Valaparaiso on Horseback

You and your partner are finally taking your dream vacation. The only thing is, by the time you got around to taking that dream vacation it’s no longer just you and your partner; it’s you, your partner and the kids. It’s not the end of the world. Traveling with kids doesn’t have to be drudgery, but it will require some attitude adjustments, some negotiating and a lot of planning and open communication.

You’ll be best off if, from the beginning, you accept the fact that this is not the same trip you would be having if it were just adults. Not better, not worse, just different. Expectations are premeditated disappointments; so adjust those expectations from the start and you’re more likely to enjoy the experience you’re having instead of longing for the one you’re not.

Remember when you were teaching your children about sharing? You had a bag of M&M’s, poured it out on the table and doled it out; one for you, one for me, one for you, one for me.

Remember when you were teaching your children about sharing? You had a bag of M&M’s, poured it out on the table and doled it out; one for you, one for me, one for you, one for me. Well, it’s time for sharing 202, this time with activities and/or sights. Explain to the kids that this is everyone’s vacation, not just theirs; therefore, everyone gets to choose activities they want to do. When it’s time for the adult activities, they don’t have to love them or for that matter, even like them, but they do have to go along with them and do it without complaining. You, of course, in return, will promise to do the same when it comes time for the activities that they want to do.

Getting kids involved in the planning from the beginning will help create “buy in” for the trip that is being created. If you’re not wedded to a particular vacation site, give them a choice of two or three places that are in the running. If they are older, have them review guidebooks to pick out places of interest they would like to visit. If they are younger, check your local library for videos on the location of choice so that they can watch it and get excited about your upcoming trip.

Biking Anyone?

Assign them specific days that they are in charge of planning: what to do, how to get there, where to eat, etc. Most kids will enjoy the authority that you have placed in their hands and you’ll be the beneficiary of their creativity.

When traveling with kids you will want to do more planning than you might have done were it just you and your partner. Kids like to feel secure in their surroundings and the easiest way to offer that security is to feel secure and confident yourself. With advanced planning you can offer that to them. When you arrive in a city with reservations in place and the knowledge of how to get to that accommodation, the kids don’t have to worry about where they are going to be sleeping that night or if they’ll be lost in transit. They will soon come to trust that Mom and Dad “know what they’re doing” and that they need not fear the unknown.

Also keep in mind that while kids appear to be high energy, they burn out more quickly than adults, as they don’t feel the same drive we might have to “see the sights.”

Also keep in mind that while kids appear to be high energy, they burn out more quickly than adults, as they don’t feel the same drive we might have to “see the sights.” They want to move at a slower pace, see less in a given day and have more down time to play and to relax. If they’re really young, time to nap. Don’t fight their pace but instead embrace it! You may discover that traveling is a lot more relaxing and enjoyable when you’re not pushing yourselves to cover as much territory. You won’t see everything the city has to offer but chances are, even if you push yourself, you still won’t.

Flight of the Gibbon

While there are things you surely won’t get to do while traveling with your kids, there might just be some incredible things that, had you not been traveling with your kids, you wouldn’t experience. A horse trek through the dunes in Chile or flying hundreds of feet above the rain forest on zip lines in Thailand would never have been on my list “A” list of activities. But, because of the kids’ interests, those were just a few of our activities on our year long trip around the world and what amazing adventures they turned out to be.

Editor’s Notes: All photos are courtesy of the author: lisa Shusterman. (Yes, lisa spells her first name with a lower case “L”. Honest. Not a repeated typo.)

(Oh, and the “Flight of the Gibbon” photo is a bit blurry because they were ‘in flight’. Have to take lisa’s word on that one.)

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Cape Town is justly known for its plethora of gold-plated hotels and jet-set living.  Its beaches are some of the most well-known in the world: places where you can stretch out and people watch, enjoy the sunsets or just chill.  But Alice Fisher goes in search of a quieter beach, where she communes with nature.

Sandy Bay, located 10 miles south of Cape Town via a road that takes you under the watchful gaze of the Twelve Apostles, formed by the backbone of an ancient mountain peak, is simply sensational.

It is this scenery – the steep, green, wild majesty of the Twelve Apostles – that prepares you for the ultimate beach experience.  The road loops above Llandudno, and if you enter the upper part of the village, signs lead you to a car park.  A rough track runs sinuously along the hillside, away from civilisation. 

This beach is pure escapism.  Not a building or postcard vendor in sight.

Some love Cape Town’s Clifton beaches, flocked with gliterrati on any given weekend, or the trendy beachstrip of Camps Bay.  But what I love most is Sandy Bay.  It’s a plage sauvage, Cape Town’s most Elysian place of beauty, a small and stark place, drenched in eternal sunlight, the clefts in its hills choked with milkwood trees, descending to voluptuous Tippex-white dunes, and below that its isolated yawn of breadcrumb sand as white as snow and its ocean bottle-green and frigid. The Agulhas current brings freezing water from Antarctica so its an unexpected, and pleasant surprise, to find the ocean so cold on such hot days.

There are huge granite boulders, sensuously shaped and rosy in the afternoon sun.  The mountain range rises steeply.  Sandy Bay is home to a nudist colony who love the great outdoors.  But there’s plenty of room if you’re not a nudist.  The beach is flanked by woodland and dunes and rocky platforms ideal for sunbathing or slipping into the sea.  It seems, to me, the perfect place to bring someone to propose to them.  If a friend of mine who had never visited South Africa before arrived at Cape Town Airport, I would whisk them straight here to show them this crème de la crème of beaches.  Or if I wanted to regale someone special, this location, and a bottle of champagne on ice, would be perfect.

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Bret and Jackie are not your typical traveling couple. They are two friends who enjoy each other’s company as they share adventures together. Their blog, The Jetpacker, is not only informative but filled with wry humor, entertaining commentary and just plain fun to read. So, strap on that jetpack!

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To many foreigners, Colombia (or Locombia, the ‘crazy land’) was – and still is – the land of drug cartels and armed insurgents.  But to dwell on these fading memories is like giving up on love because you once got turned down at the school dance.  Colombia is a stunning and safe destination, ripe for exploration.

This wild and sprawling nation has everything: jungles, heritage, cuisine and a long Caribbean coastline, much of which has remained caught in a magical timewarp.

The country’s principal novelist, Gabriel García Márquez, captures this magic perfectly in  Love in the Time of Cholera when describing the city of Cartagena – “Cartagena stood unchanging at the edge of time… where flowers rusted and salt corroded, where nothing had happened for four centuries except a slow ageing among withered laurels”.

