No Words.

Fiery fingers extend with a wave, in a wave.

Back to School.

King’s Wharf, Bermuda – The coral is over-punctuated with iridescent commas, shimmering in blues and yellows.

I'm absorbed in a swirl of calligraphy.

While the water can't be described as warm this time of year, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to take a catamaran to Harman's Bay and to immerse myself in some of Bermuda's sea life.

Snorkelling along the surface, I'm swarmed by schools of fish that appear to collectively bounce like a ball. Others are clear enough to be nearly imperceptible.

Their greetings float up in bubbles as they glide past in an effortless rhythm I can only ever hope to discover.

Nearby, an octopus scurries under a rock set beneath the delicate swish of a crop of fan coral. I float languidly along the coastline, feeling the sea move through me.

In the upper half of my goggles appear yellow-crowned night herons and Great Keskidees, which sound as beautiful as they look, their yellow bellies ruffled by the breeze.

It may not be warm, but the island is a lot quieter.

And the water is always my happy place.

Hide and Souk.

A DIY reflecting pool.

Casablanca, Morocco – Stepping off the bus, we’re immediately surrounded by touts.

And shouts. 

“Taxi? Taxi! Taxi!!!”

It's humid. Motorcycles bray like New Year’s noisemakers as they rip through crosswalks. Angry horns echo.

Pretending to know where I'm headed, I press firmly through the crowd – now five deep – and across the street. Only one man follows before realizing I was serious when I said "no, thank you."

I may not really know where I'm going, but I have a decent guess. 

The Hassan II Mosque is pretty hard to miss.

Its ornately detailed minaret rises from the ocean, drawing the day’s haze onto the sky. At 210 metres, it’s the second tallest in the world.

Hewn from marble and granite, the mosque is covered in intricate mosaics and features a retractable roof. It can accommodate more than 100,000 worshippers at a time, including 25,000 inside.

Funky cold medina.

We wander down a broad avenue lined with palm trees and into the narrow stone alleys I love so much to lose myself in. Mechanics make repairs from tiny wooden shacks fronted by mattresses, surrounded by pungent aromas of petrol and of the day's catch.

A young man on a stool uses a wooden block to tap a knife as he breaks down a large fish. Beside him, another cleans squid. Farther along, women gossip at a small storefront filled with spices. I'm surprised people largely leave us alone, offering only a soft "bonjour" and a smile.

We alternate our replies in Arabic and French. 

Apart from taking in the bustle and untangling the threads of jagged streets, the rest of the old souk is a disappointment: it's filled with counterfeits and cheap trinkets. Nobody even glances up from their phones to try to sell us anything. 

Just like home.

I'm privileged to be back on my favourite continent for a fifth time, which has brought a very different experience – but one that's still reminiscent.

And one that makes me feel alive in a way few other things do.

Rock On.

"What can we steal?"

Gibraltar, UK – Like a rigid lightning bolt, the Charles V Wall zigzags precipitously downward.

Its 660 narrow and steep stone steps are patrolled by Barbary macaques, which scamper up the wall and rest unhelpfully at our feet. While they're no doubt accustomed to humans, I still don't find it wise to step over a mother nuzzling her baby.

With so little room to turn around, I'm at least afforded time to catch my breath. 

All morning, the Rock of Gibraltar has been shrouded in cloud, shrugging in darkness. Having begun our trek at 7 a.m., we arrived at the Devil’s Gap Battery an hour too early to enter the nature reserve. Naturally, the attendant was late.

And had forgotten his keys.

A Christian rock show.

But we've had the trails mostly to ourselves, apart from the occasional minibus and plenty of monkeys. Most sit quietly, picking at family members' fur. Others jump into treetops, causing branches to draw wide-arcing parabolas. Still more slide across the glass Skywalk – which was, humorously, dedicated by Mark Hamill – rendered slippery from fog.

They're thoroughly delighted. As are we.

We stop at St. Michael’s Cave, where a light show illuminates stalactites and tells some of the history of how it was formed. Ancient Greeks believed it was the entrance to Hades.

Now a concert venue and tourist attraction, we dodge slow drips. A swirl of purple and pink illuminates a formation that takes the shape of an angel.

Stepping outside, the heavens open more fully.

What a fantastic day. 

Unmoored.

Missed a spot.

Granada, Spain – It begins with perfume.

The Alhambra’s tall, labyrinthine gardens gently whisper love letters in jasmine, rose, cypress and orange.

Bright red pomegranates – granada in Spanish – hang like festive balls on a Christmas tree. It’s one of the best-smelling places I’ve visited in a long time.

Inside, it’s also one of the most breathtaking.

