The silence, the sandstone and the stories painted onto the rocks thousands of years ago are.
I realised pretty quickly that Bushmans Kloof wasn’t going to be a typical South African luxury lodge experience when Tristan, the field guide for our stay, didn’t try to sell us a game drive within the first ten minutes of our arrival.
He still had on a khaki uniform, but there was no radio chatter about lion sightings or leopard tracks. “Bushman’s Kloof focuses more on the cultural development of the ancient San population of the Cederberg mountains, rather than the big 5,” he explains to us.
The road into the Cederberg Mountains twists through burnt-orange rock formations and enormous valleys that look super cinematic. And then, right in the middle of all that wilderness, sits Bushmans Kloof. Yes, it’s a luxury lodge, but it’s also a wellness retreat and a living cultural archive.
The first thing I noticed was how naturally the lodge folds into the landscape. Nothing about it feels flashy or overdesigned. There are thick stone walls, thatched roofs, soft neutral interiors and wide, tiled terraces that pull the outdoors inward. It doesn’t feel like it imposed itself on the wilderness, but rather, was crafted as a very beautiful extension of it.
The reserve also protects 132 ancient San rock art sites, making it one of the most significant collections in Southern Africa.
And unlike museums, these paintings aren’t framed behind glass or lit with dramatic spotlights. They’re still exactly where they were originally created: beneath sandstone overhangs, hidden inside caves and tucked into quiet parts of the mountains where the wind still whistles through the rocks.
Walking to them feels strangely intimate.
Tristan led us along rocky paths through fynbos and weathered stone, stopping occasionally to point out details I absolutely would have missed on my own, like a cape clawless otter’s paw prints as it went for its morning walk along the river.
But we made it to our first site fairly quickly, and it wasn’t long before he was describing what was depicted in the paintings: eland figures rendered forever in faded ochre, handprints smudged by the fingers of time, symbols connected to spiritual rituals and rainmaking ceremonies. Some paintings are believed to be thousands of years old, and yet, each site still feels very much alive.
To go deeper, there’s something profoundly moving about standing in complete silence in front of a painting created by someone who once stood in exactly the same place, looking out at exactly the same mountains, albeit with slightly different worries. The scale of time out here becomes difficult to process properly. I forgot about my building inbox quite quickly.
The resort talks a lot about restoration and wellbeing, but not in the performative ‘digital detox’ kind of way many luxury retreats do now. It’s more nuanced than that.
The landscape itself does most of the heavy lifting.
Even the spa seems to understand this. Timber, river stone and earthy textures down at the gazebo treatment room replace the usual ultra-modern and sterile wellness aesthetic. There’s no glowing neon “BREATHE” sign anywhere in sight. Just quiet treatment rooms, mountain air and the deeply humbling realisation that your shoulders have apparently been touching your ears for most of the year (that is, according to your therapist).
I arrived at the reserve convinced I’d spend most of my time hiking around it in the hopes of spotting an ostrich or a pack of red hartebeests. Instead, I somehow found myself wanting to do absolutely nothing but sit on the terrace outside my room and watch out for baboons while I read my second fantasy novel of the trip (Alchemised, for anyone asking).
It’s easy to get lost in watching sunlight move across the cliffs. No schedule, and no notifications. No background noise except the wind and the birds and the occasional splash from the rushing river that skirts the reserve.
But there’s also something refreshing about a South African wilderness experience that isn’t built entirely around adrenaline. Don’t get me wrong, I love a safari lodge. But Bushman’s Kloof offers a completely different kind of wild immersion. One rooted less in chasing sightings and more in slowing down enough to notice where you actually are.
You notice the smell of warm cedar and wild herbs after the sun hits the rocks. You notice stars properly for the first time in months. You notice how absurdly quiet the Cederberg can become at night.
The lodge leans heavily into seasonal, locally inspired dining, with long dinners that manage to feel refined and deeply comforting. Pro tip: always get the malva pudding, even if your stomach is begging you not to.
By my final morning, I realised spending time in a place surrounded by ancient mountains and rock art thousands of years old has a way of shrinking modern chaos down to size. Of putting everything into perspective.
And as good as my hot stone massage was, recalibrating my entire being might just be the most effective wellness treatment of all.
A lot of people dream about quitting their jobs, buying a caravan and driving around Australia for a while. Most people don’t end up accidentally purchasing an eco-lodge on a remote island in the Indian Ocean.
But that’s pretty much exactly what happened to Rachael Kuchera and Owen Walsh.
The couple were midway through a lap of Australia in 2025 after narrowly missing out on a property in Kalbarri they’d hoped to turn into an eco-lodge. Spirits weren’t exactly crushed, but somewhere between caravan park dinners and long stretches of Kimberley highway, the conversation naturally drifted toward the future.
Rachael mentioned she’d love a little place by the ocean someday. Nothing flashy. Just somewhere simple where you could open the door and hear the water.
After scrolling through a few wildly unrealistic coastal listings online, Owen joked: “If you can find us a little house with something attached that we can actually run as a resort, let’s do it.”
So Rachael did what plenty of us now do when we’re looking for answers, she asked ChatGPT.
At first, it returned the usual suspects. Then came one extra suggestion sitting quietly at the bottom of the page: an eco-lodge for sale on Christmas Island.
Neither of them knew much about Christmas Island. But they clicked anyway.
On the screen appeared two sleek glass-fronted chalets perched dramatically above a glowing turquoise reef, surrounded by nothing but ocean and rainforest. No neighbouring resorts. No rows of deck chairs. Just an absurdly beautiful slice of coastline sitting inside a national park in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
“That kind of changed everything,” says Owen.
The property was Swell Lodge, the adults-only eco retreat created by award-winning wildlife photographer Chris Bray. Since opening in 2018, the lodge has quietly built a reputation as one of Australia’s most unique luxury stays, partly because of the setting, and partly because there’s genuinely nowhere else quite like it.
Within a few months, the deal was done. Rachael and Owen are now officially the new owners, with bookings for the May to October 2026 season already open.
And honestly, it’s not hard to see the appeal.
Swell Lodge only accommodates four guests at a time across two architecturally designed eco chalets that hover above the reef line. The whole experience leans heavily into the idea of slow, immersive travel where you stop checking your phone because there’s finally something more interesting to look at.
Each stay is all-inclusive, with private guides, daily experiences, transfers and a private chef all part of the package. Breakfast hampers and multi-course dinners are delivered straight to your deck, with menus built around island-grown produce, native ingredients and yellowfin tuna caught fresh from the jetty.
The relaunch also brings a subtle refresh to the property itself, with new furnishings, original artworks, leather lounges, crystal glassware and fully stocked minibars added to the mix, so you’re not exactly roughing it.
But the real drawcard is still Christmas Island itself – one of Australia’s least-visited and most fascinating destinations. Nearly two-thirds of the island is protected national park, the diving is world-class and the wildlife feels borderline fictional at times. This is the place where 190 million red crabs migrate across the island each year, where endemic species exist nowhere else on earth and where dense rainforest abruptly gives way to cliffs dropping into impossibly blue water.
Swell Lodge also operates in partnership with Parks Australia, meaning every stay directly contributes to conservation efforts on the island.
Not bad for something that started as a casual question asked somewhere on the side of a dusty road.
Colonial ghosts, craft brews and a woman who rewrote the rules, Justin Jamieson trades temple crowds for backroads, meets the locals shaping modern Cambodia, and discovers that in July’s heat, Siem Reap finally breathes.
The ceiling fan above me is doing its absolute best. It spins lazily, gently pushing around the kind of thick, tropical air that doesn’t move so much as cling. July in Siem Reap promises heat you can taste, and humidity you can wear.
