump's war on Iran, when there was swift and undisciplined retaliation covering countries all around the region. president Ilham Aliyev had words and there have been no further attacks on Azeri territory. The airport terminal is large and modern, with a repair where the drone came through a skylight. Though the buildings around are older style.

The same applies  to the diminutive and eponymous city of Nakhchivan. This is no chaotic metropolis; instead, think quiet prestige. It is a carefully curated, boutique capital city. Almost everything - from the banks to the bus stops - is neoclassical, solid, heavy stone buildings, faced with glowing (in the sun) local cream-coloured travertine. The streets are unusually wide and exceptionally well-maintained with large public squares, manicured rose gardens, and a lack of the usual typical urban clutter. There's a high concentration of large, imposing government buildings, which look like they were all built by the same hand.

In short, the impression is sturdy, polished, and calm. It feels like a place that has been very recently - and very thoroughly - swept and polished. And it's very welcoming, despite the rain and the poor visibility.

The Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic - A Very Brief History

• The Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic, especially the capital city, has a long history dating back to about 1500 BC and beyond.
• According to local legend, when the great biblical flood receded, Noah’s Ark landed atop nearby Mount Ilandag (also known as Snake Mountain), carving out the defined cleft, seen on the peak today. The prophet and his other passengers lived the rest of their days in this area, and the people of Nakhchivan are their descendants. Hence, Nakchivan is said to be named after Noah. Some scholars say the name Nakhchivan derives from two Armenian terms, which together mean 'place of descent', whilst some Azerbaijanis claim it comes from Nakh (Noah) and chivan (place), in ancient Persian.
• Historically, the Persians, Armenians, Mongols, and Turks competed for the area, introducing Islam. The population is overwhelmingly Muslim, largely Shia, today.
• The area passed to Russia in 1828, and in 1924 it became an autonomous republic of the Soviet Union.
• Nakhchivan became part of independent Azerbaijan, in 1991, the first part of the crumbling Soviet Union to declare its independence, only find itself incorporated into Azerbaijan, a mere fortnight later.
• For 27 years, Nakhchivan was ruled by the authoritarian Vasif Talibov, who served as the Chairman of the Supreme Assembly until his resignation in December 2022. This followed Baku's moves to drastically curtail the region's autonomy and placing the local cabinet under the direct authority of the Azerbaijani president. New arrangemnts came into being, very recently indeed, President Ilham Aliyev approved amendments to Nakhchivan’s constitution, n 10 March 2026.

Exploring Nakhchivan City

Back on the bus to explore the historical monuments of Nakhchivan city. The Back of the Coach Mafia are now very well ensconced. They're a bit much for Jala, the very pretty 18 year old assistant guide, who appoints me as her mentor and insists on sitting next to me all the time.

The Nakhchivan Khan Palace

The Nakhchivan Khan Palace dates to 1787, built by Kalbali Khan Kangarli, when the region was divided into Khans. Two storeys high, with eight rooms and a basement, it's unsurprisingly very Persianate, ornate with stained glass windows and a mirror lined chamber. It reminds me of the Shah's Palace in Tehran. The restored building has had several incarnations, most recently, as a carpet museum. There's also an outdoor archaeological museum area.

The Momine Khatun Mausoleum

The Momine Khatun Mausoleum is also right next door to the Khan Palace. This is a twelfth-century (1186) decagonal brick tower, decorated with turquoise tiles and Kufic script, built in honour of the wife of an Ildenizid ruler. It's been restored at the top, it's height reduced form 34 metres to 25, in the process. It's raining too hard to spend much time admiring this gem of eastern architecture and besides, there are more mausoleums to come.

Nakhchivan Fortress

In the south east of the city, Nakhchivan Fortress (or Yezidabad Castle) is an ancient, partially restored seventh-century fortification in the south-eastern part of Nakhchivan City, Azerbaijan. It's mainly restored walls, surrounding a museum of archaeological finds, and local history, making it a prominent historical landmark in the capital. There are tents and stalls scattered around the compound, but it's deserted and we are chased out. It's closed today.

The Heydar Mosque Complex

Opposite the fortress is the new Heydar Mosque Complex, inaugurated in 2023. This is suitably impressive, one of the largest mosques in the South Caucasus, capable of accommodating up to 5,000 people. We wait in the drizzle, for someone to open the door, so we can look inside and take pictures of the magnificent dome.

The Tomb of Noah

This is the Land of Noah, so the highlight has to be the Tomb of Noah, sandwiched between the fortress and the mosque. Jala, giving her maiden speech is quite happy to acknowledge that Noah's burial place also exists in at least five other countries. He's said to have been deposited at the bottom of a well type structure. Although it's also thought that the Soviets might have moved him. Naturally, no-one is going to look, to check. There are exhibits and a tiny model ark, inside. Outside, great views, out to the Aras River and its floodplain, framed by mountains, would be even better if it wasn't for the clouds, but the rain creates nice reflections, on the tiles.

Garabaghlar

North to Garabaghlar, almost half way to one of the extremities of this mini republic. Here we have the mausoleum of Koday Hatun, wife of the Khanate ruler Abaka, son of Genghis Khan's grandson. Also partially restored, this one is 30 metres high and has a cylindrical form with twelve semi-circular facets. Ornate and Uzbekistan like, the  tomb is dated 1376-1377 and stands with a mosque and a double minareted crown gate. There was once a a large village here, now only these remains survive.

The Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic - Facts and Factoids

• The Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic (Naxçıvan) is the world’s largest landlocked exclave. It is part of the Republic of Azerbaijan and covers some 2,124.62 square miles. That's about the same size as the UK county of Norfolk. Maximum length 96 miles, maximum width about 40 miles. It takes just over two hours to drive between the two furthest points, from Sadarak in the northwest, to Ordubad in the southeast.
• It is bordered by Armenia to the east and north, Iran to the southwest, and Türkiye to the northwest.
• It is the sole autonomous republic of Azerbaijan, governed by its own elected legislature.
• Nakhchivan has a population of just under half a million
• Nakchivan is mostly mountainous (the Lesser Caucasus), except for a plain in the west and southwest and lies to the east and north of the middle Aras River, which forms the frontier with Iran and Türkiye and subject to earthquakes. (The last bad one was in 1931.)
• Azerbaijanis constitute virtually the entire population, though there are also small numbers of Armenians and Russians.
• Agriculture, the principal economic activity, is carried out, with the aid of irrigation in the plains. The most important crops are grains, cotton, tobacco, mulberries and fruit. Sheep raising provides wool for the Azerbaijan carpet industry.
• Nakhchivan has long been a centre for trade, art and intellectual pursuits.

Hotel Saatmeydani

We're staying at what we are assured is the best hotel in town. The Hotel Saatmeydani is certainly opulent enough. Huge colonnaded and lit entertainments area, the Clock Piazza, several restaurants, enormous rooms. There's even a cute cat. It seems churlish to complain that there's no lift. But it gives the Back of the Coach Mafia a chance to show off their muscles, hefting our cases for us.

South Nakhchivan

Our timetable has been rearranged a few times. Yesterday, we were going to the Duzdagh Salt Mines Hospital, but it's full of patients and they can't fit us in. Today, with great sadness, I'm dipping out of the visit to the Machu Picchu of the Caucasus. Twelfth century Alinja Fortress was key in defending the area against sieges by Timur. But it stands up 1500 steps and I'm told you can't see much from the bottom. I've begged a photo (thank you Mette), which hasn't done much to help with the FOMO. It looks like a very worthwhile climb, if you're fit.

The Gulustan Dervish Monument

Instead, I've joined a smaller party in a car driven by Elmir to head south. We head for the Iranian border (again), navigating an army checkpoint (don't point your cameras this way) to the banks of the Aras River. This restored mausoleum is considered a Seljuk architectural masterpiece, a 12-faceted prism built of polished red stone, set on a stepped pedestal. There's an underground chamber (crypt) and a tower-like structure above it, that is inaccessible. All Islamic mausoleums it seems, are designed for women or dervishes. Again, the area around the tomb was formerly a thriving settlement.

The nearest town now is Julfa, where we stop to see a monument to the World War II dead.

