It’s the week running up to Christmas. I’m sitting, as I usually do, at my desk, staring out of the window as I continue to procrastinate writing my essay. Yet I find myself pondering something a little different. I’m confronted with the contrast of where I am today, and where I was exactly a year ago.
This Christmas, I’ll spend the holidays with my loved ones, in my parent’s home. Last year, I had just moved to Paris, and spent Christmas day with my wonderful American flatmate. And it has made me reflect, not just on my own experiences, but on how the two European capitals embrace the Christmas spirit in their own ways. Paris, with its style and beauty, and London with its many traditions and events. Both are wonderful and have a special appeal this time of year. It’s time we reflect.
Whilst I call London home, and perhaps because of that fact precisely, I am partial to a Parisian festive season. Albeit beautiful, the London Christmas decorations don’t even begin to rival those seen across Paris. I distinctly remember walking down the Champs Elysees, Avenue Matignon and Place de Vendome and being blown away by the size, grandeur and beauty of the lights. Ranging from elegant, repeated patterns to larger centrepieces, they overtake what can be seen on Oxford Street and around London’s West End.
That being said, I do think the London Christmas markets surpass the Parisian ones. I am told that one needs to travel to Strasbourg, or the regions bordering Germany, for the best Christmas markets in France, yet one need travel no further than Hyde Park or the London South Bank for a taste of the festive spirit in the UK capital. From Winter Wonderland to the Underbelly, London has much to offer in terms of festive events and markets.
And then there’s food. Usually, there is not even a debate for me when comparing French and British gastronomy. Surprisingly, though, at Christmas, I have to say that the UK is a strong rival for its counterpart across the Channel. In London in December, one is never far from international and multicultural Christmas food. Relying on German essentials, combined with Mince Pies, mulled wine and a traditional Christmas roast, it really is the best time to be in London. In Paris, one is never far from a delicious Yule Log, perfectly mastered by many boulangeries. Apart from this, though, Christmas classics don’t move far from their standard daily food choices – you’ll never see Parisians passing up their usually baguettes and croissants. Both cities, as such, provide a wonderful range of options at this time, catering to any palette.
Indeed, there are many pros and cons to both cities – you really can’t go wrong with either. But I’ll say, Paris holds a special place in my heart. At Christmas, it’s really magic.

Filled with the festive spirit of coming together and giving, Bea and I (Emily) have collaborated on our latest article, each giving our four top places to visit this Christmas, ranging from the ski slopes of the French Alps, to the Christmas markets of Germany and even the Amazon rainforest. 

Emily

1. Strasbourg
 
Deemed the ‘Capitale de Noël’, or Capital of Christmas, this French city is home to one of the oldest Christmas markets in Europe, and the oldest in France. Lying in the Grand Est region of France, bordered from Germany by the Rhine, the architecture of the city is an amalgamation of both German and French styles, with its half-timbered houses and majestic cathedral. At the yearly Christmas market, one can find more than 300 chalets, housing toys, local Alsatian food, and crafts.

2. Edinburgh
 
If you’re looking to travel somewhere closer to home, a trip to Edinburgh and its Christmas market is a must. One can find fairground attractions, an ice skating rink, a Christmas tree maze, as well as the usual comforts of a Christmas market, such as stalls selling local produce. In 2021, it was crowned the best festive market in Europe, and encompasses a large part of the city, against the backdrop of the beautiful Edinburgh Castle.

3. Bruges
 
The Christmas festivities in the city of Bruges in Belgium run well into the New Year, ending on 9th January 2022, with the larger market hosting an ice-skating ring and stalls. Bruges itself is known as the Venice of the North, and the whole city is designated as a World Heritage Site by UNSESCO. (Perfect also to co-ordinate with buying Belgian chocolates as Christmas presents!)

4. Rothenburg ob der Tauber
 
Situated in Middle Franconia, Germany, Rothenburg ob der Tauber is a town that almost feels like stepping into a collection of doll houses, with its half-timber buildings, as seen also in Strasbourg. Rothenburg is home to a Christmas market, which has run since the 15th century, occurring in 2021 from the 26th November to the 23rd December. Enjoy white mulled wine, roasted almonds, Lebkuchen and the music of local brass bands, as well as the regional specialty, Schneeballen, literally translating to mean Snowballs, which are balls of baked, shredded pastry, covered in icing sugar and sometimes filled with praline or coated in chocolate.

