It’s easy to fall in love with Tikal as you watch a gradual dawn reveal its ancient history. Temples rise from the jungle canopy, perforating the horizon with a hint of what they hold below the trees.
Each morning in Cahuita, I sip a hot coffee on my little patio and watch in silence as multiple species of hummingbird, tanager and woodpecker go about their morning routine.
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.
I thought I was hallucinating when I arrived in Bicheno. In the middle of the campsite sat another vehicle exactly like mine: A compact campervan covered in purple and yellow flowers.
I was lost metres from the main road. The midday heat of early May in Croatia’s countryside drenched the material of my heavy backpack, and I started to daydream about passing the afternoon with an icy beer instead.
Wingo was a wanderer by nature. In tales of his childhood he recalled staying in the jungle until night fall, only brought back to his village by the enticing thought of his mother huddled over the fire preparing food.