Albania Travel Guide and How we Dealt with an Accident

Our Travel Diary

We spent eight days in Albania and loved it. Our Albania travel guide shows the warmth of the people which can only be described as amazing. We had a small hiccup at the end when our rental car was in an accident but that did not change our view on this lovely county and its people. This Albania travel guide was written by Cam with help from Meg and Claude AI. All pictures and videos are property of Cam.

Tirana — Days 1 to 3

We flew into Tirana from Manchester, touching down and clearing the airport by early evening. The original plan had been to pick up a rental car at the airport, but we’d thought better of it. Neither of us felt confident enough about Albanian roads or the city itself to dive straight in behind the wheel. A taxi it was.

We loved Tirana and Albania – warm people and great food!

The fare was 2,200 Lekë, around €22, cash only. We would hear that a lot over the next week. The thirty-minute drive into the city was an education. Albanian drivers, it turns out, operate by a set of rules entirely their own. Lanes are suggestions. Horns are punctuation. And yet, somehow, it all flows. A kind of organised chaos where nobody seems to know quite what they’re doing, and yet nobody seems to crash either. As we peeled off the main road and threaded into the narrow street where our apartment was located, we genuinely marvelled that a car could fit down it at all.

Our driver eventually stopped at an intersection, climbed out, and announced with admirable candour that he had no idea where the house was. A quick message to our host sorted it out. He appeared from a side street moments later and walked us the rest of the way.

Our Apartment – Close to Mother Teresa’s Birthplace

The neighbourhood had a certain roughness to it, though not from the people. It was the buildings that gave it an edge. Their facades weathered and worn. But step inside, and the apartment was a revelation. Beautifully appointed and a genuine surprise after the chaos of getting there. We headed out for a light dinner and called it a night.

Albanian Street Food

Day two began with a find. A local grocery store, where we had our first introduction to byrek, arguably Albania’s most beloved street food. Layers of flaky phyllo pastry wrapped around fillings of cheese, spinach, or onion. Simple, satisfying, and the perfect fuel for a morning of wandering. We made our way to the main square, then on to the Museum of Secret Surveillance — better known as the House of Leaves. The name conjures something botanical and serene; the reality is anything but. What began as a OB-GYN clinic was quietly converted during the communist era into a surveillance centre. It was used to spy on ordinary citizens. The museum comes highly recommended. We left, it must be said, rather unmoved.

On the morning of day three, we collected our rental car from Enterprise and set off on the road to Vlorë. The pre-inspection was something to behold. Where most rental cars carry a scratch or two, this one wore its 81,000 kilometres like a badge of dishonour — dented, scraped, and battered on every panel. It had been ridden hard and put away wet. But it ran, and that was enough. We pointed it south toward the coast and didn’t look back.

Vlorë — Days 3 to 5

After the sensory assault of Tirana’s traffic and cramped streets, Vlorë felt like a long exhale. The coastal city has a pace entirely its own — unhurried, sun-warmed, and refreshingly unconcerned with impressing anyone. We arrived in the afternoon, found our feet quickly, and made straight for the beach to catch the sunset. It did not disappoint.

That first evening we found a small family-run restaurant for dinner. It was the kind of place that feels like someone’s dining room with a few extra tables squeezed in. The food was wonderful, and the hospitality warm — perhaps a little too warm. A complimentary round of raki arrived at the table before we’d had a chance to protest. I declined. Meg, ever the adventurer, took a cautious sip and spent the rest of the evening unwilling to be seated near an open flame.

Wonderful Bakeries

We settled quickly into Vlorë’s rhythm. The bakeries, it turned out, were exceptional — the kind that make it very easy to abandon any pretence of a healthy breakfast. We found ourselves returning each morning, emerging with paper bags and no regrets, before ambling down to the beach. Sunsets became something of a ritual, the sky doing increasingly theatrical things over the Adriatic each evening.

The view from the castle – a lone poppy overlooking the mountains.

On our second full day, we attempted a hike to the local castle, perched invitingly on the hillside. According to the map it was a mere 5 kilometres away. What the map neglected to mention was the 400 metres of elevation gain involved in getting there. We set off with optimism and returned with humility. Although we made it far enough to enjoy some genuinely lovely views, we collectively decided that the castle had likely looked the same for several centuries and could wait. Dinner that evening was at a more contemporary restaurant, modern in feel but rooted in Albanian tradition. The highlight being a deeply satisfying lamb in cheese sauce, the kind of dish that makes you wonder why it isn’t on every menu everywhere.

On the morning of day three, we packed up and pointed the battered Enterprise rental toward Gjirokastër.

Gjirokastër — Days 5 to 8

We didn’t leave Vlorë without one final detour. The castle of Kanina, perched on the hillside above the city. This was the very one we’d attempted to hike to a few days earlier and abandoned in favour of our dignity. This time we had the car — which was just as well, as the road climbed steeply enough that even our battle-worn Enterprise rental occasionally seemed to be having second thoughts. At the top, the effort was rewarded handsomely. The castle itself is a ruin in the process of being reclaimed, its foundations and remaining walls enough to conjure what must once have been an imposing stronghold. But it was the view that stopped us — the city of Vlorë spread below, the Adriatic glittering beyond it. A fine send-off.

Another UNESCO Site

Gjirokastër announced itself as a city of two distinct personalities. The old town, a UNESCO-listed tangle of Ottoman architecture and covered stone streets, was unambiguously geared toward visitors. The requisite touristy shops, the occasional incongruous Thai restaurant, and a steady stream of camera-wielding travellers making their way uphill. We were staying well away from all that, in a part of the city that felt entirely local, and the contrast was marked. The old town is undeniably beautiful, its history written into every cobblestone and overhanging façade. We spent a lazy stretch of time on an open-air terrace watching the tourist parade drift by.

It was dinner, 50 metres from our front door, that was the evening’s real highlight. This restaurant roasted everything over an open charcoal fire and happened to share a wall with the butcher next door. Every order sent the proprietor jogging between the two establishments to collect whatever was needed. The meat was about as fresh as it gets.

You Never Know What You Will See on The Road

Our second day took us to the Blue Eye, one of Albania’s more celebrated natural attractions — a vivid, almost impossibly clear spring that wells up from an unknown depth. The drive there offered one of the trip’s more unexpected pleasures. A shepherd moving his flock along the road, entirely unbothered by the concept of traffic. We stopped, watched, and eventually were waved through. Worth every minute of the delay. (for a video of the encounter with the sheep, see our YouTube video at https://youtube.com/shorts/0KeXYA2ExOQ )

An abandoned stone church on a mountain side – the history must be amazing.

The Blue Eye itself is striking, though perhaps not quite equal to its considerable reputation. We were glad to have seen it. On the way back, a roadside sign lured us to park and hike up the side of a cliff to a small stone church. We found it locked, apparently long-abandoned. Peering through the window we could make out a picture of the Virgin and Child and a couple of dusty chairs. It had to be two hundred years old at least. Some places ask more questions than they answer.

Day three was given over to the fort, which rewarded three hours of exploration through ramparts, tunnels, and caves. The following morning, we loaded the car and set off toward Berat relaxed and happy. It wouldn’t stay that way.

Somewhere Between Gjirokastër and Berat

We had left Gjirokastër at ten in the morning in good spirits, with a few hours set aside to visit Berat — another UNESCO site — before the long drive north to Tirana and our flight to Budapest. The strawberry stands along the roadside were too good to pass up, and we pulled over to buy a box from one of the many farmers selling along the route. It felt like a perfect Albanian moment. It was the last uncomplicated one we would have for some time.

We were back on the road, strawberries on the seat beside us, when a grey Mercedes appeared in our mirrors. In Albania, overtaking often works by a kind of unspoken agreement — one car eases onto the paved shoulder, the other sweeps past. This driver had a different approach. He came up aggressively, pulled out, and clipped our rear driver’s side as he passed. I signalled immediately to pull over. So did he — and then he didn’t. He slowed, seemed to consider the situation, and accelerated away. I followed, long enough to get a screenshot of the licence plate and our GPS location, before he reached a larger road and was gone.

We pulled over and assessed the damage. The rear tyre was deflating, the bodywork was hit, but the car could still be driven, only on a replacement tire.

Then the attempts to get help began.

The Kindness of Strangers

The police, when we finally got through, hung up when we asked if they spoke English. Then an elderly man cycling along the highway stopped, surveyed the situation with quiet concern. Despite his not speaking English, we managed via Google Translate, to explain what happened. He said he was heading into the nearby town of Levan, where there was a tire shop. He would send someone. Then he got back on his bicycle and pedalled away.

Shortly after, a taxi pulled up. The passenger climbed out, spoke some English, listened to our story, and called the police on our behalf. The police, he told us, were on their way. Then the taxi left. The tyre shop employee arrived next, he also spoke no English. Diagnosing the problem he quoted 10,000 Lekë — around €100 — cash only. Google Translate mediated the entire transaction.

Being told how to write out my statement. The police were nice, but they have a format.

The police arrived with their supervisor in tow. Enterprise was called. A great deal of conversation then took place in Albanian, the substance of which we could only guess at. When asked to give a formal statement, I agreed readily. What followed was not what I expected: They wrote it in English on their phone in the format they wanted. Then they made me write it out in English. Then copy it out again — in Albanian. I signed a document in a language I cannot read, on the strength of Google Translate. I have chosen not to dwell on this too much.

Options, None Of Which Were Good.

Enterprise offered a tow truck from Tirana: €150, four to five hours away. Or a replacement car: same wait, plus three more hours to the airport. Either option meant missing our flight to Budapest. We called the tyre man back and had him fit the new tyre. Enterprise had advised against this — mismatched tyres, they warned, meant we’d be liable for a full set of four. We weighed that against spending the night in Albania involuntarily, and made our decision.

As a parting gesture, the police issued me a ticket — roughly €50 — for leaving the scene of the accident. The fact that I had been following the car that hit us was not, in their view, a mitigating factor. In Albania, you stop, and everything stops with you until the police arrive. I paid it.

Berat – We Missed Most Of It

We made it to Berat, walked the city of a thousand windows in something of a daze, then drove to Tirana and returned the car. Enterprise noted the damaged tire, inspected the vehicle, and presented a bill for €1,130 — covering bodywork damage that, in several cases, we were quite certain had been there when we collected it. There was little we could do. When we were told that declining to pay would prevent us from leaving the country, we paid.

We made our flight to Budapest.

Albania Is Lovely, We Hope To Return

For all of it — the chaos, the paperwork in a language we couldn’t read, the bill we couldn’t contest — we came away with two things we wouldn’t trade. Neither of us was hurt. And Albania, despite the accident at the end, had struck a chord with us. We hope to go back one day.

