A Note on Stockholm

I could barely sleep through my anxiety thinking about what minus ten degrees with a real feel of minus seventeen would do to my already blistered toes and fingers—chilblains brought on by living in a poorly insulated house (the price paid for Victorian character), the UK’s wind-stabbing winter and my Raynaud’s disease deciding 2023 was the year to take my circulation issues up a notch. My rheumatologist’s face read both bemusement and concern at my announcement of heading to Stockholm for Christmas, having just spent the last ten minutes analysing my ballooned, purple digits. He added thermal shoes and electrical gloves to my shopping list, wishing me “good luck” with immense gravity. But here’s the thing: Sweden’s December, though colder and darker than England’s, didn’t shake my bones or chill my core, nor did it eat away at my extremities. Instead, its crisp air soothed like a eucalyptus rub to my weather-beaten body, and behind its every door, there waited a warm, marshmallow-soft hug (and a beckoning pastry). Somehow, under the white blanket of the Swedish capital, I healed.⁣

Click below to view my photo albums:
Stockholm
Miss Clara, my city base

A Day in Spetses

It's October, and I'm in Porto Heli, southern Greece. The rain has stopped, but the mosquitos haven't. My arms and legs bear the marks of my enemy's feasts. I have a skin infection, and my ankle—swollen—is crowned with a fluid-filled balloon that has just popped. It's done this daily since its recent materialisation, however gentle I am with it. It fills, bursts and deflates, fills, bursts and deflates. The joint steadily fattens despite all the purging. The dresses in my suitcase lay miserably untouched; my trousers, smug, rise to the occasion. I'm wearing hot pink, lest the bougainvillaea outshines me. I spend the morning attending to my wounds: undressing, cleansing, treating and re-dressing. Given this lamentable ceremony, I don't reach Spetses, just a fifteen-minute water taxi ride from nearby Kosta, until the afternoon.

I count myself lucky: the annual Mini Marathon, which I didn't know about, has seen its runners pass the finish line, so the unsightly flag poles and inflatables are being cleared away, and the hordes of people spilling from tavernas and crowding the waterfront slowly disperse. Within the time it takes to find a bakery that hasn't sold out of spanakopita, the town is restored to my memory of it: pristine, painterly, glittering with irrefutable beauty, untouched by the butchers of character and trees who scar our modern world. For the most part, the island is car-free. Popular modes of transport include horse-drawn carriages, motorbikes and bicycles. In a vision of wealth, mansions sit atop thrones of evergreen pine. Backstreet shops are chic—they sell things I'd like to own. The resident cats are full and fluffy; they can access doll-sized hotels where food and water are on tap.

Peering through my lens, I find a perfectly framed, gold-lit corner of sea, hills and intermittent action. I rest there for an hour on a wall, watching life through my camera, my arms aching beneath its weight. The sun sinks lower; the light gets richer. I head to the Old Harbour, where I spy a fisherman. I'm drawn to him, to them—their primitive patience, self-sufficiency and stillness. Their world, so different to mine. The quintessence of Mediterranean life. I can watch them for ages without luck, but this one lands a catch quicker than I can adjust my settings to capture it. A few days before, in Ermioni, I came across a cat waiting in anticipation, as I am now. I caught it on camera, a little black thing, running off with the freshly pulled prize in its mouth. The Spetses hunter is the Van Helsing of the sea; the fish don't stand a chance. I give him a cheer and move on. The sun falls deeper; it tints the boats and casts a glow over the towering blue and white domed Church of the Three Spetses Martyrs, a postcard landmark. I linger, tapping at my shutter, and head back the way I came, seeing off the last rays at Dapia's port.

It's late when I fill my stomach with rice and mussels cooked in ouzo at Patralis. I'm sitting at the back, away from the sea, because those tables are full. I like this spot: it's warmer and intimate. I've a carafe of semi-sweet wine, my favourite, and I finish with baklava. The boat back to the mainland is due, and I walk to it as fast as my bloated belly and ankle allow. There's a blood moon. It's a rarity I've seen only once before, in Monemvasia. It's as captivating now as it was then, and I'm witnessing it with my favourite human, as I was years ago; my husband is with me. I wouldn't have navigated my way around this island so smoothly without him. I'm love-drunk, wine-drunk, sailing in red ink. As I disembark, I look to the sky, seeking the fiery face that lit my journey. But the moon I see is clotted cream without a hint of jam. It's a trickster trying to fool me into believing the whole day was a dream. But he saw it too, as did my camera, and they don't lie.

Click here to view my Spetses album.

Stay: The Agora Hotel

PANO LEFKARA, CYPRUS

Opened in December 2022, The Agora Hotel is the place to be for those seeking a dash of cool with their luxury. Its standout façade is reminiscent of Ladurée’s caramel and pistachio macarons, while inside is an elegant ensemble of eclectic pieces, earthy tones, brushed gold accents, swathes of velvet, and a touch of tassel. Its eighteen rooms circle an open-air courtyard pool—book a ‘Grand’ if free-standing baths send your heart aflutter. The hotel is an adult-only zone, so leave the tots behind and split your hours between the retro lounge bar and snazzily dressed heated pool, setting your alarm solely for pizza o’clock. Alternatively, you can hire a bike from Agora’s fancy fleet and zigzag your way through the hilly landscape or rent a car to explore further afield—Cyprus is small enough to make day trips to all its corners. In-house Med-inspired restaurant Novél is open to the public, as is the hotel’s array of events, such as cocktail-infused jazz nights and summer Club Tropicana pool parties, all of which draw islanders to Pano Lefkara, Agora’s oh-so-charming home, a lacemaking village at the foot of the Troodos Mountains.

Links:
My album for The Agora Hotel
My interview with The Agora Hotel