I really enjoy walking through old covered bridges, such as the one that forms the border between Switzerland and Liechtenstein. I also like cool railway bridges, and last year, I had fun exploring the engineering marvel that is the Landwasser Viaduct, seeing it from different angles.

Today, let’s head to Scotland for another one:

The Forth Bridge

Few sights capture Scotland’s industrial heritage quite like the Forth Bridge. Rising above the waters of the Firth of Forth, the huge red steel framework is visible from miles away.

In fact, I’ve never managed to see this bridge without slowing down a bit. Even in photos, even when I already know what’s coming, it still has that effect: this vast red geometry stretching across the Firth of Forth. It’s as if someone decided a railway crossing should also be a statement.

It kind of dominates the neighbourhood – wonder what the residents think.

Then

The Forth Bridge was opened in 1890, at a time when Britain’s railway network was transforming travel, commerce, and industry.

It was built by two Victorian civil engineers, Sir John Fowler and Sir Benjamin Baker, in the wake of the Tay Bridge disaster in 1879, which showed that “good enough” engineering clearly wasn’t good enough anymore. John and Ben were determined to create something exceptionally strong, and built a huge cantilever bridge of steel, with three enormous arms balancing forces. Logic visible to all.

When they finished, the bridge stretched over 2.5 kilometres, and it quickly became an international symbol of engineering excellence.

And now

Looking at it today, it feels oddly modern in its confidence as it carries trains between Edinburgh and Fife, just as it has done for more than 130 years. That cantilever design was revolutionary in the late 19th century and is still fascinating now in the 21st. 

There’s something personal about the scale of it. You don’t really view the Forth Bridge so much as recalibrate around it. From South Queensferry, it dominates the sky in a way that makes everything else feel a bit, well, temporary.

It isn’t just history frozen in place, this structure. Trains still cross constantly. This is a working piece of infrastructure that also happens to be iconic.

In 2015, UNESCO recognised that dual identity by granting it World Heritage status. The listing is about beauty and age, but above all it iss about significance: the bridge as a landmark in global engineering history, and as a defining example of large-scale steel construction. It now sits among sites considered to have outstanding universal value, which feels appropriate. This is a structure that quietly shaped how people learnt to build big things safely.

But the technical achievement and the heritage status aside, what I like, is the feeling that the bridge doesn’t quite belong to any single category. It’s industrial and elegant, heavy and precise, ordinary in function but extraordinary in presence. You don’t need to be an engineer to feel that contradiction – you just need to look at it for a minute longer than you planned.

How and where to see the Forth Bridge

If you’re on a train, the Forth Bridge will arrive suddenly, fill your window, and then disappear again. If you’re too preoccupied with your phone, you might miss it.

I like seeing it from the waterfront at South Queensferry, where you really get a feel for its scale, or, for a different perspective, go underneath those massive steel spans on a boat trip on the Firth of Forth.

Take the train from Edinburgh’s Waverley train station  to Dalmeny. The trains are frequent, take 15 minutes and cost GBP 6.

World at a Glance is a series of short articles here on Sophie’s World, with a single photo, portraying curious, evocative, happy, sad or wondrous, unexpected encounters.

The Forth Bridge is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

The Forth Bridge: Scotland’s steel icon is a post from Sophie's World

When we last left off, I was exploring the unexpected charms of Mongolia’s capital, Ulaanbaatar. Now it is time to leave the city behind and venture into the vast Mongolian steppe. I join three fellow travellers: one from inland New South Wales, another from Romania and a third from Russia/Israel. Together with our guide, the four of us set off into Gorkhi-Terelj National Park.

In the national park, you can hike to Turtle Rock, visit a Buddhist temple hidden on a hillside, ride horses or Bactrian camels, go walkabout, or simply spend hours or even days, just enjoying the silence. You can also stay overnight in a traditional ger camp, the Mongolian yurt. I’m reminded of waking up to horses grazing outside my yurt at Songkul Lake in Kyrgyzstan a few years ago. A travel moment I’ll never forget.

As we head into the Gorkhi-Terelj, the change in scenery is immediate: endless valleys, rocky outcrops, pine forests… the open skies seem to stretch forever.

Melkhii Khad: Turtle Rock 

One of the most recognisable landmarks in Gorkhi-Terelj is a 24-metre-high natural granite formation that, from the right angle, looks like a giant turtle resting on the grassland here on the Mongolian steppe. Nature has done an impressive sculpting job here. It’s easy to see why it has become the park’s unofficial symbol.

The surrounding scenery is just as memorable. Rolling green meadows, scattered wildflowers, grazing horses, dramatic cliffs – exactly the kind of landscape I’ve imagined.

Ariyabal: a Buddhist Temple on the Mongolian steppe

Not far from Turtle Rock is a peaceful place: a Buddhist temple hidden on a hillside.

To get there I walk up a winding, rocky path through the forest.

You can’t really see the temple until you’re much closer.

Along the route I pass prayer flags and numerous wooden signs displaying Buddhist teachings and words of wisdom. The quotations encourage visitors to slow down, practise compassion, appreciate the present moment, let go of anger, and reflect on the impermanence of life. The walk can become a quiet meditation in itself.

Every few minutes another message catches my eye. This is going to take a while.

Not all of them are what you would call cheerful reading, though. Morbid, even.

The path to Ariyabal Meditation Temple crosses a narrow suspension bridge. It sways gently under my feet, but it’s not nearly as wobbly as Hussaini Suspension Bridge in Pakistan’s Hunza region. (post coming up).

From the bridge, there are lovely views over the rugged hills and the valley below.

Getting closer!

There it is!

Now for the 108 steps up to the temple.

Do you have a sudden urge to break into song, or is it just me?

With songs they have sung, for a thousand yeeeears…

Up at the temple are colourful prayer wheels and carved stones. Prayer flags flutter in the breeze, and the only sounds are birdsong and the wind. Religious or not, it’s a calming place inviting you to a moment of quiet reflection.

And inside, the temple is stunning.

I could stay a while.

Chinggis Khan Equestrian Statue Complex

Legend has it; Chinggis Khan found a golden whip at Tsonjin Boldog, on the bank of the Tuul River about 54 kilometres east of Ulaanbaatar. Surely a sign from the heavens, an omen of the magnificent destiny that awaited him. A source of inspiration for his future conquests.

Today, the site is home to one of Mongolia’s most ambitious monuments: a colossal stainless-steel statue of Chinggis on his horse. You can see the gleaming figure from miles away across the open landscape.

40-metre Chinggis

Touristy? Definitely. Over-the-top? Fabulously so.

Possibly the largest equestrian statue in the world

You can take a lift and some flights of stairs up through the horse to a viewing platform on its head, with wide views across the Mongolian plains.

Warning: On busy days, the viewing platform is not for the claustrophobic. The lift and stairs are even less so.

At the complex are museums exploring the history of the Mongol empire, displays of traditional armour and weaponry, paintings –

– souvenir shops, a cafe/ice cream shop, and a gigantic 2-storey Mongolian boot.

Camels and falcons

Not far away, local families offer short rides on Bactrian camels, the distinctive two-humped ones that have long been associated with the Gobi Desert and the ancient Silk Road.

Eagle handlers will let you try holding a bird, leather glove n’all. Mongolia has a long tradition of eagle hunting, especially amongst the Kazakh communities in the western part of the country.

Food

We stop for lunch in one of the ger restaurants nearby, which turns out to be an experience in itself.

We’re all in with attention marketing

Inside the circular felt ger are brightly painted wooden supports and a central stove.

Mongolian cuisine is simple and filling, made for surviving harsh winters, and comfort food is on the menu.

Rich, meaty goulash, and khuushuur, deep-fried pastries filled with minced meat

Next time on the Mongolian steppe: Przewalski’s horses

Next time in this mysterious country, I want to visit Hustai National Park, home to the rare Przewalski’s horse, the only wild horse species left on Earth. I have seen these remarkable animals at Nordens Ark (The Nordic Ark), a wildlife park in Sweden dedicated to protecting endangered species and helping secure their future. But seeing these magnificent horses roaming freely across the vast Mongolian steppe must be an unforgettable experience.

Prayer wheels at Ariyabal Meditation Temple

Onwards to the Mongolian steppe is a post from Sophie's World

I’ll just start with the conclusion, shall I?

Vanuatu: Turquoise water beneath your feet, the delightful rush of waterfalls, and the unmistakable feeling that life moves a little slower here. Add handmade chocolate, the aroma of freshly roasted Tanna coffee – and because apparently one can never have too much novelty — a post office underwater.

Have I made you curious? That underwater post office, right?

2024 earthquake

My first impression of Port Vila, Vanuatu’s capital, is a mix of beautiful tropical scenery, friendly people, and real and near reminders of what this community has been through in the recent past.

On 17 December 2024, a magnitude-7.3 earthquake struck just offshore, causing widespread destruction throughout the city, killing 14 and injuring hundreds.

I’m told the building that housed the Billabong shop in the town centre was one of the hardest hit. It simply collapsed, and four of the confirmed deaths were attributed to this building. I’ve been in many Billabong shops over the years, and I can’t help but imagine what it must have been like, casually browsing kids’ surf shorts one minute, and in the next, the whole building coming down. It’s a chilling thought.

18 months on, and people are getting on with everyday life, resilient and optimistic. There’s something quite humbling about wandering around in Port Vila now. The earthquake is no longer just another disaster story in the news; being here makes the reality of it much harder to ignore.

OK, on to the lighter side of Vanuatu… if I haven’t scared you off!

I’m joining Eriko from Japan, and Nadia and Fyodor from Siberia, for a guided tour of Efate, the main island.

‘Shall we begin with chocolate?’ our guide asks.

Why, yes. That sounds like a very good place to start.

We set off for Gaston Chocolat. The name alone makes me think of one of my favourite films. You can probably guess which one, can’t you? Juliette Binoche, Judy Dench, Johnny Depp… I must have watched Chocolat at least five times.

Gaston Chocolat

The smell of chocolate hits as soon as we arrive.

Olivier Hernandez founded the chocolate factory in 2017, naming it after his grandfather, Gaston. The little factory is closely connected to Vanuatu’s cocoa-growing tradition, and the delicious choccies are made using cocoa grown in the islands.

Here at Gaston Chocolat, the humble cocoa bean is transformed into handcrafted chocolate. Olivier hands us hair nets, and takes us through the operation. Turning beans into the yumminess we know and love takes plenty of work, involving both humans and machines. And Olivier and his team must be doing something right, because their chocolates keep on winning awards and accolades.

We’re about to find out for ourselves. There are plenty of tempting varieties to try, and I’m happy to do my part – all in the name of  research, of course.

My favourite

We’re not just tasting artisan chocolate; we’re getting an insight into Vanuatu’s agricultural traditions and the people turning local produce into something rather delicious.

I enjoy visiting places like this – history, culture, and food, all rolled into one. And yes, chocolate is food.

I leave with a few to take home. Although… home is still a few weeks away, and I’m hopping from one oh-so-very-hot Pacific island to another. Hmm. Surely it would be irresponsible to risk perfectly good chocolate melting in my bag? Best to deal with the problem immediately.

Mele Cascades

OK, time to get out into nature. After all that chocolate, a little hike seems like a sensible choice to burn off some of the calories.

Nature’s own swimming holes 

We travel through lush tropical countryside into the interior of Efate, to Mele Cascades, one of the island’s best-known natural attractions.

It’s a hot and humid day, so the rainforest is a welcome change. All that lush tropical vegetation and the sound of rushing water feel so refreshing.

The trail winds through thick greenery alongside clear, cool water, passing natural pools and small cascades. The higher we climb, the more inviting the pools look – perfect for a cool dip.

While we have been busy walking, our guide has been busy setting up a gorgeous platter of fresh tropical fruit for us. Now that’s my kind of hiking reward!

Tanna coffee

Next up: coffee!

At the Tanna Coffee Roastery & Cafe, we get to see how Vanuatu’s locally grown coffee makes its journey from bean to cup. The beans are grown on the volcanic island of Tanna, then roasted and packaged here. We learn a little about the process and the coffee-growing traditions, and naturally, a tasting is essential. More research!

Now, I’m not really a big coffee drinker. I prefer caffe latte, essentially hot milk, with a bit of coffee thrown in. And they do serve those at the little cafe here. But I feel I should give the real thing a proper go, so I order a straightforward black coffee. And the verdict? I think FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper would approve – a damn fine cup of coffee.

Hideaway Island and the underwater post office

Just off the coast of Port Vila, about 5 minutes by boat, is Hideaway Island. I’m particularly excited about this one, having heard rumours about an underwater post office.

Hideaway Island has clear tropical water and colourful marine life, ideal for swimming and snorkelling. I could go on.  But I’m here for the post office. And yes – it’s true! You can actually send mail from beneath the water!

Obviously, I have to give it a go, so I buy a few of the special waterproof cards at the little shop by the entrance. The shop lady then takes an eraser to the side of the card to write on, and rubs it so the pencil will stick better. It must be a pencil. A pen won’t work.

Writing legibly on underwater-proof postcards turns out to be a bit tricky. The big question is whether the pencil will stay on long enough for the postie to decipher the address, and get them into the right mailbox. We shall see. Apparently, delivery can take up to a month.

Now for the submarine part. But where exactly is this post office?

Out there by the platform, we are told. One-and-a-half metres underwater.

As you may know, I have a complicated love-fear relationship with water. There is absolutely no way I am ducking down to 1.5 metres, eyes open, trying to locate a post office at the bottom of the sea. So I enlist Fyodor to do the honours. He’s already kitted out in snorkelling gear, so off he goes.

It’s a little more challenging than expected, he says. But after two attempts, he manages to get the postcards into the underwater mailbox.

Success!

While Fyodor is under water, and Nadia is in the water, Eriko and I have lunch.

And so, apparently, does this kitty.

I love these quirky, unexpected experiences – the sort of thing you can’t quite believe is real until you’ve actually seen it. An underwater post office in Vanuatu? Absolutely! Thankfully, I don’t have to be the one to dive down and find it.

Poppy’s on the Lagoon

I am staying at Poppy’s on the Lagoon, and it turns out to be a great place to practice doing absolutely nothing. It’s surprisingly easy to slip into island time, even for someone as perpetually restless as me. As I sit here, drink in hand, looking out across the Erakor lagoon, I’m reminded that I have nowhere else I need to be. Not today.

One thing I’m noticing – and enjoying – about Vanuatu is the contrast. There are waterfalls, rainforest, chocolate, coffee, beautiful waterfront restaurants – all the things you’d expect from a tropical island escape. But there’s also a community that experienced a devastating earthquake less than two years ago, and is still rebuilding. It’s hard not to be moved by the resilience of the people here. Life goes on in this corner of the Pacific.

My visit in Vanuatu was short – only three days – and I have plenty more I want to see in this little country. I would like to spend some time on Tanna Island, and, even more, make it to Pentecost Island to see the land divers perform Naghol.

Naghol is a centuries-old tradition where local lads climb tall, rickety wooden towers, sometimes as high as 30 metres, with only vines tied around their ankles before leaping head-first towards the ground. The vines are carefully measured so they come incredibly close to the earth. Next level bungee jumping!

Would I make the leap? Not on your life. I’m not sure I’d even dare climb very high up the tower. In fact, now that I think about it, would I even be able to watch, without closing my eyes?

Vanuatu practicals

• Getting there: Port Vila is easily reached by air from Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, Fiji, and New Caledonia, with international flights connecting Vanuatu to the wider Pacific and beyond.
• Where to stay: you’re spoilt for choice around Port Vila, with everything from budget stays to high-end resorts. Things are a little more challenging on the outer islands, where accommodation tends to be simpler. Family-run bungalows and small guesthouses seem to be the norm.
• Gaston Chocolat is on Port Vila’s main street, opposite Fung Kuei and next to Etam. Visitors are welcome to stop by, although it’s a good idea to call ahead, to make sure someone is available to show you around.
• Tanna Coffee Roastery & Cafe is on Devil’s Point Road, just outside Port Vila.
• Hideaway Island: The ferry to the island leaves from Mele Beach, ca 15 min from Port Vila. Entry to the island costs 2000 VT (ca €14/US$17). The boat trip takes only a few minutes.
• Money: Credit cards are widely accepted, particularly around Port Vila, but it’s still useful to have some Vanuatu vatu (VT) on hand for smaller purchases and various expenses. Some places also accept Australian dollars.

Nothing sponsored here, folks – no chocolate, no coffee, no Poppy’s, no waterproof postcards.

Vanuatu: chocolate, cascades, coffee – and an underwater post office is a post from Sophie's World

Here on the largest of the Solomon Islands, the history of World War II is part of the landscape. A road passes a former battlefield, a quiet hillside carries a memorial, and beneath the clear waters offshore are ships and aircraft from some of the fiercest fighting in the Pacific.

World War II in the Pacific

I have been thinking about how little we learned about the Pacific theatre in Second World War when I was in school.

It wasn’t that many decades after, and we certainly knew lots about the war in Europe and especially at home in Norway. We all had parents or grandparents who had lived through the occupation; that was very much a part of our family histories. We knew people who remembered, we knew the places, we heard the stories… stories of fear and bravery, of scary close calls, of clever ways to outsmart German soldiers, of unexpected humour in dark times… in short, the cost and comedy of survival.

Maybe that was enough back then.

But having spent the last few weeks in the Pacific, I’ve become acutely aware of just how little I know about what was going on in this part of the world. So I’ve been putting all those hours in the air to good use reading – about the battles fought, about the thousands of young men, boys really, who fought and died on these islands.

Arriving in the capital Honiara, the natural follow-up is to find someone to show me the wartime landmarks.

A battlefield that changed the Pacific War

The Guadalcanal campaign began on 7 August 1942, when US Marines landed on the island in the first major American amphibious offensive of the war. Their principal objective was to capture a Japanese airfield near the north coast. They did, and it became Henderson Field, a name that would soon become synonymous with the struggle for control of Guadalcanal.

 Japanese and Allied forces fought on land, in the air and across the surrounding seas, with the airfield at the centre of the campaign. The fighting continued for six months, and by the time the Japanese withdrew in February 1943, the human cost had been enormous – on both sides.

Today, Honiara has grown around and beyond that wartime landscape, and the modern international airport occupies part of the former Henderson Field. It’s an odd feeling realising that the runway beneath me was once one of the most fiercely contested pieces of ground in the war.

