The fact that I’m practically in paradise makes this all the more easy to bear. That I’m also swimming languid laps through the glass-like surface of a pristine infinity pool, surrounded by verdant sweeping views, lessens the discomfort even more so.

My lodgings in this tropical setting are in one of the renovated antique houses of Temple Tree Resort, on the west coast of the island. My particular dwelling, known simply as ‘The Black and White House’, is a stunning Malay House originally built in the 1940s in Negri Sembilan, south of Kuala Lumpur.

I shake off the refreshing chill of my swim and pad barefoot up the front steps of my abode, water dripping between my toes and onto the ageing floorboards. The double doors take a concerted effort to push open, but it’s all part of the charm of this majestic old structure that has welcomed me into its reaches for the next few days.

Beyond the expansive porch is a living and dining area decorated with well-loved and lived-in curios and artefacts. Chromatic stained-glass windows line the facade, ready to be flung open for me to enjoy the evening breeze and glorious tropical downpours from the comfort of the cosy couch. Further inside the dwelling, a four-poster bed draped lavishly in mosquito nets (a requisite of tropical chic) appears to be the centrepiece of the room – until you lay eyes on the glorious wooden bathtub sitting stoutly behind it. Through a pair of wooden doors next to the tub is the actual bathroom, with two rain showers that spill through the floorboards onto a rockpool below the raised house.
And if you feel so inclined, there is an exercise room complete with a treadmill.

Content with my swim, I’ve politely declined the treadmill’s advances and decided instead to set out to explore the island. A rented scooter, my trusted sidekick in this island adventure, is parked just outside my abode. The sun has warmed the seat to a temperature just slightly below unbearable. I fire up the engine and surge into motion; the natural air-conditioning resulting from my relative speed is an instant relief. I am soon zooming along the narrow coastal road and a distinct saltiness seasons the air. The island is just nudging awake and as my explorations take me through small villages dotted with simple houses splashed with vibrant oranges, yellows and pinks, locals are constructing roadside stalls selling coconuts, fresh juice, rotis and other gustatory temptations.

When I return to Temple Tree in the late afternoon, the sun is on its way down. The pool sparkles seductively in my direction, but I opt for a wander through the grounds of the resort and its sister property, Bon Ton. Roosting side by side, the two locales provide recondite respite from the tourist-weary strip of the nearby Pantai Cenang. With only eight heritage villas at Temple Tree and eight thatched-roof chalets at Bon Ton, the fortunate guests of these establishments have all the seclusion they could wish for.

But what is most curious about these dwellings are their permanent occupants – as I wander about the property, I have the distinct feeling of being watched. I soon catch sight of my voyeurs, perched atop walls, under houses, and snoozing on sunbeds, and I am relieved to see they are of the feline variety. Narelle McMurtrie, owner of Temple Tree and Bon Ton, also runs a private animal shelter next door and uses profits from the resorts to fund its activities.

Upon hearing that guests are happily encouraged to help out with the animals, I’ve volunteered to take one of the dogs for a walk. I wander past a sign warning me of the perils of falling coconuts, and onto the extensive deck of Bon Ton’s restaurant that looks out onto the lagoon. Beside the deck, the dogs hear me coming and appear from all directions to greet me. It’s tempting to try to take all of them for a walk, but after being warned of their strength, I end up taking the leash of a golden-haired bitser named Shane (affectionately referred to as ‘the lazy one’). As we mosey off down the dirt road, the rhythmic crunch of our footsteps on the gravel is soon interrupted by a passionate wailing. We pause, transfixed by a Muslim call to prayer echoing across the landscape, and revel in the majesty of a glorious sunset.

Visit www.mrandmrssmith.com for further information or contact the Mr & Mrs Smith travel team on 1300 89 66 27.

text & photography by
Mikki Brammer

Never did I imagine that the most dangerous thing I’d encounter in Colombia would be a pony named Negrita. Black, sleek and with a devil-may-care attitude she gave me one sideways glance, then never paid me a moment’s attention again. It wasn’t until we were balanced on the side of a cliff, with a river gurgling far below, that I realised the perils of riding a horse with attitude. Sick of waiting for the seven horses ahead of her, she let out a long sigh, flicked her tail, and like a queue-jumping socialite, started pushing her way to the front of the pack. Rocks scuttled off the ledge, other horses huffed and puffed, fellow riders cursed. White-knuckled and dripping with sweat, all I could do was close my eyes and hold on tight.

I’d never intended to be a trail-blazing adventurer, but twenty-something and in love, I’d followed my soon-to-be husband to his country – Colombia. Living in the capital, Bogota, it wasn’t long before I was also falling for another man – the dark and rugged Juan Valdez. This fictional character, and Colombia’s most famous name in coffee, has his face plastered throughout the country. From clothing to coffee shops, he is instantly recognisable and bigger than McDonalds. Wearing his poncho and sombrero, Juan stands alongside his faithful mule, Conchita, staring into the distance, every bit the Latin hero. There was something intensely romantic about him and when we decided to escape the city I knew there was only one place I wanted to go – the home of Juan Valdez.

