My Travel Adventures

On the second day of my weekend trip to Eastern Switzerland, I woke up as early as on the first. I did not have as much trouble staying asleep as yesterday, but I was mortified by the idea that my six o’clock alarm might wake up people in neighbouring pods. This time, I managed to grab a quick bite to eat before setting off in the direction of Sargans, though I did have to make a run for it when I saw that the train was leaving in two minutes. Hopefully the store owners did not think I stole something.

With Christmas just around the corner, this weekend was my last opportunity to see Switzerland in its holiday glory. I decided to spend it in the German part of the country, booking a capsule at a cheap hostel in Zürich for two nights and arriving on Friday evening.

The way to Zermatt is long – almost four hours, in fact. The direct train to Visp from Geneva usually takes around two hours and a quarter, after which one usually waits for a few minutes before boarding the hour-long train to Visp. This second train is specially made for sightseeing: it has ceiling windows allowing visitors to view the mountaintops above, and more comfortable seats than intercity carriages.

On the last day of our trip, we began as early as always. Leaving our hotel at around half past seven and having found some breakfast on the way, we arrived near the gates of the Cimitero Monumentale a little after eight. We found the cemetery as monumental as its name promised. Its main building was flanked by two towers on the left and two more on the right, all of them adding colour to the white marble with dark lines and alternating patterns along the arches. We walked down the main path until the ossuary and admired the towering and ornate tombs along the way.

I booked the earliest slot for the Galleria dell’Accademia so that we could take the train to Milan as soon as possible. We ate breakfast at a local café, where I tried a custard-filled pastry and drank a glass of orange juice. The Galleria dell’Accademia opened at 8:15 sharp. One of its most famous works, the Rape of the Sabines by Giambologna, stood just behind the entrance, while Michelangelo’s David greeted us from beneath a glass dome. To approach him, we walked through a long corridor past some of Michelangelo’s unfinished works, and only by the time we stood in front of him did his monumental size become apparent. The entire hall, we read, was built specifically to house this statue, which had stood on the Piazza della Signoria until the nineteenth century.

I planned today’s itinerary around my teleworking obligations: I had to attend an online session at 10 o’clock, with my working day beginning at nine. That being the case, Aron and I still had some time in the morning to spend walking around Florence. We decided to cross the river and hike up the southern hill, where the Piazzale Michelangelo offered us a lovely view of the city, especially Florence’s massive dome.

Today was another early day, as we wanted to reach Pisa before crowds of other tourists descended upon the city. We woke up at seven o’clock, bought a quick breakfast, and caught the 7:54 train in the direction of Viareggio. I spent the whole ride reading about the city’s history. Pisa was an important city in the Middle Ages, competing with the neighbouring Florence and other trading powers like Venice and Genoa. In the war between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, however, Pisa’s alliance with the emperor cost it dearly. As the Holy Roman Empire lost influence in Italy, Pisa’s competitors gained the upper hand, and the city’s glory days ended by the close of the thirteenth century.  

Today was a less manic day than the standard for this trip. We packed all our bags and headed to the train station, where Aron had previously noticed a bag depository. We left his large camping bag there so that he would not have to lug it around all day, and we stuffed my plastic bags full of dirty and clean clothes inside it. My choice of breakfast foods was nonstandard: having noticed a few novelty gelato flavours, I decided to try out a scoop of mungo pine and another scoop of Sorrento lemon. The first genuinely tasted like pine needles (I don’t know what else I was expecting), while the second was very flavourful. Aron and I also tried martozzi, a kind of sliced bun brimming with cream.

We began our day by buying breakfast at a nearby pastry shop, which we ate on the way to our first destination. We were not in a particular hurry, but I forgot to tell Aron this and so he ordered take-away for both of us.

Over the past two days, we finished our itinerary for Naples earlier than I expected, leaving us with a free morning before our trip to Rome. We decided to spend it at the Royal Palace of Caserta. Founded in 1752 by Charles VII of Naples, it was only completed in 1845, having briefly fallen into the hands of the Parthenopean Republic, the House of Bonaparte, and the House of Murat during the Napoleonic Wars. Like other royal palaces throughout Europe, Caserta was inspired by the sprawling complex of Versailles, whose sheer size allowed the monarch to permanently surround himself with his court and government.

We woke up at 6:45 this morning to accommodate our very busy itinerary. The first item on our list: acquiring breakfast. At the café just around the corner from our hotel, I acquired a pistachio sfogliatella cone and a Neapolitan Napoleon cake, while Aron bought the same cake but a normal sfogliatella. Instead of sitting and eating, however, we took the metro to the Municipio Station. We made it to Molo Beverello with just enough time to buy tickets for the 8:05 ferry to the island of Capri.

My friend Aron and I left for Naples on a Friday evening. While I was at work, Aron completed his touristic itinerary for Geneva with a five hour long visit of the CERN. He had arrived from the States on Monday and had since managed to explore much of Paris and French Switzerland. Leaving the office early, I met him at the café below the mission and we headed over to the airport for our 17:20 flight.

This Sunday, my friend Deeksha and I met for a quick trip to Prangins Castle. We took the train from Cornavin Station to Nyon, where we wandered around a little before continuing to Prangins. Last time I visited Nyon, I had no idea the city had a set of Roman columns, and I neglected to visit them. This time, I fixed my mistake. We then walked to Prangins Castle, which lies about thirty minutes from the centre of Nyon. The Castle houses a museum, but to be honest I barely remember what we saw there, as it was not very interesting. We ate our packed lunches in the castle gardens before heading back to Geneva again.

A friend was celebrating her birthday in Brétigny, and because this village lies only about five or six kilometres from Ferney-Voltaire, I decided to walk. It was the perfect opportunity to finally familiarise myself with the area I have called my home these past two months despite spending most weekends away. 

