Author: bleedingdove

Roadtrippin’ Western Australia, 2026. Part 2. The Moho.

We had some light showers as we packed the Ute for the next leg of our journey. Probably the last rain I remember on the trip. While thankful that our luggage remained dry, I began to have reservations about the quantity of it. I had seen motorhomes before but had never seen five people attempt to stow their belongings in one. But not wanting to meet trouble half way, I parked my concerns and focused on the drive. It was a rare and enjoyable experience being a passenger. Another opportunity to observe the changing landscape as we left Margaret River on the road to Perth. The distance is 280km but in Western Australia, places are so far apart that they use the ‘time as distance’ rule. This means Perth is 3 hours from Margs and is ‘down the road’. The tree-lined country roads and lush vineyards soon gave way to small quaint towns with unfamiliar names like Cowarumup and to slightly bigger ones whose names, like Busselton and Bunbury, were a giveaway as to their colonial past. As we approached Perth, the relaxed atmosphere of wine country, with its quiet roads and laid back vibe, already seemed like a distant memory.

Did you know? Perth is a contender for the most isolated major city in the world, depending on the parameters used. It has 2.2 million inhabitants and its nearest large city neighbour is Adelaide, which is 2,100km (1,305 miles) away.

After the requisite rundown of the moho, delivered by a less than enthusiastic employee of the hire company (Apollo), the task of decanting and storing belongings began. Interestingly, Apollo, does not specify a specific cubic litre capacity for cargo storage. Instead, you have to allocate sleeping areas and use the closest overhead lockers or under-seat compartments for your clothes, shoes, devices, toiletries, medication etc. And this is where being an accomplished member of the Magic Circle would be very useful. I couldn’t help but think of Dr Who’s Tardis, which looked like a telephone kiosk on the outside but was huge on the inside. The Moho, on the other hand, looked smaller than expected on the outside and even smaller on the inside! Challenging as the loading operation was, we were finally ready to hit the road.

The Moho. While challenging at times, we couldn’t help but develop a certain affection for the old girl. Her clock had over 200k km on it and if she was a horse, would probably would have been put out to pasture long ago. But she served us well-for a while!

Our first campsite was Jurien Bay. Another ‘short drive’ of 220km. We were in good spirits as we travelled north along the coast. The novelty for the passengers being able to sit at a table, playing cards or snacking while enjoying the scenery, was obvious. The trauma of loading the Moho already becoming a vague recollection.

The novelty of sitting at a table while driving along, never faded.

This first stretch of our travels began to reveal to us the vast nature of Western Australia and the diverse and unique facets of the country.

There were thousands of strange structures in the fields lining the road, which turned out to be termite mounds. Note the tightly pulled draw cords at my ankles!

I think it was on the road to Jurien Bay that I first noticed a tangible change in my mood. The wide open plains of the landscape seemed to evoke a sense of lightness and well being. I felt as if I was being exposed to generous doses of all the natural things that are beneficial to the mind and spirit. Later in the trip, I would discover the deep connection that the indigenous people have to the land. But that’s for another post. What I will say, is that it is no surprise that such a unique landscape would inspire such feelings of attachment and oneness with the environment.

Another first for me was the sight of road trains on these remote roads. An efficient and economical way of transporting freight long distances. And more than a bit scary when one passes alongside you!

Night falls quickly in Western Australia and we navigated our last few kilometers in the dark. The campsite was a basic layout of logged off sections nestled behind the sand dunes. We found our allocated spot and settled down for some home cooked food, Moho style, and a glass or two of local wine.

Tip: There are two things you stock up on, every opportunity you get. Fuel and wine/beer. It’s not unusual to travel 300km between petrol stations or ‘bottle shops’.

All hands on deck. No breakfast until the beds are converted back to seats!

As we made up our respective beds and turned out the lights, I lay looking at the moon through the skylight. The only sound to be heard was the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. It felt like we had taken one more step away from ‘civilisation’ and returned to a more natural existence. As the early morning sun crept through the blinds, we emerged, one by one, to explore our surroundings.

Jurien Bay campsite. I hadn’t realised we were literally a stone’s throw from the ocean.

The overall feeling was that we were the first people ever to visit this pristine place.

The Moho comes equipped with a toilet but one thing you quickly learn is that it should be used sparingly! The cassette, which contains all deposits, needs emptied at designated dump sites. And like petrol stations and bottle shops, these can be sparse, though thankfully not as sparse. The capacity of the cassette was 17 litres and with a party of five, it was full after 24 hours. The rule was established that it should be used for night time and emergencies and for liquids only. Solids were an absolute last resort. I strictly enforced this rule because the job of emptying it had somehow fallen to me! I share this toilet chat with you as a prelude to our first encounter with a ‘long drop’ toilet (or dunny). When you think about it, if a campsite is a couple of hundred km from the nearest town, it is unlikely to have a mains water supply or sewage plumbing. And so, the long drop dunny is a dry toilet. It is a stainless steel tube that sits over a pit about 3 metres deep. The waste breaks down via natural decomposition but suprisingly there is no smell as the pits are well ventilated. The toilets are housed in a corrugated outhouse with a large gap around the bottom, so you can have the occasional visitor in there with you but they’re usually harmless. It did take some getting used to, all the same. After all, we are not accustomed to having a breeze blowing where the sun never shines!

Tip: Resist the urge to look down the long drop toilet before you make a deposit. It’s not a pleasant sight.

The face says it all.

It’s a dirty job but…

And so, we were slowly being introduced to a more primitive existence. And with the experience came an appreciation of the things we take for granted every day, like flushing toilets, warm showers and an endless supply of fresh drinking water. This thought provoking element of our trip was unexpected but it became a constant companion and nurtured a deep gratitude of our privileged lives.

Our next destination was Kalbarri National Park and some of the most epic scenery of our trip. Hope to see you there.

Road tripping, Western Australia 2026. Part 1: Margaret River.

Australia is like its wildlife-unique!

When I first decided to write this blog I thought I would put up some photos of the highlights of our trip with a few descriptions to accompany them. But the more I thought about the experiences we had and the impact they had on me, I realised that a few cursory paragraphs would not do the trip justice at all. I therefore decided to split the blog up into different parts. Hopefully this will make it more accessible, in these days of ever decreasing attention spans, to a wider range of readers. So, if you get bored, you can read one part at a time. Ultimately I want to remain true to the thing that drives me; a desire to put down, as freely as possible, the things I’ve seen and the places I’ve visited, how they impacted on me and perhaps go some way to providing a record for future generations and enabling them to share in those special moments in my life.

Our last trip, which was also our first, to Australia was in 2020. (see post ‘Land Down Under’). We visited our daughter in Brisbane on the southeast coast of Queensland. During that visit we thought that Queensland was like nowhere else on earth. A place where a 60-minute drive could take you, depending on your starting point and direction of travel,  to the city of Brisbane, to the rainforest or to a golden beach. She now lives 4,350km from there in Western Australia in a small town called Margaret River. How she ended up there is a story in itself and one which I hope she will write someday. We were about to embark on a three-week road trip up along the West coast of Australia and were taking a couple of days in Margaret River to catch up with our daughter, meet some of her friends and readjust to something resembling a normal sleeping pattern after travelling across seven time zones.