For locals from frenzied cities like Bogota or Medellín, coffee country is an oasis of sorts, a journey back to a more tranquil and traditional past, where most people lived on farms and coffee was the crop of kings. Juan Valdez epitomises all that was good about this Colombia, long before drugs, conflict and kidnappings got in the way. On the search for Juan, we’d arrived in the tiny village of Salento, perhaps the most picturesque town in the region. Surrounded by rolling hills hanging heavy with the weight of their coffee crops, we’d spent days exploring the plantations and sipping endless cups of the region’s famous brew.

Well rested, we decided it was time to stretch our legs, and signed up for a six-hour ride into the Valle de Cocora. I wanted to see the region the traditional way, like Juan would, and decided horseback was the way to go. It soon became apparent that unlike his Conchita, my horse seemed neither loyal nor trusty. When the other horses moved
she’d stop, when they rested for a drink she’d charge ahead. My romantic ideas of riding through the coffee fields were dashed and after three hours of climbing I was relieved to arrive at Acaime, an outpost for biologists high in the wilderness. Sipping steaming Agua de Panela, a sugarcane-based drink, we watched as inky hummingbirds hovered close by, darting between hanging feeders, their wings pounding harder than my heart.

While this was a challenging climb, there was no doubting its authenticity. In fact, until recently, the only people negotiating this path were farmers in rubber boots, army patrols and the occasional band of Marxist guerrillas. Climbing out of the mountains, rocky cliff faces gave way to fields punctuated by towering wax palms some 50 metres tall. In the distance, coffee fincas shimmered under the sun, surrounded by a sea of glossy coffee bushes. If this were anywhere else in the world, chances are you’d share the view with thousands of other travellers. But this is Colombia, and in that moment it belonged solely to us.

Back on stable ground, I down a shot of black coffee and, on a rush of caffeine and adrenaline, climb into the back of a Willy jeep for the bumpy ride back to town. These beat-up World War II-era jeeps can be seen carrying loads of bananas and heavy sacks of coffee to market on meandering country roads throughout the region. While they’re far from comfortable, they’re the only way to get around. Pulling into Salento, we grabbed cups of strawberries and cream from a local seller and slowly made our way up to the lookout to catch the last of the region’s sunset. Heavy and golden, it bathed the fields in sheets of amber light and slowly the webs of mist began to creep over the coffee plantations.

In the inky black night we made our way back to town. I may have discovered that living like Juan Valdez was not nearly as romantic as I’d imagined; however, there was a magic to this place that, like a shot of coffee, crept into your veins. Locals call the area the place of calles cortas y recuerdos largos – of short streets and long memories. After years of struggle as Colombia begins to move forward I hope that it always stays that way; that it never loses its sense of the past.

Text by Cassie Harrex and photography by Carlos Castillo

It’s a perfect morning in Rio with the sun glistening on Guanabara Bay, and the waves lapping on Ipanema’s sands. While Cariocas – as Rio’s locals are known – and tourists alike, are hanging out beside the whir of beachside juice bars, we’re listening to a whir of another kind. Slowly, the bonde, Rio’s last city tram, is getting ready to head up the side of the hills and into Santa Teresa. After more than a hundred years making the same journey, it’s a truly noisy experience.

If a journey says as much as the final destination, then this 15-minute adventure into Rio’s bohemian heart speaks volumes. Kids dangle off the sides of the bonde, shoppers cling to bags overflowing with guavas and mangoes, and those lucky enough to have a seat negotiate a comfy spot on the hard wooden benches. Soon, with a creak and a groan, the bonde lurches to life and begins the same journey it has made every half an hour for the past 110 years.

I’d heard that, early in his life, the Brazilian singer Orlando Silva lost part of his foot riding the bonde – the tram hasn’t been updated or the journey altered since those days. Watching the kids dangling two storeys off the ground as we whiz over the arches of the Lapa aqueduct is enough to make me squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, graceful mansions and towering palm trees have replaced the steel and glass structures that dominate the downtown. Cool air whips through the tram and everyone’s shoulders drop in a unified sigh of relief. Rio can be hot and, the further we rattle up the hill, the noticeably cooler air is a welcome relief.

Clattering into Santa Teresa, the architecture becomes both increasingly ornate and obviously dishevelled, with red, orange and turquoise mansions rising like stacks of colourful Lego through the trees. Rio is awash with places boasting the best views of the city but surely this is the winner: Cristo Redentor, Sugarloaf Mountain and the many arcs of the city’s beaches can all be seen from the open-air tram.

Spluttering to a halt, we arrive at Guimaraes Square, the heart of the neighbourhood and an area surrounded by overflowing cafes and restaurants. On a recommendation, we’ve made a booking at Espirito Santa, a restaurant that not only specialises in quirky dishes featuring Amazonian ingredients, but is also known for having some of the best views of the city and surrounding hills.

