Meet the Designer - Thomas Harrison

Designer extraordinaire and all-round good egg Thomas Harrison has worked on every issue of Lodestars Anthology since the magazine’s inception way back in 2014 - adding to it lashings of style and creative energy, and helping to shape the mag into what it is today. Lodestars wouldn't have come alive without him. So we felt it was time we sat down and had a chat about design, travel, collaboration and much more besides. Here’s to creative partnerships and getting dream projects off the ground!

When you agreed to design the mag all those years ago, I remember being so excited - finally this vision I had was possible as there was someone with the passion and design know-how to make it a reality. What made you decide to say yes to the project?

At the time, taking on design work outside of my full-time job was still relatively new for me. I’d worked with charities, musicians and comedians, but I was looking for something more ambitious. In my career as an architect, I’d already seen how often promising projects never reached completion, not because of a lack of effort or vision, but because that’s simply the nature of large, complex work. So I was keen to be part of something that could move from idea to finished piece within a short space of time, something tangible I could hold in my hands.

What really convinced me, though, was working with Liz. From the start there was trust, ambition and a sense of chemistry in the collaboration. That combination gave me the confidence that this was a project worth saying yes to.

What do you enjoy most about designing each new issue of Lodestars?

What I enjoy most is the way I can become fully absorbed in the process of piecing everything together. For me it’s similar to sitting and drawing for hours, I lose track of time and become completely immersed. It’s a chance to set aside worries or distractions in an increasingly hectic world. That sense of focus feels like a form of escapism, and I hope it’s something our readers also experience when they spend time with the magazine. 

Can you talk us through your creative process?

Because I’ve always worked on the magazine in parallel with a full-time job, I tend to design in big, uninterrupted chunks of time. That way of working gives me the sense of immersion that I really enjoy and it allows me to settle into the process. Music is a constant companion too; I’ll listen to artists whose work feels connected to the places or themes we’re exploring, which helps me stay calm and focused.

The real satisfaction comes in finding the balance between words and images. I look for photographs that don’t just illustrate the text but complement it folding in patterns, colours or shapes that echo the writing and bring out its nuances. Much of it is instinctive, guided by what feels true to the subject. When the pieces begin to align, there’s a real joy in seeing the issue take on its own character, something that feels distinctive and whole.

What's one of the biggest changes you've seen in the mag - and the way you design - over the years? 

One of the biggest changes has been the confidence that’s grown in both the magazine and the way we collaborate. The scope of the work has expanded beyond the original format to include city guides and special projects like Postcards, which has allowed the design to develop in new directions. With each issue, I’ve become more comfortable trusting my instincts, leaning into patterns, arrangements and pacing that feel right for the subject, so the design itself has grown more assured over time.

Equally significant is the way our collaboration has evolved. Liz and I have gone from being based less than a mile apart to working on opposite sides of the world, and yet the process still feels seamless. That continuity is rooted in the sense of trust and ease Liz and I had from our very first meeting about the magazine, something that has allowed the Lodestars to adapt and grow while always feeling true to itself.

What do you want people to feel when flicking through the pages of Lodestars? 

What I hope people feel when they flick through the magazine is that sense of being drawn into an experience. Of course, a copy can be picked up with the intention of planning a trip, but the visual and written storytelling goes beyond that. It captures something of the light, the atmosphere, the sounds and the bustle of a place, so that it resonates just as much with someone planning a journey as with someone at home who wants to experience a country without necessarily visiting it. That inclusivity, and the way our contributors manage to evoke such richness, is something I find fascinating and really special about the magazine.

Has there been a Lodestars story over the years that’s really stuck with you?

Selfishly, it’s Coral Cornucopia in Issue 6, Sweden. My reasoning is very much influenced by the fact that the story included my own photographs, and it was a wonderful opportunity to capture images that reflected both the tone of the magazine and the character of Gotland, where we visited. When I say ‘selfishly’, it’s tongue in cheek, of course, because the real reason it stands out is that the trip involved both Liz and me. It offered a fascinating window into her process as the editor and driving force behind Lodestars, how she engages with people and places. Over the years my work with Liz has mostly centred on the design of the magazine, but in this instance I was able to see everything through her lens, which made the experience especially memorable.

You have a full time job outside of Lodestars  - as a creative person, how important is it to have side projects like this magazine? 

It is incredibly important to me. As an architect, particularly one involved in larger projects with multiple stakeholders, it’s rare to see a project through from start to finish, which can be frustrating. Lodestars has offered me countless opportunities to work on something from its beginnings to holding it in my hands, all within a relatively short timeframe.

There are further reasons too. When studying architecture, there’s a strong focus on artworking and on curating images and text when building portfolios or presentations. Lodestars has given me the chance to build on those skills, so that I’d be prepared to produce my own promotional material should I set up practice on my own, or, if one day, my career shifts from architecture into other forms of digital and print design.

Do you have any advice for aspiring graphic designers? 
This is a tough one, and honestly I feel unqualified answering it, as I haven’t had any formal graphic design training! What I would say is: take opportunities, even if they seem a little obscure or don’t immediately align with the path you think you’re on, or want to be on. They might not open doors straight away, but that doesn’t mean they won’t pay off in the future. And just as importantly, try not to burn bridges. Even if an experience is difficult, reflect on it, acknowledge the learning, and move forward, you never know how things may evolve. Having advocates and allies within reach is invaluable.

Moreish Montréal

Words & Photographs by Daisy Wingate-Saul - an extract from the Islands magazine.

It’s early March in Montréal, and I’ve arrived to clear skies and mild weather. It is the kind of day that tricks you into thinking winter is over, but it’s not. Not yet. I’m staying at Humaniti Hotel Montréal, a sleek, art-adorned space that feels like a glass-walled spaceship dropped into the heart of downtown, and I’m into it.

I have come to this Canadian city to eat, and my first stop - rather conveniently - is dinner at the hotel’s trendy Restaurant h3. The culinary extravaganza unfolds in the intimate wine cellar with Crémant and oysters fresh from the Gaspé Peninsula; briny, juicy, perfect little morsels that taste of the sea. I return for breakfast the next morning, where I tuck into Canada’s national dish, poutine. Originating in Quebec in the late 1950s, this beloved, inexpensive comfort food is particularly delicious in the harsh winter months, and at h3 the crispy fries are piled high with smoked pulled duck, squeaky cheese curds and a river of duck fat gravy. A bottle of maple syrup sits proudly on the table and I can’t resist; the mix of sweet and salty flavours feels both nostalgic and indulgent. My first two meals are delightful introductions to Montréal’s food culture, which is bold, diverse and undeniably tied to the land and waters that have shaped this island city.

To get acquainted with one of Montréal’s key cuisines, I stop for lunch at Le Renoir in Golden Square Mile, where French classics are infused with Canadian maple. From whiskey cocktails to maple-cured salmon, every bite is a piquant explosion. But Montréal isn’t just about French food, and following an afternoon of digestion-aiding gallery-hopping, it’s on to Fleurs et Cadeaux, a cosy Chinatown gem where the fare is a love letter to the city’s Japanese community. Here, I devour delicate sashimi, marinated eggs, crispy fried chicken and house-made pickles, washed down with sake and mouth-puckering orange wines. French chic meets Japanese precision, a perfect reflection of Montréal’s immigrant heritage.

The following day I meet Daniel Bromberg, a local guide and founder of The Main, a website dedicated to Montréal and its inhabitants, who takes me on a whirlwind tour of the city. From Kondiaronk lookout on Mount Royal, the island’s form becomes clear. Framed by water, Montréal’s strategic location at theconfluence of the Saint Lawrence and Ottawa Rivers made it a hub for fur trading in the 17th century. This geography helped shape the city’s economy and food culture, and these rivers were crucial to the Indigenous peoples of the region, including the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) and Algonquin, who used them to travel, hunt and tap maple trees for syrup.

At the McCord Stewart Museum, I delve deeper into Montréal’s Indigenous roots, learning about canoe models, hunting tools and food preservation techniques. Over time, the exchange of Indigenous, French and British knowledge blended to create a culinary heritage that continues to thrive today, enriched by the many groups who have made Montréal their home. This is evident at Jean-Talon Market in Little Italy, where the air is thick with the scent of espresso. A sensory overload, the market (one of North America’s largest) brims with fresh produce, artisanal cheeses and all sorts of Montréal specialties, and has changed little since it was founded by Italian settlers in 1933. I load up on cans of maple syrup before heading to Le Central, a bustling food hall in the Quartier des Spectacles. Here I settle in at Emilia, a Portuguese canteen famed for its simple and smoky roast chicken, the flavours intensifying with every bite.

Winter returns on the last full day of my culinary odyssey. It’s freezing cold, and I decide that the best way to counter the chill seeping into my bones is with something sweet. So, for a grand finale, I leave the island and head west to Sucrerie de la Montagne, a traditional sugar shack tucked in a forest of century-old maples, arriving just as the snow begins to settle.

Sugar shacks, once essential for tapping maple trees and boiling sap into syrup, are a beloved part of Quebec’s heritage – places where generations have come to celebrate the changing seasons and the fruits of the land. Founded by Pierre Faucher, whose rugged look seems lifted from a history book, Sucrerie de la Montagne is a living snapshot of Quebec’s pioneer past. Horse-drawn carts transport guests through the forest, and long, family-style tables are laden with souffléd eggs, crispy bacon and sausages; hearty fare that has sustained generations of Quebecois. The barn walls are lined with old tools, dusty trinkets and family photos, and I spot a snapshot of Pierre feeding a cream pie to his pet wolf, Lulu – it’s a wild image that feels like a perfect reflection of Montréal’s untamed spirit. Or maybe that’s just the maple syrup beer talking.