Built primarily by the Nasrid Dynasty between 1238 and 1358, the palace and fortress complex is among the best-preserved monuments of the Medieval Islamic world. 

Modest exteriors belie the explosion of geometric tile, marble and intricately carved stucco inside. Swirls of calligraphy have been etched repetitively into the walls as though a student had to repeat a lesson learned on a chalkboard.

Courting lions.

There's an intense beauty to be found in consistency.

In Islamic architectural tradition, rooms open through arched doorways into central courtyards lined with sharply manicured box hedges and reflecting pools. The serene, liquid canvas of the Court of Myrtles would eventually inspire the Taj Mahal.

Having fallen to Christian conquest, the Alhambra became a Spanish royal court in 1492. As a result, the city is a fascinating blend of Moorish, Gothic and Spanish Renaissance architecture that speaks to 800 years of Andalusian history, religion, community and culture.

Walking into the Hall of Ambassadors, we feel a faint connection.

Here, behind the flicker of a thousand pinpricks poked into the shutters, Columbus received royal endorsement for his journey to the Americas.

It's like the stars aligned. 

A Stone's Throw From the Past.

Up at the crack of dawn.

Cartegena, Spain – Cartegena's Calle Mayor is tiled in blue marble.

I can only imagine how slippery it becomes in the rain.

The naval port’s main street carries you through a history sculpted from millennia. Today, stunning Art Nouveau structures appear to have been pulled from the ground as ornate blinds for the sun.

They flaunt wealth from several mining booms, where silver and lead literally and figuratively shaped the city.

Painted iron railings curl across the fronts of well-appointed apartments – embroidery stitches tying times together. Pots of flowers punctuate the pale yellow and pink buildings with colourful rosettes.

Tucked behind them sits a Roman theatre built in the dying years of BC. It’s still being unearthed.

Farther down the street, hollow facades are held up by steel frames. Their former insides are being turned upside down in an attempt to expose even more of crooked lines that have drawn the city’s history.

The sun breathes late-season warmth onto our necks as we reach the top of the hill in Parque Arqueológico Molinete, where ruins as far back as the city’s founding in 227 BC are strewn like discarded chicken bones. 

A sign tells us this was a rough red light district by the 18^th century and somewhere you wouldn’t have wanted to be. Now, feral cats scamper over crumbled walls and past small, painted houses the municipality has built for them.

More than 2,000 years later, the hill is still home.

Time Tapas.

Something's fishy.

Barcelona, Spain – A perpetual motion machine twists behind the thin, marble bar at La Plata.

He smiles, spinning the spigot of a barrel set atop the fridge.

Without so much as a splash, house-made red wine falls in a graceful arc into thimble-sized glasses. It's a perfect dive.

As he has for 50 years, Pepe Gómez moves effortlessly, serving small plates of fried anchovies. Washing glasses. More anchovies. Wiping down the counter. A plate of sausage. Tossing out smiles and jokes with regulars. 

And mentally tabulating bills of the growing crowd, which spills out onto the darkened street.

Based on faded photos on the wall, it seems little has changed since the small, corner establishment opened in 1945. It feels like you could be stepping into any one of them.

Still six tables. Still four tapas on the menu. And still a crowd celebrating the end of the day.

Set amidst the wallpaper of tourist shops hawking cheap trinkets in the Gothic Quarter, a moment of authenticity.

Feeling Familar.

Searching for a pot of God.

Barcelona, Spain – The towering sandstone forest of La Sagrada Familia is bathed in a warm glow of ambient colour.

Flames flicker on the floor. Sunrise stretches over branched ceilings.

It's as though all seasons are present at once and you can't help but look up – to gawk, even. When I last stood on this spot 30 years ago, it was the site of a gift shop and of continuous construction.

Now, it's a place of prayer in the world's tallest church.

And, next year, after 144 years, the chisels are rumoured to finally stop – construction of the basilica will be complete. 

Walking around the south side, though, I have my suspicions.

Having received one of the earliest entrance times, I step outside and have the entire front of the building to myself. 

I'm lost in the enormity of the moment.

Intricate carvings appear to crawl from the stone. Seasonal fruits in reds and oranges adorn the spires, dotting the sky with colour. A green cypress tree, reminiscent of Christmas, is decked with 21 doves. Delicate bronze trumpets, muted and turned green, are pressed to stone lips.

I may not be the slightest bit religious, but I'm still awed.

And humbled by Gaudi's vision.

Small Plates of Barcelona.

3.14 tapas for the price of one.

Barcelona, Spain – The blue dot on the map doesn’t budge.

It just winks, apprehensively.