The second day of my weekend in Emilia-Romagna began with a quick breakfast at Bologna’s main train station. It was my first time eating a sfogliatella and I have to say, I really enjoyed the experience. We arrived in Ravenna a little after nine o’clock. As we soon realised, this was too late. Ravenna is a town where many attractions have a limited capacity and timed entrances. We spent the rest of the day trying to outrun the hordes of senior tour groups that had descended upon the city for the sunny weekend.

Bologna is not within easy reach of Geneva. All flights I could find had layovers, and the next fastest option was a multi-hour series of trains. After much deliberation, I decided that if I ever wanted to make a weekend trip to the city, I would have to take an overnight bus. I had never taken an overnight bus before, and many people dissuaded me from the attempt. However, it was either that or no trip to Bologna, and a nagging masochistic voice within me kept whispering that taking a night bus would be a fun experience.

I woke up hungry and without much hope that I would find a breakfast place open at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. My pessimism was not warranted. Urban northern Italy is not rural France, and although a city might be quite lifeless on the Lord’s Day, there are hustlers who work even then. After acquiring a croissant and an egg sandwich, which I had bought under the impression that the egg was a generous helping of cheese, I went to the Parco del Valentino one more time. Near its western end is a bizarre 19 th century imitation of a medieval town with towers, tall walls, and even a drawbridge. Unfortunately, much of it was undergoing works, so I continued to my next stop.

The weather forecast predicted rain for the weekend, and although I initially intended to stay at home and catch up on some work, my idle Google searches led me down a rabbit hole that would turn my plans upside down. Looking up the weather forecasts for neighbouring cities, I stumbled upon sunny Turin: With its direct bus connection to Geneva, cheap accommodation, and host of attractions, it was the perfect option. Thus, on Wednesday night, I booked my tickets and an Airbnb, and spent the rest of the week daydreaming about the getaway.

With Sunday coming around, we had to begin our return to Geneva. For breakfast, we ate a few leftover pieces of bread and cheese, along with a few bananas and cashews we bought yesterday. Rather than waiting for the direct train to Bern, we caught a ride to Spiez, where we simply crossed the platform to make our connection.

For breakfast, we stayed at our Airbnb and ate our groceries from yesterday: we bought a pretzel and two discounted quarter pies (the discount owing to slight visual defects). We then walked over to the train station and set off in the direction of Lauterbrunnen. Heaving under the heels of visiting multitudes, this quaint Swiss village owes its popularity to its dramatic setting. Steep cliffs frame the village on all sides, with several waterfalls vaulting nimbly over the western walls and bright meadows filling in the gentler slopes on all sides. Lauterbrunnen is also famous for having inspired Schiller and other romantically minded Germans.

I am allowed to take two days off for every month I work at the delegation, and since it has been more than a month already, I am cashing in on half of my allowance. I decided to go to the Canton of Bern this long weekend, beginning with a Friday on the shores of Lake Thun.

The 1 st of October was another sunny day in a string of pleasant weekends, so I decided to make a day trip to Annecy. To reach this French town from northwestern Geneva, one has to traverse the entire city to Annemasse, which lies just across the French border. I am sure there are other connections as well, but it seemed more pleasant to stay on one single mode of public transport since I could keep myself entertained.

Towards the end of September and beginning of October, many Swiss villages celebrate a tradition known as the Désalpe (or Alpabzug in German-speaking Switzerland and Almabtrieb in Germany and Austria). The tradition celebrates the return of the cows from their summer pastures in the mountains: the more touristy Swiss villages deck out their cows in towering flower crowns and put on shows to fill in the time between the descent of various herds. In Saint-Cergue, for example, the entertainment during these pauses was provided by alpenhorn players, yodelling choristers, an orchestra band, and a singular man cracking his long, supersonic cow whip. There were also two other processions: one composed of cart-dragging Saint Bernards, and another one of men carrying cowbells.

I rarely explore different public transport options in the cities I visit, preferring to travel everywhere by foot. I think I developed this habit in places where I did not understand the local language and where the threat of getting lost seemed much more real and potent. There was something about Lyon’s public transport system, however, that won me over. Accidentally walking into Perrache Station yesterday, I noticed the shallow tram channel, the unthreatening walk across the tracks, and the simple turnstiles behind which the metro zoomed to and fro, turning transfers into a matter of seconds. Enamoured with the ease of everything, I bought a 48 hour all purpose ticket for the entire city.

For a normal person, a trip from Ferney-Voltaire to Dijon might take about three and a half hours on a good day. I, however, am an anxious anchovy, and connecting times below ten minutes scare me. I would much rather wait at a train station for twenty minutes than fret about having to buy tickets and find the right platform in the time it takes to boil an egg.

Today was a short day, as I had to get back to Geneva for my job. We managed to finish our supply of cheese, fruit, and juice in the morning, which made me very proud of our planning skills. We packed up and, leaving a few things at our Airbnb to pick up later, made our way into the city for one last time. Our first destination lay to the north: the Church of Joan of Arc. A highly original and controversial building, it is sometimes referred to as “the Meringue” for its colour and shape; the church is built of reinforced concrete, its tall spire piercing the sky above a collection of white domes.

As I found out while perusing Google Maps, the French Riviera is a real hotspot for the visual arts. The area boasts a museum each dedicated to Matisse, Chagall, Renoir, and Léger, and two dedicated to Picasso. Choosing between them was difficult, but we eventually decided to see Renoir in Cagnes-sur-Mer, as the city is easily reachable by train, and we had not been there yet.

This morning, we left Nice for another day trip, this time to Cannes. The train took some 40 minutes and dropped us off in the very centre of town. Instead of strolling around, however, we made a beeline to the esplanade and followed it to the port.