I’m sprawled on a daybed at FCC Angkor by Avani, staring at shuttered windows that look like they’ve witnessed decades of stories I wish I’d heard. This place has history baked into its bones. Once a hangout for foreign correspondents, it still carries that colonial swagger: high ceilings, tiled floors, long corridors that feel like they should echo with typewriters and gin orders.
But it’s not stuck in the past. Not even close.
Because somewhere between the polished timber and the slow-turning fans, Cambodia has crept in. Quietly. Confidently. Creatively.
The minibar is where it hits me first (stay with me).
Forget imported nonsense. Inside, there’s locally distilled spirits, handmade soaps and, much to my absolute delight, Krama Beer. Proper Cambodian craft beer, sitting there like it owns the place. I crack the Triple Khmer. Cold, crisp, slightly citrusy and after one sip, I promise myself to find exactly where it is brewed.
The tuk tuk driver doesn’t ask questions. Which is good, because I don’t have a plan, just a vague map pin and a growing thirst (it was a ‘mini’ bar after all). The road shimmers. Scooters buzz past in a kind of organised chaos that somehow works. Horns chirp, not aggressive, just conversational. Something sizzles on a roadside grill. The smell of charred meat drifts through the heat. It reminds me just how much I love the smells and sounds, both good and bad, of South East Asia.
By the time we pull up at Krama Brewery, a low-slung building under a tin awning with zero interest in looking fancy I’m approximately 40% sweat.
And then I meet Nagui. He’s already pouring a beer.
“Ah, you found us,” he says in a thick French accent, handing me a glass.
“I followed the minibar at the FCC,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Good. That means they are doing their job.” We clink glasses.
“So, what makes it Cambodian?” I ask, taking that first cold sip. He leans back, eyes scanning the street like he’s still slightly surprised this place exists. “It’s not just ingredients. It’s attitude. We don’t copy. We adapt. We make something that fits here, the heat, the people, the way life moves.”
“Which is slower?” I ask.
“Slower… and faster,” he grins. “You will understand after your third beer.” We sit under the tin awning, the world drifting by.
“You get many tourists just… turning up?” I ask. He shrugs. “The good ones do. The curious ones.” I raise my glass. Somewhere between the second and third beer, he looks at me seriously.
“You stay long enough, you join,” he says. “Join what?” I ask. “The Cambodian Craft Beer Society.”
“Is there a form?” He shakes his head. “No form. Just commitment.” I look at my empty glass. “I’m in.”
Back at the FCC, the shift is immediate. From tin awning to teakwood elegance in minutes. But somehow it doesn’t feel like a contrast. It feels like a continuation.
The hotel isn’t separate from Siem Reap, it’s a polished extension of it. Every detail from the soaps to the spirits to that now very familiar beer, points outward, back into the country. There’s a gin tasting happening at Scribe Bar on our return and, not that I need it, we decide it rude not to taste the local distillery’s specialities.
The next morning I’m on the back of a scooter withAdventures Cambodiawith a slightly dusty outlook regretting the third shot of Seekers Navy Gin. The air is still heavy, but moving now, finally, as we slip through traffic and out towards the countryside. The breeze isn’t strong, but after yesterday’s heat, it feels like a gift.
My driver grins. She’s one of many women here doing a job that, until recently, was almost entirely male-dominated. That’s not an accident. This entire operation, the routes, the people and the philosophy traces back to one person: Akim Ly. And her story isn’t normal.
We ride past rice fields glowing in the morning light, kids cycling to school, roadside stalls firing up breakfast. It’s not curated. It’s not staged. It’s just life unfolding. And that’s exactly what Akim wanted people to see.
Because she grew up here in a Cambodia that most visitors will never fully understand.
Born during the Khmer Rouge regime, she didn’t have schools. Or structure. Survival was the system.
At five, she’s living inside Angkor Wat’s pagoda with her grandfather, shaving her head and disguising herself as a boy just to be allowed to study. At thirteen, the disguise fails.
By fourteen, she’s opened a restaurant near the temples. I can barely get my teen daughters to empty the dishwasher.
We stop in a small village where a woman is weaving krama scarves, the same iconic fabric that now shows up everywhere, including, somehow, the beer I drank too much of yesterday. There’s no awkward performance here. No forced interaction. Just conversation. Familiarity.
These aren’t random stops. They’re relationships.
Akim built this deliberately, making sure local artisans aren’t relying on luck or passing foot traffic, but are supported, paid, and part of something sustainable. It feels like tourism that actually works for the people who live here.
Back on the scooter, we veer off into jungle tracks where the world narrows to red dirt, thick greenery, and the occasional glimpse of something ancient hiding just out of sight. We pull up at a temple that doesn’t make the brochures. No crowds. No queues. Just crumbling stone slowly being reclaimed by roots that don’t care about your itinerary.
The air is thick, insects humming, the whole place breathing in a way the bigger temples can’t when they’re packed with people. This is the Cambodia you don’t get from a bus window.
And then there’s the big one. Angkor Wat in July is not the version you see on Instagram.
There are no sunrise crowds jostling for position, no wall of selfie sticks blocking the bas-reliefs. Instead, there’s space. Silence, almost. A quiet that lets the place breathe and really lets you hear it.
The heat, though, is relentless. It presses down on you as you move through the galleries, clings as you climb steep stone steps, wraps around you like a challenge: are you sure you want this? But if you can handle it, if you lean into the sweat, slow your pace, duck into the shade when you need to, the reward is something far rarer than a perfect photo.
You get Angkor Wat almost to yourself.
You can stand in the centre of it all and actually feel the scale, the weight of history, the centuries layered into every carved surface without distraction. Without noise. It stops being a sight. And becomes something closer to an experience.
At a roadside restaurant we stop for a delicious Khmer lunch that hits like a reset button. Someone mentions that when Akim returned in 2013 after years abroad, tourism here was almost entirely about temples. Big buses. Quick stops. Move on. So, she built something else.
By night, Siem Reap flips the switch. If you think it’s still a sleepy temple town, you’re about a decade behind.
Rooftop bars hum with energy. Indie cocktail spots experiment with flavours and live music spills out of hidden corners. Guitars, laughter and the occasional off-key note that somehow makes it better.
Colonial buildings now house modern ideas. Old façades, new stories.
We drift between places with no plan; a bar behind a gallery, a courtyard strung with lights and a trailer with neon lights, cheap beer and Gun & Roses blaring. It’s creative. It’s evolving. It’s alive.
Later, back at the FCC, I’m on the balcony with, predictably, another Krama Beer. The air is still warm, still heavy, but it feels different now. Familiar. Earned.
A scooter hums past. Someone laughs in the distance. And it hits me.
Siem Reap isn’t just about Angkor Wat (as incredible as it is). It’s about everything happening around it. The people building things. Brewing things. Creating something new while carrying everything that came before.
From a colonial-era hotel that now champions local makers, to a woman who went from a shaved head in a pagoda to running a company redefining tourism, to a cold beer under a tin awning that somehow tastes like all of it combined.
I take another sip. Cold. Crisp. Slightly citrusy. And, right now, exactly what this place feels like.
Yob stops so suddenly I nearly walk straight into him, boots sliding in the red mud, arms pinwheeling like I’ve just discovered interpretive dance.
“Wait,” he says, crouching low beside the track, one hand hovering over a dark, suspicious hole in the bank. He shines his torch into it like a man about to introduce you to something he’s genuinely proud of. “Big spider.”