To describe ‘Margs’, as they call it, as different to Brisbane would be a gross understatement. It has all the small-town attributes, such as people waving at each other as they pass on the roads, offering help to strangers without being asked and generally moving at a slower pace. An unmistakable charm and sense of community prevail, reminiscent of small-town America or a typical small Irish town. You won’t find any large shops or malls here but coffee shops, craft and jewellery studios and artisan bakeries are abundant.  Its geography and climate also make it a prolific wine producing region. We arrived in late June, which is their winter and the weather reminded me of a typical ‘in between’ day back home. One of those days when you’re not sure whether to wear shorts or long trousers and whether it’s safe to hang the Washing out (ok, I never ask that question personally but I know people who do). Apparently this part of Australia can receive heavy rainfall at this time of year but we didn’t experience any.

The local bakery in Margaret River, where you can watch the baker load the next batch before selecting your breakfast roll. The aroma of baking bread, combined with the smell of the burning wood that heats the ovens, is, in my opinion, right up there with the smell of fresh cut grass or a Donegal turf fire.

Ten thousand miles separates Ireland from Australia, so it’s not surprising that new sights and sounds are all around. Shortly after our arrival we stopped at a supermarket to pick up a few groceries and, not being a fan of grocery shopping, I busied myself cleaning the windscreen of my daughter’s pickup truck (‘Ute’ as they say in Aussie). Just to make myself useful, you understand, and not in any way inferring that my daughter doesn’t keep her windscreen squeaky clean! Anyway, as the visibility gradually returned, I noticed that the car park was dotted with groups of brightly coloured parrots, casually foraging for scraps of food. In Belfast, my hometown, the most colourful bird you can expect to see in a supermarket car park is a black and white magpie or a grey and black crow. I grabbed my camera and started snapping away, unable to believe my good fortune. However, my excitement at seeing these green, blue, yellow, red and black beauties was somewhat tempered when I was informed by fellow Irishman (who lives in Margs) and big wave hunter, Dave, that their official name is the ‘Twenty-Eight’. Apparently, the name is a reflection of its call which sounds like the three syllables of ‘Twen-ty-eight’. I didn’t hear them make any sounds, so I couldn’t verify this. If I was a cynic, an accusation often levelled at me, I would suggest that the person (I can’t believe it was a collective decision) responsible for naming this exotic bird was either very lazy or had completely lost his/her mojo and, in a state of ennui, named them after his/her house number. I can’t think of any plausible reason why such a striking creature should be labelled with such a spectacularly unglamourous descriptor as ‘28’. Maybe it’s simply a reflection of the laconic tendencies of Australians. A bit of a ramble, I know, but I include this anecdote because it seems like an appropriate portent of what lay ahead. Every day brought something new and unexpected.

A trio of ‘Twenty Eight’ parrots in the car park searching for food. Or maybe they’re holding a demonstration in protest at their inglorious title!

On our first full day in Margaret River, our daughter took us on a unique journey to the coast. I say unique because it was an extreme off-road journey never before experienced. And I say extreme because that’s exactly what it was. The tracks that we navigated were deeply rutted and uneven and, in some places, giant craters had been gouged out which appeared to render the track impassible. On more than one occasion, as we were being thrown about like ragdolls and the tilting of the vehicle was evoking theme park rollercoaster memories, I thought there was a strong possibility that the vehicle was going to overturn. Luckily it never came to that. Relief set in when we reached the coast at a place called Boranup. I was immediately struck by how similar the coastline was to the beaches of northwest Donegal in Ireland. A place I know well. But we weren’t looking at the Atlantic. This was the Indian Ocean. A world away. But in some respects, just like home. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps this was one of the attractions for young people coming from Ireland. While Australia is different in so many ways, there are still features and characteristics that remind them of their roots. Ireland is such a small island that the taste of salt air on your lips is never far away. Literally, or as a happy childhood memory. Maybe this core element of their DNA is one of the factors that makes it easy for them to think of Australia as ‘home’.

Boranup, Hamelin Bay, in the Margaret River region. Not forgetting the ‘Ute’.

My daughter summed up the drive, “Apologies, I’m not used to back seat passengers. Hope there aren’t too many head injuries!”

Mother and daughter reunited.

Daughter and granddaughter testing the water.

Some of those salt air memories in the making.

Having made a successful return trip to Margs, with the passengers and vehicle in one piece, we lit the fire pit in the garden and settled down to an evening of food, wine and reminiscing.

The next day, I was treated to a belated Fathers Day gift-a wine tasting at one of the local wineries, called Cherubino. This was another first for me. I enjoy a glass of wine but drinking it surrounded by racks of wooden barrels, complete with that heady aroma and looking out at the parallel rows of vines where the wine begins its journey, brings a whole other level of appreciation and enjoyment. I am by no means a connoisseur but it was fascinating listening to the Sommelier describe the different grape varieties and how they are influenced by the specific geography of the region. The Margaret River region, especially the southern end, is one of the best examples of a maritime climate in Australia. It experiences the warm westerly breezes from the Indian Ocean and the cooling breezes from the Southern Oceans (officially, it’s all the Indian Ocean but Australians use ‘Southern Oceans’ to describe the part that borders the southern reaches), making it ideal for producing Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon.

The Cellar Door tasting rooms at Cherubino winery.

Cherubino vineyard slopes gently toward a small lake, ensuring good drainage for the vines.

Father’s Day wine tasting. The perfect excuse for day drinking!

And so, after a short drive and some delicious wood fired pizza at Swings and Roundabouts, it was back to our rental property to begin preparations for the next stage of our adventure-picking up the RV/ motorhome, or as we called it, the ‘Moho’. Not only was this the vehicle that would enable us to discover Western Australia. It would also be our home for the next 18 days and nights. It’s probably accurate to say that it also became the source of some of our most memorable moments, challenges and emotions.

Target date for publishing Part 2: 22nd September 2026

Girona

Time of visit. October 2025.

The city of Girona (also known as Gerona) is the province of Girona’s capital. Population, 106,000 (2024). It is located 60 miles northeast of Barcelona, which equates to 1 hour 20 minutes by car or just 40 minutes by high-speed train. The city has 2 main rivers; the Ter, which flows through the north of the city and the Onyar, which flows south to north. Girona’s strategic location, with France to the north and Barcelona to the south, accounts for its long and turbulent history, too detailed to recount here but if you’re interested, you can follow the link, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girona#History.

Girona. A city with grit, as well as a certain charm.

To be honest, as our bus pulled into the car park on the edge of town, my first glimpse of Girona left me underwhelmed. The eclectic mixture of architectural styles gave the impression of a place that had grown in fits and starts, with minimal thought given to continuity of profile. But I quickly reminded myself that this was no quaint village with a population of a couple of thousand souls. Today’s city is the sum of over 2,000 years of development, or to be more precise, turmoil, siege and conquest. Girona has seen no less than 25 sieges in its time. No wonder then, that what the visitor sees today is the result of buildings and structures built out of necessity for survival; the need to please future visitors with an attractive façade was not at the top of anyone’s list of priorities. Don’t get me wrong. Girona is home to some jaw dropping architecture and parts of the old town ooze character but in parts in seemed dark, almost ominous. Maybe some of my photos will translate my thoughts a bit more clearly.

Giant stone steps in unexpected places and dark archways punctuate the warren of narrow streets.

