Category: Travel Diary

Toledo the city where El Greco created the first Selfie

If you ever visit Toledo, find yourself a guide like Carlos.

At the Church of Santo Tomé, he introduced us to El Greco’s masterpiece, The Burial of the Count of Orgaz with the enthusiasm of someone describing a blockbuster film.

The Burial of the Count of Orgaz. The earth below, heaven above, painted for this very chapel.

He told the story behind the painting: when a kind local noble, Don Gonzalo Ruiz de Toledo, died in 1323, legend says that Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine descended from heaven to place him gently in his tomb as a reward for his generosity. Centuries later, in 1586, a parish priest asked El Greco to paint that miracle, capturing both heaven and earth in a single frame.

Carlos pointed out the saints, the nobles, and the small boy at the front who turns out to be El Greco’s son, Jorge Manuel. “And see that man looking straight at you?” he asked. “That’s El Greco himself, the first selfie in art history.”

El Greco’s masterpiece and his little “selfie” moment . The solemn boy pointing to the scene is the artist’s son, Jorge Manuel, and the man gazing straight at us is El Greco himself. Father and son, forever part of the story they painted.

The man being buried is the Count Of Orgaz.  Saint Stephen is one of the saints lifting the body, and on the hem of his robe El Greco painted a tiny image of his own martyrdom by stoning. Two stories layered together: heaven above, earth below. Carlos made it sound like the ultimate family drama in paint and light.

He told us that El Greco spent almost three years painting it, right here in this church, and that it has never been moved. Looking at it, you can see why. The colours still shimmer, the faces are alive, and the division between heaven and earth feels like a curtain that could lift at any moment.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

We left the church smiling, convinced that if El Greco were alive today, he’d be taking selfies too, only with better lighting.

(These reflections are my interpretation of what Carlos shared. Any errors are mine, not his. He made art history feel human and full of heart.) 

#Toledo #ElGreco #SantoTome #SpainTravel #ArtStories #CarlosTheGuide #BurialOfTheCountOfOrgaz #TravelNotes

People You Meet on the Bus. Cecilia Stevenson and the Calm After the Crowds

One of the benefits of travel is the people you meet 

The view from a bus window changes by the hour, but what fascinates me most are the people inside it. Each journey brings a cross-section of lives, each carrying their own reasons for being on the road. My People You Meet on the Bus series collects those stories, one conversation at a time.

Cecilia was one of my fellow travellers on the two-week bus tour through Portugal and southern Spain. I interviewed her on our last morning in Madrid, over breakfast, before everyone began saying their goodbyes. The dining room was busy, luggage lined the walls, and Cecilia sat ready for the next stage of life to unfold.

She calls her life in Camden, South Carolina, a monastery. After two weeks of crowds, traffic, and noise, the word made sense. She smiled when she said it. “When I was younger I had to be in the middle of everything,” she told me. “I was right in front of the band. These days I enjoy peace and quiet.”

Cecilia grew up in the Carolinas, born in Charlotte and raised in York. She has stayed close to home all her life, though education and travel have taken her far. She attended boarding school in Richmond, studied at a girls’ college in South Carolina, and spent her junior year in France studying French. “I told my parents I was majoring in French so they couldn’t deny me the opportunity,” she laughed.

After college she made the assumption she was not ready for teaching. “Schools wanted someone who could teach French and Spanish. I only had one year of Spanish, and I didn’t think I was qualified.” Instead, she completed a secretarial business program, learning shorthand, accounting, and typing, practical skills that led to a long career in offices and family businesses. “I’ve never had what you’d call a fulfilling career,” she said. “I just never figured out what I wanted to do. So I worked in offices and did what needed to be done, payroll, reports, all of it.”

Cecilia was blessed with musical talent on both sides of her family. Her maternal grandfather was an Episcopal priest who paid his way through seminary by playing for churches and weekend dances, while her paternal grandmother was the pianist at every party in town so the guests could dance — and consequently, she never learned to dance, as she loved to remind everyone. Her mother was also gifted in both music and art, so creativity was woven into her upbringing.