The jungle is already doing its best to melt me. It’s early, but the heat has weight to it, pressing down through the canopy, turning the air into something you chew rather than breathe. My T-shirt is glued to my back, my socks are wet, and something small and committed has been biting my ankle for the past ten minutes. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a monkey lets out a long, echoing whoop that sounds less like wildlife and more like a warning.
And now this.
Yob leans closer to the hole. “Maybe tarantula,” he adds, helpfully. “Sometimes come out at night. Very big.”
I stare at the hole. The hole stares back, which is unsettling given it doesn’t technically have eyes.
“Great,” I say. “Love that for us.”
This is how I find myself in the jungle interior of Koh Lanta, a place most people associate with hammocks, sunset cocktails and the dangerous idea that you could probably get away with one more Chang. Out here, there are no hammocks. There is only mud, humidity, and a local guide who appears to be actively trying to introduce me to every creature I’ve spent my life avoiding.
Yob stands up, grinning, and gestures for us to keep moving.
“Come,” he says. “Maybe cobra also.”
Of course there is.
Yob is wiry in that effortless, jungle-forged way that makes you immediately aware of how soft your own lifestyle has been. He moves through the forest like it’s his living room, stepping over roots, ducking under vines, barely breaking stride. Every few metres he stops, listens, points, explains. Birds, insects, plants, tracks. It’s a running commentary delivered with the enthusiasm of someone who’s spent his entire life here and still hasn’t got bored.
“Big spider here also,” Yob says, veering suddenly off the track to inspect another hole.
“Different one?” I ask.
He nods seriously. “Bigger.”
I’m not sure I needed a scale.
He crouches again, shining the torch in, narrating like a nature documentary with a slightly chaotic script.
“He live inside. Very strong. Hairy. If you touch…” He pauses, glances back at us, and smiles. “Better not touch.”
There’s a collective lean backwards from the group, like we’re all connected by an invisible elastic band that’s just been stretched a little too far.
I find myself weirdly fascinated. There’s a part of my brain, clearly not the one in charge of survival, that wants to see it. A proper tarantula. Out in the wild. Just… not here. Not now. And definitely not with me being the closest human.
“Maybe he sleep,” Yob says, peering in one last time. “We find another.”
Reassuring.
The track narrows as we push deeper in, the canopy thickening until the light drops a notch and the air cools just enough to notice. We follow a thin ribbon of stream, crossing it on slick rocks that shift underfoot, grabbing onto roots that feel like they might either save you or send you face-first into the water.
“Sorry, where?” someone behind me asks in a squeaky voice.
He gestures vaguely at everything. The grass. The roots. The entire concept of the jungle.
“Here, here… everywhere,” he says cheerfully. “But no worry. He more scared of you.”
That’s not as comforting as he seems to think.
We push through a stretch of waist-high grass. I lift my feet a little higher than necessary, like that’s going to make a difference if something decides to have a go.
In my head, there’s a running commentary.
Cobra maybe.
Cobra definitely.
Cobra absolutely under that exact root you’re about to step over.
I step anyway, because turning around and sprinting back to the start feels socially unacceptable at this point.
“Relax,” Yob calls over his shoulder. “Only sometimes.”
Great. Love a statistical comfort.
We stop mid-trail again, this time for a break. Yob drops onto a rock beside the stream, pulls out a small pouch, and begins rolling something with practised ease.
Within seconds, he’s lit it, the smoke curling lazily up through the thick, damp air. It smells earthy, a little sweet, and entirely at odds with the idea that we’re supposed to be on some kind of wholesome nature walk.
It also feels completely right.
We sit, dripping, breathing, letting the jungle hum around us. The constant buzz of insects, the distant calls, the soft rush of water over rock. It’s a sensory overload that somehow settles into something close to calm.
Yob takes a drag, exhales, then points casually to a pile beside the track.
We move on, the path tightening into something more like a suggestion than an actual track. We duck under hanging roots, squeeze between trees, and pass a large cave where Yob leads us into and flicks his torch upwards to reveal a cluster of bats, hanging like tiny, disapproving umbrellas.
“Sleeping,” he whispers.
Further along, we hit another moment.
“Wait,” he says again, dropping to his haunches beside a fallen log. “Big spider here.”
We gather, because of course we do. There’s a morbid curiosity that overrides common sense.
Yob carefully lifts a piece of bark, shining the torch into a narrow crevice.
We lean in.
There’s movement.
Not cricket movement. Not gecko movement.
Something heavier. Slower.
And then it emerges.
At first it’s just legs. Thick, deliberate, unfolding like something engineered to make you reconsider every life choice that led you here. Then the body follows, dark and dense and unmistakably real.
A tarantula.
An actual, full-sized, definitely-not-imagined tarantula.
The jungle noise seems to drop a notch, like even the insects are giving it space.
It pauses at the edge of the crevice, sensing the light, the vibration, the circle of humans hovering far too close for comfort.
“See,” Yob whispers, delighted. “Big spider.”
I take a step back. Then another.
“Yep,” I say quietly. “That is… absolutely a big spider.”
There’s a strange mix of emotions firing at once. Fear, obviously. A healthy, primal, get-me-away-from-that thing kind of fear. But also awe. Because it’s not in a glass box. It’s not on a screen. It’s here. In the dirt. In the roots. Exactly where it’s supposed to be.
And we’re the ones who’ve wandered into its living room.
“Don’t move fast,” Yob says softly. “He no like.”
No one was planning on sprinting anyway.
The tarantula shifts, one leg testing the ground, then another, before deciding we’re either not interesting or not edible and slowly retreating back into the darkness.
Just like that, it’s gone.
There’s a collective exhale.
Someone laughs nervously. Someone else says something along the lines of “that was actually incredible,” which is correct, but also feels like something you say to mask the fact you were two seconds away from climbing a tree.
By the time we reach the waterfall, I’m soaked in sweat, lightly traumatised, and oddly exhilarated.
Khlong Chak isn’t a thundering giant this time of year. It’s a modest cascade slipping over rock into a shallow pool.
But after the hike, it feels earned.
We drop our packs, some of us wading straight into the water, letting the cool hit skin that’s been cooking for the past hour. It washes off the mud, the sweat, and at least some of the lingering mental images of eight-legged ambush predators.
Yob stands off to the side, scanning the rocks like a man who’s not quite done.
“Maybe cobra here also,” he says, nodding towards the shadows.
I laugh, because at this point, what else are you going to do?
We sit for a while, the group quieter now, the earlier nerves replaced by that post-adventure calm. There’s something about walking through a place like this, where things genuinely can bite, sting, or at the very least rearrange your understanding of scale, that sharpens everything.
Because in the end, we did see it.
Not a maybe. Not a rumour.
A real, solid, hairy reminder that the jungle isn’t a backdrop. It’s a system. And we are very much guests.
As we head back, retracing our steps through the mud and roots and maybe-cobra zones, Yob is still scanning, still hopeful.
“Next time,” he says to me, as we pass another suspicious-looking hole. “We find cobra. Big one.”
I nod, half-serious, half-already drafting my polite decline.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
Behind us, the jungle closes in again, swallowing the path, the sounds, the moment.
And somewhere in there, I now know for a fact, there’s a tarantula going about its day, completely unbothered by the existential crisis it’s just caused.
And possibly a cobra.
And definitely, somehow, still the unanswered question of who, exactly, first decided elephant poo might be psychedelic, and what on earth happened next.
Back at our resort, the perfectly placed Avani+ perched on an outpoint with beaches both sides, the jungle feels like a slightly unhinged fever dream I might have imagined. I’m handed a beer before I’ve even finished processing the fact that nothing here is trying to bite me. The sea glows, the sky performs, and somewhere a blender is doing important cocktail work. It’s all very civilised. Almost offensively so. Later, in my room, I kick off my boots, hesitate… and still check under the bed. Not because I doubt the resort. It’s more because Yob has permanently recalibrated what I consider “unlikely.”