Brighter streets on the periphery. A girl in a red dress providing a striking contrast.

There is something intriguing about photographing strangers. Their anonymity creates mystery, despite just being ordinary people going about their daily business.

Climbing the steps through the almost oppressive atmosphere of the dark streets, something struck me. In autumn and winter, the sun sits lower in the sky and never reaches the narrow passages of Girona’s old town. There were reasons that towns were built in this way, the most obvious being defensive considerations. For example, a narrow street can’t accommodate attacking invaders on horseback. Having resolved some of my inner questions, we emerged into the sunny upper reaches of the old town and made our way up onto the city walls. Girona from this vantage point takes on a new persona. The spires of its cathedral and churches, the stone walls and tall, slender cypress trees swaying in the breeze give the city that romantic medieval look that appeals to the tourist in search of something inspiring. And to photographers in pursuit of a captivating shot!

A view from the city walls of the Catedral de Santa María.

The city walls provide a bird’s eye view of Girona but the climb can be challenging in parts.

Cyclists resting on the steps (90 in total) of Girona cathedral. The city is a favourite of cyclists and some famous proponents of the sport, such as Lance Armstrong, have lived there.

Crossing the river Onyar takes you to the flatter and more modern side of the city. The first thing you notice is the striking colours of the facade of the houses flanking the river. These are known as the ‘Onyar Houses’ and are synonymous with today’s Girona. The idea for the multicoloured scheme was devised by local artists Enric Ansesa and James J. Faixó. The palette of 29 colours represents the transition from the Franco dictatorship (which ended in 1975) to a brighter future. The restoration of the facades, including the addition of colour, was realised in 1982. One of the houses is known as Casa Maso, birthplace of the architect Rafael Masó í Valelentí.

The Onyar houses provide a colourful contrast to the rest of Girona. The vibrancy of the colours vary with the time of day and the position of the sun.

Crossing over one of several bridges took us to the most modern part of the city where the main attraction is the Plaza de la Independencia. The plaza is a porticoed square with a central monument dedicated to the defenders of the city during the sieges of 1808 and 1809 during the war for Spanish independence.

Plaza de la Independencia.

Girona is definitely worth a visit for a couple of hours but what you get out of it depends on what you are looking for. It is a working city with all the shops, businesses, offices etc. that you expect to find in any city. The historical architecture in the old town is impressive and the colourful houses standing on the banks of the Onyar are eye catching. If history is your thing, then you could probably spend days here. But there is an underlying feeling that you are in a place that has underinvested in catering for visitors. One small but important illustration of this is the lack of public toilets. We found only two and one of them was out of order. Yes, you can always go and buy a coffee and use the facilities while you’re there but it’s not an ideal solution. It may be that the city has prioritised expenditure elsewhere but there are definitely improvements to be made. I don’t want to end on a negative though. While we were slightly underwhelmed by Girona, it is important to consider the context. We visited 5 locations on this trip and places like Collioure, Pals and Cadaqués set a very high bar and left Girona in their shadow. Would I revisit? Probably not but glad I experienced it.

Cadaqués. The Gift of the Costa Brava.

Time of visit: October 2025

Cadaqués is a town in the province of Girona, Catalonia, on Spain’s Costa Brava and sits on a bay in the middle of the Cap de Creus peninsula.

Its name is derived from the Catalan, Cap de quers (Cape of Rocks). It is just over a 2 hour drive from Barcelona and 90 minutes from Perpignan in France. It has an official population of under 3,000.

If you are looking for a town that, in aesthetic terms, is the complete opposite of Pals (see previous post), Cadaqués is it. The predominant colour of the buildings in Cadaqués is white. The cluster of whitewashed houses with their terracotta rooftops, sits nestled on the rocky hillside that slopes down to the bay. The buildings appear to grow out of the rocks in a seamless extension of the land, with the church of Santa Maria dominating the skyline. Looking at the scene, the houses, the church, the boats on the pebble beach, the sea, it appears as if all the elements have evolved together and merged to become one. Everything looks like it belongs. There is nothing that doesn’t fit.

The seafront of Cadaqués. The buildings use nature’s best foundation, solid rock.

View from across the bay.

The best way to enjoy this overview of the town is to walk along the seafront. Or if you have the time, take a boat tour and savour a unique view from the sea.

Street charm in Cadaqués.

Heading inland, the narrow streets immediately take on an upward trajectory. Underfoot is a mixture of irregular shaped stone paving and small flat stones that have been embedded on their edge to provide extra grip. Navigating the town is best done by following a general rule of thumb, ‘keep climbing until you reach the top’. If you head downhill, you will end up at the harbour.

Small shops blend in with the adjoining houses.

The streets of Cadaqués are similar to many other Spanish towns and villages-whitewashed and winding, with wrought iron balconies draped with colourful splashes of bougainvillea and geraniums. The occasional shop appears every now and then, discreetly blending in with the house next door, differentiated by local handicrafts hanging at the entrance.

Bougainvillea adding colour and life to the stone.

A short time after starting our ascent, we were at the church of Santa Maria. There is no grand approach, just another turn at the end of another narrow street and we were in the small plaza outside the church. A musician sitting on a bench playing classical guitar added an extra layer of serenity to the place. And looking down over the rooftops at the sun glinting on the Mediterranean, completed a very Catalonian experience.

View from the plaza at the church of Santa Maria.

The rooftops of Cadaqués.

The church of Santa Maria.

The biggest surprise for me about Cadaqués was that I had never heard of it. And I haven’t met anyone else who was familiar with it either. It really is the best kept secret on the Costa Brava. I read an article about the town in a magazine called ‘Tapas’. It contained the following quote,

“Be careful, lest you get caught by the tramuntana. Be careful, many people arrive for three days and stay for years. Be careful, lest you fall in love with Cadaqués”.

The Tramuntana is a strong north-westerly wind that blows through Cadaqués. And whether the wind blows you here or you arrive in a more conventional way, don’t be surprised if you want to stay for just a while longer..

Summer beach vibes in October.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

Thanks for reading this far. If you’re interested, stay with me to read about Cadaqués’s most famous son, Salvador Dalí.

Cadaqués has a special place in art history and was a favourite of several famous names in the art world.

Marcel Duchamp, the French American artist and pioneer of the Avant Garde movement in America and New York in particular, spent time here.

Federico Garcia Lorca, Spanish poet and playwright who was assassinated by Francoists during the Spanish Civil War, was another well-known visitor, as was Picasso.

But Cadaqués’s most famous artist son is the surrealist, Salvador Dalí. His house is in Port Lligat bay on the outskirts of the town. His parents had a house nearby when Dalí was growing up and he spent his summers here. His childhood friends included future F.C. Barcelona footballers Emili Sagi-Barba and Josep Samitier. And during holidays here, the trio played football together. I was intrigued to discover that Lorca, the poet mentioned above, and Dalí had also been friends and I wondered how Dalí reconciled this friendship with his controversial support for the Franco regime.

Salvador Dalí, surrealist painter. Controversial, eccentric, unique.

 It was in the Port Lligat house, in 1931, that he created one of his most iconic paintings, The Persistence of Memory. The painting depicts clocks or watches that appear to be melting, inferring that time is fluid. One analyst wrote that Dalí was projecting his view of the world according to Einstein’s theory of special relativity (the relationship between space and time). When asked about this, Dali replied that his inspiration was the surrealist perception of Camembert cheese melting in the sun! The painting has resided in the MoMA in New York City since 1934.