​5. Seattle
 
My self-professed favourite US city. I’ve only been to four, so I’ll let you be the judge of that but I don’t think that’s a controversial statement. Beautifully set beside the Pacific and a stone’s throw from the snowy North Cascades, Seattle has something for everyone. Known for being the home of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden, Seattle still is at the heart of North American’s edgier music scene. Round every corner is cramped bar advertising live music, thankfully spanning all genres now grunge has had its moment. Pike Place Market is the perfect spot to find stocking fillers and Christmas food, or to visit the world’s original Starbucks (you didn’t hear it from me, but it’s the exact same as all the other ones). Seattle is also home to the Museum of Pop Culture, Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen’s passion project, impressive as much for its external architecture as what’s inside. If you’re planning on visiting the Space Needle, be sure to take the short detour to Chihuly’s Garden and Glass exhibition which is as eclectic and eccentric as the city itself. The beauty of Seattle is that it feels like a thoroughly modern American city, whilst still maintaining its alternative underground feel. And if I’ve not convinced you yet, the North Cascades are just an hour and a half drive away and offer some of North America’s best and most underrated skiing. 

​6. St. Petersburg
 
No city screams winter like St. Petersburg. Known for the Winter Palace and the frozen Neva River, it’s a city fully equipped for the cold. Although often considered Russia’s only European city, St. Petersburg certainly holds a completely unique charm. From the grandeur of the Hermitage Museum to the colourful Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, the city is visually intense and overwhelming in all the right ways. Famous for its history and art, it’s also the only place I’ve ever visited where vodka is served in a carafe as if it’s meant to replenish your thirst. Having grown up with a family fascinated by Russia, I was always surprised when jokes were made about the lack of interesting food, and felt it was an anachronism tinged with vaguely cringeworthy stereotyping. Any Pelmennaya will leave you ready to roll home from the historically Siberian dumplings and sour cream combo. An exciting and beautiful city, St. Petersburg is like nowhere I’ve ever been.

​7. Le Grand Bornand
 
 It feels sacrilegious to include this on a list of holiday recommendations, as it’s long been my family’s best kept secret, but it’s Christmas and Christmas is all about giving. Tucked away high in the French Alps, Le Grand Bornand is home to some of the best off-piste skiing, and my most spectacular snowboarding accident (five years on I still haven’t found my dignity). A remarkably big resort for how small the town is, you can easily fill a week’s skiing with completely different routes. A personal favourite is the Col des Annes off-piste route, which brings you along a knife-edge ridge and down into powdery meadows and finally down steep ups and downs. Only for the fit or foolhardy. Having skied and snowboarded here my whole life, I can safely say I don’t think I’ll ever complete the run without a tumble. Le Grand Bornand is a largely undiscovered resort. In fact, the only reason I’ve ever been is because my dad worked as a washer up there in his heyday (since passed). The lack of tourists makes it a perfect place to practice your French and gives it a charmingly down to earth feel.

8. Manu National Park

If the winter cold isn’t your thing, let me offer you the complete opposite. Deep in the Peruvian Amazon, the Manu National Park is the world’s most biodiverse place. It’s a perfect escape from the monotony of work life. Home to Scarlett Macaws, Bolivian Squirrel Monkeys, and the Jaguar, the Manu National Park is a once in a lifetime experience. Merely the journey into the jungle will leave you aghast. It lies a cool eight-hour drive from Cusco, through the cloud forest and down to the Madre de Dios River. The pandemic has sadly led to further destruction of the environment, but organisations like the Crees Foundation work tirelessly to protect it. Staying in reserves such as these allows you to see first-hand the incredible work of volunteers and interns who live in jungle huts without Wi-Fi day to day. It’s definitely not a place for those who like relaxation, but the wildlife is breath-taking, and a photographer’s paradise. Recently featured in David Attenborough’s Our Planet, it’s no underestimation to say that the Manu National Park is awe-inspiring. Watch out for the insects and snakes though, you’ve been warned!  

If there was one thing that I expected from summer 2021, it definitely wasn’t a spontaneous £20 trip to southern Spain to see my best friend Raúl. Although I felt like a main character in a coming-of-age film, solo-travelling with one backpack during times of a pandemic whilst lacking common sense felt like an Olympic Sport. Nevertheless, the two-year turbulence of Coronavirus was well worth the flight turbulence to be hit with the gust of hot air as I stepped off the plane onto Spanish land before making my way to the beautiful city of Granada.
 