Daridag Thermal Springs

A few kilometres from the city of Julfa, our next stop is Daridag Arsenic Water Treatment Centre, also known as The Daridag Balneological Hospital. There's been a rapid change of landscape - and now we're astonishingly (for such a small place) in semi desert. The striking colourful bands and jagged ridges in The Daridag Mountains, are famous for their candy cane bands, created by alternating layers of sedimentary rocks oxidized into vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges

The centre is billed as a unique spot for health and relaxation, though the strap line isn't very enticing. Arsenic? Bathing in these waters - strictly regulated by the staff is claimed to help the treatment of many diseases: rheumatism and skin conditions (such as scabies, jaundice and pyoderma), nervous disorders and musculoskeletal diseases.

Although the springs themselves were discovered in the fifteenth century, the health resorts did not follow until the mid-twentieth century. The first sanatorium was built here only in 1978, initially comprising just five baths. It's not open at the moment, though we can go inside and make cups of tea. And there's plenty of sulphurous hot water running (It's 52 degrees Celsius.).

Ordubad

Ordubad is the second largest city of Nakhchivan, edging into the most south-easterly point of the enclave. The sights here are the Geysariyya Museum, showcasing local history and culture in an old caravanserai and the Juma Mosque. This is one of the oldest mosques in Azerbaijan.

Ashabu-Kahf Caves

The return journey to Nakhchivan includes the Ashab-al-Kahf sanctuary, a revered pilgrimage site, in the mountains. It features a natural cave, a mosque, and holy water drops (Damcikhana) and is associated with the 'Seven Sleepers' story in the Quran. But so are sites in Jordan and Ephesus. The site involves a walk up to the cave, offering stunning views of the surrounding landscape, and many more steps.

As the rain clears, we're rewarded with panoramas of the rust coloured and snow capped Lesser Caucasus Mountains. Apricot trees in blossom come into their own against blue skies. Snake Mountain repeatedly raises its lonely head. No-one has ever seen a snake there. Later, from the city, There are glimpses of snow covered Mount Ararat, (Ağrı Dağı), the highest peak in Türkiye. That's where the Bible says that Noah's Ark landed.

Eating in Nakhchivan

Time for a final, late lunch in Nakchivan city. This time it's a restaurant with a garden and photo opportunities. Yesterday, lunch (spiced pumpkin soup and mezze) was a triumph. There was even a delightful toilet to add to my photo collection - with a golden pan, no less. Dinner in a restaurant next to beautifully illuminated bridge.

Reflections

Nakchivan has become a self sustaining, self efficient and organically minded republic. As a result of Armenian blockade's during the Nagorno-Karabakh War it has learned to feed itself and feed itself well, with organic food. I've read that the streets' extraordinary cleanliness is due to volunteer work done by the exclave’s public-sector employees, on their days off. That's not all, the people are also encouraged to plant trees, when they’re not working or sweeping up the streets. I've also read that this 'voluntary work' (or subbotnik as it was known in Soviet times) is actually compulsory. It goes with the job. This despite the soaring GDP, a result of Baku's oil money. It's an enigma. Now the rulers of this exclave have had their wings clipped by Baku (is this still an autonomous republic?), perhaps more visitors will get a chance to enjoy this pristine land and decide for themselves.

On the flight back to Baku (which is much smoother) Nakchivan teacher Anna, interrogates me about my trip and feeds me more Nowruz goodies.

Read more about Azerbaijan here.

NomadMania Shusha 26

I wrote, in 2022, that my trip to Nagorno Karabakh was a once in a lifetime experience. It turns out it's not, as I've been asked to go again. My invitation has come again from Harry Mitsidis, (arguably the best travelled person in the world, and founder of NomadMania, the website that serves the most well-travelled folk in the world). Last time it was Harry's fiftieth birthday, this time he's retiring (he says) and this is to celebrate him transitioning to a quieter life (he says). Nagorno Karabakh, now known as just Karabakh, is still a decidedly off limits travel destination. Access is highly restricted and generally advised against by most governments (it's on the FCDO don't go list) due to serious landmine risks and strict Azerbaijani authorization requirements, And there are going to be 80 or so fêted travellers attending NomadMania Shusha 26. How could I say no?

Getting to Azerbaijan 2026

Its not the most auspicious of flights, on Azerbaijan Airways. The stewardesses who don’t speak English, but look polished and lovely,  shower me with water droplets and lemon slices. accidentally I hope.  There’s a huge queue for the toilet. After 15 minutes a young man emerges with a book.

The Elusive Hotels of Baku

Immigration is a breeze. I have my e visa and the hotel is supposed to be sending me a a taxi, to take me back to the area near the old city, which I know from past experience is difficult to navigate. Except they don’t. So I take an airport taxi. And, true to form, the driver can't find the De Verneuil Hotel. To be fair, the whole of the new old city, to the north of the walled area, is closed off. They are replanning the roads, laying new blocks, putting in new trees. The works. The whole is builders’ dust, cement piles, plastic sheeting and narrow wobbly wooden walkways. It's no place to bring a wheelie bag. Or two.

To cut a long story short I spend two very fretful  hours wandering around, in the dark, with the heroic assistance of a young Azeri couple. The hotel does not answer their phone.

 They eventually reply to a message.  They are closed! Words fail me. They say they tried to call me today. Just a trifle late, in my opinion. I'm directed to another establishment, which is full. But they take me to yet another. I'm promised a discount for my trouble. The receptionist still tries to charge me full list price – I check on Booking.com. This is is possibly my worst city arrival ever. But my credit card statement says that he has posted the amount in manat (the Azeri currency) rather than US dollars. So he's accidentally given me a half price deal anyway.

Next day isn't promising either. No breakfast here. Or in the hotel round the corner where I'm directed. The receptionist there marches me back and then I'm taken to still another hotel. It's amazing how many there are hidden behind the facades of the grand buildings in this area. Their signs are all inside the doors. I'm surprised anyone can find any of them. 

Exploring the Centre of Baku - Again and Alone

This is my third visit to Baku, but my first opportunity to have a wander alone. None of the hotels have tourist maps. I'm not astonished. I'm directed to the tourist office, but that’s closed. It may open later. Maybe.

So, working off my Google download, it turns out I'm on Nizami Street, a major pedestrian and shopping boulevard in downtown Baku. Named after the classical Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi, it's famous for its grand nineteenth-century architecture, luxury boutiques (one of the most expensive streets in Southeast Europe), and lively atmosphere. Well, there's not much of that in evidence today.

I wander through the rubble, down to Fountain Square, the central area of the city. The fountain isn’t working and there’s a man standing in the water clearing it.   The Azeris are not exactly friendly, pragmatic veering to pessimistic. The women generally modestly clothed, in western style outfits; the masculine uniform hasn’t changed. Black leather jackets and jeans are almost mandatory. 

Novruz 2026

Round almond paste  buns were distributed liberally on my flight. These are to celebrate Novruz Bayrami, the Iranian New Year  festival, also recognized increasingly in other neighbouring countries.  In Azerbaijan,  the primary Novruz holiday period is usually  March 20–24.  However, due to several holidays overlapping with weekends this year, including the end of Ramadan, I've arrived to find  the country is currently observing an extended 11-day non-working period that runs from March 20 through March 30, 2026. Wow! It's like Christmas.

Around Fountain Square, colourful Nowruz bazaars bedecked with bunting, balloons and flowers. Again, think Christmas, the little market booths that appear then, but  with a spring theme. The most common decorations are large 'Semeni' (green sprouts representing spring), traditionally bound with a ribbon. There are also traditional Azerbaijani Novruz sweets like shakarbura (crescent-shaped pastries) and coloured eggs.

South, through the walled gates into the old city proper.  Another Nowruz Market. Attractive outdoor cafes beckon. If they don’t, then their owner does. Sitting at a table in the sun quickly lightens my mood.

Exploring with Famous Explorers

Time to set off, to join my group. The Boulevard Marriott is a decided improvement. And I have a great view of the bay and the Flames from my room. Old friends from my last trip four years ago are here: Sal, Per, Orest, Daniel, Boris. Mette from the Executive Committee and Harry too. It's good to catch up with old faces.