Backed by a forest full of monkeys and thick with birdsong, it’s here that you get a sense of the overwhelming magic of Santa. Named after the Carmelite convent founded here in 1750, this used to be the most prestigious address a Carioca could have. However, in the 1960s, a combination of rising crime levels and a devastating storm convinced the well-to-do inhabitants that it was time to leave and head for the beaches. With so many beautiful buildings abandoned, it wasn’t long before Rio’s artists saw the potential and started a restoration process that continues today. Restaurants like Espirito Santa soon followed, and sitting among the hills, feasting on Namorado (a type of white fish, baked in a Brazil-nut crust), it’s hard to imagine why anyone could ever dream of leaving such a place.

Working off lunch with a walk through the streets, we hear the happy beat of bossa nova playing from a bar and make our way inside. Effortlessly cool, the bartender shakes and grinds together two caipirinhas for us and we join all the beer-drinking locals out on the balcony to watch the sun set over the hills. We’d spent the previous sunset at Cristo, but this one was the most magical we’d share in Brazil. Bossa nova, the rhythm of Portuguese around us, and a vibrant sunset from one of the best seats in the city couldn’t be beaten. This was one of those moments that make you very happy to be exactly where you are. Not for the first time, we start dreaming of packing up everything for a life in this city.

While the ride alone makes visiting Santa Teresa a must for any traveller, it’s the collection of crumbling Beaux-arts mansions and the local Bohemian vibe that completes the experience. Add to that the stunning views over the city and some of the most innovative restaurants you can find throughout the continent, and you have a surprising escape in the heart of Rio. As we drain our drinks and make our way to the catch the bonde back into town, we discover that the hardest part of the trip up here wasn’t the ride. It’s tearing ourselves away from Santa Teresa to go back to the throbbing city below. No one should miss out on visiting this suburb, but be warned – if you make it up to Santa you may never want to come back down.

Text by Cassie Harrex

As the taxi rattles into town the scenes flickering past my window are vastly different from the lush green landscapes of other parts of Peru. Instead, I see vast plains of arid, rocky desert. We are close to the coast but, aside from the occasional glimpse of black pebbled beaches, you wouldn’t know it. As we clammer further into Pisco, it feels like we have entered a war zone, where crumbled houses line the streets, mangy dogs incensed by unbearable hunger snarl at passersby, and skinny children run barefoot across the scorching earth.

The taxi pulls up at the address I’ve scrawled on a piece of paper and leaves me standing in the middle of the road. The streets, basic dirt roads, are deserted and the sun beats down hard on every surface. I feel like I’m in a western, awaiting a showdown at noon. Before me stands a dilapidated old building with a makeshift sign that reads ‘Pisco Sin Fronteras’. I knock tentatively on the door and a shaggy-haired man pulls it open. “Ah, you’re a new volunteer,” he observes in a cockney British accent, eyeing my bags and uncertain look. “Come in and find yourself a bed.” He opens the door and gestures toward several sets of bunks lining the hallway (which is also lined with discarded tools and a healthy layer of dirt). I throw my things on a bed.

Pete, my guide, then gives me a tour of the dirt-floored kitchen and yard that serves as the dining area. We venture outside and cross the street to the other volunteer house, which was a school before the earthquake. Now the small two-storey building has been converted into dormitories, where wanderers from all over the world rest their heads after a day’s volunteer labour. Surveying a whiteboard listing the occupants of each dormitory, Pete offers me an upgrade from my hallway digs to a room with actual walls – I happily accept.

Gradually throughout the afternoon I meet the other volunteers as they return to the house, and soon, as the dusky sky begins to fade into black, we are gathered outside in the yard for dinner. Thirty-five of us are assembled around the weathered plastic chairs and tables, sharing a basic meal of meat and vegetables. I meet people from across the globe, including a jazz singer from London, a film student from Los Angeles, and a web designer from Belgium. Each has stumbled upon Pisco Sin Fronteras during their travels through South America; some are here for a few days, some for a few weeks, and others for months on end. A story I consistently hear is that while many people initially only came here for a couple of days, they are still here months later, unable to tear themselves away from this life-changing experience.

I awaken the next morning to a chaotic overture of dogs barking and roosters crowing. At breakfast, we are allocated our projects for the day. One of the long-term volunteers, Will, reads out the jobs that need doing – digging trenches for new houses, mixing and laying concrete, building toilets at a community centre, and helping out at the volunteer-run childcare facility. My job for the day is helping to build ‘houses’ for people who lost theirs in the earthquake. Our mode of transportation to the site is tuk tuk. It feels almost as if we are characters in a comedy sketch, as we attempt to pile all of our building materials (two large tarpaulins, a ladder, a crowbar, several shovels, saws and a drill) and seven volunteers into two tuk tuks.

As we arrive at our site, I am confronted with scenes I’ve only seen from the comfortable distance of a television. Jesus de Nazareth is one of many shanty towns in Pisco, home to thousands of people displaced by the disaster. Stretching for kilometres, the town is composed of basic shacks, constructed from plywood or bamboo, most with only dirt floors. Each member of this makeshift community has been allocated a small plot of land by the local council, but very few have the materials, or the money, to build anything on it. Pisco Sin Fronteras tries to identify those people most in need and to construct a shelter for them from donated materials.