Our quote – given all we went through on our last day in Albania, we reflect on the saying…“Everything will be alright in the end and if it’s not alright, it’s not the end.”

Thanks for reading

Feel free to reach out via the link above or leave a comment

Cam and Meg

England

Birmingham · Liverpool · Manchester · Wetherby · York

We arrived in Birmingham after our Spanish cruise and delayed arrival. It had been a long day so we took it easy and really did not do much that first evening. The next morning, we saw Birmingham’s waterways unfolded before us with a quietness we hadn’t expected from England’s second city.

Birmingham’s Canals

A Historical Canal Marker – Bringing History to Life

The morning was still, allowing us to see the canals mirror the ironwork bridges and redbrick warehouses above them. Each reflection trembling only slightly at the passage of a mallard or a slow-drifting leaf. We walked the towpaths reading the cast markers that named each bridge and stretch of water, small monuments to an infrastructure that once powered the Empire.

It was a volunteer historian who brought it all alive for us. A man of genuine enthusiasm and salt-and-pepper knowledge. He actually lives aboard a canal boat — which lent his words a particular authority. He walked us through one of the Industrial Revolution’s great secrets. Birmingham didn’t merely use these canals, it weaponized them. Threading iron and coal and ambition through two hundred miles of engineered water to fuel the workshop of the world.

The Hawthorns: West Bromwich Albion vs. Millwall

We came to The Hawthorns the way proper football supporters do, by public transit. Weaving through the Friday evening streets of the West Midlands with scarves and anticipation. Before the gates opened, we found ourselves drawn into a tailgate gathering outside. The smell of charcoal and grilled meat cutting through the cool spring air. A burger in hand, surrounded by Baggies faithful in their navy and white stripes, felt like the right way to begin.

Inside the ground, we discovered something we hadn’t quite expected from a Championship football stadium: a genuine community gathering. We settled at a picnic table in the concourse, apple ciders in hand, and fell into easy conversation with locals who wore their club with the unselfconscious loyalty of people for whom West Brom is simply part of who they are. There was warmth in the banter, and a generosity toward two obvious outsiders who had turned up for the love of the game.

From Our Seats to the Match – Expectations Exceeded!

Five rows off the pitch – you could clearly hear the thunder of cleats and the sound of the ball being put into play.

Our seats were extraordinary — five rows off the pitch, positioned between the offside box and the centreline. At that proximity, football becomes something different altogether. You hear the crunch of tackles, the shouts of instruction, the collective exhale when a chance goes wide. The match itself was electric. Both sides probing and pressing with genuine intent, Millwall defending with the gritty organization that has always defined them. West Brom creating just enough danger to keep the home crowd on edge. In the end, the scoreline remained goalless. Both sides claimed a clean sheet. The contest felt far richer than any scoreboard could suggest.

What awaited us afterward was unexpected. At the train station, police had formed a careful choreography. Millwall supporters corralled on one side; West Brom fans on the other. Each faction loaded onto alternating trains to prevent the evening from curdling into something uglier. It was a reminder that beneath the camaraderie of the beautiful game, old rivalries still carry an edge. A reminder English football, even in its lower tiers, takes no chances with that.

Birmingham: History and Theatre

The day after the match, Birmingham revealed a quieter, more contemplative face. We wandered through the city’s historical heart, tracing the civic ambition of a place that had once declared itself the workshop of the world. Grand Victorian architecture sitting comfortably alongside modern redevelopment, each layer of the city telling a different chapter of the same restless story.

The evening brought an unexpected delight. Spotting a flyer for Death on the Nile at the Alexandra Theatre, we made a spontaneous decision that proved inspired. It was, as it turned out, the production’s final night. From our lower balcony seats, the drama unfolded with all of Agatha Christie’s delicious intrigue intact. Poirot and the cast commanding the stage with evident relish. A perfect last act to our Birmingham days.

Liverpool

Paddington Bear, with a marmalade sandwich!

Liverpool announces itself with the kind of confidence that only cities shaped by genuine history can muster. We began at the Albert Dock, that great curve of restored Victorian warehouses along the Mersey waterfront. Our self-guided walk set the rhythm of the day. The waterfront rewarded unhurried wandering. Spotting the Fab Four, immortalized in bronze. Four familiar silhouettes caught mid-stride against the grey river light. Later, rather unexpectedly, we found Paddington Bear, marmalade sandwich in hand and every bit as endearing in statue form as in print.

A Journey to the Early Beatles

Our second day brought a private guide, and with her came the Liverpool that guidebooks rarely reach. For two and a half hours she walked us through the city’s layered story. The maritime wealth, the immigration waves, the music, the football. The particular pride of a place that has never quite seen itself as simply another English city. It was the kind of insider knowledge that reframes everything you thought you already knew. We left the tour considerably more enlightened for it.

Penny Lane in the pouring rain. It seems like it was scripted!

That afternoon we made the pilgrimage to Penny Lane. It would be too neat to say we planned what happened next. As we turned onto that famous street the sky obliged with a steady, committed Liverpool rain. The barbershop was there. The shelter in the middle of the roundabout. And there we were, walking up and down in the drizzle, thoroughly soaked — or rather, one of us was. Meg had the good sense to come prepared. I did not own a mac, and since this was not my home or business, I could not rush in anywhere from the pouring rain. Apparently this struck Meg as not merely impractical but faintly baffling. She was right on both counts.

From Penny Lane we made our way to Strawberry Field. The famous red gates overlooking the grounds where a young John Lennon once played as a child. It was a dreamlike landscape that would eventually become one of rock and roll’s most beloved songs. Standing there quietly in the aftermath of the rain, it was easy to understand why the place never left him.

Manchester

The train delivered us into Manchester with the efficient abruptness that rail travel does best. Within minutes we had found our way to Mackie Mayor, the city’s beloved Victorian market hall repurposed into a cathedral of food and drink. We settled in with something adult and restorative, watching the city introduce itself at its own pace — animated, unpretentious, and quietly proud.

The rest of that first day was given over to simply absorbing the place. Manchester wears its industrial past visibly, in the bones of its architecture and the width of its streets, built for the movement of goods and people on a scale that once made this city the engine of a global economy.

Learning the Difficult History

The following morning brought a group walking tour, led by a guide who proved equally at ease with medieval history and contemporary social fault lines. Manchester, we learned, is a city in honest conversation with itself. It grapples openly with questions of inequality, identity, and regeneration that many cities prefer to leave unexamined. It was a refreshing and occasionally uncomfortable portrait.

Vimto – a delicious drink invented in Manchester. We tried it and loved it!

That afternoon, the Science and Industry Museum delivered the Industrial Revolution in full and unsparing detail. The story of the cotton mills is one of almost incomprehensible human cost. Workers, including children as young as five, enduring conditions that the museum presents without softening or euphemism. The noise, the heat, the hours, the toll on small bodies: Manchester does not look away from any of it.

Nor does it flinch from a more troubling thread. Britain abolished slavery decades before the United States, yet Manchester’s merchants continued purchasing cotton harvested by enslaved Americans. Their mills humming with the profits of bondage by proxy. The museum names this plainly and without apology. At its height, we were told by an interpreter, Manchester produced roughly eighty percent of the world’s textile goods. A staggering figure that reframes the entire city you’ve been walking through, casting its grand Victorian facades in a considerably more complicated light. It is precisely this willingness to look honestly at its own history that makes Manchester one of England’s most compelling cities to visit.

Wetherby and the Yorkshire Countryside

We collected a rental car and pointed it north into Yorkshire. Doing so, we traded the urban cadence of Manchester for something older and quieter. Wetherby announced itself without fanfare. A medieval market town that has been holding its weekly market for five centuries, and sees no particular reason to make a fuss about it. We wandered the stalls and cobbled streets as people have always wandered them. Unhurried and attentive, and felt the particular pleasure of a place that has not been polished for tourism.

At the end of our wandering, we ducked into the Red Lion Inn, and the Red Lion rewarded us handsomely. A proper working-class pub of the old school — warm, unpretentious, presided over by a barkeep of genuine friendliness. It is exactly the kind of place that reminds you why English pub culture, at its best, is worth travelling for. We sampled the wares and felt entirely at home.

The Moors

The following day took us up onto the North York Moors, where the landscape opened into something vast and melancholy and beautiful. The clouds were low and heavy, but rather than diminishing the famous view they seemed to deepen it — lending the moors a brooding quality that felt wholly appropriate. We captured the white horse cut into the hillside, half-swallowed by mist, and agreed that the grey skies had given us something a sunny day never could.

A Historical Abbey – Completely Abandoned, Except for Us

Byland Abbey – no one there except us and memories of Monks from almost 1,000 years ago.

Then we found Byland Abbey. It was built in the twelfth century under the Benedictine rule and surrendered — like all the others — to Henry VIII’s particular brand of theological acquisitiveness. Today, it stands in magnificent ruin across an open field. What made it extraordinary was the solitude: we were the only visitors. A volunteer host showed us how to read the mason’s marks cut directly into the stonework. The quiet signatures of the men who built this place eight hundred years ago and never expected anyone to look for them. The interpretive signs throughout the grounds painted a vivid picture of monastic life. Standing with one hand against those ancient walls in the grey quiet afternoon, it was possible to feel, without any effort of imagination, the weight of the generations who had prayed here.

That evening we walked Wetherby’s bridge at sunset. As we did so, the River Wharfe was catching the last of the light below us — a moment of stillness after a day spent among ruins.

From the Moors to the Dales

Yorkshire Dales the next morning brought us to Bolton Abbey, substantially larger than Byland and considerably less deteriorated. It was handsome and well-tended, and we appreciated it as it deserved. And yet… perhaps it was the crowds, or the manicured grounds, or simply the memory of standing alone at Byland with the wind and the mason’s marks — but Bolton Abbey, for all its grandeur, could not quite compete.

Where the Magna Carta was Written

Our final Yorkshire excursion took us to Spofforth Castle, where history of the most consequential kind is said to have unfolded. It is here that rebel barons, among them Richard de Percy, are believed to have gathered in 1215 to draft the terms of what would become the Magna Carta — the document that would reshape the relationship between crown and subject across the centuries. The castle is abandoned now, open to the public without charge, its stones warm and accessible in a way that great history rarely is. We touched those walls too.

We ended the day as the English do it best: a traditional Sunday roast at a local pub. Enormous portions, honest prices, and the deep satisfaction of a meal that asks nothing of you except appetite.