Cecilia never misses a tune! From choir and flute at home in Camden to fado in Lisbon, she’s proof that the love of music travels well.

She began flute lessons the summer after fourth grade and still plays in the Camden Community Concert Band, which performs four free concerts a year for the public. She sings in her church choir and often performs on stage in community theatre productions. Her favourite role was Ouiser in Steel Magnolias — “a wealthy, divorced woman who loves her dog,” she says with a grin.

Cecilia adores animals, especially dogs. Her current companion, Cupcake, a 68-pound Lab–Pitbull mix, is her pride and joy. “She’s solid muscle and full of attitude,” she says. “I didn’t think it was possible, but during our trip I missed her legs poking me in the back.”

From Lisbon to Madrid, Cecilia couldn’t pass a dog without stopping to say hello. It didn’t matter whose they were. Every wagging tail was fair game

“Camden is small,” Cecilia says, “but it’s full of history and culture.” The town has a spectacular arts centre that showcases artists, dancers, and musicians — many of them world-renowned. It is also home to the largest Steeplechase race in the United States, a museum devoted to that sport, and a Revolutionary War museum that anchors the story of the southern campaign. “One of the battlefields is just around the corner from where I walk every day,” she says. “And don’t even get me started on the Civil War history here. I invite everyone to come visit.”

She is candid about life’s turning points, but she speaks of them gently. After many years of marriage, she realised that companionship and happiness are not always the same thing. “He’s a kind man,” she said, “but we wanted different things.” The decision to start a new chapter came slowly, shaped by reflection and a growing sense of independence. “Sometimes you just know when it’s time,” she said.

The divorce was amicable. They already owned two homes, one by the lake and one in town, which made the separation simple. “We’re still friends. I call the home in town my ‘stay-out-of-jail card’. When I was ready to kill him, I’d go there for a few days. Now I live there all the time,” she laughs.

Cecilia speaks about animals the way some people speak about old friends. She supports both county and private shelters, helping with fundraisers and adoptions. She told me the story of Houdini, the cat that crept into her life through the pet door one night and refused to leave. “We initially thought he was a raccoon and we tried to trap him for weeks,” she said, laughing. “He’d sneak in, eat, and disappear again. Then one night I caught him hiding under a green coat by the door, two white paws sticking out. We’ve had him for twelve years now.”

Travel has been one of Cecilia’s great joys. She has toured the Canadian Rockies, the American West, Africa, England, Ireland, France, Greece, Turkey, and spent long stretches in Italy. She once rented an apartment in Florence for two weeks and another in Venice for three. “By the time I left Venice it felt like home,” she said. “I knew the shops, the boat routes, even the garbage boats. It’s all done by water. You watch long enough, and you learn how a city breathes.”

Sunhat, sunshine, and that unmistakable sparkle. Cecilia soaking up Spain before heading home to her “monastery life” in South Carolina.

Before the group departed Madrid, Cecilia made a birthday card for Ross, one of the three Australians on the tour, and passed it around for everyone to sign. “I knew his birthday was the day we were all leaving,” she said. “I thought Maree, his wife, could give it to him on the day.” The cake and the band’s song that followed were a surprise organised by the tour team, but the thought behind the card was entirely hers . A small gesture that felt typical of Cecilia.

On the bus, her humour, kindness, and stories about her hometown were constant gifts to the group. She shared travel tales, thoughtful advice, and quick jokes that could lift a tired afternoon. At our farewell dinner she found herself near the musicians, and by the end of the night she was dancing with them. The next morning, people were still talking about Cecilia being the life of the party. Cecilia laughed. “I wasn’t the life of the party,” she said. “I was just the closest one to the band.”

When we spoke that final morning in Madrid, she was bright-eyed and ready for home.

“I like learning about different cultures,” she said. “But I also love coming back to my quiet little town.” She smiled as she gathered her things. “People have become so selfish,” she said. “The only way to real happiness is to put others ahead of yourself.”