We are working on the site of a 22-year-old single mother of two, Mayra. For the past two years, Mayra and her two daughters (aged 2 and 5) have been living in a tent. The tiny 4 sqm space has been her bedroom, kitchen, and living room; the bucket in the corner has been her bathroom.

We ponder the materials we have to work with – an existing bamboo wall, several bamboo poles, a few metres of wire and the dilapidated tarpaulins. Mayra and her daughters watch us earnestly as we begin to construct the shelter, connecting the bamboo with wire and steadying it in the ground with rocks. After a few hours we have fashioned a ‘three-room’ structure with the tarpaulin serving as the walls and roof. As the only Spanish speaker in our group, I try to explain to Mayra that we don’t have enough tarpaulin to separate one of the rooms. “That’s okay,” she smiles, gesturing to the expanse of dirt floors. “This can be my ballroom.”

As the afternoon sun burns brightly, Mayra brings us lunch. She serves us a plate of fried chicken and rice, prepared in her tent. I feel terrible at the thought of how much she has given up to provide us with this meal. But as she and her children stand eagerly behind us, encouraging us to eat, I realise that it is her only possible way to thank us.

As her ‘dream home’ comes to life, I see tears of happiness glisten in her eyes as she hugs her daughters tightly. I struggle to hold back my own tears as I think of the elation she feels for a structure that most people would deem as unliveable.

That night as I lie in bed and reflect on the day, I am overwhelmed by a sea of conflicting emotions – heartbreak, inspiration, sadness, hope, and pure admiration for these people who manage to find happiness in such dire circumstances. And this was only one of the countless amazing experiences I had while at Pisco Sin Fronteras. It was a week of my life I’ll never forget and it will forever linger in my heart.

Text and photography by Mikki Brammer

Looks like a painting doesn’t it? Or, an optical illusion of sorts. This is Salar de Uyuni – the world’s largest salt flat. Located between the Potosi and Oruro departments of southwest Bolivia, the area is 10,582 square kilometers in size and elevated nearly 400 meters above sea level. There is no denying that such conditions make for the most beyond belief and picturesque of imagery. Once an area covered in prehistoric lakes, the area is now covered by meters of salt crust; it is estimated that up to 70% of the world’s lithium reserves are contained here. This salt dessert, which is a major breeding ground for pink flamingos, is subject to huge tourist numbers, with travellers and photographers alike hoping to take advantage of the clear skies and vast, uninterrupted landscape.

According to Vietnamese legend, the gods sent a family of dragons to defend their country. This family of dragons began spitting out jewels of jade that turned into the islands and islets dotting the north-eastern coast of Vietnam, now called Ha Long Bay. Magically, between these islands and islets, numerous rocky mountains suddenly appeared creating a formidable fortress against invading ships. After the Vietnamese won the battle, the dragons decided to live peacefully in the bay and remain its protector to this day.

Today, Ha Long Bay is made up of about 1600 islands of various sizes sprinkled over an area of 1500 sq km. This densely concentrated zone of rocky islands, world famous for its spectacular scenery of grottoes and caves, now form a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is a geographic work of art where visitors feel lost in a legendary and, at times, eerie world of limestone islands.

Boarding a traditional junk boat from the mainland initially felt like an excursion about to descend on a tourist hotspot.  But once we set sail, the intimacy of a small group of people with the similar goal of kayaking the more remote grottoes and caves took over and the atmosphere changed. My expectation of sunny days on the boat deck drinking cocktails faded as a late winter fog set in. But my disappointment was short-lived as the islands kept appearing and disappearing through the mist to create a dramatic scene that sent me back in time.

After a couple of hours sailing and indulging in a lazy seafood feast, our first stop was Hang Sung Sot Cave on Bo Hon Island. Whilst heavily developed for tourism with granite pavements and coloured lighting throughout, it was still definitely worth a visit. The natural elements are now well-preserved – despite the actions of petty thieves who left their mark – and the immense size and grandeur of the cave is spectacularly on display. The cave’s neighbouring floating fishermen attempted to distract us as they furiously rowed their boats out to our junk to capture opportunities to sell their wares, ranging from shells to chips and beer. The experience of bartering with a tiny rowboat over the edge, or out of our bedroom windows, of the ‘mother ship’ was surreal. A customer service experience not to be missed!

The next day was spent kayaking around the remote Van Chai Floating Village and into Dark Cave, a 200 m long dark tunnel penetrating a limestone mountain jutting out of an emerald sea. It was amazing to see how these floating villagers live, with more than 300 years of history remaining intact. Because the majority of Ha Long Bay islands are sheer to the water’s edge, without beaches, these people live most of their lives without touching land. Whilst the Van Chai Floating Village has a small nearby beach, the sands have been devoted to a shrine and its use is permitted only  as a place of worship. The challenge of  life on the water, wobbling over makeshift ramps between boats and pontoons, obtaining food and fresh water, raising children, and the challenge of healthcare, is a testament to how tough these people really are. But most are in it together and families generally stick together, and own boats and fishing gear to form their own floating community. Then there are others, somewhat outcasts, who live solo without a sense of community to assist with gathering life’s necessities. Whilst  the hustle and bustle of the mainland  is geographically within their reach,  for most of these people, the financial  and emotional comfort of mooring their boat and setting foot on land is limited.