If I have a single defining memory of Colombia, it’s the intense warmth of its people, strangers whom I met in the fog-bound streets of Bogotá, or when walking amongst brightly painted houses in the villages on Isla Providencia, and particularly when I toured around the poor areas of once drug-riddled city of Medellín (also known as the city of Eternal Spring and city of Beautiful Women) and met young and old who showed so much good cheer and strength; not just passing acquaintances, but people who became friends, who enlivened my trip, and who are a vivid metaphor for Colombia’s meteoric change.

Held 30 July to 8 August, the Feria de las Flores, or the Flower Festival, in Medellín is a world-renowned festival which began in the 1950s.  On the final day, a carnival procession of silleteros, huge wooden contraptions the size and weight of a dining table and covered in beautiful flowers grown in the local region, are strapped to the backs of locals and carried through the streets.  Seeing the elderly and frail carrying these heavy objects on their backs is a moving and enduring metaphor for the strength and determination of this recovering nation.  There is music and dancing and much celebration and a riot of colourful dancers and performers. 

Previously, Medellín was one of the more dangerous areas in Colombia, where the majority of money was gained from the drug trafficking of cocaine. But the government, police and military have cleared out the drugs barons. Now, it’s one of the major fashion locations with brands including Diesel Jeans being available for 70,000 pesos – less than £15. There are also some über-chic watering holes and places to stay. A day trip to the Pueblitos Paisas (Country Towns) is rewarding: in the cobbled marketplace of El Retiro, beneath the old church where the clock has stopped at 4, I see a rickety, brightly painted chiva (local bus), with wooden planks instead of seats and inside, the odd hen or goat, cigar-smoking cowboys and country yokels with sacks of corn.  If the chiva is full, you can always rent a horse to get you to your destination.

For such a huge country, it’s easy and cheap to get around by flight.  I fly back to Bogotá and then onwards to the islands of San Andres and Providencia, 1000 miles northeast of Bogotá, actually closer to Nicaragua, but still part of Colombia.

Casa Harb on San Andres is the finest boutique hideaway in the islands and when I’m there, Colombian soccer superstar, Gato Perez, a Latino David Beckham, is staying there with his girlfriend.   The place is a sort of tropical fusion of Asian and Caribbean styles, minimalist, but with a high level of design: 50 large glass globes, parcel-brown in colour, hang from wires in the ceiling, a huge arching lamp springs out of the floor at an angle I had hitherto considered ludicrous, there are frosted glass panes, white marble and vintage Balinese or Thai carvings, and everywhere the aroma of freshly peeled oranges.  My room has a bed large enough for six, and my bathroom is all grey stone, pebbles and a glass screen beneath a waterfall-like shower. 

On the nearby beach, there’s not a Brit, European or American in sight, only Colombians, many of whom are strikingly beautiful – the women wear tiny candyfloss bikinis and the men all look like Enrique Iglesias.

People come here to beachcomb, dive (the coral reef is absolutely pristine), browse the arts and crafts shops and duty free shop.  The island is flat, sandy and hot with good beaches and a number of unpopulated islands for day trips.  At night, Sweet Mama’s bar is the place to be, with reggae, blue lighting and Aguardiente Antioqueño, the local firewater, drunk from a small plastic beaker with salt around the rim, and a generous squeeze of lime straight in the mouth before swallowing.   The island’s food is equally good:  red snapper, sliced in half, with lime and huge slices of yellow plantain that have been gently fried in nut oil.

If San Andres is all about modernity, Isla Providencia (or Old Providence) is the archetypal paradise island caught in a timewarp.  Antigua, Barbados, St Lucia all must have been like this 30 years ago before their tourist invasion.  I take a small twin-propeller plane from San Andres to Providencia.  The island fits neatly into the plane windowas it is only 17 square kilometres, surrounded by other islands and cays.  The plane touches down at a tiny airstrip that more resembles a country village hall from the 1950s, known locally as El Embrujo (The Enchantment) and covered in murals of traditional island scenes painted in the most vivid colours.  Only two planes land here once a day, bringing a maximum of 19 passengers.  Unlike San Andres, Providencia is a volcanic island.  The single track road to Hotel Posada del Mar has grass growing in the middle and I get glimpses of the interior: steep, green and wild, and signs to villages with a piquant sound to their names, like Lazy Hill.  There are no nightclubs or shops here, no mobile phone signals or Internet, only a wild, South Seas, plumy atmosphere.  This is fledgling tourism at its best.  The population of 4,700 survive on farming and fishing.  Such is the lack of crime, they don’t even have a single police officer or station. 

At Santa Isabel, the main village, I bump into Wilberson Archibald.  Born in 1937, he describes himself as a “maestro of the music”, his folkloric music is sold all over Colombia.  He sings in Spanish and Creole and plays the mandolin and the jawbone of a horse, to create a reggae-inspired, home-grown music.

I’ve visited paradise islands all over the world, but never have I seen such a dazzling chain of virginal beaches and islands, which can all be seen in one day by taking a boat tour with a local fisherman.  Conservation is the keyword here and the islanders are fiercely protective of the place.  Our boat has a specially-tuned, non-polluting engine.  Heading clockwise around the island, we beach at Morgan Head and walk to the highest point, Fort Warwick, later called Forte de la Libertad, where canons dating from the 16th century point out to sea beside a statue of the Virgin Mary.  It was here that English puritans and Spanish pirates landed. 

Two of the most breathtaking spots on Providencia are Cray Cay, 2 miles offshore, which rises 16 metres out of the Macbean Lagoon.  I kept asking “why is the lagoon called Macbean?  Surely this is a Scottish name?”.  But the reason for the name is not known.  The lagoon’s shallow, turquoise waters, framed by the green mountains of the main island, are wildly beautiful.

I walk to the top of Crab Cay, stopping to pick mangos from the forest.  The forest gives way to a pinnacle where I can see a 360 degree vista of what is known as El Mar de Siete Colores, the Sea of Seven Colours.  I never knew such exorbitant shades of turquoise and jade existed on the colour spectrum.  Later, I swim and snorkel over coral gardens with amazing visibility.  It’s utterly breathtaking.

Further round Providencia’s coast, Bahia Manzanillo has fine white sand, palm trees bending over into the sea, and a ramble of bamboo shacks, hung with fishing buoys and nets.  There’s no-one here.  I’ve got this whole earthly paradise to myself. 

I finally visit the next beach, South West Bay that evening as the moon comes out.  Richard Harkins, the owner of a lonely beach shack decorated with flickering lights, serves mojitos whilst we stare at a ceiling of stars rarely glimpsed elsewhere.  Intrigued by my presence on the island, he comes and talks to me and tells me about his life.  He is eloquent and talks about the peace of the islanders and their love of life and nature.  They have no concerns with the outside world, only what happens on their small island.

