The Other Wreck Beach.

Training to be an artist.

Whistler, BC – A deep breath of cedar, unfamiliar.

My nose wrinkles.

It's greeted by forest air painted in incongruous colours.

Aerosols drip on the slight breeze, becoming stronger as we cross the suspension bridge over the roaring blue rapids of the Cheakamus River.

There, twisted between spindly trees, lie seven abandoned boxcars – the remains of a 70-year-old train wreck. They're awash in colour, having acquired a generation of artists' fresh paint.

And apparently, new life.

Today, a class of schoolkids stencils fish onto the sides of the mangled wrecks.

It's a stark juxtaposition: serene nature, dotted by grotesque blocks of man-made steel, now covered by two-dimensional representations of fish that swim just feet away.

So often, there's joy to be found in the unique and the unexpected. 

Even after a morning spent driving along the Sea-to-Sky Highway, through the mountains to Whistler and into Shannon Falls and Brandywine Falls, it is by far the day's highlight.

After all, the extreme beauty of those sites had already been foreseen.

See Wall.

Get otter here.

Vancouver, BC – A dryer tumbles in the distance.

As the seaplane banks overhead, the sound becomes more of an air raid siren.

Regularly taking off and landing just off shore, the small commuter planes provide the city a rhythm and a pulse.

Joined by my new friend Bill, who has never been to the city, I've headed out to the Vancouver Seawall, which frames Stanley Park. The world's longest uninterrupted waterfront path is easily my favourite place to visit here.

Sea lions bob in the distance – or are they floating logs? 

We play this game until our eyes become better accustomed to the ever-shifting waves.

Definitely sea lions.

A lithe otter slithers to shore, a flounder-like fish flipped over its lip.

But today, no whales. 

Lately, pods of orca have crested like oily crescents under the Lion's Gate Bridge and people have seen a gray whale basking in English Bay. 

A man on a jet ski obviously didn't, flipping over it this morning. Both appear to have survived. 

Twenty kilometres vanish in a breath, refreshed by our opportunity to simply get lost in nature – interrupted only by the latest dryer, tumbling in the distance.

A Marathon Day.

Cramped.

Vancouver, BC – Super Mario wobbles past, a star bobbing atop his head.

A time is written on it.

More so, a target. 

With a weary grin, he raises his plush hands in victory as he approaches the finish line of the Vancouver Marathon. Level up.

Just over four hours have passed since 25,000 runners set out across the city, through the campus of the University of British Columbia and around Stanley Park – the third-largest park in North America. It's an unseasonably high 27 degrees in the sun. 

Now, in the final stretch, a din bends around the corner.

So does the tangle of runners' legs that follows.

A pace-setter holds high a paddle, marked 3:56. She has work to do to catch up to herself. And yet, pained faces push hard for the last kilometre, spurred on by cheering fans lining the roadways, holding colourful signs: "You are that bitch!!!"

Some jump and scream in excitement as their friends pass. They have far too much energy to have run the race themselves.

Then, three men slow and lock arms as they approach the finish line. Together.

Support. Camaraderie. An ovation.

It's oddly hard to not become emotional.

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.

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.

A Jewel.

Footfalls.

Niagara Falls, ON – Even as it rattles through my bones, the crash of a fifth of the world's fresh water leaves me stilled, in awe.

It's deceptive in its emerald shimmer, rolling off the lip of the falls and spitting diamonds, caught in the sunlight.

I've been coming to Niagara Falls since I was a child and it continues to amaze, even as the area balloons in kitsch to accommodate an unceasing flow of tourists. But it's all about the natural wonder: so many mouths agape, like the Horseshoe Falls themselves.

Aboard the Hornblower, we dissolve into the mist, ruby-red ponchos inflating like comic book characters. I stand humbled beneath the torrent, swirling in the power of nature. Spray blows rainbows across the bow.

For the first time, we visit the Niagara Parks Power Station. Built in 1905, it was the first major power plant built on the Canadian side of the falls. It's now a beautiful museum that wears the history of electric power on its sleeve. Drips lead to a roar as we make our way down the 2,200-foot tunnel that once carried water away from the turbines.

We emerge beneath the falls. It's a vantage I've never had.

And it's spellbinding.

A Grey Time.

A blank page unfolds before me.

La Malbaie, QC – Greys slip into nothingness.

As we set out to the mainland, the air swells with pregnant fog. It's like peering through wax paper as the boat pushes into folded waves. Ripples vanish even before they form.