Despite confidence we’ve hopped onto the right train from the airport, our lips are curled into question marks. “There’s only one way you can go,” I tell myself. “And there are other tourists aboard.”

And yet, we seem to be circling farther north.

Suddenly, we arrive at Passeig de Gracia station and hurriedly grab our bags. Stepping out into a bustling Barcelona evening, the blue dot finally careens across the screen, marking our real location. 

The GPS has awoken from its slumber.

We wander through the Gothic Quarter, which has come alive for Halloween. Men in top hats and long, dark coats lead ghost tours through jagged alleys lit at crooked angles in cigarette yellow. In a small square, a full choir of buskers breaks out in a beautiful rendition of Let it Be.

We settle into a table in an adjacent square for vermut de Reus and tapas, both exhausted from the day and equally giddy at the prospect of patatas bravas, octopus parmentier and a shimmering plate of Jamón Iberico.

Two buskers swing by the table, crooning Valero, expectantly holding out cups between bites.

It's a warm welcome to Barcelona.

Always on Tyne.

Not New Church.

Newcastle, England – I hopscotch, trying to not step onto tombstones.

Several set into the Newcastle Cathedral floor date back to the 15th and 16th centuries – 400 or so years after the church was founded. 

Their carvings have been softened by countless people literally stepping through history. 

Today, several people are tucked into sleeping bags in the corners, stained glass painting them in blinks of colour. It’s the only cathedral in England whose patron saint is St. Nicholas, who, in addition to bringing presents to children, apparently protects sailors and boats.

A list of every church organist since 1508 hangs from one of the pillars, which is astounding. The place is a virtual history book hewn from stone, marble and glass.

And yet, it’s a bit of an anachronism.

Soft light flickers from a large multimedia display that provides history lessons about the town's rogues through the ages.

And an inflatable dragon stands, grinning, in the middle of the floor.

Kept.

The new view.

Newcastle, England – The train doors open with a shiver of damp, grey chill.

Somehow, 12 degrees here is far cooler than the eight we enjoyed under the Arctic sun.

Rain caught up to us as we climbed the steep, smoothed stairs of the city’s namesake new castle, which was nearly demolished in the 1840s to make way for trains. Instead, the tracks carved through the walls, between the Black Gate and the keep. I’m glad they kept it.

Despite the monochrome day, views from the top were well worth the ascent.

But, we need to warm up.

Stepping into Grainger Market is like entering a time capsule. When it opened in 1835, it was the largest covered market in Europe.

Cut to the chase.

It’s still home to the world’s smallest Marks and Spencer's – the last remaining Penny Bazaar – whose burgundy and gold storefront has been painstakingly maintained since the store opened in 1895. Many of the newer shops share a similar aesthetic, sporting hand-painted lettering over curved glass.

A wok sizzles. We're greeted by shifting aromas of curry, flowers, shaving cream and fish. Vintage clothing shops take you back....all the way to the 1990s.

The market is a simple joy to walk through.

Its warmth is about far more than temperature.

Close Call.

Trust me, I'm not a church.

Edinburgh, Scotland – A Gothic spire rises from the heart of the Royal Mile like a singed needle.

Striking red shutters hang from it like jewels, which seems incongruous for an old church.

Except it’s neither particularly old, nor a church.

Built in the mid-19th century, the Hub is now a public arts and events space cloaked as a house of worship. It was constructed as a meeting hall for the Church of Scotland, and has hosted congregations over the years, but was never actually consecrated.

It still feels weird to sip beer in the courtyard.

Advocate's Close.

Initially unable to find tickets to Edinburgh Castle, we wandered the length of the mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the official residence of the British monarch in Scotland. Naturally, it’s closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 

Back uphill.

With each creaky step, centuries of history whisper to me through the many closes that branch off like fish bones. But I also feel – far too closely – the present. Crowds jostle past in the heat as they inch up the cobblestone road, which is stitched with countless tourist shops offering scotch, colourful wools and tweeds.

It’s a different version of close.

Mid-way, some good news. A bus tour provider sells us tickets to the castle, which looms above, perched on the edge of an extinct volcano – people have lived on this rock for at least 3,000 years. It’s a steep walk up to the iconic structure, which is braced by multiple layers of defences.

Top of the rock.

I can’t imagine making the trek in armour, let alone with arrows and cannon firing around me. And at me.

We’re rushed through a thick safe door and past the Scottish Crown Jewels, then to a small room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to her son, James, who would eventually unite the British and Scottish crowns, in 1603. 

Forlorn school groups mope in queue.

In the prison, we find graffiti scratched onto the walls and doors. Some of it dates back to the 1700s, including one of the earliest depictions of the American flag. Some things never change.