Isla Providencia is not for everyone.  If you’re seeking nightlife, shopping, spa treatments and hedonism, go to Providencia’s alter-ego island, San Andres.  What Providencia is all about is the simple pleasures of nature, absolute relaxation, swimming and walking.

On my final morning on Providencia, before I fly back to San Andres and then onwards to Bogota, I swim at first dawn; on my way back I spot graffiti by local youths on the side of a beach shack.  It’s quite unlike any graffiti I’ve seen scrawled around urban Britain.   Youths had written: ‘Poetic Vibration’, ‘Just Can’t Live that Negative Way’, ‘Make Way for the Positive Bay’ and ‘I Love Providencia’.

I could not agree more.

FACTBOX:

For more information about Colombia, visit www.colombiaespasion.com
Medellin Flower Festival: www.medellinflowerfestival.com

At the time of writing, Air France have flights from London via Paris to Bogota. 

Birmingham-based Another World (who specialise only in Colombia) can help you book this trip (www.anotherworlduk.com, 0121 588 3827) or Journey Latin America (www.journeylatinamerica.co.uk)

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A Gathering of “Travel Snobs”, Photo by Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Travel snobbery. Does it exist? If so, how would you define it?

When mulling over the topic in the beginning, the first question seemed to be a “no-brainer” as I personally felt the collective answers would be a resounding “Yes!”. And, as you read through the replies, you will find that proved to be the outcome. It’s in the definitions of “travel snobbery” where things truly became interesting… Is it the backpacker? Is it the cruise ship dweller? Is it anyone, or everyone, who steps over their own threshold to venture somewhere else?

Ant Stone

Trail of Ants

Travel snobbery exists. It’s probably oozing over this very panel discussion in the guise of anti-snobbery.

Travel snobbery exists. It’s probably oozing over this very panel discussion in the guise of anti-snobbery. I imagine it as a slobbering beast that roams the globe — almost always “off the beaten track”. Its backpack is the lightest, it’s been away the longest, and of course its tales are the tallest, and capable of usurping even the hardiest of travellers. It can usually be heard coming with the battle cry of “Why didn’t you…”, which echoes through the most secret dorm rooms and rarest cabanas of the world. It’s nearly died one more time than you. It’s spent a pound less. It’s cooked eggs with remote locals, been interviewed by rural TV and most often — perhaps tellingly — travels alone.

Daniel Massie

Dan’s Adventure

Travel snobbery most definitely exists. There are those who consider their experiences better than yours if they have stayed in one place for longer than you as they have got to know the place in more depth. Then there are those who consider the Lonely Planet “must dos” to be the be all and end all, if you haven’t done them, you’ve clearly missed out. There are also the travellers that have to do everything in the cheapest way possible, if you’ve spent more than them on accommodation, meals, transport or anything else, well you just aren’t as good a budget traveller as them. Conversely there are those who have a more lavish budget so enjoy spending more on things, some consider others to be “slumming it” by staying in backpackers or cheap guest houses. So I guess you could define travel snobbery as considering you’re own experiences to be better than anyone else’s and not even considering that other people’s were just as enjoyable.

Angelina Hart

The Little Travelers

YES!! Emphatically, it does exist! Travel snobbery is a very subjective thing that has definitely evolved over the years I’ve been traveling. When traveling through Europe as a college backpacker, the biggest travel snobs were those with more travel experience. My friend and I had spent the previous summer working as activities directors at a Jamaican hotel, so we were not virgin travelers backpacking with our Let’s Go Europe guides. We were snobs. Europe was super boring and blah after spending the summer before up mango trees with Rastafarians, and I hate to admit it, but we were not ashamed to let everyone we met know it.

Off The Beaten Path, Photo by Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Now that I’m 40, I know many travel braggarts that post their photos on Facebook of ski trips to Vale and fancy resorts in Kauai. But I, as a single mother, took my two girls to Iran last year – and I have to say when at a dinner party I always ‘win’ the most interested ears in the room. No one really cares about a great beach vacation. But everyone in the room wants to know why on earth I went to Iran by myself with children. So off the beaten path still wins and I’ll have to admit, I am still a travel snob in that way. I couldn’t imagine ever lowering myself to a ClubMed vacation or vacationing somewhere with no cultural component. Some people flaunt money and others like myself experience. What I’ve found over the years is that people are more drawn to those with great stories than those who spend thousands of unnecessary dollars.

Daniel Roy

Backpack Foodie

I’m in the “live and live” camp when it comes to what one believes are “superior” travel practices. For instance, I’m a big advocate for eating locally and avoiding multinational fast food chains at home and on the road, but I understand it’s a matter of lifestyle choice.

For instance, I’m a big advocate for eating locally and avoiding multinational fast food chains at home and on the road, but I understand it’s a matter of lifestyle choice.

That being said – there is a lot to be said about travel consciousness. Certain travel practices – such as package tours to multinational-owned resorts that merely exploit the local economy to funnel the money out of the country, or exploitative tourism to tribal villages who do not see the money trickle down – should be held in lower esteem. Travel is not a right, it’s an immense privilege, mostly in the hands of the First World. If looking down on exploitative or destructive travel practices is travel snobbery, then call me a travel snob.

Jon Brandt

Travel Guy

I once met a couple traveling through Argentina, and after talking for a while the boyfriend told me that he was an amateur photographer and had some high tech equipment. But after explaining that I was into photography as well, he went on to say how stupid he found it to take pictures of famous landmarks, or to have a picture of yourself somewhere. I listened respectfully, but couldn’t agree less.

His theory was that you shouldn’t waste your time taking a picture of something that has already been photographed by a million other people, and that taking a picture of some garbage in front of the Taj Mahal, for example, was more interesting. I was pretty put off by this because, let’s face it, I’m guilty of wanting a picture of myself in front of a place I visit. Not all of them, but if I feel touched by the place I visit, I want to remember it.

That’s kind of the point of travel in the first place, to be touched by a place. You can’t take it with you, so you snap a photo in the hope that years later you’ll remember it and be touched again.

bugs on the way to Cheb, Photo by Derek Logan

Andy Jarosz

501 Places

Luxury travellers looking down their noses at backpackers and vice versa are the most obvious examples of travel snobbery. The snobbish luxury traveller sees the backpacker and wonders why they have come to a place when they haven’t got the money to visit the main sights, while they can’t imagine ever sleeping in a budget hostel, especially in a dorm! The snob backpacker on the other hand sees the luxury traveller (he calls them a tourist of course) as someone who visits a place but doesn’t see it; who ticks tourist sights off a list but never really understands what they are about.