Nagano and Kanazawa in winter don’t ease you in gently. They don’t flirt. They don’t glow politely in autumn tones. They arrive in white silence and dare you to keep up.
I’ve found myself back, trading red leaves for snowdrifts, soft light for steel skies. The temples are the same. The forests are the same. The gardens are the same. But winter changes the personality of a place.
Nagano in winter leans into its elemental side. Snow monkeys soak in hot springs, monks tend flames against the cold and cedar forests stand motionless under weighty branches.
Kanazawa transforms too. The magical Kenrokuen Garden sheds its seasonal softness and becomes sculptural, dramatic, almost architectural under its web of Yukitsuri ropes (carefully strung from tall poles to protect delicate branches from heavy snow) and frozen ponds.
This isn’t a different itinerary. It’s the same cities.
“It will be different. I promise,” Yuge-san, my host, tells me down the line before I leave.
And he’s right.
Snow strips away decoration. It amplifies silence. It forces fire, steam and food to work harder. And when you follow the itinerary properly, from igloo lunches to samurai discipline, winter doesn’t just add atmosphere.
It rewrites the entire experience. And best of all… it’s almost tourist-free.
The Hokuriku Shinkansen glides out of Ueno and into a white landscape. We step off the train in Nagano and the air hits me like a clean slap. Winter here isn’t decorative, it’s decisive. Snow sits heavy on rooftops.
Last visit, Nagano felt spiritual.
In winter, it feels cinematic.
My first proper reminder of that comes at Kamakura Village in Iiyama, where we duck into a snow hut for lunch. It’s a literal igloo. Steam curls from a bubbling pot of pork miso soup placed in the centre of the table. We sit on wooden stools, the ice walls chilling our backs while our hands warm over the pot.
I’m tempted to ask Yuge-san when the sake will be delivered but figure midday might be a bit early.
Last time in Nagano I followed Shida-san into the forest, a Yamabushi “forest ninja” who ran downhill like gravity was optional. He spoke about meditating beneath waterfalls and surrendering ego in the mountains. This time I hike through snow to watch monkeys soak in hot springs.
The contrast is absurd.
Where Shida-san found enlightenment through endurance, the snow monkeys find it through plumbing.
The monkeys have lived in this valley for generations, long before the park existed. In winter they were often seen gathering near the warm waters of nearby hot springs. One day a young monkey reportedly slipped into a bath and discovered the warmth.
The behaviour gradually spread through the troop, becoming something of a cultural habit among the macaques.
Today visitors can observe them relaxing beside the hot springs year-round, though the sight of snow-covered monkeys steaming in winter has become one of the valley’s most iconic image.
Our tip, the one that really makes the hike worth it, is to pay extra to soak in a nearby outdoor onsen yourself. Sitting in volcanic heat while snow falls around you, beer in hand, is a level of winter indulgence worth every yen.
I cheers a monkey sitting on the edge of the pool who seems more interested in cleaning himself (at least I hope that’s what he’s doing) than joining me.
On my earlier visit to Nagano I stayed in temple lodgings near Zenkoji.
This time I go full ryokan in the charming, seemingly undiscovered Andai Onsen town at a ryokan called Masuya. Andai Onsen neighbours the gorgeous old school town of Shibu Onsen. Time slows at Masuya with a sense of Zen permeating throughout. Staff bow politely and lead me to my room which consists of a bedroom, a sitting room with a floor table (heated underneath) and the bubbling sound of my own private onsen. I slide open the screen door to the balcony and there it is, a stone bath steaming in sub-zero air. Snow drifts through the open shutters and melts quietly into the water. Dinner that evening is parade of delicate dishes that looks almost too delicate to eat. We demolish them.
Shibu Onsen itself feels unchanged by decades. Narrow cobbled lanes wind through town with steam rising from bathhouses. It feels like we’ve walked into a scene from Big Trouble in Little China (Google it, trust me). Nine public bathhouses are scattered throughout the town, each marked with wooden plaques and said to offer different healing properties. Guests shuffle between them in yukata robes and wooden sandals.
We visit the Tamamura Honten Brewery and I grab a local IPA to join me at Masuya later that evening.
In Japan, a snack bar isn’t about food. It’s a tiny karaoke lounge run by a local “mama”.
Seven seats. Whiskey poured generously. Microphone always live. Yuge-san knows the way. An old local woman and I bond over whiskey, the Rolling Stones and limited shared vocabulary. At some point we launch into Bohemian Rhapsody. She commits fully to the operatic section.
It is bold. It is loud and Freddie Mercury would have loved it.
The day ends almost like it began. I’m in an onsen again, but this time I’m with a local IPA rather than an amorous monkey.
Skiing the following day at Togakushi Ski Resort feels like someone quietly forgot to commercialise it. The slopes sit beneath the jagged Togakushi mountain range, their peaks cutting into a perfect blue sky. Cedar forests line the runs, branches sagging under fresh snow, giving the place a hushed cinematic quality.
There are no lines. No corporate banners. No blaring music. Which is probably just as well because my head is slightly heavy from the karaoke and whiskey the night before.
The skiing is deceptively good. There’s wide cruisers for finding rhythm, tree-lined sections that make you feel briefly competent, and snow that stays light and forgiving.
Japan is apparently bursting at the seams with tourists enjoying the weak yen. I’ve heard there’s more Aussie accents than Japanese at several of the more popular mountains. Not at Togakushi.
On American slopes, lunch often means wrestling through crowds for mac and cheese, burgers the size of your ego, and chips, chips and more chips (ok, fries).
At Togakushi? You peel off your boots and sit down to bowls of ramen steaming in the cold air. Soba noodles made from the region’s famous buckwheat. Japanese curry rich and comforting and of course, ice-cold beer.
Back in Nagano city that night the food porn gets even hotter. Dinner is at a local izakaya so small it could legally qualify as a cupboard. Seven seats. That’s it.
We sit elbow-to-elbow around a table while the chef places a roof tile, yes, an actual ceramic roof tile, over an open flame. Thinly sliced beef and vegetables sizzle directly on top. Fat spits. Steam rises.
We cook and eat straight off the tile.
It is absolutely delicious!
Two Japanese men laugh at the only table behind us raising their glasses.
“Kampai!”
“Yuge-San,” I exclaim, “how do you find these places?”
I’d doubted my old friend could improve on the previous trip’s dining. He had.
Sake flows. The chef grins. The heat from the flame warms our faces while outside the air bites.
This is the place you don’t find unless someone tells you. And once you do, you never forget the experience.
The following day we find ourselves back at Zenkoji Temple to attend the Mawari-goma fire ritual. We write our prayers on paper scrolls and circle a fire where our scrolls are burned. Chanting rolls through the courtyard. Smoke curls skyward with our prayers to somewhere somehow more spiritual than this 1400 year old temple.
Last time I crawled beneath the temple in darkness searching for rebirth. This time, standing in the snow watching fire meet winter, I realise the transformation feels different.
The Shinkansen slices west to Kanazawa, and by the time we arrive, the city looks like it’s been iced.
Last time we wandered through in autumn light, marvelling at lacquerware and Michelin-level tasting menus. Winter Kanazawa is moodier. Quieter.
At Kenrokuen Garden, the famous Yukitsuri ropes fan out from pine trees like giant umbrellas. The garden is hushed. Footsteps crunch softly. The ponds mirror a pale sky.
As we walk, a group of local primary school students approaches.
“Excuse me… can we interview you?”