Fifty or so of us pile onto a coach to make (for me) a return visit to the Zoroastrian Ateshgah Temple. American Harris helps me to recreate the photo that Shane took last time. Then, a city tour which is typically slow, due to the rush hour traffic. Past the fields of nodding donkeys and through The White City reconstructed from the industrial Black City. The F1 monument - there's a Grand Prix here annually. The Zaha Hadid building. It's impossible to take photos that aren't blurred, through the coach windows.

To Mehraj (most famous Azeri traveller and expedition organiser)'s restaurant, Gizil Baligh, where the food keeps flowing. Salads, cheeses, bread and filled pide type flat pasty/ pancakes. Various kebabs made of beef and lamb. I think that must be the end and I'm stuffed. But no, now it's chicken and chips. Followed by a huge and  very sweet NomadMania Shusha 26 cake. We’ve also been given goodie bags containing a travel legends booklet, incorporating all our biographies, Shusha 2026 tee shirts, maps of the old city (just what I needed earlier), badges and key rings, all bearing the logo 'I did it in Azerbaijan'. I should be so lucky.

Karabakh Since My 2022 Visit

• On 19 September 2023, after the withdrawal of Russian troops (busy in Ukraine) and a blockade of Armenian access to Karabakh lasting several months, Azerbaijan launched a fresh large-scale military offensive in Nagorno-Karabakh.
• The Artsakh forces collapsed rapidly, resulting in an Azerbaijani victory, the dissolution of the Republic of Artsakh and the exodus of almost the entire Armenian population from the region, marking the end of a millennia-old Armenian presence in Nagorno-Karabakh
• Nagorno Karabagh (Soviet oblast name - highland or upper Karabagh) became known simply as Karabagh (Black Garden)
• Territory seized included the former Artsakh capital of Stepanakert, known as Khankendi by Azerbaijan.
• Various political analysts, along with residents of Nagorno-Karabakh, accused Azerbaijan of committing ethnic cleansing. The Azerbaijanis say that every Armenian was offered the opportunity to stay.
• President Trump says that he has been instrumental in brokering peace here. Where has he not? As of April 2026, the 'Trump Route for International Peace and Prosperity' (TRIPP) is a US-brokered plan for the Zangezur Corridor, 20 miles of road, which will connect mainland Azerbaijan to its Nakhchivan exclave (and, consequently, Turkey), through the bottom of Armenian territory, parallel with the Iranian border. It suggests a 99-year U.S. lease for a private business company to develop and manage a railway, motorway, and pipeline infrastructure. Whilst the goal to provide a 'neutral' transit route, reducing reliance on Russian or Iranian transportation links and unlocking trade opportunities between Central Asia, Azerbaijan, and Europe is considered a good one, there are doubts over potential 'corridor colonialism' and the logistical challenges of having a US-managed corridor at a very sensitive regional fault line.

The Victory Museums of Baku

Time for a refresher on the geopolitics of Karabakh. This is reinforced by visits to the open-air War Trophies Museum and the newly opened Victory Museum. The Military Trophy Park opened in April 2021, to showcase over 300 pieces of military equipment, including tanks, armoured vehicles, and weaponry, captured from Armenian forces, during the 2020 Karabakh War. There are even model trenches, cut out of the ground. It's an interesting contrast with the futuristic hotels and business centres, on the skyline.

The Zefer Muzeyi (Victory Museum) is a monument-complex, opened in 2024 also celebrating Azerbaijan’s victory in the 2020 Second Karabakh War. The 44 columns of the towering arch, at the entrance to Victory Park, represent the 44-day war. Inside, teh main museum, there are eight exhibition halls, 'Iron Fist' installations, and 'Talking Photographs' honouring the dead.

Regular readers of this column will know that I am not fond of war museums. Fortunately, we spend most of the time chatting and catching up with old friends and just scanning the exhibits. There are 64 so called UN Masters, here, people who have been to every country in the world, from 40 different sovereign states. I'm told that's a world record. There are 540 people in total, I'm told, who claim to have done this and 440 verified claims. So, I'm in good company. We have our picture taken as a group, wearing our award tee shirts. And without our special tee shirts. and outside a lot of places. I've spared you most of them.

Harry's Gala Dinner

Tonight's dinner reminds us about the background to Karabakh (again) and congratulates Harry on his retirement. We all have to make awkward short speeches about our travels. And there are more group photos.

Agdam Revisited

Then, we are off to return to Karabakh. Most of the 50 or so of us on this part of the expedition are on a bus, the new Victory Road being deemed to have improved enough to take large vehicles. One coach, one minibus and a handful of cars. And, we still have our police escort, sweeping past cars, as far as possible, on the single lane each side of the road, once we leave the coast. Most of the traffic still Lada cars, square and nostalgia inducing.

It's a cloudy day, so Karabakh is not shown to best effect, the mountains gloomy, with almost no traces of snow, now it's early Spring.

First stop, this visit, is the former ghost town of Agdam, where it is now possible to visit by train, from Baku, and even stay at a new Hilton Garden Inn. Through Yevkhalax, sheep on the roadside verges. Flat fields of rape, just coming into blossom. Steeply angled tin roofs on squat houses.  Lada cars still proliferate, out here in the rural areas. These are interspersed with modern complexes, mostly named after the president. And stone built mock  manor or castle style hotels and restaurants. Crenellations and turrets are popular.

Agdam, the gateway to Karabakh is very different, now partially reconstructed. The nineteenth-century Juma Mosque is no longer a shell. The new apartment blocks are free to return to, if you can prove your family connection. 1100 people have now returned; there were 50000 originally.  But this was one of the most heavily mined areas and warning signs still proliferate, even in the town itself. There is a colourful mosaic on the wall of the ruined Bakery Museum. It's a curious atmosphere, the stark contrast of new flats being built behind the ruins, left as they were. It makes it difficult to shake off the shock of what has happened to this town, a bleak phoenix, with the ashes still remaining.

The Khojaly Massacre

There's a new road from Agdam to Susa – this is a surprise even to the drivers on our convoy. The new road is a dual carriageway. Well, for a while. but then we are into the construction zone. A plethora (or a rumble?) of JCBs.

En route, we stop at the brand new (still being constructed) Khojaly Monument. The Khojaly Massacre was the largest single massacre of the entire Nagorno-Karabakh conflict. In early 1992, Armenian forces, along with some troops of the 366th CIS (ex Soviet) regiment, took the town, after a blockade and, in the process, committed the mass killing of Azerbaijani civilians. The death toll given by the Azerbaijani authorities is 613 civilians, including 106 women and 63 children. Human Rights Watch say at least 200 Azerbaijanis were killed, though as many as 500–1,000 may have died either from fighting or the aftermath and cold.

Khankendi

Khankendi definitely wasn't on the programme last time. It was in Armenian hands, known as Stepanakert, the capital of the self-proclaimed Republic of Artsakh. In September 2023, the city came under full Azerbaijani control, resulting in the exodus of its Armenian population of around 100,000. There's been more rebuilding, a university and the city is currently being resettled by Azerbaijanis.

We're not allowed to mention the Armenian name. And we're not allowed to take photographs, in case they include any of the many properties over which there are legal issues about disrupted ownership. So, we haven’t been there, or seen the stadium, or the town hall or the Victory Arch, in Victory Park. Just to make sure I've removed anything that looks remotely like a private dwelling from these images. The 'We Are Our Mountains' monument, also known colloquially as 'Tatik-Papik' (Grandma and Grandpa) is also contentious. It's red volcanic tuff and Armenian, originally intended to celebrate peace. There are ongoing calls for it to be removed.

Shusha Revisited

It's the turn of Shusha to be visited as the light fades. The Soviet era mountain is same, but different. The statues, the town hall, the fortress with Shusha in bold red, up top, are still there. The Shusha banners have gone, replaced by a huge welcome sign. The upper mosque has been renovated and there are new apartment blocks. However, it's still a work in progress, a mixture of modern, cleared areas and ruins.

Lachin and the Lachin Corridor

Lachin, along with villages like Aghavno, sat inside the original five-kilometre-wide corridor which linked Armenia with Karabakh. It was monitored by Russian peacekeepers, who escorted us through, on our last visit. In August 2022, Azerbaijan reclaimed control of the town of Lachin, and the old road passing through it was abandoned. The new, wider route bypasses the city, allowing traffic to go to Karabakh without going through the urban area.