Travelling to a country where you have close friends gives you the golden opportunity to, without sounding pretentious, live like a local. The four days I spent there made me forget all about my British citizenship as I ran rampant around the streets of Granada and practiced my Spanish, which consisted mainly of slang and insults that I picked up from Élite.
 
Although my time there was short, I’ve collected a list of fun and cheap things to do whilst there. In terms of general tourist activities, if you’re looking for somewhere to shop, you can take a quick metro ride to Nevada Shopping, which has everything you might need. If you want to experience Spanish culture, a must-do is walk the Paseo de los Tristes, an incredibly picturesque street with a stunning view of the Alhambra, which is also worth a visit if you get the chance! Five minutes off the street and up a horrendously steep hill, you will find El Mirador de San Nicolás from which you can also see a full view of the Alhambra amongst the greenery that surrounds it, with occasional groups of people singing flamenco alongside the constant clamour of tourists taking photos which really adds to the atmosphere of the viewpoint. Another spot I recommend visiting is the Mercado de Artesanía which is a small pocket of the city brimming with warm colours and life amongst the bustling shops. If you go at the right time, you will catch the mercado at its brightest- when the vendors have hung their selection of rugs and materials above the pathway, creating a tunnel of reds and yellows, leading to the cathedral with a lively plaza at its feet.
 
Of course, I went clubbing. After a year of being subject to evenings in Klute and Jimmy’s, a night out in one of my favourite cities was well deserved. I disgraced the doorsteps of two places whilst I was there- Wall Street and Khimera. Wall Street has a very cool concept in which the prices of the drinks change at random times, meaning that my trusty vodka and cokes could go from being 2 euros to 5 euros, so I had to keep an eye on the menu, whereas Khimera was everything my little reggaeton-loving heart has desired in a club.
 
If you want to explore Granada, I recommend staying for longer than a weekend, because it’s packed full of fun things to do and see! It’s also a bus or train ride away from other lovely cities such as Cordoba and Malaga which are also worth a visit when in Andalusia. For a bustling city full of busy nightlife and never-ending culture, Granada is certainly a breath of fresh air in comparison to what we are used to in England.

By Victoria Ruck

(Read from bottom to top)
                                                                                                                                                     Airborne
                                                                                                                                      leaving reality behind.
                                                                                                                               An airtight tin bird take-off,
                                                                                                                 Its imagination encasing the mind.
                                                                                                      Down narrow aisles, stubbing shoe tips.
                                                                                            To catch sentences that stumble and trip
                                                                              Pinching commas and penning full stops,
                                                               These words are pressure that bubbles ears to a pop,
                                                     Landing, skidding, taking off and heading back.
                                          Contact is the turn of tyres pushing track,
                                The prolonged rumble of engine drums.
                      This skin is lined with white noise, the hums,
            Spat out views of oceanic blurs of blue.
These glasses are aeroplane window pips,

'In the South, they do things differently,’ a Tuscan friend had explained. ‘Most of us, we don’t understand it — the life, that is … they disappear in the afternoons for an endless lunch break, and then resurface, at six, only to shut their shops and start drinking by seven.’ I took this to be an exaggeration of a much lighter characteristic, the sort which is all too common when a person from one region talks about another, inimical one.

I arrived in Brindisi in the mid-afternoon, hungry and eager to check into my hotel. On arrival the receptionist wasn’t there. After several attempts to phone him, I got through. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, ‘wait. Relax.’ It felt as if my importunity had caused offence. I sat on a small bench and smoked a few cigarettes, looking at the city around me. It was bleak, and I pitied the people of Brindisi: the sun-kissed Pugliese, whose only representatives seemed to be a few old men, making lethargic passeggiate, stopping for beers, cigarettes and games of cards in empty bars, or else sitting on steps, resting one hand on their olive faces, thinking those Mediterranean thoughts. There is a kind of knowledge to the Mediterranean which only those ancient waters can transmit and understand.

Alberto, the receptionist, arrived and led me up the thin, steep staircase. My suitcase knocked against each stair, and as I reached the top, my face was covered in sweat. Alberto then told me I was not allowed to smoke in the room, something I had assumed. But he drilled this knowledge into me, until I repeated ‘I will not smoke’ several times over, like a naughty boy reciting his Hail Marys.