They’re practising English.
“What is your name?”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you like Kanazawa?”
I answer carefully. They nod seriously and scribble notes. We take a photo. They bow deeply. Their teacher thanks me. The students’ English is better than their teachers.
I feel like we’ve wandered into a Japanese game show. We sit well apart on the floor of a dark black walled room. On the far wall a well-lit flower arrangement bursts out of the darkness.
Yuge-San wisely orders sake and it’s brought out for him to pass around to our small red tables, each with what looks like a Bunsen burner placed beside it.
We’re served small dishes of pickles and sushi before a cabinet is placed in front of each of us and our Bunsen burners are lit. The cabinet holds three bowls of differing deliciousness and we pour our bubbling broth over each as we eat our way through. Meditative music sets the ambience.
In the Nagamachi Samurai District the following morning, snow clings to earthen walls. The narrow lanes feel narrower. Definitely Quieter. The Nomura Samurai Residence, which once felt like a museum piece, now feels more intimate. Tatami rooms glow warmly against the cold outside.
I sit on the balcony gazing over the immaculate garden again, only this time it’s still and even more peaceful. I try to channel the samurai spirit for our next activity – learning the ancient art of kendo.
Dressed in armour, bamboo sword in hand, I’m reminded (repeatedly) that this is not sport. It’s discipline. Form. Presence.
We spend the morning with Kyoka Take, a disciple of Toshihiro Enoki, and her husband Fumiya Takeyoshi, both masters in kendo. They demonstrate, screaming before each strike. It’s like a dance between two lovers, each wanting to punish the other for some secret sin.
My first strike is enthusiastic and wildly inaccurate.
Kyoka Take laughs out loud which is fair enough, as I almost take out the fluorescent lights above me with a wild swing.
That evening we dine on traditional Kaga (Kanazawa) cuisine at Ootomorou, one of Kanazawa’s oldest traditional restaurants. Served what must be close to 12 courses by Geisha’s who move with absolute grace and style, the experience exemplifies Kanazawa itself. Ancient traditions are respected and artisans are revered.
We’ve only spent two days in Kanazawa and yet we’ve wandered a perfectly manicured 350 year old garden, trained with master of a 12th century martial art, even held a 500 year old samurai sword. We’ve shared sake with a third generation legend of the Maida family who now creates some of Japan’s most sought after kimonos and we’ve learned how Kanazawa is Japan’s capital of gold leafing.
Last time, I left thinking I’d uncovered a secret. This time, I realise the secret isn’t the cities themselves. It’s that they change with you.
Organised by Cross Country Swimming, this is the kind of trip where you eat tuna at dawn in Tokyo, watch sumo wrestlers attempt to fold each other in half, then spend the rest of the week swimming along a volcanic coastline so dramatic it looks like it’s been sketched by a moody anime director.
You land in Tokyo and immediately realise this city has more personalities than a Bond villain.
You start in Harajuku, because of course you do. One minute you’re standing under the towering torii gates of Meiji Jingu, surrounded by 120,000 trees and Shinto serenity. The next you’re dodging cosplayers, vintage denim hunters and teenagers dressed like intergalactic cartoon villains.
You drift past Yoyogi Park, birthplace of the 1964 Olympic dreams, then get spat out at the human washing machine that is Shibuya Crossing, 3,000 people crossing every few minutes in choreographed chaos.
That evening you meet your swim leaders, both coach and part ocean whisperer, and sit down to your first Japanese feast. It’s your introduction to oishi (delicious) and the unspoken rule of this trip: you will swim hard, and you will eat even harder.
Breakfast is at Tsukiji Outer Market, where Tokyo’s kitchens wake up. Prepare your stomach, the fish here is incredibly fresh.
If timing aligns, you’ll witness sumo training, enormous athletes moving with surprising grace and terrifying intensity. It’s kinda ballet and kinda like controlled demolition.
Then you board the train south. Rice paddies blur past. Small towns flicker by. And, if the clouds behave, Mount Fuji looms in the distance, symmetrical, sacred, smug.
You tunnel through mountains and suddenly the Pacific appears. Cliffs. Points. Jade water. You’ve arrived in Matsuzaki on the Izu Peninsula.
Your home is Izu Matsuzaki-so, a local-run inn perched above Suruga Bay. There’s a hot spring bath on the roof. There’s a restaurant called SUNSET. There’s sake. You’re going to be just fine.
Then it begins.
Your first swim: 3km from the beach along a volcano-formed coastline. Fishing boats idle offshore. Locals watch from the sand. The water deepens to ocean blue but stays calm, protected. It’s the perfect “hello” to Japan.
You climb out grinning, salty, already addicted.
Dinner is local fish, shrimp and shellfish. You soak in the rooftop onsen and stare at the coastline you just swam.
You wake to ocean light. Fresh fruit. Coffee. A cheeky pre-breakfast dip.
Today is Iwachi, home to an annual open water swim. Conditions decide the plan. Two 1.8km swims. Race pace if you’re feeling heroic. Leisurely cruise if you’re not.
You glide along “Silent Beach” in Nishi Izu, then toward Ishibu. Both beaches have outdoor onsens, freshwater springs spilling into the sea. You soak where hot mineral water meets salt. It feels illegal. It isn’t.
You start at Senganmon, walking through a cave to begin your swim at Hagachizaki Beach. It’s cinematic. You feel like you should have background music.
The day is two 2km swims, broken by beach lunch and whatever flavour of adventure you crave: technique session, full relaxation, or coasteering with expert guides.
Climb rocks. Leap into hidden coves. Swim through sea caves. Discover secret islands that look like they’ve been misplaced from a Miyazaki film.
If you’ve ever been swimming and thought, “What’s just around that corner?”, today you find out.
Dinner brings warm or cold sake, depending on mood. By now you’re speaking fluent “just one more glass”.
Matsuzaki Beach curves in a perfect arc, pine groves guarding white sand. Today’s headline: 4.2km from a small fishing village back toward Matsuzaki.
This is your chance to stretch out. Find rhythm. Let your stroke settle into something meditative. Or slap on fins and conserve energy, no ego here. You pass cliffs, fishing boats, and water so clear you can see shadows dancing beneath you.
You’re fitter now. Calmer too. The ocean’s no longer intimidating, it’s inviting. Dinner is more local seafood. You’re starting to consider moving here.
Morning brings a visit to the local fish market. Squid ink tea? Raw octopus? Why not. You’re in Japan. Then it’s island hopping in Nishi Izu. Two 2.5km swims toward Sanshiro Island, with a lunch break on the island itself. At low tide, you can literally walk across shallow channels, spotting octopus, sea horses, sea cucumbers and the occasionally terrifying fugu.
It feels like you’re swimming through an aquarium designed by Mother Nature on a creative streak.
Tonight, there’s optional karaoke in a tiny fishing village. You haven’t truly bonded as a swim group until someone attempts Bon Jovi in broken English.
This is what you’ve built toward. A 5km swim from Futo Beach to Tago Island.
There’s a lighthouse waiting. On clear days, Fuji watches from afar like a dignified supervisor. You stop mid-swim, tread water, and stare at that perfect volcanic cone rising above the sea.
It’s challenging, yes. But you’ve earned this. Support boats track you. Fins are welcome. Smiles mandatory. You land on the island knowing you’ve done something real.
Breakfast. Bags. Farewells. Tokyo hums. You head home. Salt still in your hair.
Why This Trip Works
This isn’t just a swim camp. It’s 7 nights of local inns and ryokan stays; 7 breakfasts, 5 lunches, 6 dinners. Fully supported ocean swims. All transport. All listed activities. It’s tradition and technology. Neon and nature. Sushi and sea cliffs.