Surrounded by crackling fires and the scent of syrup, and with folk songs echoing through the barn, I realise that this isn’t just a meal; it’s a celebration of Quebecois culture and all those who have enriched it. Montréal is a city that embraces its multicultural identity, blending diverse cultures in vibrant harmony, and nowhere is this fusion more apparent than in its food.

Note: Daisy flew with award-winning Canadian airline Air Transat, who offer eight direct flights a week from London Gatwick to Montreal, with fares from £359* pp rtn (*fare valid 26/08/25). For more information visit www.airtransat.com.

Call of the Wild

Words & Photographs by Rory Fuller

One of the first things I notice at Scotland’s Alladale Wilderness Reserve is the sound of the cuckoo, a rare thing back home. Its call becomes a constant during my stay, echoing through the woods, along riverbanks and down this hallowed glen it calls home. The eponymous lodge itself rests on a hillside, looking out toward Glen Alladale and the surrounding mountains, birch leaves catching the spring light.

On my first outing to the Caledonian Forest, Innes MacNeill, the Reserve Manager, explains Alladale’s mission. “This is a lifelong project, spanning generations – a vision for two or three hundred years.” The sense of stewardship that Innes wears on his sleeve, rubs off on his guests. Alladale isn’t just a destination; it’s a story in motion, the transformation of a landscape.

“Originally 23,500 acres was valued by how many stags we could hunt per annum, how many Atlantic salmon we could catch from our rivers and how many grouse we could shoot on the hillside,” continues Innes. This extractive valuation for land-use is beyond outdated and at Alladale they are undoing the old ways step by step by embracing conservation over extraction, and switching from rifles to binoculars.

Since Paul Lister took over, the reserve has seen a flourish in biodiversity – Golden eagles have returned, reintroduced red squirrels roam free and Scottish wildcats are soon to make a comeback. The chorus of swifts, house-martins, willow warblers and tree pipits is ever-present; with luck, the low call of a tawny owl may greet you at dawn. Visually, some say the Highland landscape appears slow to change, but the birdsong here sounds like a landscape in recovery, a testament to what’s been achieved so far.

Over a million native trees - birch, Scots pine, rowan, holly and hazel - have been planted, their roots laying the groundwork for future generations of wildlife and visitors alike. Activities are as varied as the landscape; from birdwatching, foraging and wild swimming, to exploring remnants of ancient Caledonian forest or feeding the Highland cattle. The newly built Willow Centre offers yoga and sound baths in the mornings and evenings, creating a space for wellness seekers and the local community while fostering deeper connections with the reserve’s conservation work.

Alladale is more than a luxury lodge, for while its rooms and cuisine are an idyllic picture-postcard of the Scottish Highlands, this reserve will have you wanting to spend your entire stay outdoors. It is an education in the fundamentals of rebuilding an ecosystem. You will leave this place with a deeper appreciation of the natural world, and more curious than ever about the role wildlife conservation will play in the future of climate recovery.

Meet the Photographer - Chiara Dalla Rosa

The moment we saw Chiara Dalla Rosa’s dreamy images from Venice we were in love, and knew instantly that her photos had to be on the cover of our Italy magazine. With the issue now out in the world (you can order a copy here), this felt like the ideal time to chat to Chiara about photography, life and Italy - and share a few more of her gorgeous photos.

Can you tell us about the story behind the cover image?  

The cover image for the Italy magazine was captured on a warm late afternoon in May, one of the best times to experience Venice as the days grow longer and the light turns warmer. I decided to take a leisurely stroll to enjoy the weather and the final hours of sunlight on the island. As I wandered through the narrow calles, I took my time to observe my surroundings, fully immersing myself in the beauty of the moment. I waited patiently for the sun to set, aiming to capture the perfect shade of pink reflecting on the emerald waters of the Canal Grande. Standing on the Rialto Bridge, I paused to take in the breathtaking views, reminded of how special and unique this city that I call home really is.

Venice has been your home for many years - what marks the city so special? 

Venice is truly a place where time seems to stand still and history envelops you as you wander through its streets. It's a city where you know your neighbours, where you meet friends by chance while walking around, where the pastry shop owner downstairs knows your name, and where strolling is a slow but delightful way to get around. Despite its rich historical heritage, Venice is also a vibrant, contemporary hub that attracts creatives from around the world. Historically a crossroads of cultures, this relevance endures today. Venice is a bustling city where the young generation is eager to forge new opportunities.

Do you remember the first time you picked up a camera? 

My first experience with photography was when I received a red analog camera from my aunt at the age of 9 or 10. I was incredibly excited and started carrying it with me during school trips and family holidays, capturing everything I could. Although it wasn't until my first year at university that I asked my parents for a DSLR camera, which allowed me to develop my style and passion for photography more profoundly. Studying art at university played a significant role, as I often used photography to express myself, incorporating old family photos to recreate images from the past and make memories reemerge. Photography, for me, has always been about capturing and freezing a moment in time. My artistic background has greatly influenced my photographic style, enabling me to explore and express complex ideas and emotions through my lens, blending past and present to add a unique emotional depth to my work.

What do you want people to feel when they look at your images? 

I aspire for my images to evoke a genuine connection to the places and the people they depict, transporting viewers into a different realm and allowing them to experience the inherent beauty of each scene. When capturing people in the art and hospitality sectors, I aim to convey their essence, passion and dedication. I want my photos to inspire curiosity and encourage exploration, revealing the stories of the remarkable places and people I encounter. To me, each image is layered with meaning, and I hope viewers can appreciate these layers and interpret them in their own way, discovering the rich narratives within.

What do you enjoy most about the work that you do? 

As a travel, food and portrait photographer, I relish the opportunity to collaborate with inspiring professionals and explore incredible destinations worldwide. Capturing renowned chefs and artists and their innovative creations, alongside adventuring on mountain peaks or canyoning in serene lakes, is a dream come true for me. I have a deep passion for framing moments and memories, and I count myself lucky every day as I get to share my unique perspective of the world.

Being a photographer gives me the opportunity to view the world from a unique perspective, encouraging me to slow down and truly observe my surroundings. I cherish this process, as it allows me to craft images that can transform into new worlds and tell compelling stories within a single frame

How important is community and connection when working as a photographer? 

I believe that building a community and fostering connections is essential for a photographer. Staying inspired and maintaining mental well-being often hinge on these interactions. The ability to bounce ideas off others and engage in constructive discussions with fellow creatives is crucial in any artistic endeavour. Personally, I constantly seek affirmation and inspiration from those around me. Sharing my work and receiving feedback is both validating and reassuring, helping me to find the best path forward. Having a familiar face to turn to in moments of doubt can make all the difference.

Click here to view more of Chiara’s work - some of which appeared in our Slow Travel Britain book.

You can also purchase Chiara’s prints here.

A Long Weekend in Puglia

How do I begin to describe the things I adore about Italy? There’s the art, the romance, the staggering abundance of history and the unrivalled glamour of sipping a Spritz while overlooking the Adriatic Sea.

When I daydream, my mind wanders to Abruzzo’s sun-kissed vineyards or the snow-dusted, truffle-scattered peaks of Piedmont. Call me clichéd, but I long to embrace la dolce vita in Venice (especially when the Biennale takes hold); I want to be immersed in the old world splendour of Trieste; and I’m tempted to move to Bologna for the pasta and Mortadella alone.

So when a friend suggested that we run away to Puglia (the sun-kissed, water-hugged region occupying the heel of Italy’s boot) I didn’t hesitate - because who among us can resist the call of Negronis, ceramics and sand?

But with more than 800 kilometres of coastline, an abundance of historic towns, and wineries and ancient olive farms aplenty, where should you begin your Puglia adventure?

There’s Matera (in the neighbouring Basilica region), where you’ll discover Europe’s oldest continuously inhabited settlement, the churches and homes of its UNESCO-protected Sassi districts found within hand-hewn caves that date back to the Stone Age. There are delightful swimming spots around the cliff-hugging Polignano a Mare and buzzing Monopoli (both connected to Bari by train), while further south, in Lecce, you’ll encounter stunning Baroque architecture - almost everything here is built from honey-hued limestone, meaning buildings not only look like ornate wedding cakes, but glow in the sun.

Ostuni, known as the Città Bianca (White City), is packed with boutique stores such as Little Sartoria (where founder Monica Nicoletti creates sustainable, handcrafted embroidered clothing) and charming restaurants like Casa San Giacomo, a traditional trattoria in every sense of the word. For grape devotees, you have Masseria Li Veli, a winery that pairs Negroamaros and Primitivos (grape varietals synonymous with Puglia) with long lunches. And in Alberobello, you have a maze of traditional whitewashed trulli houses - if the crowds here get too much, be sure to unwind over lunch in the veggie garden at Trattoria Terra Madre.

If you’ve come to Puglia to celebrate - or are simply after a meal to remember - be sure to feast at the Michelin-starred Due Camini restaurant at Borgo Egnazia, one of the most luxurious hotels around. Designed to feel like a small village, Borgo Egnazia is family friendly, holds regular fetes and festivals, boasts two private beaches, is a short walk from the ruins of Egnazia (atmospheric remains of an ancient Roman city), and have their own tour provider, Indigenus Experiences, who offer custom excursions. I sampled two of these, kicking off my trip with a morning bike ride along quiet country lanes, past prehistoric menhirs and centuries old olive trees, following a local guide who knew the best spot for a post-cycle gelato. And I caught myself swooning multiple times while visiting studios and workshops in Grottaglie, a town famed for its ceramics (this has been a pottery hub for more than 1,000 years). A highlight was having the chance to spend time with Nicola Fasano, an 18th-generation artisan who works in a space filled with 16th-century kilns. Walking around his store, which has been built into the rock (much like the homes of Matera) and is full to the brim with plates, vases, mugs and sculptures, you feel as if you’ve stumbled upon a true treasure trove. By the time I settled in for dinner at Da Alfredo (a relaxed restaurant celebrating superlative local wines and ingredients) I was weighed down by more than a few ‘essential’ ceramic purchases.