Then she stood, gave me a hug, and went off to catch her flight. The bus tour was over. The monastery life was waiting, choir practice, garden, Cupcake, Houdini, and a town that sings back.

#PeopleYouMeetOnTheBus #CeciliaInSpain #TravelStories #WomenWhoTravel #EverydayPeople #QuietStrength #SouthernGrace #LifeAfterTheCrowds #KindnessInMotion #MusicAndTravel #SmallTownsBigHearts #AnimalLovers #CamdenSouthCarolina #TravelConnections #BusTourMoments

How to Visit Someone Else’s World Without Trampling On It

Travel doesn’t just show you the world — it shows you what kind of visitor you want to be?

I came home from my recent Europe trip with thousands of photos and one uncomfortable realisation: I’d spent most of my holiday on a bus.

From Croatia to Spain, we rolled from one “must-see” destination to the next. It was efficient, impressive, and utterly exhausting. But somewhere between the photo stops and hotel check-ins, I began to feel that I’d been short-changed, not by the tour company, but by the very idea of what travel has become.

I had become part of the problem: one more person in an endless stream of buses emptying out into beautiful, fragile places already straining under the weight of tourism. We arrived, admired, spent (or didn’t), and moved on. It was fast. It was convenient. And when I got home, it was all a blur.

I could hardly remember which cathedral was in which city, or when exactly we passed over the bridge where the vista took your breath away. Thank goodness for the photos, they’re the only thing that separate one destination from another.

On our tour of Portugal and Spain, our tour director spoke almost continuously on the microphone while we travelled, following the company’s expectation that we were all there to learn. It’s a demanding job, keeping a busload of weary travellers informed and engaged. Sadly, most of what’s said probably goes in one ear and out the other, not through any fault of theirs, but because it’s hard to absorb so much on the move.

It can be done differently. On the first night of our Balkans tour, for example, we met a local history professor who gave a short, engaging talk about the forces that have shaped the region. What made it special was that he stayed for dinner, moving from table to table so everyone could talk with him. It turned a lecture into a conversation, something thoughtful and human. I found myself missing that kind of connection later in the trip.

In Spain, each day seemed to unfold with glowing accounts of Ferdinand and Isabella, the “Catholic Monarchs” who united the country and sponsored Columbus. But history, told from a tour bus, often wears rose-coloured glasses. The same monarchs also expelled Jews and Muslims, set up the Inquisition, and oversaw immense suffering. Yet that part of the story was neatly left out.

And then there were the moments I wish I could forget. One morning on our way to Ronda, our tour director gave an extended talk on bullfighting, explaining its origins, the pageantry, and the way matadors are admired as national heroes. What began as cultural context soon became a step-by-step description of how the bull is killed. It was told in the same calm, educational tone as everything else, and I remember sitting there thinking how much I wished I didn’t have to hear it.

It did more than make my stomach turn. It made me think about cruelty, about how violence can be normalised and even celebrated when it’s wrapped in tradition. I couldn’t help but draw a line between the reverence for bullfighting and the history of Ferdinand and Isabella, whose own rule was marked by persecution and suffering. Cruelty to humans and cruelty to animals have always shared the same roots, and I did not need to hear that detailed account to be reminded of it.

My own research of Ronda told me that whilst Ronda is often called the birthplace of modern bullfighting, its more symbolic than literal. The town’s historic bullring, one of the oldest in Spain, is now mainly a museum. Few fights are held there anymore, and visitors go more to admire the architecture than the blood sport it once housed. Still, knowing that this practice is so deeply woven into Spain’s story made me reflect on how culture and cruelty can sometimes sit uncomfortably side by side.

Some of the best moments came elsewhere, over shared meals and at the bar in the evenings. That’s when I got to know my travelling companions, when stories came out, laughter flowed, and I stopped feeling like a solo traveller. Those small acts of inclusion reminded me that connection, not consumption, is what makes travel meaningful.

