Blue Sky Travel

  There are some Sundays that don’t ask anything of you. They simply open the door, hand you a pair of sturdy shoes, and whisper, Go on then — off you go. This was one of those days. Angela and I set out beneath a sky so blue it looked freshly painted, picnic packed, boots laced, spirits already a few notches lighter. Our starting point was the magnificent eight‑arch bridge at Bosherston Ponds — a place that always feels like it’s been waiting patiently for you to return. The ponds were a sheet of stillness, broken only by the soft rustle of lily pads. There were so many that, with a little imagination (and perhaps a touch of foolish confidence), you could almost believe you might step out and walk across them. A heron stood in the shade of the overhanging trees, perfectly still, as if posing for a postcard no one had asked for but everyone would be glad to receive. We followed the familiar path up over the hill, the air warm and quiet, the kind of quiet where voices seem to...

  There's something about the first genuinely warm morning of summer that makes you want to do something worthy of it. That's how we found ourselves setting out from Broadway, the Cotswold Way stretching ahead of us and the sun already pressing warm against our backs before we'd even found our stride. The path rises steadily out of the village, and almost immediately the world opens up. Sheep were scattered across the fields we crossed, heads down, intent on the serious business of grazing. There's a sound sheep make — that soft, determined rip-and-tear of grass — that you don't really notice until the countryside is quiet enough to let you hear it. On that morning it seemed like the whole hillside was making a kind of steady, earthy music. Lower down, where a small stone bridge carries the path over a stream, we came across lambs standing ankle-deep in the cool water, cooling themselves in the shade. Their calls were thin and bright in the still air, quite di...

  Santorini welcomed me with the kind of blue sky that looks like it’s been filtered by someone who really wants to impress their Instagram followers. The Mediterranean shimmered, sailboats drifted past like they were auditioning for a postcard, and the jet skis… well, the jet skis were full of men who clearly believe they’re one dramatic soundtrack away from being James Bond. Some of them even managed to stay upright. I’m staying in Perissa, down on the south coast, where the beachfront walkway is essentially a cheerful gauntlet of restaurants. Every ten steps someone waves a menu at you with the enthusiasm of a long‑lost relative, while the place next door watches you like you’ve betrayed them by even glancing elsewhere. It’s all very friendly, very persuasive, and very effective — I’ve eaten more than I intended and it’s only day one. The visitors are entertainment in their own right. There’s a particular expression people get when they’re about to rent a quad bike for the first...

Well… look who’s decided to resurrect the travel blog. Yes, it’s me. And no, I’m not entirely sure how this happened either. If you’ve stumbled in here by accident, don’t worry — most of my best adventures start that way. If you’re here on purpose, even better. It means you’re ready for more tales of sunburn, misread maps, and meals I definitely didn’t mean to order. This blog has been napping for a while, like a cat that insists it’s conserving energy for something important. Meanwhile, I’ve been off writing stories, taking photos, and wandering around the world with the confidence of a man who still hasn’t mastered the art of packing light. Some of you already know that I also write under the name David Baxter, which sounds suspiciously like someone who owns a proper writing desk and maybe even a fountain pen. If you’re curious about that side of things — the memoirs, the small stories, the occasional crime‑tinged tale — you’ll find them here: https://www.coastalcrimesandstories.com ...