My guide for the day is Samson. He shows me five different sites: the Vilu War Museum, Bloody Ridge, the Japanese and American war memorials and Tetere Beach.

Vilu War Museum

We begin at Vilu War Museum, a short drive west of Honiara. It’s less polished than conventional museums, but that makes it more real and near, more immediate.

Much of the collection is out in the open air. It’s a striking contrast: military hardware, once terrifying technological power, is now lying about, rusting amongst palm trees and other tropical vegetation.

Inside a warehouse are Browning belt-fed machine guns, as well as more ordinary items, like pots and pans, glass Coca Cola bottles. I see black-and-white photographs, and read handwritten letters and newspaper clippings from 8 December 1941.

Out back is a rusted Japanese light tank and more aircraft remnants, as well as an enclosure that used to be a small crocodile pool. Poor things. Thankfully, there are no crocodiles there anymore.  Today, the fence around the enclosure is used for hanging clothes to dry.

The museum is in Betikama, an area owned by the Seventh-Day Adventist Church that has rather unique street names.

Bloody Ridge and the hills around Honiara

In a small valley between two hills is perhaps the most evocative site on Guadalcanal.

Bloody Ridge, or more formally Edson’s Ridge, was a crucial defensive position south of Henderson Field. In September 1942, Japanese forces repeatedly attacked the ridge, attempting to break through to the airfield. The fighting became one of the most brutal battles of the Pacific War.

Standing here on Hill no 1, I’m reminded of Flanders Fields, where poppies now cover the ground where once thousands of young boys bled to death. Here, in the valley between Hill no 1 and Hill no 2, there are no poppies, but lush green grass covering the valley floor once filled with the bodies and the blood of young Japanese and American boys.

There are other battlefields around Honiara, as well, including the areas around the former airfield perimeter. But the jungle, development and, well, time have reclaimed much of the terrain. Some places have monuments, others are simply there in the landscape, and you need a local guide to explain their significance and the historical context, otherwise it might just look like an ordinary hill or a river crossing.

Seeing the battlefield here somehow becomes the most meaningful part of this journey. That’s where I get the most immediate sense of war. As in the dugouts in Zonnebeke, it’s as if I can smell blood. And fear.

The memorials on Bloody Ridge

Two monuments on opposite sides of the former battlefield, looking out over the same landscape. Two different memorial traditions. Both telling a story about the human cost of war.

The two sides had different experiences of the campaign. But it seems to me that these memorials are not about who won and who lost.

There is also a shared Japanese-American plaque.

American and Japanese veterans and their families continue to come here to remember their dead. We drive the short distance between the two hills. Most do. But not the Japanese. Samson tells me they prefer to walk, like their soldiers once did.

The main Japanese and American war memorials

The Japanese War Memorial (Solomon Peace Memorial Park)

Hill 35 was an important position during the battle of Mount Austen. The Japanese War Memorial was funded by veterans and families of the dead and missing, and comprises two white concrete pillars, with a space between them through which I can see the ocean. It is beautiful and peaceful in its simplicity.

There’s also a moving bronze sculpture of a fisherman, designed by Eikichi Takahashi, a Japanese soldier and artist who fought and died right here on Guadalcanal. He created the piece as a tribute to the peaceful daily life of the Solomon Islanders.

The Guadalcanal American Memorial

On Skyline Drive, a hill above Honiara, is a huge American memorial, honouring American and Allied soldiers who died on Guadalcanal. The centrepiece is a tall pylon, surrounded by 4 walls representing the main battle areas.

Both here and at the Japanese memorial, the expansive views help make sense of the geography of the fighting. These views must have been different in 1942, but the landscape remains the same.

Tetere beach

Remember I mentioned the American amphibious offensive? These are the strange vehicles that helped make it possible, carrying people and supplies from ship to shore – one of the most unusual sights on the island.

Just a few metres from Tetere beach is a remarkable collection of abandoned American amphibious landing vehicles known as LVTs, or ‘amtracs’ – amphibian tractors. More than 30 rusting vehicles – my guide says more than 60 – are scattered amongst the vegetation.

These vehicles were developed to carry troops, weapons, ammo, gear, and food directly from ships, across shallow water, and onto beaches. It’s a striking reminder that war is also a massive logistics operation.

Later, the US Marines used this spot for amphibious training.

Today, nature is slowly reclaiming the machinery: the steel is corroded, vegetation has grown around the hulls, and trees are forcing their way through the shells. The distinction between battlefield relic and jungle is becoming increasingly blurred.

At the major memorials, we are being asked to remember. Here at Tetere, we’re a long way from the memorials elsewhere on the island. This feels almost accidental. They just sit here, these rusty vehicles, while the landscape slowly but surely takes it back. I think this is the most atmospheric of Guadalcanal’s wartime sites.

Nature always wins in the end

Ironbottom Sound

Guadalcanal’s war history doesn’t end at the shoreline.

Off the northern coast is Ironbottom Sound, where numerous ships and aircraft from both sides were lost. The wrecks are still there, now covered in coral, reef, and marine life – interesting diving and snorkelling experiences.

The Solomon Islanders and the war –

What about the locals? We don’t hear much about them and their role in this war fought on their territory.

The islanders were not simply a backdrop to the fighting, they were crucial to the Allied war effort. They were scouts, guides, labourers, rescuers, often in very dangerous circumstances. Their knowledge of the terrain was indispensable.

– and the aftermath

That brings up uncomfortable questions.

Guadalcanal is heavily contaminated. The warring parties left behind enormous quantities of military hardware, ammunition and wrecks, rusting away in the jungle and on the seabed.

I ask why they haven’t come back to clean up their rubbish. It has been 83 years, after all.

Turns out, it’s complicated. It is expensive and logistically challenging, and on the plus side, it brings visitors to the country. As for environmental concerns… well, that wasn’t on the agenda in the 1940s.

But what about now?

Unexploded ordnance

That visual and environmental pollution pales in comparison with an even more urgent question.

The island has a staggering amount of unexploded ordnance. People are still being injured and killed by bombs left behind more than 80 years ago, and children are particularly at risk. In 2024, hundreds of unexploded bombs were removed from underneath a school.

Solomon Islands can’t deal with this themselves. Nor should they have to. They didn’t leave highly dangerous rubbish lying about.

Considering that the islanders were massively heroic in helping the USA win the war in the Pacific, it seems beyond unfair that they now have to suffer the consequences of unexploded bombs left behind.

Why is this still the responsibility of the Solomon Islanders, 80+ years later, when the original combatants created the problem?

It’s expensive, I hear. Yet again. And challenging. Those who planted the explosives didn’t exactly leave behind maps.

Meanwhile, children in the Solomon Islands must deal with things no child should have to. When they see an object that looks like a bomb, rocket, or grenade, they must follow three rules:

• Do not touch it
• Do not go near it
• Report it to an adult or the police immediately

Experts estimate that a total cleanup will take another 20 years. I say the United States and allies must step up and assume responsibility. No more waiting – get it done!

Seeing Guadalcanal as a whole

Guadalcanal is much more than a collection of wartime sites, so let’s resist seeing it solely through that lens.

Yes, the war is everywhere: Henderson Field, Bloody Ridge, the memorials, Vilu, the wrecks in Ironbottom Sound – all tell that wartime story.

But there is another Guadalcanal beyond the war. The markets in Honiara, the villages, the arts and crafts, the music, the tropical rainforest, beaches and reefs, the everyday island life – it gives a very different perspective. It’s an island with a much older history and a living culture that persisted through the war and still does.

The lesson here must surely be that the battlefields do not remain frozen in the past, but rather become a part of the living landscape. The jungle grows back, reefs grow over wrecks, cities and modern airports develop over former military installations.

The monuments are about remembering the dead. The rest of the island reminds us life goes on.

Guadalcanal practicals

• Samson from Hapi Isles Tours was my guide. I paid 1500 SBD (ca 160 EUR/187 USD) for a private 5-hour tour around Guadalcanal’s war sites.
• I flew to Honiara with Air Niuguni. Other options include Solomon Airlines, Fiji Airways and Qantas.
• I stayed at Grace Hotel on the main street for 100 EUR/night (August 2026).

Guadalcanal and the battlefields of the Pacific is a post from Sophie's World

Usually, we travel to tropical islands to relax in beautiful surroundings, and Tuvalu certainly has that. But it also forces you to witness a crisis. Here at the climate frontline, the ocean is not just a view, it’s a countdown clock.

As I look out the window of the descending propeller plane, the blue Pacific and the swaying palms are quickly overshadowed by a sharp realisation: this island is tiny! Already when the wheels touch down at Funafuti, I can sense that life here is different. I have arrived somewhere important. Somewhere critical.

Scooters, strays and life on the runway

If there is one sound that defines Funafuti, it is the constant buzz of scooters.

I first spot them behind the airport gate. A small army of riders waiting for the barrier to lift, so they can zip across the open runway. People don’t just ride along the narrow main road here; the tarmac itself is a highway.

Sometimes, the riders become targets for local dogs. Strays roam freely across the island, and while most are harmless, some are highly territorial. Every now and then, a lone bark triggers a chain reaction, and suddenly a whole pack is racing alongside a scooter like an impromptu motorcycle-chasing posse. It’s a funny sight, but also a bit alarming. Mostly, though, the dogs are just part of the scenery, sleeping in the shade, or casually appearing where you least expect them.

And they absolutely consider the airport their personal territory.

When the tarmac becomes the village green

The moment the planes leave, Funafuti’s airstrip transforms into something completely different: a lively community park.

Coming from a world of high-security airports with strict barriers and guards, it takes a moment for me to process this. But here, because land is incredibly scarce, the runway belongs to everyone.

People stroll along the tarmac. Kids play football. Families gather to socialise. A few runners pass me. On very hot nights, or during power outages, locals even bring out mats and pillows to sleep on the concrete, to catch the cool ocean breeze. It is a beautiful tradition, though not without risk if a scooter zips past in the dark.

Of course, this means the local wildlife does not always understand when aviation needs the runway back. When a flight is due, airport staff face the frantic task of clearing the strip. This involves chasing away stubborn dogs and the occasional runaway pig from a nearby farm. It is a truly surreal contrast: a commercial aircraft preparing to land while people are herding animals off the runway.

Here in Tuvalu, the extraordinary and the ordinary coexist effortlessly.

A stark reality on the frontline

But beneath the humour lies a stark reality.

Tuvalu is on the frontline of climate change. Beyond the stunning blue water, this entire nation is fighting a quiet, desperate battle against the rising tide. Because these islands are so low-lying, the threats are already here: crumbling coastlines, poisoned drinking water, and fierce storms.

As I walk down the narrow main road, that danger shifts from a headline to a heartbeat. The ocean isn’t a distant view. It is everywhere!

The sheer fragility of this place hits me. I look out at the water and realise just how little land there actually is.

The narrowest part of Funafuti atoll.

The ocean presses against the homes, swallows roads, and crowds the narrow strips of land where people live. The relationship between Tuvalu and the sea is intimate, it’s constant, and it’s unavoidable.

I find that deeply unsettling.

As a visitor, it is easy to look at the turquoise water and think paradise. But for the people who live here, that same ocean threatens their future. What happens when the sea rises further? What happens to their land, their homes, their culture, and their ancestral roots?

These are not theoretical questions. They are questions about survival.

That truth changes how you see the landscape. The coastline is still beautiful, but it is also vulnerable. Heartbreakingly so.

Archiving a homeland: the world’s first Digital Nation

But Tuvaluans are not simply waiting for the waves to claim their home. They have not surrendered. Instead, they are turning to technology to save their identity and protect their sovereignty. Out of sheer survival, this tiny nation is transforming itself into the world’s first digital nation.

By 2050, rising seas could make Tuvalu uninhabitable. Faced with this countdown, the radical question is this: can a nation preserve its history, culture, government, and identity entirely in digital form?

To find out, Tuvalu is mapping its islands down to the millimetre. They are building a virtual twin of their land, their heritage, and their culture.

It sounds like science fiction, doesn’t it? A country creating a digital backup of itself so its identity can survive the loss of its land.

But the more I think about it, the less abstract it becomes. After all, a nation is not just a collection of pixels, or coordinates on a map. A nation is a tapestry of homes, memories, family histories, and an ancient relationship with nature. The digital project is not just about saving data, it is about archiving a homeland.

The idea is extraordinary – and devastating.

The Falepili Union: planning for an uncertain future

Yet, digital archives cannot house real people. We all need physical soil for our physical bodies. This harsh truth led to the Falepili Union, a historic treaty between Tuvalu and Australia.

Named after the Tuvaluan value of good neighbourliness and mutual respect, the treaty safeguards Tuvalu’s permanent statehood and at the same time offers a pathway to permanent residency for the islanders in Australia.

Importantly, the treaty does not just plan for an evacuation. It commits Australia to helping Tuvaluans adapt and stay on their land for as long as possible. But if the worst happens, it guarantees mobility with dignity, a choice for those who decide that living elsewhere is part of their future.

That distinction matters. Choosing to leave is entirely different from being forced out. Having the choice to stay and fight, or to move while keeping your culture intact – that changes everything.

Poster at Funafuti airport

An International Court of Justice ruling in 2025 clarified that loss of its physical territory due to sea-level rise does not automatically result in the loss of its statehood or sovereignty, allowing Tuvalu to remain a nation state with rights over its ocean resources and a seat at the UN, even if its islands are underwater.

News.un.org

Being here has made climate migration very real. It is no longer just an abstract policy debate. It makes me look differently at the people going about their day here in Funafuti: riding their scooters, playing football and socialising on the airstrip. They are not statistics in a climate report. They are people. Just like me. Just like you.

And this is their home.

A different kind of neighbourliness

When one house in a neighbourhood faces a storm, the others do not just shut their doors. They help. In a world of vastly unequal resources, Australia has stepped forward. Instead of treating Tuvalu’s crisis as someone else’s problem, they have acknowledged that what happens to this small Pacific nation matters on a human level, not just politically.

The Falepili Union is a mighty example of what true neighbourliness looks like. It ensures that whatever the future brings, the people of Tuvalu retain their identity and their voice.

That kind of solidarity matters for Tuvalu, and in a wider sense, it matters for all of us.

Of course, no treaty can single-handedly solve the global climate crisis. But no nation should ever be forced to surrender its homeland because the rest of the world failed to act quickly enough. Protecting the dignity, sovereignty, and future of our neighbours is an important place to start.

Travel, redefined

Ultimately, it is the fleeting, everyday moments here that linger. It is the endless stream of scooters, the local dogs darting across the road, and the laughter of children playing on the airport runway – a space that would be completely off-limits almost anywhere else in the world.

But what stays with me above all else is the extraordinary resilience of Tuvalu. This is a country fiercely determined to preserve not just where it is, but who it is.

I have travelled for decades, and have visited nearly every country in the world. Yet, my days in Tuvalu have changed how I think about travel. Too often, we jet off looking for something spectacular: a famous landmark, a pristine beach, a perfect photo op. Tuvalu has the beauty for that perfect picture, for sure. But its true impact only hits you after you put the camera down.

When you put the lens away, the heavy realities set in. Identity, survival, what does that mean? What does it mean to be a nation when the physical land beneath your feet is disappearing? What does it truly mean to call a place home?

Tuvalu is tiny, remote, and easily missed on a world map. But as I stand here on this narrow atoll, looking out at the beautiful, unforgiving ocean, it feels like I am looking directly into the future. Our common global future.

It doesn’t need attractions, this little country. Its story is the attraction.

The heart of the atoll: the people

When I said I was from Norway, these kids excitedly shouted ‘Haaland’. (That guy has gotten me lots of international goodwill lately just for being from the same country, and even a couple of free drinks.)

If there is one thing that makes the practical challenges of visiting Tuvalu entirely worthwhile, it is the people. I am continually struck by the profound warmth and hospitality of the islanders. There is a genuine, unmanufactured openness here that instantly makes you feel welcome.

As I walk along the narrow island road, complete strangers smile, wave, and strike up easy conversations. That human kinship completely changes the experience of being somewhere so incredibly remote. You are no longer just an outside tourist looking at a crisis from behind a lens; you are listening to real stories and glimpsing daily life through the eyes of those who call this extraordinary place home.

Watching the plane depart at Funafuti airport

The turquoise lagoon might be the spectacular view that lures you to Tuvalu. But it is the people who will stay with you forever.

**********************

Tuvalu practicals

Tuvalu is remarkably rewarding, but it is not a destination you can visit on autopilot. Getting here takes careful planning. Once you arrive, the limited infrastructure is not a hurdle; it is part of the adventure.

Getting there: the journey to FUN

For almost all visitors, the adventure begins at Funafuti International Airport, and how can you not love a destination with the airport code FUN?

Air services to Tuvalu are highly limited. Currently, the only option is with Fiji Airways, which operates routes out of Nadi and Suva a couple of days a week. Note that because there is no competition, tickets are notoriously expensive.

Due to unpredictable island weather and operational delays, flight schedules are rarely set in stone. Do not book tight connections on either end of your trip; you absolutely need to build in a few days of breathing room.

The remoteness is palpable the moment you step onto the propeller plane. As you watch the vast, empty Pacific Ocean stretch out below, you quickly realise that the journey itself is an integral part of the experience.

Getting around: scooters, strolls and the runway

She sells sea shells by the sea shore. (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.)

Once you land in Funafuti, navigating is straightforward. There is only one main road on the island, and driving from one tip to the other takes less than an hour.

• Scooters & Cars: Most locals and visitors get around on scooters. Hiring one is cheap, convenient, and the best way to catch the island breeze. Cars are also available for rent.
• Walking & Cycling: Because the island is so compact, you can easily walk or bike everywhere. This is the best way to notice local life, but keep a respectful distance from the island dogs. Don’t stare at them or assume they want to be pet; to a dog a direct stare is confrontational and predatory behaviour. Give them their space and use your common sense.
• The Runway Rules: Between flights, the airport runway transforms into a massive community park. It is a fantastic place to hang out, but remember it is an active airstrip; aircraft operations always have the right of way.

Where to stay: stepping outside the resort bubble

Accommodation in Tuvalu is highly limited and usually locally owned. This lack of commercial chains means you are instantly connected to the local community.