The location of Dalí’s house in Lligat Bay. Picturesque and serene.

His house is now a museum but Dali’s abstract interpretation of the world is not something that is to my taste (or so I thought), so, with our time not being as fluid as his, a visit was ruled out. We did get a glimpse of his house from the road as we were heading back to town from Lligat Bay and if the exterior is anything to go by, the house may just be worth a visit as a unique experience.

Close up of Dalí’s house, complete with giant eggs and steel heads..

Two heads are better than one. A view from the road overlooking Dali’s house.

As I reach the end of this piece, I find myself having a change of heart. I may have been hasty in dismissing him as just a ‘kooky’ painter. I am no art expert but the more I look at ‘The Persistence of Memory’, the more intrigued I am by the thought process behind his work. He has been described as a self promoting charlatan by some of his contemporaries. Others describe him as a technically brilliant genius. If I ever return to Cadaqués, I think I will pay a visit to the Dalí museum and maybe get an insight into the mind and work of this bizarre genius and hopefully reach my own conclusion.

See you next time..

Pals. A Medieval Gem.

Carrer Major (‘Main Street’ in the Catalan language). Not your average Main Street.

The medieval town of Pals is less than an hour’s drive from the city of Girona but in some respects, it is a world away. Its narrow, cobbled streets and stone facades transport the traveller to another time.

The weathered stone walls and lichen encrusted rooftops of Pals.

We had seen photographs and were looking forward to seeing it for ourselves. Our guide, however, seemed to be downplaying the benefit of spending our allotted time (3 hours) in the town. She was zealously attempting to sell us a trip to a nearby rice field and winemaker’s establishment. We resisted her efforts and spent a really enjoyable afternoon in this enchanted place, strolling through its walkways at a leisurely pace, soaking up the atmosphere and imagining its past.

Cyclists catching their breath. Cycling here could be challenging for those with below average fitness.

Quiet cobbled streets offering new discoveries to the curious visitors.

A secluded nook for quiet contemplation.

The village has been so well restored, you could be forgiven for thinking it was the creation of a movie maker who had replicated a medieval village to exacting standards. Come to think of it, if memory serves me well, this was one of the few locations that didn’t boast an appearance in Game of Thrones!

Discreet doorways and bougainvillea providing shade and colour.

An off season visit rewards the traveller with empty ‘streets’.

Some of them steep.

All of them memorable.

The narrow streets wind their way gradually upwards until you reach the top of the hill on which the town is perched. There, you can stroll around the walls with their square towers at four corners, dating back to the 4th century.

The ancient walls of Pals.

You can also visit the Romanesque church of Sant Pere or climb (for a small fee of 3 or 4 euro) to the top of the Torre de les Hores (Tower of the Hours), a clock tower built between the 11th and 13th centuries. From the top of the tower, there are expansive views of the town and the plains of its hinterland.

The modest church of Sant Pere.

Views over the plains from the Torré de les Hores.

A word of warning here. The top of the tower is home to a substantial bell. If you are up there on the hour, get ready to cover your ears. It seems obvious now but at the time, my focus was on scoping out photo angles. Luckily, we were there at 1 o’clock, so we had only to protect our ears against one strike!

The bell at the top of Torre de les Hores.

One surprise in this part of Pals (the ‘old town’) was the number and variety of shops. Not the shops you would normally expect to find where tourists congregate. You know, the ones that sell myriad key rings and shot glasses and phallic shaped bottle openers. The unobtrusive, tasteful shops sold locally made crafts, such as pottery and glassware, locally produced wine, cheese, ham and olive oil, homewares and soft furnishings. I must declare at this point that my default position when it comes to shopping is loitering patiently outside while my wife considers (not in a hurried way) potential purchases. There was one shop, however, that was so eye catching, it drew me in-Cerámica Planas Marqués. It was an Aladdin’s cave of pottery and ceramics of a particular style and colour that I found unusual. Whether it was the maker’s intention or not, the colour of the pieces seemed to mirror the colours of Pals. The strong ochre of the stone mixed with the blue and white of the skies overhead. Maybe I just got carried away in the moment! It was one of those shops where the challenge was to limit your purchases based on need and available space. In the end, we settled on some coffee cups with matching saucers. And just for good measure, as we were leaving the shop, decided to add a table lamp to our haul!

Cerámica Planas Marqués.

And there you have it. A snapshot of Pals. A place with centuries of history. Cobblestones, hidden nooks, Juliet balconies, a tower with a view and a shop where even I, a lifelong window shopper, felt compelled to make a purchase. I almost forgot to mention the small plaza where you can partake in the obligatory tapas and drink of your choice, while watching the eclectic mix of visitors mingle with small number of locals who are lucky enough to call this place ‘home’.

One of the few private residences we saw inside the walls of the old town. An idyllic home, except for the nosey tourists like me peering through your gate!

I highly recommend a visit to Pals if you are in this region of Spain. There are many attractive historical towns and villages throughout the country but Pals is right up there in terms of the quality of its preservation and restoration. A real treat for the eyes.

Time of visit: October 2025. Weather still mild. Shorts and T-shirts. No crowds.

Optimum time needed: 3-4 hours.

Fitness level: Average

Accessibility: Wheelchair users may need assistance in places.

Toilets: Public toilets in car park at entrance to the old town, beside visitors centre.

Location. Northeastern Spain (Catalonia).

I thought it would be useful to mention some locations that we have visited in the same region and their proximity to Pals. I recommend all of them but they all have their own unique appeal. Times given apply to travel by car/bus:

Tossa de Mar-50 minutes.

Girona-Less than an hour.

Cadaqués-1 hour 15 minutes.

Collioure (France)-90 minutes.

Until the next time, hasta luego..

Costa Brava-the rugged coast.

Time of visit: October 2025

We travelled to the Costa Brava in northeastern Spain with David’s Coaches, a company based in the Costa Blanca in the southeastern region of the country. The journey time was around ten hours, broken up by three comfort breaks. While ten hours may sound like a long trek, it wasn’t overly arduous. The scenery along the route, combined with our guide’s repertoire of interesting facts about the various regions we traversed, made it an enjoyable journey. Our itinerary on the five night stay included trips to Girona, Cadaques, Pals and Collioure. My original plan was to publish a piece once I had talked about all locations but to my surprise, retirement is busier than I anticipated and my writing time is limited. So, I will opt for installments, starting with Tossa de Mar, our base for the duration of our trip.

The beach at Tossa de Mar with its striking coloured boats against the backdrop of the old walled town.

A view of the old town from the Torre des Moros (Tower of the Moors) on Can Magí Mountain.

Tossa de Mar is a municipality in Catalonia, in the province of Girona (Gerona), northern Spain. Its history goes back beyond Roman times but the main architectural characteristics range from 12th century onwards. There is a definite hint of France in the air, not surprising since it is less than 100km from the French border. In more recent times, Tossa de Mar was a successful fishing town but in the 1950’s plans were created to develop the town to attract package holiday makers. And so, the daily catch these days is offloaded from buses instead of boats and consists of curious tourists like us, complete with phones, cameras and backpacks.