Today is Jeûne Genevois, a Genevan holiday thanks to which I have received a long weekend at work. To make good use of it, I decided to meet up with Johnny in Nice and spend four days along the French coast. Had I known how hot it would be, perhaps I would have put off this adventure for a later month, but there is little I can do about it now besides sweating, hydrating, and complaining. I arrived on the evening of the sixth, having left my suit and dress shoes in the office and having changed into more leisurely apparel for the flight. Together with Johnny, we made our way to our accommodation, which was some twenty minutes from the airport. Much of the surrounding area is connected by a single trainline, which makes transportation very convenient.

I arrived in Geneva a few days ago to begin my traineeship at the EU delegation to the WTO. I am sure there are a few interesting things to see and do in the city, but with summer drawing its last few breaths, I placed my priorities elsewhere. September is when, after a summer of growing a ripening, the grapes planted on the vineyards above Lake Geneva are finally fit for harvest. Thus, it is a perfect time for hikes along the path snaking its way through Lavaux, one of Switzerland’s most scenic wine regions.

My plans for my last day in Ireland came together in a very ad hoc fashion. Having seen everything I wanted to see, I searched for interesting sights close to the highway between Dublin and Belfast. These did not include – though I found it the most interesting sight of all – the modest highway sign saying “Welcome to Northern Ireland” painted over with several streaks of dark red paint.

I would have begun the day later, but the Airbnb where I was staying did not serve breakfast, and so – much like a migrating wildebeest in the vast savannah – I drove off at seven o’clock in search of food. Walking down the streets of Kilkenny, I eventually found a café. Predictably, the only establishment that was open at this hour on a Saturday morning was not a local enterprise but part of a chain I will not name.

I began the day writing my blog in bed while waiting for the opening times of the places I wanted to visit. At nine, I arrived by Blarney Castle; or rather, I arrived at a nearby street and parked the car on the side because I completely missed the giant parking lot in front of the castle. Due to this little mishap, I walked into the grounds a few minutes past nine, a negligible difference in all other circumstances, but not at Blarney.

I could not sleep all night. Two days ago, I received an email saying that due to unpredictable weather conditions, it was unclear whether my boat ride to Skellig Michael would go ahead. The weather had been nice in the evening, but it seems so unpredictable in this corner of the world that this provided no guarantee. In my restless state on the verge of consciousness, I even dreamt that I had already driven to the marina and that I was waiting there for my ride.

In the morning, I drove the short distance from my accommodation to Dunguaire Castle, which rises above the sea by the village of Kinvarra. Learning from yesterday’s experience, I left the car by the side of the road rather than in the parking lot (though I am still not sure whether the latter charges a fee). I did not spend much time at the castle though. Since it was still closed, I walked along the road taking pictures before I decided to leave again.

A visit to Brú na Bóinne takes some planning: the website advises visitors to book tickets in advance, and with good reason. When I arrived at nine in the morning, there were signs by the visitor centre saying that tickets for the day had already sold out. Luckily, I had bought mine a whole month in advance.

Overpowered by jetlag, I fell asleep very early yesterday; indeed, I remember it was still bright outside when I nodded off. The jetlag, however, worked to my advantage: I arrived again by the Dark Hedges at half past six as one of the first few tourists. Only this way did I finally manage to appreciate the solemn beauty of the mighty old beech trees.

Bonnie, Zach, and I spent the morning at Lough Eske, where Tom and Elva hosted a post-wedding brunch. Almost everyone beside us had stayed awake until at least three in the morning, a fact that one could readily ascertain from the haggard faces and hoarse voices. Because of Bonnie’s dislocated elbow and my antisocial habits, we left far earlier, and were thus probably the best rested of the group.

India and Ireland are very close to each other on an alphabetically ordered list of countries, but it does not take a world traveller to know that they are not so in reality. I was confronted with this fact towards the end of this week during my pilgrimage from Darjeeling to Donegal, a journey that took the better part of two days.

As I have already written, we had intended to visit the city of Darjeeling on Independence Day but were kept from doing so by terrible traffic. Having learnt our lesson, we moderated our ambitions and decided that today, we would only try to get as far as Kurseong. After all, the people travelling to Darjeeling would probably be returning in droves that day, and the driver estimated it might take three hours one way if the roads looked the way they did yesterday.

Tuesday the 15 th was Independence Day. I woke up in the morning to find a scorpion in the bathroom, whom I clobbered to death with a flip-flop. I figured that leaving it alone to go seek help might give it a chance to hide somewhere and threaten us later. I paid off my karmic debt in a few minutes by letting a trapped cicada out of the house. Having lodged itself between a shoe and the door, the insect zoomed off into the garden when I threw open the door and pushed the shoe out.

I woke up a few minutes after four this morning as Sparsh began to rouse the house for our journey to the train station. Frantically but methodically, we washed ourselves and packed the last of our belongings before loading them into three cars and piling the fourteen-headed group inside them. The ride was smooth. Although I had been woken up a few times that night by the loudest thunder I had ever heard, the roads did not seem dangerously wet, and indeed, it was early enough in the morning that the lack of traffic added considerably to my feelings of safety.

As though a hole had been torn through the clouds, torrents of rain began to pour down just before our departure from the house at half past seven. Even our brisk leap into the Uber got us wet, and as we rode on, we feared that the rain would not stop. All of a sudden, however, it did stop, and we noticed that some parts of the city were completely dry.

I had another early start today and spent much of the morning writing posts for this blog. Since Sparsh’s grandfather had me sit at a different end of the table this time, I did not see the shrine very well, but I noticed that unlike yesterday, Durga received her beloved hibiscus blossoms and half a coconut. I also saw that when the priest came, he not only dressed the idols but seemed to put something like hair on their heads as well.  