York

We left Wetherby and pointed the car north, making a worthy detour through Ripon first. The cathedral there is a quiet marvel — and inside, the Ripon Jewel and a chalice dating to the 1500s stopped us in our tracks. Small objects carrying an almost unreasonable weight of history. Continuing on, we pulled over at Hetchell Woods for a stretch of the legs, following woodland trails until we reached a river crossing made entirely of stepping stones. The challenge was accepted, the crossing was made, dignity more or less intact.

York received us with the easy confidence of a city that knows exactly what it is. We marked the occasion with the obligatory photograph at the York sign, then found our way to a historical pub overlooking the Shambles. That impossibly preserved medieval street of overhanging timber facades and overrun by Harry Potter fans. We settled in with a well-earned pint watching the world go by.

Paddington Appears (Again!)

Paddington in York – he keeps showing up. I think he has a crush on Meg 😉

The following day brought a guided walk that filled in the city’s extraordinary layering — Roman, Viking, Norman, medieval, all of it stacked and interwoven beneath your feet. Paddington Bear made another appearance, as he seemingly does everywhere on this journey, and we obliged him with a photograph. But it is the Minster that commands everything. Massive and imposing in a way that photographs simply cannot prepare you for, it rises above the rooftops of York like a medieval argument for the existence of something greater than ourselves.

That evening gifted us something entirely unplanned. The bells of the Minster began to ring, and the bell choir rose beneath them. The sound carried through the entire town — across the cobblestones and through the narrow lanes and over the ancient walls. Standing outside the imposing building made the centuries feel briefly, beautifully thin. As the bells faded, we walked the ramparts in the lingering light, looking down upon rooftops and spires and streets that have witnessed hundreds of years of unbroken human life below.

The ghost walk, alas, was cancelled at the last minute — the guide unavailable, the spirits uninterviewed. No matter. York wears its haunted reputation in every shadowed alleyway and crooked medieval lane (known as snikleways), and no formal tour was needed to feel it. We left with the distinct sense that York’s ghosts are perfectly capable of introducing themselves.

Thanks for reading

Feel free to reach out via the link above or leave a comment

Cam and Meg

An Iberian Peninsula cruise part II

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This article was written by Cam with help from Meg and Claude AI. All photos are ours.

A previous post covers Part I of this cruise, the departure and visits to Seville, Cadiz, Gibraltar and Malaga.

Overnight, the ship sailed from Malaga to Cartagena. This is one of the things we love about cruising. You go to bed and wake up in a new port. Explore all day, then come back, rest a bit and eat dinner. There are shows and performances in the evening as the ship departs. Then off to bed. Rinse and repeat. No days spent travelling from A to B. It works for us, your milage may vary.

Off to Cartagena Spain

There are Roman ruins and then there are Roman ruins. Cartagena belongs firmly in the second category. The kind that stops you mid-step and recalibrates your sense of what old actually means. The Roman theatre, built in the first century BC and capable of seating thousands, is dramatic in the way that only genuinely intact things can be. This is not a field of suggestive rubble requiring interpretive signage and a generous imagination. The semicircle of stone seating rises in tiers as it always did, the stage area below it still readable as a stage. The whole structure sitting in the middle of a modern Spanish city with the quiet authority of something that has simply outlasted every argument for its removal.

The Roman Theatre of Cartagena has been speaking for over two thousand years. Long before today’s city and skyline even existed.

We moved through it slowly, the way you do when a place earns that kind of attention. I found myself thinking of all the Roman remains I have encountered across my travels, these ranked among the finest. Not merely for their age, but for the completeness with which they communicate the life that once filled them.

It’s About the Food…Always

Back on the ship that evening, we skipped the dining room for the buffet. Not any buffet, an Indian buffet. We were told the kitchen approached this meal with seriousness. That was evident. The spices were present in the way they should be — not gesturing toward authenticity but delivering it. The kind of depth of flavour that takes time and knowledge and must be done by the right hands. It brought back the subcontinent directly and without apology, the aromas alone enough to transport back. There is a particular pleasure in finding food that does not hedge. Food that commits fully to what it is trying to be. This was that. After a day spent among the achievements of one ancient civilisation, it was deeply satisfying to sit down to the cuisine of another. It was a wonderful meal.

Alicante

Castillo (Castle) de Santa Bárbara sits high above Alicante on a bare rocky outcrop, and it earns its position. The views from the defensive battlements take in the whole curve of the bay. The white city below, and the Mediterranean stretching away to the horizon. It is a fortress that has seen Carthaginians, Romans, Moors, and Spaniards. That is a lot of generations, empires, dynasties and more. It wears its long history with the blunt indifference of stone that has simply endured. We were glad to have visited. But the castle, if we are being honest, was merely the opening act of our day.

Azamara’s White Night – A True Show Stopper

Azamara makes no secret of its White Night party. It is spoken of aboard ship with the particular reverence that travellers reserve for experiences they have heard about but not yet had. A promised evening that risks, as all promised evenings do, the possibility of falling short. It did not fall short. We dressed in white, as everyone else had, and stepping out onto the deck that evening it was immediately clear that the ship had transformed itself. The guests had risen to the occasion collectively and the effect was genuinely glamorous — hundreds of people in white against the warm Mediterranean night, the ship lit and festive, the sense that something worth remembering was about to unfold.

All white and all in – Azamara’s White Night party did not disappoint.

The dinner that preceded the party was, without qualification, among the finest buffets either of us has encountered at sea or on land. To call it abundant feels inadequate. Lobster, tempura shrimp, sashimi, lamb — the table seemed to extend in every direction, each turn revealing something else that had no business being as good as it was. But it was the crêpes Suzette that settled the matter. Prepared properly, finished in flame, the caramelised orange and butter sauce doing exactly what it should — they were the best I have ever eaten. Not the best on a ship. The best, full stop. The sheer variety and generosity of the evening defied any single attempt to summarise it; it was the kind of meal you keep returning to in conversation for days afterward, each of you remembering something the other had forgotten. Then the pool deck opened, and the real party began.

Dinner Was Only A Warm Up

There is a particular joy in line dancing. We attended a class prior to the party, to learn the moves the dance team would do. Joining in, we felt as if we were part of the dance troop, our timing matching theirs. At least I think it did, the free-flowing wine may have clouded my judgement. We limbo’d. We danced. The band played on and we stayed with them, the warm night air and the residual glow of the finest meal of the voyage conspiring to make leaving unthinkable. When the band finally packed up their instruments, it felt less like an ending than a natural pause — the kind that comes after an evening has given everything it had. Azamara builds its White Night reputation carefully and guards it seriously. Having now been to one, I understand completely why. Some things, it turns out, are as good as advertised.

València

València rewards the visitor who is willing to slow down, and we were in the right mood for it after our White Night. The cathedral anchored the morning — ancient, layered, and self-possessed in the way of churches that have been absorbing the city’s history for nearly eight centuries. From there we found the Llotja de la Seda, the old silk exchange, where a courtyard of orange trees sat in orderly, fragrant rows, the fruit still hanging heavy on the branches. It was the kind of incidental beauty that a city like València seems to produce without effort, tucked behind an unassuming doorway and entirely unconcerned with whether you noticed it or not.

An Exceptional Market

But the Mercado Central was where the day found its true character. Centred on food, it is one of the largest covered markets in Europe. Operating with the unhurried confidence of a place that serves its neighbourhood first and its visitors second. That instinct is precisely what makes it worth the visit. Locals moved through the stalls with the ease of long habit — selecting, chatting, tasting — and we moved among them happily, grazing on whatever presented itself, the market revealing itself as a place of genuine daily life rather than curated spectacle.

Sometimes a perfect lunch is an unplanned lunch

We bought lunch before we left. An Iberian ham sandwich on bread so fresh it was practically still warm — the crust crackling at the first pressure, the inside soft enough to dissolve. We took it outside and ate on a park bench in the sunshine, in front of the market, watching València go about its afternoon. It was, by any objective measure, a simple meal. It was also, in the way that simple meals occasionally are when everything aligns — the bread, the ham, the sunshine, the unhurried moment — completely perfect.

Barcelona — Our Amended Departure

That evening, we set sail for Barcelona, our arrival time was scheduled for 6:00 AM. Putting our luggage out before retiring, we confidently knew we would arrive on time. We have on every other cruise.

Two months before the cruise started, an email arrived from the Ryanair with the particular cheerful neutrality that carriers deploy when delivering unwelcome news. Our flight from Barcelona to Birmingham, originally scheduled to depart at 11:30 AM, had been moved to 3:30 PM. Four hours had been added to our final day. Four hours we had not asked for and did not especially want. Now to be spent wandering aimlessly through a city we were not prepared to properly visit. We were, not unreasonably, annoyed. The fare was nonrefundable, the alternative was changing dates entirely, and so we absorbed the inconvenience with the resigned pragmatism of experienced travellers who know that the airline always wins. We noted it, filed our irritation away, and got on with the cruise.

The morning of disembarkation was to have begun at 6AM, the ship scheduled to arrive in Barcelona at dawn. It did not arrive at dawn. Somewhere in the approaches to the harbour, the fog had settled in with the kind of dense, unhurried authority that cares nothing for departure schedules or carefully arranged logistics. At 7 AM I went on deck to see the harbour. However, Barcelona was nowhere to be seen.

Whatever Shall We Do?

There was only the grey-white stillness of a harbour closed to traffic, the water barely visible below, the city entirely erased. It was eerie in the way that fog at sea always is — the world reduced to the ship itself, everything beyond its railings simply absent. The captain’s voice came over the intercom just after seven, calm and measured, to inform us that the port remained closed and that we were sitting second in the queue. Then again at half past seven. Then eight. The announcements arrived every thirty minutes with the steady rhythm of a slow drumbeat, each one a minor variation on the same theme: we are waiting, the port is closed, we will update you shortly. The ship held its position and we held ours. Those with early morning departures were simply out of luck.

Heading to Port

At half past eight the tone shifted. The port had opened. The captain’s announcement carried something that stopped just short of audible relief, and the ship began to move. Barcelona materialised gradually through the thinning fog — the cranes first, then the waterfront, then the city stacking itself up behind, emerging from the white as though being assembled in real time. We docked at seven minutes past nine, but docking, as any cruiser knows, is merely the beginning of the bureaucratic final chapter. No one was permitted ashore until quarter past ten. Our luggage, checked the night before, needed to find its way from ship to shore. By the time we walked down the gangway it was eleven o’clock in the morning.