The drive to Lachin is long and tortuous, on old roads, or new ones that haven’t been completed. I can't really see, in the dark. It's tough for the driver, especially as the convoy takes the wrong turning (none of us can understand why, as we are following the route on Google ) and the coach has to make a U turn on the narrow highway.

Eventually we arrive and it's time for bed huzzah. Except no, it's a restaurant in town first, for a slightly bizarre supper of soup and dolmades. When it's finally achieved we discover a swanky spa resort, complete with golf buggies. Very much an improvement on the accommodation from last visit, decorated beautifully for the holidays. But it's bathed in mist and in the morning it's full on rain.

I'm told that Lacin is a pretty town. I'll have to accept that piece of information. Running for cover, two art galleries and two ceramics displays. Again. it's a good moment for a chat.

The East Zangezur Corridor

South, to spend the rest of the day meandering along the newly established borders between Azerbaijan and Armenia. No-one crosses here and the original line land borders here have been closed since the 1990s. No matter, it's difficult enough to take decent pictures from a moving bus, but when the windows are covered in water droplets, it's impossible to see anything.

Here, there's a network of new roads and tunnels, along the border with Iran, leading to Armenia. The East Zangezur Corridor. We stop frequently for views across to everyday life in Iran the other side of the river Aras. Photos are forbidden here, on the grounds that army border points are secret and the Iranians of course are skittish, already being at war with the USA and Israel.  Though the many journalists not to mention the  drivers don't seem to be included in that ban. The main tunnel is closed on one side. And there's no other cover, for a bush toilet. The sign is large enough to duck behind.

At the far end of the tunnel is the tripoint between the three countries. This is where the proposed ‘Trump Route for International Peace and Prosperity,’ linking Azerbaijan through Armenia to Nakhchivan and beyond, would begin.

Fusili

Back to Baku via Fusili, which now has an airport, a few apartment blocks and a supermarket. Again, it must be weird, living in characterless houses identical to everyone else, all modern and very utilitarian, amongst a bleak landscape, dotted with ruins.

The Media

The media have tracked our visit again. At most stops we are met with a host of pretty young girls waving microphones. But less energetically than last time. No press conferences, on this occasion. There have been maybe 20 other groups visiting since then. But it's still a novelty to watch ourselves on the television each night. Now it's time to leave Baku and the media behind and venture to the exclave of Nakhchivan. Reza, the photographer we met last time, has not been around on this trip. But he does have an exhibition of his wonderful photographs, at the airport.

Read more about Azerbaijan here.

I first visited the Maldives, in 1999, when the atolls were still divided into hot and cold water - not the ocean - the resorts. Much has changed since then, not least the names of the islands. There are a plethora of new resorts. Roughly 120 island resorts to choose from in the Maldives and still growing. I can't even find a name that looks familiar to me to describe the place I stayed. After long discussions with Chat GPT, who claimed to rifle the Kuoni archives, I have decided it must have been Veligandu, in the North Ari Atoll, since considerably upgraded.

Maldives - in a Nutshell

• Maldives has been a strictly Moslem country since the twelfth century. The first of the colonial powers to settle there were the Portuguese, followed by the Dutch. The British expelled the Dutch from Ceylon in 1796 and the Maldives was then tagged on as a British Protectorate. The protectorate came to an end in 1953, but British influence remained until 1965 and formal independence. The Republic of Maldives (official title) joined the then British Commonwealth.
• Questions have since been raised around human rights. Reports in 2012 suggested corruption, lack of religious freedom, abuse, and unequal treatment of women. As a result, Maldives left the Commonwealth for several years, but has since re-joined (2020).
• There are 1,192 islands in the Maldives, on 26 atolls. They are divided into: inhabited islands with chiefs and counsellors (187 of these), uninhabited islands (which include tourist resorts) and (recently) disappeared islands.
• If global warming continues on its current path the whole of Maldives may well end up on the disappeared list. Maldives is the smallest Asian country by both land area and population (roughly 375,000) and the lowest country in the world, with maximum and average natural ground levels of only 2.4 metres and 1.5 metres above sea level, respectively. For the moment, it still serves as an idyllic tourist destination with excellent snorkelling and diving on the many coral reefs.
• Tourism is the backbone of the economy, but it's a relatively recent development. The first visitors arrived in the 1970s.
• Fishing is the other mainstay. The traditional fishing boat is called a dhoni - they're also used for tourist expeditions and snorkelling trips.
• Maldives cuisine consists mainly of tuna, coconut, curries, banana, and a variety of carbohydrates such as yam, breadfruit, sweet potato, rice, and a local flatbread called roshi. There are also side dishes like bilimbi pickle, mas mirus (spicy dried tuna flakes), and theluli faiy (fried moringa leaves). Favourite desserts among locals are bondi (coconut palm sugar candy), ala pirini (yam pudding), bokuri bambekeyo (caramelized breadfruit), and paan boakiba (egg & bread pudding).

A New Millennium in Veligandu, Maldives, Maybe

This was a see-in the New Millennium beach break. The flight to the capital, Malé was tedious. It was a very cramped charter plane via Colombo. The capital city, Malé, occupies a whole island and, with over 100,000 people crammed onto it, is by some measures, the world’s densest city. The twenty minute seaplane flight from Malé to Veligandu (maybe) was far more acceptable, thrilling even, with great views of the islands and reefs.

Our island was tiny and could be circumnavigated in less than ten minutes. We had our own strip of powdery white beach - it was peaceful and gorgeous. The house reef was a few hundred yards too many away, for comfortable access. The aquamarine lagoon was clear and shallow, so the swim wasn’t too daunting - until I disturbed an octopus who shot out of the water in front of me. My scream woke up every one dozing on their sunbeds. The sights were suitably rewarding when I finally arrived - the coral teemed with tropical fish and turtles. Swimming alongside a turtle is incredibly relaxing; they look so serene.

We got to admire the ten new overwater bungalows, the first generation of overwater accommodation in the Maldives. The food wasn’t great – it’s all imported of course. The island is much too small to grow anything. New Year’s Eve brought live music and fireworks, with a flaming sign - 'Happy First Second of the Second Millennium’. I don't think they had the right millennium, or the right starting point for that matter. But it's the thought that counts...

Revisiting the Maldives

A revisit to the Maldives is called for. I only have a few pre-digital photos on my website. A lot has changed, since my last visit. In those days, tourists were only allowed on designated resort islands. Most of the islands are small and it’s usually one glitzy resort per island. You can often  run round it in five minutes. Since 2012, islands inhabited by the locals have also been permitted to host tourists. But with conditions. No alcohol and swimming costumes only on designated ‘bikini beaches’.

A huge disparity has developed between the resorts and the local islands. The former are now horrendously expensive. You’re lucky to find anything cheaper than 1000 USD a night, in high season. The guest houses come in at from 50-100 USD per night.

It goes without saying that I’ve decided to try out the guest houses. I’m trying to choose three islands, with the assistance of Chat GPT. I’m assured that the beaches are gorgeous and the snorkelling is just as good, with worthwhile house reefs. The guest houses/hotels look nice. No alcohol, but a much more authentic experience is promised. My fourth island will be capital, Malé.

Trying to Book Ahead

Of course, it’s easier said than done. The guest houses don’t seem very anxious to take bookings. Even those that have websites don’t feel the need to respond to emails. Some of them give WhatsApp numbers. But they ignore messages on those too. And, just to make sure, they ignore a ringing phone as well. One hotel actually does answer the phone and a grumpy young man says they will look at my email and reply ‘later’. They don’t.

I don’t want to book through Booking.com if I can, as I want to make sure I can organise the necessary flights and speedboat transfers, which have to be done by the hotel. It takes maybe eight attempts, with different accommodations, before I am sorted. Thank God for Farigh, at the Ataraxis Hotel, on Fuvamulah, in the far south, who is alone in responding to messages almost immediately and fixes my flights to his atoll for me.

Irash at the Rattehi Inn, on Rakeedhu, also eventually comes up trumps (although maybe nowadays I ought to use a different expression for somebody fixing something), after I find him on WhatsApp. And, last of all, after considerable bother, I track down a guest house, on Dhangethi, with one of the owners, a Czech lady. She answers on WhatsApp too. Huzzah. I’m fixed up.