I woke up early in the morning, still a little dazed from jet lag. It was only five o’clock, but Sparsh’s grandfather was already sitting at the dining hall table. Holding a necklace of glass beads in silent reverie, he was facing away from the door and towards the family shrine, a tiled structure set in a niche on the balcony and filled with various plates and other metalware. The lamp was shining, and the incense was already placidly burning away.

I departed for India on the very morning after my graduation. As though it meant to taunt me, the weather in Oxford was cool but sunny – a far cry from the torrential rains yesterday.

A few days followed my last trip, during which the weather became obscenely hot and my search for apartments in Geneva became obscenely intense. As the heat subsided and I secured a place to stay, it was time to travel again. For our last trip around Crete, my mum, my sister, and I visited the city Heraklion. This sonorous name did not always belong to the city; rather, it was borrowed from the name of a nearby village as the Cretan Greeks went through a process of removing Arabic influences from their daily lives.

On our second full day in Crete, my mum, my sister, and I drove to Chania. The agenda for the day was to briefly walk around the town and then find a beach somewhere nearby. The former was the easier part of the plan. We parked the car in the south and, after figuring out the parking payment system, walked north into the centre of town.

I made my latest journey in the company of my mum and one of my sisters. For this reason – and because the daily temperatures have consistently risen into the high thirties – my trips have been much more leisurely than usual. We arrived in Crete on the evening of the 22 nd after an eventful journey. Our flight was delayed by almost two hours: first because a problem had to be fixed on our aircraft, and then because our plane missed our departure window and had to wait for another hour. In the meantime, a storm brewed up somewhere above southeastern Europe, and we flew straight into it for a bumpy flight.  

As I slowly clambered out of bed this morning, I realised that the weather forecast had been too pessimistic. The skies may have turned a little cloudy from yesterday, but there was no sign of rain, and the sun shone brightly. Nevertheless, when I left my backpack at the reception and set off with my camera and umbrella, I wore a long-sleeved shirt, which I began to regret as the morning lost its freshness. Since I had seen everything I had wanted to see in central Gdańsk, my plan for the morning was to take the tram to Oliwa, visit its park and cathedral, and head back. In the afternoon, I would see a museum or two in Central Gdańsk and then make my way over to the airport for my evening journey to Prague.

My dad says I trust the weather forecast too much, and he may very well be right. Because it is supposed to rain tomorrow, I decided that I would try to see all the items on my list today. The weather was supposed to be sunny and indeed it was – perhaps too much so. Record temperatures are being reported from across Europe, and even as northern a town as Gdańsk started feeling uncomfortably steamy by ten o’clock.

As Eli had an appointment, I spent the morning walking around the old town. 85% of the Warsaw was intentionally destroyed after the failed Warsaw Uprising of 1944 by Nazi Germany’s Verbrennungs und Vernichtungskommando (the Burning and Destruction Detachment), including some of its most important landmarks. The streets and walls teem with reminders of the Second World War: plaques to fallen heroes, boundary markers of the Warsaw Ghetto, and statues of great figures both real and imaginary. Standing at the northern side of Castle Square is a statue of Jan Zachwatowic, the architect who oversaw Warsaw’s rebuilding.

Not long after returning home, one of my sisters announced that she would make a weekend trip to the UK, while the other started spinning plans for a weekend out and about in Prague. I decided, therefore, to go on a trip of my own. My choice fell on Poland, as I have seen very little of the country outside of Krakow.

During my brief stay at home this summer – which I have informally dubbed my Eurosummer – my sister’s endless badgering led us to undertake exactly one domestic trip. Her desired destination was Loket Castle, a sight that lies about an hour and a half west of Prague. Situated on a peninsula within the bend of the Ohře River , Loket can only be approached by a series of narrow winding paths that lead to the centrally located Masaryk Square. Scarcity means that parking is limited to two hours, so we had to strategically plan lunch around feeding cash into the parking meter.  

I woke up on the last day of this intense trip feeling quite sluggish, but the weather was too nice to slack off. I packed up my bag one last time and went out, basically repeating yesterday’s circuit around central Copenhagen. This time, I spent longer checking out the spiralling roof of the Stock Exchange building: upon closer inspection, it is made of the intertwining tails of several dragons. I also briefly stopped by the Botanic Gardens, which were free to enter but were undergoing major reconstruction. The entire northeastern side was closed off to visitors, and what remained was a short loop between the Palm House and the lake.

I began my day as has become custom on this trip: with a juice from the supermarket and pastries from a local café. Since I had already seen the outer parts of Copenhagen, I decided that today would be the day when I would explore the centre. I first made my way to Rådhuspladsen, but I found the city hall undergoing major work to its main tower. Walking southeast, I took pictures of the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek but did not go inside, as it was far too early and the museum was still closed. I also visited Slotsholmen, which houses Christiansborg Palace and the lovely Royal Library Garden.

It was cloudy and windy this morning due to the lingering storm, so I decided to wait out the bad weather on public transport. My strategy was a partial success: my journey to Helsingør did pass some time, but it was not until around ten o’clock when the weather really started to clear up. By then, I had already walked through the town centre and the harbour. With my arms fighting against the coastal wind, I took a few pictures of the remarkable Hercules and Hydra statue before walking towards the town’s castle.

On our last day in Oslo, we made a visit to the Museum of Cultural History (or the Folkemuseum for short). I had initially added it to my list of things to see because it has a beautiful stave church from around 1200 CE. I have been burning to visit a proper Norwegian stave church, as we had initially planned to call on May in her home in central Norway – not too far away from several very famous ones.