Under the original flight plan, we would have missed it by a margin too tight to contemplate. Under the revised one — the revised one we had complained about, the one that had felt like an imposition — we had time. Not time to explore Barcelona, not time to sit at a café or walk the Ramblas or do any of the things the city deserved. But time enough to take the metro to the airport without panic. To check in without the cold sweat of a departures board already flashing our gate. Time enough to board our flight to Birmingham in something approaching composure.

It Worked Out In The End

The airline, in rescheduling our flight for reasons entirely unrelated to our welfare, had accidentally done us an enormous favour. It is the kind of irony that travel occasionally produces — the frustration that becomes, in retrospect, the thing that saved the day. We settled into our seats as the plane lifted away from Barcelona, the fog long since burned off, the city glittering below us in the late afternoon sun, and I thought about the email two months earlier and the irritation it had caused, and found that I had nothing left to say about it except thank you.

As we left, reflecting on our cruise, we both agreed, we were very impressed with Azamara cruise lines. It is not a question of if we will sail with them again, but when. When we book a big trip, each leg is booked as part of a plan that will allow us to learn more. Learn about ourselves, our world, our neighbours, cultures, history and of course, food. As long as Azamara cruises has a cruise in an area where we hope to be, we’ll be onboard for another adventure.

Thanks for reading

Feel free to reach out via the link above or leave a comment

Cam and Meg

An Iberian Peninsula cruise

Starting Our Cruise

Leaving Lisbon and sailing down the Tagus River, past the Tower of Belém. We said farewell to Portugal and headed down the Iberian coast towards Spain. The next afternoon, we entered the Guadalquivir River, passing through locks, eventually docking in downtown Seville. Our ship, the Azamara Journey, is a smaller vessel, with only 690 guests. This size allows the vessel to visit ports that the larger size cruise ships simply cannot get into. We were very glad to be where no other cruise ship could be.

Arriving in Seville the Pearl of Andalusia

Meg in an alcove at sunset — Meg in the Balearic alcove — the tiles were glowing, the light was golden, and neither of us was in any hurry to leave.

It was half past seven on the last evening of March and the day was winding down towards night. We stepped into Plaza de España and were lucky enough to see the last of the sun hitting the towers turning everything it touched to beautiful colours of copper and rust. The towers rose above us as the sun withdrew behind them, the long shadows stretching across the curved colonnade and the ceramic-tiled alcoves that lined the plaza’s embrace. Meg hopped into an alcove and there was a theatrical quality to it.

That night, Seville revealed something else entirely. As we moved into the old city towards the Cathedral, we actually heard it before we saw it. Drums and horns sounded an ongoing beat with chanting also filling the air. Hundreds if not thousands of hooded pilgrims carrying crosses and candles. Their faces obscured, their flames casting long shadows across Seville’s ancient facades. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of people lined the narrow streets and squares. The procession belonged to another century.

Walking Amongst the Procession – A Step Back in Time

It felt like we had walked into the Middle Ages—hooded figures, candlelight, chanting, and the heavy scent of incense filling the streets of Seville.

Figures in white robes moved slowly through the candlelight. At the head of it all, a great float bore Christ carrying the cross, shoulders bent under its weight. The crowd was silent in the way crowds rarely are — and stilled, as though the city itself had drawn a long, slow breath. We stood among strangers and felt, briefly, like witnesses to something that did not belong to us but had generously admitted us anyway. On the ship, many people had spoken of wanting to witness one of these processions. Having seen it, we now understood why.

Our second day in Seville was given over to wandering, which is the only honest way to move through a city like this. We found the Torre del Oro at the river’s edge in the morning sun. Golden in name and golden in the morning haze. We then turned toward the cathedral — the largest Gothic church in the world, though statistics feel inadequate inside it. We climbed the Giralda, a minaret-turned-bell-tower. The ramps worn smooth by centuries of up and down travel. From the top the view of the city showed colours of the earth. Terracotta and white spreading in every direction.

Inside the cathedral, the organ commanded the space — more than ten thousand pipes. Even silent in the choir loft, it had a presence, a kind of latent authority.

Visiting Historic Bakeries

The Bakery Turnstile – You Never see the Nun’s, nor do they see you. It’s been that way for centuries (except the credit card machine!)

Leaving the cathedral, and wandering the narrow alleyways allowed us the most unique moment of our visit here. We found a small bakery run by nuns. We followed a Spanish couple through an innocuous door, which had a small multi-lingual sign saying ‘sweet shop’. The courtyard inside had a little counter with a wooden turnstile. Beside it, a price list for baked goods. The bakery is run by cloistered nuns. Customers never see their faces – and vice versa. Clients knock with the knocker and order by yelling. The nuns place the order on the turnstile, the client verifies and then the nun provides a credit card machine on the turntable which you tap. A very modern touch to a very olden shopping experience.

A Mid-Afternoon Pause

By afternoon our travels had taken us across the river to Triana. This neighbourhood is also where many ceramic tile ‘factories’ are situated. We were able to watch an artist meticulously painting trivets. She was very intensely focused despite the hubbub around her.

Although the Triana market was closed, the open-air cafés were welcoming. We ordered drinks and did nothing more than watch Seville go about its business. As we did so, golden hour carried out its slow work on the water. After a long day, that felt like exactly enough.

The Real Alcázar – A Historic Palace

Meg framed by the arches at the Real Alcázar, with the still water below catching just enough light to double the moment.

On our final morning, we were at the Real Alcázar at the moment the gates opened. The reward was the kind that patient travellers are occasionally granted: quiet. The reflecting pool held just the two of us in its stillness, the palace’s intricate facade doubled in the water below. Later, the gardens unfolded like a series of secrets — jasmine-scented corridors, hidden fountains, ordered geometry giving way to lush abundance. By afternoon, the city had turned its attention to the sacred. Well-dressed families moved through the crooked alleys toward church services with a purposefulness that reminded us we were passing through, pleasantly unmoored, while Seville observed its own ancient rhythms around us.

Off to Cadiz.

There is a lightness to Cádiz that Seville, for all its grandeur, does not possess. Where Seville draws you inward with shadowed courtyards, candlelit processions and the gravity of centuries — Cádiz opens outward: toward the Atlantic, toward the sky. It is one of the oldest cities in Western Europe. While it has miles of beaches, and hotels, historically, the town guarded the harbour entrance. Several forts can still be found around its coast.

The buildings are bleached, salt-scrubbed and cheerful. The white facades bright in the morning sun. We began at Torre Tarvia, the tallest building in the old town. It has a camera obscura, essentially a periscope – a tube with a mirror and lenses – which projects a live image of the city projected onto a circular table in miniature. Rooftops, streets, and neighbours seen hanging laundry, watering plants and anything else that they do on their rooftop terraces. The surrounding sea rendered in silence, like a living map of a place that had long since stopped being in any hurry.

Nothing has Changed for Centuries

Wandering the old town, we were rewarded in the way that only truly ancient places can reward you. You could tell, moving through its narrow streets, that very little had fundamentally changed here over time. The stones underfoot, the low doorways and the small plazas opening unexpectedly off crooked alleys must have looked more or less like this for longer than most cities have existed. It was not a museum stillness, though. Locals moved through it with the casual ownership of people who have never needed to be impressed by where they live. We moved among them happily, unhurried, letting the streets decide our direction.

In the afternoon we found the beach, and the city fell away behind us. The sun was warm as we walked the long curve of sand. The Atlantic stretching wide and blue to the west. After the incense and the candlelight of Holy Week Seville, there was something deeply restorative about the clean air and open horizon. We both find the steady sound of the surf and the simple pleasure of walking with our feet in the cool sea with no particular destination to be relaxing. I think everyone does.

Gibraltar – England’s Hold on the Med

Once the ship had arrived, we went ashore and found a city bus to take us to the Rock of Gibraltar. The bus climbed the switchbacks, and, as the town got smaller, we saw the sea pressing in on both sides. From up on the Rock, you have a great view. To the north, the Spanish coastline curving away toward Algeciras; to the south, Africa. Not the idea of Africa, but the actual continent, close enough to feel like a short swim rather than another world.

The Strait of Gibraltar is only 14 kilometres at its narrowest. Standing at the top of the Rock, with the Mediterranean on one side and the Atlantic beginning on the other, you understand instinctively why this small, improbable place has been fought over for so long. It is not merely a piece of land. It is the hinge between oceans, continents and civilisations.

We needed to climb the last bit and it was an uphill climb. Inside, the tunnels begin to explain themselves slowly. As you enter, rock closes around you, and what reveals itself over the course of several hours is not a single feat of engineering but a composition. Excavations carried out across different wars and different centuries, each generation of defenders burrowed deeper and extended further. Their goal, to find new ways to make the mountain serve the purposes of survival.

Canadian Contributions to the Tunnels (and Victory)

The earliest galleries date to the Great Siege of the 1780s, hand-drilled by British soldiers into limestone. But it was the Canadian contribution during the Second World War that made us proud. Working under conditions that were by any measure extraordinary. There was the constant noise, the dust, the darkness, the urgency of a war, whose outcome in 1942, remained genuinely uncertain. Yet, Canadian engineers still helped carve out a vast network of tunnels sufficient to house and supply an entire garrison.

From inside the Rock of Gibraltar — Africa on the horizon, the Mediterranean below, and the Crown firmly in possession.

What lingers, walking back out into the sunshine, is the cumulative weight of the place. Gibraltar is only six and a half square kilometres, and yet it contains so much history: Moorish fortifications, British colonial architecture, a population that is neither fully Spanish nor straightforwardly English. Beneath the surface of the Rock itself, this extraordinary hidden city of tunnels that most visitors never fully reckon with.

Once we finished with the Rock, we found our way to the most southerly point in Europe. Our impression is simply that it is windy. Our captain had been pleasantly surprised at the lack of wind when we docked; I had trouble standing against it at Europa Lighthouse. Apparently, it is often worse.

Málaga

Easter Sunday arrives differently in Málaga than it does in Seville. Where Seville’s Holy Week processions carry the full weight of penitence and solemnity, Málaga on Easter morning had shaken something loose — there was joy in it. A brightness that matched the day itself. The procession that stopped traffic was less a funeral march and more of a celebration, the crowds lining the streets in good spirits, children on shoulders, the floats moving through the city with a kind of triumphant ease. We stood among the throng and let it wash over us before the cathedral doors drew me in.

The Málaga Cathedral is a magnificent and slightly unfinished thing — it has been missing its second tower since the eighteenth century, the funds for its completion having been redirected to the American Revolution, of all places. Inside, the Easter Sunday mass was in full voice, the Spanish rolling through the vaulted space with great confidence and zero concession to the uninitiated. I lasted approximately thirty minutes, following none of it, before slipping quietly out into the sunshine with what I can only describe as the mild sheepishness of a student leaving an exam early. The cathedral deserved better attention than I was equipped to give it that morning.