I think a little travel snobbery exists in all of us. We put so much emotional effort into our travels, that when we see others who adopt a completely different approach to our own it can be easy to question the value of their travelling style. It’s probably unavoidable and we should at least be aware of our prejudices so that we can control them.

Many backpackers are the luxury travellers of the future, while those in posh hotels often look back at their time backpacking many years ago and are glad they can now travel in more comfort. They are often two sides of the same coin, linked more closely than either dares admit.

Many backpackers are the luxury travellers of the future, while those in posh hotels often look back at their time backpacking many years ago and are glad they can now travel in more comfort. They are often two sides of the same coin, linked more closely than either dares admit.

Dave

The Longest Way Home

Yes it most certainly exists, and does so, on several levels. I’ll try a few outline definitions:

The Person Who’s Traveled For A Couple Of Years: Ego unleashed they have seen better things than you, been to more places, and doesn’t mind reminding you of that whenever possible.

Money Bags: Yes they like to rough it, they don’t mind hostels, but damn it they won’t share a room, they want an en suite, a direct taxi to the place and if there’s no WIFI, forget it.

Kidwonder: Dashing around the world in a heartbeat, they’ve been to all the “cool” places, and don’t have time to sit still for a minute. Naturally enough, if you are more than 2 years older than them, then you are blatantly ignored.

All in all the worst snobbery I’ve heard is from a group of younger travelers who openly talked about a 50+ guy traveling in the same hostel being too old to stay there. I’m sure he could hear. Made me ashamed to stay there.

Pam Mandel

Nerd’s Eye View

Travel snobbery is all too real and unfortunately, all too rampant. At my desk, it’s defined as the attitude that you’re traveling “better” than someone else — be it more authentic, green, local, correct, whatever. Sure, there are as many ways to travel as there are humans that hit the road, but unless we’re talking sex tourism or bottom feeders (subsets I’ve got no patience with) then I’m just happy people are out there traveling.

Lola Akinmade

Geotraveler’s Niche

Travel snobbery has certainly been exacerbated by that never-ending clichéd debate of Tourist versus Traveler. Stepping off a half-sinking wooden canoe versus a cruise liner onto the same Thai beach somehow makes the canoe rider a “more authentic” traveler?

Readying For Next Cruise, Photo by Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Exploring a place in the traditional sense (sampling local cuisine, enjoying cultural activities) is no longer enough. One must trek through treacherous jungles even locals avoid, eat poisonous foods off endangered species lists, and constantly place-drop at parties and get-togethers.

“What? You can’t bargain in Quechua? Tskk”

The travel snob aims to elevate their travel experiences at the expense of devaluing yours. It really is ironic that many travelers who themselves explore other cultures to learn, grow, and become more open-minded to various aspects of the world build an internal caste system.

Want to know if you’re a travel snob? If a friend shares their experience riding a Cambodian rickshaw and you retort with “Bah! I actually rode backwards on a motorbike with three other passengers in Vietnam!”

You just might be a travel snob.

Cooper Schraudenbach

True Nomads

Of course it does!! Travel, on one level, like everything else, has become a contest, a competition. Who can go further, more remote, more expensively, more exotic – and anywhere there is competition, there is snobbery. Travel is full of “holy grails”, so to speak, and everyone on the road covets these trips and experiences.

enjoying the view, Photo by Marlis Seelos

Talk about Arunchal Pradesh, Antarctica, Tibet, Bhutan, and Patagonia, and you get the idea. People flock around to hear your story, and pepper you for information on logistics and “was it worth it?” – The whole time with stars in their eyes. Of course, the “in” destinations are always changing, as the old become commonplace, travelers are always pushing the envelope, looking for that next dream destination.
Bhutan would be the gold standard – popular, mysterious, and exclusive with a difficult and expensive 200USD a day visa. If you have gone, you will have to fight the urge to exercise your newfound snobbery, and if you haven’t, you will be judged by the snobs that have.
This of course refers to backpack travel snobbery, for those of us who read Conde Nast, we will address that form of travel snobbery in the next installment.

Nellie Huang

Wild Junket

While on the road, I’d met a couple of travel snobs. In their opinion, backpacking is real travel, the best way to experience a country’s culture. They tend to belittle other forms of travelling (luxury, tour package, flashpacking) and think of themselves as the ‘better’ traveler. I recently wrote a blog post about travel snobbery — plenty of examples discussing the root of the problem. I think it all boils down to travelers being self-centered and immature: we all have to face the fact that we are not the only people who like to travel. There are millions of people out there who have an equal passion for it. Whether they are independent travelers, tourists on a package or road trippers, there are so many out there just like you, equally curious about the world, adventurous in trying new stuff and excited to be seeing the world.

Greg Wesson

Greg Wesson’s Esoteric Globe

We all have different tastes, and what we like to do impacts how we decide to travel. I’m sure that all of us, from time to time, have looked at another traveller (or even non-traveller) and thought that they were wasting their opportunities on their trips. Personally, cruising seems like the fifth level of hell to me, and I can’t understand people who travel to a new city to sleep all day and party all night. I can party all night at home. What is important is not if travel snobbery exists (because it does), but rather how we let it effect us.

What is important is not if travel snobbery exists (because it does), but rather how we let it effect us.

We shouldn’t let others ideas of what is the right or proper way to travel dissuade us from choosing the “how,” “why” and “where” of our travels. Similarly, we need to be vigilant not to feel superior to those that choose to travel in a way that we don’t understand. As long as they are travelling in a way that is thoughtful to their needs and the needs of the communities they are travelling through, then they are all right in my book.

Nora Dunn

Professional Hobo

Because travel is considered a luxury by most people around the world, travel snobbery kind of comes with the territory. I think there are a number of different brands of travel snobbery, depending on the “snob’s” echelon of travel and level of insecurity. It all has to do with your frame of reference and travel preferences; I think travel snobbery in general is a function of not being open-minded to other methodologies of travel.

Travel snobs will judge you by the number of countries you have visited, or the length of time you’ve been on the road, or the activities you’ve done, or the hotels you’ve stayed in, or even how far off the beaten path you’ve gone.

The sad thing is that travel is supposed to open up our minds and make us aware of other ways of life. However old habits die hard, and despite the inherent hypocrisy of it all, I think travel snobbery will always exist.