• Book ahead: Because rooms on the atoll are scarce, you must secure your spot and confirm your booking directly before you travel.
• Manage your expectations: Facilities are usually simpler than what you might find in mainstream tourist hubs. But that is the charm. You do not come here to hide in a luxury resort bubble, you come to experience the real Tuvalu.

Eseta and Soloseni, owners of Esfam Lodge. Esfam = Eseta Soloseni FAMily

I’m staying at the family-run Esfam Lodge, a two-minute walk from the airport, for 150 AUD pr night, breakfast included. Happy to recommend it. (And no, this isn’t sponsored.)

Where and what to eat: embracing flexibility

Food in Tuvalu is simple, fresh, and influenced by the Pacific. However, menus and ingredients rely on the latest arrivals or what can be harvested locally. Because of this, fresh vegetables can be hard to come by.

• Lodge dining: Your accommodation may offer dinner for guests. Mine does, but it must be booked in advance.
• Chinese restaurants: a few of them, serving staples like chop suey, fried rice, and chow mein
• Sue’s Kitchen: Directly opposite the airport and right next to the active runway, this is a must-visit. Famous for friendly hospitality, great burgers, and fish and chips.
• The Heineken rumour: According to an American I met, Sue’s is also the only spot on the island where you can grab a Heineken. I’m far from a beer connoisseur – I don’t even like the stuff – but for those who care, I reckon that is a bit of a selling point!

What to do: the art of slowing down

The absolute best thing to do in Tuvalu is to throw away your bucket list. There is no endless line of tourist traps to tick off. Instead, the magic lies in slowing down and letting the country happen around you.

• Explore at human scale: Cruise the narrow atoll on a bicycle, scooter, or on foot. It is the best way to watch daily life unfold and discover the sheer pleasure of just being here.
• Embrace the lagoon: Spend hours sitting beside the spectacular, turquoise lagoon. If conditions and local advice permit, dive in for a swim or a snorkel.
• Visit the conservation area: Hire a local boat to take you across to the Funafuti Conservation Area. It is a stunning sanctuary filled with pristine marine life and untouched natural beauty.
• Witness the runway magic: Hang out by the airstrip in the late afternoon. Watching it seamlessly transform from a serious airport runway into a bustling community park – and back again – is unforgettable.
• Connect and learn: Strike up conversations with locals. Take the time to truly listen and understand Tuvalu’s climate challenges. Here, environmental crisis isn’t a headline; it is a living reality that shapes the future.

Essential tips: rules of the atoll to keep in mind

• Cash is king: Tuvalu is an entirely cash-based economy. The local ATMs do not accept international bank cards. You must bring physical Australian Dollars (AUD) to cover your entire stay.
• Disconnect to connect: Internet access is highly limited and slow. Prepare to unplug from the grid and enjoy the digital detox.
• Pack light – and smart: Resource supplies are unpredictable on a remote island. Pack all your personal essentials and health supplies; you will not find mainstream convenience stores here.
• Protect the frontline: Use reef-safe sunscreen and eco-friendly products. Fresh water is a precious, limited resource here, so use it sparingly and minimise your waste.
• Respect local culture: Dress modestly, always ask permission before taking photos of residents, and listen carefully when locals explain community customs.
• Mind your mindset: Never treat this fragile nation like a tourist theme park. It is a deeply cherished home.

Tuvalu Government building, housing all the ministries

Most importantly, I will say it one last time: leave ample time in your schedule. Tuvalu is not a place for packed itineraries or rushed checklists.

Leaving Tuvalu

Even leaving the country is a unique experience in Tuvalu.

Tuvalu: paradise with an expiration date is a post from Sophie's World

In front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Ulaanbaatar, I stumble upon an unusual monument: musical notes engraved on a rock shaped like the country. Turns out it’s the first stanza of the patriotic song Khaluun elgen nutag – The Warmth of the Land. I love that Mongolia has a monument dedicated to a song. It speaks straight to the singer in me.

Red heroes in Ulaanbaatar

I have just spent a few somewhat spontaneous days in Mongolia, following an incredible journey along the Karakoram Highway (post coming up!). I was in the neighbourhood, after all. Well, sort of.

The real magic of Mongolia undoubtedly lies beyond the city limits, out in the endless, rolling steppes. Yet, spending a few days in Ulaanbaatar provides context for those vast horizons. The capital tells the deep, layered history of the people who have called this wilderness home for centuries, making any journey into the wild all the more meaningful.

Ulaanbaatar has a reputation for being a bit rough around the edges – a transit hub where travellers quickly pass through on their way to sleep in a ger (the Mongolian yurt), ride horses, or trek with two-humped Bactrian camels. Most itineraries treat it as an afterthought, but I wanted this Ulaanbaatar travel guide to look at the capital for itself. Its name translates to Red Hero, a nod to the country’s complex history.

Growing up, the Soviet Union felt like a closed-off, mysterious world to me, and Mongolia even more so. Unknown. Intriguing.

Along the streets of Ulaanbaatar

That intrigue deepens the moment you start walking the city’s streets. For nearly seven decades, Mongolia was a Soviet satellite state, a chapter of history that completely altered the layout of its capital. In the 1950s, Soviet urban planners arrived, to modernise what had been a largely nomadic, Buddhist centre, mapping out sprawling districts and lining them with grey, blocky apartment complexes.

Driving past those old blocks, I spot faded socialist-realist murals of happy working-class families and heroic soldiers. Even the public buildings and theatres downtown still echo the heavy, unmistakable signature of Soviet neoclassicism.

Sükhbaatar Square

The natural starting point in the city is Sükhbaatar Square, a huge open space surrounded by government buildings, museums, and modern towers. This is where locals gather, children race around on scooters, and it is where I get my first sense of the scale of Mongolia.

Standing on the edge of the square, gazing up at the massive butter-yellow facade of the Confederation of Mongolian Trade Unions building, I feel like I have stepped onto a Cold War film set, half expecting a shadowy figure to vanish into the entrance. He is wearing a heavy wool trench coat (in my imagination it is a bitterly cold winter day), clutching a briefcase full of heavily redacted state secrets.

All that symmetry and grandeur is typical of Stalinist Classicism architecture. The colonnades, the colours, the elaborate cornices… gorgeous! And delightfully absurd. It proclaims “bureaucracy, but make it majestic!” A palace dedicated entirely to middle management and the sacred ritual of pushing paper.

But turn your head just slightly, and the time-machine shatters. The yellow fortress stands next to gleaming glass-and-steel skyscrapers, making the whole square look like an architectural boxing match between 1950s Soviet grit and 21st century capitalism.

The Government Palace

Dominating the plaza’s northern edge is the massive Government Palace. Seated out front beneath a glass canopy is a colossal statue of Chinggis Khan – and he is absolutely huge! In the West, he is framed as a fierce, distant historical conqueror, but here he remains the ultimate living symbol of national pride. Sitting in that giant armchair, he exudes an aura that shouts “I conquered half the known world, and all you did today was answer emails.”

Meanwhile, those monumental, sweeping robes, that dramatic, wide stone throne… from a distance, he looks like Ursula in The Little Mermaid right before she belts out a musical number, no? Bit of a pop culture vibe there.

Yet despite housing the Prime Minister, the President, and heavy-duty state security, this fortress of power softens up for love. On any given weekend, the grand staircase becomes Ulaanbaatar’s ultimate bridal runway. While ordinary tourists are strictly roped off at the bottom, local security guards happily grant exclusive, VIP access to actual newlyweds on their wedding day to climb the steps. It has become a big local tradition to pose right at the feet of the great Khan, creating a whimsical contrast between his savage, world-conquering glare and dozens of ecstatic couples wearing the traditional robes known as deels and flowing white dresses, adjusting their trains for the wedding album.

A monument built on a … unique omen

If you pivot away from the giant Ursula-esque Khan and look directly into the centre of the plaza, you’ll spot the square’s original master of ceremonies: an impressive 14-metre-tall bronze equestrian statue of Damdin Sükhbaatar, the revolutionary hero who declared Mongolia’s independence from China right on this plaza in 1921. In a classic twist of folklore, urban legend says the monument was erected on the exact patch of dirt where Sükhbaatar’s horse urinated during a rally on 8 July 1921 – a moment the locals took as an undeniably good omen for the future of the nation.

This sprawling plaza is much more than a showcase for oversized statues; it functions as the literal and emotional heartbeat of modern Mongolian history. It is the exact ground where official communist parades marched through the 20th century, where the wide-spread, peaceful anti-communist hunger strikes of the 1990 Revolution unfolded, and where today, you are just as likely to witness a pop concert, a political protest – or an elaborate wedding photoshoot.

Ulaanbaatar’s museums

Other travellers I meet, recommend checking out a few of Ulaanbaatar’s museums as a way to better understand the country. Two come particularly recommended: the National Museum of Mongolia and the very contemporary Chinggis Khaan National Museum.

I decide to focus on just one – have to save something for the next visit – so I pop in to the Chinggis Khan, to find out more about Mongolia’s most famous historical figure and the empire that changed the world.

Navigating the streets a few blocks north of the square is a masterclass in urban survival. But I manage to dodge the traffic and the gigantic building comes into view. There is something about the sheer, looming scale of it that draws me in.

The exhibits cover Mongolia’s history from prehistoric times through the rise of the Mongol Empire, the Qing period, socialism, and the country’s transition to democracy following the 1990 revolution.

One of the most interesting sections of the museum explores Mongolia’s traditional nomadic culture. The exhibits explain how families have lived on the steppe for centuries, showcasing beautifully crafted saddles, horse gear, traditional deels, musical instruments, and household items used inside a ger. It provides an excellent introduction that allows for a much better appreciation of the lifestyle once you finally look beyond the capital.

The museum also houses displays on Mongolia’s many ethnic groups, Buddhist art, and archaeological discoveries. I spend a couple of hours wandering through its impressive nine storeys.

Ulaanbaatar: city of contrasts

All the stark communist planning and rapid modernisation haven’t erased the soul of the city. Old and new exist comfortably side-by-side in Ulaanbaatar. There are lively, noisy markets, and a local culture that remains deeply tied to the nomadic way of life, even in a moden, fast-growing capital.

The architecture here is an unapologetic, chaotic mix of Soviet-era blocks, traditional Buddhist temples, towering glass skyscrapers – and, somewhat unexpectedly, a Chinese gate.

It’s not a city that reveals its charms instantly, and you won’t find its true magic written down in a standard sterile Ulaanbaatar travel guide. But after a few days exploring its streets, I have truly come to appreciate the contrasts. Ulaanbaatar has a wonderfully unusual character all its own.

On the way to the airport, I see horses grazing alongside the motorway, some even getting out in traffic, as they aren’t fenced in. Not an unusual sight, according to the taxi driver. A bit like moose at home in Norway. Though I have to admit, explaining to an airline agent that you are late to the gate because of an equine traffic jam is a holiday excuse I never thought I’d get to use.

PS Near the museum exit, I spot a digital guestbook featuring two separate “Hello from Norway” messages. From today! And neither of them is mine. So much for escaping to the middle of nowhere! Seems we pop up everywhere.

The unexpected charm of Ulaanbaatar is a post from Sophie's World

We’re about to take a trip along the fabled Karakoram Highway. Can’t wait! But first, a few days to settle into Pakistan.

I was not sure what to expect from Islamabad. Like many, I have heard more about the country’s intense and chaotic cities and the dramatic mountain landscapes in the north than its capital. But after spending a few days exploring this uniquely planned green city – the tree-lined streets, the mountain views, the order… well, what’s not to like?

Unlike many capitals around the world, Islamabad feels calm and relaxed. The city sits against the backdrop of the Margalla Hills, and no matter where you go, nature never seems far away. Very relatable for this Norwegian.

So here you go: a few postcards from Pakistan’s greenest city.

Inland, local, and international

The Pakistan Monument and a look at Pakistani culture at Lok Virsa Museum

First order of the day: a look at the Pakistan Monument in Shakarparian Hill, a powerful symbol of the unity of the Pakistani people.

It’s a beautiful structure, with four large petals, representing the major provinces (Punjab, Sindh, Balochistan, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) and three smaller petals, representing the territories (Gilgit-Baltistan, Azad Jammu & Kashmir, and the former Federally Administered Tribal Areas).

The surrounding area also offers great views of the city.

The Lok Virsa Museum across the little square showcases the country’s many cultures, traditions, and regions. Colourful textiles, traditional music, handicrafts – every exhibit feels like a mini journey across Pakistan.

For first-time visitors like us, the Pakistan Monument and Lok Virsa are an excellent place to start.

Margalla Hills National Park

Next we go into the hills along the northern side of Islamabad. This is the westernmost foothills of the Himalayas, with high biodiversity. One thing we quickly learn is that the locals love the outdoors. Again, very familiar for a Norwegian.

Daman-e-Koh viewpoint

The trails in the Margalla Hills range from easy walks to challenging hikes. We haven’t planned any serious trekking; it’s simply too hot in the summer, and I have an injured leg. Even so, a short hike is enough to reward us with spectacular views over the city.

We make our way to Daman-e-Koh, a hilltop viewpoint and garden with panoramic views of Islamabad. Along the way, there are opportunities for horse and camel rides, but the offers are refreshingly low-key. Monkeys, colourful birds, and even leopards live in these hills, but they mostly keep away. Sensible creatures.

At the top, we stop for views and peach juice at the Princess Diana terrace at The Dome restaurant. She is one of several VIPs who has visited Daman-e-Koh, according to a photo gallery along the walls.

Daman-e-Koh is a famous spot for sunset watching, and we will come back for that later. But for now, Islamabad stretches out before us, with wide boulevards, green parks, and the iconic Faisal Mosque visible in the distance. Time to have a closer look at what is probably Islamabad’s most famous sight, but first…

Saidpur Village

The restored Saidpur Village is at the foot of the Margalla hills, and has historic architecture and art spaces. Walking through narrow streets, and across little bridges feels worlds away from the modern parts of Islamabad.

Faisal Mosque

Faisal Mosque is designed to resemble a Bedouin tent, rising dramatically against the backdrop of the hills.

 Pakistan’s national mosque is one of the most striking sights in the city, and one of the largest mosques in the world, covering an area of 130,000 square metres (32 acres). And while there are quite a few people out and about today, it doesn’t feel crowded.

Wear a headscarf if you’re female, and no shorts allowed for any gender.

There’s a shop on the grounds –

– selling books (holy and otherwise), souvenirs and an eclectic mix of quirky gifts and curiosities.

Step back in time at the Golra Sharif Railway Museum

The Heritage Railway Museum is one of Islamabad’s lesser-known attractions. It is a must for train geeks, and equally rewarding for anyone curious about Pakistan’s past. Wandering amongst the beautifully preserved locomotives, vintage carriages, and fascinating railway memorabilia, it is easy to imagine an era when trains were the lifeblood of travel across the country.

The small museum is a nostalgic journey through the history of Pakistan Railways and the important role it played in connecting cities, towns, and remote communities.

Hop on over to Rawalpindi

Right next door to Islamabad is its twin city Rawalpindi.

Although the two cities sit side by side, they feel worlds apart. Islamabad is calm and carefully planned; Rawalpindi is vibrant, chaotic, and packed with historic buildings, bazaars, and mosques. Cars and people mingle in an unruly mix, and rickshaws buzz through narrow streets. Have we crossed eras?

Markazi Mosque

The Markazi Mosque is Rawalpindi’s most prominent religious landmark, beautiful and blue, and in the midst of the city centre pandemonium. The gate is locked, but our driver manages to persuade the guard to open it for us, for a few minutes.

The Markazi Jama Masjid – inside and out

Liaquat Bagh

For me, the most thought-provoking sight in Rawalpindi is Liaquat Bagh.

This rather ordinary park was known as Company Bagh (Park) in the days of the East India Company, but renamed Liaquat Bagh after Liaquat Ali Khan, Pakistan’s first prime minister, was gunned down here in 1951.

In more recent memory – and something I remember well – Pakistan’s first and only female prime minister, and first prime minister of a Muslim country, Benazir Bhutto, suffered the same fate, just here.

Benazir had given what was to be her final speech at a political campaign rally, from this stage in the park on 27 December 2007. It was widely thought that she stood a good chance of winning the elections in January 2008, just two weeks later, and would become Pakistan’s prime minister for the third time.

As she left the park and got into her white bullet-proof SUV, she stood up to wave to the crowd from the sun roof, and was hit by a bullet and the explosion from a suicide bomber.

Both Benazir’s and Liaquat Ali Khan’s murders remain unsolved and their killers walk free.

Rawalpindi is only a short taxi ride away from Islamabad, an easy day trip. Together, the two cities offer visitors a unique glimpse into both the modern and traditional sides of urban Pakistan.

Rawal lake

On the way back from Rawalpindi, we stop at Rawal Lake, which looks to be a fave spot for a family outing.

Families picnic under the trees, children play along the shoreline, and people are having fun on the water. It feels less like a tourist attraction and more like a place where Islamabad residents come to relax and enjoy their city.

Eating our way through Islamabad

Well, that heading is perhaps a bit ambitious, since we only try three places, but here you go:

Dawat

The first night in town, we have dinner at Dawat, one of several restaurants at the Serena Hotel. We are here at Ashura, the peak of Muharram, the Shia holiday commemorating the Battle of Karbala and the martyrdom of Imam Husayn (grandson of the Prophet Mohammad), so it’s quiet. But the Paksitani food is tasty, and the service is friendly. So friendly, in fact, the staff takes the time to chat and show us around.

Turns out, we are dining in the same restaurant as the Iranian delegation.

Like most Serenas I have seen, this is a beautiful property, and well worth a wander around. There is also a cosy-looking outdoor BBQ-restaurant, the Baradari – normally with music, but not this weekend, because of the holiday. Next time in Islamabad! (And no, nothing sponsored, ICYW.)

The Dome

The next day, we go back to The Dome at Daman-e-Koh in the Margalla hills for sunset. The weather gods decided on a more subdued sunset this evening, but the food is good.

I have a closer look at the photo gallery, and spot Benazir Bhutto.

An evocative moment, after our day in Rawalpindi.

Sky 24

Since we have to be up at 04.00 the next morning, we decide to take it easy and have dinner at Sky 24, the rooftop bar of our hotel, where we’ve had mocktails the other nights (cause dry country), watching the city sparkle below.