If you’re after a relaxed, beachside lunch following one of your Indigenus outings, stop in at Ostuni a Mare (a resort that is also dotted with Nicola’s ceramics) and claim a table by the Adriatic Sea at Il Pontile. Bathed in light and framed by floor-to-ceiling glass windows, this Mediterranean restaurant has a flair for seafood, and their perfectly-spiced fritto misto di mare is not a dish I’ll soon forget. If you’re craving wood-fired piazzas though, look to Il Pergolato in the hotel’s palm-shaded courtyard. Both restaurants have remarkably friendly waiters (this is a place where names and faces are remembered), one of whom recommended I pay a visit to the nearby Castellana Grotte. Only discovered in 1938, this network of karst caves has taken shape over the past 100 million years, and every surface is adorned with sculptural stalagmites and stalactites.

My friend and I had ultimately come to Puglia to take things slowly, so ended our getaway with a few unhurried nights at Masseria Fontanelle in sunny Salento, where we did little more than devour books by the pools (Spritz in hand) and bob contentedly in the turquoise-hued Ionian Sea.

Of course, there are plenty of reasons to venture further afield - L’Acchiatura restaurant is only a 20-minute drive away, and there are regular boat trips to the sea caves that line the coast, and swimming spots like the crystalline Grotta della Poesia (Cave of Poetry) - but how often do you actually get the chance to unwind in a friendly, history-packed Italian bolthole?

At the bougainvillea-speckled Masseria Fontanelle (which comes with a restaurant and requisite bar) it’s just a case of picking the best spot to chill for any given moment. There are two outdoor pools to choose from (both framed by Mediterranean scrub and overlooking the sea, which you can reach on foot, by using the hotel’s bikes or via their transfer bus), regular yoga and pilates classes, movie nights at the outdoor cinema, a private hydromassage pool, sauna and stream room, and a spa where my massage was so restorative, I nodded off. And while the hotel has partnered with a private beach club, I enjoyed starting my days with a walk along the glowing white sand and setting up my towel in a spot I had all to myself.

Parts of the property were built between 1600 and 1800 (the masseria began its life as a convent), and being surrounded by this much history has a fascinating effect. As you lie in the sun, your mind wanders to all that has unfolded here, the stories and dramas that have played out within these stone walls…  until you become so hot that you have to jump in the pool once more.

To learn more about Masseria Fontanelle, click here - and for more Italian inspiration, check out our Italy magazine.

Words & Photographs by Liz Schaffer

In Balance

Words by Cameron Lange & Photographs by Jim Johnston - an extract from the sold out Portugal magazine.

Straddling the Spanish border in a horseshoe valley, Peneda-Gerês is Portugal’s great wilderness. Its bleak granite peaks, hundreds of millions of years old, overlook a vast, wind-worn moor streaked with evergreen shrubs and flowering heather. It rains, on average, every three days but at those heights, and in that soil, nothing else can grow. Only at lower altitudes does this expanse close in at last on laurels and English oak, sloping down the valley to the wetlands, where willows flank the rivers and nightshade springs up from the marsh.

Gerês is the country’s only national park and special amongst Europe’s shrinking wilds for the shelter it affords its animals. There are eagles overhead and vipers underfoot. Rare bats emerge at dusk. The oak forests swarm with boars and wildcats, while the moors harbour free-roaming Garranos, a feral pony whose ancient Celtic breed is all but unchanged since the Palaeolithic. But like elsewhere in Europe there is evidence all around of human encroachment.

Some creatures face extinction, others have already vanished. It’s been 300 years since the last bear died in these mountains and only a few dozen wolves survive to stalk the valley hamlets from above, occasionally snatching dogs or even donkeys in the night. Forever the object of awe and scorn, these wolves remain threatened by illegal hunting; their formal protection from Lisbon may not save them.

Indeed, for a place so hostile to people, Gerês teems with human history. Stone Age dolmens dot the highland massifs. Medieval castles and monasteries lie semi-ruined on the hilltop greens. There is even an old Roman road cutting through the forest into Spain, in parts remarkably well preserved, its ruts worn pebble-smooth by two millennia of rain and traffic. More recently, the stone granaries of Soajo and Lindoso have become symbols of the park’s village life. Raised on mushroom-shaped stilts to fend off rats and other raiding critters, they have been used for centuries to store the community crop and are emblematic of the region’s collective spirit. To the uninitiated eye, however, these are haunting, Gothic structures. Clustered on granite bluffs above the parish, smothered in moss, adorned with crosses, they look like elaborate tombs - one imagines a cemetery whose dead have, in time, come to outnumber the living.

It’s a beautiful place, fragile, delicately poised. In the elegance and languid stillness of his photographs, Jim Johnston captures this underlying tension - between the ancient woods and the new asphalt road, the silent cliffs and the murmuring village, the wild and the human. Where these competing worlds meet, Gerês is forced to balance its past and present. A lasting reconciliation, or a final clash, will settle its future.

Karnataka Métier

Words by Greta Rybus & Surbhi Mittal - Photographs by Greta Rybus

An extract from the India magazine.

India isn’t known as the ideal setting for a road trip - many assume it’s more traffic bedlam than scenic drives - but I discovered otherwise when embarking on a journey from Bangalore to Mysore with Kamalan, a cultural agency that curates immersive journeys for travellers. On this road trip, one filled with lush paddy fields and greenery, I was to set to explore an ancient culture rich in architectural diversity and artistic pursuits.

Our route took us through the heart of Karnataka in southwest India, where many of its 61 million residents speak a regional language called Kannada. Southern India, in general, is known to have a more relaxed atmosphere, with the same refined gentleness and appreciation for beauty that typifies most of the country.

We began in Bangalore with an early morning visit to the flower markets, where blossoms and garlands overflowed from baskets, before departing for Mysore, hailed as the country’s second most beautiful city. Our journey was broken at the Gumbaz, Tipu Sultan’s mausoleum, where we heard the call to prayer from a mosque adjacent to the graves of royalty. Down the road, we watched the sunset at the confluence of two rivers, while women and their husbands fished together in round-bottom boats and the devout preformed sacred rites waist-deep in the water.

I was in India at the beginning of their hottest seasons, when international tourists depart and Indians take the time to explore their country. Arriving in Mysore, we joined the 12,000 visitors who come to admire Amba Vilas Palace daily, soaking up the decadence and local history. Despite the heat and crowds, we found moments of sweetness and stillness.

My Kamalan guide explained that it was vital I take advantage of the region’s treats, so we stopped to buy sweets made of caramelised ghee, called Mysore pak, and enjoy dishes cooked with coconut milk and fresh spices, followed by sugary and salty lime sodas. We woke early one morning to view the sunrise over the Chamundi Hills and observe the Brahmin priests prepare to wash temples. We met labourers and artisans at woodworking shops and silkworm factories, and talked to farmers, shepherds and priests. Back in the car we listened to the distinct melodies of Carnatic music, admiring how the scores of Southern India blend so wonderfully with the sound of car horns.

kamalan.travel

The KR Flower Market in the heart of Bangalore begins before sunrise and is a hub for local flower sellers who disperse throughout the city, vending strands of jasmine for women’s hair, garlands of colourful blooms for the front of taxis or auto-rickshaws, or arrangements for temples and homes.

The confluence of the Lokapavani and Cauvery Rivers is considered holy, a sacred place to carry out ancienta rituals. These rivers are also the source of water for the Karnataka region and some people still use small, handmade coracle boats here for net fishing.

The Devaraja Market in Mysore dates backs to 1890 during the days of the maharajas. The market is known for its rich history and wide array of goods - from cones of coloured kumkum powders to fresh vegetables, fruits and spices.

The stunningly intricate Amba Vilas Palace was built in 1912 after the previous palace, constructed in thea 16th century, burned down. Admired for its blending of European and Indo-Saracenic architectural styles, it is India’s second most frequented site, behind the Taj Mahal.

Mandi Mohalla is a Muslim neighbourhood in the heart of Mysore and is considered to be one of the city’si oldest districts. It has everything from pet shops to tea houses, butchers to electronic stores. One shop in particular uses vintage machinery to fix engines and other car parts.

Just after sunrise in the Chamundi Hills above Mysore, a priest adorns a large idol of Nandi, a mystical bull who was the gatekeeper and guardian for Shiva. In Hindu mythology, Shiva was often meditating, so it was best to ask Nandi for blessings from this revered deity.

At Archana Silk Farm in the village of Bannur, about 20 kilometres outside Mysore, women work to sort the male and female silk moths so that the latter can lay eggs. It takes three hours for the moths to lay their eggs on incubation paper, which then take about 45 days to become a cocoon.

Tipu Sultan originally brought silk to Mysore from China and today the city is renowned for its high quality silks - so much so that the fabric’s production is controlled by the government.

A rice farmer harvests his field on the outskirts of Mysore. The primary grain of South India is rice, while in the North wheat is more common.

With Wolves and Horses

Words & Photographs by Louis D Hall, from his book ‘In Green’.