Beyond the floating village was what appeared to be a sheer cliff hundreds of metres high. As we kayaked closer,  a 1–2 m horizontal slice out of the mountain revealed a tunnel. Floating through complete darkness with the sound of water lapping over rocks, and the reality that, in less than a couple of hours, the high tide would fill this small opening was a contrast between peace and an adrenaline rush. The tunnel is the only entry to a hidden paradise –  a secluded lagoon. To my delight, another shorter tunnel led to a mystical inland lake. Sitting aboard my kayak, floating quietly in the middle of this mountain’s crystal clear lagoon, I felt an intense sense of being at peace and in tune with nature.  Then, out in the middle of nowhere,  in a mountain accessible only by kayaking through a pitch black cave where all  I could hear was the trickling of water  falling off the paddle or the chatter  of a distant monkey … I hear Michael Jackson singing ‘You Are Not Alone’.  In total contrast to all that surrounds me, the kayaking guide has decided that this song, being played on his phone at this moment, is a perfect fit to this location. Only in Vietnam!

TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHY BY
KATHRYN LINDGREN

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Driving over mountain passes that hug the ocean, en route from Cape Town to Stellenbosch for a romantic getaway with my boyfriend, I feel as though I couldn’t possibly see anything more beautiful on this spring day. But as we drive into Stellenbosch’s lush valley, flanked by enormous ancient mountains with high rocky peaks, and slopes covered with newly green vine leaves, I realise how presumptuous I have been.

The second-oldest city in South Africa, Stellenbosch’s wine history dates back almost as far as the city itself, with the first vines planted in the town in 1690.  After a tumultuous history, and some neglect in the heart of the apartheid years, the region is now booming. Stellenbosch alone boasts 150 wine estates, with an additional 30 in neighbouring Franchhoek. Needless to say, it’s difficult to decide where our wine tasting tour should start, but the obvious kick-off point is our accommodation, a beautiful old wine estate called Lanzerac.

Located on the outskirts of Stellenbosch town, and boasting excellent old-world service and rooms housed in traditional Cape Dutch buildings, Lanzerac offers us an escape into another world. Upon arrival, we’re greeted with a choice of three ports, which are taken to our rooms for us to enjoy while settling in. Moments after we drink the last drop, a waiter arrives with a complimentary bottle of Cap Classique sparkling wine, the local version of Champagne using traditional French techniques. Flutes in hand, we make our way out to the gardens, and meander slowly through the lush greenery, eventually making our way to Lanzerac’s tasting room. There we start our official wine tour with an indulgent wine and chocolate tasting. I’m pleasantly surprised by how good the wine and chocolate taste together, and the experience climaxes with a final mouthwatering combination of honey liqueur placed in a small chocolate cup. It’s tempting to give in to our desires to stay and try the wine and cheese tasting, then retire to our room for some more port and a luxurious hot bath. But the mountains are calling, so we jump in the car and drive five minutes up the road to Tokara, a wine estate that exemplifies modern-day Stellenbosch.

Tokara is an interesting stop after the old-world charm of Lanzerac. A modern-art installation of a tree greets visitors on the approach to the building, and the entrance hallway showcases local artists’ work on one side, with glass walls offering a bird’s-eye view into the wine-making rooms on the other. As we enter the tasting room, my eyes are drawn to the windows framing stunning views out to the vineyards, before my gaze shifts to one of the largest fireplaces I’ve ever seen. We find a seat at the bar and sample a range of wines as well as brandy, which many of the local wineries also produce.

Next stop is across the road at Delaire Graff Estate, a winery revered for its architecture, beautiful views and award-winning restaurant. The steep driveway lined with indigenous flowering plants alludes to what lies ahead, but nothing could truly prepare us for the unique experience of Delaire. The Delaire Graff Estate is the culmination of all that is beautiful in the world – great wine, delicious food, luxurious and well-considered interior design and architecture, gorgeous landscaping and raw natural beauty. Sitting in plush purple lounge chairs under fluorescent green trees, with dappled sunlight illuminating the pinky hues of our rosés, we can’t help but be in awe of the abundance of beauty around us. Delaire is in a uniquely elevated position on the crest of the Helshoogte Mountain Pass, and its towering height allows us to see for kilometres down across the valley, surveying neighbouring wine estates and the eagles gliding in the mountain breeze looking for prey.

The next day, we stir from our slumber and find our way to an enormous breakfast buffet. It is the ultimate hangover cure but while sipping strong black coffees, we lament the end of our brief but enjoyable stay in Stellenbosch. We have only tried a few of the wine tastings available in this incredibly rich wine region, but as we leave down Lanzerac’s oak tree-lined driveway, I know it won’t be long until we’re back, quaffing, laughing, and breathing it all in.