At 4 p.m., our first rain of the entire trip. 

Stone gargoyles become fountains, spitting on us from overhead. Time to pop into the Ensign Ewart for a dram and a pint.

After all, there has been a pub here since 1680.

Kilty Pleasures.

Scotch on the rocks.

Kirkwall, Scotland – Fog rolls in fast, like an early cinema reel.

For an hour, history fades into nature, only to be re-illuminated by yet another day of sun. This isn’t the Scotland I’ve heard so much about.

Having similarly faded into history, the Bishop’s and Earl’s Palaces stand as hollow sheaves of their former grandeur. The former was built in the 1100s – no wonder its ruins are dark, cold and empty. Long open to the elements, only whispers of ornate stonework remain around the fireplaces in the grand hall.

Stone ribs are all that remain of the two buildings.

Across the street, a massive, red sandstone structure looms over the city. It's far more intact.

A little dead out this morning.

Dating back to the same time, St Magnus Cathedral is both the oldest cathedral in Scotland and the northernmost in the United Kingdom. Now a parish church of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, it’s technically no longer a cathedral. 

Semantics.

Following tiny Medieval roads that spread out like spider webs, we're greeted by the golden aroma of fry grease. A chippie is a must.

Leaning against a stone wall in the alley, we tuck into into a tray of glistening fish and chips from the Happy Haddock. A fried ball of haggis comes in a paper bag. 

It's my first, and gummier and more seasoned than I had imagined.

A Dark Island Reserve from Orkney Brewery washes it down.

Haggis and a scotch barrel-aged beer – Scottish enough for you?

Where's my kilt?

No Words.

Rolling, rolling Shetland.

Huffin' and Puffin.

Pony, Pony.

Shetland, Scotland – Stepping to the fence, we’re greeted by a small snort.

More of a sniffle, really.

While much shorter, Shetland ponies are a little like Fabio: extremely strong, with long, flowing manes. No, they're not what Shetland sweaters are made of.

Single-lane roads carry us through stretches of peat, rock and the brightest greens I've ever seen. The landscape is a Tic-Tac-Toe board of crumbling foundations and lines of stone pressed into endless fences.

They could have been built at any point in history.

Neolithic. Bronze Age. Iron Age. Picts. Vikings. Romans. Or pretty much any other age you casually flip past in a history book – it's all here. At Jalshof, you can walk through 4,000 years of human settlement. An archaeologist's dream.

The island is history, wrapped in endless, rolling pastures.

Much of it has been scattered to the sheep.

Much ado about Puffin.

The hills are salt-and-peppered with thousands of them. Wool is strewn across the grass like dandelion fluff, providing pillows for countless dozing lambs, legs akimbo.

Heading south, the morning's shifting, moody greys give way to blue. A dozen Grey and Harbour seals take full advantage, sunning on the beach, seemingly pumped full of air.

We narrowly miss the gate closing for an incoming plane as we cross the Sumburgh Airport runway, which stretches across the road.

Arriving at the 200-year-old Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, we're greeted by a distinctive stench. It makes being out of breath from the hike up that much more unpleasant. 

Built atop 300-foot cliffs, the lighthouse is home to a nature reserve, where thousands of seabirds nest in the craggy rock. Guillemots whistle. Kittiwakes and Fulmars flip about, trying to get our attention.

But everyone's focused on the Puffins.

Ensnared.

Drumming up business.

Bodø, Norway – Church bells chime, their tinkles and dings giving rise to a five-minute song.

With a rumble, rows of women in bowler hats and black wool overcoats drum along. A clash of cymbals welcomes the Arctic sun.

We’ve followed 35 members of the Bodø Paradekorps from the city centre with unexpected excitement. Who had "parade" on their bingo cards?

I hadn't had high hopes for Bodø, which is nestled right above the Arctic circle and is far more modern than most Norwegian towns we've visited. It's not particularly beautiful, but large pieces of street art add splashes of colour.

A stark clock tower stands beside the concrete cathedral, as does the detached tower of town hall, which is linked only by a small bridge. It's like the crane never showed up. 

A spray of colour amidst the concrete.

At the harbour, young men teeter into a floating sauna. Another sells fresh shrimp from his boat.

Two large mesh fish greet us, mouths agape, as we stumble upon a pop-up art exhibition. A DJ blips and bloops. We clap politely during introductions, not understanding a word. We blend in like watercolours.

I’ve tucked my expectations of the town back into my pocket.

Bodø is, apparently, a European capital of culture for 2024 — the northernmost one ever. It seems there has been a “northernmost” of everything on this trip.