‘In Green’ is a book that tells a 111 day journey I made with a horse called Sasha, from Siena in Italy, to Cape Finisterre, on the west coast of Spain. We began in Tuscany and finished with only the Atlantic Ocean before us, the end of the land. This extract is set near the beginning of this journey, deep in the cradle of the Ligurian Alps, a lesser known range between Italy and France. It recalls a time when solitude became the norm and the presence of humans unusual. I was vulnerable and free, alone with the mountains, the animals and a horse. By boot and hoof, we found ourselves on old partisan paths, tracing an alluring line between history and the new.

A low tolling bell pulses languidly through the afternoon air, a haunting salute. Like many of these Ligurian villages, Cabenne is all but deserted. I ride Sasha bareback past the empty church and down the main street. We are in search of a hostel or a rifugio. A person. The sound of Sasha’s hooves shudders off the walls.

A face appears from a first-storey balcony. I glance up and the stranger hurriedly withdraws. Moments later a street door swings open and an old lady emerges into the cold. Her smile wraps itself around me. Softly, her hand touches Sasha’s neck.

She leads us into a stable full of hay and straw. An ancient Arabian mare wallows in the shadows, at peace, it seems, in her isolated world. She and Sasha share the shelter and munch on hay all through the night. The woman gives me a bottle of white wine, some bread and some cheese, and I sleep in the cobwebs and cover myself in hay.

In the morning I am awoken by a man tapping at my shins with a stick. He gestures me to follow, leading me outside. The sun has not yet risen and I can’t feel my toes. We reach a tap, and, with the energy of a magician, he turns the handle and stands back in delight as the water that flows steams in the frozen morning air. I place my feet in a bucket below and stand tall, feeling my toes thaw. I do the same with my rigid boots.

This day holds the first view that completely takes my breath away. I say goodbye to Cabenne and the kind couple, and we travel back into the hills. Along the ridge of Monte Larnaia there is a steep rock face that projects out into the open air like a pier to the sky. It is too dangerous for Sasha to climb, so I leave him grazing and then clamber up to see what I can find at the top. The expanse below is an illusion of waves; white-peaked breakers blurring the lines between sky and earth. Monte Caucaso stands tall ahead of me, a portal into the Rapallo and Genoa shores that roam somewhere beyond, the far-off ocean now a shadow to these mountainous rollers. Sasha climbs up to meet me, curious to see where I have gone.

We stand together and breathe in the interchanging shapes of the terrain. For a moment, this makes me feel as at home as I imagine the wolves to be; just as the trees and the rocks. I feel close to Sasha, my fellow traveller, trying to decipher the house where we are.

I acknowledge how violently this unending landscape can turn from a wintry dream to an iron-faced nightmare. But the hellish moments have their own beauty too. They become coordinates in memory, proving that we are moving forward.

Configuring where I am or what I am doing has been replaced with the mantra of step by step. Scree now resembles shattered bones, just as the fossils in Tuscany had replaced the roots of vines. The trails worsen. The handsaw in my rucksack is used daily. Mudslides have charred the routes and even the astral red-and-white Alta Via signs have morphed into signifiers of suspicion. The shoulders and jaws of mountains are walls. The ceilinged sky remains low and metallic. I am in the season of dead spring, a season that bears dead skin on the bottom of my feet. Amongst it all, however, my exhaustion has produced something of an indelible determination. A steely myopia in the hoary light. I believe this applies to Sasha too. We have entered an unshakeable state. All we have to do is to keep climbing, keep going. Dream or nightmare, we have to get out of these mountains. Wherever that might be. The horizons are a sackcloth wall. Exit-less. It’s strange how we can be so confined in so much space. This is a new form of vertigo. The only thing that breaks the monochrome is the silverware of bells and the glugging of cold black rivers that Sasha drinks from. There are no birds in the sky. There are no stars in Liguria. The cuts on Sasha’s leg have begun to mend.

I am steadily losing weight but am growing fast in muscle and strength. Whenever I see my reflection, my eyes appear like someone else’s. I have succumbed to coffee. The tea here doesn’t work. I begin to associate coffee with river water, like a fish might do. The villages I pass are solemn and mostly empty, fading away, but the people - when we are lucky to find them - have warm hearts and are full of a charged life. At times it feels it is only their work and their nature that keep the mountains standing and the rivers flowing.

The Oasis

An extract from the Italy Magazine

Words by Liz Schaffer & Photographs by Chiara Dalla Rosa

While walking, I’m often convinced that I’m struck by flashes of brilliance. Suddenly, when in the company of trees and wide open skies, I can put the world to rights, let my thoughts run their convoluted course, and feel remarkably calm in the process. It’s only when a hike draws to a close that I wonder if my revelations were more of a natural high than a soul-soothing moment of clarity.

So it didn’t seem out of character when, atop the Pistoiese Apennines, shaded by beech, maples and rowans, I scribbled these words in my notebook: ‘No matter the question, nature is always the answer.’ What did surprise me was that months later, back in the thrum of London life, this revelation still felt apt.

I was gripped by the urge to write while staying at Oasyhotel, a hideaway in northeast Tuscany dedicated to conservation and sustainability. Covering 1,000 hectares in the pristine, WWF-affiliated Dynamo Oasy Nature Reserve, the property is comprised of 16 eco-lodges, two restaurants, a wellness area, farmland, forest trails, a lake made for sundowners, and an abundance of space.

Perched above the world, Oasyhotel starts working its magic long before you actually arrive. This is a place that feels secluded and wild, and as you follow the serpentine road up from the valley floor, it’s hard to tear your eyes from the sea of green. The forest is punctuated by stone farmhouses, Stations of the Cross (this was once a pilgrimage route), fallen chestnuts (a traditional ingredient that can be turned into almost anything, from pasta to soup) and deer. These mountains are also home to wolves, porcupines, wild boars, foxes, dormice, woodpeckers and golden eagles, all of which are a little harder to spot.

As well as being involved in research and breeding programmes, the Oasyhotel team practice non-invasive agriculture and strive to be as sustainable as possible - something you notice in the lodges themselves. All have uninterrupted views of the surrounding peaks and creature comforts aplenty, yet could be removed without leaving a trace. Crafted from natural materials, they are spacious, contemporary nods to alpine architecture that ensure your focus remains firmly rooted in the world beyond your window, which you’ll no doubt be twitching to explore. You can cycle or horse-ride across dappled woodland, canoe on the lake, wake with the sun to a chorus of birdsong, and venture out under cover of darkness in search of wolves, which I did with guide extraordinaire, Giulia Ghinassi.

Our first expedition together involved foraging for mushrooms, a skill Giulia learnt from her grandfather. Moving through the autumnal foliage, I couldn’t help getting caught up in her passion for fungus, and her delight every time she spotted a deer. This excitement only grew after dark. And even if the wolves remained elusive during our moonlight ramble, I was aware that we were far from alone. Everything felt so heightened - from the rustle of leaves to the sharpness in the air - that as we ended our hike with a fireside aperitif, I felt compelled to dash off my note.

Sublime as time in nature can be, the most remarkable thing about Oasyhotel is just how dedicated it is to giving back. The hotel is linked with the Dynamo Foundation, an academy that hosts 10-day camps for children with chronic and serious illnesses. The aim is to allow them to experience things that might otherwise be impossible, from ziplining to climbing, alongside a range of other therapeutic activities. Run with help from more than 1,000 volunteers, the programme bolsters confidence, grows community and shows that everyone has a right to happiness.

So, ensconced in London, pondering my Oasyhotel escape, I can see why I got so caught up in the thrill of midnight walks and the magic of mushrooms; why I long to once again stargaze on a cedar-scented balcony and ride horses at sunrise. The entire experience was so much more than a natural high - and a brilliant reminder to always seek hotels with soul.

Moroccan Memories

Words & Photographs by Leon Foggitt

I arrived in Marrakech late on a warm and hazy March afternoon. The palm trees lining the road swayed lazily in the breeze, and I watched on mesmerised from my hot taxi, which smelled strongly of tobacco smoke.

Once inside the Medina walls (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), my driver assured me that we were as close to my hotel as he could get, so I jumped out into the mayhem. Scooters wizzed past, donkeys pulled carts and groups of men stood on corners keen to offer directions or information in exchange for a tip.

After some wide-eyed confusion, I finally stumbled across the large yet unassuming wooden door that led to my hotel, and the chaos was replaced with mint tea and smartly dressed porters. I was staying at El Fenn, a stunning and unique hotel in the heart of the Medina. What started out as a semi-derelict riad in 2002 has gradually grown into a 2,700 square meter hotel that stretches across 13 interconnected riads and boasts 41 rooms and suites. The hotel’s dramatic courtyards, peaceful rooms and decorative abundance has earned it a reputation as one of Marrakech’s most beautiful hotels.

It’s the sort of space that makes you feel infinitely more elegant simply for being there. The public areas are a collection courtyards, each with heir own distinctive features and atmosphere. Some have small pools or velvet sofas, while others brim with lemon trees and jungle-like assortments of tropical plants and trees.

Stepping inside my suite, I was greeted by tall glass doors that opened to a private balcony adorned with palm trees and sun loungers. A tapestry served as the headboard, an open fire crackled and armchairs beckoned. The space felt tranquil and opulent, and it was hard to image that just outside the hotel’s walls lay the maze-like Medina and one of the world’s more hectic cities. In a lot of ways, it’s this contrast that makes El Fenn such an appealing place to stay.

