For 25 years, I’ve been asked the same question, 'Which is your favourite country?'
I’ve visited almost 70 countries for this job, taking in global cities and genuine wilderness alike, but I’m still working out the answer. Forget comparing the Nepalese Himalayas to Botswana’s Okavango Delta; how do you rank San Francisco against Svalbard?
The problem with the 'favourite' game is what we seek from travel shifts according to our expectations, our mood and our wallet.
I’d argue that what a destination really requires to become a favourite is that we are open to it. It’s about accepting an offer to learn dance steps with musicians in the Comoros or a villager’s invitation to his home for lunch in Indonesia. It’s diving into a tin-roof Floridian bar to find James Brown’s old drummer, Jabo Starks, in the house band. In short, it’s about seeking out the wonder which makes travel so thrilling.
Although I’m not counting, I have around 125 countries still to visit. The good news is I’m yet to go to one I didn’t enjoy. But here are seven destinations I loved.
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When I first arrived on a tall ship in 1997, Australia’s island state was viewed like the embarrassing hick cousin at a smart family wedding. Over numerous visits since, I’ve watched it transform into a prize of national tourism. Especially in capital Hobart, Tasmania is arty, creative, blessed by a food scene of stellar ingredients and affordable rates – a perfect storm in a teacup and on a plate. Hotels have gone from chintz-and-doilies to chic.
Yet Tasmania is still built of dazzling beaches and Unesco-listed national parks like an Antipodean Scottish Highlands (walkers take note). Some of the weirdest concept creatures ever put into limited production still hop and yowl in the bush. Tasmanians themselves remain easy-going. Every time I go, I find myself at estate agents’ windows imagining an alternative life.
In October, Spanish tourist authorities ticked off Brits for pigeonholing their country as a destination of sunloungers and sangria. Andalusia in spring or autumn proves their point. Away from the coast, this is Spain at its most extraordinary.
Road trips remind me of the New World so vast is the scale of the landscapes., so vast is the scale of the landscapes. Mad festivals in pueblos blancos like Grazalema celebrate ancient battles and let loose bulls. In its surrounding National Park, I walked with the ghost of Laurie Lee. In towns like Jerez de la Frontera, you discover Old Spain, where fountains tinkle in Moorish courtyards and the spirit of duende crackles in flamenco bars. It’s a place of fierce pride and a savage heat thatlicks like a lion.
Mention a trip to the Faroe Islands to anyone who’s been, and they’ll bang on about cute capital Torshavn and shark-fin islands like Kalsoy and probably Gasadalur, a turf-roofed village where a waterfall hurls itself off a cliff. You’ll roll your eyes, then go and discover it was all true. In this autonomous Danish archipelago, you don’t go on holiday so much as star in your own Viking myth.
On previous visits, I’ve seen waterfalls flow up a cliff (strong winds) and driven above clouds on what seemed like a road to Valhalla. It’s only after you’ve finished gawping that you notice the astonishing mercurial light and the warmth of people – I recommend booking a heimablidni, in which you dine in private homes.
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If Marrakesh has the kudos, Morocco’s artisan city has the culture. It has helped that I’ve always visited alone – the street-hustle for a single man was half-hearted – and speak French. Also, perhaps that Fez has a reputation for being more reserved than theatrical Marrakech.
Whatever the reason, I spent two trips to the world’s largest medina chatting with artisans and shopkeepers or sitting with pots of sweet mint tea as life rattled past. Occasionally, I shopped – some antique painted tiles here, an old ink-well there. I may have overpaid, but the price felt worth it, which is all that matters when buying. When the intensity overwhelmed me, I retreated to a riad hotel. Did I ever get lost? Of course. Maybe that was half the point.
Yes, Pembrokeshire. It sits oddly between Fez and Tajikistan I know, but what a county. Off Freshwater West and Whitesands beaches, I’ve had some of my most enjoyable surfs in Britain.
On coastal walks around St David’s, I’ve heard the spirits of ancient saints whisper. The voices are older still at sunset on the Iron Age hill fort of Strumble Head. Combined with a stellar landscape and an exploding food scene, the county benefits from a glut of interesting people: restaurateurs and B&B owners, artists, woodworkers and weavers. Factor in the west-coast location and I’ll argue Pembrokeshire is the California of Britain. You read it here first.
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Every list needs an adventure. The M41 unfurls from Tajik capital Dushanbe as a civilised ribbon of asphalt. By the time it cuts into Kyrgyzstan, 690 miles later, it has gone feral; throwing off its tarmac and cuddling up to Afghanistan,
The road soars into high-altitude desert skirted by fire-blackened sheep skulls and roadside shrines. Central Asia’s greatest road trip is a two-week epic in the cart-tracks of Marco Polo and over the world’s second-highest road, Ak Baital Pass (15,272ft). The food is suspect, but the scenery in the Wakhan Valley and village homestays is worth it.
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The secret to a satisfying road trip is to trust in serendipity as much as suspension. Each time I travel on the Dalmatian coast, I prefer to busk it wherever possible. I catch ferries to pine-scrubbed islands like Šolta, Lastovo and Silba that have little grip on the 21st century and swim in seas so clear it feels like flying.
I yarn with family winemakers as bottles pop and in a bar in Korčula meet a fisherman who led to me being off that magical small town at dawn as his nets dripped gold. I sleep in small hotels or source rooms with local families each night. Croatians call it pomalo – roughly, not fixing plans, living slowly, being in the moment. I call it the holiday jackpot