We've joined a group of daytrippers for a tour to Île Nue de Mingan, which sprouts with nature's flowerpots. It's a stone chessboard laid bare by high winds. Beauty, in nakedness.

Botticelli would be proud. 

It's a nice, free trip where we're somehow the only ones not sporting bright red lifejackets – until the horrified captain notices us shivering. An Indigenous member of the tour picks a stick up off the stone beach and tells us it has come from the mainland. It's been gnawed by a beaver.

And there are none here.

Unfortunately, what's gnawing at me now is that we have to cover 1,800 kilometres by the end of day tomorrow.

And we don't reach our car until near noon.

Vitals:

• Time: 8 hours
• Distance: 668.9 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, burning off into beauty
• Wildlife: Porcupine 

The Gulf Course.

Isolated, in the best possible way.

Île aux Perroquets, QC – Far off in the water, a rock smudges the horizon.

The lighthouse atop is barely visible.

We're waiting for a yellow boat, affectionately named Moutarde, to take us there for the next couple days. A beluga spouts near shore, only increasing my excitement.

Then, the low hum of a small outboard motor.

For five kilometres, we brace ourselves against swollen waves – it has stormed the past couple days and snowed only a few weeks ago.

As we approach Île aux Perroquets, a raft of sea lions nod. Puffins and razorbills (here, "petits pingouins") whir overhead in a spectacle of rapidly shifting dots and dashes – a welcome in Morse code.

As our luck has it, we're the only guests on the island for both days.

CliffsNotes on effective takeoffs.

Our hosts are incredibly hospitable, creating delicious homemade meals from local ingredients: haskap berries, seafood and freshly baked croissants. And always, too much dessert. 

As it's part of the Mingan Archipelago National Park Reserve, tourists visit during the day. But by 4:30, it's just us. Emboldened, thousands of birds drop from the cliffs in batches, peppering the sky in a search for dinner. Sea lions bark roughly from Île Nue, slightly to the east.

Puffins extend their orange feet, fluttering furiously as they land – standing – in holes etched into the cliffs by their shell-like beaks.

With tourists gone, they've come out to play. It's a feathery fireworks finale.

And the sun sets like a flock of flamingos, aflight.

Vitals:

• Time: 35 minutes
• Distance: 51 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Overcast and cold
• Wildlife: Beluga spout, sea lions and countless birds, including puffins

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

U-Bear Eats.

Sacré-Coeur, QC – Raindrops have been redrawn as mosquitoes.

As we make our way into the forest, a shape-shifting black cloud swallows the air in front of us. They tattoo our skin. 

It has been a pleasant day spent on a pair of ferries, including in the stunning Saguenay Fjord. Home for the night, though, is at Canopée Lit, in a cabin set high in the trees. It's equipped with a small kitchen, a separate bathroom and a birdhouse, which hangs from a rope.

Come morning, it will be hoisted up to us, holding a toolbox filled with breakfast.

But for now, we bask in the contentment of laying back and staring at the stars through the half-dome skylight, tree branches brushing gently against it like a cat. Silence and peace. 

Apart from the low, insistent buzz of one last, unseen mosquito.

Vitals: 

• Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
• Distance: 66.7 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, lifting, giving way to sun and (finally) warmth
• Wildlife: None

Signs of the Zodiac.

Between swell moments.

Rivière-du-Loup, QC – Rhythmic squawks: an alarm clock.

That and daylight spreading its wings across the sky.

It was all of 4 a.m. 

Apparently, we're far enough north to have much shorter summer nights, which is always an adjustment. It's the between times where a confused mind simultaneously seeks action and sleep.

I just want coffee.

After a sumptuous breakfast, the radio cackles. We're told the waves are too high for the boat to dock and that we'll need to be evacuated by Zodiac. Our hosts seem distressed.

We don our backpacks and rain gear, giddy with adventure.

The journey takes us through the forest, slippery with storm, and into an area otherwise closed for breeding season. The quiet cove shimmers in greens. Ferns fan our faces.

Assuming it's to take us all the way back to Rivière-du-Loup, we're surprised to see a grey, two-seat inflatable slowly rounding the corner.

I've seen bigger boats in a pool.

We immediately catch an oar in the mud and have to circle back. 

But, we soon make it to a larger boat anchored farther out in the water, grins as wide as the swells. Vanishing into the raindrops, our evacuation is complete.

Phare Away.

Alight.