When I wanted to be amongst the drama, I would step out into the baking heat of the Medina and experience all manor of intense experiences: snake charmers, the general hustle and bustle of the narrow streets, markets selling a variety of herbs, spices and potions. I would be approached from all angles with offers of directions, advice or a photo with some sort of exotic animal. And when all of that was a bit much I’d wander back to the hotel, where even the stifling heat of the narrow Medina felt like a thing of the past.

I don’t think I would have been able to leave El Fenn if I didn’t have a drive east to the city of Essaouira ahead of me - who can resist the allure of a road trip?

I’d left my Essaouira plans pleasantly open ended - my only goal to wander about, get a feel for the place and take a few photos. And the moment I stepped from my car I was struck by the atmosphere. Far more relaxed than Marrakech, parts of Essaouira felt almost Mediterranean, although that illusion soon dissolved as the call to prayer came across the towns tannoy system and residents rushed along the winding streets to their places of prayer.

Even Essaouira’s souks seemed different. They still had the multitude of shops and stalls selling beautifully crafted local products - argan oil, rugs, antique Berber jewellery - but there wasn’t any hassle to buy, only friendly conversations and a laid-back attitude that I’ve come to associate with beach towns.

After I’d had my fill of roaming the souks’ ancient streets, I found myself in the fishing port. As a photographer, I’m often like a moth to a flame to any sort of working harbour, and this one didn’t disappoint. 20 or more men had all manor of freshly-caught seafood laid out on makeshift stalls. Fish were gutted, remains left for seagulls and cats, shrimp bagged by the handful, and the price of everything was bartered for.

Further along was a flotilla of colourful fishing vessels, rusty chains and anchors strewn across their decks. Men with leathery, sea-battered skin worked aboard while flocks of seagulls circled ahead, waiting for a fresh dinner. As I snapped away, a fisherman gestured for me to board his boat, and I promptly obliged,  clamouring across three other boats to reach him.

He spoke in broken English (and I managed a few words in rusty French) as he showed me round the vessel. What struck me most were the sleeping quarters - tight, rickety wooden bunks deep in the dark belly of the boat. I could only imagine how I’d feel down there on rough seas, and was grateful to be heading to my comfy, dry apartment for the night.

The remaining few days were spent in the same manor; strolling idly around the town, getting lost down alleyways, daydreaming by the harbour wall watching the sea. As I started to plan my drive back to Marrakech, I reflected on my Moroccan escape - the places I’d seen and the people I’d met - and it became clear that it wouldn’t be long until I returned to explore more of this fascinating country. The wonderful people, culture, sights and smells had left too much of an impression on me. Another adventure was required.

Hotel Review: RYSE

Words & Photographs by Marina Pliatsikas

Right in the thick of Seoul’s most creative neighbourhood, RYSE, Autograph Collection is all concrete edges, warm mid century touches and soft lighting – the kind of place that makes you feel plugged in to the city from the moment you check in.

Common areas are calm and stylish – low-lit lounges with floor-to-ceiling windows, shelves stacked with art and fashion books, and just enough separation from the street noise to feel serene. The rooms are a lesson in industrial-chic done right, with their terrazzo bathrooms, exposed finishes and walls adorned with screen-prints by young Korean artists.

Each day I would wander down to the Blue Bottle Coffee tucked into the lobby – always buzzing with locals in carefully considered outfits that somehow always looked nonchalantly thrown together. I usually cap my caffeine intake by 10:01am (lest I be lying awake counting regrets at 3am), but in Korea, evening coffee (and everything culture) is alive and well. Cafes and shops stay open late, and people gather day and night – talking, working, dating – as if sleep is optional.

Just out front, there's a line most days outside WORKSOUT, a locally-born cult activewear and streetwear store built into the hotel itself, proving just how seriously Koreans take their off-duty looks – and their fitness.

And beyond the hotel's walls, surrounding Hongdae is all buzz and creative energy. Just across the road is Offer Bakery, for which there weren’t enough days in our trip to sample every multi-layered, flaky morsel while relaxing in their peaceful, pastel-hued courtyard. We made a solid attempt though, often pairing pastries with a Jeju iced matcha, crisp and green and almost too pretty to drink. 

A few blocks away, there’s Gyeongui Line Forest Park, a former train line converted into a lush, vegetation-lined walking path – part of Seoul’s gentle reclaiming of urban space. And of course, no stay in Hongdae is complete without a pit stop at one of the many 24-hour photobooths. We opted for a laundromat-themed family snap, but it was a tough toss-up between that, a subway-themed room or an elevator-themed room.

Thanks to RYSE’s spot near the Green Line (Seoul’s circular central metro line), it’s also a great jumping-off point for exploring the rest of the city – whether you're headed for galleries, markets, or an 11pm coffee in a different postcode.

To learn more, or book a room, click here.

British Boltholes

Earlier this year I released Slow Travel Britain with Hoxton Mini Press, a book that shines a light on 22 of the most inspiring ways to explore England, Scotland and Wales and encourages a deeper connection with their landscapes, people and culture. While making it, the photographers and I got to stay in some fabulous hotels and cabins, and I’ve shared a round up of a few I adored below (although I am very much in love with everything in the book). Don’t go far, go slow!

You can order the book here.

The Fife Arms

Opened by the duo behind Hauser & Worth global gallery, this boutique five-star hotel is the beating heart of Bramear and an art-filled oasis (there are around 16,000 pieces in its collection). A Pieter Brueghel the Younger hangs in the Clunie Dining Room, contrasted by a room-sized mural from Argentinian artist Guillermo Kuitca, its sharp angles and dark hues a homage to the River Dee. There are photos from Man Ray, a painted ceiling in the drawing room that’s part abstract topographic map, part homage to Cairngorms crystal, an antique chimneypiece inspired by the poetry of Robert Burns and an original drawing by Queen Victoria. The Fife is devoted to showcasing the wonders of the Cairngorms, with every room designed to reflect local nature, poetry and personalities. There are activities aplenty, from drawing in nature to fishing and foraging, and a team of dapper ghillies are on hand to curate experiences. But there are plenty of reasons to stay in, too – like Elsa’s cocktail bar, named for Surrealist fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli, a regular visitor to nearby Braemar Castle.

Wildhive Callow Hall

Cocooned within 35 acres of meadows, landscaped gardens and lupin-filled woodland at the southern edge of the National Park, this hotel celebrates the natural world – which can be admired from rooms in the fabulously decorated Hall (a revamped Victorian country house) or from one of Wildhive’s treehouses. Decor across the property is the work of interior designer Isabella Worsley and is an elegantly eccentric explosion of Pop Art prints, pressed flowers and English objects d’art. And while the interiors may be artistically vibrant, the atmosphere remains remarkably peaceful. Things feel even more sedate when suspended amongst the foliage in a one-bedroom hive or two-bedroom treehouse, where textured timber is embellished with painted floral motifs and breakfast hampers are delivered to your door. Enjoy cocktails in the Hall’s library snug and dinner in the glass-walled Garden Room restaurant, or (if you’re feeling active) hire a bike from the Coach House and tackle one of the walking and cycling trails that begin at Wildhive’s door.

Photograph by Liz Schaffer

Settle Norfolk

Enveloped by 30 acres of parkland, Settle is made up of a collection of converted railway carriages, cabins and safari tents that pop up in summer. Building materials hail from the owner’s nearby Morways Reclamation, and the spaces are filled with handmade furnishings, vintage embellishments and custom pieces from English artisans. Round off your stay with a visit to the on-site shop, which brims with everything from Norfolk pottery to carved wooden platters.

Photograph by Tom Bunning

Gleneagles Townhouse

Blending original Georgian features with a soothing colour palette and conversation-starting contemporary artworks, this Edinburgh bank-turned-hotel mixes past and present beautifully. Bedrooms tip their debonaire hats to the past and come with king-size beds, ornate cornicing and lashings of art. In the spa, facilities include a gym, cryotherapy chamber and infrared saunas, while the changing rooms are tucked within the former bank vaults. The Art Deco tree-topped bar is the hotel’s centrepiece, positioned beneath a glass dome (another architectural detail left over from the building’s time as a bank).

Photograph by Daisy Wingate-Saul

Kip Hideaways’ Fairwinds Cabin

This grass-roofed cabin is filled with charm- ing details, from Ross Ryan’s almost abstract canvases (which he paints from the deck of his fishing boat) to floorboards salvaged from a Glasgow church and an old high school desk repurposed as a kitchen countertop. The bed is even inspired by a traditional Hebridean box bed, once shared by an entire family (although here you have it all to yourself). Make sure to throw open the curtains every now and then to check if the Northern Lights are putting on a show.

Photograph by Chiara Dalla Rosa

The Angel at Hetton

A sleek and welcoming Michelin-starred restaurant with rooms 5 miles from Grassington, The Angel’s design is elegantly refined: a creative mix of timber, stone and earthy hues, paired with a statement moss-covered wall which ensures the Dales are never far from your mind. Chef patron Michael Wignall’s menu is influenced by flavours from across the globe, and while the dishes are rilliantly complex (they all arrived looking like sculptural works of art), this is balanced by the sheer freshness of every ingredient, flavours changing with each bite. Stay the night to experience the spacious Scandi-esque bedrooms and the sensational, multi-course breakfast.

Photograph by Orlando Gili

Kudhva

Made up of site-specific architectural hideouts nested in deciduous woodland, Kudhva (which is Cornish for hideout) also includes a wood-burning-hot tub, waterfall, restored engine house and abandoned slate quarry. Design enthusiasts will be charmed by the Kudhva cabins themselves – contemporary, tree-house-like structures with a mezzanine sleeping area made for stargazing. This is raw-luxe at its finest and exists because of owner Louise’s desire to ‘make friends with the land’, which she transformed from a wild and forgotten space into this off-grid event- and festival-hosting bolthole.