The more people travel together, the longer everything takes. Of the several items on my list, we only visited two today. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, however, my list has been shortened by many factors beyond my control. I had wanted to see Emanuel Vigeland’s Museum, but it is only open for four hours every Sunday and the tickets are booked far in advance. Unusually, the Royal Palace is also open for a few months, but all the tickets have been sold out too. To top it off, several other attractions, like the Nobel Peace Centre and the Viking Ship Museum, are temporarily closed (the latter until 2026).

We had a late start due to my late arrival yesterday. Johnny and I went to the Vigeland Park at around eleven, after which we visited May at her apartment. The Vigeland Park seemed to be very popular with tourists from across the globe, and it truly is a bizarre sight that merits a visit. Abounding in strangely positioned statues of naked human bodies, it is a puzzling, almost unsettling place.

Today’s travels were not, to put it mildly, a very inspiring financial success. We packed our luggage in the morning, consolidating our things into two suitcases and two bags. Due to our difficulties coordinating, Johnny and Zhongwei booked the six o’clock flight while I purchased tickets for the eight o’clock one. When buying their tickets, however, the two did not realise that their purchase only included one carry-on. Therefore, we decided to pack one backpack into a suitcase and have me carry it along with my own backpack.  

Technically, my day began when I went to sleep a little past midnight: I looked out of the window and saw the law orange sun burning amidst the trees. Once we woke up again, we drove eastwards from our accommodation, spending the day between Vestvågøya and Austvågøya. Having driven past the remarkable church in Borg a few times, we made a quick stop there to see it from up close. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon stopping at viewpoints around the two islands.

For the first time in a while, I ate a proper homemade breakfast of eggs, cheese, and toast. We started the day quite late, only beginning our drive westward shortly before ten. Our first stop was Buksnes Church, an imposing red building with white timber frames and dramatically sloping green roofs. The parking lot in front of the church was quite busy, which kept me from taking pictures. When we entered, we saw many smartly dressed people. We did not understand what had brought them there in such numbers until we were approached by a man who asked if we were tourists. When we responded that we were, he promptly told us that this was a funeral gathering, and we hurriedly left.

With great displeasure, I woke up at 5:50 this morning to catch the airport express from Stockholm Central Station to Arlanda Airport. I had many reasons to feel smug though. Firstly, I had activated my 24-hour ticket at around half past six the previous day, so I did not have to waste time buying another. Secondly, I had already bought a return ticket to Arlanda. Thirdly, I had become intimately acquainted with the Central Station over the previous days, knowing exactly where to go on this important occasion. Fourthly, I had checked in online, so I saved time once I arrived at the airport. Finally, I put off brushing my teeth and eating breakfast until I got to Arlanda, which saved me from waking up at half past five.

I started the day very early and not without apprehension. Having conducted plenty of research beforehand, I decided it would be possible for me to visit Hovgården, an ancient site on the island of Adelsö. Hovgården is notable for its large burial mounds, which reportedly date to the Vendel Period (500-800 CE) and the early Viking Age (800-1050 CE). An excavation of a mound dating to 900 CE found a man buried in a boat as was custom among many northern peoples (a similar discovery was made at Sutton Hoo in England).   

Despite the practically incessant stream of light outside my window on this warm summer night, I managed to sleep until around seven. Rather than the sun, what woke me up was a persistent mechanical noise. My hotel here is on a boat, but I do not think that the sound was of a nautical origin – unlike the squeaking of wood, metal, and rubber that followed the movement of the waves.

After my return from Oxford, I only stayed at home for a day and a half. I spent much of that time unpacking all my things and repacking a fraction of them in a carry-on bag that I would take with me on my trip to Scandinavia. On Monday afternoon, I set off. Boarding the 13:15 plane from Prague, I arrived at to Stockholm Arlanda Airport shortly after 15:15. My plan was to board one of the many trains to Uppsala and spend the afternoon there.

Reflecting on my last term at Oxford, I think I spent it well. Perhaps I should have started studying for my exams later, as I was barely even going through the motions in the last two weeks, but at least I felt confident in my answers. I took exams in two subjects: the International Relations of East Asia and Russian International Relations and Foreign Policy. I revised for the first in the usual way: I read through my notes until I was absolutely sick of them, and I copied the most important points onto a word document. Realising that I had learned practically nothing about Southeast Asia during the Cold War, I also studied a few Wikipedia pages and boiled them down into digestible bullet points. Finally, I prepared a few paragraphs of definitions that I could copy straight onto the online exam (which is perfectly within exam regulations).   

We had borrowed our car for two days, and after returning from the Cotswolds, Johnny and I made another trip, this time to the south. Our first stop was the city of Winchester, a name that carries some emotional weight for me as I have resided at Winchester Road for the past two years. The city is sometimes described as a former capital of England, but it is now generally agreed that the royal court was mobile during England’s early Middle Ages. Associated with Alfred the Great, Winchester owes its present layout to the king’s reconstruction of the city to render it more defensible against Viking raids.

My last day as a student at Oxford was a hectic one. I took my final exam in the morning and immediately began a marathon of social engagements that only ended at midnight. In between the two meals and three parties, I accompanied Johnny on a quick trip to a car rental place at the outskirts of Cowley, where we picked up our ride for the following day. While the journey was a bit annoying, it allowed us to begin the next day fresh and early – since we invited two friends from the programme, we did not dare to suggest an earlier meeting time than nine o’clock.  

It was a sunny Sunday when Luqman and I set off for the last hike of our Oxford careers. Taking the first train to Moreton-in-Marsh, we arrived a little before half past ten. Moreton-in-Marsh was very quaint. We made sure to walk through the town centre to see the War Memorial, Curfew Tower, and the Redesdale Hall, circling around Saint David’s Church on our way from the centre. All the houses were constructed using stones of a warm cream colour, including the typically austere Anglican church.