Japan is where the past and present shake hands. The Izu Peninsula is where the land meets the Pacific in a blaze of volcanic drama. And this trip? It’s where your swimming goals meet a bucket-list adventure. You come for the kilometres. You stay for the sake.
There’s something deeply satisfying about sleeping in a tree. Maybe it’s the childhood fantasy finally upgraded with decent plumbing. Maybe it’s the smug thrill of being eye-level with parrots while everyone else is stuck on the ground. Or maybe it’s just that life is better when your bedroom sways gently in the breeze and your morning alarm clock is a howler monkey.
These aren’t your dad’s backyard planks nailed to a gum tree. These are architectural love letters to nature. Bamboo cocoons overlooking the Pacific. Solar-powered jungle pods. Baobab-wrapped hideaways. Designer nests with cedar hot tubs. Hand-built East African masterpieces that make the word “unique” blush.
Here are five treehouses that prove the best way to travel is slightly off the ground.
If Tarzan had a wellness retreat, this would be it.
Set on 80 hectares of gloriously untouched beachfront, Playa Viva is eco-luxe without the preachy pamphlets. The resort has 12 beachfront rooms. Sure the casitas and suites are all very tasteful, but we’re here for the Treehouse. A tubular bamboo beauty that looks like it’s been gently exhaled into existence by the jungle itself.
You sleep in a king bed suspended above the palms, stare directly at the Pacific Ocean, and pretend you’re the only person left on earth (with excellent bathroom facilities). There’s a private lounge, a proper bathroom, and enough sea breeze to convince you air-conditioning is a conspiracy.
Days here are dangerously wholesome. Sunrise yoga with the sun doing its show-off routine over the ocean. Organic meals so fresh they practically introduce themselves. Horse riding along empty beaches. Snorkelling and surfing missions. And if you need your heart gently melted, head to La Tortuga Viva turtle sanctuary and watch baby turtles begin their awkward sprint to the sea.
It’s eco, it’s luxe, it’s slightly smug and you will not want to leave.
Welcome to pura vida with a side of Swiss Family Robinson fantasy.
Tree House Lodge sits in thick Caribbean jungle where the soundtrack is frogs, parrots and the occasional monkey argument. The villas are built from recycled materials. Only fallen trees are used and everything runs on solar power. Mother Nature is not just invited; she owns the place.
The Beach Suite is the star. Think giant, spiralling wooden masterpiece with a bathroom that looks like a psychedelic space pod collided with a seashell. It’s gloriously over the top and completely brilliant.
By day, snorkel in Caribbean waters so clear they feel Photoshopped. Roll out a yoga mat on the beach. Swing in a hammock while sloths hang nearby pretending they’re part of the décor. Monkeys swing past like they’re doing inspections.
It’s barefoot, it’s blissful, and it’s the kind of place where emails go to die.
A treehouse wrapped around a baobab? Yes. Yes, please.
Collines de Niassam isn’t just a resort, it’s a fever dream in the best possible way. The most captivating suites are literally built into and around the limbs of ancient baobab trees. Two storeys high, they give you front-row seats to salt flats and winding waterways that eventually kiss the Atlantic.
You can stay grounded if you must. There’s cabins surrounded by bougainvillea or perched on stilts over the water, but the baobab suites are where the magic lives.
Spend your days kayaking through mangroves, visiting local villages or pelican-spotting from your elevated sanctuary. Then return for dinner where French chefs take full advantage of Senegal’s local produce. The flavours are bold, fresh and just a little bit showy.
This is what happens when grown-ups build treehouses without budget constraints.
Tucked into New Zealand’s cinematic Hakataramea Valley, Nest Treehouses is a masterclass in architectural indulgence. The first clue this isn’t a childhood knock-up is the swing bridge you cross to get there. Secret entrance? Tick.
Inside, it’s all timber curves, soft light and design so considered it feels like the trees approved it. Outside, things get dangerously indulgent: a private outdoor cedar bathtub, perfect for soaking under a galaxy of southern hemisphere stars, and a luxury cedar sauna with uninterrupted canopy views.
As the sun drops and birds soundtrack your evening, you can sit by a roaring fire or sip local wine in your tub pretending you invented hygge.
Your hosts, Liz and Andy, affectionately dubbed the ‘Nest makers’, have thought of everything. This is romance, solitude and architectural brilliance tied together with a swing bridge.
Yes, Mafia Island is a real place. No, there are no men in suits exchanging brown paper bags.
Off the southern coast of Zanzibar, Chole Mjini is the kind of place that makes you question why you ever sleep at ground level. Each treehouse here took six months to a year to build, entirely by hand, using traditional tools and locally sourced materials. No shortcuts. No prefabricated nonsense.
The result? Structures that feel grown rather than built.
Sandy paths wind through ancient baobab and tamarind trees toward open-air treehouses with mangrove-lined shoreline views. They’re impossible to replicate, not because someone won’t try, but because the devotion poured into them can’t be factory-made.
Nature is constant. Tides shift. Birds circle. Breezes roll in from the Indian Ocean. The only way you could be more immersed is if you joined a Greenpeace flotilla.
It’s raw, beautiful and utterly transportive.
FINAL WORD
Treehouses are no longer childhood rebellion against bedtime. They’re rebellion against ordinary travel. They put you back in the canopy where the air is cleaner, the views are wider and the stories are better.
The only question left is: how high do you want to go?
The reasons your mum won’t want you to visit, are the same reasons you should.
In 2011, the Japanese province of Fukushima hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons: earthquake, tsunami, nuclear reactor meltdowns. It sounds more like a blurb for a horror movie than a holiday brochure. But with the 15-year anniversary looming, a visit to Fukushima is a masterclass in grit, determination – and incredible food…
I’m standing in Futaba. Current population 198. Down from 7,000 before the 2011 disasters. Small before, it’s tiny now with its streets missing houses like teeth. Those that remain have been decontaminated. The others demolished with the radioactive debris taken away.
Pre-meltdown, Futaba was proud to be a nuclear power plant town. It even had a sign hanging over the main street declaring ‘Atomic energy for the bright future’. Ironic when the Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant meltdown made the town uninhabitable until 2022.
Futaba would have the air of a ghost town, if not for the bright, welcoming murals featuring locals. Splashed across multiple buildings, the artworks make it clear the town is down but not out. One mural stands out, depicting the Japanese saying: ‘Get knocked down seven times, get back up eight’.
Fukushima is the embodiment of that saying – I’ll soon learn the mural project is just one of the many innovations the courageous residents are using to attract visitors to the area – not to rubber neck, but to understand their loss, better prepare for disasters, and enjoy the natural beauty and culture of the home they love.
Fukushima prefecture has always been the road less travelled. It doesn’t have the glam of Tokyo, the beauty of Kyoto, or the nightlife of Osaka. But it’s natural beauty lures lovers of nature and more immersive travel. North of Tokyo, a spine of mountains separates the Hamadori coastal region from the rest of Fukushima, plunging to a flat range that runs into the clear waters of Pacific Ocean. Dotted with fishing ports, surf beaches, and hiking and cycle trails, it’s a seafood lovers’ paradise and a traditional food bowl for the rest of Japan.
But what makes it so stunning also helped it earn the unwelcome title of the only place in the world to have survived a clusterfxxk of an earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster and reputational damage caused by misinformation and fear.
Even for a country as hardened to earthquakes as Japan (which averages 1,043 quakes a year), the level nine Great East Japan Earthquake was officially the mother of all quakes.