I went for the scenery and came home thinking about the conversations.

Perhaps it’s time for tour companies to think more carefully about the stories they choose to celebrate. The world is changing, and travellers are changing with it. We can no longer look away from what makes us uneasy simply because it doesn’t touch us directly. Travel can open our eyes to beauty, but it can also remind us of our shared responsibility. We can all be part of the change we want to see in the world, and travel can help us decide how to begin.

Travel taught me that connection outlasts any postcard.

And then there were the moments that humbled me. Madrid Airport was one of them. It was my first stop on the flight home, and I was tired and fragile, counting the hours until I reached Singapore and the comfort of friends.

If you’ve never flown out of Madrid, there’s one thing you should know: after you check in, you still have to catch a train to reach the departure lounges. It’s not a short walk, it’s another leg of the journey. By the time I found my way through the maze of signs ( as far as I could see there were NO signs to the train) and corridors, I was close to tears. When I finally reached the train station, I was so relieved that I jumped straight onto the first train that arrived.

It was only then that I realised I had no idea where it was going. I called out, “Is there anyone on this train who speaks English?” A man standing beside me turned and said, in a very proper voice, “Of course there is.”

I showed him my ticket, fumbling to find the right line, feeling my face go red. He assured me I was on the right train, then added, loud enough for half the carriage to hear,

“Well, it’s a wonder a dumb blonde like you could even manage to buy a ticket.”

It was mortifying at the time, but now it makes me laugh. It was one of those perfectly human moments that remind you that travel isn’t about control, it’s about surrender.

That’s the paradox of modern travel. The more we try to see, the less we often feel. We risk turning other people’s homes, cultures, and histories into a backdrop for our own itineraries.

After weeks in Europe, it was Singapore that left the deepest impression. It’s a city that quite literally stands out from the crowd, brilliantly designed, proudly green, and astonishingly well-run. Even the airport feels like an act of civic pride. You can’t help but wonder why every country doesn’t strive for that same level of thoughtfulness and care.

Coming home, I thought about my own little town, a place that also welcomes visitors, and one that I love too much to see overwhelmed.

Travel made me realise how delicate that balance is, and how important it is to get it right.

Because tourism done well brings life and beauty to a place. Done carelessly, it can take both away.

Travel should not only fill our cameras. It should open our hearts.

#MindfulTravel #ResponsibleTourism #TravelReflections #CulturalAwareness #OverTourism #TravelStories #SlowTravel #LearningThroughTravel #SeeTheWorldDifferently #TravelWithHeart

The Toledo Cathedral is Bigger Than a Costco and Older Than Your Calendar

Toledo’s skyline, crowned by the Cathedral of Saint Mary  – a city of stone, sunlight, and stories

If you ask a local in Toledo the name of their cathedral, they’ll likely smile. “The Cathedral,” they’ll say, because there is only one. Officially it is the Cathedral of Saint Mary, but everyone simply calls it la Catedral. If you say you’re going there, no one needs to ask which one.

The Transparente – a Baroque explosion of marble, gold, and light. Sculpted angels rise toward a frescoed heaven, where paint and stone meet in a vision of glory.

Construction began in 1226, and next year marks its 800th anniversary. The builders finally laid down their tools in 1493 after 267 years of chisels, scaffolds, and faith. It is one of the largest Gothic cathedrals in the world, spreading across more than 163,000 square feet. Carlos, our guide, compared it to a Costco and had everyone laughing when he added, “It’s bigger, and older too.”

Light through the centuries. The rose window tuns sunshine into stories  

Once you see the pointed arches, you’ll know the style immediately. Every Gothic church is shaped like a cross, its head always facing east toward Jerusalem, the cradle of Christianity. Inside Toledo’s cathedral there are 26 chapels, and Carlos said that on one recent Saturday afternoon he saw two weddings, one baptism, one funeral, and the regular mass all taking place at once. “Some people might have wandered into the wrong service,” he joked, “perhaps not by accident.”

