Field notes.
Small observations from the places we love. What we ate, where we slept, what we brought home in our head.
The perfect breakfast in Ohrid.
A Monday, a lake, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven across the square. Some mornings do most of the work of a holiday on their own.
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Three restaurants in El Gouna.
The Italian at the marina where they remember your order by the second night, a pizza place we go to straight from the beach, and one address we should probably keep to ourselves.
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What Iceland smells like in November.
Moss and sulphur and wet wool. And, at the end of a day, bread pulled out of the ground still hot from the geothermal earth.
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Cappadocia, before anyone else.
Four thirty in the morning, tea before the climb, and the other balloons lighting their burners in the far valleys like fireflies you were not expecting.
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Why we book the same corner table every trip.
A short piece on the rituals we build wherever we go. On how three days in the same seat can be worth more than three cities in a week.
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