Text by Cecilia Boughen

As my train pulls in to Arbresle train station, I am thankful for having made it that far, given the calamity of train delays from Lyon that sees me arriving three hours late. In a panic, I jump into a taxi and quickly find myself being driven down the tree-lined entrance to La Tourette, hoping desperately that I can still get in despite arriving more than one hour after it has closed for the day.

This is when my magical time at La Tourette begins. On the entrance, I find a lovely note from the host for my stay, Frere Marc, asking me to call him so that he can let me in. He quickly arrives to open the door for me into this wonderful place, and explains that the brothers are in the middle of eating dinner, so we head straight to the refectory.

There I am greeted by five other brothers and a separate table already set for me with cold meats, fresh vegetables, bread and wine. It is simple home food, but it is incredibly delicious. Listening to the brothers chat amongst themselves, it really feels like being in a family home. They generously share their pasta and homemade olive oil with me, but the true treat reveals itself when they rise to open the curtains. Unveiled before me is a beautiful view of fields and the town below, as the sun sets over the scene that fills the west-facing glass wall running the length of the refectory. I drink my wine with the sun on my face, and marvel at how amazing the world is.

After dinner, Frere Marc offers to take me on a quick tour. Despite the fact that the courtyard is full of scaffolding due to restorations now into their fourth year, La Tourette is a breathtaking example of modern architectural genius mixed with the religious symbolism that marks many of the world’s great buildings.

Naturally, this potent mix is at its best in the church at La Tourette. As I enter the holy sanctuary, a single ray of light streams through a slit at the top of the highest concrete wall, lighting up the ceiling three storeys above, as though the heavens were breaking through into the dark, near-windowless space.

Below this light, set against the stark concrete wall, sits a magnificent organ – a centrepiece of its own in a cantilevered square concrete frame. A thin brass cross at the other end of the church is positioned so that the light from another slit in a window hits it as the sun sets, giving it a fire-like glow burning brightly to light the room. Other windows frame the edges of the church, filtering light in through coloured shafts and making the space feel joyous in the simplest way.

I am overwhelmed with a sense of peace and happiness as I make my way out into the fields surrounding La Tourette. The wind is cold, but as I watch the sun drop behind the hills in the distance, swallows sing their final songs for the day whilst dancing about in the air around me, and I take a moment to fully appreciate just how lucky I am to be here.

I spend the night in one of the cells that were originally designed for the Dominican students to stay in, but are now used to house the many tourists who flock to La Tourette every year. The rooms are small and are furnished with only a single bed, desk and chair, small wardrobe and a wash basin. But the added pleasure to each room is a little balcony with picturesque views out over a field laced with wildgrass and flowers.

After a cold night, I awaken early to join the brothers in the church for morning prayer. Alone in the church with the six of them, I listen as their simple songs resonate in this amazing space, remarking at what a wonderful way it is to awaken the mind and spirit. After morning prayers, I am shown the crypts, another awe-inspiring space that is hidden from the view of the main church area. Marc explains to me the religious symbolism beautifully translated into the physical structure of La Tourette by Le Corbusier. The building is raised above the ground on pylons ensuring the brothers live their lives on a higher plain between Earth and heaven. The crypt, however, is positioned on the ground, following the slope of the land beneath it, ensuring that the brothers are grounded and sit with the people on the earth when they pray. As Le Corbusier commented during his design of La Tourette: “The lowest place becomes the highest, the highest the lowest.”

Finally, I settle down for a quiet breakfast alone in the refectory, basking in the morning sunlight, this time streaming in through the windows on the eastern side. I then head back to my room to prepare to leave for my onward journey.

As I wander slowly down the tree-lined driveway and along sun-lit country roads for the half-hour stroll to the train station, I am thankful for my time in the presence of the calm souls of the brothers. But mostly I am grateful for the opportunity to experience the majesty that can only be felt in such a grand building when you stand within its walls, and simply breathe with it for a while.

Text by Cecilia Boughen and photography by James Du Plessis

The pink and orange hue of dusk is smudged across the sky. As the perfectly warmed water of the South China Sealaps gently around my ankles, my toes burrow into the sand, wiggling in delight. Beneath the crystal-clear water, a pattern of undulating lines runs through the sand. It’s almost as if Mother Nature herself has absentmindedly run her fingertips through it while lost in a daydream.

A curious fish boldly exploring the shallow pool around my feet darts capriciously about my toes, his black-and-white striped body twisting about as he ponders the foreign object that stands before him. With a flash he then retreats out to sea, no doubt to recount his daring antics to fellow aquatic creatures who are perhaps less adventurous than he.

As the waves roll out, they take with them numerous tiny conical shells that tumble through the water and across the white bed of sand with the alacrity of a child rolling gleefully down a grassy hill. Soon the shells once again embed themselves in the sand and I lean down and pluck one from its resting place for a closer inspection. As I peer into the entrance of its spiral, I glimpse a tiny claw retreating from sight. I feel as though I have stumbled upon someone in private conversation, and am almost compelled to apologise to the tiny creature for having trespassed upon its tranquillity.