Private Luxury, Photo by Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Hannah Barth

Hannah In Motion

Of course travel snobs, like any other kind of snobs, exist, though it’s a puzzle to me how to define such a person. Part of me thinks back to Paris when answering this question. The land of crib-dwellers dressed in haute couture and moms who rarely leave their bastion of the 16th arrondisement, I think of the myriad of school vacations the French enjoy. Les moms sit in the best cafes and chat about their next family vacation to Martinique or Morocco, au pair girl in tow. This seems to be a pretty apt definition of a travel snob: someone who travels to the most chic destinations and would never dream of staying somewhere not recommended by Conde Nast.

Then again, there’s always the opposite end of the spectrum: the backpacker who thinks anything with a starred rating must be overdone, and anyone who doesn’t experience the local culture via city dirt between their toes is not living the true travel experience. I fall into the second category and am, admittedly, a travel snob in this respect.

[F]oxymoron

[F]oxymoron

Yes, travel snobbery exists! If it didn’t exist, travelers would have a difficult time massaging that snobbery into snark, and that snark into genuine, authentic travel experiences. Or perspective. Or entertaining stories!

Now, to be more serious, one of the joys of travel is reveling in the ambiguity of the unknown, and since we all start from somewhere completely different, we all carry around a special kind of ignorance when exploring new cultures. Travel snobbery is ignoring this.

So if you’re the kind of traveler that scoffs at spending an extra 2 cents for a bucket of cold bathing water, keep on keeping it real. If you’re the kind of traveler that scoffs at squatting – anywhere – to drop a deuce, keep on keeping it real. If you’re the kind of traveler that only travels with an entourage of personal assistants, keep on keeping it real. All of you place the act of travel into perspective.

In this world there’s more than enough room for all kinds of travel snobbery!

Swim-Up Bar, Photo by Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Gretchen Wilson-Kalav

Our Two Cents Worth…

I concur, snobbery exists and I’m a travel snob. I am one who enjoys the pampering of an all-inclusive and enjoys the “just off the beaten track” road trips to “nowhere in particular”. I won’t be strapping on a backpack to hike the Inca Trail in this lifetime nor ever follow the Silk Road. I’m missing out, I know. But, I’m not dead yet…

I’m a snob because I sit at the swim-up bar and snub my nose at the guy from Milwaukee who’s just happy to see they serve “real” beer in a can (Miller Lite) so he doesn’t have to drink the local swill (Red Stripe – I like Red Stripe) from the tap. (His words.) That makes me a snob. I also pride myself (and my husband) in that we connect with the employees, rather than the guests. We’ve been invited into their homes, met their families and built relationships. They earn their living the same way we do here at home – they deserve my respect. The guy from Milwaukee – he needs a lesson in manners. I also don’t care to hear about his plumbing business’ woes. I can get that here at home. (Call me jaded.)

Regardless, I agree we are all snobs in our own little ways – that’s life. It’s the connections we make during our travels that set us apart from the proverbial pack.

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Fish never tasted so good.  The BBC World Service report that London is being lashed by November storms with zero visibility in the Home Counties, but here, on the Akamas Peninsula in Cyprus, the view – and the fish – is perfect.

I am dropped off near Lara, a few kilometres down a bumpy track beyond Ayios Georgios.  A short walk later, I’m eating swordfish cooked by a 91-year old Cypriot fisherman named Vasilios, sitting at a table overlooking a silent, stony bay. The eggshell-blue tablecloth matches the effervescent, cerulean seawater below. There’s no-one around.

Vasilios wears the traditional vraka or baggy breeches. He doesn’t speak English but I manage to get by with my limited Greek.  He says he has fished off the Akamas and in Khrysoukhou Bay since the age of 15; he even fishes for swordfish out in the blue expanses towards Rhodes, which is 200 miles westwards.  Swordfish is a local speciality in this part of Cyprus.  But with its sword-like nose, it can be a dangerous fish to have in your nets. 

I understood Vasilios’ guttural reply when I ask him the distance to the ‘other side’ of Akamas.  Dodeka or twelve in English. 

Twelve kilometres of a trail through Cyprus’s most Elysian place of beauty.  The Akamas peninsula is a small, stark, earthly paradise.  Clefts in the ochre hills are choked with strawberry trees, oleanders and myrtle.  Juniper and Aleppo pines adorn the hilltops.  The entire coastline is dazzling.

The best option is to divide exploration of the area into two days: on day one, see the southern side, starting from Ayios Georgios or Lara.  On day two, start from the northern side, at Fontana Amorosa and head south.  This ensures you see the best the peninsula has to offer without being too strenuous.  Jeep safaris are also available and you could also mountain-bike part of the way or pay a fisherman to sail you up the Cape and drop you off anywhere on the way.

Beyond Lara, a scramble ends up on a plage sauvage of bleached, breadcrumb sand, with the skeletal backbone of Akamas rising to 600 metres beyond. The Green Turtle has frequented these shores for centuries to lay its eggs, mostly in the summer and at night.   It’s one of their last nesting grounds in the Mediterranean. Turtles require dry sand to lay their eggs on and once the baby turtles hatch, they use the moon to navigate themselves back down into the sea. Any artificial light, from hotels or streetlamps, would disorientate these turtles, but these uninhabited parts make perfect conditions for the hatchlings.

I kicked off my boots, most of my clothes and wallowed in. This set a pattern for the rest of my week, with the Mediterranean a soothing temptress almost every step of the way.

Even in high season, Akamas is deserted. If you consult a map of Cyprus, the Akamas is that tusk-shaped bit on the west coast. The tarmac ends abruptly, there are no hotels, restaurants or tourist paraphernalia out here, just some timeless ingredients for a great walk-about through the wilds: a Hellenistic necropolis lying hidden in a field just before Ayios Georgios and the Avakas Gorge, a canyon running 2km from Toxeftra where vultures used to live.

An ancient Athenian hero of the Trojan War named Akamas gave his name to the peninsula and to the legendary city of Akamantis, a city that has never actually been found. Akamas is the place in Greek legend where the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, and the youth, Adonis, fell in love.

There has been violent controversy to prevent hotel development in the area. Other parts of the island have fine stretches of coast, but none as magnificent as here and it’s imperative that the peninsula remains wild and free of concrete to protect the unique flora and fauna. The number of plant species found here runs up to 600, of which 35 are endemic. The variety of fauna is also impressive with 168 bird species, 12 mammals, 20 reptiles and butterfly species. Migrating birds call in here on their long flight to escape the winter in Northern Europe.

Further along, at Agios Konon, a large number of tombs have been unearthed.  Perhaps these comprise the lost city of Akamantis?