Columns That Hold the World

There are 88 columns supporting the structure. In the Gothic era, the weight sat on the columns rather than the walls, leaving room for vast windows and light. Carlos called them the pillars of the earth, borrowing from Ken Follett’s novel. If a wall fell, the building would still stand because the columns carry everything.

Most chapels were paid for by wealthy families who wanted to be close to power and grace. During the cathedral’s long construction, Toledo was the capital of the kingdom, so the nobility built private spaces for baptisms, weddings, and burials. Around a thousand people are buried within these walls, and only one family still holds the right to be interred here.

The cathedral has about 750 stained-glass windows. The bright coloured ones are original, while the clear panes mark where explosions during the Spanish Civil War shattered the glass. The replacement glass is simple, but the light it lets in is pure and still sacred.

Light through centuries. The cathedral’s stained-glass windows still tell their stories in colour.

The cathedral’s coloured glass  spills light onto the stone like paint on canvas 

The main altarpiece is a masterpiece of carved wood covered in gold leaf. Each layer was applied by hand with plaster and glue, then polished and gilded again. When someone asked how they stopped the workers from slipping bits of gold into their pockets, Carlos raised his eyebrows and said, “Steal from God?”

Above one of the doors is a clock that has only one hand and uses the number IIII instead of IV. Carlos said this became the standard after a French king refused to pay a clockmaker who had made the “mistake,” and clockmakers have been protesting ever since. He grinned as everyone checked their own watches and realised they had never noticed that most Roman-numeral clocks use IIII.

The clock that insists the numeral found is written as IIII instead of IV. Centuries later it is still winning the argument 

The cathedral’s oldest organ, gifted by King Carlos I in 1538, still plays by hand and bellows. Two men climb a tight spiral stair to reach it, then another pair pump air through the pipes. Carlos said he had only done it once because “coming down was harder than going up.” His knees, he said, “never forgave me.”

The cathedral’s oldest organ is still played by hand and bellows. It is  accessed via this small door and a very steep spiral staircase. Carlos says climbing up is hard climbing down is worse

Carlos claimed that elephants were brought from Africa to help lift heavy stone blocks during construction. Whether that is true or not, Toledo Cathedral does hang an elephant tusk from one of its columns as a memorial to the animals’ strength. Historians say the tusk was likely displayed as a natural wonder or gift from abroad, but the legend of the working elephants lives on. It is the kind of story that suits a building this grand — part fact, part faith, and all imagination.

Carlos shares the legend that elephants once helped build the cathedral 

In the early 1700s, craftsmen added a great east-facing window to brighten the rear of the building. Three brothers worked on it for eleven years: one was a painter, one an architect, and one a sculptor. “Their mother must have walked Toledo like a queen,” said Carlos.

Our guide Carlos filled the cathedral with stories that made history breathe again. The details above are my interpretation of what he shared. Any mistakes are mine. His humour, knowledge, and patience with travellers who kept pausing for photos deserve all the credit.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 #Toledo #ToledoCathedral #SpainTravel #GothicArchitecture #TravelNotes #HiddenHistory #CarlosTheGuide

Trying on History for Size and a Sense of Place

 

I have a habit when I travel, I don’t just look at the places, I try them on. Not literally (though I did wedge myself into a few medieval doorways), but in the sense of stepping into the shoes of whoever came before.

The thing is, I’m tall. Which means most of these old arches and doors were not made with me in mind. While I have to duck, I can’t help but imagine all the generations who did the same. Clearly, low doorways were the fashion statement of the day.

On a carved chair in front of a sweeping tiled mural, I sat back and thought, this must have been where the queen held court. So I decided to play along , all that was missing was a line of subjects ready to kiss my hand.

I even discovered that in some eras women shaved their heads to signal their superiority of intellect. Imagine that , instead of crowning glory, it was bare scalp as the ultimate power move. I’m not sure it would catch on today, but I admire the confidence.