Getting to the Maldives During Operation Epic Chaos

The flight is uneventful, despite the fact that many airlines have cancelled their Middle east routes, due to Trump’s Operation Epic Chaos, in Iran. Heathrow is refreshingly quiet. Capital Malé’s international terminal is now modern and shiny. Passport control is refreshingly speedy and I’m buzzing with excitement. That lasts until I have to pick up my bag. I’ve never seen such a slow luggage delivery carousel. Half an hour later I’m rushing to find my boat which goes at 11 a.m. This involves navigating a very long corridor to the jetty.

Dhangethi is where I start, so I have to work out which of the many moored speedboats is destined for that island. There are no signs and several blank faces. But I eventually make my way on board the correct vessel, with 15 minutes to spare.

The captain takes great delight in bumping over the many speed boat wakes as we zoom past the scrapers of Malé. After that, the sea is like glass. It’s a 90 minute run past a few dots of islands, lines of overwater bungalows (of course) a pod of dolphins on the horizon and the shadows of a ray or two.

Dhangethi

Dhangethi in a Nutshell

• Dhangethi is one of the inhabited islands of the South Ari (Alif Dhaal) Atoll, in fact, it's the capital, despite the fact that it’s just under a kilometre long and 325metres wide. Dhangethi's population is nominally 1200 souls, but fewer than 500 people actually live on the island. Most of the residents have moved to Malé, for education and better job opportunities.
• The locals refer to Dhangethi Island as ‘Handhu Runbaa' island. Handhu is 'moon' and Runbaa is 'jar' in Dhivehi. Way back, when the ancestors of Dhangethi depended on fishing, a group of fishermen set sail for a night ‘s work. That night, one fisherman on the boat saw the reflection of the moon in the jar in the dhoni half filled with water. Everyone was startled to see this sight and they hurried to Malé, to give the then Radhun (king) the moon as a present. But, of course, when they arrived, it had disappeared.
• Dhangethi is ideal for Maldives on a budget, I'm told. The speedboat transfers are 45 USD each way. You can get a ferry, for only 6 USD, if you don't mind taxiing to Malé and then catching the local slow ferry - six hours. If you’re rich, it’s the seaplane at 350 USD. Or you can charter your own speedboat, for a few thousand or so. But that rather defeats the point of my budget trip planning. There’s a range of accommodation, and it's relatively cheap, if you can get someone to answer your email or WhatsApp message. Atoll Residence is coming in at 85 USD per day, full board.
• Dhangethi is advertised as having a pristine white sand bikini beach, excellent non-stop food and daily excursions to unreal dive/snorkel spots. (Dhangethi is home to enigmatic mantas and gentle whale sharks.) And, tourism and fishing are the main sources of income on the island.
  

On Dhangethi

Bang on time, South Ari Atoll and Dhangheti's diminutive stone walled port, lined with the local wooden dhoni boats. They have Viking style prows. I’m greeted by three scarlet and white satellite masts, a collection of JCBs and piles of quarried coral sand, together with an unfinished concrete pier roof. Nestled behind that is the Bank of Maldives Self-Service Banking ATM centre, an important and recent innovation. But beyond that, once I’m transported five minutes, in a small wheeled metal cart, my piece of Dhangethi is quiet and beautiful, and the staff are exceptionally accommodating.

The beach, right opposite my guest house, is stunningly gorgeous. The best powdery white sand, cool to the feet (this is coral) and the sea is swirls of jade and sapphire. This Bikini Beach, accessed by welcoming arches of hibiscus, extends to the southerly point of the island, disappearing into a curling sand spit.

Czech Point

My room looks lovely, at first glance, modern with plenty of power points. And I’ve got a great view out to the reef. But places are budget for a reason. I’m trying not to look too closely at the battered door fittings, rusty pedal bin and mirror and scale-stained taps and especially (aargh the toilet seat). And the mattress is excruciatingly hard. The outdoor metal banister railings aren’t a great idea in the heat either. One burn is enough to ensure I refrain from touching them again. The Atoll Residence is nearly full with Czech families: statuesque blondes with neat figures and flat stomachs and lots of children milling around. Of course, I booked with a Czech lady. This is even marked as Czech Point (ha ha) on Google.

Sorting the Menu

Dinner is served under cover on the beach. And I soon learn why the food (non-stop?) is so cheap. It’s all cold as there's no heat source under the chafing dishes and it's all chips and pizza and pasta. One choice, but definitely not table d'hote. Apparently, that's what the guests like. The only beverages on offer are water or some very lurid orange squash. Despite the strap line plastered across reception ‘Feel the Local Vibes..’

I have words with one of the staff, who phones the boss (he only comes in to collect the money when guests arrive) and I explain to him that I’m not keen on the menu. He says the chef will cook what I want, if I talk to him. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, ‘Where is he?’ Ah, it's the guy I’ve been complaining to. He's a really delightful Sri Lankan. And sure enough he serves me up rice, fish and chicken from then on.

One Czech couple, with a young son, who has very good English turn out to be part of management too. (This is definitely a Czech enclave.) On Day Three they feed me pumpkin soup and Hungarian flat dough pancakes. A kind of palacsinta, they say, though it's nothing like the ones I had in Budapest. Nevertheless, highly calorific, but delicious, with cheese and mayonnaise. Things are definitely looking up.

Exploring Dhangethi

It doesn't take long to explore Dhangethi. The streets are all sand, some of quite deep; it’s as if it has all been built on the beach. And you can see the water at both ends of them. There are plenty of signs dotted around to remind us tourists what the dress code is. I'm exhorted not to just wrap a flimsy piece of material round my torso. That's my sarong out then. Though naturally, not all the tourists are obedient.

From a distance, the island looks relatively green. There are plenty of trees, palms and decorative bougainvillea. However, most of Dhangethi is built up, with some sort of beach running round all of it. There are eight minimarts, four restaurants and cafes and 12 souvenir shops. Alongside are the hospital, school, cultural centre, activities centre (with stage) pretty green mosque, football field (the only spot of grass but looking unused), some hard games courts and a telephone company office. The south side of the island, where I find the bikini beach is where most of the hotels are. There's more construction going on here, apace.

The north half is more industrial - if that's the right word. The essential desalination plant and numerous ship yards. In-between the two, the main shopping area, surprisingly buzzy. This is home to those souvenir shops. To one end, the main port, to the other, a pier, the council offices and a couple of cafes and exhibition areas. This is where most of that buzz comes from. There’s even an ‘I love Dhangethi’ sign.

Back at the Ranch

Day One and my room hasn't been cleaned at all. I’m not sure if this is an oversight or hotel policy, but I'm not saying anything as I fear I have exhausted all possible good will on my food discussions. Day Two and I arrive back from the beach to find cleaning in progress. I point out the underside of the toilet seat and the guy departs to fetch heftier weapons than those he had already brought in. Day Three doesn't bring any cleaning at all again. Either that's the hotel plan or he's avoiding being asked to do unpleasant tasks again.

I’m emulating the Germans and bagging a sunbed right by the sea. Though I don't think there is much competition. The Czechs are all heading down to the end of the Bikini Beach where beds and thatched umbrellas are both plentiful. The shade is needed - it's well over 30 Celsius.

Little Richard

As is frequently the case I soon acquire a ginger and white feline companion. He's small but feisty, determined to crawl on top of me. Fortunately, for me (but not him) he seems to have been declawed.

At dinner, it transpires that he (the Czechs tell me they have named him Richard for some reason) has half a dozen equally small and fluffy companions, nearly all with the same colour markings. There's a scrimmage as they compete for dinner scraps, even following me to my room, in the hope of more.( I suspect that's all the food they get.) But there is carnage when the cats slink into the indoor eating area. This is where the semi tame long billed whimbrels wander and where they're fed bowls of seeds. ( I think they must have clipped their wings.) The shrieking cats are scooped up and swiftly deposited back outside.

Little Richard is definitely king of the castle, despite his size. He even monopolizes the buffet table on the beach, when he thinks no-one is looking.

