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.
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.
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.
Some places have to be seen to be believed. During my second month in South America I drove south from La Paz towards the town of Uyuni in southern Bolivia: A base for the world’s largest, and highest salt lake.
What is a country? As I walked towards the border I suddenly realised I had no idea what that word actually meant. A few minutes later I crossed into the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus; the first place I’ve visited that technically, doesn’t exist.
After more than a decade of nothing but backpackers hostels, a last minute decision to get some winter sun dumped me in a 4 star, beachside resort in Paphos, southern Cyprus.