My take on Islamabad

What has surprised me most about Islamabad is not a particular landmark or attraction, but the overall feeling of the city.

It is clean, green, and peaceful. Mountains frame the skyline, nature is woven into daily life, and there is a sense of calm that’s rare in many capital cities.

What was meant to be just a few days’ stopover before setting off along the Karakoram Highway, turned out to be a destination worth exploring in its own right.

All photos by Andrew Morland, Tom Brothwell and myself. 

Islamabad: Pakistan’s green capital is a post from Sophie's World

Or… that is what I thought until the guide told us Munch was messy. So messy, in fact, that when the municipality took over the house in 1946, after his death, they had to practically clear – and clean – their way in.

Other than that, the house has been kept intact there on top of the little hill, facing the Oslofjord.

Edvard Munch’s house in Åsgårdstrand

As I enter, I get a strange sensation of entering not just a house, but a state of mind. It is familiar in so many ways. And not just because I have been here before, but it is also so much like a typical Norwegian cabin that has been passed down through the generations. The interior reminds me of the cabin my grandfather built more than 100 years ago. We have it still.

Munch bought the house in 1898. He was 34 at the time, and it was the first home he ever owned. He was very attached to it, and reportedly called it Lykkehuset – House of Happiness. A surprisingly sweet and gentle name, isn’t it – for a man whose life and art are so often associated with anxiety, loneliness, and existential dread.

Munch’s house has modest, almost humble rooms. There is none of the grandeur one might expect from one of the world’s most famous artists here. Instead, there is simplicity: creaking floors, small windows, worn furniture. 

As I walk through the little house, it is very clear that he was not searching for luxury, the good Edvard. Atmosphere was his thing. That was his true subject. 

Munch’s kitchen

Munch’s significant others

Along the walls in the house, as well as in the studio in the garden, are black-and-white photographs.

And here’s Edvard, with two of his significant women. On the right is the English violinist, Eva Mudocci, his muse and possibly his paramour. (They wrote hundreds of letters to one another). On the left is his most famous fiancée, Tulla Larsen.

They had a turbulent relationship, Tulla and Edvard, fraught with jealousy, dramatic outbursts, and on his part, commitment phobia. Now, Edvard was also very interested in guns. He had several and used his living room walls for target practice.

Guns, booze and a dramatic temper: never a good combination. One night, in deep desperation and after copious amounts of alcohol, Tulla and Edvard get into a fight. A gun goes off and the bullet hits Edvard’s hand, smashing parts of his middle finger. The finger gets so damaged, he has to amputate the top part.

Never mind my reflection, look at Edvard’s finger

Most people know Edvard Munch through The Scream, that iconic image of modern anxiety. But his life was far richer and more complicated than a single painting can capture.

Edvard experienced loss early and repeatedly. His mother died when he was young. One of his sisters died of tuberculosis. Another struggled with mental illness. Munch later wrote that sickness, madness, and death stood beside his cradle from the day he was born. These experiences shaped his art profoundly. 

Rather than painting the external world as it looked, he wanted to paint emotions – living people who breathe, feel, suffer, and love. In many ways, he was less interested in faces than in the invisible dramas happening beneath them. And Åsgårdstrand became one of the key stages for those dramas. 

Munch’s house: the studio

The present-day studio in the garden is a replica, faithfully rebuilt as the original timber had decayed.

Edvard also liked to paint outdoors in the fresh air. In fact, he would even hang his works outside to expose them to the elements. Rumour has it, his paintings were covered in bird droppings, for a more existential effect. True story? I don’t know, but considering that his paintings are now worth millions, that little piece of trivia is, well… priceless.

One version of The Scream sold for USD 120 million at Sotheby’s in New York in 2012.

Åsgårdstrand is a sweet little place that feels oddly suspended between worlds: part fishing village, part summer retreat, part living painting.

If you take a wander around town, you will recognise many of the landscapes from his paintings: the shoreline, the moonlit water, the winding paths, the gardens, and especially the famous bridge. Works such as The Dance of Life, The Voice, Melancholy, Separation, and Girls on the Bridge all carry the atmosphere of this little seaside village.

The scenery in the paintings is real, but Munch transformed it into something psychological and symbolic. Looking out over the fjord, I can see how it could happen. The landscape is lovely, but not dramatic. It is quiet. Reflective. A place where thoughts have room to grow larger than themselves. 

Edvard Munch and the chocolate factory

To view Munch solely as a painter of anguish is to overlook the many facets of his art. His works encompass not only haunting explorations of human anxiety, but also sunlit beaches, tranquil landscapes, and celebrations of life’s pleasures. A vivid example of the latter is the Freia Frieze.

In 1922, the founder of Freia, Norway’s best-known and best-loved chocolate factory, commissioned a piece for the women’s canteen at the plant in Oslo, to provide a bit of cheer in hard times.

And what they got, was a masterpiece: a 12-panel technicolour mural, with no trace of darkness. Just idyllic, coastal landscape and people enjoying it. Edvard certainly had a multi-faceted personality.

Normally, the frieze is exhibited at the Freia factory in a special hall, but it is presently (as at June 2026) on loan, and adorns the walls of the studio here in Åsgårdstrand.

The neighbourhood

Leaving, we wander along Edvard Munch Street.

It is easy to see why Munch was inspired by Åsgårdstrand. And the neighbours, in turn, seem to be inspired by his works:

Even the drain covers are quaint.

We head for the museum shop, located next to the former town hall, a few hundred metres away –

– to have a look at Digital Munch, with interactive stations and a cool 8-minute film presentation, based on his works from Åsgårdstrand and his written words. A worthwhile stop.

Munch’s house practicals

• Åsgårdstrand is a 1-hour drive from Oslo, or 30 minutes from Torp Sandefjord Airport.
• Wander around the gardens as much as you like, and whenever you like, nothing is locked or fenced in. However, to step inside the house, you must join a guided tour.
• Opening hours both for Munch’s house and Digital Munch: Mon – Sun 1100 – 1600 in June, July and August; Sat – Sun 1100 – 1600 in September. For the rest of the year, a private tour is an option – contact booking@vestfoldmuseene.no
• The tour takes ca. 30 minutes and costs 150 NOK (June 2026). You can buy tickets directly in the studio or at the museum shop nearby. Up-to-date info is here.
• A longer tour is also available, walking in Munch’s footsteps in Åsgårdstrand – ca 1.5 hours.
• For your SatNav:
  • Munch’s house: Edvard Munchs gate 25
  • Digital Munch: N.C. Nielsensgate 3 A, old Åsgårdstrand town hall
• You can park at Åsgårdstrand harbour; some spaces are free, some are not. Be sure to check; parking fines are expensive.

Walking here is like walking amongst my paintings. I so want to paint when I walk here in Åsgårdstrand.

Edvard Munch

Disclosure? Nope, nothing to disclose. No press tickets or anything sponsored.

Edvard Munch’s house of happiness is a post from Sophie's World

I like Siena. It’s small and friendly and kinda sweeps you straight into the scene. The city rises and dips across the Tuscan hills in a way that makes me feel like I’m walking on a dance floor with very good shock absorption.

One moment we’re climbing a narrow lane between tall ochre buildings; the next we’re looking out across rolling countryside and terracotta rooftops fading into the distance.

What strikes me most are the buildings. That slightly shabby old-world elegance that makes Italian cities so photogenic. Faded green shutters on sun-warmed brick facades, little balconies overflowing with plants – or today’s laundry. Even ordinary streets look intentionally composed. In the evening light, the whole city seems to glow

There’s something distinctly Gothic about Siena too – less polished Renaissance harmony, more dramatic angles, shadows and soaring stone.

Piazza del Campo

The Piazza del Campo sits in a sort of natural valley between Siena’s hills, sloping gently downwards like an amphitheatre.

It’s the heart of it all, Piazza del Campo – famous for the Il Palio, the twice-yearly horse race that transforms the square into a swirl of rivalry, and the clip-clop of horseshoes on terracotta bricks.

On this ordinary non-Palio afternoon, it’s a bit difficult to imagine horses charging around this square at full speed.

The whole city of Siena, built around the Piazza del Campo, was devised as a work of art that blends into the surrounding landscape.

UNESCO

We stop by the Basilica di San Domenico, also known as the Basilica Cateriniana, to have a look at the relics of the holy Santa Caterina.

Seeing the mummified thumb and the shrunken head clad in a nun’s veil, is one of those slightly surreal moments that Italy does so well: solemn, eerily fascinating and unsettling, all at once. Catarina wasn’t too thrilled about it either, namesake or not. (Photos are not allowed inside the relic chapel, which is probably just as well).

What I like most, though, is that Siena doesn’t feel polished for visitors. It feels lived in and comfortable with its own history, a sort of ‘I don’t care what you think’ attitude. By the time we left, I had the sense that we’d only really scratched the surface, which is exactly the sort of feeling that makes you want to return.

Also, I obviously need more – and better – photos.

For now, though, this will have to do.

World at a Glance is a series of short articles here on Sophie’s World, portraying curious, evocative, happy, sad, wondrous or unexpected little encounters.

Historic Centre of Siena is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Siena: faded facades and slightly surreal relics is a post from Sophie's World

There are cities you visit, and then there are cities that just take hold of you. Rome does that almost immediately. I never tire of walking around this city for hours on end. It feels like I am moving through several layers of civilisation all at once.

Is it the way ancient ruins appear without warning between busy streets and tiny cafés? Or the sound of water spilling from fountains that have been running for centuries? Or is it simply the feeling that every corner of the city has witnessed something extraordinary.

Here’s a little Rome travel guide for ya.

Ah, those atmospheric Roman facades

Despite all its grandeur, Rome still feels so human. It is chaotic, noisy and wonderfully overwhelming, and that is precisely its charm. It does not preserve history behind glass, it lives alongside it. Like Paris, this combination of history and present humanity is part of why UNESCO has recognised the historic centre as a World Heritage site.

The Colosseum: an oddly moving experience

I expected the Colosseum to impress me. Of course I did. But what I did not expect, was how moving it would feel, standing inside the arena that first time, some 30 years ago now. I still remember it.

Beneath those enormous arches, it is impossible not to think about the thousands of lives that passed through here nearly 2,000 years ago – gladiators, emperors, spectators, workers, prisoners, lions – entertainment for some, life or death for others. The Colosseum certainly reminds you that history was complicated and brutal.

Are you not entertained?

The Trevi Fountain: Mano destra sulla spalla sinistra

Right hand over left shoulder, with your back to the fountain. This is how you throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, to be guaranteed a return to Rome. If that is not enough for you, throw in 2 coins – that will make you fall in love with an Italian. 3 coins means marriage – or divorce, whatever your preference.

One day, I will get a photo of the fountain from this angle without heads blocking the view of the water. Promise!

The first glimpse of Fontana di Trevi takes you by surprise. Here you are, wandering down one of the narrow streets in Rome, and suddenly there it is: impossibly grandiose, bursting with movement and sound, water crashing around imposing marble figures.

Yes, it is usually crowded. Yes, everyone snaps away with their phones. And yes – you still have to visit, it is that gorgeous – and so fabulously theatrical.

I stopped by one late evening, on the way home after a long dinner. Must have been well after midnight. I was by no means alone, but there was a strange sense of intimacy to it. People were sitting along the edge of the fountain, just watching the water, and speaking softly.

I threw a coin into the fountain. Just one.

The Pantheon and silence in Rome

The Pantheon is the oldest building in Rome still in use. From 126 CE, it is actually the oldest building on Earth still in use. 1,900 years old this year! Wrap your head around that!

Outside, Piazza della Rotonda is buzzing. Tourists drift across the square; waiters weave between tables like in Ratatouille. Then I step inside Pantheon and everything changes. The noise gives way to a quiet murmur. People speak softly in here. It is that kind of atmosphere.

Looking up at the huge dome, I wonder – for the millionth time – how it is possible. How can this ancient building support this huge thing?

After nearly 2,000 years, the oculus at the centre of the dome is now open to the sky. It fills the building with shifting natural light that changes by the minute.

The eye in the sky above me

There is no grand spectacle inside here, no attempt to overwhelm. It is about balance and proportion. Pantheon feels calm and confident.

I stand there, looking up at the light until my neck begins to protest.

Piazza Navona

A lovely thing to do in Rome is hanging out at Piazza Navona. I have found myself returning to this Baroque square time and time again, not really planning to, but there I am.

It feels unmistakably Roman, this square – elegant yet lively, grand but informal. Built on the site of Circus Agonalis, a stadium from 86 CE, where Olympic-inspired sporting events and music competitions took place, Piazza Navona has retained the same long, oval shape.

Today, there are still musicians here, as well as painters, dancers, magicians, all kinds of street performers. Cafés and gelaterias and wine bars spill out beneath the warm amber facades. And as in so many of Rome’s piazzas, the low hum of conversation drifts on late into the night.

In the centre of Piazza Navona is Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Fountain of the Four Rivers). Four marble river gods recline and twist dramatically around an ancient Egyptian obelisk. They represent the major rivers on each of the four continents known back when Gian Lorenzo Bernini created it in 1651: the Nile, the Ganges, the Danube, and the Rio de la Plata. 

Pure Roman extravaganza.

Here’s Ganges, six-pack n’all

 I also like Fontana del Nettuno, where Neptune is fighting a sea monster. Cat wasn’t that impressed, though.

She much preferred the carousel.

In December, Piazza Navona turns into a colourful market. The atmosphere feels a bit more chaotic than Christmas markets in northern Europe, but that’s as it should be.

The main act here is not Father Christmas or Santa Claus. Oh no, in Rome, it’s all about a witch. Here’s the story:

Christmas witches on Piazza Navona

La Befana

On their way to Betlehem to see a newborn child, the Three Wise Men got lost. They asked La Befana (old woman) for directions and said ‘why don’t you join us?’ ‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘I have too much cleaning to do.’ But then she thought better of it, and went after them. Sadly, she was too late for the birth, only getting there on 6 January. La Befana has been searching for the child ever since, leaving gifts for children along the way. She still does, and every Epiphany, Italian children rejoice over Legos and PlayStations.

More about La Befana in this post.

Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps

Piazza di Spagna and the famous Spanish Steps is one of the most recognisable gathering spots in Rome.

The sleek steps rise towards the church of Trinità dei Monti. Looking down from the top you might feel you have seen this before, even if it is your first visit in Rome.

The steps are always busy, but in a relaxed way. Probably because almost everyone is sitting down, usually with a gelato in hand, just like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck did in Roman Holiday. No wonder the place looks familiar, eh?

Again, the most profound experience here is the everyday life surrounding the steps; tourists snapping away, locals hurrying to work.

Fashionable streets branch away in every direction, yet the square itself feels old-world. Luxury boutiques stand beside centuries-old buildings. Church bells echo above the tourist chatter.

Horses on Piazza di Spagna. Wonder what they are talking about.

Since I am Norwegian, I’ll mention Sigrid Undset, Nobel laureate and one of our most famous authors. (You may have read Kristin Lavransdatter.) Sigrid travelled to Rome several times in the early 1900s, and was inspired. In return, Rome remembers her on Via Frattina, just steps away from, well, the steps.

Largo di Torre Argentina: Ancient ruins and Roman cats

One day, I was ambling over to Trastevere, because someone had recommended a gelateria there. On the way, I stumbled upon a park filled with ruins – and cats! Lots of cats, stretching out on stone columns, or sleeping next to a 2,000-year-old wall, looking graceful and lazy, as only a cat can.

This is the oldest cat sanctuary in Rome, run by volunteers.

I adore cats, so of course I love this extraordinary place!

In fact, it is extraordinary in many ways. Legend has it, this is where Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BCE.

Got my eye on you, tourist!

Et tu, Brute?

Legend also has it, Julius was none too fond of cats. He might even have had ailurophobia – extreme fear of felines. Is it not just marvellously ironic then, that the last place he saw on this earth, is now full of kitties?

It sounds almost absurd, doesn’t it? A cat sanctuary amongst the ruins of a world-changing civilisation? But it works – and feels very Roman. Grand history mixed effortlessly with ordinary life. I keep coming back to that!

Alexandra has written about Torre Argentina in this post.

The Vatican

And then, of course, there is the Vatican, a place that feels simultaneously its own world and inseparable from Rome.

Crossing into the world’s smallest independent state is strangely subtle. One moment you are walking through busy Roman streets, and the next you emerge into the vast open Piazza San Pietro, surrounded by Bernini’s sweeping colonnades. Despite the extraordinary size of the square, the atmosphere is often peaceful, especially late in the evening.

More about the Vatican in this post.

Rome’s everyday magic

The real magic of Rome is not just in its famous landmarks. It is in the feeling of wandering aimlessly and chance upon something beautiful: a hidden courtyard, a tiny church, ivy climbing on ancient brick, a fountain echoing in an empty square, a poem taped on a wall.

Alexandra spotted this lovely piece in 2012. Searching the name, I came across a tragic story about a 22-year-old man who died in a traffic accident back in 2011. Is it the same one, or is Adriano Prudentini a common name in Italy?

Via Panisperna with the iconic ivy curtain – in the Rione Monti district.

Rome is not polished. It is worn, and layered, and imperfect in the best way.

It is a city people return to again and again. And I will, too. Guaranteed by that coin I tossed into the Trevi Fountain.

That balance between history and present-day life; love being part of that!

Historic Centre of Rome, the Properties of the Holy See in that City Enjoying Extraterritorial Rights and San Paolo Fuori le Mura is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Rome: ancient wonders and everyday magic is a post from Sophie's World

You will have seen photos of the glittering Hall of Mirrors or the endless gardens, but nothing quite prepares you for the scale of it all when you arrive in person. From the golden gates outside to the enormous chandeliers inside, everything about Versailles feels like it was designed to impress. And it was.

Just outside Paris, the Palace of Versailles is probably the most iconic landmark in France, and it’s easy to see why. It’s stunning, dramatic, flamboyant, and full of stories about power, opulence, and revolution.

Louis XIV: the Sun King

Versailles became what it is today, thanks to King Louis XIV.

He transformed what was once a fairly simple hunting lodge, into one of the most extravagant palaces in Europe during the 17th century. And when I say extravagant, I mean really extravagant.