Some Dhangethi Snorkelling Adventures - Part One - Turtles (Or Not)

If it's a tropical island then there has to be snorkelling. First, a speed boat out to the reef, to look for turtles. My four on board companions adopt strange positions as if they're expecting some kind of combat. An Australian couple and a Russian mother and grimacing son. ( There are lots of Russians here too.) The doom and gloom Aussies tell me that I’ve paid too much for my trip on the boat and my next island Fuvamulah is very boring, nothing there and no bikini beach, unless I go diving for tiger sharks. Oh joy.

There’s no turtle joy either. Not a reptile to be seen, but the section of reef is long and there are other amusements. Black and white tipped reef sharks, plentiful shoals of marine life, including pipe fish and considerable amounts of live coral, though most of it is sepia brown. At least, it shows the colourful fish off to perfection.

Some Dhangethi Snorkelling Adventures - Part Two - Whale Sharks (Or Not)

Next day, it's the same crew and a longer expedition into the South Ari Atoll. This time, we're looking for whale sharks (a bucket list sight) and mantas. Conveniently, they inhabit the same waters. Very nice for the tour operators, who charge 75 USD for each or combine both to make it 150 USD, for the trip. I don't think you get double the time, though a double jackpot (both in the same frame), was reportedly seen last Thursday.

Today's co passengers are more Russians - a couple, with very little English and not much more in the way of manners, and a Vietnamese medic, who works in the USA, so has very good English and very glittery fingernails. He's called Jason and he begins by asking the guide, Shaun, to take a video of him (it must be vertical) in front of the animals, when we see them. I feel he is being optimistic on several counts.

It's a promising start, as some dolphins motor past. but after that things go decidedly downhill. It seems that everyone else in the Maldives is also hunting whale sharks. There are hundreds of boats bobbing, the passengers sittings upfront, fins at their sides, ready to assault the ocean, at the word jump. It is an assault too, a medley of kicking and shoving from folk, who clearly don't know how to swim or snorkel. There's no instruction or regulation whatsoever.

When a manta does appear and we manage to get close, someone will dive down, waving their cell phone camera, in its plastic wallet and the poor manta swims even deeper down. I saw two, but nowhere near well enough to get a decent image and one only very briefly, as it flees the scene. Very different to other manta visits in Micronesia or the Solomon Islands, where we wait quietly for the giant creatures to glide into their cleaning station and are not allowed to move from our spot.

The Whale Shark Wait

There are whale shark alarms, when Captain Bob takes great delight in careering over the wakes left by the boats who left before us, shrieking excitedly, as he twists the wheel wildly. He’s got long curly hair, which streams behind him. The whale shark doesn’t return. I don't blame him.

We are waiting and bobbing a lot more (perhaps that's why he's called Captain Bob). But the closest we've got to seeing a whale shark is a dhoni, with that name Jason is getting desperate, so he brings out his drone to go search for the whale shark, reported, somewhere in the vicinity. He has been reluctant to use it, as landing it is going to be fraught. It’s quickly launched, but immediately crashes into a strut of the boat canopy and bounces into the sea. There is much bad language. Bob manages to retrieve it by diving in, but there is steam emanating from the battery. It's laid out sadly to dry, limbs flailing.

All is quiet again. I’m desperate for a pee, so ask to go in for a swim. Mid flow, I’m interrupted by a yell and a demand I return to the boat immediately. It’s difficult to explain why I can't. And my scramble back onto the boat is even less dignified than usual, as I’m shouted at to hurry up. The ladder on this vessel moves with the waves, so it's hard to hold onto it and climb and no-one helps you scramble on-board. Needless to say, by the time we’ve bumped over to the other side of the lagoon the whale shark has dispatched itself.

Shaun rubs salt into the wound by showing us Thursday’s video. I’m not amused. This was not my best day out. I don't think the drone enjoyed it either. Perhaps I’m a jinx. That’s the second drone that's been used close to me and both have been lost in water. (See Tino in Reunion.)

Leaving Dhangethi

Dhangethi is a definite recommendation. The accommodation. Ummmm. Despite the lovely and well-meaning staff, I can't overlook the toilet seat.

But it’s time to leave. A day or two out of the sun may be called for. Yesterday, I wore a full body suit most of the day. The only exposed extremities, my hands and face, are red raw burnt and swollen. My eyes are slits. And I definitely put sun lotion on my face. At least it’s only a couple of bits of me. And I’ve given myself a free facial peel.

It’s an early start for the 7 a.m. boat back to Malé. I fondly imagine a peaceful ride, admiring the islands as we whizz past and taking a few photos. I need to curb my imagination. The boat is packed, almost definitely overloaded and the plastic awnings are down. Black screens also on my side. Yesterday’s Russians are seated next to me. Apart from barking at me to move my bag they ignore me. I’m unsure if they recognise me and aren’t going to acknowledge this or aren’t even aware. We all doze quietly.

Fuvahmulah - the Nothing To Do Island?

Getting to Fuvamulah

It's a plane to Fuvahmulah next, but it doesn’t go for another seven and a half hours. I tried to check in online during the night but was not allowed to. Ticket problem, it says. That’s slightly alarming. I try to find the domestic terminal. There don’t seem to be any signs. Over there, says the man at the Help Desk. But that’s Terminal 2, the old international terminal, still characterful with rows of tiny booths outside, servicing every possible aspect of the tourist industry. Google eventually informs me that this became the domestic terminal in February. It boats it's gone from three check in desks to 27. Next mission is to track down someone from Maldivian Airlines and ask about my ticket. But there’s no one at the ticket counter.

At least there’s a left luggage office. And then I wander along the many little quaysides to the Hulhule Hotel. It's a good place to hide in the bar, with a view across the water. There are an English family round the pool. They’ve been here a week, since their Emirates flight home was cancelled. There are many others in the same boat. Most of the hotels are full, busy bumping folk out or on as the inclination takes them and raising their prices.

Back at the airport, I buy KFC for an extortionate 10 USD, only to discover that I've been served what is probably yesterday's leftovers. The chips are hard and cold. I finally check in, much too early. After the clerk has given me a heart attack by telling me my flight has already left . Then I realise he’s pointing to my return flight, which will have left today. The islands have some of the most unprounceable names I’ve ever come across. Fuvahmulah seems to be said something like Formulaiah. I shall have to listen hard, to make sure I get on the right flight.

Fuvahmulah in a Nutshell

• Fuvahmulah is the second southernmost administrative atoll in the Maldives, 500 kilometres south of Malé, and a mere 33 kilometres from the Equator - in the southern hemisphere.
• It measures roughly 4.5 kilometres in length and 1.2 kilometres across.
• It is unique, because it is a one-island atoll surrounded by deep oceans.
• Fuvahmulah is renowned as a premier diving destination, particularly for tiger sharks and large pelagics, as its waters are nutrient rich. It’s apparently known as the ‘Galapagos of the Maldives’.
• It’s also the third most populous island after Malé and Addu. 11,000 people.

On Fuvahmulah

So now I've popped over the Equator. This is probably the closest I’m going to get to the Chagos Islands, which are on several travel checklists, but virtually inaccessible, unless you’re in the military. And it’s even hotter here. I’m still deciding on whether or not there is nothing to do. I’ve asked for a tour and been told it will take 30 minutes to an hour. There's a very scenic beach (with the two-tone blue water to which I have become accustomed) just up the road. Thoondu is lauded for its small white pebbles. I’m unsure why. There are a lot more on Chesil Beach, but perhaps those aren't as snowy white and shiny. It must also be because these are unique in the Maldives, where all the beaches are powdery coral sand.

The side roads are packed down sand, but the main roads are wide asphalt, with painted kerbs and flower beds alongside the pavements and in the central reservation. More neat shops and cafes and the football pitches here are AstroTurf. It’s all very smart. But very quiet and the beaches are empty. It’s Ramadan, so maybe it's livelier at other times. And the locals are still friendly, with children stopping to talk. ‘You’re very beautiful’ is always a good chat up line, despite the fact my face is scarlet and blistered. And even the women don’t mind having their picture taken.