A catalyst for Tossa de Mar’s transformation came in the form of a Hollywood movie that was filmed here in 1950. It was called Pandora and The Flying Dutchman and starred Ava Gardner, James Mason and bullfighter Mario Cabré. Frank Sinatra also flew in to be with Gardner, reportedly in a jealous rage. In 1998 the town honored the actress with a bronze statue by Girona artist Ció Abellí.

Statue of Ava Gardner taking pride of place in the old town. The highly polished appearance of some parts of the statue is a result of excessive touching. Human behaviour is an enigma sometimes!

A couple taking time to embrace the moment.

Our hotel was a five minute walk to the beach and during that short stroll the streets change from modern and wide to ancient and narrow. It is a relatively compact town and you should be able to see the main sites in a day. The climb to the peak of the old walled town (the Catalan translation is Vila Vella) provides stunning views and is accessible via paths and steps. Unfortunately these may not be adequate for wheelchair users.

Faro de Tossa (Tossa lighthouse) provides a good vantage point from which to view the old walled town and beyond.

The 12th century remnants of the Gothic style church of Saint Vincent.

Tossa de Mar framed by the majestic Stone Pines.

The rocky outcrops that may have inspired the name Costa Brava, Rugged Coast.

No rush here.

The narrow cobbled streets exude charm and the pace is relaxed. Friendly locals working in the shops, bars and restaurants add to the chilled experience. I suspect these spaces may be less enjoyable in peak season during the summer, when the crowds are funneled into the narrow walkways.

Taking a break in the shade of the oleander bush (at least I think it was Oleander).

The character of Tossa de Mar old town is a rich and inspiring one.

One observation I have made in recent times is the surge in ‘selfie tourism’ and Tossa de Mar was awash with selfie seekers. Even in the off peak season there are significant numbers of people striking a dramatic pose at the end of a selfie stick, trying for all their worth to appear nonchalant as they stroll through the narrow streets while a partner records the scene. I find the serious ones the most amusing. The ones who turn up in a flowing designer dress and heels, more suited to a night at the Oscars, and repeat the shoot until they get a result they are happy with, all the while oblivious to the presence of others. I wonder how much of the location is lost on them because they only seem to want a backdrop that will generate views and likes. I also wonder what the old fishermen would make of it all! As I was writing the last couple of sentences, it occurred to me that I sound like a grumpy old man. And maybe that’s the natural way of things. When we are faced with behaviours that are alien to us, we tend to be critical. A note to self-different people enjoy different things! Each to their own. Live and let live etc.

Speaking of which, for those who enjoy walking, Tossa de Mar is on the route of El Camino de Santiago de Compestella (in Catalan, El Cami de Sant Jaume). The subject of the Camino has come up in conversation several times over the years but the closest we’ve ever come to actually doing it, is posing for photographs at the famous scallop markers that direct pilgrims. One of the ladies in the photo below (not saying which one) even bought a hat to wear when her time came to do it. She has subsequently decided that she would be accompanied by too many flying insects and she’s not a big fan of our winged friends. Still, I’m sure the hat will enjoy a suitable debut some day..

If asked what I liked most about Tossa de Mar, it would be the same answer that applies to towns and villages all over Spain. Apart from the simple reward of seeing somewhere for the first time, the enjoyment for me is twofold. Firstly the aesthetic. When I see an old town like Tossa de Mar, I see an ochre stone canvass painted with the colours of the bougainvillea and oleanders, capped with terracotta rooftops. The play of light on the stone. The shadows in the narrow passages, moving slowly across the cobbles, synchronising with the sun as it sinks lower in the sky.

Secondly, I am always intrigued by the human aspect of the place. Who are the owners of the craft shops and galleries? Have their families lived here for generations? What would it have looked like in the days before mass tourism, when the only people making their way through the streets were fishermen and their families? A time when, instead of shops and cafes, there were bakers and net menders. When I ask myself these questions it reminds me that no matter where we go, places are defined by the people who inhabit them. It’s what gives a place soul.

It’s all about the people. This local knows how to blend in. I had taken several photos of this scene before I realised he wasn’t part of the boat’s gear.

Would I recommend Tossa de Mar as a place to visit? Definitely! It’s the perfect base to explore the region. The nearest major airport is Barcelona. Regarding accommodation, I would have no hesitation in recommending The Golden Bahia hotel. Its setting is unremarkable but its location is perfect. The room was clean and comfortable. The food was varied, fresh and of high quality. The staff were extremely friendly and welcoming and a surprising number of them were multilingual. Like everywhere, it can be expensive in peak season but there are offers to be had if you are prepared to visit off season. A lot of the guests were repeat visitors from Ireland, Britain and mainland Europe. A hotel that can continually please such a diverse grouping is doing something right!

View from our hotel room, overlooking the pool area of Golden Bahia.

Next installment coming soon…

Collioure. The beauty and the pain.

The French Catalan town of Collioure sits just fifteen miles from the Spanish border. It has a history as colourful as its streets and both the Spanish and French alternately controlled the territory over the centuries. It is part of the Cote Vermeille (Vermilion Coast) overlooking the Mediterranean. Walking through the cobbled streets, browsing the craft shops, the mood is unhurried and welcoming and the locals appear to have a genuine warmth towards the visitor.

Colourful cobbled streets give Collioure its unique identity.

Although the buildings are colourful, the traditional Catalan architecture displays a prevailing mix of ocre, yellow and blue.

A young couple enjoying a quiet moment.

The unassuming charm of the backstreets.

Like all coastal towns, as you move to the seafront, the number of people increase. Understandable when you consider the visual offerings, from historic fortresses and churches to inspiring views of the Mediterranean.

Notre Dame des Anges (Our Lady of the Angels). The bell tower of this 17th century church was once a lighthouse.

The imposing medieval Chateau Royal de Collioure.

Notre Dame des Anges in the foreground with the Chateau Royal and the mountains behind.

The streets in and around the bay offer food, drink and shade to recharge your energy levels.

Relaxed conviviality is the order of the day.

Collioure is famous for its anchovies. In some of the specialist establishments, you may need to make a reservation, especially for groups.

French charm.

The Collioure seafront, rustic and elegant.

Taking in the views and cooling off in the breeze.

Collioure’s forgotten (or hidden) history.

Collioure is relaxed, inviting and aesthetically pleasing. It is perfect for a day’s sightseeing and the usual tourist activities. Yet you don’t have to look too far to uncover some of its painful past. The town’s proximity to the Spanish border made it a destination for hundreds of thousands of Republican soldiers, their families and those loyal to the republican cause, who fled Barcelona after the city fell to Franco’s forces on January 26 1939. In a matter of weeks, nearly half a million Spanish refugees crossed into France in what became known as ‘La Retirada’ (The Retreat).

During the Spanish Civil War, France, like Britain, had taken a non-intervention approach. This left the democratically elected republican government at the mercy of the fascist forces of Franco who were actively supported by Hitler and Mussolini. Some elements of French government were sympathetic and turned a blind eye when armaments were being brought across the border into Spain to arm the republicans. Yet when it came to receiving Spanish refugees, French authorities separated women, children and the elderly from the men and sent them to various locations throughout France, the men were sent to concentration camps that had been set up on the beaches. Conditions were harsh, with no drinking water or sanitation and as the death rates rose, many were forced to take up the offer of joining the French military or the Foreign Legion. Some returned to Spain were they lived in the mountains, others travelled to Latin America. In a cruel irony, after Germany invaded France in 1940, many Spaniards joined the French Resistance and fought for the liberation of a country that had abandoned them in their hour of need. The first French armoured vehicle that entered liberated Paris in 1944 was driven by a Spaniard.