With my time at Oxford drawing to a close, the pressure to do all the things on my UK bucket list has been growing. I likely will not manage to visit the Peak or Lake District, or make a road trip through Wales, but there are a few destinations closer to home that have already made the cut or will do so imminently. One of these places are the Royal Gardens in Key. Located at quite a distance from central London, they are not among the most natural candidates for inclusion on a day trip, which is why my visit to Kew has been put off multiple times. However, with spring blooming into summer, I have finally made the decision to put aside the day for this visit.

Unlike most of my excursions to other Oxford colleges, my visit to the Oxford Centre for Islamic Studies warrants a short blog post for its sheer bizarreness. The OCIS gardens are only open once a week for a mere two hours: Every Tuesday between four and six o’clock. They also lie quite far away from the city centre, facing Magdalen College from the other side of the river Cherwell. Thus, visiting the OCIS gardens on a whim is near impossible, and for many months I had made my calendar send me a weekly reminder of the gardens being open without ever having the time to follow through.

It is November right now and as I look through the pictures I have taken this year, I am realising some of them did not make it onto my blog because there was no compelling story to go along with them. Therefore, here is a backdated post that gives me an excuse to upload a few pictures I took on an unremarkable trip to London.   An installation to commemorate the coronation of King Charles III Marble Arch All Souls Langham Place Decorations on Regent Street A decoration on the facade of the BBC building Soho Square Gardens The Seven Dials Monument The Royal Opera House A cool lamp An interesting facade Bush House The London School of Economics The Old Curiosity Shop More buildings around LSE Buildings that I can't quite place More buildings that I can't place A London street

We started our day by buying breakfast and dinner at a supermarket in Banja Luka. Lacking in invention, we bought what we have been consuming for the vast majority of our breakfast meals on our trip: bread, cheese, a milk-based drink, and fruit. The purchase brought our supply of Bosnian Marks low but not to zero. Thus, we decided to get some gas before crossing the border to the EU. We were pleasantly surprised when, upon arriving at the gas station, we were helped with our purchase by an employee who simply typed in the desired amount and refilled our tank for 30 BM worth of gas.  

We made a second loop around Sarajevo this morning, beginning with a breakfast at a local bakery. Our first stop was Ali Pasha’s Mosque, named after an Ottoman governor of Bosnia in the 16 th century. Surrounding the mosque is a small cemetery occupied mostly by the graves of soldiers fallen in the Yugoslav Wars. Many of the tombstones are decorated with what appear to be marble turbans, presumably an indicator of status.

Today was another major driving day. Yang cleverly anticipated that we would lose our roaming data in Bosnia and Herzegovina, so we downloaded Google Maps to help triangulate with our GPS. It did not take long to reach Bosnia from Dubrovnik despite driving along quite narrow country roads. As we rose from the coast to the mountains, we could see the city below us, and the scenery kept impressing us with more beautiful views.

When planning this journey, I wanted to include a buffer day in the middle in case we got waylaid. However, because Dubrovnik is by far the best-known city on Croatia’s coast, this day ended up getting moved to day 8. Fortunately, we met with no trouble on our route, so this day ended up being quite restful. I was also very thankful for it, as the skies ended up being sunny until early in the afternoon despite the pessimistic weather forecast.

There were a few things we did not get to see yesterday in Split due to our late arrival. After buying our breakfast from a local bakery, therefore, we made a visit to Saint Domnius Cathedral. A service had just ended there, and the lights were being turned off as we walked in, but at least we had a moment to enjoy the sacred space all by ourselves. An interesting feature of the exterior is that at the foot of the western gate stand two lions, one of them trampling a lamb. I am not quite sure what that is meant to evoke but it seems perverse.   

It may have been labour day today, but I have consistently been working my butt off as a driver and today was no exception. In the morning, Yang and I travelled to Šibenik, a quiet coastal town overlooked by three forts. The paths in Šibenik are narrow and steep, offering seaside views some in some places and glimpses of churches at others. After climbing to Saint Michael’s Fortress, we walked down to the UNESCO-listed Cathedral of Saint James, a multi-levelled structure with wholesome round gables and an elegant rose window.

Today was a major driving day. Charting an eastward course, I drove for three hours straight, after which we took a short break to refill the tank and empty ourselves. We then drove another half an hour to Plitvice Lakes National Park. Yang navigated for much of the journey, as our GPS refused to send us along the tolled highway. Holding her phone with Google Maps open so that I could see it, she would give me the occasional heads up when we were approaching a turn.

We ate breakfast at our hostel with utmost speed to avoid awkward small talk with our fellow travellers and sped back to Croatia. One of the things I have noticed about roads in Italy and Slovenia is that the on and off-ramps for highways are unpleasantly short and narrow. Besides saving marginal costs on materials, I really cannot think of a reason for why this is so. Nevertheless, our subsequent driving up and down the winding country paths of the Croatian coast was equally challenging, with plucky cyclists acting as occasional obstacles and creating pileups long behind their backs.

We departed Ljubljana in the morning after buying breakfast (and some bread and cheese for a quick lunch) at a nearby store. I also grabbed sunscreen, as my bottle was too big to pack in my carry-on. 

Yang and I both woke up before our alarms, which came in quite handy as today was a busy day. After buying breakfast at a nearby corner store, we checked out of our hostel and left Zagreb. Our first destination was Lake Bled in Slovenia, which is about two hours away from Zagreb on a good day – and one and a half times longer when one has the misfortune to get stuck in traffic on the way past Ljubljana. We also took some time to stop at a gas station after crossing the Slovenian border to buy a highway pass (it turned out we could have just done this online).   