A Tour of Fuvahmulah

Hotel manager Haam takes me on my tour, which lasts just over an hour. We start at the northern tip. There's the Geimiski Mosque, the oldest mosque in the Maldives, built of coral stone some 900 years ago, by Ah Naib Al-Hafiz Abubakr, thought to be one the first advocates of Islam. The compound houses a shrine built which formerly contained three tombs, one of which is believed to hold his remains.

It's thought to be built over a Buddhist temple site which explains the large tank in the corner and the odd orientation of the main building. The tank was used as a veyo, for ablutions, but is now home to fish. There's also a rectangular well, which, according to local myth, has four corners that offer distinctive tasting water. The liquid is green and we're advised not to to test this proposition.

The Buddhist connection is reinforced by Havitta, the ruins of a pre-Islamic Buddhist monastery, 500 feet away. the stupa is now s a heap of grass.

Haam waxes lyrical about the natural resources on this island. Fuvahmulah is very green and fertile compared to other Maldivian islands, with plenty of agriculture: taro, mangoes, bananas, aubergines and other vegetables, greens and tropical fruits. In ancient times, the southern end of Fuvahmulah had a small islet with a saltwater lagoon forming a natural harbour. Over time, the coral reefs grew and closed the channel connecting the lagoon to the sea. The lagoon lost its saltiness and is today known for its two freshwater lakes, Dhadimagi Kilhi and Bandaara Kilhi.

The lakes are surrounded by marshlands which are mainly dense vegetation of ferns, reed and taro fields. They feature sedate restaurants and board walks to view the emerald green stretches around the water and the herons and moorhens swooping and dabbling. And boats if you want to get really close up. There's an additional Nature Park with another board walk down in the south east. This one has no visible water, but plenty of grasslands.

The island is being sympathetically and beautifully developed. There's a Beach Promenade Plan to link Thoondu with the harbour, in the south. Extra, small harbours are being created, with beach and water sports sections. Down by the main harbour, in front of the fish market, some of the locals are volunteering to construct a raised viewing area: beach, airport and harbour. There’s even a webcam on the fish market, so locals can see what fish has been brought in and is up for sale. There's a black pebble beach there too, but it's too close to the airport runway and security won't allow visitors.

Sharks

• Sharks are Selachii - cartilaginous fishes with ribless endoskeletons, a sister group to the Batomorphi (rays and skates).
• Sharks have been around for a long time. Shark-like creatures - chondrichthyans such as Cladoselache and Doliodus - first appeared in the Devonian Period (419–359 million years), though some fossilized chondrichthyan-like scales are as old as the Late Ordovician (458–444 million years ago). The earliest confirmed modern sharks (Selachii) were found in the Early Jurassic, around 200 million years ago
• They are found in all the seas of the world, mainly living in saltwater. (The bull shark and river sharks can be found in both seawater and freshwater, and the Ganges shark, lives only in freshwater.)
• Sharks have a covering of placoid scales (denticles) which protects the skin from damage and parasites, as well as improving their fluid dynamics. They have numerous sets of replaceable teeth.(!)
• Sharks range hugely in size, from the small dwarf lantern shark, a deep sea species that is only 17 centimetres in length, to the whale shark (Rhincodon typus), the largest fish in the world, which reaches approximately 12 metres to 18.8 metres in length. Despite its huge size, the whale shark is an active filter feeder, primarily consuming plankton, krill, fish eggs, and small schooling fish, such as sardines and anchovies. It can process over 6,000 litres of water per hour, through its specialized sieve-like gill pads. Whale sharks are highly migratory, travelling thousands of miles across tropical oceans to exploit seasonal food sources, Whale sharks are known as gentle giants, docile and posing no significant threat to humans. Nevertheless, they are currently listed as an Endangered Species, due to a population decline of more than 50% over the last 75 years.

• Several shark species however, are apex predators, organisms which sit at the top of their food chain. These are the sharks which make the headlines: bull shark, tiger shark, great white shark, mako sharks, thresher sharks and hammerhead sharks.
• Tiger shark females are capable of attaining a length of over 5 metres. The name derives from the dark stripes down the shark's body, which resemble a tiger's pattern. They’re mainly seen on the juveniles, fading as the sharks grow and move into murkier, deeper waters, where the stripes aren't necessary and dingy grey suits them better. They’re distinguishable by their small dorsal fins, broad heads (home to all those teeth) and long narrow tails. away from human influence, the tiger shark is a solitary, mostly nocturnal hunter, notable for having the widest food spectrum of all sharks, with a range of prey which includes crustaceans, fish, seals, birds, squid, sea turtles, sea snakes, dolphins, and others, even smaller sharks. It also has a reputation as a 'garbage eater', consuming a variety of inedible, man-made objects which then linger in its stomach.
• The orca is the tiger sharks have only recorded natural predator. Nevertheless, it is considered a near-threatened species, because of because of hunting by humans. The tiger shark is second only to the great white in recorded fatal attacks on humans, (apparently these events are still exceedingly rare).
• Sharks main enemy is humans, who catch them for their meat or fins, often simply mutilating the fish and throwing them back. Since 1970, shark populations have been reduced by 71%.

Shark Island

As my Aussie doom-mongers pointed out, Fuvamulah is a place for divers. It's also known as Shark Island. I’ve checked out the diving scene and it is all shark orientated. There are several kinds around, but tiger sharks, the second most dangerous to man are the main draw. I've also learned that there is a possibility of snorkelling or ‘free diving’, which means staying as still as you can, mainly on the surface and not making any splashes, in case the sharks think you are in distress. I'm going to pass on that.

All the shark action happens down at the harbour entrance, at 'Tiger Zoo', so the dive boats don't have to go far. And I don't actually have to get in the water, thankfully, to see them. The sharks used to collect down at the fish market end of the port, where they threw the fish remnants into the sea after gutting and trimming. Now, the boatmen throw tuna heads and skins into the ocean at the other end. It certainly brings in the sharks, who throng in the area - as far as I can see, mostly tiger sharks (further out) and reef sharks.

The tiger sharks’ stripes camouflage beautifully in the waves, as the light refracts across them. Photos from above aren't very easy. The water is choppy today and those refracting stripes work very well. I'm a little perturbed by the shark baiting. I don't think it's very environmentally sound. What's more I know what happened after the reef sharks were fed in the Cocos Islands. And these are bigger and much more aggressive. But I'm told there have never been any reported incidents. (There weren't in Cocos either, even after the attack I witnessed.)

The Ataraxis Hotel and Spa

This hotel is a little gem. Huge rooms with a seating area and balconies. No rusty bins here. Though it is twice the price. It also boasts a lift which plays music, a rooftop café with a sauna and a fairly swanky downstairs restaurant, complete with outdoor staircase, leading up to a mezzanine eating area. It's called The Spot. The kindest and most attentive of staff bring me beautifully presented and nicely cooked food. The Indian dishes are spicy and delicious. Tuna served as a battered fish and chip meal is a little more surprising.

The Ataraxis sits rather oddly in what seems to be the middle of nowhere, surrounded by banana plantations and vegetable patches: taro, aubergines, sweet potatoes. But closer inspection reveals another hotel, a dive centre and a restaurant or two, just up the road.

It's very pleasant, in the cooler evening, eating up on the rooftop, views across to the lakes, listening to the melodic Iftar signal that it's time to break fast, with dates and water, wafting up from the mosque below. Fuvamulah is a serene place to be and it's worth a visit. Though maybe a short one.

Rakeedhoo

Rakeedhoo in a Nutshell

• Rakeedhoo is tiny – the smallest inhabited island in the Maldives.
• Online guides say it is 1.1 kilometres long and 0.6 kilometres wide, but a chat with Google confirms what my eye tells me. It's only 400metres at most, by 200 metres, at most.
• Rakeedhoo Island is beautifully located in the heart of Vaavu Atoll, approximately 75 kilometres from Malé. The island’s position offers excellent protection from strong currents. That's probably just as well.
• Rakeedhoo is home to approximately 60 residents, although as with most islands, the population is decreasing. It was 360.
• What community there is, is apparently known for preserving traditional Maldivian practices including music, dance, and fishing techniques. Rakeedhoo is apparently, particularly renowned for its traditional handicrafts, including mat weaving, rope making and coconut shell crafts.