The afternoon redeemed everything. I climbed the hill above the city, and the path gave way to wildflowers — great drifts of colour along the hillside, vivid against the dry scrub and the pale stone. Below and beyond, the Mediterranean stretched out in every direction, flat and luminous and endless under the Easter sun. After the tunnels of Gibraltar, the solemnity of Seville, the ancient stones of Cádiz, there was something quietly perfect about sitting on a hillside among wildflowers, with nothing between us and Africa but open water and light.

End of Part I of our Iberian Cruise

For now, we thank you for reading the first part of our Iberian cruise. It has been a blast. Our cruise will carry on to Cartagena, Alicante, White Night, Valencia and finally Barcelona. Stay tuned.

Feel free to reach out via the link above or leave a comment

Cam and Meg

We are off! Portugal here we come!

As so many of our trips start, we headed out on a BC Ferry, taking the ‘Spirit of Vancouver Island’ from Schwartz Bay to Tsawwassen. We then spent a couple of days catching up with my mom followed by one night at the River Rock Hotel in Richmond. Being right on the Skytrain line, it was a five-minute train ride to the airport. Check-in was simple and we headed to the lounge for a light breakfast before boarding our flight. Although we left Vancouver a bit late, we arrived in Montreal earlier than scheduled. There were some pretty strong tailwinds. While the flight itself was smooth, we received a distressing email while in the air.

There are two types of luggage – Carry on and Lost

Air Canada’s bag tracking app sent a message to Meg mid-flight, while we were in the air, over Manitoba. The email advised that her bag had just been offloaded in Fort St. John, BC. How could that happen? Then, to make the story even more bizarre, another message came in 90-minutes later, just before we landed in Montreal. It said her bag had been off loaded in Montreal. That’s not actually possible, unless it was in an F-18 fighter jet.

Our bags had been checked through from Vancouver to Porto, so we could not actually lay eyes on them in Montreal. Once on the ground we spoke with two different customer service reps. One said she did not have access to the system, you’ll need to find someone else.

Thanks.

The other rep said the app was often wrong, don’t worry about it. He then said “you are here and your tag says your baggage is going to Porto; you’ll be fine”. Re-assuring, those words were not. Meg, ever the optimist, decided it would be fine and, although not re-assured, decided to head to the lounge to have a light snack before the next leg of our flight to Brussels.

Arriving in Europe

Porto’s seemingly chaotic but organized roofline.

We arrived in Brussels on time and, once we cleared European customs, we waited for our next flight. It was then off to Porto. As we flew into Porto, we could see why people fall for this historically charming city. The terracotta rooftops tumble down toward the Douro like something spilled and never cleaned up. While seemingly chaotic, it was also warm, and entirely deliberate in the way only very old cities can manage.

Arriving in Porto, we went to claim our bags. While waiting for the conveyor belt to start, I received an email from Brussels Airlines saying my bag had not been loaded onto the flight. They also said there is nothing to worry about as it would be on the next flight. Unfortunately, the next flight was the following day. As I filled out the lost luggage report, Meg’s bag was one of the first to land on the carousel. What a turn of events. As I’ve said, there are two types of luggage. Mine was the ‘lost’ type.

After we checked in, we started, as one should, on foot, exploring the old town, close to our apartment. It was beautiful and, the warm sunshine only made it nicer. Sunset from the bridge was postcard perfect.

Our Days in Porto

Sunshine streaming down in front of Sé Cathedral, Porto

The next morning, on a walking tour, our guide led us through streets that refuse to be straight. We started at Sé Cathedral, which sits on its hilltop with the quiet authority of something that has watched eight centuries of history and yet has not been moved. The stone is dark and serious, but the azulejo tilework in the cloister catches the morning light and turns the whole place warmer.

On to the waterfront area, the Ribeira, rounded out the morning. The old wine lodges sit low and long across the river in Vila Nova de Gaia. Our guide explained the whole peculiar arrangement — how the port wine was historically floated downriver from the Douro Valley in flat-bottomed boats called rabelos. It is then matured in long warehouses across the water. Porto, she noted with some satisfaction, gets the view. Gaia gets the wine. It seemed an equitable arrangement until you’re standing there in the sun looking across the river and realizing Porto has rather gotten the better end of things. Carrying on into town, we continued to view churches and towers while learning about history, invasions, occupations and coups.

From there we wound down to the São Bento railway station, where the grand entrance hall stopped us cold — twenty thousand hand-painted tiles telling Portugal’s history right there in the train station. This is either the most civilized thing a country has ever done or proof that the Portuguese simply cannot help themselves when it comes to blue and white ceramic. We chose to interpret it as the former.

Exploring Porto’s most famous item

There are actually no Port Houses in Porto, as our guide told us, they are in Villa Nova de Gaia. The reason, so we’ve been told, is twofold. The obvious is taxes. Businesses have always gone where they can make more money. Paying less taxes and dodging tolls, means keeping more money. The other reason, and actually more important, is heat. The afternoon sun bakes Porto, but is gentler on Vila Nova de Gaia. Thus, the aging process is less affected.

When trying to determine which Port House to visit, I reviewed at least 15. Big and small. British and Portuguese. Well-known international houses and local affairs. In the end, I decided to head to one that I knew, at least by their product, which I have sampled more than once.

The afternoon belonged to Graham’s.

The lodge climbs the hillside in a series of terraces, and the tour took us through the whole arc of port production. Varieties, vintages, the slow mathematics of ageing in barrels, blending and more. Our guide spoke about it the way people speak about things they genuinely love, which is to say he occasionally forgot he was giving a tour and simply started talking.

The tasting that followed covered five ports, moving from younger rubies through the older expressions. The room grew progressively warmer as we worked our way along. The LBV — Late Bottled Vintage — was the one that landed cleanest for both of us: structured and rich, with just enough tannin to feel like it means something. The aged tawnies were gentler things, almost meditative, the oak and the years having worked on them until they tasted like a comfortable afternoon in autumn. Mellow vanilla and caramel shone through various tawnies. We drank more than we planned to. Everyone does.

Colonial ties run deep, at least at the dinner table.

Portugal’s deep colonial ties to the province of Goa, in India, left a lasting culinary imprint. Portuguese settlers developed a profound appreciation for the bold, aromatic spices of Indian cuisine. This rich history sparked our curiosity, and we set out to explore authentic local Indian flavors firsthand.

We discovered a charming, family-run Indian restaurant — the kind of place where recipes are passed down through generations and every dish is crafted with genuine care. I ordered a fragrant biriyani, while Meg chose the tandoori chicken paired with freshly baked bread. Both dishes were outstanding, bursting with authentic flavor and prepared with obvious skill and love.

The experience was nothing short of remarkable, and all at a surprisingly affordable price. Truly a hidden gem which made us appreciate Porto even more.

A Day in the Douro Valley

The Douro Valley requires a full day and earns every hour of it. The drive east follows the river as it cuts deeper into the hills, the landscape gradually organizing itself into something extraordinary. By the time you reach wine country proper, the hillsides have been terraced into steep agricultural geometry — row after row of vines stepping up slopes that seem to have no business being farmed at all.

On our visit in early spring, the terraces were just waking up. The vines sending out the first shy growth of the season, the stone walls still grey from winter. It was beautiful the way serious things are beautiful — not immediately, but increasingly, the longer you looked. As we headed up the hills, the greenery became more pronounced, a clear sign that ‘location is the only rule’ does not only apply to real estate but to wineries also!

A River view of the Vines

Terraced vines along the river – centuries of winemaking.

Our river cruise gave the best perspective of all. For an hour we drifted past the Quintas — the estates — each with their own particular arrangement of terraces and manor houses and the odd chapel. The famous names appeared and passed: Quinta do Crasto, Quinta do Vale Meão, others tucked into the hillsides as if trying to avoid the attention. It was peaceful in the way that moving water is always peaceful, which is to say profoundly.

Two tastings followed at separate wineries. Each was distinct in character and approach. Lunch at Quinta do Lodeiro was the sort of meal that makes you reconsider your life. Long tables, local wine poured without ceremony, food that came from nearby and knew it. To wrap things up, the only concluding option was port wine. A 10-year-old tawny. Drinking it made me realize, at least for a few minutes, my problems were first world problems.

What else is in Porto?

The third day was slower, and deliberately so. We headed out to Foz, on the coast, to see the beaches and the Atlantic. The beach there is long and windswept. It feels genuinely at the end of things. Looking east, there is nothing until the America’s. How daunting it would have been for Columbus, Magellan and other explorers back in the day?

Meg reflecting on life as the waves come in

On the beach, we walked for a while and said very little, which is its own kind of conversation. Heading back into town, the Bolhão market followed — covered, lively, smelling of the morning’s fish and the afternoon’s lunch. It is the sort of market that has clearly been doing this for a very long time and intends to keep going, although in a changed way. In reality, it is a bit sad to see fewer and fewer local merchants. They have been pushed out for hawkers selling to tourists. Change is the only constant. Lunch was fresh, haphazard, inexpensive and delicious. I can only imagine what it would have been like 25 years ago.

In the evening, for our last night, we headed out to the old town and simply walked. Up the cobblestones and down them. Through squares where people gathered without apparent reason other than that it was evening and there was nowhere else they needed to be. We found a bar eventually, as one does, and sat with our drinks listening to the street noise and the distant sound of someone playing fado two alleys away.

Our final thoughts on Porto

Porto is one of those cities that doesn’t try particularly hard to charm you. It simply goes about its business — the wine, the tiles, the hills, the river — and trusts that you’ll come around to it. We came around to it by the first afternoon. By the last night, leaving the next morning felt genuinely difficult, which is exactly the right way for this leg of our trip to end.

Our final thoughts on Porto…we hope to come back, but for now, we were off to Sintra.

Sintra

Arriving in Sintra, we made our way into town and wandered through its narrow streets, pausing to admire the extraordinary facade of the Quinta da Regaleira. Without tickets and deterred by the lengthy queues snaking outside, we contented ourselves with taking in its gothic towers and elaborate stonework from the street. It was a tantalising glimpse of the romantic follies and secret tunnels within that left us already planning a return visit.

The decision to stay overnight in Sintra rather than Lisbon proved wise. As the afternoon wore on, we watched the crowds thin dramatically, day-trippers streaming back towards the train station and the city. By evening, the town had settled into a quieter, more authentic rhythm. Finding a place to eat was easy with guests rather than tourists in town. It made the whole place feel suddenly more like itself.

