Blog

Drive around the district of Dyker Heights in southern Brooklyn on a December evening and you’re bound to find traffic congestion on the narrow residential streets. Unlike other jams in New York City, however, there won’t be an angry or frustrated driver in sight. >>

Night descended on Salzburg’s busy marketplace well over an hour ago. People of all ages stand in the crowd, milling between the warmly lit wooden stalls of the Salzburger Christkindlmarkt, the traditional Christmas market on the square in front of the city’s baroque cathedral. >>

The silvery sky hangs low, threatening rain. Standing astride my saddle, I look across the tractor-churned fields of the Somme and pull the collar of my fleece higher as a winter wind sweeps up the valley, biting my nose and pinching my knuckles red. >>

A swooping scream comes from above. The call of the indri sounds like an angry whale: haunting and very loud. Looking up into the canopy, I make out several black and white shapes before a male appears just 30ft above me, stares intently at my dubious trekking gear, and relieves himself right above my head. I shimmy sideways to avoid the downpour. >>

“Are you comfortable?” the gentleman next to me asks. “Are you being ironic?” I reply, with perhaps a little too much resentment in my voice. Nothing can quite prepare you, or your body, for riding the top of a truck in northern Kenya. >>

It’s Saturday night; 9pm. I’ve assiduously ticked off all of Istanbul’s main attractions in a day. My legs ache and the hotel’s enormous bath has never looked more appealing. But I know the city’s nightlife needs to be seen, if not experienced. >>

It feels like I’ve pulled up in the driveway at Wonderland. Buried in the roadside verge, roof poking out above the grass, is a pink car. The trees that are not decorated with shopping trolleys and giant cuddly toys have ticking clocks attached to them. >>

My wheels aren’t the only thing digging deep as they sink into the soft ochre sand with every pedal revolution. This penultimate leg of my seven-day, 280-mile bike ride is taking me towards Jordan’s Wadi Rum — en route from the Dead Sea to the Red Sea — and I’m not too proud to admit, I’m feeling it a little. >>

“Sometimes, I walk here for an entire day without meeting anyone,” says Anne Kurepalu, my guide, as we stride along a trail cut through the dense, pine-scented forest of Lahemaa National Park in northern Estonia. >>

It had all seemed like a bit of a laugh at first, but the moment my body hit the water I knew the joke was on me. >>