Îles du Pot à l’Eau-de-Vie, QC – In the fog, the St. Lawrence fades from the page.

Imagination fills the remaining space.

Ships hurtle toward the rocky island, sailors’ faces as white as the waves. Each man tugs at a rope with raw hands, clasped in prayer, hoping the storm won't be their demise.

Ashore, the lighthouse keeper stokes triumphant flames in the broad, brick fireplace. He checks the wick burning atop the tower as a creak in the floorboards announces the arrival of additional hands. The glow grows, punching at the gloom.

Sleet hits the windows, rattling me from my reverie. The storm worsens. Winds whistle a maritime tune. 

Built in 1857, the historic red and white lighthouse we're sharing with a couple we've just met has no doubt seen its share of gales. A hundred-and-sixty-eight years later, though, it's still standing. We're told it's the only lighthouse in Canada where you can stay the night.

We climb the tower, looking across the island – now a bird sanctuary. Angry gulls pierce the clouds in slow-moving corkscrews. Razorbills skim the shifting surface of the water. It's moody.

And I can think of few places I'd rather be during a storm. 

Vitals:

• Time: 50 minutes
• Distance: 70.6 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Cloud, leading to severe storms
• Wildlife: Beluga spout; countless birds, including great blue herons, razorbills, murres and gulls

Flagging Hunger.

I found E.T.

Bratislava, Slovakia – It’s my last full day.

Naturally, I've decided to tack on even more international travel. 

Bratislava is only an hour away and, unlike earlier in the journey, the train clearly indicates where you are and where you’re going – in German and in English. Even better, a roundtrip ticket includes municipal transport upon my arrival.

Remnants of the communist era are immediately evident. Bland concrete boxes and stone statues with rugged chins are contrasted by narrow Medieval alleys etched into the old town and by a wide, leafy promenade along the Danube. The city is beautiful, interesting and different.

In addition to wandering through the old town, I’ve visited the Art Nouveau Blue Church, Bratislava Castle, UFO Bridge and Slovak Radio, an inverted pyramid often named one of the world’s ugliest buildings. The city is a patchwork of styles.

End of the line.

Having worked up a hunger, I've escaped the wind and rain by stepping into Bratislava Flagship, a former monastery built in 1672. It would eventually become a cinema and is now one of Europe's largest restaurants. From tiny doors to religious iconography, though, the building’s past is never far from sight.

Aromas of roasting meat waft through the air as house remixes of Cher and Elton John thump over endless wood and marble. An ornately carved fireplace sits incongruously against the wall, but no more so than the clay Bethlehem that fills the stage – it's reputed to be the country's largest.

Bratislava Flagship is a feast for the eyes and for the stomach.

A din rises from below as crowds finally pull up to the long tables. The restaurant, which holds 500, has just begun filling up. Sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with "Bar Tislava," my server delivers a dark, house-made monastic beer and a plate of slow-roasted pork, dumplings and sauerkraut. I'm told it's traditional.

And it's delicious.

What a cool experience – I’m really glad I’ve made the trip.

The Golden Hour.

A golden kiss.

Vienna, Austria – Centuries-old gardens are finely trimmed into pointy finials.

A robot mows the lawn in zig-zags.

The anachronism momentarily breaks my reverie about how generations of royalty lived at Belvedere Palace. I’ve sat here an hour, absorbing the sun, the largesse, the detail.

Nearly a kilometre long, the Baroque gardens slope toward the old town, connecting Upper and Lower Belvedere. Spray from tiers of fountains sparkles like diamonds, falling into the outstretched hands of ornately carved marble cherubs.

It’s refreshing in the heat.

Historically, people cooled off in the towering, reddish-brown – and aptly named – Marble Hall, found inside Upper Belvedere. Topped by a massive fresco painted in 1721, it's also where the Austrian State Treaty was signed in 1955, re-establishing the country's sovereignty.

The remaining rooms are filled with priceless masterworks – it has been a day of art. Rodin. van Gogh. Munch. Schiele. And the world’s largest collection of Klimt.

As I make my way through the crowd, newlyweds and lovers cluster, arm-in-arm, in front of his most famous.

The Kiss.

Bathed in Glory.

We can be heroes.

Budapest, Hungary – Having covered nearly 60 kilometres on foot the past two days, I figured I’d take it easy. Maybe soak in one of the city’s popular thermal baths?

No. You will walk.