And under one particularly elaborate arch, I pictured the builders and artists who created it centuries ago. I wonder if they would laugh to see me squeezing through, scarf flying, imagining myself as part of their story.

That’s the fun of travel for me. It’s not about ticking sights off the list. It’s about ducking under arches, leaning into the quirks, and laughing at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I belong in these places after all.

Note; These photos were taken at the castle in Sintra, where every doorway, chair and arch feels like it still has a story to tell.

#TryingOnHistory #TravelWithHumour #TallTraveller #SteppingIntoThePast #TravelQuirks #Sintra #Portugal

A Steak, Some Chips, and a Cash-Only Mystery in Cascais

While  I tucked into chips drenched in mustard sauce, I could not help but think: if this place really is serving close to 1,000 people a day, it might just be one of the busiest cash based businesses in Cascais. A delicious dinner, and a fascinating little mystery.

On a busy street in Cascais sits Jardim dos Frangos, a restaurant that has been grilling chickens and feeding crowds since 1974. The name means “Garden of Chickens,” but the menu goes well beyond piri piri chook. I went for the steak in mustard cream sauce, which arrived with a generous pile of golden chips. The steak itself was a little tough, but the sauce was magnificent, creamy, tangy, and made for dipping those chips until the plate was clean.

To wash it down, I ordered a half bottle of Alentejo wine (375ml). With the meal and the wine, my bill came to €28, very good value for a solo dinner in a tourist town.

The menu itself was another surprise. It came printed in four languages, Portuguese, English, Spanish and French, which, not coincidentally, reflect the main nationalities of visitors to Portugal. At the next table sat a couple from Mozambique, their English fluent, their Portuguese lilting, and their laughter as much a part of the atmosphere as the clatter of plates and the shuffle of waiters balancing trays.

Curious about the scale of the place, I started asking questions. The waiter didn’t know the answers and each time went to fetch the manager. That is how I learned that on an average day they claim to serve around 1,000 people. At first it sounded like a stretch, but the numbers start to make sense when you look around.

They have both indoor and outdoor seating. I didn’t get a chance to count the tables inside, but staff seemed to be encouraging people to sit outdoors. My impression was that the inside space is set up more for fine dining, while the outdoor area handles the fast-moving, high-turnover crowd. With around 80 chairs outside constantly turning over, plus the indoor seating and steady take away trade, you can start to see how the numbers build.

Do the math:

  • 1,000 diners × €28 average spend = €28,000 a day

  • That is around €196,000 a week or just under €10 million a year in turnover

And here is the twist, they only accept cash.

Most diners mention it in reviews, waiters remind you at the table, and still it comes as a surprise in 2025. For such a busy, well known restaurant to stay cash only feels like a throwback to another era. On the one hand, it seems almost too visible, surely the tax office knows. On the other hand, this is Portugal, where many family run restaurants have always done things this way, no card machines, no bank fees, full control of the takings.

So while I tucked into chips drenched in mustard sauce, I could not help but think: if this place really is serving close to 1,000 people a day, it might just be one of the busiest cash based businesses in Cascais. A delicious dinner, and a fascinating little mystery.

#Cascais #PortugalEats #FoodTravel #CashOnly #SteakAndChips #TravelDiaries #PortugueseWine #LocalFoodCulture #CascaisLife #HiddenGemsPortugal

Lynne’s 2025 Travel Blog Day 4: What the Graves in Mostar Taught Me

I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when we got to Mostar. Another long bus trip, another customs stop, and honestly, I thought: all this to see a bridge?

And sure enough, the first stop was the classic “Instagram” moment. Flowers framing Stari Most, each of us lining up for the photo. Blatantly staged. That is the world today, isn’t it? Experiences served up as photo ops.

But what stayed with me was not the bridge. It was what we saw driving in.

On the right were parks that had become cemeteries. Grave after grave after grave. All the headstones showing dates from the nineties. On the left was a building still in ruins, covered in red and white cloth, scaffolding rusting with time. The guide said the money to rebuild had been promised, but it never turned up. Corruption swallowed it.