A poet’s story

‘..Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar..’

‘..Traveller, there is no path, only the one you make..’

Antonio Machado

The street that is named in honour of, by consensus, one of the greatest Spanish poets of all time.

I had just finished a book about the Spanish Civil War by Javier Cercas (The Soldiers of Salamis) when my wife booked a trip to the Costa Brava. The trip included visits to several towns and cities including Collioure. In Cercas’s book, a brief reference was made to a Spanish poet named Antonio Machado who died in Collioure. In December 1938 he had left Barcelona with his brother, Jose and his elderly mother after Franco took the city. They travelled 90 miles in the dead of winter, mostly on foot and under cover of darkness with tens of thousands of their fellow citizens, until they reached Collioure. And so, I began to research Antonio Machado. The name that had begun as a brief reference, slowly revealed a captivating and tragic story of one individual who paid the ultimate price, simply for daring to wish for a better society in the Spain he loved.

Antonio Machado was born in Seville 1875. His family moved to Madrid in 1883. During his school years Antonio discovered his passion for literature. In 1899, he and his brother, Manuel, travelled to Paris to work as translators for a French publisher. During his time in Paris, he came into contact with and was inspired by, the great French Symbolist poets Jean Moréas, Paul Fort and Paul Verlaine, and also met other contemporary literary figures, including Oscar Wilde. Over the next few years he had several poems and collections of poems published.

In 1907 he was offered a teaching post in Soria in the Castile and Leon region of Northwestern Spain. Here he met Leonor Izquierdo. Antonio was staying in the guest house owned by her parents. In 1909 he and Leonor were married. He was 34 and she was 15! In early 1911 the couple went to live in Paris. A few months later Leonor was diagnosed with advanced TB. They returned to Soria in Spain where Leonor died on 1st August 1912. Machado was devastated by her death and left the city soon after, never to return. For several years afterwards he was consumed by the love and loss of Leonor and this was expressed in his poems from that time.

Machado spent the next seven years in Andalusia and then moved to Segovia to take up a post as Professor of French at the Instituto de Segovia. He moved there to be nearer to Madrid, where his brother Manuel lived but as the fascist coup of 1936 took hold, he moved north to Valencia and then to Barcelona. He would never see Manuel again.

People like Machado were the enemy of fascism. People who used the written word to advocate for democracy, equality and justice. And so, with every advance made by Franco’s army, came the brutal repression of anti-fascist views, popular culture, literature, theater and educated thinking. Not only did Franco target writers, poets, homosexuals (such as the gay poet Federico Garcia Lorca) and all political opponents. The fascists leveled entire towns and villages with the help of Hitler’s Luftwaffe. The most devastating example was the bombing of Guernica in the Basque Country when the German ‘Condor Legion’ obliterated the town in a matter of hours.

On his journey to Collioure, Machado wrote:

“For the strategists, for the politicians, for the historians, all this will be clear: we lost the war. But at a human level I am not so sure: perhaps we won.”

Machado, along with his mother and brother, reached Collioure and with the help of friends was able to get accommodation at the Hotel Bougnol-Quintana. It was in this hotel, on the 22nd February, two months after arriving, that Antonio Machado died. His mother died three days later. In the pocket of his overcoat, his brother Jose found some handwritten notes, including one which began, “Estos dias azules y este sol de la infancia” which translates to English as “These blue days and this sun of childhood”. It was the poet’s last poem.

When we arrived in Collioure, I made my way to the location of the Hotel Bougnol-Quintana. In the years after the end of Franco’s dictatorship (he died in 1975), the hotel had been transformed into a visitors center. Sadly, on this particular day, it was closed. A ‘For Sale’ sign in the window suggested that the closure may become permanent.

The former Hotel Bougnol-Quintana in Collioure.

‘And when the day of the final voyage arrives. When the ship that never returns departs. You will see me onboard and my meager luggage. Almost naked, like the children of the sea.’

The hotel as Machado probably saw it.

One hundred metres from the hotel is the cemetery of Collioure where Antonio Machado and his mother are buried. The grave is festooned with flags of the republic and provincial flags from Andalusia and Cordoba. More than 80 years after his death, followers and devotees still place flowers on his grave daily, along with tokens of affection, and the occasional poem.

Machado’s grave. A shrine to a man and an ideal.

Antonio and his mother died three days apart.

After our trip to Collioure, I found myself reflecting on the impact and causes of conflict. The impact is obvious. The human devastation, the heartbreak, suffering and the lasting legacy of loss. The causes can be less obvious. On the surface it can appear that wars are fought over race, religion or politics. But at the root of all wars is the lust for power and wealth.

Antonio Machado’s story is one of millions but it represents for me the struggle between good and evil. I believe that in this world there are many more people like Machado than there are like Franco, Mussolini, Hitler and Netanyahu. It is easy to believe, when confronted with the daily evidence, that the world is broken and doomed. But I agree with the poet when he said, “But at a human level I am not so sure: perhaps we won.”

As our bus slowly navigated the narrow roads out of the town at the end of the day, I caught a glimpse of a sign at the side of the road, informing visitors that the town of Collioure was twinned with Soria (Leonor’s resting place).

Summary

Collioure is definitely worth a visit. It is a compact town and a day is plenty of time to see everything it has to offer. Its aesthetic appeal and photo opportunities are reasons enough to visit but like towns and cities everywhere, it is the history that provides the depth to the experience. Behind every wall and under every roof, there are memories that deserve to be kept alive.

Regrets? I should have tried the anchovies!

Morning People

It’s easy to feel that you have a personal connection to the sunrise. Even when you know it can be seen by everyone. And so, when we get up and go to a particular place to enjoy it and hopefully photograph it, I usually find myself with mixed emotions. I see other people (not many) with the same idea as me and feel resentment that they are crashing my party. My time with MY sunrise. On the other hand, I feel reassured that I am not alone in my appreciation of what is arguably the most precious part of the day.

Please meet some of the dawn fraternity…

I pulled into this deserted street near La Zenia beach just before sunrise. As I took the photo I couldn’t help but think the couple in the shot resented me. Probably because I was crashing their party. Their time with THEIR sunrise!

Some mornings disappoint because of cloud cover but the uncertainty is half the joy. After a dull start, my long suffering wife was rewarded with an inspiring sunrise at Playa Flamenca, Orihuela Costa.

This is probably one of my favourites. From a technical perspective, it’s nothing special but I think it has a cinematic feel. Something almost nostalgic about it. Playa Flamenca, Orihuela Costa.

The sun appearing about 10 minutes after sunrise on the coastal path at Cabo Roig. The first jogger of the day coming into shot.

A very cold morning at La Zenia, Orihuela Costa. Alone with her thoughts. This time of day is an opportunity in a frenetic world to find some quiet space.

A lone walker on La Zenia beach. Not many better ways to start the day. And depending on the time of year, this is the only time it is possible. In summer, the daytime temperatures and crowds make it a less enjoyable experience.