Brindisi was a stopping point: a place where I would end and begin. Ever since reading Lawrence Durrell’s The Greek Islands and Prospero’s Cell I had wanted to take the ferry from Brindisi to Corfu, to see how the two countries differed, to see how, as Durrell described, ‘somewhere between Calabria and Corfu the blue really begins.’ It did.

I visited the Crusader’s Church, modelled on the Temple at Jerusalem, which had been built to give passing pilgrims a vicarious reminder of what lay ahead. It served, then, the same role which the city itself did for me. It was a reminder that to journey is often a noble thing, that it’s worth the strains and discomforts. The nearby Cathedral was closed. I peeked my head in through a half-jarred side door and discovered that there were two squawky middle-aged women having a singing lesson. I returned to my hotel and took a nap.

I went back out at seven. The city was alive. It confused me at first, and then I remembered the words of my Tuscan friend. There were people everywhere; it was a Friday evening, after all, and
I struggled to find space at a bar. I drank an Aperol and watched, as the city played out its nocturnal rituals, unaware of my presence.

I moved on to a restaurant. It seemed like a refuge for the lonely, as all my fellow diners were, like me, sitting alone, reading books, or playing on their telephones. In broken Italian, I asked them to bring me a typical Pugliese meal. I had to repeat myself twice before he understood. I ate orechiette, that bizarre and alien ear-like pasta, which wouldn’t have been out of place on Hannibal Lector’s plate. They served it with a thick tomato sauce and a salty local cheese; it was the cheapest thing on the menu, but it was utterly delicious. It went down nicely with the cold red wine they’d given me in a carafe. I headed to bed, then, a little tipsy from the wine and the salubrious Adriatic air.

The next morning I took a taxi to the port. The driver was so carefree he watched football on his telephone as he navigated the thin Brindisian streets. I had asked, specifically, to go to the Grimaldi Lines check-in desk at the port. For some bizarre reason, he took me to the airport, far on the other side of the town. I reminded him of my intended destination, and he then offered to take me to the port for no extra cost, as if it were a particularly kind offer to take me to the place where I had asked to go to.

The port was huge. It struck me that much of Europe’s traffic must take this route. I checked in, without showing my ticket, passport, Covid test, or Passenger Locator Form. I then walked about a mile to reach the ferry, dragging my suitcase through the dizzying heat. I was one of the only foot-passengers. I walked up the ramp into the stomach of the shop, amongst large trucks and campervans with exotic driving plates. I was determined to stay on deck until I had seen Italy dissolve into the horizon, nor would I miss the sudden emergence of Albania and the islands which I hoped would rise like phantoms from the brightening blue.

Notes written on the Ferry:

Italy kicks its heel out at us one last time, and then draws away, fading into the horizon. It leaves us landless, with eyes for sea and sea only. The sky’s blue is unrecognisable from that which had hung over Brindisi. I am sitting on the deck, watching the ferry’s interminable wake scar the water.

The ferry itself is quite bizarre. It’s the daily Grimaldi Lines service which stops at Corfu on its way to Igoumenitsas. There are several truck drivers on the ferry, one of whom is quite threatening. He stood in front of me in the queue for food and shouted at the server for being too slow. There are some older tourists: a few, semi-obese couples, who seem to be here for a cheap cruise alternative. They’ve spent most of the journey bent over slot machines, feeding small ten cent coins to the moloch of fate.

For lunch, I eat a gruelly Carbonara, with soft, smoked, undercooked bacon, and, strangely, some zucchini too. I look into the serving tray and a few chips have fallen into it. The server picks these up with his fingers and places them in the correct tray. My beer was flat, too, and it tasted as if it had been left open, in the sun, to spoil for a few days before being served.

Albania now appears. Its mountains seem to collapse into the sea, with the force of a landslide. The clouds hovering above create the impression of snow-capped peaks. It seems as if there’s no green there; only the pale, Illyrian dust, and the dying shrubs.

Three islands appear. These are Merlera, Mathraki, and Othonoi: Corfu’s dramatic prelude. Each rises, phantomlike, from the water, as if they were a spectral vision dreamed up by an old and forgotten Prospero. The sunset begins quickly. A yellow sun sets in a blood orange haze. It presses itself down into the sea, halving itself, before extinguishing into the dusk.

