Some people have an ancestral base – it might be a castle, a city or a family home that has been in the family for generations.
Coming from a family that was always on the move, and now spread to the four corners of the earth, the closest I can come to is our beach house on Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula, which my grandfather built in the 1960s. It’s seen five generations holidaying here, and while it’s not a hunting lodge or a town that with streets named after us, the beach is at the end of the street and dolphins play in the waters: it’s not so bad.
Decidedly daggy (read: unhip) for decades, known only for its beachhouses and fish & chip shops (which are, still, very good), it’s now got its mojo on, and in a massive way. In just five years, we’ve got five-star hotels, artisan gin distillers, we’ve got fabulous cafes and our great coastal walking paths have been mapped out.
I wrote my 20 reasons for the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age’s Traveller section, which you can read by clicking here
In Egypt’s deep south (aka ‘Upper Egypt, because it’s closer to the source of the south-north running Nile River), is the golden city of Aswan.
A world away from the smoke and insanity of Cairo, the city on the banks of the Nile is famous for its granite quarries that helped build the monuments of the ancient kingdoms, and its laid-back inhabitants, Nubians who seem more connected with the African continent than the Arabian north.
It’s also the home of one of the continent’s best grand hotels, and finally I got to visit the Sofitel Legend Old Cataract.
|The terrace, where Agatha Christie wrote Death on the Nile.
Photo: Belle Jackson
Agatha Christie wrote Death on the Nile on its terrace, and I wrote my hotel review for Fairfax Media’s Traveller section (the question is, of course: which will have greater longevity? :))
The Balkans are literally the land of honey and blood, named by Turks who netted the peninsula – from Slovenia to Albania – into the Ottoman Empire, where it remained ensnared for five centuries until 1912. In Turkish, “bal” is honey, “kan” is blood. And as they learned, the riches are sweet, but come at a price.
This summer, I spent a couple of weeks on a tour with Intrepid Travel, from the Albanian capital of Tirana through to Kosovo and on to Macedonia, before returning back to Albania.
It was my first time in the western Balkans, though I’ve skirted around the region, in Greece, Croatia, Romania and Bulgaria, at different times of my travelling life.
So some things were familiar – using bears as novelty drawcards at restaurants, the Cyrillic alphabet – but there was plenty of new ground – seeing little red-roofed villages, the symbol of Middle Europe, clustered around a mosque, instead of a church, or the sheer beauty of the Accursed Mountains.
Beautiful and blissfully ignored by the mass tourism that pervades such European cities as Barcelona or Paris, I almost don’t want to share them, to preserve their purity.