The path heads northeast, opening up views of Khrysoukhou Bay, and depositing you after a few hours close to the Baths of Aphrodite.  The Italian poet, Ariosto, said of this area “Nowhere else in the world have I seen women and virgins so lovely and attractive”. 

A donkey, nicknamed by locals Speedy Gonzales, contemplates you from his field. Five minutes through flower-carpeted fields and orchards takes you to the Baths themselves. Steps descend to a bay of coloured stones with crystalline waters. Offshore is an island with a cross upon it. This is where Adonis first laid eyes upon Aphrodite who was bathing here in the salty waters.

From here you can hike on the Adonis or Aphrodite trails deeper into the peninsula, back down the coast, or inland into the cool Forest of Pafos. George’s Ranch offers horse riding for a day through the forest. 
I had opted for an agro-tourism holiday, rather than staying in the beach resorts. Agro-tourism is accommodation in rural villages. It shows respect and sensitivity towards environmental integrity and cultural diversity.

Cyprus won the 1998 international British Airways Tourism for Tomorrow Award in relation to Agro-Tourism. Of the 120 entries from 43 countries, Cyprus was among the five winners, along with Britain, Australia, Ghana and Trinidad. Since 1998, old village houses have been restored and renovated, offering beautiful retreats.

A hire car is essential. You have the best of both worlds with the beaches and popular sights easily accessible, and the joy of waking up each morning with extraordinary rural scenery just outside your window. 
My home for the week is in the village of Kathikas, next to the village square with coffee shops and tavernas. The local people are very friendly and helpful. It feels great to be enjoying a traditional meal in the square, listening to the bouzouki, while the eyebrows of stars flicker in the wine-dark sky.

Christina, the wife of the restaurant owner asks me where I’m going to tomorrow. 
“To a place called …er… Stavros tis Psokas” I reply, cautious of this tongue-twister place name. She smiles at my attempt at pronunciation and says “So, you are going to see moufflon then?”

Moufflon look like wild sheep, with light brown hair and the males have long, distinctive curved horns, like those of a ram. The species is the largest mammal on the island and as old as the first inhabitants of Cyprus, dating from Neolithic times. But the moufflon were virtually hunted to extinction in centuries past and are naturally shy, beautiful animals. They are protected now and a captive breeding programme exists in this area to increase their numbers. The moufflon have become the emblem of the national airline, Cyprus Airways. 
The moufflon are left to roam wildly at Stavros tis Psokas in surroundings of pine, wild olive and golden oak. Whilst visiting, you can also enjoy two nature trails, one to Tripylos and the other to Zakharou peaks.
The Akamas Peninsula lies between the Baths of Aphrodite in the north (close to Latchi) and Ayios Georgios in the south (8km north of Coral Bay, 28km from Paphos). 

Ensure you obtain a good quality map before venturing into the area.  They are available from the Cyprus Tourist offices on the island, or many vendors.

Temperatures in Cyprus from November through to February vary. The oven-heat of summer has gone, but temperatures can reach 23°C throughout November. December and January tend to be cooler with an average 16°C, whilst February returns to the low twenties. Days are pleasantly sunny but there can be short showers. Take a pullover or coat for nights. The Troodos Mountains offer skiing on the highest slopes usually from December to February.

Cyprus Agro-Tourism
www.agrotourism.com.cy
Tel 00 357 22 340071
Offers a fine selection of village houses in the villages of Kathikas, Arodes, Pano Kato Akourdalia, Goudi, Kritou Terra or Droushia, all of which are close to the Akamas Peninsula.

Georges Ranch
Tel 00 357 6 621064
Organises horse-riding in the Forest of Pafos, a beautiful area part of the Akamas Peninsula

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Lola Akinmade combines her professions as a photojournalist, travel writer and volunteer worker with her personal experiences while on the road. Follow her journeys through her beautiful photographs and vibrant commentary at Geotraveler’s Niche.

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For anyone with an ounce of escapism in their soul, there is no-where as magical as the Quirimbas Archipelago in Northern Mozambique with its Portuguese forts, tales of Arab merchants, ivory and slavery.

At tiny Pemba airport, in Northern Mozambique, a row of clocks on the wall tell different times around the world, but every single one has stopped. This oversight nearly results in me missing my flight to the Quirimbas Archipelago.

‘Don’t worry so, Sir, you’ll still make the flight.  It’s just you and 3 others on the plane.  And you won’t require a watch on Medjumbe, Mr Nic,’ says the check-in assistant. ‘Happy holiday in Moz-am-bee-kay.’

I climb into a single-engine 12-seater Cessna, and am thinking that the name of the destination – Medjumbe – sounds wildly romantic and idyllic, when the whup-whup of the propeller announces our departure.

‘We’ll fly over some of the most beautiful coast in Africa,’ says the pilot, an ineffably chilled goggle-wearing South African, after take-off. His appearance and the feel of the Cessna evoke the romanticism of flying in these small planes.  It’s not at all like taking a flight in Europe: there’s no stewardess, no in-flight magazine and not much in the way of air conditioning.  It is aviation as basic as possible, and it is this that makes it feel like such an adventure.

We’re not particularly high but we are flying at some speed; the only other option would be to take a dhow, but the wind was in the wrong direction. 

The Indian Ocean, seen from my window, is ridiculously beautiful: gulfs of the most exorbitant turquoise, mottled and torpid, diluting into shoals of jade-green and powder blue. Some islands have mud huts, and as we buzz over them, a young girl runs out into a field and waves at us.  Others are uninhabited. I see the dark, unmistakable shape of a dolphin in the deep blue.

The Quirimbas National Park stretches 248 miles from Pemba to the Tanzanian border.  That’s virtually the same distance from London to Fishguard, and the guidebook says only a handful are inhabited, some, with small get-away-from-it-all retreats, others traditional villages with no accommodation but a chance to see rural life. 

The civil war ended in 1992 and Mozambique is now at peace and ripe for exploration. Mercifully, tropical cyclone Favio and the floods in January 2006 did not reach Northern Mozambique.

I had come to Moz-am-bee-kay (for this is the correct, Portuguese way of saying the name of the country, when in the country) after a 20 year wait.  After I finished my education, I had moved into a room above a shop and the previous tenant had left a couple of books there, one of them being about Mozambique.  I treasured turning the dusty pages of this book, full of legendary white sand beaches, countless islands and the little-known historic jewel that is Ibo Island, as well as the Portuguese-Swahili culture and cuisine.  It was from that time that a yearning to visit this off-the-beaten-track destination grew inside me. 