There were many things that could have gone wrong today, so I was constantly surprised as good fortune dispelled my paranoia. My friend Yang and I left Oxford at 5:30 in the morning using the rental car Johnny and I had borrowed for our York trip. The day before, Johnny helpfully suggested we park it outside our college in the evening so that we wouldn’t have to walk far the following morning. This plan worked perfectly and helped us avoid rush-hour traffic on the way to Heathrow.

On the last day of our trip to Yorkshire, we finally made a proper excursion of the city itself. We started in the Museum Gardens, which house a tiny observatory and yet another ruined abbey – that of Saint Mary from the eleventh century. We also visited York Minster, which is home to the Archbishop of York, also known Anglicanism’s top dog number three following the monarch and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Although it boasts of having the largest expanse of medieval stained glass in the world (I’m not sure how this compares to Gloucester Cathedral’s similar claim), I would say its most fascinating feature is the Doom Stone. Located in the cathedral’s crypt, it depicts sinners inside a boiling cauldron as well as demonic-looking figures.

It was a cloudy morning when Johnny and I arrived at the Studley Royal Park. We came before the ticketed part opened, so we wandered around a little, taking pictures of the pheasants and goslings before returning to the gate. Despite Studley being officially listed as a National Trust monument, I got free entry thanks to a local partnership between the NT and English Heritage. Studley Royal Park is home to the massive, ruined Fountains Abbey, which was among the wealthiest during its blossom. It stands on top of the stream and after reaching it from the southern bank, we crossed to the northern bank and walked back to the entrance along the more elevated pathway.

The cake we bought yesterday was very good, and it served as breakfast this morning as we were too full to eat it after consuming the ice cream that had come with it. Leaving our exploration of York for another day, we departed for Scarborough, a seaside town most famous for the song Scarborough Fair. As Johnny discovered on Wikipedia on our way, the celebrated fair had a 500-year tradition until it was discontinued in the 19 th century. Also, the town itself was destroyed or heavily damaged multiple times: first by the Vikings, then during the Civil War, and finally by the Germans during the Second World War.

I had been intending to go to York for a while, but the distance (or rather, the bad state of British rail infrastructure) always posed an annoying obstacle to me. The connections are indirect, long, and expensive, taking up more energy, time, and finances than the visit itself. After overcoming my fear of driving on British roads, however, I unwittingly entered a whole world of new possibilities.

With our trip over, I think it would make sense to compile a short index of things I learned to recognise at temples and holy places. This way, I will be able to look darned smart next time I go to a museum. Avalokiteshvara (Tibetan: Chenrezig; Chinese: Guanyin): “Lord who looks down with compassion,” a major bodhisattva. (S)he is often portrayed with four arms, one holding a string of jewels, and another holding a lotus, symbols that refer to the prayer “Om mani padme hum” (translated as “Praise to the jewel in the lotus” or “I in the jewel-lotus”). Another common portrayal of Avalokiteshvara has one thousand arms and eleven faces stacked on top of each other in three rows of three and two rows of one. Bhavachakra: A painting that comprises concentric circles demonstrating Buddhism’s core teachings on samsara, cyclical existence. The hub of the circle displays a pig, a rooster, and a snake, which represent the three poisons of ignorance, attachment, and anger. The second layer exp

I got diarrhoea at some point yesterday, and I spent last night shuttling between my bed and the bathroom. Fortunately, nothing was planned for the day, as the rest of the tour group was preparing for their departure. From dawn until dusk, therefore, I stayed in bed, drank tea, and ate crackers. Also fortunate was the fact that my diarrhoea abated as quickly as it had come, and when we left on the 12 th , I did not go the toilet a single time for our entire journey.

As I mentioned previously, our second arrival in Nepal was accompanied by unforeseen difficulties. The officials at the airport refused to acknowledge our visa extension forms, leaving us with two options: overstay and pay a fee of fifty dollars or extend our visas at the immigration office. On our very first day in Nepal, my dad and I happened to walk past the immigration office and did not form an overly favourable impression of it. Practically besieged by crowds of desperate looking South Asian migrant workers both inside and outside in the blistering sun, it seemed a realm of understaffed chaos.

Today was a difficult day. I could not sleep because of the traffic outside; cars east of Kathmandu Valley all seem to have horrible sounding horns that they use profusely and indiscriminately. I woke up before five o’clock, and although watching the sun rise over the Himalayas was part of the programme, we saw diddlysquat, as dust and pollution brought the visibility down to laughable levels.

This morning we finally had a more reasonable starting time than on previous days: we were supposed to wake up at a leisurely seven o’clock and leave at nine. I say “supposed to,” as I woke up before six; my body rightly distrusts our tour guide’s newfound lenience.

To catch our 7:40 flight from Paro back to Kathmandu, we had to wake up at quarter to five, which I did not particularly enjoy. However, as we have gotten quite used to the tyranny of our tour operator, the incident passed without much complaining. The flight itself was very beautiful. As during our flight from Kathmandu to Thimphu, we enjoyed clear blue skies all the way, and even better than on that flight, we did not have to make the murderous descent into Thimphu.

Our tour guide persuaded the hotel to serve us breakfast earlier than they usually do so that we could leave for Paro Taktsang at seven o’clock. We did not go directly. Instead, we made a small detour to catch a glimpse of the sacred mountain Jomolhari, as well as Drugyel Dzong. An interesting fact about the latter is that it languished on UNESCO’s tentative list for many years until Bhutan completely dashed its chances by completely reconstructing the ruins.

It has been our luck this entire trip that upon leaving a place, the weather there always turns nice. Sometimes, however, the sun also shines on our destination. Such was the case today, when good weather accompanied much of our bus ride from Phobjikha Valley to Paro.

Today’s programme was more leisurely than our previous experiences. We departed from our hotel in Phobjikha after nine o’clock to visit Gangtey Lhakhang, a monastery built by Peling Gyaltse Rinpoche, grandson of the terton Pema Lingpa. It is said that Pema Lingpa himself predicted the construction of a temple in the Valley of Phobjikha, which is known for being the winter home of black-necked cranes. These are said to circle the temple three times before landing in the valley.   