A quiet morning

The reward came the following morning. Rising early, we stepped out to find Sintra almost entirely to ourselves. Cobblestones empty, the air cool and still, the palaces bathed in soft morning light. It felt like a private audience with one of Europe’s most theatrical towns. That magic lasted until nine, when the first visitors began arriving once more.

The palace on a beautiful sunny day – sunglasses required!

We spent our morning at Pena Palace, and it did not disappoint. Perched high above the town on a forested hilltop, the palace is a gloriously extravagant confection — turrets, battlements and domes painted in bold ochres and terracottas. The whole structure looked more like a fever dream than a royal residence. Inside, the state rooms are preserved much as they were left in 1910, offering an intimate window into Portuguese royal life. Outside, we explored the sprawling grounds and dramatic viewpoints opening up across the Serra de Sintra and, all the way to the Atlantic.

Farewell to Portugal

It was a vivid final chapter before descending to Lisbon. We would now say good bye to Portugal and board our waiting cruise ship for a journey to Spain. For us, it is not if we will return to Portugal, but when.

Thanks for reading.

Feel free to leave comments or contact us by the link above.

Cam and Meg

Spring 2026 – we are on the move again.

We are heading out for a grand tour of Europe. This trip will be three months. When we tell people we are travelling for three months, we often get blank stares. Some of the questions we get are:

Q: How can you go for that long?

A: It’s easy. You line up a number of places in a specific region/country you want to see and plan from there.

Q: Is it more expensive?

A: It’s actually cheaper. You only fly out once, so your airfare is amortized over a number of countries/places versus one.

Q: Do you miss home?

A: At times yes, but we are usually so busy exploring, we don’t have time. We miss family. Video calls are great but they can’t replace in person gatherings.

There are obviously a lot more questions we’re asked but you get the idea. If you have any questions about our travel planning, just ask. We would be happy to share our experiences.

The genesis for this trip started a year ago, in March 2025, when we were cruising in the Caribbean Sea on an MSC cruise. Looking at what offerings they had in future cruise sales, we started thinking of a Scandinavian / Baltic cruise. This is one area of the world we have never actually visited, unless you count trips to our local IKEA.

Booking a future cruise – you normally get extras thrown in.

We settled on a 11-day cruise at the end of May/beginning of June. The weather would, hopefully, have turned warmer. Given the high latitude, the days would certainly be long. One thing we really liked about this cruise was that it visited many ‘safe’ countries on the Baltic Sea. It was very port intensive, 9 ports in 11 days. Considering the amount of time we would be in port, we opted for an inside cabin since we really were not going to be on the ship very much, other than to sleep and eat.

During the summer of 2025, I started looking at things we could do before and after the cruise. The highest tourist influx is during the June – August time period. Naturally, that also sees the highest prices. Considering that, I started looking at things to do in that part of the world before the Baltic cruise.

When is West Bromwich playing?

One of the first things I did was check the West Bromwich Albion football schedule. When you are from Canada, Birmingham seems close to Sweden. Armed with the dates the Baggies were playing, I looked more closely at the map of Europe. Then, one of my regular travel providers offered a great deal on a cruise around the Iberian Peninsula. Starting in Lisbon and travelling to numerous Spanish ports as well as Gibraltar, it was marketed as a ‘Holy Week’ cruise. Easter was right in the middle of cruise and Spain is a very Catholic country.

The cruise line was one we had not yet tried but have wanted to, Azamara. The price is a bit more than most mainstream lines but almost everything is included. Crew gratuities, drinks and other things, although not internet. It leaves at the end of March, so at the end of the cruise, we would have two months in Europe before our Baltic cruise. Given West Brom was playing various matches at home during that time, I felt fairly confident I could fill our time with new places and adventures.

Europe is a lot bigger than we think

In Canada, 100 years of history is a long time but 100 miles is not really a long distance. In Europe, 100 years of history is not really a long time but 100 miles is a really long distance. The bookends of our trip were the end of the first cruise in Barcelona, and the start of the second cruise out of Copenhagen, seven weeks later.

Around this time, I noticed a 10-day trip that covered off European capitals. It went from Budapest to Vienna and ended in Prague. That sounded very interesting. The trip started in Canada and included airfare, so it wasn’t an option but it was an idea builder. I looked at travel in the region, both flight and train combinations from various cities. From Barcelona, it made the most sense both price-wise and timing-wise to head to England first. Then we could go to Budapest and start our tour of the European capitals.

England’s history and sites.

Starting in Birmingham, home of the Peaky Blinders, we will explore for a few days and hopefully see West Brom take on Millwall. Then off to Liverpool where the Fab Four started. Manchester is next, the Industrial Revolution figures large here. Our English phase will end in York, likely the most haunted city in England. A Sunday pub roast dinner is on the menu, complete with a Yorkshire Pudding, or a ‘Yorkie’ as the locals call it. Naturally there is also a York ghost walk after sunset.

Plans are living ideas and the only constant is change

I was just about to start booking airfares when I met up with some friends at an ale house. The topic turned to travel and someone mentioned Albania and how wonderful it was. I looked up where it was and what was there. All the reviews were fabulous, although many did say you should have gone there five years ago. I decided to add it into the equation and redid my travel plan. A week in Albania and then visit the capitals. It sounds very civilized.

Then I had another idea. My Mom was born in what is now Poland during WWII. It was occupied and, by birth rite, she is a German citizen. I thought, why not go visit Poland and see what is there and take in some of the history? The town where she was born was cleaned off the map during the destruction of the war, so visiting it was not an option. All of my kin folk have immigrated to Canada after the war. No one is left in the old country other than very distant relatives whom I’ve never interacted with.

I looked at various tours of Poland and settled on a self-guided three-city tour. One area I chose to skip was the concentration camps. I visited Dachau post-university during a European tour. I also visited the Westerbork transit camp in the Netherlands in 2025. That is the place where Anne Frank was boarded on a train to Auschwitz-Birkenau. For me, that is enough for one of history’s darkest moments.

Almost there!

While this was all going on, summer 2025, we were looking for a new home and finalizing our fall trip to the Far-East. Japan, Australia and the Philippines were all calling. Juggling the two trips in my head was becoming a chore and I decided to finalize the agenda, as much as I could, for the spring of 2026.

Another change

About this time, the cruise line we are travelling with for our Baltic cruise, sent an email saying the dates of the cruise had changed. I was literally about to purchase airline tickets from Warsaw to Copenhagen to arrive in time for the start of that cruise. We normally book non-refundable flights and this would have been the case if we had received their email a day later. Instead of starting in Copenhagen, the cruise would start in Warnemünde, a 2 ½ our train ride from Berlin. The cruise was also being shortened by two days and we would receive a prorated discount.

In the end, the change did not work out so badly. We are now able to visit Berlin for a couple of days before the cruise. We also do not need to fly to Copenhagen, but can take a train from Berlin to Warnemünde. Our planned time in Copenhagen before the cruise will now be a few days after the cruise. We will still return to Canada from Copenhagen.

Where and how we will travel

Our trip will start with us leaving home and travelling to Vancouver to spend a few nights with my mom. Then we will fly to Porto, Portugal. We wanted lie-flat pods for the long-haul intercontinental flight so we booked the upgrade. Yes, it was more expensive, but YOLO.

A cruise will take us from Lisbon to Barcelona, where we will board a flight to Birmingham. Numerous trains and a car rental will be how we get around England. We timed our departure from the UK based on when we could get a direct flight to Albania. I have since learned that many people actually fly to Corfu and take the short ferry over to Albania. There are many more flights to Corfu with better times.

When our self-drive trip of Albania comes to an end, we will fly to Hungary and then it is train travel throughout Europe. In total, there will be eight trains, taking us to some of Europe’s grandest capitals. Given the length of time we are on the continent, a Eurail pass would not be cost effective. Our last train ride on this trip will take us from Berlin to Warnemünde. Here we will board another cruise ship, which will take us to Copenhagen.

Returning to Canada

Upon ending the cruise and Copenhagen, we will fly to New Brunswick and spend some time with Callum and Anne who are expecting their first child. Then, some 12 weeks after we left home, we will return to British Columbia. It will be great to get home as the summer weather will be kicking in. Yes, we will have missed some of the familiarity that makes us so comfortable but we will have seen and learned so much. For us travel is not so much a vacation as it is a way to see and explore new things.

Thanks for reading.

Feel free to leave comments or contact us by the link above.

Cam and Meg

OUR 2026 MEXICAN CRUISE

In the fall of 2025, we saw a really good offer for a cruise at the end of January 2026. The cruise is one we had done before, LA to Mexico and back to LA. There are three ports of call: Cabo St Lucas, Mazatlán, Puerto Vallarta. Seeing as we were going to be in Victoria for over three months during the long dark winter, we decided it sounded like a good idea.

Once we booked it, we reached out to a number of friends and family to see if anybody would be interested in joining us. My sister jumped on it and booked the same class of cabin that we had booked. Our cabins were ‘guaranteed balconies with obstructed view’. For the extra price, an unobstructed balcony was simply not worth it, at least in our opinion. The cruise was paid for and time marched on until just a week before the cruise.

Guaranteed cabins… You never know what you will get.

One week before the cruise we still had not been assigned a cabin. We called the cruise line and were told cabins can be assigned at any time up to an including boarding. With that in mind, we just waited. Two days before the cruise was due to depart, we received an email from the cruise line offering us a “downgrade” offer. Normally cruise lines, airlines, car dealers et al are interested in ‘up-selling’ you. It stands to reason if you pay a higher amount, they will make more money.

This time, it appears they ran out of obstructed balconies. Maybe they were out of all types of balconies? A quick check online showed the cruise was sold out. The deal they were offering us was giving up our guaranteed obstructed balcony for an inside cabin. In exchange for this, we would receive a full refund of the fare in the form of refundable travel credits. We could use these travel credits on board the ship during the cruise to purchase things, services and anything else we wanted. Any value that we did not use would be mailed back to us in the form of a cheque. The only thing we still needed to pay for was the port fees and taxes.

How much is a balcony and an ocean view worth?

There is no denying it. A balcony is a lot nicer than an inside cabin. We talked about it for a bit and called my sister who received the same offer. It seemed an easy decision and we both decided to take the cruise line up on their downgrade offer. We were quickly switched over and assigned an inside cabin. Our onboard account now showed refundable travel credits for the full value of our fare. The cruise now cost us less than $200. Whoot whoot.

Travelling to the cruise ship.