Night begins to cloak my surroundings and I venture further down the beach, intrigued by the flicker of candlelight on a stretch of sand beneath a line of palm trees. A small frame constructed from lithe bamboo poles composes a roofless shelter, with diaphanous white curtains at its sides dancing a sultry routine in the clement evening breeze. In the centre sits a generously cushioned lounge behind a dark mahogany table laced with a lavish spread of local gourmet delights. The fragrant aroma of spice floating on the breeze beckons me closer and, with nobody in sight, I saunter nearer to satiate my curiosity. Upon the table is an Indonesian meal known as Rijsttafel – meaning ‘rice table’ – which consists of various side dishes such as sambal, egg rolls, satay and pickled vegetables served with portions of rice. Known as The Dinner of Legend, this gourmet ritual occurs each night for guests of the nearby resort and is accompanied by a whimsical reading of an Indonesian folk tale known as The Legend of the Violet Rainbow. My mouth waters at the sight of the delectable spread, but as this meal has clearly been prepared for someone else, I make a mental note for tomorrow evening’s dinner plan and wander away into the night.

I wake up early the next morning, just as the sun is making its way across the horizon. The air is humid but seasoned by a cool breeze. Dawn has only just broken and when I pad down to the beach I find that I have it all to myself. Seizing the solitude, I begin a morning jog along the water’s edge, my lungs drawing in the fresh seaside air and my limbs warmed by the gentle sunlight. I surge into a run, the cadence of my step splashing rhythmically through the water – still perfectly temperate despite the early hour. The rest of the morning is spent lounging about under the thatched pandanus umbrellas, interspersed by refreshing dips into the inviting azure water. While there has been talk of jellyfish frequenting the bay, the sealife I’ve encountered has been curious but guileless.

As if on cue, my stomach begins to rumble just in time for the cooking class I’ve enrolled in. Somewhat curiously, despite being in Indonesia, today we are delving into the realm of Thai cooking, the keys to which, our teacher Ridwan tells us with a smile, are coriander, chilli, coconut, and palm sugar. On the menu today are Pad Thai, Thai Fish Cakes, and a saporous dessert composed of water chestnuts, tapioca flower and coconut milk. The class is more demonstrative than participatory but culminates in a three-course meal worthy of a high-end establishment.

I partake heartily in the delectable spread before retreating to the beach for an afternoon’s nap nestled in the verdant paradise of Bintan. The cheerful chirp of birds playing in the trees above me creates a jovial ambience, while the soothing rhythm of crashing waves soothes my spirit as I slowly drift to sleep.

Text & Photography By Mikki Brammer

Bac Ha, at 700 m above sea level, is about half the altitude of its well-known counterpart Sapa. Each Sunday, the village hosts a vibrant market targeted at the local ethnic groups, such as Phula, Black Dao, Tay, Nung and, the most colourful, Flower H’mong. This festive sea of colour has been taking place every week for generations and is the social event on every local’s weekly calendar. A wide street lined with stalls selling a colourful patchwork of handbags, quilts and cushion covers welcomes you to the main entry of the market. This entry then splits off to a maze of alleyways and paths distinctly organised by product or produce, where cattle, horses, pigs, chickens and goats are bought and sold,as well as many traditional goods like saddles and plowshares. Advice from traditional medicine doctors can be sought alongside fragrant incense stalls, as well as elaborate textiles and other trinkets made by the local tribespeople.

On the drive up to Bac Ha, you will see locals from far and wide starting their ascent to the hilltop market in the early hours of the morning. It could take more than four hours for some to climb the mountain in full costume to their regular social and trading gathering, afterwards gathering up their wares and trekking all the way down the hill to their home. The market and its surrounds are a place for cultural and sentimental exchange, where all paths and mountain roads are full of people and horses pouring into the market. And, of course, food is the epicentre of all gatherings, and the Bac Ha version of the food court is a hive of energy, with the clattering of soup pans, tossing of herbs and chattering of friends.

Walking through the market has an impact on all five senses, from the endless aromas and the chaotic sounds of market trading, to being nudged by a water buffalo. I come across a uniformly dispersed group of finely dressed Flower H’mong women shading themselves from the winter sun with modern umbrellas, all holding a leash with a puppy tethered to the end. I am momentarily distracted by the handwoven basket ladies and the magical sound of their handmade flutes, but as my eyes refocus on the ladies with the puppies, I realise that these adorable and cuddly specimens are not being sold as pets – they are actually the live meat market. The sharp reality of the variety of Vietnamese cuisine hits me and I discover that the neighbouring ‘fresh’ meat section is not for the faint of heart.

From one end of the spectrum to the other, I find myself fossicking through stall after stall of the Flower H’mong clothes, caressing the textures of the patterned fabrics and exploring their intricate detail. Nowadays, Flower H’mong women tend to wear heavily beaded skirts and jackets manufactured in China, as opposed to the traditional handwoven fabric. Experimenting with the modern-day mix-and-match concept, they even adopt headwear – such as a colourful scarf or a comb embedded in their hair – of other minority groups to differentiate themselves.