Photograph by Daisy Wingate-Saul

Lord Crewe Arms

This history-packed, dog-friendly hotel, found in the heart of honey-hued Blanchard, is as atmospheric as they come. Once the abbot’s lodge of a 12th-century priory, many of the original building’s architectural details remain, from arched stone doorways to flagstone floors. The Lord Crewe hosts a range of seasonal activities including star gazing (Northumberland National Park has been a Dark Sky Park since 2013). Year round you can enjoy afternoon tea by the fire in the original banqueting hall, watched over by armour and shields. It’s also worth whiling away an evening in the Crypt Bar, a vaulted chamber illuminated by candlelight, before you head upstairs to feast in the rustic Bishop’s Dining Room.

Photograph by Liz Schaffer

Penally Abbey

This family-run country-retreat-meets-sea-side-hideaway is dog-friendly and comes with the ruins of a 12th-century chapel in its sprawling gardens. It’s also only a short drive from Tenby, a pastel-hued beachside town famed for its Georgian architecture and iconic lifeboat station. Each room in the hotel has a different shape and design, honouring the layout of the original house, with many featuring canopied beds, custom wallpapers and views across Carmarthen Bay. While seasonal sundowners in the art-filled terrace and drawing room are divine (the cocktails are finished with flowers and herbs from the garden), the jewel in the Penally Abbey crown is the 2 AA Rhosyn Restaurant and its multi-course, sustainable menu.

Photograph by Daisy Wingate-Saul

To add Slow Travel Britain to your collection, click here.

For the Lodestars online shop, click here.

Dreams of Egypt

Words & Photographs by Isis Benchellal

In February, I embarked on a breathtaking journey: a descent along the Nile, from Luxor to Aswan, aboard a sandal, a traditional Egyptian boat. Guided by an Egyptologist and surrounded by a warm crew, I plunged into a fascinating past, carried by the river’s slow rhythm.

This journey felt like a waking dream, a pause outside of time. From mornings when the sun lit up the deck, to cool and silent nights beneath the stars watching over sleeping shores, each moment had its own gentle melody.

There were echoes of the ancient world everywhere: on the water, in cities, on islands, in stone. Pharaohs and gods, builders and scribes seemed to guide each step through an endless stream of stories.

In the Valley of the Kings, the dazzling white of the cliffs made me squint. Their depths harbouring temples and age-old secrets. The walls, covered in hieroglyphs, told what time had not erased.

In Luxor, the Karnak Temple took my breath away. Its towering columns, reaching to the sky, still seemed to carry the prayers of another era.

Among many other wonders encountered along the Nile, Edfu Temple, dedicated to Horus, left a deep impression — its colossal walls made me feel tiny, overwhelmed by the scale and strength of the place. I let myself be carried, drifted, floated through this land so full of richness.

As the days passed, the Nile unveiled landscapes and villages where time had seemingly paused.

A glance upward, and a goat watched me from the roof of a house.

A glance into the distance, and children ran through the palm groves.

The water shimmered near the banks, where fishing boats dried under the scorching afternoon sun.

I lost myself, just for a moment, wandering through the village alleys. The colours of clothes hanging across paths, the bright smiles of the locals, and the textures of daily life caught me off guard — and moved me.

I rediscovered a quiet beauty in places I hadn’t expected to find it. A contrast struck me. The noisy life of the cities, without rules, where horns echo endlessly, and then the silence of the river. A silence that wrapped around us, almost sacred.

The sunset crackled softly, barely audible.

I swayed to the rhythm of the hours, the days, the seconds, carried by this peaceful chaos.

My gaze settled everywhere. I melted into the scenery.

I tried to wrap myself in the fleeting softness of the unknown... which no longer felt quite so unknown.

Body & Soul

Words & Photographs by Angela Terrell

Lying in The Sanctuary (an open-walled, private treatment suite cantilevered over an oasis of green), aware only of my therapist’s soothing movements and the orchestra of birdsong echoing from the valley below, I felt remarkably ‘well’. But this came as little surprise, given that wellness is at the heart of Raffles Bali, with everything - from the architecture and cuisine, to the curated spa treatments - designed to nurture the spirit, encourage emotional reconnection and restore balance.

Mere minutes from Jimbaran’s markets and beach, Raffles Bali is a tree and butterfly-filled haven – a tour with the on-site Botanical Guru revealing gardens where almost everything blooming has some health benefit. Spread over 23 hectares, the resort flows down the hillside towards Jimbaran Bay, and its restaurants, Writer’s Bar and 32 private villas enjoy panoramic views of azure water and majestic Mount Agung. Basking in such a vista, I understood why the Balinese believe that places where both the mountains and sea are visible carry a unique energy.

The beauty continues inside the nature-encased villas. Centre stage is a cloud-like bed and sitting area ideal for sipping and reading, while glass doors open to an infinity pool and shady cabana you’ll have no desire to leave. And if that isn’t enough, a butler is on hand to deliver wellness juices, nutrient-packed rosella pandan tea and calming pillow mists – although it’s difficult to imagine sleep eluding you in such tranquil surroundings.

Dining here is equally spectacular. Everything is remarkably fresh (fishermen send the chefs photos of their daily catch), and dishes arrive looking like art on a plate. The degustation dinner at Rumari takes you across the Indonesian archipelago (ingredients hail from Java to West Sumatra), while the Secret Cave experience transports you to a candlelit, ivy-draped world.

We often forget we need nurturing, but a sojourn at Raffles Bali ensures that mind, body and spirit are equally cared for – which proved true, once again, during a chakra treatment on my final day. Amazed by the healer’s knowing assessment and ability to read my body, I was cleared of ‘bad energy’ in a Reiki healing, and left the session feeling profoundly serene and understood – the ultimate parting gift.

This story originally appeared in our Islands Magazine.

Interview: Ken Done

Interview by Liz Schaffer & Video by Marina Pliatsikas - full story in the Australia magazine

Sydney Harbour has always captivated Ken Done, the glittering, glorious icon painted onto countless canvases - alongside scenes from the Bungle Bungles, Kati Thanda (Lake Eyre), Broken Hill and considerably further afield. He creates these works in his studio overlooking Chinamans Beach, using plastic spades abandoned along the waterfront as his palettes. Never one to conform to artistic trends, Ken is drawn to words like ‘pretty’ and ‘beautiful’, and they define his vibrant, joyous style perfectly. He is kind, prolific and - by and large - remembers every painting he’s ever done.

A graduate of the National Art School, Ken spent years working in advertising, had his first exhibition at 40, has been awarded an Order of Australia, is a UNICEF Australia Goodwill Ambassador, opened his own gallery in the 1980s, created art for the Sydney 2000 Olympic Games and continues to work closely with his family. It’s this last feat that Ken sees as his greatest achievement.

For many Australians, Ken’s paintings and designs are immediately recognisable; not just because of what they depict, but because they’re part of our collective memory. As Amber Creswell Bell writes in her book, Ken Done: Art Design Life: ‘People talk about Ken Done products anecdotally, as having a place in their ownpersonal histories. In contrast to more disposable pieces, anything affiliated with Ken Done evokes an inherent nostalgia; it doesn’t get forgotten like other items.’ I remember, aged eight, wrapping myself in my mum’s Ken Done sarongs and thinking they were the most glamorous things imaginable. At 12, I treasured the sunshine-yellow suitcase he created for Sydney’s Opening Ceremony, aware that it was quite possibly part of history. And in 2020, I was sent Ken Done postcards in the depths of London’s first lockdown and basked in their colour and warmth - a little light from the country that raised me. To quote Amber once more: ‘Ken reminds us of what is good in the place we are fortunate enough to call home.’

Interviewing Ken for the Australia magazine was an absolute joy - a reminder that sometimes it is very, very good to meet your artistic heroes. I’m thrilled to be able to share the above video. Here’s the dreamy Sydney days, colour and finding your passion.

To add the Australia mag to your collection, which features our full interview with Ken (and much, much more), click here.

Hotel Review: Breac.House

An extract from the Ireland magazine - Words & Photographs by Ruth Ribeaucourt

Breac.House is a modern, luxury sanctuary tucked away in a landscape softened by heather, bracken and lichen-blanketed drystone walls. From its perch on the Horn Head peninsula, every room has far-reaching views of the Atlantic Ocean’s white-tipped waves, the iconic Muckish and Errigal Mountains, and in between a perfumed patchwork of rusts and greens. A few days spent here are a breathtaking reminder of just how majestic the Irish countryside can be.

Created by Dubliners Cathrine Burke and Niall Campbell, this ‘adults-only’ retreat is the culmination of many years of travelling and dreaming of a space that would allow them to share their love of food, design, heritage and nature. While the duo may not have had a clear image of how the physical building would look at the start of the project, they knew exactly how Breac.House would make people feel.

“It had to feel natural, materials driven and have a very tangible connection to place,” says Cathrine. “Often in the hospitality industry things can be very beautiful, but also a little too sanitised - so the single most important thing for us was that we wanted to know the craftspeople who were making the items our guests would touch and experience. From the local carpenters who did the beautiful oak joinery, to the handwoven textiles by Eddie Doherty, framed seaweed prints from Superfolk, sculptural basket weavings by Joe Hogan, the bespoke furniture created by Tricia Harris and Simon O’Driscoll, to the Irish-made luxury mattresses on every bed. Everything we do is driven by relationships and we love sharing these craftspeople and their stories with our guests.”