Louis wanted to show the world just how powerful he France had become. Every room, garden, painting, and fountain was part of that message. The palace wasn’t simply somewhere to live; it was a massive display of royal sway.

By 1682, Louis had moved the royal court and government to Versailles, turning it into the political centre of France. Noble families competed for the king’s attention, following endless rules and ceremonies at court.

As I walk through Versailles, I can still feel that sense of theatre and performance everywhere.

The Hall of Mirrors really is that impressive

The Hall of Mirrors is the most famous room in the palace, and yes – it absolutely lives up to its reputation: 70 metres long, with 17 enormous arched windows along one wall, and equally enormous, aligned mirrors on the opposite wall. Sunlight pours into the room and reflects everywhere. The entire room sparkles.

The first time I was here, as a mere teenager, a guide said the mirrors were installed so everyone around the table could enjoy the views of the formidable gardens. No fighting about which side of the table to sit at. Nice!

20 years later, I asked another guide about this. Main non! she said. The Hall of Mirrors was not used as a dining room. Louis XIV had the mirrors put in to magnify the space – yet another way to show off his power.

Well, who’s to say exactly what was going on in the 1680s.

No table in the Hall of Mirrors now, though. At least not last time I stopped by. Would have made for slow movement for the 27,000 tourists who visit every day. But I can easily imagine the table. Lavish! And the view. Equally lavish!

Even more interesting is knowing that centuries after Louis XIV held his grand royal events in the Hall of Mirrors, the allied powers and an unwilling Germany signed the Treaty of Versailles in this very room, on 28 June 1919. And with that, World War I was officially over, exactly 5 years after Serb revolutionary Gavrilo Princip assassinated Duchess Sophie and Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in Sarajevo, which set off the whole thing in the first place. It was an awful treaty. So bad, in fact, it led to the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany, and to World War II, 20 years later.

Petit Trianon: Marie-Antoinette’s escape from court life

Poor little Maria Antonia. Married at 14, for political reasons, and to a prince who was impotent for 7 years, no less. Next to the Sun King himself, Marie-Antoinette is the most talked-about person who lived at Versailles, remembered for her luxuries and excess. The reality was more complicated.

Court life at Versailles was incredibly formal and intensely public, so she often escaped to Petit Trianon, a smaller palace out-of-the-way in the grounds. Compared with the overwhelming grandeur of the main palace, Petit Trianon is quieter and far more personal. It is easy to see why she loved it.

Marie-Antoinette also created the Queen’s Hamlet, a little village designed to look like an ideal countryside retreat.

But while the royal family led a sheltered life at Versailles, tensions in France were growing rapidly. In 1789, the French Revolution took off. The family was forced to leave the palace, and four years later M-A was unalived at Place de la Concorde.

It feels strange to walk through such magnificent surroundings, knowing how dramatically everything changed.

The gardens are as incredible as the palace –

– and they are enormous! Ca. 800 hectares (about 2,000 acres, for you Americans) of grounds, filled with fountains, statues, tree-lined pathways, and perfectly symmetrical flowerbeds.

Not that into gardens? You’ll still want to see these – impossibly neat and carefully planned. Which, of course, was exactly the point. Louis XIV wanted nature itself to appear controlled and ordered.

Some of the highlights include the Apollo Fountain, the Latona Fountain, and the Grand Canal. On sunny days, people spend hours wandering around the grounds or sitting beside the fountains.

If you are here during the Grandes Eaux Musical – Musical Fountain Shows (every Saturday and Sunday between 1. April – 1. November), you’ll see the fountains dancing to Baroque music.

Why is Versailles a UNESCO World Heritage site?

UNESCO added Versailles to its World Heritage List already in 1979, recognising its cultural and historical importance. And it is very much deserving of that recognition.

Versailles influenced palace design all across Europe, inspiring royal residences in several countries, including Schönbrunn in Austria and the Winter Palace in Russia. It still feels like the ultimate symbol of royal grandeur, in every sense.

The ongoing restoration work happening across the estate is also impressive. No small task, maintaining a palace of this size: the rooms, the furniture, the paintings, not to mention the gardens. The responsibility would make my head spin.

Visiting Versailles today

Versailles is an extraordinary property, worthy of your time even today, centuries after its golden age.

My advice? Some of the best moments happen away from the busiest rooms, so get here early and give yourself plenty of time to amble around, especially in the gardens.  Have a wander by Grand Trianon, Petit Trianon, and through Marie-Antoinette’s hamlet. In fact, set aside a whole day, if you can.

It feels both beautiful and strangely human at the same time, this palace. It is a monument to ambition and power – and also to the cruel twists of history.

PS It has been a good while since I was last at Versailles, and snapping photos indoors were strictly forbidden then. Looks like this has changed, so I need to go back. I’ll give myself an entire day, and pretend it’s 1785.

Palace and Park of Versailles is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Vintage Versailles is a post from Sophie's World

The Seine feels instantly familiar, doesn’t she? The river and the banks – Rive Gauche and Rive Droite – they are timeless and cinematic, and very much alive.

Every time I return to Paris, I somehow find myself back beside the river, on either bank. Often both.

I have walked here often: sometimes early in the morning hurrying to a meeting from my once-temporary digs in the Latin Quarter; other times, with nowhere particular to be, drifting slowly along the quays, letting the river set the pace.

She does not rush, La Seine. She glides.

And somehow, so do I.

A river written into history

The story of Paris begins with this river. Long before cafés, boulevards, and fashion houses, the Seine was a trading route for the Parisii tribe who settled on Île de la Cité. The largest of the three islands in the Seine was the heart of Paris in medieval times.

Over centuries, kings, revolutionaries, artists, and ordinary Parisians shaped the riverbanks into the city’s backbone. Bridges appeared, one by one – and none more symbolic than the ironically named Pont Neuf (meaning New Bridge), the oldest bridge in the city still standing.

Standing here, the layers of time are clearly visible: medieval towers, Renaissance façades, Haussmann balconies. And beneath it all, modern-day life unfolds.

Walking the banks of the Seine today

In the morning, runners pass by quickly and quietly, while delivery boats hum downstream. By afternoon, students sit on the stone embankments, chatting and sharing baguettes. Come evening, the riverbanks transform into an open-air living room for the entire city. I adore the atmosphere here especially on a warm spring day.

Along the quays are the famous bouquinistes. The green stalls sell vintage posters, old novels, and forgotten postcards. I never walk past without stopping, even if I buy nothing. Browsing these open-air bookshops feels almost like a ritual.

Also along the river, on the left bank, just opposite Notre Dame, I often stop by the wonderfully old and dusty English-language bookshop, Shakespeare and Company. You can sit down in one of many hidden nooks and read, or go upstairs to play the piano while looking out the window at the river.

Many sections of the lower banks are now pedestrian zones. Cars have been replaced by cyclists, dancers, street musicians, and families strolling without hurry. I appreciate this. The city feels softer here. And cleaner.

I also love that the river belongs to everyone. The Seine lets me know this random visitor to the City of Lights is welcome to walk along her banks, even though I’m carrying a coffee to go in a paper cup. So non-Parisian.

Well, at least it isn’t Starbucks. But still, to make up for it, I will have a ridiculously expensive citron pressé (no ice), at the iconic Café de Flore later, sitting at a table and reading a book, phone in pocket. Promise.

Landmarks that frame the water

Walking beside the Seine is like moving through an open-air museum.

On one stretch, I see the glass pyramid of the Louvre, and the resilient Notre-Dame Cathedral, its towers reflected softly in the water.

Further along, suddenly the Eiffel Tower appears.

What surprises me is how close everything feels. These icons are not isolated attractions; they are companions to the river, constantly revealed and hidden again as you walk.

I can never seem to get enough photos of this structure.

The island in the river

I wander across a bridge to Île de la Cité, to La Conciergerie, home of kings in the Middle Ages, and later a revolutionary prison. The most famous inmate, Prisoner no. 280, was separated from her children and brought here on the night of 2 August 1793, to live in a barely furnished, damp cell.

74 days later, she was tried and found guilty at Palais de Justice, and the following day, she was taken to the guillotine.

More about the unlucky queen in this post.

The stunning gate to the court d’honneur – the honour court, of Palais de Justice.

On a more cheerful note, the oldest clock in Paris is on a wall at La Conciergerie. It has been telling time since 1371, revolutionary back then – and is still going strong. That’s some impressive mechanics.

The magic of evening along the banks of the Seine

In the evening, the buildings glow honey-gold.

Later at night, they take on a mysterious light. I almost expect Quasimodo to appear on the roof.

On the river, boats drift past carrying softly lit dinners and quiet conversations. Nearby, someone opens a bottle of wine, and someone else plays guitar. No one seems in a rush to leave.

The river reflects the lights of Paris until the water itself appears to sparkle. No wonder artists, writers, and dreamers have gathered here for centuries.

I linger long after dark, watching reflections ripple beneath the bridges, feeling the city breathe slowly around me.

 Why the banks matter

UNESCO has designated the central stretch of the banks of the Seine – from Notre Dame in the east to the Eiffel Tower in the west – as world heritage, giving it special protection for the future. And this recognition is not just about monuments and architecture; it is about a rare urban landscape where history, art, and daily life coexist almost seamlessly. The listing helps preserve a way of living with a city rather than merely visiting it.

The Banks of the Seine are not frozen history; they are living heritage.

Paris reveals its true character here: elegant but relaxed, historic yet contemporary – and effortlessly chic.

And perhaps that’s why I keep coming back. Must be 50 or 60 times now. As I walk along the Seine, I’m joining a rhythm that has flowed for thousands of years – one step, one bridge, one moment at a time.

Walking the banks of the Seine isn’t about seeing Paris – it’s about being part of it.

Paris, Banks of the Seine is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Along the banks of the Seine is a post from Sophie's World

Florence made an unexpected literary reminder for me today. Not through a guidebook or a blog, but through Alexander McCall Smith’s 44 Scotland Street series, which you know I really enjoy. I love getting a feel for the atmosphere, and getting to know the characters who live on this Edinburgh street, all with various delightful quirks. Well… perhaps not all delightful.

Stendhal Syndrome

I just finished rereading the 6th book in the series, The Importance of Being Seven. In it, Antonia Collie, a minor character with a tendency to meddle and a rather relentless interest in men, travels to Italy. In Florence, Antonia succumbs to Stendhal Syndrome, and, overwhelmed by the sheer force of Renaissance beauty, she moans and collapses dramatically on the floor of the Uffizi Gallery.

The episode unfolds with gentle humour, yet beneath it lies a truth: beauty is not just a passive decoration in Florence. It is an experience powerful enough to unsettle, astonish, and transform even the worldliest traveller.

Everyday beauty in Florence

You expect grandeur in Florence, don’t you? It is the Renaissance capital of the world, after all. The cradle of art history.

But Florence is not loud. What strikes me first is intimacy. The streets are narrow, and well, domestic. Plants spill from beneath shuttered windows, a bicycle leans casually against a warm yellow wall, unlocked! Scooters hum past. At a gelateria, someone is ordering an almond granita. (I notice, because it’s my favourite). The Arno River floats beneath the Ponte Vecchio, unremarkable and constant. Ordinary stuff, all of it – and yet, somehow that is enough.

Then, suddenly, a church façade appears, in perfect proportion. Beauty exists alongside daily life, not apart from it. A sculpture stands beside a small supermarket. Another masterpiece waits casually in a square. History and everyday routine move together, side by side.

As I walk on, beauty begins to accumulate quietly. And then I realise I have stopped. Like Antonia, I am no longer just observing a city; I am being affected by it. And that is what we want, isn’t it? To be moved. To feel something unexpected. That’s a big part of why I travel – hoping for a wonder, even if only for a moment.

And Florence is good at that. It is like a soft ambush, unsettling and wonderful at the same time.

UNESCO added the historic centre of Florence to its World Heritage list already in 1982, only 4 years after the list was created, specifically naming 25 individual buildings and monuments. This is a city that asks for your time!

Leonardo, from nearby Vinci, one of the most interesting people that ever lived.

Galleria degli Uffizi

I’ve been in Florence a couple of times, but I have not yet visited the Uffizi.

But reading about Antonia and her unusual syndrome, I think it is high time. I’ll find out whether Florence overwhelms me – or whether I’m immune.

Throwback to our first visit, when a certain 6-year-old thought the naked replica of David outside the Uffizi was not cool. 

*******

PS What becomes of Antonia, you ask? The story continues in the 7th book, Bertie plays the blues. After her breakdown, Antonia is admitted to a psychiatric hospital, and then sent to a farm in the Tuscan countryside, where she is cared for by nuns. She feels a calling to work with them and eventually to become a nun herself, so she remains there, and sells her flat in 44 Scotland Street.

PPS Florence is twinned with a whole lot of interesting cities, including Bethlehem in Palestine, Kyiv in Ukraine, Sydney in Australia, and… Edinburgh. 

Historic Centre of Florence is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Florence inspired by a fun & easy read is a post from Sophie's World

Sure, you’d expect magnificent castles, cathedrals and grand squares – and yes, Prague has those in spades, and yes, they are magnificent. But what sticks with me after many visits through the years to the Czech capital, is the facades: the colours, the quirky ornaments, and centuries of history basically written on the walls along almost every street in Prague’s historic centre. It’s like the whole city is one big open-air gallery.

A city painted over centuries

Walking through Staré Město (Old Town), you’ll soon realise that Prague’s beauty is not about uniformity. No two buildings look alike. One facade glows in soft apricot, another in pale green, and next door, a cream-coloured front has centuries-old decorative plasterwork.

Cities are often built – or rebuilt – in a single architectural wave, but not Prague. This city evolved gently, over time. Gothic buildings were reshaped during the Renaissance, redecorated again in the Baroque era, and later refreshed with elegant Art Nouveau details. Which you know I love.

You’d think the result would be chaotic, but it is not. Instead, it’s all harmonious, like a visual conversation across generations.

If I look closely, I see sgraffito patterns scratched into plaster. On other walls, I see mythological figures above windows, and coats of arms hinting at long-forgotten families.

(Sgraffito? That’s a technique where you scratch the surface layer so you can see the layer underneath. Learnt that word myself just here in Prague. It’s fun to say. I like it.)

The quiet drama of Malá Strana

Across the river, Malá Strana feels softer, almost like a film set. Here, facades lean inward along winding streets. It’s as if they’re chatting. Gossiping about the residents, perhaps? Or about gawking tourists?

Before street numbers came along in 1770, the houses themselves served as signs: golden keys, red lions, painted suns. Standing there, I feel strangely aware of continuity, how merchants, travellers, and residents followed those same visual cues for centuries. Giving directions must have been a hoot. ‘When you reach the corner, turn right at the three violins, and look for the drunken duck.’ And can you imagine being a postal worker in this fairytale?

Prague’s Baroque facades look like they were designed to catch light, not just reflect it. In the morning, a façade looks painted in a gentle pastel, and in the evening, the sun turns the same building honey-gold.

Grandeur above the river

Up at Prague Castle, the monumental façades change colours with the weather.

Even structures built for power seem softened by time, with weathered rather than imposing surfaces. Still, I can’t look at this building without thinking about Prague’s long history of throwing people out windows, even here, from the castle.

Turning the other way, the city becomes a panorama of rooftops and facades stacked against the hills: pale walls, terracotta tiles, unexpected towers rising here and there, often between residential buildings. From this vantage point, Prague looks like a painting.

Further out, the Vltava (Moldau) River mirrors everything. Doubling everything. The facades look like they are floating.

Reading a city through its walls

The most fascinating bit, though, is how the facades of Prague act as biographies. Who needs history books? Wars, prosperity, neglect, restoration – you can read about it in the layers of plaster and stone.

In many European capitals, modernisation has all but erased most ordinary buildings, but not here. Prague has been spared large-scale destruction. Entire streets have been kept as they were, where everyday architecture lives alongside grand monuments. And that is what the UNESCO designation is about here: protecting not just the famous landmarks but this continuity of urban life.

As I wander around, I begin to notice small details: a faded fresco above a bakery here, a crooked centuries-old window frame there, a freshly restored facade standing next to one still gently worn.

Look up!

In Prague, I walk differently. Instead of rushing towards attractions, I constantly stop, with my head tilting upwards, looking at balconies, carvings, colours, details. A nice change from looking down at my phone. My neck thanks me for the balance.

But by ‘Facades of Prague’ I’m not really talking about architecture, though. Or at least, not only architecture.  It’s more about paying attention, the simple act of looking close enough to discover history hiding in plain sight.

When you go, slow down. Put the phone in your pocket. Choose a random street and follow the façades, wherever they may take you. In Prague, the walls speak. To hear them, all you have to do is look up.

Historic Centre of Prague is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Facades of Prague: history written in stone is a post from Sophie's World

One of the two beaches in Ancient Tulum

You can’t be in Tulum without exploring Zona Arqueológica.

Well, you can, I suppose. But I can’t.

The path to the Mayan ruins winds through scrub and low jungle until suddenly the ocean appears, and then… there they are: stone structures balanced dramatically on limestone cliffs above the sea, just as they have for centuries.

This was the only city the Maya built directly on the coast. The buildings face east towards the rising sun, and the Maya called it Zama – City of Dawn, reflecting their devotion to the sun and cosmic order. Sunrise here was not just a sight to behold; it was sacred, and their way of keeping time.

The name Tulum, meaning wall, came later.

Built ca 1200 CE, Tulum was also one of the last great Maya cities, a thriving place for nearly 300 years until the Spanish came along, wreaked havoc and shattered their world. In a sense, Tulum is a final chapter of independent Maya life – a bridge in time, you could say – between an ancient civilisation and the moment of European contact.

As I walk slowly between the ruins, I imagine traders arriving. Canoes would have approached directly from the sea below the cliffs, ready to exchange jade and obsidian, cotton, salt, honey and cocoa.

Painting on an info board at Zona Arqueológica

The most prominent structure here is El Castillo, a large, multi-purpose building, serving as a ceremonial temple and a symbol of authority, as well as a lighthouse. In my imagination, the paddlers are now arriving at night, guided by the fires and torches at El Castillo, so they could pass safely through a gap in the coral reef.

This little beach beneath the cliffs was a working harbour where trading canoes arrived loaded with goods from across Mesoamerica.

Daily Life in Ancient Tulum

Who were they, the folks living here in the City of Dawn, welcoming the traders?