At the time I just clocked it. Cemeteries here, ruins there. But after we met the woman who told us her story of living through the war, that image came back and hit me harder.

She explained how her home was destroyed. How she and her husband ended up with her mother-in-law, living off a vegetable garden and a few chickens. How coffee on the black market cost one hundred dollars a kilo. How she still jumps at lightning because it sounds like shelling. And she said you have to start again not just with jobs or houses, but in your head.

After hearing her, those graves and that broken building hit me hard. All those lives cut short, looking down on a stark reminder of corruption.

Money talks, money walks.

Promises made, promises broken.

And the graves look down on the ruins as silent witnesses.

That night at dinner, that is all we talked about. Most people on our bus had grown up with Nazi Germany as part of their world. “Never again” was not just a slogan, it was something they carried. And yet here we were, in a city ripped apart only thirty years ago.

Change your heart, look around you.

Change your heart, it will astound you …

Everybody’s got to learn sometime.” The Korgis (written by James Warren), performed by Beck

The Americans shook their heads at what is happening back home. I  did too. Everyone asking the same question in different ways: why don’t we ever learn?

So yes, Mostar has a bridge. But the real story is in the graves, the corruption, and the people who stayed.

#Mostar #Bosnia #TravelReflections #TravelAsWitness #HistoryMatters #LearningFromHistory #Corruption #NeverAgain #TravelBlog2025

Lynne’s 2025 Travel Blog. Day 1 Reflection on the Ridiculousness of the World (WTF-Ducks)

At times the old town feels less like a historic city and more like a funnel. You shuffle forward in a sea of bodies, a moving tide of hats, backpacks and cameras. It is like watching ants, each line following the other, all of us desperate to get our money’s worth. I kept asking myself what that really means. A photo of the same wall that thousands have already photographed? A tick on a list? Or simply the relief of not losing your tour group in the crush.

The shops along the way add to the absurdity. Entire storefronts are devoted to rubber ducks dressed as pirates, princesses or pop stars.

WTF- Ducks

Rows of plastic yellow smiles waiting for tourists to carry them home. It is easy to laugh, and maybe we should, yet part of me finds it harder to reconcile. While some corners of the world are drowning in conflict and grief, Gaza or the divisions in America, other corners are packaging plastic ducks for visitors like me.

A review from the website

It has become my little tradition to buy rubber ducks from every shop like that across the world……

Bear with me, I know I overthink. Maybe the answer is less thinking and more wine. Still, I keep circling back to the question of what to make of this. Perhaps it shows that even in a fractured, complicated world, people still crave joy, colour and silliness. Rubber ducks will not heal a divided America or bring peace to Gaza, but they do remind us that in the middle of chaos people reach for something small and cheerful to take home.

It may not be the memory I want to hold onto, but it is part of the picture, the ridiculous and the serious sitting side by side.

#DubrovnikDiaries #TouristCrush #TravelReflections #DuckShops #MassTourism #TravelWithHumour #SeeBeyondTheCrowds #TravelTexture #PeopleNotPlaces #JourneyWithHeart

Lynne’s 2025 Travel Blog. Day 1 – Every trip begins with a first impression.

This illuminated globe installation near the entrance to Dubrovnik’s Old Town spoke to me as a symbol of the journey ahead . Note how I chose to picture it with Australia front and centre

This is the start of my journey, though not quite the start I had planned. Qantas delays and missing luggage made sure of that. But as Monica Willis would say, it is all about how you reframe the flips. So instead of calling it a disaster, I am calling it the warm-up act. Life is like the river, wild and unpredictable, and I am choosing to treat this as my “amazing swim.”

I have learned that the things that linger are not usually the harbour cruises or the cable cars.

Those are fine, but they rarely reach the heart. What stays are the moments that make you pause, think, and see the world differently.

 I am travelling with Tauck, a company that prides itself on smoothing out the travel bumps. The logistics, the schedules, the tickets, all of it handled. That part is easy.