I hadn’t yet seen Heroes’ Square, 3.5 kilometres away. It’s big. It’s daunting. It’s colonnades and bronze statues: men and horses turned bluish-green with age. It's impressive.

In short, it’s Europe.

Behind it, a castle that hadn’t made my itinerary. After all, there are so many.

Unlike most, however, Vajdahunyad Castle is a hodgepodge of buildings from across the country and across architectural styles: chess pieces from various sets clustered at the centre of a board. Set on a still pond, it's beautiful in its confusion.

An oxidized statue of Anonymous sits hooded in the garden, his pen rubbed back to its original bronze. Overhead, birds chirp like old tin toys. It's a fun find in the middle of City Park as the sun finally breaks through.

Only later do I realize I've been standing beside the famed Széchenyi thermal baths all along.

Poor Marketing.

Stop and stair.

Budapest, Hungary – Although it’s Saturday morning, the Central Market Hall is hushed. It opens at six.

Two hours later, most stalls remain shuttered.

The emptiness is filled with aromas of spice and baked breads. Sausages hang like the church bells echoing through the mostly empty hall. 

Cases of meat are laid out in symmetries, gradients of red. Bouquets of paprika clutch to steel gates. Fruits, nuts, wines and lavender soaps await the day’s rush.

In the meantime, I admire the silence and the sun streaming in at sharp angles.

But I would have loved to have found some breakfast.

Fang You Very Much.

For some, the décor a-Peeles.

Braşov, Romania – Our guide Dan plays DJ as he weaves through the mountains.

Occasionally, he looks up at the road.

In multiple languages, he sings along to jazz, the Rolling Stones, the blues and Pink Floyd, which he breaks up with helpful history of the region. He's lived in Brașov his whole life.

Our first stop is at Peles Castle, a Neo-Renaissance palace constructed for King Carol I, the first king of Romania. Its interiors seem to be carved from dark wood and gold. Ornate Murano glass chandeliers cascade from the ceiling with colourful, falling leaves.

Portraits painted by Gustav Klimt hang in the entranceway. There's a lot of detail to take in.

I find it interesting that there’s a Moorish salon, a Turkish Parlor and a Florentine Room, in addition to spaces styled after the British and French. Dan tells us Carol I respected different cultures, even if he was at war with them.

Maybe the rooms just gave him a place to put his trophies.

All-Bran.

Our guide produces strong coffee from a thermos before we proceed to Râșnov Fortress, which is closed for renovations. It has stood since the 1200s and was likely due for a freshen-up, even though it no longer needs to worry about cannon fire from the Ottomans.

Our last stop is Bran Castle, often referred to as ‘Dracula’s Castle.’

It's not really. 

A couple Americans thought it would help sell tickets if they tied the Transylvanian castle to Bram Stoker's literary vampire. And it has. 

Gold star, marketing team.

Vlad the Impaler, often considered to be the inspiration for Dracula (also erroneously), was not, in fact, from Braşov, but from rival neighbour, Wallachia. Still, signs around the property show a fork missing its middle tines to look like fangs. Another, a pointy crown, dipped in blood.

(I grudgingly find them clever.)

Built in 1377, it's pretty inside, and less ornate than Peles Castle. I creak over floorbards and duck under low doorways. Beloved Queen Marie – the last queen of Romania – modernized the castle in the early 20th century and painted flowers on many of the beams and doors.

In a full-circle twist of fate, it's now owned by a Habsburg.

I love history. But it has been a lot for the day.

Run to the Hills.

Braşov's brutalist train station, opened in 1962.

Braşov, Romania – As we pull out of Bucharest, the sun shimmers over bright yellow fields.

Blocks of canola carry on for miles. It’s a crop mandated by the European Union, replacing what had traditionally been potato farms.

The train glides effortlessly past small villages with rusted roofs and passes under a bridge spray painted with a blue swastika. 

It's particularly unsettling as these rails, and this train company, actively contributed to the Holocaust.

In what seems like an instant, green hills shrug from the ground, producing two-tone forests stippled with evergreens and beech. Shortly thereafter, the train winces as we begin our climb into the Carpathian Mountains.

Dark, craggy peaks cut into the skyline. Thin cloud settles into crevices as though someone has exhaled a cigarette. Rains are coming.

Despite the country's reputation for rail delays, we pull into Braşov exactly on time. Bells announce our arrival with the chime of a few notes of the operetta, Crai Nou.

And the rains hold off just long enough for me to make the 45-minute walk to the old town.