It was probably not a massive general population. Most likely it was priests, nobles, traders, and skilled artisans who lived in wooden and thatched homes that sadly no longer exist. The stone buildings still standing were mostly administrative offices, or ceremonial and religious spaces.

Their lives would have revolved around maritime trade, astronomical observation, religious rituals and perhaps a bit of agriculture. The sea shaped everything: economy, spirituality, and not least, their worldview.

It feels different here in Tulum than inland at Chichén Itzá. The ruins feel more intimate here. They are not hidden deep in the interior, but face the ocean, watching it endlessly, with wind rushing through the ancient doorways.

Iguanas wander about, completely at home amongst the ancient walls, not caring one bit that I get up close.

Have I just stumbled upon a guardian from the past?

Sacred territory

Ancient Tulum feels mystical, partly because the location had deep cosmological meaning. This was a city of trade, an economic centre. But it was also a symbolic boundary, where land meets the sea. The edge between the known and unknown worlds. Landscape and belief were inseparable.

As I continue this walk through history, I have jungle around me, and panoramic views of ocean ahead. From the cliff edge, I watch waves roll endlessly below and think about how little this view has changed. I am standing where traders and priests once stood. They watched the same view, and saw the same horizon. Feeling the same wind on their face. Hearing the same rhythm of ocean against land. It feels like history has not quite finished here. Just set on pause.

Is time real or something we only perceive? A construct of the mind that we need to make sense of the world? This has been my favourite thought to play with, ever since I was a kid. Decades later, I still don’t have the answer, but it never stops being exciting to think about.

Meanwhile, this coati is just laying about amongst the ruins, looking cute. He is probably thinking about nothing at all.

Ancient Tulum is not a UNESCO-listed world heritage property, but it probably should be. Get on with that job, Mexico!

Ancient Tulum: A Maya city eternally facing the sunrise is a post from Sophie's World

Technicolour Tulum

Leen lives in Canada, Tessa in the USA, and I live in Norway, and when we planned our little reunion, we originally thought California. It was going to be at the end of October; apparently there’s loads of fun stuff going on in the Sunshine State at that time of year. And celebrating my Halloween birthday on board a spooky Queen Mary sounded like a cool experience.

But then, out of the blue, Tessa suggested Tulum!

Hm… I was in Yucatan once. Like, a million years ago. But not in Tulum. Time to do a bit of reading.

Pristine beaches, ancient Mayan ruins, bohemian-chic vibe, said the blogs and guidebooks. Once a quiet little fishing village on Mexico’s Riviera Maya, now a fave holiday spot. Boutique hotels, eco resorts and beachfront restaurants, all with a front-row seat to all the stunning stuff. Chic clubs where you can lounge around in a cabana. But… it has still managed to retain a laid-back kinda charm, I read. Want adventure, culture and relaxation? Then, Tulum is your 3-in-1 KinderEgg. Words to that effect.

This may be the place

It was an easy sell.

Here are a little something I scribbled the last morning in Tulum (but forgot to publish apparently), on the little beach outside our fab accoms, a perfect place for sitting on a swing and meditate in the early hours (thank you, jetlag!)

Tulum

I’m up before the sun. All I hear is the sound of waves lapping on the shore and palm trees rustling. It’s a gentle breeze, and the air smells faintly of salt, earth – and… is that pot? A nearby shop is rumoured to deal. Somewhere nearby, a motorbike hums to life before fading into the distance.

They feel timeless, mornings here, though strangely, the layers of time are more visible along this coast than almost anywhere else I’ve been.

The beaches: sun, sand, and serenity

We’re here for the legendary beaches, of course: soft sand along crystal-clear Caribbean waters, and a very relaxed vibe.

But you know me. However soft the sand and blue the ocean, hanging about a beach quickly bores me. So what else is on offer? I’m glad you asked.

Ancient Tulum

You can’t be in Tulum without visiting the last Mayan city, and the only one facing the Caribbean. These ruins above the ocean feel less like a distant relic and more like a place still chatting with the present.

I wander amongst the ruins of this once prosperous city, part trading port, part spiritual gateway, and entirely shaped by sun, sea and sky. El Castillo guided canoes safely through the reef. Temples with ancient carvings hint at their respect for nature; all about renewal and cosmic order. It makes sense!

And there’s cute wildlife.

Weirdly, Tulum feels more alive than the vast ancient cities in the interior, like Chichén Itzá and Teotihuacan. We’re closer to the elements here. The connection between past and present is more noticeable.

In fact, Ancient Tulum deserves a post of its own. Coming up, promise!

Valladolid: colour and calm

A few days later, we head to Chichén Itzá and a nearby fabled cenote – Ik Kil. We drive through villages slowly waking, past roadside stalls, stray dogs stretching awake under the pink light of morning. The jungle is thick and green on either side of the road.

On the way, we stop briefly in Valladolid.

Locals sit in shaded plazas, taking it easy. On a small square, families gather on benches and vendors sell fruit and sweet pastries nearby. Church bells echo softly in the background. Children chase pigeons. I try to stop them and they listen – for about 10 seconds.

Pastel façades glow pink, yellow, and turquoise under the early afternoon sun. It’s an elegant city, yet down-to-earth. Very different from the energy of the coast. Beach culture trends don’t seem to apply here.

And I’m reminded that the Yucatán is not only about beaches and ruins. It’s lived-in, layered, and, well… human, settled long before tourists showed up.

Chichén Itzá: a journey back in time

Where Tulum kinda whispers, Chichén Itzá has no qualms taking up space. It’s as if ancient Maya confidence shouts through the veil of time.

The El Castillo of Chichén Itzá rises from the earth with geometric precision; shadows fall exactly where ancient astronomers intended. It’s huge and commanding. I was here as a teenager, and remember climbing the steep steps. Can’t do that anymore. Ever since an 80-year-old tumbled down and died.

The heat builds quickly, and cicadas buzz loudly in the trees. A guide explains ancient rituals. I step away from the crowd, and… silence.

More about Chichén Itzá here.

Cenotes: gateways to the hidden realm

Cenotes are sinkholes created when bedrock collapses, revealing the water underground. The Maya believed these pools were portals to the underworld.

Cenote Ik Kil

A few kilometres from Chichén Itzá is Ik Kil. Walking down the stone steps toward the open pool, I glance upward at vines hanging from the circular opening above. Sunlight falls directly into the deep green water. People laugh and dive in. The splashes echo through the cavern, creating a strangely theatrical feel. Yet even with the noise, it’s stunning. There’s something undeniably magical here, and I understand why cenotes were sacred to the Maya.

Cenote Dos Ojos

After Ik Kil, we want more cenotes, so the next day we head to Dos Ojos – a completely different experience. Hidden in dense jungle, wooden walkways guide us to water clear as glass, and shadowy underground passages where vertical beams of sunlight falls from above.

Each cenote has its own personality: secret, sacred, mystical. More on these two (and a cenote in a bar!) here.

Ahau and the living spirit of Tulum

Yesterday evening, our last in Tulum, we walked along the beach road –

Mystery all round here

– heading to Ahau Tulum, a large wooden sculpture that rises from the sand. It’s often called Ven a la Luz and is symbolic of Tulum itself: humans and nature intertwined. People gather around it at sunrise and sunset, cameras in hand.

Ahau means sun king in Mayan tradition, reminding us this coastline was once sacred grounds aligned with the movements of the heavens. The sun, the sea, and the cycles of nature were more than just background scenery; they were central to existence.

Tulum still has a bit of a spiritual reputation, and stories go around of travellers who arrive for a weekend and end up staying for months, or unexpected life changes sparked during a visit. Many believe the energy of the land encourages transformation. Myth or mindset? You tell me.

Cancún then and now

Travelling in the Yucatán this time reminds me of visiting Cancún in the 1980s, when development was new and it felt almost experimental: wide beaches, open horizons, just a few new hotels rising from the sand, tourism in its infancy, possibility everywhere. It was bright, hopeful, and surprisingly quiet.

Now in 2019, Cancún is transformed. Energetic, towering resorts, busy nightlife, polished infrastructure, a tourist destination fully realised.

Tulum seems like a different chapter altogether. And perhaps that’s why it feels compelling now, somewhere between past and future – quieter, searching for balance between growth and preservation, still holding onto its mystique.

Tulum bonus

On beaches in Tulum, you’ll see little enclosures:

Cuidado, nido de tortuga. Careful, turtle nest.

Every year, between June and October, 2 species of sea turtles, loggerheads and white turtle, come up on the beach to lay their eggs. And just like in Trinidad, after many years and travelling thousands of kilometres, the ones who survive, return to where they were born to repeat the process. We were too late in the year to see them.

PS Our fab accoms in Tulum was Piedra Escondida – hereby recommended. And no, nothing sponsored. Recs on me.

Tulum and beyond: experiences, places, moments is a post from Sophie's World

Growing up in Norway, we tend to take the extraordinary beauty of our country for granted. Mountains, forests, fjords, waterfalls – they’re all a part of the background of daily life. Something you pass on family road trips, and see through a ferry window. As children, we assume everywhere is like this.

It’s first after travelling abroad, or seeing friends from other countries experience it on their first visit here, we understand how unique this landscape is.

A landscape shaped by time itself

The story of our fjords began thousands of years ago during the Ice Age. Over the millennia, huge glaciers carved deep U-shaped valleys through solid rock, and left behind waterways that go inland from the ocean, sometimes as far as 200 km in. When the ice melted, seawater filled these valleys, and the fjords we see today were formed.

Go west!

I live in Eastern Norway, 40km west of Oslo. My city has its own fjord, and right now, as I’m writing this on my balcony, I see it whenever I look up from the screen. But the real knockouts are along the country’s jagged western coast.

So let’s go west. To fjord country!

Driving to Western Norway, it feels like I am going through a gallery of nature’s very own artwork. I go through forests and wide valleys, then cross a mountain pass. There are several passes to choose from – all impressive. Highway 52 goes through Hemsedal Valley. Best known (internationally, at least) as a winter sports mecca, Hemsedal is gorgeous in all seasons.

Hemsedal Valley in September

Out west, the fjords are not just scenery, they are orientation points. Directions are based on them; journeys are planned around them. Distances aren’t measured in kilometres, but in ferry crossings.

We grow up understanding that roads curve because the mountains allow it. Ferries exist because water comes first. Weather changes plans, and nobody gives that a second thought. The landscape sets the pace.

They don’t reveal themselves all at once, the fjords. They appear gradually, with a new surprise around every turn. The road winds endlessly around the mountain and through tunnels carved through it. Sometimes the road is so narrow, I drive slowly, in case I run into some over-confident new driver who thinks speed limits are optional. They are everywhere, aren’t they…

A debate has been going on for years, ever since I worked for the Public Roads Administration, about raising the driving licence age from 18 to 20 (some have even suggested 23) for boys, as they are heavily overrepresented in accident statistics. Controversial, as you can imagine.

World Heritage landscape

Geirangerfjord and Nærøyfjord are on UNESCO’s list of sites important to preserve for generations to come. To us locals they are familiar memories of school trips, summer drives, packed lunches at viewpoints, sometimes in the rain.

Arriving at Geirangerfjord is thrilling. We’re coming from Åndalsnes, and drive down Ørnevegen (Eagle Road), with 11 hairpin bends. Dramatic! If you’re in the habit of snapping photos while driving (occasionally guilty of that myself), don’t be tempted here, even if the views are out of this world. Just don’t!

As the snow melts in spring/summer, hundreds of waterfalls pour into the fjords. Some fall gently like silver ribbons across the green. Others thunder down vertical rock faces with full force. Exciting to watch! And hear!

These are scans of prints I snapped in June 2000:

Spot the cruise ships? 

Nærøyfjord feels more intimate and a bit wilder. The water looks darker, and the silence is more profound. One of the narrowest fjords in the world, it squeezes between mountains that feel close enough to touch. There are tourists here, but not as many as in Geiranger, and no big cruise ships.

The surrounding villages offer glimpses into traditional fjord life, with grass-roofed buildings and quiet docks. Winding roads connect isolated communities that could only be reached by boat back in the day.

Everyday fjords

Some fjords feel quieter, closer to daily life, surrounded by small communities. Here, the fjord most of all represents livelihood.

Eidfjord feels relaxed and welcoming. There is tourism here, but local rhythm is the major player. There’s something grounding about it: a stillness. It feels like everyday life here moves at a slower pace. And I reckon it really does.

Eidfjord. Population: 571

Further inland, Lustrafjord stretches toward tall peaks and glaciers. The air is cool and clear, and the landscape feels calm and isolated. From here, you can see Jostedalsbreen, the largest glacier in mainland Europe.

I snapped this photo of Lustrafjorden from the doorstep of Urnes Church –

– the oldest of Norway’s stave churches, built in 1130.

Hardangerfjord and Sognefjord

The Queen of Fjords, Hardangerfjord, is surrounded by fertile terrain, thanks to generations of farmers.

Early morning in Øystese by Hardangerfjorden

Hardanger is apple growing country. I’ve driven along this fjord many times (on those crazy narrow roads curling around the mountain), but somehow I’ve missed apple blossom season.

It is sometime in May and/or June, depending on when spring decides to show up, and the season is short, so it’s not easy to plan. This is from my last attempt.

But as it turns out, I have a bit of extra time and opportunity to be spontaneous in the coming months, so I might give it another go. Look out for fruit trees in bloom along Hardangerfjorden on my Insta.

And then comes the almost overwhelming presence that is Sognefjord. This is the longest, largest and deepest fjord in Norway, reaching 205km inland, or 226km if you include Lake Sognesjøen at the end. As I drive along it, I keep losing track of distance and begin to understand why the scale is measured in hours.

They go by, those hours, and I’m still driving. The water continues, the mountains seem to go on forever. Sognefjorden doesn’t feel like one single place, but a world of its own. This vastness feels oddly comforting and steady, like something that has always been.

Sognefjorden, by Kaupanger

Standing at the edge of this fjord, well, any fjord, but Sognefjord in particular, you feel the immense scale of geological time: mountains shaped over millennia, water reflecting endless skies.

Sometimes it’s all wrapped in mist. Other times the water is perfectly still, mirroring the mountains so vividly it feels like I am looking into another world.

A quieter branch of this is Sogndalsfjord, where the landscape feels closely connected to everyday life, with small towns, farms, and student life in Sogndal, with a whopping 12,000 inhabitants, a veritable metropolis. A lived-in, modern atmosphere.

Following the sound of water

Whilst fjords define geography in Western Norway, waterfalls define movement and energy. Water is everywhere.

Waterfalls appear constantly. Some are hidden high on mountain walls, visible only as thin lines against dark rock. Others thunder beside the road; some even cross the road. Expect a good soaking. Kids love it.

The sound changes depending on where you stand. Up close, waterfalls roar. From a distance, they become a steady, meditative background flow.

Visitors often stop at every waterfall. Locals know that would make any journey impossible.

Still, some waterfalls make us pause.

Vøringsfoss, along the Oslo – Bergen road across Hardangervidda, is one of those places. As we approach the viewing platforms, I first hear the sound: a constant, powerful rumble echoing through the canyon. The water doesn’t just fall; it disappears into space. Many of us remember seeing it as kids, leaning out just a little bit too far, with parents hovering, ready to grab us at a second’s notice. Not much in the way of railings back then.

In the village of Norheimsund by Hardangerfjord is Steinsdalsfoss, almost playful in comparison. Walking behind the curtain of water is surreal – like stepping into a parallel dimension. Everything is mist. And sound.

Wish I had taken a photo from behind the veil. But… yet another reason to return.

And then there’s Låtefoss, a twin waterfall appearing suddenly along the road, like a landmark announcing I have entered fjord country for sure. I have driven past countless times, yet it never becomes ordinary. And yes, I stop every time, trying to get a photo that does it justice.

Can you guess what the word FOSS means?

Moving through living landscapes

They weren’t exactly designed for comfort or convenience, these landscapes, yet people have found ways to live in them for centuries. Small villages cling to narrow strips of land between rock and sea. Family farms have survived for generations in the hidden valleys.

Life here has always required resilience. Steep terrain limits farming space, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and thus entered terrace farming and seasonal mountain pastures.

There’s a popular TV-series here, called Der ingen skulle tru at nokon kunne bu, which roughly translates as Where no one would think anyone could live. (The phrase comes from an old folk song; slightly awkward in English, but makes perfect sense in Norwegian.) It’s about people who live close to nature, often in old family homes at the top of impossibly steep gravel paths, constantly negotiating life with the elements.

This house was not the work of a local builder, but of Austrian-British philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, who came to Skjolden at the far end of Sognefjord, in search of solitude.

Today, visitors meet a balance between tradition and sustainability. Electric ferries glide silently through the water, and communities work actively to protect the fragile environment that sustains them.

There’s no such thing as bad weather

Norway reveals itself fully in changing weather. We learn early that nature is not something to control – it is something to accept, and even embrace. Rough weather doesn’t take away from the experience; it adds to it. Rain strengthens waterfalls. Fog softens mountain edges. Low clouds moving through a fjord creates a mood that sunshine can’t match.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature is the light. Shadows and reflections shift as the clouds move quickly across the mountain. The same view changes, and looks different minute by minute.

Each season has a different personality:

• Spring: roaring waterfalls powered by snow-melting
• Summer: lush green valleys and long, white nights
• Autumn: mountainsides in gold, red, and amber
• Winter: fjords transformed into quiet, snow-covered worlds

Waterproofs are not accessories; they are cultural identity. One of the best-known sayings sums it up: Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær – there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes. It rhymes in Norwegian.

The landscape shapes us

The fjord landscape has shaped Norwegian culture in many ways. Living amongst mountains meant communities grew independent, while the sea encouraged connection and cooperation. Patience became a necessary part of life because travel has always taken time.

Even today, many Norwegians talk about the sense of calm they feel when they return after being away in other countries. The steep mountains, the steady water, and nature’s constant presence create a kind of grounding that is hard to put into words, but easy to feel.

But… we never actually take it for granted

We may grow up surrounded by fjords and waterfalls, but we never really stop noticing them. The way evening light falls, fresh snow on the peaks, or mist suddenly drifting across the water can still make us slow down.

As kids, my brother and I would sigh impatiently whenever mum stopped her little black-and-cream Hillman Minx, to make us look at the views. In the backseat, it was all ‘yeah yeah, how much further?’ Reading comic books won over views every time.

