I’m delighted to have not one but two pieces in Conde Nast Traveller’s May edition, which has a family travel section. It’s always been my gold standard in terms of travel writing - it delivers a serious dose of luxury and travel insight and it’s an honour to be published in it.
In this edition, I’ve written about our extremely spur of the moment trip to Iceland last summer, where we decided to teach Ellie to swim in its natural pools on a trip around the country. It was a magical experience, taking my family to explore this wild and windy island that I’ve been in love with for many years. As I wrote at the end of the piece, where my swimming lessons were all about too tight goggles and the clinging scent of chlorine, Ellie’s were about the midnight sun, mineral-rich waters and a sprinkle of magic.
I’ve also reviewed one of the most wonderful places we’ve ever visited as a family, Urnatur in Sweden. This eco retreat is another place blessed with magic. I’ve reading a lot about trees and biophilia and the natural world at the moment - and writing about it too, in a children’s book I’ve nearly finished, and it all began at that wonderful place, where we stayed in the trees for a week and embraced the forest and lake lifestyle.
It’s a funny time to be a travel writer. On the one hand, it all feels utterly meaningless, since nobody can travel anywhere right now. On the other, it all feels so meaningful - when we next get to go anywhere, I want it to be so perfect. I hunger for the details, the way the sun feels on my skin, the taste of fresh fruit, the sound of cicadas at night. I feel I could be driven mad thinking about the next trip I want to take when our borders are open, like a recovering alcoholic contemplating the finest wine in the world. I daren’t even plan a trip right now, for fear of disappointment. I’m just waiting, waiting, waiting.