Arrival in Corfu:

A crackled announcement came through the speakers. The noise broke and so I heard only the first syllable: ‘Corf’. There was some commotion and so I headed to the reception area so that I wouldn’t miss the stop. I queued for a lift and then emerged on the bottom floor: the great, dark underbelly of the ferry. A few foot passengers had congregated at the back-left, near the ferry’s stern. I waited for several minutes until the ramp, like a whale shark’s mouth, opened as if to consume the harbour. I noticed we were still moving. The ramp screeched as it descended and thankfully it landed on hard ground. As it moved downwards, a steward stood on top of it, smoking a cigarette.

I was the first off the ship; and so I hit customs first, where neither my passport nor my Covid Test nor my Passenger Locator Form were checked. The taxi which I’d booked wasn’t there and so I sat, on the Terminal Steps, for an hour, smoking persistently dull cigarettes and watching a crowd of Italian students, who played football and flirted, waiting for the return ferry.

I sat there, anticipating a feeling of differentness, that feeling of having crossed a boundary, a natural border, which Durrell so vividly described. With each vapid and pernicious drag of a cigarette, it became ever clearer that there wouldn’t be such a revelation. Globalisation has, to a large extent, done away with borders of personality and characteristics. It was a geographical change, not such a cultural one.

By Cosmo Adair

Following the cancellation of numerous travel plans, from au-pairing in Austria, to inter-railing around 10 different countries, I turned to my home soil of the United Kingdom to satiate my desire to see the world, or at least a small part of it. With COVID bringing a halt to almost all international travel, the notion of the ‘staycation’ came to fruition.
 
As trains seem to cost more and more, compared to the ever-cheap plane fare of budget lines such as Ryanair, travel for me became almost synonymous with going to new foreign countries, with different languages and cultures, particularly as a student of Modern Foreign Languages. Only when forced to (not) look elsewhere, did my appreciation for the variety and beauty within the UK increase. The position of privilege that this comes from, naturally, must be acknowledged, as I know many have never been able to travel abroad, with or without COVID.
 
Of course, I would visit places in the UK as a child, of which I have fond memories, but the real appeal lay in the early mornings, going through airport security, waiting eagerly as the flight began to descend and being hit by the smell of warm air as the flight attendants flung the aeroplane door open. Yet, in order to remain safe and follow guidelines of both UK government and that of any country you may seek to travel to, this was put on hold.
 
Over the course of the year, when restrictions allowed, I instead became a tourist of my own country, visiting places such as Bath, Liverpool, Edinburgh, North Wales and more. As opposed to using money I’d saved for foreign travel, which would have been spent in another currency, I put it towards sightseeing in places where I wouldn’t need a passport. Visiting museums and galleries, seeing sights of significance (such as Stone Henge, which somehow, I’d only seen this summer), buying ice creams and trying out new restaurants were all on the agenda.
 
All that being said, the first flight abroad in which I won’t have to worry about PCR tests, travel clearance, social distancing, and all those other buzzwords that have preoccupied those with a heavy dose of wanderlust, is long overdue. However, I can’t deny that my perspective of my native country has changed for the better, and I am excited to continue to explore that which is closer to my doorstep, even with the option to travel abroad on the table.

As a metropolitan, cosmopolitan city, Paris doesn’t immediately spring to mind as a runner’s paradise. Like many other capital cities, it is full of people, pollution, busy roads and urban buildings – things which make it a vibrant place to live, but not always to immerse oneself in nature. However, the reality of the matter is that, whether you are looking for a quick morning jog, want to train to run long distance or even partake in ‘running tourism,’ a term coined (by myself) to encompass the new role running has in travel, Paris has something for you. Which is why, arriving in the French capital amidst a national lockdown, I was keen to experiment with routes across the city and compile a list of my favourite spots to walk, jog, run or even rollerblade!

​Bois de Boulogne
​
​To the west of Paris, right next to the 16th arrondissement, you’ll find the expansive Bois de Boulogne, a forest with two gorgeous lakes right at the centre. Boasting some 35 miles of trails, look no further for any running desires. Since I live 5 minutes away, my favourite (and most practised!) jog circles both lakes, totalling roughly 5km. On the weekend, you can even stop at some of the little café stalls for a chocolat chaud or crepes. From the stunning views across the lake to the thick, shady woodland areas, there’s no surprises for guessing why the path surrounding the lakes on a Saturday morning is reminiscent of a world far pre-Covid…

​Champ de Mars

A breath of fresh air in the centre of Paris is the Champ de Mars, famously known for framing the Eiffel Tower. When I first moved here, my apartment was merely a few hundred metres away, meaning I could easily visit the park every day, even within my 1km allotted radius for exercise. As such, I could (legally!) jog up and down the gorgeous, lined pathways as much as I liked! For interval training, use the straight pathway on the side bordering the 7th arrondissement, and for a nice and flat 5km route, roughly 2 laps of the entire park, including the Eiffel Tower, should take you to the distance you want. Don’t forget to pause and look up in awe at one of the world’s most iconic landmarks!

