Despite the stillness of the water, there’s no sound of silence. Insects skim across the reeds with a soft buzz and woodpeckers tap against acacia trees. Birds chatters in all directions – yet the loudest by far are the doves.

Chu charra, chu charra.

“Work harder, work harder,” says Rodger, slipping a pole into the delta and easing us forward.

“Drink lager, drink lager,” says another guide, Amos, illustrating a different point of view.

From where I’m sitting, level with the water in a slender mokoro, I hear something else. Botswana, Botswana, Botswana.

Full article: The Safari Symphony in the Okavango Delta, Botswana

Kasabian at Benicassim's FIB 2010

Nights at the party, days by the beach. That’s the hedonistic promise made by the music festival in Benicassim. Forget the mud of Glastonbury, forget that FiberFIB sounds like a constipation product. Grab a ticket to Spain and party for four days, both beneath and in front of the stars. 

From where I’m standing, of course, that’s only partly true. The spotlights blind out the stars overhead but those on stage are only a metre away.

Read the full story of the FIB Music Festival at Benicassim here.

This time last week, I was in the pit lane at the Valencia Grand Prix and it’s taken some time for my ears to stop ringing and my heartbeat to slow down. For days before the big race, the streets of Valencia hummed with the distant noise of robotic mosquitoes but however noisy that felt, it was nothing compared to being up close.

Via Ferrata in The Dolomites

There’s nothing like the fear of immediate death to concentrate the mind. Last week I retraced the steps of the world’s first via ferrata, a series of iron cables laid down during World War One to help soldiers reach the summits.

Via Ferrata - A 500 Metre Climb

Today, the advantage of this metalwork is to allow non-climbers (like myself) to haul our sorry selves through the clouds.

At last, I think I can genuinely say that this was indeed a breathtaking experience…

If not, read on! Many thanks…

The sun sets after a day picking olives...

It all started with the police check last night.

Torchlight zig-zagged across the car and we huddled in the backseat.

“You are English,” said the policeman. “And yet you say you want to go to Pegalajar.”

“That’s right,” said MG, our driver. “My friends here – they want to pick olives.”

“They want,” he lingered over the words, “to pick olives?”

From Liquid Gold & Mud Slides – read the full article at Inside the Travel Lab.

Pilot Whales

Pedro Martina’s sun-worn face lights up as he grabs my shoulder and points into the distance.
“Three of them are under the water now,” he says as I scour the shades of blue. “One baby and two adultos… and further behind them I can see two more.”

It’s certainly not the first time Pedro has hunted whales, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Despite a seafaring tradition of more than three generations plus hauling tourists along the waves every day, he still wears that expression of childlike wonder.

Read the full article here.

Finding Dolphins

Not that I care. In the rear view mirror…this post continues at Inside the Travel Lab

In my mind, grey images of flattened buildings and emaciated children reappeared, alongside textbook photos of billowing mushroom clouds. Sixty-four years have passed since the Enola Gay dropped their bombshell in 1945: 80 000 dead in a single day, 120 000 to follow through injury and disease. Yet for all the studies and reports, I was still unprepared for what I saw.

A sunny, lively, normal city.

Trams bustled along the streets and giggling schoolchildren in navy uniforms followed me around, falling quiet before summoning the courage to practice their English.

“Excuse me, mister. Where you from? Your first Japan visit?”

Shop fronts were clean, commuters strode along the pavements and Hello Kitty charms swayed from mobile phones. Decades have passed after all, and to the locals “Hiroshima” means “home”, rather than “history lesson.”

I was still unprepared for what I saw. A sunny, lively, normal city.

Not that the city has forgotten. The twisted remains of the Industrial Promotion Hall, now renamed the A-bomb Dome, form a cobweb on the city’s landscape. Staring at the ruined building, its curved metal girders silhouetted against the sky, I’m shocked to catch myself thinking that it doesn’t look that bad. Perhaps today’s TV and internet reporting and the visceral scenes from Saving Private Ryan or Black Hawk Down have desensitized me.

Then I see the photograph that shows that this was the only building left standing after the blast.

Hiroshima has transformed the rest of the decimated ground into a modern, thriving metropolis, sparing only a central area for the Peace Memorial Park and Museum. Both are airy, clinical affairs that commemorate the dead and catalogue the damage, but among the ration books and military uniforms, I found a provocative section that discussed “the causes of war.” In particular, it invited Japan to question how its own actions may have contributed to that fateful 8:15 explosion. This unexpected question still lingers with me today.

Outside, plenty of answers and opinions decorate the Children’s Memorial, scribbled in rainbow-coloured crayons from classrooms across the globe. The statue symbolizes the story of Sadako, a child with radiation sickness who hoped that she could avoid death by folding 1000 paper cranes. She created 664.

Today, paper cranes cascade in interlocking formations under the protection of Perspex casing. Unguarded crane garlands hang outside the memorial and plastic Hello Kitty cranes dangle from mobile phones. There’s more than one way to remember.

Both Hiroshima and Tokyo have Peace Flames that promise to burn until the world abolishes nuclear weapons. To my surprise, instead of a confrontation with horror and revenge, a visit to Hiroshima teaches hope. Not only through the explicit messages at the memorials but also, perhaps more so, through the city itself. The visible proof that life and the human spirit can recover.

As I headed back towards the train station, another cluster of schoolchildren circled around. With bright eyes and concentrated effort, their ringleader asked, “Excuse me, mister. Where you from? Do you like Hiroshima?”

Now that I’ve seen it, “Yes. Do you?”

A brief look of confusion, a glance back at the clipboard, then a smile. “Yes I like Hiroshima very much. I live here. Is my home.”

The View from Win Hill

 A visit to England’s oldest National Park had me reflecting on bravery, sacrifice, and the need for waterproof trousers.

England has many protected outdoor areas, each with their own character, and the Peak District National Park showcases the highs and lows of visiting rural Britain. This splodgy area between the industrial cities of Sheffield and Manchester contains history, outstanding natural beauty, local character and sporting activities. Yet the wind and water that lurk in the clouds still derail so many plans…

We drove through the Midland countryside from Bristol to our base at the Yorkshire Bridge Inn, passing the twisty tower of Chesterfield church and the home of the synthetically tasty Bakewell tart. Blessed with sunshine on our first day, we skirted around the Ladybower reservoir, watching the luminous grass banks host olive-green smudges of colour from the shadows of the overhead clouds. It’s hardly original to describe a sense of peace when reconnecting with nature but it is honest. Memories of cramped city commutes, computer screens and conference calls dissolve when even mobile phone reception fails.

Find the full series of blog posts at Inside the Travel Lab