It sparked a massive tsunami that slammed the coastline, making a joke of the existing sea defences and inundating the electricity plant that cooled the Daiichi nuclear reactors. The resulting explosions released radioactivity throughout the prefecture and beyond.
Ukedo Elementary School is only 300 metres from the ocean, which gave teachers and students little time to flee to the mountains before a 15.5-metre-high wall of water smashed into the building. The school is now a trashed shell… windows and walls blown out and drinking taps misshapen by the force of the water.
Remarkably, they all survived, only be evacuated when the first of the three reactor explosions began the next day.
Now the town is back in business, its fishing port has reopened and, on a calm day, it’s hard to imagine the horror of it all. Which is one of the reasons the school remains, as a warning and reminder to reflect on what, and who, is important.
The Great East Japan Earthquake & Nuclear Disaster Memorial Museum provides a gripping blow-by-blow account of the events. The stats are overwhelming: More than 164,000 residents were evacuated throughout Fukushima following the 2011 disaster as radiation levels rose, with 12 per cent of the prefecture declared off limits. As at August 2023, more than 4,000 people had died either directly, or indirectly, as a result of the disasters.
Now, if that hasn’t got you searching for your passport, this should: Tourists have always been fascinated by the end of civilisations, the Mayans, Pompeii, Easter Island. But Fukushima’s story did not begin and end in 2011. It continues as an inspiring example of resilience and reinvention.
The recovery effort has been impressive. By 2023, only 2.2 per cent of Fukushima was off-limits and 138,057 of the evacuees had returned.
Destroyed or uninhabited homes have been replaced by banks of solar panels, higher and stronger seawalls have been built, topped by roads and paths to ensure the region’s iconic views are enhanced, rather than obstructed. And with fewer people than Japan’s overwhelmed tourist hotspots, the friendly locals go out of their way to ensure you are welcomed and have a great time.
In Soma City, that includes providing a traditional Hamayaki experience – grilling fresh seafood over charcoal. I’m told to select a fish and plunge a skewer through it in a way that has it mimic dancing, before lining it up next to the coals. The biggest surprise, apart from the comedy of one of the chefs donning a samurai wig and brandishing a katana (sword) whilst cooking tempura, was discovering how delicious the local seaweed is fried. Who knew?
Samurai warrior culture is big in Soma, which boasts a 35th generation OG samurai as a local. Each year, hundreds of mounted participants reenact battles and race horses whilst wearing samurai armour during a three-day festival.
Fun? Yes. Difficult? No doubt. I stand nervously whist three women dress me in Samurai armour for a cosplay experience. I’m warned it weighs 20kg, and I definitely lose a few centimetres of height when the final touch – a helmet – is strapped on. Walking in a straight line is a struggle, so getting on a horse would definitely be a challenge. The thick fabric is dotted with metal, so it’s not only heavy but constrictive. So much so, I need assistance to pull out my katana during a mock battle. Spoiler alert, I lose. Brutally.
Minamisoma City is a fascinating hub of innovation sparked by the need to revive an economy that was once heavily reliant on the nuclear plant. The new businesses include Iriser, a studio where you can create your own glass jewellery under the guidance of female glass artisans. My supportive artisan shows me how to heat glass rods to melting point over a blue flame, each hand rotating different colours before mixing them together. It’s like tapping your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time. So, the cute green blob I end up looks nothing like the glass leaf necklace I was initially aiming to replicate, but you can’t be good at everything…
More polished local products can be bought at the local train station office, which has been transformed into a market and kombucha brewery that also offers sake tastings. TBH, sake has never been my liquor of choice, so my hopes aren’t high, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Craft sake brewer haccoba’s addition of a unique infusion, which includes beer hops, has changed the flavour profile to add subtle and delicious flavours of fruits, herbs and spices. I’m sold.
At J-Village, a national sports training centre and hotel, we sit on a tatami mat, ready to learn the art of nigiri sushi-making (that’s bite-sized, hand pressed sushi in case you weren’t aware). The sushi chef shows us how to ball up rice before adding wasabi and strips of seafood then plating them artfully-ish. Hot tip: coat your hands in the vinegar to stop the rice sticking to your hands.
I welcome the opportunity to work off some of the incredible food by sampling the new 200 km Fukushima Coastal Trail, which connects with the 1,000 km Michinoku Coastal Trail – one of the 10 Long Distance Nature Trails of Japan. The trail hugs the coast and heads inland to provide a kaleidoscope of views, from beaches to volcanic ranges and farms, as well as opportunities to learn more about the post-disaster recovery.
Our faces whipped by the salty air, we hop on ebikes to enjoy a cruisy ride along the coast, through tunnels and over seawalls, stopping at a cute Shinto shrine on a tiny standalone limestone outcrop. Remarkably the shrine’s red Tori gate survived the tsunami, whilst the connecting bridge was destroyed. During a coffee stop, we learn hopes are high for the trail to be recognised as a national cycling route.
At Iwaki City, Aquamarine Fukushima recreates the journey of evolution, from simple organisms to sea creatures with lungs and spines. It’s an impressive display but the biggest impact comes via the view from the third floor, where staff sheltered in place when the tsunami hit.
The glass building offers uninterrupted view of the Pacific Ocean, and a guide confides she was terrified as they watched the wall of water barrelled towards them.
There have been other damaging quakes since 2011, including 2021 and 2022, and there is no doubt there will be more. It is Japan after all. So, it surprises me that she is willing to continue working and living in the area. But her explanation is simple, if a disaster of that scale was to hit Japan again, Fukushima would be the best prepared to handle it.
That’s an embodiment of the region’s inspiring samurai spirit right there, and is exactly why, despite your mum’s fears, you’ll want to add Fukushima to your itinerary.
Answers to your mum’s FAQs:
About 12% of Fukushima Prefecture was declared unsafe as a result of the reactor explosion. Now it is around 2%.
Fukushima’s food produce is checked to ensure it is safe.
Decommissioning work on the destroyed reactors continues.
A road trip through Queensland’s Scenic Rim that rewards slowing down more than speeding up.
Let’s start by saying I didn’t set out on this road trip along the Scenic Rim looking for transformation. But I arrived at Brisbane airport with a packed bag, an open mind, and the usual city habit of wanting to know what was first on the agenda. It didn’t take long for this jaw-dropping region to cure me of that impatience.
The Scenic Rim doesn’t announce itself. There’s no single ‘you are here’ moment, no obvious before-and-after line in the road. Instead, things soften gradually. Traffic thins. Phone reception becomes a little sketchy. Conversations slow down. Somewhere between the first set of rolling hills and the second cattle grid, you realise this road trip isn’t for ticking boxes, but more about letting the days stretch a little longer than planned.
Our small group rolled into Spicers Hidden Vale for the night, and it immediately set the tone. This place isn’t a resort (although it kinda feels like one). It’s actually a sprawling, well-kept secret. And if you want to get really particular about it, it’s a former cattle station turned luxury lodge.
The 4WD guided drive through the property isn’t scenic (although the views are mind blowing), as much as it’s grounding. You learn how the land is managed and how conservation fits alongside the comfort of the lodge.
Then there’s the kitchen garden. Touring it with the chef makes dinner feel like a continuation. You see what’s growing, what’s thriving, and what will end up on your plate later that night. It’s an experience that quietly raises your standards for food (as if they weren’t already high), and unfortunately lowers your tolerance for supermarket basil.
Back in the car the following morning, the Scenic Rim delivered one of its best curveballs: Summerland Camels. Because yes, there are actual camels here. The tour I was lucky enough to be on managed to be both informative and hella charming. Watching baby camels and their mamas wander through paddocks, and even seeing what it means to really look after the friendly giants (some of the male camels were getting the snip during our visit) is not something you expect to do in Queensland. But that’s what makes it cool. I even managed to swallow a sip of slightly warm camel milk without gagging (go me) while I was there.