Partial reveal. That touch of magic when the rising sun slowly appears above the misty horizon at Playa Flamenca. The patience of the expectant watchers paying off.

There is never any interaction between the morning people, apart from the odd polite nod. A hesitancy exists among the multinational strangers. One unsure of the language spoken by the other. But as the sun rises in the sky and reaches an intensity that is impossible to look at, and as the morning people make their way to their various homes to get on with their days, they can be sure of one thing. They all share a common language. One that has no words. Rather, one that consists of a shared wonder and appreciation of the yellow star that sits at the centre of our solar system and the magic it performs every morning.

Wake up and smell the roses. Rose Fair at Lady Dixon Park. July 2025.

White Gold

Sir Thomas and Lady Dixon Park is its proper title but the residents of Belfast simply refer to it as Lady Dixon. While the park has a wide range of trees, shrubs and flowers, its most famous attraction is ‘Rose Week’. Roses of all varieties from all over Europe turn the park into a celebration of colour and scent. The rose garden itself, featuring some 20,000 rose bushes, was created almost sixty years ago but the Rose Week event began in 1975 and ran until 2020. In the post-COVID era it was rebranded as the Summer Rose Fair and now takes place over a weekend in July but many people still know it as ‘Rose week’. For the dedicated team of gardeners, however, preparations begin long before that.

Welcome to this insight into one of Belfast’s unique events.

Late May and already some of the early blooms have arrived. Each bed is meticulously edged with hand shears.

Trailer loads of mulch being delivered to one of the many rose gardens. The mulch acts as a weed suppressant and is manually shovelled by the gardeners into the beds.

While mechanisation has made life easier for gardeners, the tools of the trade in the rose garden haven’t changed much over the decades. Here, elbow grease, skill, stamina and dedication are the main requirements.

Mulching complete. The grass around the beds showing the wear and tear of work boots. Time for reseeding.

Soon the green foliage will be lost among a blanket of colour.

Rotation of beds. Visiting the rose gardens year after year, it appears to the untrained eye that the layout of the beds remains unchanged. However, every September 30 beds are seeded over with grass seed and 30 new ones created as part of a 5 year rotation scheme. This means that no roses are growing in the same soil for more than 5 years. This optimises nutrient availability and minimises risk from disease. This is a specialised job that requires exacting skills in measuring and marking out to ensure the symmetry of the gardens is unaffected.

Pest Control. A big part of summer maintenance is keeping on top of diseases and pests. While horticultural expertise is employed to tackle disease, there is a less obvious challenge for the team of gardeners who look after the roses. Rabbits!

Diarmaid, the manager responsible for the rose gardens, surveys the scant remains of what would have been a bed of roses.

It seems the pesky bunnies love nothing more than a feast of fresh young leaves of the rose variety. Controlling the rabbit population is not an exact science and any methods that result in their demise could be controversial. It’s a considerable challenge because the hedges and shrubs that act as an effective wind break for the roses, also provide a convenient cover from where the rabbits launch their attacks.

Timing is everything. We are all too aware of the impact of climate change and how it affects plants and flowers. Early blooms caused by mild winters. Flowers killed by late frosts etc. Roses are no different and this is an ever present concern for the team at Lady Dixon. Their year’s work culminates in a single weekend in July. Imagine how demoralising it would be to have the roses bloom a month before Rose Fair and for the thousands of visitors to miss the spectacle. This year’s Rose Fair was brought forward by a fortnight and that decision paid off. While there will always be many early or late blooms, the gardens were in prime condition for the public to enjoy.

A treat for the senses. Vibrant colours and heady scents were the order of the day at the Rose Fair.

Michaela, who tends the Diana Memorial Garden. The rose arch was in full bloom two weeks before the Rose Fair but still looked great on the day. She has worked all over Europe and the UK but says this is her dream job.

Orlaith, getting to grips with the weeds a couple of weeks before the Rose Fair. It’s a relentless battle and one not always appreciated by us casual observers.

A carpet of petals adds to the sense of occasion.

A Rosie among the roses. Enjoying Rose Fair and blending in nicely.

A bit of culture in the Irish Heritage Garden. There’s something about ‘Danny Boy’ when it’s played in such a setting.

A rose by any other name. I always considered roses old fashioned. Maybe that’s why in my latter years, I have developed an appreciation for them. Or maybe only a mature mind can truly ‘see’ them. For me, the complexity of their structure is what captures my attention initially, followed by their colour and scent. A few of my favourites (in addition to White Gold above)…

Irish Eyes, whose colours evolve as the petals develop.

Summer of Love, which reminded me of Clove Rock, the hard boiled sweets that kept a generation of dentists in a job.

Light Fantastic. It just yells ‘Summer’.

Honey Bee Mine. A big hit this year with gardeners and visitors alike. And of course, bees!

The fragrant section is an assault on the senses and will evoke different memories for different people.

A rare photo of the main man, Diarmaid, serving up a fragrant treat. I’m not sure what the name of this rose was but i think its official score was 8.5 out of 10.

Diarmaid, 35 years old, began his horticultural career 19 years ago as an apprentice gardener. I asked him about any changes that he had noticed over the years and what he considers the main challenges ahead? He explained that many of the roses, especially from mainland Europe, are grown from cuttings instead of traditional propagation methods where buds are grafted onto an established root stock. The combination of the newer method and selective breeding to make roses disease resistant have had two regrettable consequences. The roses don’t live as long and their scent is diluted.

The Summer Rose Fair has reached a pivotal point in its history. Due to the impact of Brexit-related difficulties, such as increased compliance documentation for plant imports, there has been a dramatic decrease in the variety and quantity of roses coming from Europe. As Diarmaid explains, there are still European entries for the International Rose Trials, which are an integral part of the rose garden. Growers from all over Europe are still keen to achieve recognition and reward for their roses but they only send small numbers for the judges to consider. Post competition, they are reluctant to export in bulk.

In addition to the European issue, he explained that the supply of roses from domestic growers on the island of Ireland is in a precarious position. There is one major grower in the North and one in the South. Due to retirement and a lack of successors, this source of roses is also at risk of disappearing.

COVID arguably posed the biggest threat to the existence of the rose gardens. Staff absence and changes in working practices, as well as attitudes to work, presented unprecedented challenges. There is currently one gardener per rose garden but for a protracted period of months in 2020, the roses were tended by one gardener-Diarmaid. For him this meant pruning over 20,000 rose bushes with an average of 10 cuts per plant. Yes, 200,000 cuts! An impossible expectation and unsustainable situation and one which almost forced him to reconsider his career. His exceptional work ethic and pride in his job prevailed and he now manages a fantastic team who are dedicated to their craft and the preservation of the rose gardens. If the demise of the rose gardens at Lady Dixon is brought about by a lack of growers/suppliers, it will be an unfortunate outcome for him and his colleagues whose commitment and passion have maintained this jewel on the edge of Belfast that thousands of its citizens enjoy every year.

Thank you to all the team who took time to talk to me over the last few weeks. You are a credit to yourselves and the people of Belfast. And a special thanks to Diarmaid for sacrificing his lunch break to share his knowledge with me. If there are any inaccuracies in this piece, you can be sure they are a result of my poor listening skills. I should also declare at this stage that he probably felt that he didn’t have any choice but to cooperate. You see, I have known him for all of his 35 years because he is my son! Nice one, Bernard (private joke).