Since opening in Donegal in 2017, Cathrine and Niall have succeeded in redefining the meaning of modern Irish hospitality. Their focus is on thoughtfulness and generosity, and the ultimate goal is that guests take from Breac.House exactly what they crave ... even if they don’t always know what that is. “Sometimes people just need to relax and rest and other times they might need somewhere that engages entirely different parts of their brain. So we try to provide space for whatever it is they need for the little bit of time that they’re taking. Hopefully we also create an experience that leaves you with a deep sense of connection to our beautiful countryside.”

Discovering Design in Mumbai

Words by Mandi Keighran

Amidst the relentless urban pulse of Mumbai, tucked away from the clamour of the streets, lies a lush orangery – an unexpected oasis overflowing with greenery and illuminated by glittering chandeliers. Amongst palms and cascading floral arrangements, design pieces and handcrafted treasures from local artisans are bringing a new creative energy to the rich tapestry of the city’s artistic and cultural narrative.

Mumbai has long been a city where creative traditions and contemporary visions collide. Here, craft is embedded in daily life, and past, present and future exist in constant dialogue. In recent years, a new generation of designers, architects and artisans have reshaped the city’s creative identity, drawing inspiration from India’s artistic heritage while embracing global influences. Against this backdrop, Nilaya Anthology emerges as a new destination for Mumbai’s flourishing design culture – an intriguing blend of gallery, design shop, and gathering space.

Deriving its name from the Sanskrit word Nilaya – meaning ‘home’ or ‘abode’ – the enormous space embraces an ethos of storytelling and discovery, offering a collection of global design narratives curated by celebrated interior designer Pavitra Rajaram. “The best and greatest stories – in fact, almost every craft tradition in the world – are the result of migration,” says Rajaram.

At Nilaya Anthology, this concept is expressed through a thoughtful collection that celebrates Indian design alongside international pieces by some of the world’s most iconic design brands – think ceramics crafted by Tejashree Sagvekar using clay foraged from Mumbai's coastline, to Indian antiques displayed alongside masterful designs by the country’s most celebrated creatives, including Vikram Goyal – who uses traditional Indian metalworking techniques to create imposing art-design works – and fashion star Sabyasachi – who dresses India’s most luxurious brides. Italian art-design powerhouse Nilufar Gallery even hosted a pop-up space for the space’s opening.

At its core, Nilaya Anthology is a love letter to Mumbai’s rich heritage of craftsmanship. “For many individual makers, it's really difficult to have a voice, especially in Mumbai, where even a one-day exhibition is prohibitively expensive,” says Rajaram. Nilaya Anthology's platform elevates these artisans – such as Sagvekar – aligning them alongside international luxury brands and amplifying their impact. In doing so, Nilaya enriches the city’s cultural capital while actively cultivating its community of makers.

In this way, Nilaya Anthology is not only a sanctuary for Mumbai’s creative community, but a destination for visitors seeking an authentic insight into Indian design – past and present – and a stage for the country’s most intriguing artisans and designers.

Colleen Southwell

An extract from Angela Schaffer’s new book - Pearls - Wisdom and inspiration from women who are quietly changing the world.

A short drive from Orange, along eucalyptus-lined roads, Colleen Southwell’s magnificent garden sits in harmony with the rolling hills of the Central Tablelands. It is beautiful, calm and has stories to tell - much like Colleen herself - and as we wandered through her creation drinking in the heady aromas and flashes of colour, I noticed my mood changing as she pointed out details that even an avid garden-lover like me had missed. Besotted and absorbed, I started seeing nature as she does and the wider world vanished.

Colleen practises ‘slow gardening’ - mindful engagement with all she cultivates. And the rewards are plentiful. Countless creatures have made this floral oasis their home, there’s time to pause and think, and you’re reminded to appreciate the wonders right in front of you. It’s no surprise this garden provides boundless inspiration for Colleen’s art.

Replicating the beauty found in a garden, Colleen meticulously hand-crafts a myriad of delicate paper shapes, which together form an almost ethereal, monochromatic representation of the treasures that can be found in the natural world - as long as we take the time to look for them. Her art is joyful and mesmerising, and as we sat in the kitchen a little later, happily chatting over her just-baked rhubarb tart, I was drawn to a piece awaiting shipment to New York. Mounted with entomology pins, thousands of finely drawn, painted, cut and embossed pieces of paper had become leaves, roots, spiderwebs, nests and blooms; a whole world in a frame. The more I looked, the more I saw - and that’s a maxim for life if ever there was one.

Do you have an early garden memory?

I remember my grandmother’s garden at Dee Why which was so incredibly overgrown, almost like a jungle. The soil was sandy and there was no lawn, but it felt like there were dozens of trees and lots of canopy with nooks and crannies everywhere. I remember playing there with my cousins, and even though it was by no means a pristine garden, it was a magical one. One of those gardens where you imagined creatures living in the undergrowth.

I’ve also always adored Markdale at Crookwell, an Edna Walling garden. She was one of Australia’s most influential garden designers, and I love her garden designs because there’s such a sense of story in them - they evolve over time, almost as if she could see into the future. I connect with so many gardens of rural women though. It’s so inspiring the way they build homes and create gardens often against all odds - whether it’s drought, a general lack of water or difficult environmental circumstances.

A creative thread runs through both sides of your family. Can you tell me about that?

My grandparents on all sides were artists, so creativity was always seen as something valid, not just a pastime. On one side, my grandmother was a milliner and my grandfather made violins, and my other grandfather made steam engines and my grandmother was a painter. Mum is one of four girls who are all incredibly talented craftspeople, whether it was cake-decorating, painting or embroidery. Growing up, Mum made everything from the cushions on the chairs to our clothes ,and we spent hours bottling fruit - which I hated at the time but look back on now as a great experience.

What drew you to horticulture and eventually to your art?

I was working in agribusiness community development but really missing the creative side of things. I think if you’re a creative person at heart but don’t acknowledge it at some point, it always feels like something is missing, so I was drawn to horticulture because it blends nature and those creative elements together.

I started making my art about three-and-a-half years ago. I’d been feeling disconnected from landscape design because I sensed that for a lot of people the garden was more about being a showpiece than the process. But to me a garden isn’t a product - it’s a constantly evolving thing - and if you see it that way, you gain the most pleasure doing it. So I pulled back from garden design. It’s amazing how stepping away from something means other doors open, because that’s when I committed to that first exhibition at The Corner Store Gallery. I didn’t have anything completed - just a tiny, scrappy thing I showed Made [Young - the gallery’s founder and director] who said, “Yeah, there could be something in this.” The panic set in when I realised I needed pieces good enough to show.

Your first exhibition sold out before it even opened. How did that feel?

Oh, I had crazy imposter syndrome. I still have this person sitting on my shoulder saying, It’s all going to fall apart at some point and I hate that. It’s awful. But it’s been anamazing path, and it may sound airy-fairy, but I think it was meant to happen. I was approaching 50 but knew there was something else I should be doing, so was always searching and hoping for that bolt of lightning saying, This is what you’re supposed to do.

Everything came about by doing nothing really. I think life had been crowded with ‘stuff’ - things that you should be doing and should be achieving; this elusive idea of seeking perfection. But that lightbulb moment when I realised that the quest for perfection isn’t what brings you contentment came from being quiet and engaging on a personal level with things happening in the garden. It probably sounds clichéd, but seeing little things like a blue wren nest and buds emerge after along, cold winter is where contentment lies. It’s finding perfection in the everyday.

I want my art to encourage people to pause and look closely. With so many artworks you’re meant to step back to admire them, but to move in and notice those details is what I want. I’ve had people in exhibitions comment about the detail in something and then say, “I really must pay attention to that when I see it in the garden.” And that’s great, because it brings people back to seeing the perfection that’s right under their nose.

Is your technique changing?

It evolves with the seasons. I’m getting more and more detailed as time goes on and I’m discovering different materials, although it’s still paper-based because I love the way paper reflects the fragility of the subject. And there’s no colour in my work, which was always my intention - I think because I want people to see the structures and patterns first.

What makes gardening in Australia unique?

For a long time we were stuck in our British roots. I have elements of it, because my extended family history is British and that’s part of who I am, but I think we’re becoming wiser about plant choices and creating gardens that sit more gently in the landscape. Because we have a fragile landscape. We’re hilltop here and parts of the yard have good topsoil but otherwise it’s fairly shallow, so rather than levelling it all, we’ve built the garden on top of the hillside and planted in a way that complements the landscape.

I can lose an entire day when I garden - and can’t tell you what I’ve achieved - but come in feeling fantastic. Do you think gardening has benefits for us all?

The psychological and emotional benefits of gardening are enormous because I think there’s something about hands in soil, feet on ground. I’ve always battled with periods which weren’t really depressive, but a bit like that, which I think goes hand-in-hand with creativity. But gardening has been so emotionally grounding. It puts you in the present and teaches you that we’re not the be-all-and-end-all but part of a far bigger picture. That connection to something other than us is so important.

A lot of people don’t have that opportunity for connection though. I think that’s probably the root of many issues at the moment because so many gardens are disappearing with urban growth, even here in Orange. There’s no space for trees to climb or veggie patches, and I think we need to address that in some way.

I remember my other grandparents’ back garden, which was that classic Australian garden of a clothesline, choko vines on the fence and a lemon tree - it wasn’t glossy, but it was practical. Backyards fed us, and there was that definite link between that little plot of land and the person. Maybe we don’t need the rotary clothesline right outside the back door, but I feel we’ve shunned a lot of that practical connection at great expense.

Has making art changed the way you interact with the landscape?