Getting to Rakeedhoo

No tourist boats travelling to Rakeedhoo – not enough people. I’m on a local ProJets’ speedboat from Malé and everyone else on board is Maldivian, returning to other islands, after a visit to the capital. This boat operates like Uber. You can even track its progress online. The sea is choppier today and there are bumps on and off the whole way. Although we pass far more islands on this southerly route, out of Malé, some of them fairly built up, though not to the extremes of Malé. A few tiny islets have been flattened by JCBs, which are still at work. Surely, they're not planning to build on them, with rising sea levels?

Welcome to Rakeedhoo Island

Luckily, I’ve left the best till last. Rakeedhoo is as gorgeous as promised. Two guest houses. Mine, the Rattehi Inn is absolutely delightful, with every sort of comfortable chair, shade, tree and tasteful decoration (boats feature a lot) you could imagine. Hens skitter along, with chicks in their wake. I check them every day, but there are still four. No foxes here. Even cuter are the fluffy long legged watermen chicks, who also rampage through the grounds daily. The kanbili, as they are officially called, is the Maldivian national bird.

Sunbeds with thatched umbrellas ranged alongside the curving white sand beach. There’s the usual menagerie present. Minuscule hermit crabs drag their shell homes along the beach, leaving wavy trails in the sand, lizards scurry past trying to stay unnoticed, the resident heron perches majestically on the little coral stone arm and the micro ants track me down yet again and stream onto my sunbed. The air is fragrant with the scent of the white flowered beach naupaka. A turquoise lagoon which stretches waist high at most, out to the reef. A swing in the water (the Maldivians like those), a tiny pier. And most of the property lit up with strings of diamond lights at night. Paradise.

The downside (sadly there always is one), mosquitoes in the evening, which is when the dinner the tables are set atmospherically alongside the bay and the proximity of the mosque. Iftar is celebrated especially loudly on Friday evening. But it doesn't go on too long and the bites aren’t those horrible itchy ones.

The Rakeedhoo House Reefs

The PR boasts that the house reef is very accessible. It’s easily visible where the turquoise turns sapphire. You can wade out to it, but it's a long way when you are on your own. And the lights on the jetty, set up to attract the wildlife at night reveal stingrays and the teeniest of baby black tipped sharks meandering along. Followed by some full sized nurse sharks. I know these are not aggressive, but, sorry to be repetitive, I can’t forget Cocos. I don't want to meet one in the water, on my own.

So, I book a boat to take me out there. It’s a lovely little reef, brimming with diverse marine life, plenty of small fluorescent blue fish and colourful coral formations. The reef is sprouting hundreds of miniature clams, surrounded by a huge variety of other tropical finned creatures. A lobster pokes its feelers out of one crevice and an unusually friendly eagle ray pops up to say hello. Larger black tipped sharks keep their distance.

I’m not the only one impressed by the reef. There’s usually a Maldives live-aboard diving cruiser or two out there, swaying on the waves. A second trip takes me to two further reefs in the Vaavu Atoll. One presents even more colourful fish and greenback turtles (finally). The other has endless gardens of gorgeous coral in fascinating shapes and sizes. It’s a veritable sci-fi city.

Rakeedhoo - in the Swing of Things

Otherwise Rakeedhoo is quiet. I've been for a walk round the island. That didn't take long. Very traditional houses. It seems poorer than the other places I have visited, but still smiley and happy. No sign of the traditional craft making, but its Ramadan. Otherwise, there is little to do except admire the view and take an occasional dunk in the lagoon.

On my fourth day, I awake to find, consternation, that the swing is decidedly askew. Apparently it’s been given some overly rough treatment by one family and a post has broken. This morning's entertainment consists of watching six men attempt to dismantle it and carry the sign away. It's not an easy task. It requires scaffolding and the use of snorkels, to deal with the foundations.

Malé

I’m sad to leave, but its one more bumpy speed boat journey to Malé. It's not a comfortable or scenic ride. Stuck in the middle of the back seat I can't see out of any of the windows. The Chinese tourist next to me seem to view it as a tortuous exercise. Hoods zipped right up they are resting their heads on the seats in front of them, eyes closed, jaws clenched, cushioned by those neck protector pillows.

Malé in a Nutshell

• Malé is the capital and most populous city of the Maldives. (211,000). Malé Island is, by some measures, the most densely populated island in the world. It's almost entirely covered in tower blocks.
• Administratively, the city consists of the central island, an airport island Hulhule, and five other island, most notably Vilimale. Malé Island, is now linked to the airport island by a long road bridge,
• Traditionally it was the King's Island, from where the ancient royal dynasties ruled and where the palace was located. The city was then called Mahal, a walled city surrounded by fortifications and gates. But the Royal Palace (Gan'duvaru) was destroyed, along with the picturesque forts (koshi) and bastions (buruzu) when the city was remodelled under President Ibrahim Nasir, after the abolition of the monarchy, in 1968.
• The Malé region is home to over 100,000 motor bikes, which vastly outnumber the 7,500 or so cars. The number of car parking spaces is fewer than the number of vehicles. And the bikes are parked everywhere. They obstruct the narrower inland streets, so that cars can't actually get through. And the motor bike riders give no quarter. The pavements are narrow and blocked by electrical cabinets and blue pipes. (used by the construction industry to channel water away from sites). There are plenty of zebra crossings but the bike riders don’t stop. They weave round you as you cross the road, grimacing and grunting if they actually have to apply the brakes. It reminds me of the city streets of Vietnam, though thankfully it's not quite that intimidating.

Unima Grand

Pick up (free) is promising. I’m met on the jetty by a smartly uniformed young man, who delivers me to another uniformed chauffeur. The hotel is just across the ocean to the airport and near the Green Al-Noor Mosque (solar panels on the roof and air conditioning no less) and the new blue roofed waterside King Salman Mosque. That is also promising, but that’s where the positivity ends.

My city view room, in fact, doesn’t have a view at all. Just a window onto air conditioning ducts. The girl on reception tells me that all the 'superior rooms' are the same. Only sea view rooms have views. I say this is deception and an odd use of the word superior. The bell boy tells me there were city views until they built more hotels next door. That doesn’t account for the duct view. I eventually get moved to a room with a window that looks onto the adjacent building. 'It's better, but not good', I tell the bell boy.

I’m hungry, as I didn’t eat lunch, so it's the tenth floor restaurant next. That’s got very nice views. The food is dire. Rice with no flavour whatsoever and lemon garlic kebabs that are charred and tough and tasteless. I fear they have been reheated. And the Wi-Fi is terrible. I have to sign in again every five minutes. City hotels are always a gamble. Don’t stay in this one.

Circumnavigating Malé

Time to cool off, (physically and mentally) wandering around the main island of Malé. Past the artificial beach, pretty enough, with its imported sand and following the waterside path to the southerly parts of the island, which is mostly ports and jetties with fish markets and docks, for the many ferries which cross to and fro. There’s even a posh presidential jetty. That’s opposite the government buildings (police headquarters and President's Office) on Republic Square. Huzzah. Some open space and a let up in the claustrophobia.

It's not yet dusk. Lines of water bottles and dates have been laid on the ground outside the mosque in anticipation of ramadan fast breaking. But many of the locals have jumped the gun. The cafes are heaving and there are lines outside the numerous Iftar buffets on offer. The Malé cats too are feasting. (The people of the Maldives seem partial to cats.) There's a cat sanctuary close to the main mosque, with hutch type dwellings and plenty of kibble.

Leaving the Maldives

It's been another great trip, but this one, it seems is destined to end with a whimper. From the Unima Grand to the British Airways flight. I'm penned in, by the window, in economy. There's a baby next to me, bringing the inevitable kicking, hair tugging and squalling. The Wi-Fi won't work. My screen crashes four times. I give up asking for it to be reset after that. When it does work, it will only play the TV episodes in the wrong order, odd episodes follow each other, as do the even episodes. At least I get to scan the whole season, when I just watch every other instalment. And there is turbulence nearly the whole journey. For two hours it's so bad the crew also stay in their seats.

At Heathrow, I collect my luggage and go to wait for my bus. but it's ETA keeps being pushed back. There's a fire in the Heathrow Tunnel. Aargh. I'm never travelling again... (How many times have I said that?)