But, of course, Mozambique was not always open to visitors; not because it didn’t want them but because there was the 17 year civil war, the droughts, famines, hurricanes and flooding.  But due to aid and investment from South Africa and better fortunes, Mozambique has started to appear in specialist travel agent’s brochures in Britain.  It’s not too difficult to get to from London either: you can fly from London to Dar Es Salaam on Kenya Airways and then catching a Precision Air flight to Pemba is one of the preferred routes of entry. 

Medjumbe floats into view – a mere blip in the ocean – dead-flat, coralline and laced with a green flannel of vegetation under the megawatt sun. Quite where we intend to land, I’m not sure, but it’s a trick of perception, because we angle in hard, drop suddenly and come to an ingracious halt on a half-built airstrip near a ruined lighthouse that imparts a cheerful primitiveness.  When the propellor comes to a halt, you cannot hear a pin drop.

Jumping out, I meet Tony, the hotel’s manager.  He speaks in half-whispered, reverential tones about the island: ‘Medjumbe is 800 metres long and 350 metres wide. We have our own time, Medjumbe time, one hour ahead of the mainland. Welcome to our paradise.’

He points to a ribbon of navy-blue ocean and says this is the edge of the reef. ‘You can wade out and the water is only waist-high; it’s a quarter of a mile. By the way, don’t bother locking your doors. It’s only us.’. 

He gives me a blue plastic watch, set to Medjumbe time. I think it an eccentric feature for a tiny island to have its own timezone. The watch stops working 10 minutes later.

My dark-wood chalet is approached down a lane and feels isolated, its thatched roof and high-spec, log-cabin style interior blending in with the surroundings.

It’s rustically decorated with two four-poster beds, sea-weathered furniture, a bath and outdoor shower, a hammock and jacuzzi. It has a barefoot luxury, ideal for those who enjoy the pleasures of nature, simplicity and absolute relaxation.

But best of all is the beach.  The beach is an S-shape of moon-white coral sand, waxing and waning to an interminable distance, the whitest white I have seen anywhere in the world. It feels like my own private beach and leaves me feeling hysterically happy. 

There’s no-one to pick up the hundreds of perfect, pink conch shells, each one the size of a kitten, washed up and lorded over by black herons who bully the scuttling crabs.  The curious noise – the only noise on the island, I should add – is the water rushing over the reef.  Later, when flooded by the outrageous turquoise of the tidal Indian Ocean, the Medjumbe Lagoon is a soothing temptress to my jet-lag. I plunge in.

The resort is all-inclusive and the menus change daily: that evening, we dine on tuna sashimi, followed by lobster and prawns. The black, treacly Mozambican coffee, now a national obsession thanks to the Portuguese influence, is superb and an excellent complement to the pink watermelons and sweet pineapples.

Time slows to a few frames per second as this classic island experience gets the better of me: snoozing in the hammock, bathing in isolation, watching glorious sunsets that turn the whole island crimson and snorkeling on the reef among day-glow fish.  There is no spa or TV, just a dodgy internet connection and a radio for calling the plane.  It suits me down to the ground.  

Two days later, I catch a 15-minute flight to Medjumbe’s sister property, Matemo. A larger island with four villages, Matemo Island Resort has Moorish undertones, with 24 chalets and more leisure and night-time activities. From the resort you can walk through forests of baobabs to the local village or there is the option to take a sunset dhow cruise.

Dinner is a scrumptious seafood barbecue, served on a rocky promontory above the sea and lit by hurricane lamps and the moon where I hear tales about Ibo Island from other guests.  The staff at Matemo can organise trips to Ibo, and it takes just 45 minutes by boat to get there.

Next morning, we’re sailing to Ibo, past dhows, traditionally constructed with a triangular sail while the fishermen’s songs carry across the ocean. These dhows make me think of tales of Sinbad.

The yellow blur of Ibo appears, a strange and mysterious air lingering about it. We land at a tiny anchorage, overlooked by the ancient stone walls of one of three pentagon-shaped Portuguese forts.

Going ashore is like travelling back to the 1800s, emerging into a ghost town bearing the tatters of an extraordinary beauty.  It’s said to be one of the most ancient European settlements in Mozambique and certainly one of the most fascinating in all of Africa.

The main square is baking hot, the chocolate earth inset with lumps of coral, with Muslim men cycling past on black bicycles, their panniers stacked dangerously high with 20 boxes of eggs, the ground pecked over by hens and goats and gone wild with bright-red flame trees, maize and palm. There is a ramble of faded, yellow and grey palatial buildings, all derelict, but forming an incongruous museum piece – moss-covered, jungle-stained, and exuding grandeur. The former bank with a splash of pink ironwork and grand stairways is a few steps from the cathedral, the Church of Our Lady of Rosaria built in 1580. 

This is all that remains of once-elegant Portuguese merchant’s houses.  Tropical rot seeps through everything. I walk inside these deserted buildings, over colonnaded verandahs choked with ivy and through overgrown gardens, filled with an indescribable sense of discovery and exultation.  The place is a carefully preserved ghost town. 

The Muslim villagers are politely curious. They live in reed huts on the outskirts of Ibo town, and there is neither a restaurant, tourist office, or any facilities except one small guesthouse. A little boy bows with a sad and subdued courtesy, as he tells me about Ibo’s 200-year-old town and the Portuguese explorer, Vasco da Gama, who landed here in 1502 when the island became a major trading port for ivory and slaves.

The Quirimbas Islands were thought to have been occupied by Muslim traders well before the 15th century, who were industrious in manufacturing a type of cloth called Maluane that was traded up and down the Swahili coast. 

At the time the Portuguese landed on the islands, the main trading point was just south, on Querimba Island, where Muslims sought refuge from the Portuguese in 1507.  Portugal attacked the islands in 1523, killing some 60 Muslims, looting large amounts of ivory and amber, jet, ivory, turtleshells, ambergris, millet and rice, coconuts and a variety of fruits, as well as cattle, pigs, goats and poultry.  During the 17th and 18th century, this trade declined and was replaced by the slave trade.  The slave trade became a major source of wealth.  The islands were dominated by two Afro-Portuguese families — the Meneses and the Moraes, who struck lucrative deals with French and Arab slave traffickers who were anxious to continue what was an illegal trade by the end of the 18th century.  The maze of narrow tidal waterways that surrounds the archipelago was ideal for the running of contraband.  Larger ships, however, carrying food and items, especially the British gunboats that patrolled coast after slavery was outlawed, could not penetrate the shallow channels, particularly the landing spot on Ibo. 

By the end of the 16th century, 7 of the 9 largest islands in the archipelago were ruled by Portugese traders and the other two by Muslim traders.  A description dating to 1609 detailed that Ibo was substantially fortified, and that the islands were prosperous and a major source of food supplies for the then capital of Mozambique, Ilha do Moçambique.  