​Parc Monceau

Not always on the radar of tourists, Parc Monceau boasts one of Paris’ most beautiful green spaces, hidden just outside of the city centre. In the heart of the 8th arrondissement, you will find this small but beautiful park. Built in 1778 by the cousin of King Louis XIV, the Duke of Chartres, it consists of an eclectic mix of historical statues. From a miniature Egyptian pyramid, to a statue of Guy de Maupassant and a Roman Colonnade, it really does capture an ancient, mysterious, and grandiose air. Whilst the perimeter of the park is around 1km, you can always extend your distance by adding in a detour to the Arc de Triomphe, a kilometre away if you go directly up Avenue Hoche, a quintessentially Parisian boulevard. Personal recommendation – the kiosk in the middle of the park has some of the most underrated crepes in all of Paris!

La Seine – the Tourist Route

​Ever since I got into running, I’ve found that one of my favourite ways to see a new city is to go for a jog through its centre. It is a wonderful way to see the city in its true colours. Paris, I’ve found, is particularly beautiful early in the morning, where you can see commuters on their way to the boulangerie to pick up a breakfast croissant. On a Saturday morning, the banks of the Seine are packed. The banks are very well adapted to walkers and runners alike, being particularly flat and pedestrianised. Whilst you can run along this river for miles, far beyond the borders of Paris, it’s also a fabulous way to see the city centre. To really see all the sights and get a feel for the geography of the city, start your route at the metro station Bir Hakeim and run up the Rive Gauche, the left bank of the Seine, all the way up to Notre Dame Cathedral, taking any detours you like to circle the various monuments on your way. You can stop there and check out the street bookstalls by the iconic cathedral, or cross over and run back to create a picturesque 10km route.  This route takes you through some of Paris’ tourist landmarks – from the Eiffel Tower, through most of Paris’ famous bridges as well as the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, you really get to see so much of the city this way.

​Parc des Buttes-Chaumont

A little less well-known, this beyond gorgeous park, situated in the 19th arrondissement and near the Canal Saint-Martin (also very aesthetic but usually far too packed for convenient running!), makes for a great hill-training session. In Paris, where most areas are relatively flat, the intense hills and scenery here provide not only exquisite views, but also some vigorous training for anyone looking to get those glutes really working!

​​
​So there you have it – a (semi) comprehensive list of the best places to run in Paris. But don’t worry, these routes work even if you don’t fancy jogging breathlessly across the city – they are just as beautiful and scenic if you’re looking for a walk, sightseeing trip or to sit on a park bench with a pain au chocolat and a café, soaking up the scenes around you.

​​Thinking of the Caribbean, the first image that springs to mind is one of beautiful beaches with crystal clear waters, a relaxing and soothing atmosphere full of sumptuous food. The Caribbean, in my mind, has always sounded like a dream.
 
Travelling to the Colombian Caribbean coast was an unbelievable experience. Setting off from Bogotá, the capital, we (my friend and I) landed in Santa Marta, a beautiful coastal town, quintessentially Colombian: charming, colourful, relaxing; much more tranquil than Cartagena (the main city on the Caribbean Coast). A great little getaway place, we spent a couple of days wandering the streets and discovering this delightful town before moving on to Parque Tayrona. Parque Tayrona is a unique and magical place. A vast stretch of protected land, it contains many paradisiac beaches, and is inhabited by several indigenous communities. We travelled in a small bus, on the floor right by the driver (the only space left on the bus) for a few hours before finally making it to the park. On our arrival, much to our despair, we noticed the park was closed. It was dark and we were disappointed, but we found a nearby hostel and spent the night there before setting off to the park first thing in the morning. Our backpacks strapped to our backs, we wandered into the park, excited to explore what had been described to us as blissful location. The extensiveness of the park means that the beaches were rather spread out, and getting to any one was a little bit of a trek – some 10-15 km – in the blazing sun and heat. But the walk itself was lovely, and the beaches were well worth the effort.
 