We flew from Victoria to Calgary and then to Los Angeles. Funny thing was my sister, who lives in Calgary, flew from Calgary to Vancouver and then on to LA. You never know what you’ll get with seat sales, points redemption et al. Once in LA, we took the metro to our hotel and met up. Dinner was a Thai restaurant we had been to before and was just as good as last time. On Saturday morning, we woke up to brilliant sunshine and pleasant temperatures. As we were going to be on a cruise ship for a week, we decided to go for a walk along the water. We have always enjoyed walking the Long Beach boardwalk and today’s hour and a half walk in the sunshine was no exception.

Our walk along the Long Beach Boardwalk on a sunny Saturday morning

Boarding cruise ship

We made our way to the cruise ship and got in line for embarkation. The only way to describe it is like being herded onto a cattle car. This is one area that Princess Cruises fails miserably at compared to other cruise lines. Although it did seem tedious, from the time we arrived at the cruise ship terminal it only took us 30 minutes to get on board the ship. We explored a bit and then had a quiet civilized lunch in the main dining room. This was followed by getting access to our state rooms where we unpacked. Fully exploring the ship came next and then the 3 PM sail away.

That evening, I decided to try one of the fancy drinks. I’ve never seen or tried butterfly tea before. Princess has made a martini out of it. They bring you a highball glass with the drink in it and a shooter glass with lemon juice, which you add yourself. It changes colours from purple to blueish when you pour the lemon juice in. As I added the lemon juice there was a slight colour change. It was, however really good and extremely potent so one was enough for me.

A Butterfly martini – very pretty, delicious and potent!

That evening, after a good dinner in the main dining room, we went and watched the show which was a musical trio that did cover songs from the 60s to 90s. Then, on our way back to our cabin, we popped in and did the ABBA trivia. It was a good decision to stop there because we ended up winning. The prizes you get for winning are mostly symbolic and certainly not life-changing. We each got a little blue notebook to go along with the bragging rights.

Our first Sea Day

Our ship sailed south into Mexican territorial waters as we headed to Cabo St Lucas. The ship had the typical events for a day at sea including trivia, exercise classes, and various other events. We moved around the ship meeting up my sister and her husband and going our own separate ways throughout the day. One of the events we did was attend the veterans social. Princess cruises normally hosts a veterans get together where they toast veterans.

There were about 30 or so veterans there, we all took turns standing up, stating our names and what roles we had in the military. The majority of the individuals were from the United States and surprising number for Vietnam veterans. It was nice to meet some of them, share some stories and realize how much we all had in common serving in the military.

Not all shows are created equally.

Our first night at sea was the formal night. It turns out this is the only formal night during the seven-day cruise. We were decked out in our spiffy outfits and attended the Captain’s champagne waterfall. It was good for people watching. The champagne they provided, which truly wasn’t champagne, was pretty dismal. We ended heading back to our cabin to get some of Prosecco we had brought on board. We had our dinner and headed to the show.

Tonight’s show was “Encore”. We thought we had seen the show before and as soon as it started, we realized we had. It was a series of songs with no real plot. On the positive site, the costumes and outfits were beautiful. The music and songs were not ones we really cared for. We’ll have to remember if we ever see this show again to find something else to do during that time.

Our first port of call Cabo San Lucas

The ship arrived at Cabo Saint Lucas at 12:30 and came to anchor. This was a tender port and as we were only here for 6 ½ hours was a bit of a gong show. It takes 2+ hours to get everybody assure and obviously 2+ hours to get everybody back on board. There’s really not a lot of time ashore.

To manage the tenders in the most efficient way possible, tickets are distributed on our first come first serve basis. It started at 11 AM. The previous evening, it was suggested to us by our Matre-d, to lineup for tender tickets no later than 10:15. Craig lined up at 10:15 and was about the 50^th person in line. That was obviously a good place to start because he got tender ticket number eight. That worked out well for us as we were able to eat lunch in the main dining room and then board our tender. We were exiting our tender and ashore in Cabo at 1 PM, 30-minutes after the ship came to anchor.

The Cabo St Lucas sign – warm sunny weather!

We wandered for a bit and then grabbed a drink at a convenience store. We carried on to the beach. Walking along the beach we noted that the water was not all that warm. As there didn’t seem to be a lot to do, we started to head back to the ship. En route, we came across a little market and tried some homemade tamales. I’m not sure I would eat them again, but it was a great experience.

Street food – one of our favourites!

The tamales were made by a husband-and-wife team. They were served on a plate and you ate them with your hands (they had hand sanitizer you could use – yes I used it). There were a number of sauces in front of their stand, and I pointed to them and asked questioningly “picante?”. The husband looked at the sauces and said “mucho picante!”. I thought to myself ‘how hot can this be?’ Well… it can be very hot. As my face turned red and sweat started running down my forehead, my travel companions showed absolutely no compassion or mercy. They were all howling in laughter at my predicament. However, with most things in life, this too did pass. Once finished, we returned to the ship and spent the afternoon playing cards.

Mazatlán, our second port of call

Arriving in Mazatlán, we headed on foot towards ‘El Faro’ – the lighthouse. It was about a 15-minute walk to the base of the lighthouse from the ship and then another 15-minutes as we trekked up to the top. There are 336 steps to the top. This is in addition to the 10 to 15 minutes of hiking up switchbacks. It was +26C and humid so by the time we reached the top, we deserved a rest. The views are the best in Mazatlán.

It was a lot easier coming down than going up. Once at the bottom, we tried to get a taxi to take us downtown. 200 to 250 pesos for the amount of the taxi drivers were asking for. Uber showed it would only be about 70 pesos. Unfortunately, no Uber driver would accept the ride. After five minutes of waiting, we started walking towards downtown but before we got off the isthmus, a taxi pulled up to us and offered to take us downtown for $5 USD.

The bottom of the lighthouse walk – very nice gardens.

Once downtown, we wandered through the old cathedral and then found a taco stand where we had lunch. Tapping into the GPS my-city app, we embarked on a walking tour of Mazatlán. I cannot recommend this app enough. The details they provide and the consistent accurate routing from site to site and or place you drop a pin is simply amazing. It has saved us more than one argument when travelling in new locations.

New (to us) areas of Mazatlán

We were excited to see new areas of Mazatlán. As we explored, we drifted back to the ship and just before we headed through security, the cruise ship terminal has a few bars. We took advantage of their liberal pours and reasonable prices to have margaritas and piña coladas. Unfortunately, the piña coladas did not live up to our expectations. The margaritas on the other hand were wonderful.

On our next trip to Mazatlán, I would certainly head back to their malacon area and the other parts of town which we only got to see on a cursory level. There is much more to Mazatlán than we had seen in our previous two visits.

Puerto Vallarta, our last cruise port of call

Arriving early in the morning at PV, we headed to shore at 8:30 AM local time. Our plan has been to head up to San Sebastian, a colonial mining town. We could not arrange a trip before we got there, as no guide was willing to take the chance of us missing our ship. Once ashore, we met a tout who is willing to take us for US$320 (half the price of a cruise ship excursion). The guide was very forthright and said while he was willing to do it, it was not a great idea. Simply put we would spend 4+ hours driving to spend two hours in the town.

We then decided to head into town on a local bus and see what we could find. While riding the bus we overheard people in front of us talking about their planed hike. They were planning to go to Boca de Tomatlan and, from there, hike to Playa Las Animas. We were told that the first part of the hike was over a number of boulders but then it flattened out. It would be about a two-hour hike and then you could have lunch in Las Animas.

This sounded interesting to all of us so we tagged along with our new found friends. We had been cautioned the tides were extremely high and our hike started with the first sandbar we needed to cross being completely underwater.

We pushed on…but…

Walking a few hundred metres further we found a makeshift bridge that took us from one side of the river to the other. The first 15 or 20 minutes of the hike was lovely. Great views, wonderful vegetation, and gentle grades. Then the ‘fun’ began. It ended up being what I could only describe as a forced route march in the army. We were faced with going up and down cliffs and boulders – in the end our apps said it was the equivalent of 56 flights of stairs. There were scrambles over boulders, as well as clinging onto vines and ropes to shimmy up and down trails. Everyone at broken a sweat and regular breaks were needed to catch our breaths.

Up and down and up and down and across the waves and up…

At times the ups and downs took us back to sea level and should have been able to walk across lovely, almost deserted beachs. Here is where the high tides again played havoc on our plans. There were no beaches. Waves kept crashing in covering up what should have been the beach. We had the time the waves so we could run across the small bit of beach and jump onto rocks on the other side to prevent getting our shoes soaked. The trail itself was overall well maintained. I am not sure who keeps the trail up, likely locals who are committed to helping. The one sketchy area was two makeshift bridges that left a lot to be desired.

In the end, after two very long hours, tired, and a bit worse for wear, we arrived at the beach of Los Animas. The high tides had most of the beach covered but we were still able to walk on what was not under water. We took advantage of the local beach front restaurants and then hopped on a water taxi to take us back to Boca. None of us question the 100-peso fee to take us back to the starting point of our hike where we caught a bus back to Puerto Vallarta.

An amazing lunch in PV.

Once back in PV, we decided to find another taco stand and enjoy the local street food. Grabbing some adult beverages at the local OXXO, Google maps recommend a small Mexican restaurant across the road. At times, Google reviews can be questionable, this one totally hit the mark and it will be a place we visit upon our return. La Weltita, a small independent restaurant, serving exceptionally good ceviche, quesadillas, and tacos. Should you find yourself in Puerto Vallarta, I cannot recommend enough to eat at this place. The owner is a lovely Ex-Pat who employes locals and pays them fair wages.

From there, it was back to the ship, with a quick stop to buy some vanilla at a local store. Unfortunately, the local store did not stock vanilla and pointed us to tourist stores. In the end, we visited Walmart and bought some clear vanilla as it is difficult to find at home. We very much having enjoyed our day in Puerto Vallarta.

Two Sea Days en route to Los Angeles

Travelling back to north to Los Angeles from Mexico the ship provided numerous activities and diversion. You could eat as much as you wanted, play trivia, watch shows, watch movies in your cabin, wander the decks. The bars were always open for any sort of beverage you desired. We took advantage of a wine tasting event, the Captain’s, welcome cocktail party, and lounged around in the sun.

Having done this cruise a few times before, there is nothing wowing or earth-shattering about it. It is a great break from the cool dark weather of Victoria. Anytime someone will prepare all your meals, clean your room and take care of you for a week, makes for a good relaxing vacation. We have booked a future cruise credit although, at this time, we have not decided when or where we will go. There are other upcoming cruises that are booked on other cruise lines, but we are sure we will travel Princess again at some point in time.

Thanks for reading.

Feel free to leave comments or contact us by the link above.