Ibo came into its own in the second half of the 18th century, as the major supplier of slaves to the sugar-plantation owners of France’s Indian Ocean islands. 

The Portuguese Crown resented the prosperity of the islands’ independent traders, particularly fearing the islands might be captured by the Omanis or French, and in 1763 the Crown granted Ibo municipal status.  By the end of the 18th century, Ibo was regarded as the second most important Portuguese trading centre in the country.  It was leased to the Niassa Company in 1897, but the shallow, narrow approach to the island wasn’t suitable for modern ships and so in 1904, Niassa relocated to Pemba on the mainland and Ibo gradually fell into decline.  

We walk to the third fort, Fortaleza de São João Baptista.  It is star-shaped and whitewashed in part, and is the best preserved.  I wander around the walls that overlook the shoals of the brackish harbour.  The place reeks of history with centuries old cannons and pepper pot-shaped battlements.   In its heyday, the fort had room for 300 troops, food storage and armories, but today is an historical monument.  The sooty interior is home to Swahili-speaking silversmiths who make jewellery using ancient Arab techniques that require blowpipes, charcoal, lemon juice and metal files.

The slave trade had brought prosperity to Ibo and by the early 19th century generous streets were laid out, gardens designed and planted, and a group of fine buildings erected round the main plaza.  In 1897, Ibo was leased to the Niassa Company, who used it as a base for exploring the interior of Mozambique.

If it was Ibo’s shallow approach waters which allowed it to continue trading slaves and to prosper, it was the shallow waters that were responsible, in part, for its decline.  By the end of the 19th century, the Niassa company needed a deep-water port for increasingly larger modern ships and in 1904 Niassa gave up on Ibo and moved to Pemba further down the coast. 
Today, Ibo is figuratively and literally, a backwater.  Women collect oyster shells looking for mother-of-pearl and men fish for crab exactly as their forebears did.  As a result, the reefs and mangrove swamps that make up the islands’ ecosystems are still as nature intended them to be. There are turtles and dolphins in deeper waters.  Much of the archipelago is still to be explored.

As dusk approaches, I can feel the ghosts of slaves and Arab merchants as I walk around the enchanting streets. I’ll not forget Ibo in a hurry.

Ibo sees very few tourists.  During my trip, there was one other French couple.  Time seems to have stood still here.  I’ve devoted my life to exploring tropical islands, luxurious resorts and places of cultural heritage, but I’ve never been anywhere as pristine and magical as the Quirimbas islands.

FACTBOX

Getting There:
Kenya Airways www.kenya-airways.com flies from London to Nairobi and onwards to Mozambique or you can take a flight with Precision Air  www.precisionairtz.com

Africa Travel Centre (0845 450 1520, ) can help you plan this trip.
Medjumbe Private Island and Matemo Resort are both run by Rani Resorts. Flights from Pemba to Medjumbe and between Medjumbe, Matemo and Pemba are organised by Rani.  For information on Ibo: www.iboisland.com

Time Zone: GMT +2 hours
Flight Time: 7 hours to Nairobi, then 3 hours to Medjumbe via Precision Air
Language: Portuguese, but English widely spoken
Currency: US$ widely accepted
Best time to go: Dry months in Northern Mozambique are April to November.
Visa: Upon arrival in Mozambique US$30

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For a great mix of travel experiences, recipes, photographs and good advice, “Travel with Julie” by Julie Gilley is a wonderful site to visit. She will take you on a tour of Italy that you were not expecting. Have your wine glass ready… Oh, and your fork.

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Saint David’s Day (Welsh: Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant) is the feast day of Saint David, the patron saint of Wales, and falls on 1 March each year.   To celebrate Saint David’s Day this year, Escapism Magazine enjoyed a visit to the glorious, unsung Glamorgan Heritage Coastal Path, an area of virgin coast that is frequently overlooked by tourists in favour of the Gower and Pembrokeshire. 

The Coastal Path begins at Aberthaw and runs 14 miles to Porthcawl.  In between, there are some decidedly stunning beaches and wild coastal scenery – the section from St Donat’s Castle to Southerndown (approximately 2 miles) is simply breathtaking for its wild beauty. 

The far-reaching views from atop the cliffs are of the Welsh mountains to the north and the brooding hills of Exmoor across the Bristol Channel.  Below, a wide yawn of yellow sand stretches against a mirror-calm sea.  Spring is truly here, with shrill bird-song and the sight of the first daffodils and snowdrops in the narrow, stony lanes and wooded valleys.  The weather is magnificent – warm and sunny with blue skies and hardly a cloud or breathe of wind.

This coast is famous for its shipwrecks and smugglers.  At St Donats, we find a castle, now a world famous education centre called Atlantic College.  The castle was once the home of American media magnate William Randolph Hearst who entertained his Hollywood friends there during the 1940s and 50s. Where else but here could you walk the same beach that Charlie Chaplin strolled along or the same road that Bing Crosby and Bob Hope followed?

There are no houses, hotels or developments on this immediate stretch of coast, and on most days in the week, you’ll see very few people. 

There is good, traditional lodging options in Llantwit Major, Cowbridge or Porthcawl.  Parking is plentiful at St Donat’s, the pull-in close to Nash Point Lighthouse or the road from Monknash past the Plough & Harrow public house (great traditional fish n chips http://www.theploughmonknash.com/) or Southerndown.  All these locations are ideal to start this walk from. 

Slightly further afield, but still on the Glamorgan Heritage Coastal Path, Merthyr Mawr is an idyllic little settlement with an outstanding collection of thatched dwellings straight from the pages of a Thomas Hardy novel.  Nearby Candleston Castle was once a 15th century fortified mansion house on the edge of the Sahara-like dunes of Merthyr Mawr Warren.  Parts of Lawrence of Arabia were filmed here.  You can walk through the dunes to a long, beautiful beach.

The Bristol Channel is tidal, so always check the tide timetables to prevent being cut off by the tide.  In reality, there are not many stretches of this walk where this could happen, but the tides of the Bristol Channel can be treacherous.  Check tide timetables here:
 http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/coast/tides/tides.shtml?date=20100301&loc=0512

Situated at Dunraven Park, Southerndown, Vale of Glamorgan, CF32 ORP, Tel: (01656) 880157, the Glamorgan Heritage Coast Centre can provide you with maps and information about the various walks you can do.

There is parking on the edge of the village, or at intermediate points in Monknash, Dunraven Bay or Southerndown.  See map below. 

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