Add in a landscape hemmed in by towering mountains, and a sky that melts into a darker blue sea, and it has been a fantastic day.

Travel is so often about these unexpected moments and unforeseen experiences.

It's a reminder to keep an open mind, and to be willing to explore.

Thank you, Bodø.

Hearsestad.

Harstad, Norway – The blue line on our map blinks, guiding us on a five-kilometre hike through the town's neighbourhoods.

It's all uphill.

There's a peppermint chill to the air, but the sun is alight, dancing in and out of thin cloud.

A bell tolls.

This morning, a beige hearse is parked in front of Trondenes Church. Built of stone in 1435, it's the world's northernmost surviving Medieval building, let alone church. 

It stands simply in white, having no doubt grieved its share of funerals.

Inexplicably, people are vocally upset about being unable to go inside.

Leaving the grumble behind, we continue uphill in an attempt to see the massive Adolf Gun, which formed part of Hitler's Atlantic Wall – a 5,000-kilometre network of coastal defences stretching from France to the top of Norway.

With a range of 56 kilometres, the guns were the largest ever based on land.

It turns out trying to visit something on an active military base takes a bit more planning than we've done: there are no tickets available today.

Birds chirp, sounding like camera shutters. Ptarmigan? Perhaps they're photographing our dismay.

Closing the map, we find a far shorter route back, tracing the water and past overturned wooden fishing boats. Sunlight sparkles over snow-capped mountains.

It's not only infinitely more beautiful, it's flat.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

A long and winding road.

Nordkapp, Norway – The asphalt ribbon twists like my stomach as we weave around tight curves sewn into the mountains.

The road is worn from long winters.

It's a landscape I'd imagine being on the moon, but with a little more activity. It's surreal.

In desolation, beauty.

Searching for fresh growth, herds of white reindeer shed their camouflage in the dirty snow. Steep hills rise in mottled greens, browns and blacks. Somehow, cyclists and hikers push through the enormity.

We haven't seen civilization for 20 minutes.

Even then: a red house set onto a small, hilly island; a fishing boat standing steady amidst broken sheets of black ice. Sea birds, floating above small fjords.

At the end of the 30-kilometre drive from Honningsvåg stands the signature globe marking the northernmost point in continental Europe.

Not allowed to play reindeer games.

Except, it's actually not.

Never mind that Nordkapp is on an island, reaching Knivskjellodden requires additional steps north.

What’s an extra 4,760 feet between friends?

It's still the farthest north you can go by vehicle.

For 150 years, tourists have admired the midnight sun here and toasted the end of the world. To reach it, they had to climb the thousand-foot cliffs that fall into the union of the Norwegian and Barents seas below.

They earned their champagne.

Nordkapp's crown as farthest north may be ill-gotten, but its rugged beauty is undeniable. This has been an incredible day.

All that's left above us is Svalbard. Next stop: the North Pole.

Only 2,000 kilometres away.

In a Sound.

Not a sea day.

Honningsvåg, Norway – My reverie is shattered by the deep baritone of the ferry’s horn.

A motorcycle responds with a rev.

Echoes crash off zebra-striped mountains enveloping the sound, which provides sanctuary for the countless colourful boats anchored here this morning. Tall metal rods stand from their decks like matchsticks. 

The fish must be similarly silent today.

Despite having only 2,200 residents, Honningsvåg is considered the northernmost "city" in mainland Norway. Its painted homes are nestled into the rock, with backyards that cascade into the ones below. Snow fences are stitched onto the hills to protect them from heavy Arctic winters.

Capain Kirk.

It snowed only three days ago, and various pockets of water are still frozen over.

But, signs of spring: a mossy green canvas of lichen stretches out like fingers into the crevasses. At eight degrees, it's somehow still warm enough for short sleeves.

There's not much here, but sloped roads carry us to a white church that – apart from its green steeple – would seem to disappear in winter. 

Sort of like many organized religions in this day and age.

When occupying German forces retreated in 1944, they burnt Honningsvåg to the ground.

The Neo-Gothic church was the only building to survive.

Never Settle.

12:16 a.m.: still glowing.

Arctic Ocean – Midnight has ticked past without fanfare.

It's still bright enough to be mid-day.

A ball of bright orange bounces on the horizon, lighting up breaths of wispy cloud. The sun will dip no farther as we settle into the first of our 24-hour days.

It's seemingly more time to be alive, watching the cursive of the waves script the day's stories.

We're well above the Arctic Circle and the sun is warm, even if the wind is not. It's gorgeous in its barrenness.

Snow-capped mountains sketch a horizon crimped in black and white, set above a vast pile of blue crepe paper.

It's surreal enough to be a diorama.