Through the narrow windows of the cathedral’s bell tower, the landscape was split in two. Dazzling blue sky sliced across layers of terracotta rooftops and behind them, lay the Adriatic Sea.
The postcard A-lister, St John’s church stands over the small cove at Kaneo. It’s the final focal point on a peninsula that suddenly gives way to the blue waters of Lake Ohrid beyond, and has been for over eight hundred years.
With a characteristic scratch of his sun hat, Dimitri took a seat at the front of the boat and we chugged away from the fishing town of Peshtani. Lake Ohrid stretched out ahead: A beautiful hazy mess of still water and white sky that made the mountains of neighbouring Albania almost invisible on the horizon.
As I looked down from Samuel’s Fortress, I marvelled that its 11th century guards would have taken in a similar view. Misty mountainous slopes, seasonally snow-capped, plunge towards slithers of shoreline that border the city of Ohrid’s ancient lake.
Better late than never. It seems that proper summer, as opposed to ‘that warm week we always get in May’ has finally hit England’s capital. Temperatures have inched over 25 for the first time this year, and the infamous Central Line has inevitably become a sauna.
Lille’s complex history is visible in the architecture of its prominent buildings. From the cobbled quarter of Saint André, to the tinted glass of the Euralille shopping centre, a walk through the city tells a story of constant evolution through the diversity of its façades.
I hadn’t expected it to start with a hill. As a lime green man-kini and its host buttocks pulled away up the gravel path, the tiny town of Reuil dropped away behind me, and I puffed my way through the first kilometres of France’s strangest sporting event.