But food and produce play a big role in this region. So a stop at the Scenic Rim Farm Shop is a must. It’s sorta like a choose-your-own-adventure of local goods, and resisting the urge to buy everything from the cutest boutiques on the property requires some serious discipline. Nearby, Kooroomba Lavender Farm feels like it exists purely to slow you down. Lavender rows stretch towards Lake Moogerah, the views do most of the talking, and lunch turns into a long one (ofc) because no one’s rushing you along.
From Kooroomba, the road climbs towards Mount French Lodge, and the energy shifts almost immediately. Every single bit of noise drains away completely here. Each one of the lodges are spaced generously across the landscape, giving each guest the illusion (and let’s be real, the reality) of having the place to themselves. Because you kinda do.
This place is designed for groups to book out. So you won’t have to make awkward small talk with a couple of strangers over a beautifully prepared breakfast in the main lounge/kitchen/dining area.
In fact, the whole property encourages stillness. Big windows pull the outside in, decks look out over hills that seem to roll on forever, and there’s no background soundtrack beyond the gentle gust of wind and the melodic song of birds. But the privacy doesn’t feel snobby and exclusive. It feels intentionally peaceful without trying too hard to be profound. Granted, you don’t “do” much here, but that’s why I was obsessed with it (and still am). Time passes (obvs), but it does so in a gentle way.
All too soon, SOL Elements Bathhousebeckoned, offering exactly what the name promises. Set against a mountain backdrop, SOL Elements is for soaking, floating, steaming and generally forgetting what day it is (I know I did). Regardless of the experience you choose to have here, this place is calm, restorative, a little indulgent, and the lack of pressure to move on makes it easy to settle into your own rhythm. You’ll leave lighter, physically (you’ll sweat heaps thanks to their saunas and salt rooms) and mentally.
But it was time to head back to nature and the trees took centre stage at the Tamborine Rainforest Skywalk. Elevated walkways ease you from the forest floor up into the canopy, giving you a new perspective without asking too much of your knees. It’s accessible (hell yeah), beautifully designed, and very impressive. But the way the rainforest carries on around you as if you’re not even there, with birds calling and leaves shifting, makes this a special (read: must do) stop.
Our final stop was Happitat Adventure Park, but before we could get there, we had to stay at Binna Burra Lodge, perched high on the Binna Burra land (surrounded by Lamington National Park) with views that make you pause mid-sentence. The outlook across the valley is genuinely vast, especially at sunrise and sunset, when the light shifts and everything feels momentarily suspended.
Binna Burra carries a deep sense of history, but it doesn’t feel stuck in it. There are walking tracks that disappear into the rainforest, communal spaces that invite quiet conversation, and plenty of corners where you can sit alone and do absolutely nothing. It’s a fitting end point, not because it feels final, but because it encourages reflection. Well, it certainly did for me.
By the time we pointed the car back towards Brisbane, I felt a little different. Less hurried. Less inclined to reach for my phone. And I came to the realisation that a road trip along the Scenic Rim is not something you race through. It’s one you settle into, and quietly wish lasted a few days longer.
Where rock ’n’ roll ghosts, rooftop martinis and mild delusions of celebrity collide.
West Hollywood is less of a place and more of a mood. A slightly unhinged, sunglasses-at-night, “yes I’ll have another martini” kind of mood. Its hotel lobbies double as casting calls, its rooftop pools feel like they could star in music videos, and everyone looks like they’re either famous, about to be famous, or pretending very convincingly.
After far too many nights (and mornings we barely remember), here are our Top 5 West Hollywood hotels. These places don’t just give you a bed, but actively encourage bad decisions, great stories, and the occasional ego boost.
For when your hangover deserves a poolside soundtrack
The Ziggy feels like it was designed by someone who really loves music… and really doesn’t care what time you need to wake up tomorrow. There’s an actual band room where musicians can plug in and play, and a DJ who spins late into the night in a dimly lit bar that feels dive-y.
But be warned, this isn’t a quiet hotel.
HOT TIP: Get a room that opens directly onto the pool. There is nothing, and we emphasise nothing, better for a West Hollywood hangover than rolling out of bed, sliding open the door, and falling directly into water before your brain fully switches on. It’s hydrotherapy (probably).
Retro glamour, martinis, and aggressive people-watching
Sunset Tower is a time capsule with better cocktails. Uber-cool, unapologetically retro, and dripping in Hollywood history, this place has seen more stars than a planetarium. Our publisher once had breakfast with Jeff Bridges and dinner (plus a wicked martini) with Jennifer Aniston.
OK, he didn’t actually eat with them, but he may have stared at them so intently that they eventually left. Which feels like a win (or majorly creepy?? You decide). And the Tower Bar is legendary for a reason. You half expect someone to slide into the booth next to you and pitch a movie.
HOT TIP: Eat at the Tower Bar and pretend you’re a celebrity. Speak confidently. Order a martini. Nod knowingly at nothing in particular.
Kimpton La Peer is what happens when a hotel doesn’t need to shout. It’s tucked away, subtle, and deeply confident in its own coolness. And after staying here, so are we.
The rooms have huge windows and dramatic drapes that make you feel like you should be delivering a monologue, even if you’re just ordering room service. Then there’s the rooftop pickleball court with sunset views, and bar. Yes, all of that. In one place.
HOT TIP: Don’t miss the evening wine tasting from 5 – 5.30pm, then head straight to the rooftop for pickleball as the sun goes down. It’s competitive. It’s ridiculous. And it’s very West Hollywood.
Once upon a time this was the Riot Hyatt, and even though it’s been polished and rebranded, rock ’n’ roll still sweats from the walls. You can feel it. Like nicotine stains on history.
The rooftop pool is still excellent, the cocktail bar still pumps, and the vibe still whispers, “Something inappropriate definitely happened here in the ’70s.” Bonus points: it’s right next door to The Comedy Store, so you can stumble back to your room after laughing too hard at someone who’s (probably) about to be famous.
HOT TIP: Stay for the late, late show at The Comedy Store. This is peak Sunset Strip behaviour.
Sometimes you want to live in WeHo, not just sleep there
The Charlie isn’t really a hotel. It’s more like a secret serviced apartment complex for people who look vaguely important, hidden behind gates and gardens right in the middle of West Hollywood. Staying here feels like quietly moving into someone else’s extremely tasteful Hollywood life.
The rooms are proper apartments. Think kitchens, laundry, living areas, patios. This means you can cook, unpack, and pretend this is just your place in LA. You’ll find yourself doing very un-hotel things, like grocery shopping and making coffee, while simultaneously feeling like a celebrity who definitely has a publicist somewhere.
The whole place is made up of charming old cottages, named after Hollywood legends, and wandering through the leafy courtyards feels like you’ve accidentally wandered onto a movie set where everyone forgot to yell “cut.” It’s calm, discreet and slightly smug in the best possible way.
HOT TIP: Lean into it. Sit outside with a coffee, wear sunglasses even if you don’t need them, and walk out the front gate like you’re late for a meeting you absolutely cannot talk about.
Apologies to properties we’re yet to enjoy. We’re looking at you The London and Sun Rose, and for those shaking their heads… Chateau Marmont is not West Hollywood. That’s a whole ‘nother story.
Yes, WEHO hotels are technically places to sleep, but they’re also supporting characters in the story you’ll undoubtedly tell later. And these five don’t just give you a room; they give you attitude, atmosphere, and the strong illusion that you might be someone important.
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