Though tourists are not in short supply at Bac Ha, they are not the focus, which is a pleasant change from the constant sales pitch and hours of being followed by the Sapa locals. Most locals at the Bac Ha Market pay little attention to the tourists, rather choosing to focus on their business and seize this short social opportunity out of their hard-working week. This comes as a blessing to me, and I take the opportunity to really absorb the wonderful sites, sounds, smells and social interactions amongst this culturally eclectic and visually stimulating group of village people.

Text and photography by Kathryn Lindgren.

The rental car rumbles up through the dirt road that incises the perfectly manicured vineyards. Ducklings frolic amongst the emerald green vines, hurrying clumsily after their mother. The afternoon sunlight glistens like precious stones on the surface of the Derwent River.

An intriguing feat of architecture is perched regally at the top of the hill. Stark, with its sleek metallic exterior, the designer cellar door of this winery is far from the charming little country nooks of other wineries throughout Tasmania. It’s instantly apparent that this establishment has more than just wine production on its agenda.

After checking in at the grand edifice, which also doubles as the hotel reception, we pile into a golf cart and are chauffeured to our domicile. On the way we glide past the line of MONA’s designer pavilions, named after 20th-century architects and 20th-century Australian painters. Our residence for the weekend is Walter, named after Walter Burley Griffin. The first in the stately row of glass and steel cubes that stand resplendent overlooking the Derwent River, Walter possesses the qualities that many would have listed as those of their dream home.

What awaits us behind Walter’s front door is a paragon of intuitive living. Just inside is a panel dedicated to perfecting the ambience of your abode to your exact liking. First, we select our music from the extensive library consisting of different musical genres. Jazz is what ails us today and soon the soothing rhythms of Miles Davis fill the space (there’s also a personal music panel in each bedroom and bathroom). Next, we fiddle with the lighting and temperature, as well as the enormous blinds that cover three sides of the pavilion, which, when raised, allow the occupants to really know how people who live in glass houses feel.

The decor of the pavilion is clearly the product of a shrewd eye for design. We soon realise we are in the company of some of the world’s most celebrated designers. On the front deck sit Ross Lovegrove’s Supernatural chairs, while Philippe Starck lamps spill light across the bedrooms. The bookstand is as carefully curated as the rest of the space. Not a Gideon’s Bible in sight here, but instead an extensive list of reading for fuelling the imagination and challenging the psyche: Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion; Alain de Botton’s The Consolations of Philosophy; S Brent Plate’s Blasphemy: Art that Offends … the list goes on.

When the moonlight begins to nudge our windows, we head back up to the cellar door to sample the delicacies of Moorilla’s restaurant, The Source. Now under the helm of chef Philippe Jacques Leban, the restaurant – one of the jewels of Hobart’s dining scene – combines fresh local produce with a French influence. A jovial buzz permeates the space, as diners wax lyrical about the food and wine.

The next morning, I awaken to sunlight streaming into my studio-style bedroom on Walter’s top floor. The local birds serenade me, while the surrounding gumtrees sway in the breeze, their leaves rustling fervently. If it weren’t for the expanse of my king-sized bed and the 400-thread count sheets I am nestled in, the presence of nature makes it feel as though I could be waking up in a tent in the wilderness. But the morning is too glorious to spend tucked away in bed. I pad in to the ensuite, select my soundtrack, and let the warmth of the generous rain shower head spill over me. The gentle spice of Aesop products flirts delicately with the steam and, as I gaze out the window, I catch a glimpse of a pair of cotton-tailed bunnies playing in the morning light.

After breakfast, we wander the grounds, hoping to get a peek into the not-quite-finished art gallery prior to its January opening, which will also coincide with MONA FOMA, Hobart’s cutting-edge festival of music and art. But our crafty attempts to explore are thwarted by MONA’s strictly instructed staff. Instead, our interest is piqued even further by all the stories we hear about the gallery’s potential contents – an entire floor dedicated to Sidney Nolan, a sex and death gallery, and facilities to handle effluent from an art piece.

Though disappointed, we find a worthy substitute in the wine tasting at the cellar door. Our host takes us on a palatable journey through Moorilla’s wines and its boutique beer, Moo Brew. A few hours and much indecision later, we leave with a bounty of bottles.

Sated, we head back to Walter for an afternoon of relaxation. While my friend opts for a soak in the lavish spa bath (complete with built-in TV), I wander up to the heated infinity lap pool that looks out over the banks of the river. As I stroke leisurely through the perfectly warmed water, my only company is the wildlife outside frolicking in the scrub.

As the afternoon glow sets in, we make the most of Walter’s company, lounging about reading the paper and leafing through the collection of books. Hobart sits nearby just waiting to be explored, but it’s impossible to tear ourselves from the haven of design we are calling home for the weekend.

For further information visit www.mrandmrssmith.com or contact the Mr & Mrs Smith travel team on 1300 89 66 27.

Text by Mikki Brammer