There is no accommodation in Parque Tayrona – unless you’re ready to splash out hundreds of pounds. Instead, people rent hammocks on the beach, and get assigned small locker in which to store their belongings. That’s what we did whilst we were there – and it was surprisingly comfortable! We went for a swim in the water and ate some fresh fish at one of the small restaurants on the beach before heading to our hammocks for our first (short) night on the beach. We woke up at 5 am to watch the sunrise – the most beautiful one I had ever seen. A deep-coloured sunrise, with rich colours painting the sky; from orange, red, yellow, to a heavenly blue and purple; it was breath-taking.
 
As we left Parque Tayrona, sweaty, smelly and covered in mosquito bites, we made our way to our final destination: Cartagena, a stunning, vibrant and glowing colonial city. We travelled by bus again, taking in the beautiful Colombian scenery on the way. Arriving in Cartagena, we were amazed. It truly is dazzling. A stunning day with no clouds in sight, vibrant streets full of friendly people, we wandered whilst indulging in the exotic fresh fruits sold at every street corner. We spent the day wandering, before filling our stomachs at a local diner that was family-owned and served succulent Colombian food. The next few days were spent a few days exploring the area, and on the final day we went island hopping in the Islas Rosarias, just off the coast of Cartagena, and swam in the corals; a lovely end to our trip.
 
 
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With a pretty much cancelled summer behind us, it’s no secret that ‘travel’ and ‘2020’ in the same sentence should be taken with a hefty pinch of salt. Those of us who’ve managed to get away have become all too acquainted with more ruthless hand sanitisation, the possibility of having a Covid test sprung upon us at any given moment, and have had to wear a mask that much, that it’s become something of a second skin. Nevertheless, the go-ahead to get away in the summer was the first hint of normality in months; an escape, a small taste of freedom.
 
Writing from my year abroad in the beautiful Bavarian city of Passau, I’ve been fortunate enough to do some travelling during my two months in Germany. Whether or not my friends and I would be able to go abroad was thrown completely up into the air when the pandemic was first declared, so to hear that travel could begin again was a huge relief. A big part of the pre-year abroad excitement is the prospect of being able to explore and really get to know your host country, so this meant we were that step closer to discovering every single thing on our new doorsteps. But things were still uncertain. Would we be able to enjoy ourselves with the virus lingering? Would we be insured? Was it just too great a risk to travel full stop?
 
Travelling to Germany at the end of August was, by this year’s standards, surprisingly normal. Couple the empty airport with being the only person in my three-aisle radius on the plane, and anyone would be instantly anticipating a very solitary month of language classes moved online at the last minute and no chance of seeing any of Berlin’s sights. To my amazement, my entire first month away in the capital was anything but. Berlin was very much alive, with its famous coffee still pouring from each cafe (Gott sei Dank!), tourism thriving and even tequila-infused Mexican street parties. With masks only compulsory in shops and on public transport, it felt like a reassuring new chapter for everyone’s travel diaries. Fast forward a few weeks to celebrating what would have been the final weekend of Oktoberfest in Munich’s beer halls, my hopes of continuing travelling most weekends until Christmas were unquestionably high.
 
One month later, Germany is back in national lockdown. With the possibility to mix with others restricted to just one other household, and the bar taps switched off until further notice, going to work or the supermarket is quite the treat these days! Travel really has come full circle and truthfully, the transition into lockdown wasn’t easy to adjust to after weeks of unexpected freedom. With things changing so quickly at the moment, the best thing if you’re planning to go anywhere is to just be prepared for anything:

• Bring plenty of face masks; it’s always good to have backups and you won’t want to wear the same one every day!
• Keep your hand sanitiser close.
• When booking, look for the flexibility to make changes and potentially cancellations, just for your own peace of mind!
• Be prepared to fill in extra forms on arrival/return. They can be very time consuming, so to save some minutes, keep handy notes of any details you may need to provide, for example emergency contacts, your passport number and the accommodation address.
• Use Google and choose places with plenty to do outdoors, where you’re less likely to be restricted by Covid and last-minute closures. It’s a bit difficult at this time of year, but something to think about for 2021 and the weather’s getting warmer! 

Happy flighting (if you’ll pardon the pun)!
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