As a grown-up, I finally understood.

West Norwegian Fjords – Geirangerfjord and Nærøyfjord is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Fjords and waterfalls in Norway is a post from Sophie's World

It has been a few years since I visited, and I’ve been meaning to write a little something about Madison ever since. Better late than never, right?

A little intro

Back in my college days at the University of Oklahoma, I met a lovely American family: Professor Ed Klehr, his wife Judy and their six daughters, including Tina and Mary, whom I had first met at an exchange student camp a few years earlier.

The Klehrs had a Sunday tradition: an early morning bike ride, followed by breakfast and long conversations around their large kitchen table. Anyone was welcome to join. Some faces returned week after week, others appeared just once. It was an easy place to meet new people.

Biking was not your average Sunday morning activity in the Sooner State back then. It was very much a drive-my-car and go-to-church kind of place, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it still is.

In fact, the Klehrs were unusual in other ways, too. They rarely used a car, but walked or biked. Their Christmas tree held real candles – with actual flames – something that would have terrified many, if not most, Americans. They didn’t use air conditioning, and were environmentally conscious long before it became mainstream.

They weren’t originally Okies, this family. They were from Madison.

Which, in hindsight, explains quite a lot.

Year-round biking in Madison; can’t let the weather stop you. Feels like home.

A few years later, they moved back north. I had been meaning to visit, but somehow life kept intervening. Truth be told, I hadn’t spent much time in the USA at all after college. There were simply too many other places in the world calling for attention. So much of the world to explore.

But eventually, one late autumn day in 2019, I landed at Dane County Regional Airport. Here are a few notes I scribbled then.

Cheese wins the day in the airport gift shop:

Yup, I’m definitely in Wisconsin

Madison: first impressions

Madison immediately feels like a cosy, vibrant, liberal college town – liberal in the American sense, that is. In European countries, the term liberal most often refers to economic liberalism and leans politically right. In the USA, it usually signals social liberalism and progressive attitudes.

OK, Tina. Show me your city!

It is October, and the weather can’t seem to decide which season it wants to be. Autumn? Winter? A bit of both?

Autumn foliage and snow. Which is it, Wisconsin?

Wisconsin State Capitol

We begin at the State Capitol, the architectural centrepiece – and masterpiece – of Madison.

The Capitol is at the very heart of the city, and everything seems oriented around it. Built of white granite, with a massive dome on top, it dominates the skyline without feeling too imposing.

Inside, it is also quite impressive. Marble columns rise toward painted ceilings, intricate mosaics glow under soft lights, and murals tell stories of the state’s heritage and craftsmanship.

It feels both grand and accessible – a public building that genuinely belongs to the people.

The posters mention Trump and BadgerCare – definitely a political buzz in the air here, at both national and local levels.

“Let’s check out the observation deck,” Tina suggests. “Best views in town.”

She is not exaggerating.

From the top, Madison suddenly makes sense. The city sits on a narrow isthmus between two lakes, Mendota and Monona, with water stretching out on both sides of downtown. Bike paths trace the shoreline; neighbourhoods fold out in neat patterns. In the distance, along the western skyline, is the university campus.

“Let’s head that way,” I say, gesturing ahead. There’s just something about universities, isn’t there? The energy in the air, the curiosity and the sense of possibility.

Sadly, I’m not in Madison over a weekend. Every Saturday, the Capitol Square hosts a farmers’ market that transforms the area into a celebration of local life: music, conversation, flowers, fresh produce, baked goods, and cheese of course. Enormous quantities of Wisconsin cheese.

Next time.

State Street

Instead, we wander down State Street, the pedestrian-friendly avenue connecting downtown with the university campus.

If the Capitol is Madison’s heart, State Street is its personality. It feels like it’s made for strolling, this street. Independent bookstores, vintage clothing shops and record stores that seems to thrive. Charming! Art supply shops, quirky gift stores, and boutiques filled with locally made goods line the sidewalks. Quite a few of them proudly celebrate Wisconsin’s favourite dairy product.

$8.25 – Norwegian goat cheese at Norwegian prices.

The scent constantly changes: fresh pastries from a bakery, then coffee, then pizza from one of the counters that stays open late. A bubble tea shop humming with students coming and going. Cafés spill out on the sidewalks. Tables are filled with laptops, notebooks and study sessions that somehow that looks both serious and relaxed. Quite the feat.

Street musicians play on corners, performers draw small crowds, and the whole street feels lived-in. Authentic and real, not designed for tourists.

University of Wisconsin at Madison

Like many great college towns, Madison’s identity is inseparable from its campus. Students, professors, locals, visitors – we’re all sharing the same spaces. I like that in a city. It creates an open and inclusive atmosphere.

We walk along tree-lined paths toward Memorial Union Terrace, one of Madison’s favourite hangouts. It’s quiet on this rainy/snowy autumn/winter day, so I snap a photo of a picture on the wall here, showing livelier times along Lake Mendota on warmer days.

Sunset here, I hear, is not merely an attraction; it is a ritual.

Somewhere along the wanderings, I come to realise I no longer feel like a visitor. Madison has that effect. You slip into everyday life almost without noticing. I kinda feel at home here. You can’t say that about every city

Madison, Wisconsin – better late than never is a post from Sophie's World

It doesn’t shout about its quirks, this little city. It hides them underground, on side streets, and in unexpected buildings, as if daring visitors to discover them. Over the course of one happily strange day, I visited two museums and a place to sleep that absolutely counts as sightseeing.

Here we go: three places that will convince you Reykjavik is one of Europe’s most wonderfully eccentric cities.

1. The Icelandic Punk Museum: creativity in unexpected spaces

Ambling along Bankastræti, one of Reykjavik’s shopping streets, I suddenly spot a sign saying Pönksafn Islands, above what looks to be the stairway down to a public loo. Now, I know Safn means collection. And pönk, well, that’s self-evident.

This must be investigated. I descend the seedy stone steps, with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

And wow! If punk rock has a spiritual home in Reykjavik, it would absolutely be underground inside a former public loo. This little museum embraces its setting with some serious commitment. It’s tiny, chaotic, and oddly charming, and I am reminded that Iceland was not always all about ancient sagas and spa culture. Sometimes it was teenagers, loud guitars, and satisfying defiance.

Recognise this girl?

Downstairs, I wander through the old toilet stalls, now filled with vinyl records, battered instruments, photographs, handwritten lyrics, faded newspaper clippings, and gig posters above urinals.

The graffiti radiates the rebellious energy of Iceland’s late-1970s music scene. I listen to scratchy punk tracks through headphones, just like we did in HMV or Virgin in the old days. I feel like I have stepped into Reykjavik’s teenage diary. Or perhaps my own.

This little place has captured a time when Icelandic youth traded calm for mischief, and frozen it in time. It’s strange, funny, and full of character. A peak Reykjavik experience!

2. The Phallological Museum

This one you might have heard about: the Penis Museum. You might even have wondered if it really exists.

Well, it does!

Reykjavik’s most famous museum is dedicated solely to phalluses, penises and male bits, more than 300 of them, from a tiny bat penis to a humongous sperm whale one, and there is even a human one. Preserved in formaldehyde or dried, catalogued, and presented with the seriousness of a national archive, which somehow makes the entire experience even funnier.

As I enter, I promise myself I will approach the experience with maturity and intellectual interest. That lasts approximately twelve seconds. Expect equal parts curiosity, awkward laughter, and genuine fascination.

You would think this would be a novelty attraction, but instead this little museum gives an informative look at biology, folklore and a healthy dose of Icelandic deadpan humour.

Left to right: elephant, polar bear, sperm whale, and killer whale

The museum manages the impossible: being scientific, slightly surreal and oddly wholesome. Scientific seriousness is nicely balanced with quiet absurdity.

I leave, knowing far more marine mammal anatomy than I ever planned to. It is that rare attraction where you arrive giggling and leave surprisingly educated. And actually, that’s a pretty good museum outcome.

3. Galaxy Pod: sleeping like an astronaut

After all these, erm… unconventional experiences, I feel I have chosen just the right accommodations, equally unconventional. Galaxy Pod looks less like a hostel and more like mission control for an interplanetary expedition. Think glowing lights, private cocoons, and futuristic minimalism.

The reception area looks deceptively normal(ish)…

… so do the hallways.

But then…

…rows of futuristic sleeping pods glow softly in the dark, each one a private sci-fi capsule.

Climbing into one feels slightly ridiculous at first. For a few seconds, I’m wondering if I have inadvertently volunteered to be cryogenically frozen or something. But once inside, it is cosy, comfortable, and delightfully strange. Seems Reykjavik believes sleep should be an experience, not just a necessity.

I pull down the shade, and immediately cease to be a tourist. I’m now an astronaut prepping for launch. On a budget.

Reykjavik’s delightfully weird side: 2 cultural curiosities and a space-adjacent sleep is a post from Sophie's World

On an early January day, I trade the northern winter for southern summer. I’m expecting mornings with gourds of yerba mate, long conversations in cafes in the afternoon, and dinners that’s meant to begin at 10pm, but doesn’t really get started until midnight, music drifting from open windows and couples moving together in a sultry tango on a cobbled street in San Telmo.

Well, Buenos Aires certainly has all that. But what stays with me the most isn’t the rhythm of the city; it’s the silence. A heavy, deliberate silence that lives at Plaza de Mayo.

The square where mothers walk

In the heart of Buenos Aires is a historic public square surrounded by government buildings and colonial architecture. At first glance, this looks like any grand civic square. Tourists snap photos of the pink presidential palace, office workers hurry across the cobblestones, flocks of pigeons scatter, then regroup. The ordinary choreography of a capital city unfolds as expected.

Then I see them, painted onto the stones beneath my feet: White headscarves. Pañuelitos blancos.

Simple outlines, repeated again and again across the ground. They are easy to miss, until suddenly they’re impossible to ignore. Each one marks a woman who stood here, wearing a white headscarf, embroidered with the name of her child, waiting for an answer the government would not give.

I look around, and notice the white headscarf set into mosaic slabs, as well. These symbols belong to the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, a group of ordinary Argentine women who transformed grief into political resistance during one of the darkest periods in the country’s history. These women challenged a brutal dictatorship, armed with nothing but photos, persistence, and motherly love.

Originally made from cloth diapers, these scarves turned motherhood itself into an act of protest. They became, and still remain, permanent reminders of absence and resistance.

Argentina’s dirty war: the vanished young

In 1976, Argentina fell under a military dictatorship after a coup led by General Jorge Rafael Videla. The regime launched what became known as the Dirty War. The aim was to eliminate political opposition.

An estimated 30.000 people were kidnapped, many of them teenagers who had simply asked questions too loudly, taken from their homes or schools, or from the bus. Students were taken from universities, journalists from newsrooms. Artists, activists, and ordinary citizens were abducted from their workplaces, then brought to secret detention centres, without explanation. Some gave birth while in detention; their children were stolen from them and illegally adopted. They all became known as los desaparecidos, the disappeared.

Families searched desperately for answers. They looked high and low, in police stations, in hospitals, and in government offices. But officials denied everything. Records vanished. Names vanished. People vanished. There were no trials, and no bodies.

In those days, fear ruled Argentina; it shaped people’s daily life. Speaking out meant you could very well become the next victim. The next desaparecido. Silence became survival.

Except for a small group of mothers who refused to accept not knowing. They refused to stay silent.

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo: how it began

On 30 April 1977, fourteen women gathered here at Plaza de Mayo. They did not shout slogans, these women. They simply asked a question:

WHERE IS MY CHILD?

Names of the desaparecidos are recited

Since gathering in groups was illegal, the women, most of them housewives, began walking around the square instead, circling, remembering, insisting that the disappeared are not forgotten.

The dictatorship tried intimidation, arrests, and even murder. Several founding members themselves disappeared. Yet every Thursday at 15.30, week after week, month after month, they continued marching, these mothers. The movement became a ritual of resistance.

Some of the women still wear the white headscarves.

It’s Thursday, a little before 15.30. I am here on Plaza de Mayo, waiting for the Mothers. And they will come, I’m assured, just like they have every week since that April day in 1977.

I amble about the square, looking at photos and memories. A couple is laughing on a bench. Two toddlers are chasing pigeons. A protest banner flutters in the distance.

Then I hear chanting. The march has begun. It is as if I have time travelled to 1977. I picture the original 14 women, holding up photographs of their missing children, scanning the crowd for faces they will never see again. The enormity of their grief feels strangely intimate, even now.

Today, the Mothers are joined by a large group of relatives and supporters.

The movement that changed the world

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo achieved something extraordinary: they broke the regime’s carefully constructed silence. They played a key role in bringing human rights to global attention, long before social media amplified activism.

Instead of armed rebellion, they used visibility, speaking to foreign journalists and shaming the dictatorship internationally. They reframed political repression as a human story: mothers searching for their children.

As international scrutiny intensified, Argentina’s military regime came under increasing strain. By the early 1980s, a failing economy and rising public anger had eroded its power, leading to its collapse. Democratic rule was restored in 1983.

Legacy, divisions, and ongoing activism

With the return of democracy, the movement took on a new direction. Some members concentrated on pursuing justice through the courts, working to identify victims’ remains and hold those responsible accountable. Others expanded their efforts into broader forms of political activism.

The Mothers never carried weapons, held political office, or commanded armies. They simply walked and asked questions. They refused to forget, and in doing so, they reshaped Argentina’s conscience and inspired generations across the world.

Their influence can be seen in trust and reconciliation efforts worldwide, international human rights law, and in women-led protest movements on grassroots level.

Nearly 50 years after they began, the Mothers remain active and resolute, even though questions about the fate of their missing children remain unresolved.

Plaza de Mayo is no longer just a historic square. It’s a living memorial to courage and resilience, of ordinary people confronting extraordinary injustice. Every Thursday, history and everyday life live side by side here on the square.

Thoughts on souvenirs

When you think of souvenirs, you likely think of an item. Something to take home. Or at least, I do. But Plaza de Mayo left me with a different kind of souvenir, a question: What does courage actually look like?

It is not necessarily dramatic heroism, courage. Here at Plaza de Mayo, it is something quieter: repetition. Showing up again and again, even when answers never come. Refusing silence, even in the face of overwhelming fear. I am in awe of these women, and hope I could summon the same strength, if needed.

PS I visited Plaza de Mayo in January 2024. Now, in the spring of 2026, on the 50th anniversary of the military coup, the Mothers are facing troubles yet again. Argentina’s current right-wing government is downplaying the horrors of the dictatorship and has stopped state funding to the Mothers’ organisation.

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo: Argentina’s quiet, courageous revolution is a post from Sophie's World

Perhaps it’s the why. The reason we are here. A brief stop, or two rather, on the way to Fujian, to see the place where Cat was born. More about that here on the blog when we’re ready. For now: Shanghai, our entry and exit point into the country.

There are cities that impress you, and then there are cities that rearrange your sense of what’s possible. Shanghai does both, often along a single street.

We arrive in the early evening after a long flight, check into our lodgings near Zhongshan Park, and begin with a stroll through an indoor market nearby. That’s about all we have time for, as Cat becomes unwell. Could be a sudden stomach flu, could be food poisoning. She is more of a culinary explorer than I am.

Was it those tiny sausages?

Meanwhile, I run around Shanghai, looking for a late-night pharmacy.

Buildings glow in neon blues and purples, reflecting off the Huangpu River in a way that makes the entire city feel a bit electric.

As I walk through the rain, I wonder if we’ll get to Changting tomorrow. It’s a pretty strenuous trip if you’re unwell. First a flight to Xiamen, then finding the train station, and take a 2.5-hour train journey. But she is nothing if not determined, this kid of mine. She presses on.

As for Shanghai, we’ll get a better look on the way back.

Coming back to Shanghai

I have always imagined this city defined by its skyline, the kind you see in photos, all glass and light and ambition. And yes, that version exists.

Arriving back in Shanghai feels like stepping into a living contradiction. Glass towers pierce the sky unapologetically, and just a few blocks away, narrow alleys hum with the quiet rhythms of everyday life. Time hasn’t moved in a straight line in this city. It loops, overlaps, and occasionally collides.

It’s late morning, and we start the day on the Bund. Across the Huangpu is the famous skyline. The Oriental Pearl rises into the sky, clear in the bright daylight. A statement, almost. Further along, Shanghai Tower twists upward, impossibly tall, looking kinda misplaced, as if it doesn’t quite belong to the same scale as everything else.

Barges move slowly along the river. Buddhist monks and other mere mortals gather along the railing.

Surprisingly, I don’t see many tourists. Then again, the sheer scale might just give that impression.

Continuing along the Bund, we pass a statue of Shanghai’s first mayor, Chen Yi, in a Mao suit. Then, a monument with engraved words: prosperity, civility, harmony, rule of law, friendship, freedom – core socialist values. A nationwide messaging campaign, blending into the environment, rather than on huge, ugly billboards. Clever marketing.

On the other side of the street, historic architecture whispers stories of another era; one shaped by trade and colonial influence: a bit American, some French, but mostly British.

Nanjing Road

Just around the corner is Nanjing Road, one of the world’s busiest shopping streets, I hear. Well, not today. Or, at least, it doesn’t feel anything like Oxford Street. Plenty of space to wander and browse in this quirky mix of old-world charm, commerce and energy. Bright shopfronts, voices, movement in every direction. It’s rather enjoyable, like being part of something constantly in motion.

The Fairmont Peace Hotel is one of the most iconic buildings in Shanghai –

– instantly recognisable by the green pyramid copper roof. Art Deco grandeur at its finest.

Back in the 1920s, it began life as the Cathay Hotel, the most glamorous address in Shanghai’s Golden Age. Celebrities, financiers, politicos from around the world… they all stayed here when visiting Paris of the East.

Onward to Yuyuan Garden

We don’t have a particular destination in mind today; we just walk, following the flow, through Gucheng Park and into quieter streets where the air smells like someone is cooking lunch just out of sight.

Shanghai’s magic lies in contrasts. It’s in the way a century-old teahouse sits beside a minimalist coffee shop. It’s in the sound of mahjong tiles clacking in a quiet courtyard while traffic rushes by beyond the walls. It’s in the blend of languages and cultures that somehow coexist without losing their individuality.