Definitely. Because I take such slow, meticulous care making the artworks, so I’m more in tune to all the tiny details than I ever was before. I find it really interesting that to make the art, I’m doing what I want people to do: appreciate interesting shapes, unique patterns and even the margins of the leaves. I don’t ever try to replicate something, and many of the plants in my works are imaginary. It’s simply everything I see put together.

How important are regional galleries like The Corner Store Gallery?

Absolutely crucial, and we’re so lucky having a gallery like that here. There’s such a community around it and Madi initiates so many events that bring artists and makers together to sell their work. It’s really confronting putting your work out there - a bit like being a performing artist and standing in front of an audience and having no idea how they’ll react. So exhibiting in an environment like The Corner Store Gallery, which is safe, local and supportive, is fantastic.

AND ON A SIDE NOTE

What qualities do you look for in a friend?

I think people who care and are able to see things outside of themselves. I connect with people when there’s a warmth there, although I worry that people don’t see that in me because I’m quite shy and shyness can be seen as coldness - but it’s not. I also look for generosity and tend to lean towards people with a gentle character because sometimes I get overwhelmed by people who bowl through life. They’re fun, and I admire the way they operate, but I suppose I don’t understand them because it’s not the way I operate.

What would you tell your younger self?

So many things - I feel quite emotional thinking about this because I had a very loving childhood but like everyone has, there were challenges at times. But I’d say, “You are enough.” I’d tell her to have some faith in herself, because that’s always been the battle, and jump in and have a go - not be so afraid of what the outcome might be. And to try and see herself through the eyes of people who know and care about her, which is the conversation I’ve been having with my boys recently. They’re considerate and compassionate and I tell them: “You need to trust my judgement that you’re all you need to be, because I know you better than anyone.”

I think we all believe that it would be lovely to change some of the things we’ve done in the past. But it’s important to realise that everyone makes mistakes, so maybe we should embrace the decisions we’ve made because ultimately, they’re what sculpt you. And we also need to let go of the things that we have no control over - like knowing that you’re never going to please everybody - because we’re all different.

What would your younger self think of what you’re doing now?

I think she’d be pleased and would say, “Of course!” because when you’re younger you don’t tend to question what you’ll do - like be an astronaut - because you just accept that’s the way it will be. So she’d be happy I’m doing something I should be doing, although she might say, “It’s about time.” I wish I’d started ten years earlier, but then again, the time wasn’t right and doors tend to open when it is. You have to appreciate what’s happening in the here and now.

Who would you love to spend some time gardening with?

Definitely Edna Walling. But for me it’s really not about famous people - it’s more those everyday people who are quietly doing things in the background and making something out of their lot.

Colleen’s interview - along with conversations with 40 other brilliant Australian women - appears in Pearls, a book you can pre-order (in Australia only for now) here.

Photographs by Angela Schaffer and Em Wollen.

Weekends Away - East Sussex

An extract from the London Guide - words by Liz Schaffer & photographs by Daisy Wingate-Saul

Synonymous with chalky cliffs, sparkling wine and Glyndebourne opera festival, East Sussex is where I head when keen to get back to nature in style. And my base of choice is The Star in dinky Alfriston, a boutique bolthole found within a 15th-century, Grade II listed building that’s been lovingly revamped by Olga and Alex Polizzi. If you fancy meeting this iconic mother-daughter duo, book in for one of The Star’s regular Ramblers Retreats; weekend getaways where you hike over hills with Alex and toast your efforts with wine, cocktails and canapés.

The hotel itself is a stunning mix of old (oak beams, stone floors and antiques) and new (Italian hues, English wallpapers and cloud-like beds), and celebrates Sussex with every detail. There’s an extensive book collection in the library, curated by the team at Alfriston cult bookstore Much Ado Books, and original works from Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant, founding members of the Bloomsbury Group. Add contemporary artworks, a walled garden and courtyard, a restaurant thatfuses Sussex and Mediterranean flavours, and a traditional pub dating back to 1435, and you’ve got a singular setting – a hotel that is part retreat, part village meeting place.

This entire region is a walker’s paradise, and numerous routes start and end at The Star – like the one to the 600-acre Rathfinny Estate, a winery adored for its deliciously dry sparkling (the chalky soil here is near-identical to Champagne’s), award-winning restaurant, and alfresco wine bar with views over the South Downs. Set off in the opposite direction and you’ll reach Berwick Church, a serene space decorated by Grant, Bell and her son Quentin: think evocative frescoes depicting those lost to the Great War, a tapestry- draped altar and odes to the Sussex seasons.

Berwick Church sits along the 12-mile-long Cuckmere Pilgrim Path, which takes in the area’s seven ancient churches. But if you’re making an artistic pilgrimage, walk on instead to Charleston, Grant and Bell’s home and studio. The couple rented this property in 1916 when they came to Sussex to work as farmers (one of the few professions open to conscientious objectors), and Charleston quickly became a gathering place for the writers, artists and thinkers of the Bloomsbury Group. And it continues to inspire. Every single surface has been painted, objets d’art abound and you’ll likely spot fellow visitors reading and sketching in the thriving garden.

Farleys House and Gallery is another space that will make you want to live a more creative, collaborative life. This traditional farmhouse was home to war photographer Lee Miller and her husband, surrealist artist Roland Penrose, and its interiors remain largely untouched. Stepping into Lee’s kitchen you’re greeted by her original jars of herbs and spices, and a painting gifted from Picasso, who was just one of the many 20th- century visionaries the couple counted as friends. I was particularly taken with the dining room’s fireplace, which is adorned with an abstract depiction of The Long Man of Wilmington – a 72-metre high Pagan chalk figure etched into a neighbouring hill.

Farewelling destinations as divine as East Sussex can be hard, so I recommend departing with a bang from Lewes, a gallery-packed market town famed for its annual bonfire night. Here you’ll find No. 34, a restaurant and wine bar that more than justifies a day trip from London. The interiors call to mind a French bistro (the open kitchen takes centre stage and ceramic jugs line the walls), dishes are made to be shared, and the wine is so delicious that you’ll inevitably leave with a bottle – something scrumptious to tide you over until the next weekend away.

For other brilliant ‘weekend away’ ideas (and for some fab things to do in the English capital) check out our London Guide.

Wild Kefalonia

Words by Diana Pappas Photographs by Diana Pappas & Tom Bland

An extract from the Greece magazine

Eyes closed, my senses are already happily overwhelmed. The air smells like honey, perfumed by wild fennel, Greek mountain sage and the yellow flowers of Spanish broom. The chattering of barn swallows is an almost constant refrain and, every so often, you hear the gentle chime of bells worn by a herd of goats in the distance. Eyes open, and the beauty of Kefalonia is almost too much to bear. The whole place invites exploration - overgrown paths to secret beaches, dirt roads over the mountains, past ancient olive groves and Venetian ruins. We are here for an adventure and, fittingly, this is Odysseus territory.

In 1922, my grandmother and her mother came to Kefalonia on a very different kind of adventure, as Greek refugees from Turkey. How long they were here, or where on the island they were housed, and many other details are lost to history. Although she was caught up in post-WWI geo-political upheaval and forced migration, my grandmother remembered Kefalonia as a beautiful place with delicious fruit, and it is this handed-down memory that has brought us to the island nearly a century later.

To see what my grandmother might have seen in present day Kefalonia, we seek out the wild places, those glorious spaces where things mightn’t have changed with the passage of so much time. We have to look beyond the resorts, full-service beaches and sunburnt tourists, and well beyond the luxurious yachting destination of Fiskardo. The mountainous topography and dramatic coastline, the thousands of wildflowers and the blinding sunlight, those would be as they once were. With a rental car and a map, we seek out wild Kefalonia.

Immediately we are in awe of the Ionian Sea, with its astonishing gradations of blue, from navy to cobalt to turquoise to cerulean - no beach looks the same. Some beaches are sandy, others rocky, some you can drive down to, but the most peaceful coves are the most remote, only accessible on foot or by boat. We swim into a coastal cave and shelter in its cooling shade, and when we get too cold we swim out into the brilliant sunshine. The crystal-clear water seems especially salty and we float in surrender to this Greek paradise.

At higher elevations, we discover ruined villages, abandoned and left to nature and goats after a catastrophic earthquake in 1953. We wander amidst the overgrown mulberry and fig trees and see the remnants of the colourful stucco and ornate iron balustrades of the Venetian architecture that was once ubiquitous on the island, now gradually returning to wilderness.

At even higher elevations we wind our way up through switchback after switchback, watching the composition of wildflowers and vegetation transform as we climb. Mount Ainos towers over the island and we park as near as we can to its mile-high summit. We spot rare Kefalonian violets and hike through a forest of equally rare Kefalonian fir trees. The intermittent cloud cover occasionally gives way to staggering views of the island and sea below, an almost vertiginous sight.

At a certain point, our reason for coming here, my grandmother’s memory from 1922, fades into the background. Yes, Kefalonia is a beautiful place - and the fruit is indeed delicious - but I found Kefalonia to also be full of kind, generous people, eager to offer a handful of apricots from their tree or a bag of fresh-picked lemons or a slice of walnut cake. If you’re lucky, a local will tell you where to get the best grilled fish (that’s Lithero Fish Taverna, in case you are curious). Here you can spend your days driving all over the island, letting curiosity lead the way. Visit a beach when you need to cool down, try a strong Greek coffee or freddo cappuccino for a boost in the afternoon, wander down a lush path towards a lake and count the demoiselle damselflies flitting about by the stream, their vibrant wings as blue as the Ionian Sea. I can imagine that one day soon I will be longing for these moments, but for now I catch my calm reflection in the side mirror of the car. Just another traveller falling in love with wild Kefalonia.