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...

  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...