By late afternoon, we wind up at Yuyuan Garden, carried by a steady flow of people. Along the narrow paths, people move in slow waves, camera phones lifted, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing over stone. We cross curved bridges across koi-filled ponds, alive with movement.

This area is vibrant and a bit chaotic today. And yet, every so often, a small pause: a reflection in the water, a glimpse of carved wood, a corner where the noise softens ever so slightly. Even on this busy day, you can find brief moments of calm.

What makes this city unforgettable is its momentum. This is a place constantly becoming something new, without ever fully letting go of what it was. It is as if I have received an invitation to witness that transformation, and perhaps even be a part of it.

By the time we leave, I realise something has shifted. Shanghai has shown me how to pay attention to the in-between moments, to be okay with not fully understanding everything.

I thought I was just visiting Shanghai. Just stopping by. But somehow, it feels like Shanghai met me halfway.

Swiftly into Shanghai is a post from Sophie's World

First impressions

We have ended up in Côte d’Ivoire to leave. Well, sort of. This is where the cheapest homeward flights depart from, so this is where we wrap up this West African journey.

I will have to return to Côte d’Ivoire for a closer look later. But for now, since we are here, we want to experience at least a little bit. And since it is the end of the trip, preferably something not too strenuous, especially since I have been out of sorts, coughing and sneezing and freezing (in 40°!) for almost a week.

Arriving at Félix-Houphouët-Boigny International Airport (what a tongue-twister) late in the afternoon, I’m happy to find a well-stocked pharmacy at arrivals, and I come out with cold meds, good advice, and feeling cared for. And with new glasses, since I forgot the old ones on board. Again!

Traffic in Africa

We decide to skip sightseeing in Abidjan, and set off directly for Assinie.

I’ve been pleasantly surprised about traffic this time in Africa. Cotonou gets a special mention. In Benin‘s major city/de-facto capital, cars actually stop for red lights, motorcyclists wear helmets, and walking feels as safe as in Europe. But here in Côte d’Ivoire, it’s back to the no rules/no consideration that seems to be the default in most of Africa. (I’m looking at you, Entebbe. And many others.) I’m reminded once again that terrorism is not the biggest danger in Africa. Traffic is.

Coucoué Lodge

I can feel it the minute I enter the lobby: peace, quiet and a lagoon stretching before me. Right away, I am stepping into a slower rhythm.

Bringing the outdoors in

The path to my bungalow is framed with lush greenery. Other bungalows are tucked away in the gardens, hidden almost.

Inside, it is spacious, charmingly rustic, and facing the water. No ultra-modern minimalism here at Coucoué Lodge, folks. It is old-world classic and relaxed.

Pools, food & lazy afternoons

There are two swimming pools: one is social and lively, the other is calm – ideal if you want to lounge about with a book. Something for every mood. Afternoons here tend to stretch out beautifully. A swim maybe, a drink or two, maybe a nap under a palm tree…

Dinner is in the overwater restaurant built on a pontoon. Very nice, especially at sunset. On the menu is Ivorian specialties, grilled seafood, and much more. And lovely views over the lagoon.

This is also where you have breakfast, by the way –

– or long, drawn-out cups of morning tea, with a view.

Spot the boat out there on the lagoon? 

Lagoon-to-ocean, free of charge

One of my favourite unexpected details is the boat transfer across the lagoon to the beach side.

Because the lodge sits along the lagoon, the Atlantic beach is just across the water. Instead of walking around or having to arrange for a car to take me, I simply hop onto one of the lodge’s small boats, and within minutes I’m gliding across to the sandy oceanfront. The boat ride is quick, scenic, free for guests, and adds a touch of adventure to a simple beach day.

The Atlantic Ocean is just the other side of the palms here

There’s just something about stepping onto a boat in beach wear, crossing a calm lagoon, and hopping off into soft sand with the sound of crashing waves ahead of you.

Atlantic beach beauties

On the other side of the lagoon is a bar and a beachside restaurant, where you can dig into wood-fired pizza or grilled fish, with your feet in the sand.

Location, location, location

This is not a super snazzy, ultra-luxury resort. Nothing flashy here, no polished perfection. But if you, like me, are looking for a friendly, lively atmosphere, scenery, and relaxation, Coucoué Lodge Assinie delivers.

And the setting – lagoon on one side, ocean on the other – it just can’t be beat!

Assinie has a rhythm, and at Coucoué Lodge, you get to live inside it.

And now I’m going to find a place of my own to watch the sun dip into the lagoon –

– and try not to think about the looong way home.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Disclosure? Nope, nothing to disclose here. All expenses have come out of my own, ever slimmer, wallet. 

Coucoué Lodge Assinie: lazy days at the lagoon is a post from Sophie's World

But first…

The four of us have just arrived in Liberia for a bit of R&R.

Libassa Ecolodge

Melissa has found a place on the coast in Marshall, about a 1.5-hour drive from the capital, Monrovia. Libassa Ecolodge. Looks promising. And it had better be. It will be the most expensive stay on this journey in West Africa.

As it turns out, it is fabulous – and quite a bit more than just lodgings.

This family-run ecolodge focusses on sustainability. Think solar energy, efficient use of power, composting and recycling, planting trees, and my favourite, not serving water in plastic bottles. Instead, they have a rainwater harvesting system, and supply each guest with a bright orange thermo bottle we can fill with well water whenever needed – and keep! Nice touch.

They also focus on wildlife. The owners have established the first sanctuary in Liberia, with rescued and rehabilitated chimpanzees, pangolins, reptiles, birds, and more – including a blind crocodile. The goal is to return the animals back into the wild. Well… that poor croc will probably remain. He is safe here.

Guided tours of the wildlife sanctuary are offered 3 times daily.

My very own digs at the ecolodge; the design is inspired by local traditional buildings. Rooms have names, not numbers. Mine is Chimpanzee, and it comes with an old-fashioned metal key, no plastic cards here.

Now, all that is to be expected from an ecolodge, of course – but Libassa does more. As part of their commitment to local communities, they support the Butterfly Early Learning Centre (also known as the Butterfly School) in Kpan Town, a rural community nearby.

Interesting! Tell us more. Or better yet, let’s go see for ourselves!

The Butterfly School: hope through education

Early next morning, we drive the short distance – about 10 minutes – to Kpan Town. At the school, this cheerful bunch greets us, dressed in bright pink school uniforms.

Instant good mood!

The Butterfly School provides classrooms, but also serves as a community hub where children begin their educational journey, and where a ripple of hope spreads throughout the surrounding villages.

Singing and dancing is an important and joyful part of school

The Butterfly School was established to provide quality early childhood education to children in and around Kpan Town. Before the school opened, many young children in these communities had hardly any access to places of learning, and for the youngest, the nearest public school was too far to travel safely to every day.

With the help of dedicated founders and volunteers, including local businesses and supporters in France, a new school was built. It opened officially in 2016, in partnership with Liberia’s Ministry of Education.

More than just ABCs and 123s

At the Butterfly School, education goes beyond basic numbers and letters. The centre focusses on holistic development, encouraging creativity and a love of learning from the get-go, and importantly, teaching critical thinking! There’s just not enough critical thinking in the world.

The school provides lunch, and for many children, this will be the most nutritious meal they have all day. For some, this will be the only meal.

School uniforms

I have visited low-income neighbourhoods in several African countries. In many places, school and school supplies are free, but mandatory school uniforms are not. If you’re a family who struggle with daily expenses, the cost of a uniform can mean the difference between sending your child to school – or not. It seems downright absurd to me that any country can allow this to happen. Either scrap uniforms altogether, or do what the Butterfly School does: provide uniforms at no cost.

Community support and growth

When Butterfly opened its doors in 2016, about 65 children were enrolled. Some of these were older children who had never attended school before. These kids were offered a “speed school” programme to catch up academically, and then transition over to schools nearby.

Since then, the Butterfly School community has grown, and hundreds of children now attend. Girls make up a significant portion.

One at a time, boys!

We head into the surrounding village –

– where we learn about Liberian cooking –

– and the ingredients and spices they use.

Making cassava porridge, a staple

Growing wings in Kpan Town

Back at the school, the children are busy carrying their chairs back inside. Others are busy at the playground.

For the children in Marshall and nearby villages, Butterfly is more than just an early learning center. It is a place where confidence is nurtured, curiosity is encouraged, and dreams are given room to grow.

In this rural corner of Liberia, where access to education has not always been guaranteed, the Butterfly School stands as proof that when a community invests in its children, the impact reaches far beyond the classroom.

One teacher sums up the spirit of the school beautifully:

We call it Butterfly because we believe every child can grow wings. Education is what helps them fly.

In Kpan Town, those wings are beginning to open.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Disclosure? Nope, nothing to disclose here. 

Liberia: an ecolodge and a butterfly school is a post from Sophie's World

Religions side by side at the Voodoo Festival

Every 10 January, the laid-back coastal town of Ouidah bursts into life for the Fête du Vodoun. Ouidah sits between the Atlantic Ocean and a vast lagoon, and what is usually a quiet place with sandy streets and fading old-world façades, turns into a lively celebration of history, identity, spirituality, and a complex, colonial past.

Thousands of devotees, priests, musicians, dancers, and, erm, curious travellers, gather to honour the spirits that shape daily life across much of West Africa.

Many streets are closed to cars during the festival. Tuk-tuks – or walking – does the job.

During the festival, stalls appear overnight, selling bright wax-print fabrics, ritual objects, grilled fish, chilled drinks, and pretty much everything else. You can hear the sound of drums through the streets from early morning. Anticipation is in the air.

10 January 2026

Hotels in Ouidah have been fully booked for ages, so Nina, David, Melissa and I have been staying in Cotonou, a 1-hour drive away. Our fixer and driver will take us to Ouidah, but they are 1.5 hours late, which means we miss the opening ceremony, the Egungun, and the Zangbeto. Safe to say we’re a bit miffed.

The Sacred Forest: where spirits dwell

But… have to make the best of it, so we head straight for the Sacred Forest.

Close to Ouidah city centre is La forêt sacrée de Kpassè, a shaded, leafy grove filled with shrines and statues representing Vodoun deities. This forest is a living spiritual sanctuary, and various ceremonies take place here during the festival.

The Voodoo King enters the arena in the Sacred Forest –

– then: voices rise, bodies move, spirits drift into trance…

In the forest, sunlight filters through thick foliage, lighting up statues of spirits painted in bright colours. Our fixer explains the stories behind them, from trickster gods to powerful ancestral forces.

According to local tradition, King Kpassè, founder of Ouidah, transformed into a tree to escape his enemies.

Sacred trees in the sacred forest

The Python Temple: Holy serpents in the middle of town

Just opposite the Catholic basilica –

– is one of Ouidah’s most striking spiritual sites: the Python Temple, dedicated to royal serpents, symbols of wisdom, protection, fertility, and all that good stuff. The contrast between church and temple is deliberate, reflecting centuries of religious coexistence and adaptation.

Inside a building in a modest courtyard, dozens of gorgeous pythons coil around branches and rest along the walls. They are not feared, but rather revered, as manifestations of Dan, the serpent god of creation and continuity.

The pythons live freely in the temple grounds, and are released at night to roam. People say they return of their own accord by morning. Killing a royal serpent is a serious offence.

Devotees drape a python gently around their shoulders for a blessing.

Peaceful coexistence. And we are both harmless.

Door of No Return: At the Edge of the Atlantic

At night, the celebrations move to the beach, by the symbolic Door of No Return, a stark memorial marking one of the departure points for enslaved Africans during the transatlantic slave trade.

The setting is profoundly moving. A religion that travelled across the ocean in the hearts of those forced into slavery, is now celebrated openly and proudly in its homeland. From West Africa to Haiti, to Cuba, to Louisiana – and back again.

Ca. 200 000 attend the beach party

As evening falls and the crowds thin, the beach grows quieter. Waves break against the shore beside the Door of No Return. The drums slowly fade. Once again, I can hear the steady rhythm of the waves.

Zangbeto: Guardians of the Night

Since we missed the Zangbeto ritual at the festival, our fixer takes us to a small village the next morning for a look at this unusual tradition.

Entrance to Djegbadji village

The Zangbeto are traditional guardians of the night, here represented by large, swirling structures made entirely of layered raffia (palm leave fibre). No human figure is visible beneath them, and according to belief, there is none inside at all.

As drums beat, the Zangbeto spin at astonishing speed, around and around, with flaring straw skirts.

Watching the Zangbeto whirl across the sand is hypnotic. Also, slightly eerie. One of those travel moments that just cannot be easily explained.

Sometimes, they collapse to the ground and get back up again, revealing unexpected objects underneath their skirts.

They are regarded as spiritual protectors who patrol communities and maintain order.

Voodoo Festival beyond the spectacle: Understanding Vodoun

Western portrayal of voodoo have long reduced it to caricature, all about black magic and sticking pins in dolls to cause harm. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Vodoun is a sophisticated spiritual system focussing on balance: between humans and nature, the living and the dead, the visible and invisible worlds. It is about healing and protection.

People offer palm oil, gin, maize, and even animals. Not from fear, but out of respect. People consult their ancestors. Illness and misfortune are understood within a broader spiritual framework. Less exotic, perhaps, but more, well, human.

Ouidah Voodoo Festival practicals

• Book accommodation well in advance! Rooms were hard to come by in Ouidah, and also in Cotonou.
• Arrive early on 10 January to secure a good vantage point at the main venues.
• It’s a good idea to have a local guide to help interpret ceremonies and navigate cultural sensitivities.
• Dress lightly;  the heat and humidity can be intense. Also, dress modestly.
• Be respectful at all times; this is a religious ceremony, not a performance for tourists.
• Always ask before taking photographs; this is particularly important during rituals.

For us, it’s onward to Liberia, via a road trip to Ghana, and a brief stop in Togo along the way.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Dancing with spirits at the Voodoo Festival in Ouidah is a post from Sophie's World

How did we end up in Togoville?

We’ve been exploring Voodoo in Benin – Nina, David, Melissa, and I – catching the Fête du Vodoun (Voodoo festival) in Ouidah. Next up: Liberia. The fastest route is a direct flight from Accra; otherwise, we’re stuck connecting through Europe.

So, how to get from Ouidah to Accra? Why, a road trip, of course!

On the way, we’ll stop, ever so briefly, at interesting spots along the road, including Togoville.

(We also spend a night at the super cosy Hotel Petit Brussel in Lomé, and have a look at Marché des Féticheurs, the fetish market, but I won’t be covering that, as I’m no fan of shrunken dog heads and dead birds. If you’re interested, you can have a look at David’s snaps.)

Togoville: a town that shaped a nation

Togoville holds a unique place in the history of West Africa. This is where King Mlapa III signed a treaty with Germany in 1884, an event that shaped what would become modern Togo. That moment tied this peaceful little town to global history, and even today, Togoville has the quiet dignity of a place that knows its importance.

That’s another German protectorate there. I haven’t realised just how big a role Germany played in the gruesome Scramble for Africa. Did you? You will know about Namibia. But Cameroon? Tanzania, Rwanda, Burundi? And Togo, known as Schutzgebiet Togo in German times. Clearly missing info from my world history classes at school.

German – Togolese friendship monument in Togoville, celebrating 100 years of friendship, or possibly  ‘friendship’

Under German rule, Togoville was known as Togostadt and was the capital of the colony. After World War I, the French took over, changed the name to the French version, and so it has remained.

Togoville feels a bit like stepping into a living museum. There are no flashy signs announcing its past here, just stories passed down through the generations. Landmarks whisper, rather than shout. There’s a strong link between yesterday and today.

Spiritual crossroads: Christianity and Vodun (Voodoo) side by side

Cathédrale de Togoville

One of the interesting things about Togoville is how different belief systems seem to coexist in harmony. The town has a Catholic cathedral, a striking structure that overlooks the lake and draws pilgrims from across the country. It stands as a symbol of Togoville’s role as a centre of Christian faith.

At the same time, Vodun traditions are very much alive. Shrines, rituals and reverence for the ancestors are part of everyday life, running alongside church bells and Sunday services.

Vodun priest and female fetish/shrine in Togoville. A female fetish always has a roof over her head, to protect the home, we learn.

There’s a nice, quiet balance here, a kind of lesson in tolerance and cultural continuity that you can’t help but notice.

Mary – and Papa Paul

 Like in Međugorje, Mary has showed up here in Togoville. One day back in the 1970s, the good virgin appeared before a young girl on the lake. This has been recognised by the Catholic church and the spot where she appeared has been declared holy.  And Pope John Paul II even stopped by. His visit in 1985 was a huge event, and it put Togoville on the map.

JPII prayed by the shores of Lake Togo, recognising the town’s deep spiritual significance and its unique mix of faiths. 

The holy baobab

Gotta say, I’m more into trees, and in the centre of town, is a sacred baobab. Legend has it, the tree is so old it remembers the arrival of Europeans and even spirits of past kings. Locals say if you tie a ribbon around the tree, or offer a small token, it brings luck or protection, whichever is needed.

Faiths living side by side… We could all learn a thing or two from Togoville.

Life by the lake

Togo means by the water in the local Ewe language, and Lake Togo sets the rhythm of life here.

The lake is more than just pretty scenery. It’s a source of food, transport, and connection, all rolled into one. Fishermen head out early in long wooden pirogues, children play along the water’s edge, visitors arrive by boat from neighbouring towns. That slow approach across the water creates the vibe here. There is no rush in Togoville. Life moves at a calm, gentle pace, shaped by the lake, and the people who depend on it.

You don’t need a particular itinerary. No noise, no crowds. Nobody comes to Togoville for the nightlife. People come for calm. To slow down. To look around, listen, go with the flow. It’s about atmosphere, this place. About sitting under a tree, watch the sun dip into the lake, and let your thoughts drift. Or not think at all.

If you’re interested in history, culture and spirituality, Togoville delivers. There’s no performance, no trying to impress. It just is.

Bambino beauty in Togoville

In many ways, Togoville represents Togo itself; spiritual, rooted in its past, and moving gently into the future. Our visit has been brief, yet it feels like we have had an ever so slight encounter with the roots of a nation.

World at a Glance is a series of short articles here on Sophie’s World, portraying curious, evocative, happy, sad, wondrous, or unexpected little encounters. 

Togoville: history, harmony, and the art of staying still is a post from Sophie's World