Bernina Express

There are many things I never dreamed of doing. Not because I had no desire to do them but because they simply never came onto my radar. One example would be sitting looking out of a train window as it traversed the Swiss Alps. But that’s exactly where I found myself at the start of May 2025. Saying I ‘found myself’ there implies that I was abducted and woke up on the train. My turn of phrase merely reflects the fact that when it comes to journeys, I tend to be less imaginative than my wife. She is the one who sources and books the trips while I busy myself recording the experience on my camera-not exactly an onerous task and definitely my preferred role.

The Train I refer to was the Bernina Express. It runs on the 384 Km narrowgauge network of the Rhaetian Railway which links Switzerland with Italy. Our schedule included a 48 km stretch of the network, known as the Bernina Line-the only Swiss railway to cross the Alps. In order to catch the train, we travelled by bus from Lake Como in Italy, through Lugano in Switzerland, stopping briefly in Tirano and finally on to Poschiavo station. The low cloud looming over the Basilica of the Madonna di Tirano gave a clue as to the weather conditions we could expect as we began ascending to higher altitudes.

Basilica of the Madonna di Tirano

The bus was an unexpectedly interesting leg of the journey. We were informed by the guide as we crossed the Swiss border that Switzerland has four official languages: German, spoken by 62%, French (23%) Italian (8%) and Romansh (only spoken by 0.5%). We also passed a small town inside the Swiss border called Campione d’Italia which is administered by Italy and belongs to the province of Como. It seems Ireland isn’t the only country with border issues!

We also passed close to the village of Dongo on the upper reaches of Lake Como. It was here, in April 1945, in the final days of World War II, that Mussolini, the fascist dictator, was captured by Italian partisans. He was accompanied by his mistress, Claretta Petacci and several other senior fascists who were fleeing Milan and heading for the Swiss border. The next day they were executed and their bodies brought back to Milan, where they were hung upside down in a suburban square, Piazzale Loreto.

At Poschiavo we boarded the Bernina Express. There was some confusion about which part of the train was allocated to our group and by fluke, we ended up in a half empty carriage. The brochures I had read always gave prominence to photos of carriages with extended windows which curved up over the roof of the train for enhanced viewing. The first thing I noticed were the regular windows, similar to most trains. My initial ire was dispelled when it occurred to me that the extended windows were fixed units that couldn’t be opened. These ones could! I’m guessing that opening the windows, if not prohibited, is discouraged. But as anyone who has ever taken photos through a window pane will know, the reflections of ‘ghosts’ can ruin the image. So, taking the proverbial bull by the horns, I pulled (with considerable effort!) the sash of the window down. In my defense, I tried a couple of shots through the window first but couldn’t entertain the thought of missing an opportunity that may never come again. As in all such cases, it only takes one instigator and soon all the windows were being opened as the hitherto sedate passengers took on a more rebellious demeanour!

A shot through the window with those annoying reflections in the top right of the photo. I wish I could say that the deer walked into the shot but he’s made of stone!

As the train left Poschiavo, at an altitude of just over 1,000 m (3,330 ft) it seemed as if we were ascending into the clouds. One of the unique features of the railway is the use of sharp bends in the track which allow the train to climb the steep gradient. This provides good opportunities to capture the carriages as they snake their way upwards. This is also why you should pick a front or rear carriage. That way you can get more of the train into your shots.

Occasional breaks in the cloud revealed aquamarine lakes and alpine slopes sprinkled with snow.

And the occasional frozen lake, plus anonymous hands of fellow passengers. Maybe they’re thanking me for initiating the mass opening of the windows!

The train slowed down, almost to a halt, as we entered Alp Grum railway station. The altitude here is 2,090 m (6,860 ft). Normally the train would stop here for passengers to enjoy the panoramic view but we were now passing through dense cloud and there wasn’t much to see. As we passed through Ospizio Bernina, the highest point of the Bernina Line at 2,253 m (7,392 ft), above sea level, the prospect of some good photos was dwindling. Then, as if by magic, the carriage lit up with bright sunshine and the landscape appeared again in all its splendour.

Descending below the clouds outside Bernina Diavolezza at approximately 2,080 m (6,820 ft) above sea level.

I was happy to be coming away with at least some decent photos that would serve as mementos of a unique experience. I was also reminded that when it comes to any form of landscape photography, nature is the boss. It decides when and where it will provide the optimum conditions. Regardless of weather, this was a pleasure. In fact, to witness the majestic beauty of this part of the world was more than a pleasure. It was a privilege. One for which I will always be grateful.

A cable car crosses the railway line at Bernina Diavolezza, our final stop on the Bernina Express.

Bernina Diavolezza station.

From Bernina Diavolezza, we travelled a short distance by coach into St Moritz. If I had to sum up this town in one word, it would be ‘anticlimactic’. Given its reputation as a world class ski resort, I had imagined a bit of style and polish but we were both in agreement about the nondescript character of the place. It didn’t help that a lot of the shops were closed for a ‘between season break’. I’m not a skier and I reckon that is its biggest draw, the skiing and its location, a perfect base for exploring the Alps. And maybe it looks better when covered in snow. But let’s not end on a negative. Before getting back on the coach for the return trip to Italy, I had a pleasant surprise. I took a walk across the road to the lakeshore and a break in the stormy sky created a scene which lasted less than a minute before the rain started again. What did I say about nature being the boss?

The sun broke threw the clouds to create a dramatic contrast between the snow capped peaks and the storm clouds.

And so, St Moritz having provided some photographic compensation, we boarded the bus and settled in for the return journey to Lake Como.

Thoughts and Tips

A great experience. As I have alluded to, the weather conditions will determine how much you will see. People have a tendency to expect the views to be exactly like the brochures but you have to remember that the brochures show places in perfect weather.

Which train to choose? This is a tricky one. As I mentioned, there are different ‘classes’ of train. The most expensive train will have the carriages with the extended windows but if photos are your priority, take the train with windows that open. It’s also worth noting that normal service trains run on the same line. If you have the time, you can travel longer stretches of the line, getting off at different stations and catching the next train to continue on to your next destination. One major benefit of using these trains is that your ticket allows flexibility. You don’t have to travel on a particular day. If you buy a ticket for the Bernina Express, you must use it on a specific day and time.

What time of year is best? It depends on what type of experience you want. In winter you will see dazzling snow covered landscapes. In summer, lush pines and alpine flora will be the order of the day. Spring or Autumn will offer a mixture as the seasons change from one to the other. But remember. When you are travelling at such high altitudes, weather conditions are volatile and your experience will be in the hands of the Gods. This is where the flexibility of the regular service trains will be an advantage. If you are spending a few days or longer in the region, you can follow the weather forecast and pick the best day to travel.

Would I go back? Yes but as I said in my previous post, independent travel would allow the flexibility I’ve talked about above. But that comes at a cost. Our trip was part of a package and while that meant less flexibility, it made the the trip more cost effective. Also, independent travel isn’t for everyone. For some travellers, a package means not having the hassle and responsibility of booking trains, buses, accommodation etc. As I have already mentioned, I don’t have to do that anyway, so as long as I have my camera, I’m a happy lad.