Today was one of those lopsided days, with a packed itinerary in the morning and a long bus journey after lunch. We began with an early visit to Jampey Lhakhang, one of the oldest monasteries in Bhutan. It is said the monastery was founded by the great Tibetan conqueror Songtsen Gampo, who was advised that a giant demoness possessed his realm. In an effort to subdue her, Songtsen Gampo had thirteen monasteries built at the same time across the demoness’s body, including two in Bhutan. The ancient monasteries in Jakar and Paro pinned down the left ankle and knee of the demoness. Her heart was subdued by the monastery in Lhasa.

On our way from Jakar this morning, we made two brief stops to take pictures of local sights. The first was Jakar Dzong, alleged by some to be the largest Dzong in Bhutan. The second was a rock by the village of Jalikhar, in which some recognise the shape of a vagina. Our first main stop, however, was Membartsho, also known as Burning Lake. The place holds a very special place in Bhutanese history, as it was in this lake that Pema Lingpa discovered his first terma: a teaching hidden by Guru Padmasambhava, held by Vajrayana Buddhists to be an incarnation of Buddha Amitabha.

Today was a major travel day: we had to make the seven-hour journey from Wangdue Phodrang to the city of Jakar in Bumthang District, the historic heart of Bhutan. Winding our way up and down the major artery that connects Thimphu to the central regions, we covered the 2000 metres of altitude that separate subtropical forests from the snowline. The change in flora was remarkable. In the lowlands, we spotted banana and papaya trees, whereas higher up, the lush green landscape gave way to forests of pines and rhododendrons. These grow to enormous heights in Bhutan, rivalling even the moss-festooned magnolia trees that often find themselves sprinkled in between.

Once again, we began the day early, eating our breakfast at quarter past six. Our guide had decided to frontload the itinerary, as the weather forecast was predicting heavy rains to begin at three in the afternoon. We travelled northwards, therefore, to the scenic town of Punakha, Bhutan’s erewhile capital.

I imagine I would have passed a pleasant night in Thimphu, as it was warm under the covers and cold above them, but I made some bad choices yesterday whose consequences caught up with me by around half past four in the morning. There is a dish in Bhutan called ema datshi, which is traditionally made of chilli peppers, onions, and a liquid form of yak cheese. It is delicious, but the unusual combination took my stomach completely by surprise, and I spent the rest of the day dealing with the consequences at various pit stops.

We woke up at 5:30 in the morning for a quick breakfast at the hotel, after which we took a shuttle to the airport. We made our flight with plenty of time to spare; check-in was scheduled for 7:55, but not much started happening until half an hour later. That being the case, I was shocked that the plane took off just around ten minutes later than expected.

As our tour group was supposed to arrive some time before noon, my dad and I made a trip to the more modern, eastern part of central Kathmandu in the morning. We walked to the Narayanhiti Palace (which does not open until 10:30 on most days), after which we headed south to the Clock Tower and the Jame Masjid. Despite no longer housing a royal family, the palace receives heavy armed protection nowadays, which is ironic considering it witnessed one of the most shocking massacres in modern Nepali history when the king was still in office.

I will not dwell much on day 0 of this adventure: my dad and I left Prague on a Sunday afternoon, transferred in Istanbul, and touched down in Kathmandu shortly after dawn on Monday. There were two highlights to the journey. First, we found all the alcohol at Istanbul Airport had labels warning customers of a three-litre purchasing limit – but these were, hilariously, only in Russian. The second highlight was seeing the sun rise over the Himalayas. There was also a lowlight: we encountered strong turbulence on our flight from Istanbul to Kathmandu. As I am sure is true for many people, this was an opportunity for me to revisit most of the religious hymns I know.

Britain’s never-ending railway strikes and skyrocketing public transport prices have radically changed my trip-planning calculus. Journeys to relatively nearby places have become so expensive that it is often cheaper to simply rent a car – especially when travelling with another person.

Amsterdam is not a city for the technologically inept. Several museums, such as the Van Gogh, require tourists to book their tickets online, while others, like the Moco, incentivise them to do so with significant discounts. My friend Bonnie and I knew this when we were planning our trip, and we spent a minor fortune on simply making sure that we would not be turned away at the door.

I do not know whether I was told this or simply made it up, but one of the best times to visit Cardiff is when the daffodils are in bloom. As the national flower of Wales, they grow everywhere from parks to castles and figure very prominently on all kinds of tourist knickknacks. I planned mine and Johnny’s trip precisely for this time. Since morning train tickets are cheapest on Saturdays (and that by a wide margin), our choice of date was set. It was also set well in advance, as tickets become more expensive the longer one waits. Of course, this meant that we were left at the whims of the weather, and as the day of the trip drew near, the forecast did not look particularly auspicious.

My second Hilary Term at Oxford was uneventful – thank goodness! Having taken both my optional classes last year, I was afraid I would not be able to stay disciplined and work on my thesis. Fortunately, my daily 500-word quota turned out to be quite effective and although it made every day a bit of a slog to get through, it got the job done. I only made a few excursions, which I will write about in subsequent posts: one to Cardiff and another to Amsterdam for my friend May’s birthday.

Despite our initial plans to return to Prague on the very night of the 31 st , sensibleness prevailed over unreasonable optimism, and we decided to get a good night’s rest before driving. We woke up at eight o’clock on a sunny morning and departed directly in the direction of Prague. The fog was thick that day, requiring us to strategically tailgate behind the locals. Sometimes, it lifted ever-so slightly and offered us glimpses of hilly vineyards washed by white rivulets of mist.