Cam and Meg

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Christmas 2025

Reflection and Sharing

Our Christmas was a quiet affair this year. Michaela came over around 9AM and we opened some presents followed by a hearty breakfast of double cinnamon French toast.

We then had a Zoom call with all the cousins and Omi. It was great to catch up.

However you choose to spend this time, may Peace, Joy and Happiness be with you and your family.

Our Philippine Adventure – Deserted Islands and Typhoons!

Commencing our trip

The evening before our tour started, we attended an orientation briefing for the upcoming expedition. TAO Expeditions was the outfit we selected, based on research. They seemed less ‘boozy’ and more environmentally focused. https://www.taophilippines.com (we do not receive anything if you follow the link.) They were also the most expensive, which, naturally culls the herd of 20-somethings. The briefing had 22 of the 25 guests show up. The talk started with a drink of “Jungle Juice”, basically 1 ½ oz of local rum and 1 ½ oz of pineapple juice. Remember this is the less booze cruise. The outline covered off the company history, the community work it does, the planned route, accommodations, food and other things. One-hour later we left, feeling excited.

The Group Make Up – Spoiler Alert – We Were the Oldest

The Magic Bus – nothing was lashed down…

The group around us was mostly young folks with the exception of three older couples which included us. Any one of the three couples could easily be parents to the other passengers. Everyone seemed friendly and there didn’t seem to be that ‘one’ idiot who could be annoying and foolish at the same time. We met at 8 AM the next morning and signed in. Our luggage was tossed on the roof of what I could only call a Magic Bus, in reference to the Who’s 1960s hit. When I say ‘tossed’, I actually mean tossed. Nothing was lashed down for the one-hour drive. Then we boarded the Magic Bus for the journey. There was no air conditioning and all the windows were down as we sat on two wooden benches facing each other.

Once at El Nido port, we jumped off and hiked through the woods for about 15-minutes. Arriving at TAO Base Camp, we saw huts, eating areas, common areas, community bathrooms and more. A quick orientation followed by a delicious breakfast started our day. More talks, then lunch, then on to our boat where we headed to a nearby remote island. This was our first snorkelling adventure.

Colourful Reefs and Fish

What we saw underwater was more impressive that what we were able to see on the Great Barrier Reef (GBR). This was likely due to the ‘bleaching’ of the GBR. In the Philippines, there were more colours and the water was warmer. While there were more fish on the Barrier Reef, both the coral and fish were brighter in the Philippines. Both places had numerous things that could bite, attack, harm and kill you. Caution was in order the entire time.

A Philippine Reef (my underwater camera did not do it justice)

That evening we returned to Base Camp for a four-course meal that was well prepared. The focus was on local ingredients and flavours. Each course was explained and there was more food than we could eat. Seconds and even third helpings were encouraged. After dinner, we wandered a bit, looking at the countless stars we could see. Then, returning to our huts, we hunkered down, on a mat under mosquito netting for a great sleep. The only sounds were the ocean and nature. As the temperature only dipped to 26C at night, we were both a bit worried we’d be too hot, but that was not the case.

Day Two – Sailing and Snorkelling

The inside of our huts – a thin foamy with mosquito netting. Gilligan would feel at home!

We woke up, around 6AM which was sunrise. There was not much to block the sun, but we were not complaining. Looking around, it hit us that we slept in an open-air bamboo hut next to the ocean. There was a stretch/yoga class for those who were interested, like me. There were also pots and pots of fresh coffee for those who so desired, like Meg. Breakfast was another feast where there was no shortage of food. Fresh fruit was a key to all meals.

Today was Meg’s birthday. Me being me, I rapped my glass with my spoon to announce the special day and all of Meg’s new 24 friends sang happy birthday to her. There were also bets on if they would witness a burial at sea later that day as she was likely to kill me for what I did. We packed up our stuff into our dry bags, and swam out to the boat. Nothing like a dip in the ocean to start your day.

More Reefs, Snorkelling and Eating

During the day we sailed to a few islands where we snorkeled, ate and enjoyed life. It is pretty hard lifestyle to beat. Later that day the ship anchored off Linapacan Island. Then we got to jump back into the water and swim ashore. As the water was warm, it was not too much of a hardship. Once ashore, while dripping wet, we were told where our huts for the night would be. They put the couples on one side of the camp and the single travellers on the other side. Couple huts are a fair bit wider and accommodate two foam mattresses.

Settling into Our Camp for the Evening

Putting our drybags into our hut, we wandered around and were in awe of how picture perfect this was. On a beach, on a deserted part of a large island, with a breeze blowing and sunset approaching. Our home was a bamboo hut. It was so magical. Wandering the beach for views, the clouds were putting on a show of red, pink and other colours. Since we had been in and out of the ocean a number of times, a fresh water shower was in order. There were four showers, all in one area, with no dividers between them. You just showered with your bathing suit on.

Once we had gotten the salt off us, a pre-dinner drink (jungle juice) was provided. Our dinner that night was another feast, followed by a bon-fire and eventually off to bed. As we scrambled up into our huts, it was breezy which made the warm temperature pleasant for sleeping. Since there was really not much artificial light on the island, there was really no point in staying up late. Sunrise would be at 6 AM, so going to bed and rising early made sense.

Storms and a Diversion

Waking up and hearing only waves on the beach was great. Sunrise was at 6AM, and with nothing to block the light, we were up by then. Wandering the beach, we saw fishermen, there are no women fishing there, heading out for the day.

Once breakfast was over, our tour guide made an announcement. He told us there was a storm coming and it looked nasty. The word he used was typhoon. An open-air boat with no radio or radar and two outriggers for balance is no match for a typhoon. Mother nature will win every time. To keep the passengers, crew and boat safe, the planned route was being altered. We would be going east instead of our planned westerly route. This would keep us in a wind shadow and likely avoid the worst of it. As we swam out to the boat, we were all just glad to be safe and everyone agreed, it was all part of the adventure.

Rain, Rain and more Rain

Trying to stay dry in a heavy downpour – it wasn’t much fun

As we sailed, we could see the rain approaching. Eventually there was no place to hide from the rain, other than the galley. In the end, 15 of the 25 guests were crammed into the galley to try and keep warm and dry. Nine hours later, through wind and rain, we arrived at camp for the night. Similar to the previous evening, they placed couples on one side and singles on the other. The two rows of huts were only about 40’ apart, but faced different directions.

We all managed to get dry and eat a lovely dinner before settling down in our huts for the night. It was a bit breezy. Little did we know the wind was only starting…

Meeting A Tropical Depression in a Bamboo Hut

Around 11 pm, we woke up to torrential rain hitting the side of our hut. There were also high winds whistling through. The shaking of our bamboo hut was not either of us moving around as we both first thought. Remember, always blame the other person. It was actually the wind shaking the hut. Howling wind with no reprieve. Between crashing waves, violent wind and driving rain, the noise was deafening. We kept telling each other that we were dry and warm, we would be fine. In reality, we confessed to each other the next morning we were both quite scared. Recently, we had both read “One Perfect Couple” by Ruth Ware. It is a story of group who ended up stranded on a deserted island after a storm. No one came to rescue them and slowly people started dying. It was not a comforting thought for either of us.

We managed to stay dry. The hut, for all its basic-ness, did an excellent job of keeping the rain out. We could feel mist coming in the front and back of the hut, but no leaks from the roof. Then we heard a crash. While we can’t be sure, we think it was a palm branch or a coconut hitting the ground nearby with a terrific thud. The rain continued to drive and the hut shook. Lying in bed, with driving rain and wind while your home shakes is not for the faint of heart. Actually, it isn’t for us either. More thuds and more wind.

Staying Put

Eventually, around 1 AM both the wind and rain seemed to stop. Then one of the staff came around and asked if we were ok. We said yes. He then asked if we wanted to go to the safe hut, a concrete building where most of the other guests had gone some time ago. Ummm, why were only checking on us now? As the wind and rain had both died down, we decided to stick it out in our hut. We were dry, fairly warm and it seemed the worst had passed.

Once the staff member had left, we remembered that sometimes, the eye of the storm is the calmest. What if we were in the eye of the storm and round two was about to start? In the end, our decision to stay turned out to be the right one. Things were quiet for the rest of the night and a few hours later, we heard the others coming back to their huts.

The Morning After

Our hut after the typhoon – sunny skies and calm winds.

Most of the others were not so lucky. Some huts had water pouring in from holes in the roof. Others leaked from the sides. All of the single huts faced the storm and rain came in at full force, they, along with everything inside was soaked. The couples huts took the storm on the side, so less damage. We traded stories of how we managed with others and learned that our hut was one of only two that did not leak. A couple from Australia had water pouring in through their roof all night long. We were one of two couples that did not go to the safe house. Most of the other passengers thought we were crazy to stay in the hut, but it all worked out fine.

In the end, no one was physically hurt – but four guests opted to leave the tour the next morning, so there may have been emotional injuries.

Storm Report

The next morning, there was debate amongst the staff whether the storm was a tropical depression or a typhoon – either way, it was scary. 53 mm of rain in about 2 hours; wind at 40 km/hr sustained with gusts to 65. Nothing that we don’t encounter at home – but in a bamboo hut, in the pitch dark, it feels a lot different!

Updated bucket list

Survive a tropical storm in a bamboo hut was not on the bucket list, but now that we are safely through it, it’s a pretty unique thing for have on our resumes!

Carrying On With Our Trip

In reality, how can you top that? The next day was uneventful in comparison. There was a stop at the ‘best’ reef on the tour. Unfortunately, that reef was a bit murky with the previous night’s storm but still plenty of coral and fish.

We made it to the final campsite where we took some time to relax, wander about and share stories. A grand finale dinner put everyone in a good mood and we all slept well that night. There was no wind, no rain and no crashing waves. Only gentle lapping of water on the shore. Our huts were all dry.

Finishing Our Expedition

In the morning, we broke camp and by noon were in Coron where we caught a flight to Cebu Island. At the Coron airport, there is not much there other than the landing strip. It is paved. We managed to check in without issues, although you need to show your boarding pass to get into the airport terminal. As we had not checked in, we held up our phones to a lit screen and were waived through. I guess they don’t check tourists as carefully as locals. To pass the time, after check-in, we left the airport and walked across the road to a series of small restaurants. These are really just roadside stands and they back onto the runway. But don’t worry about security, even though there’s no fence, there is a sign there that says do not enter, so it’s safe.

The flight was uneventful and we arrived on the Island of Cebu for the next phase of our trip.

Thanks for reading,

Cam and Meg

“People don’t take trips, trips take people.” – John Steinbeck