What matters to me, though, is something else. Will each day give me an experience that stays with me?

The first evening gave me something more than a welcome drink.   We met as a group of twenty-three.  I am the only Australian and the only solo traveller. Everyone else is American. This is the third time I have joined a group like this, and each time I have noticed the same thing. The first thing Americans do is apologise for being American. Then, often, they share their frustration that the world only hears one version of their story, Trump, the right, the extremes. What is missing, they tell me, is the voice of middle America, the lives of ordinary people who do not fit the headlines.

When voices in the middle are drowned out, a society begins to lose its balance. History shows us that when extremes dominate the story, it rarely ends well. What is happening in America has echoes in other places and other times, and too often it has led to deeper division, conflict, or even collapse. It rarely ends well.

Travel is not just about learning where you have come to, it is also about listening to the people beside you.

My favourite part of the evening was Dr Lovro Kunčević, a Dubrovnik historian. In fifteen minutes he gave us a clear, unsentimental preview of Balkan history, the kind of framing you need before you set foot in a place like this. Then, instead of leaving, he joined us for dinner, moving from table to table.

Each group had twenty minutes with him to ask questions. He made history personal and present. It was the perfect  reminder that travel is so much more than sightseeing. It can be understanding.

Take-Home Lesson

“The Balkans demonstrate how fragile peace and coexistence are. Prosperity, openness, and dialogue are essential to prevent old divisions from turning into new conflicts.”
— Dr Lovro Kunčević

#TauckTravel #Dubrovnik #TravelReflections #StoriesThatStay #PeopleAndPlaces #BalkansHistory #SoloTravel #TravelWithHeart #ListenToTheWorld #CulturalJourneys

Discovering the World Through Stories and Places –

I recently watched No Time to Die a Bond movie because it reminded me of Matera Puglia, a place I’d visited and found absolutely breathtaking.

Watching those sweeping scenes set against the rugged beauty of Matera brought back vivid memories—it’s not just a movie location for me but a place where I’ve walked, stayed, and felt its spirit come alive. Yet, beneath the cinematic thrill, Bond’s story touches on something deeply sobering: the cost of sacrificing for the greater good.

The Bond movies and the Inspector Gamache series capture two different visions of heroism. Bond is forever in high-stakes fights to save the world, driven by duty and thrill, often at the expense of his own happiness. Gamache, by contrast, is grounded in a personal mission—creating a safe world for his family and the community he cherishes in Three Pines.

Real-life heroes face similar personal sacrifices, navigating losses, traumas, and an unyielding sense of duty. And it makes me wonder: What can we do, in our own lives, to contribute to a safer, more compassionate world? Though we may not be spies or detectives, each day gives us a chance to embody courage, empathy, and integrity in ways that matter. In a complex, often conflicted world, these small acts are steps each of us can take toward the greater good.

Seeing Matera on screen, familiar and yet transformed, reminds me of how much there is to discover in the world. There’s a depth to places that only reveals itself when you walk their streets and breathe their air. And somehow, that makes the sacrifices of these characters even more profound—they’re fighting to protect a world we know to be achingly beautiful.

At the film’s end, Bond and Madelaine share a haunting moment: “If only we had more time,” she says, to which he replies, “But you have more time.” It’s a poignant reminder of life’s finite nature and an encouragement to live fully, holding close what truly matters.

This movie underscores that raising the next generation isn’t the duty of one person alone—it’s a shared mission. Women, as mothers and partners, are central, not as bystanders but as co-creators of the world we wish to leave behind. Together, we raise children with integrity, compassion, and strength, shaping a world we can be proud of. Each of us has the time left to work toward a legacy of equality and shared responsibility.

BTW the beautiful hotel where I stayed in the cave in my pictures is Hotel Le Origini

#BondMovies #InspectorGamache #MateraPuglia #DiscoverTheWorld #ExploreMore #HeroismAndSacrifice #TravelAndStorytelling #TimeAndRegret #CommunityAndCourage