That’s when Turkmenistan Airlines appeared. I wasn’t even aware that Turkmenistan had a flag carrier airline. The fare was considerably lower than the better-known airlines, and I was equal parts intrigued and sceptical. So I decided to Google it.

Normally, researching an airline is straightforward. There are endless reviews, YouTube videos and discussions analysing everything from legroom to the quality of the bread roll.

But there was hardly anything on Turkmenistan Airlines. I found a handful of articles, a couple of posts on Reddit and ratings of around 3 on Trustpilot and Tripadvisor. There were also several videos from aviation YouTuber Josh Cahill, who had flown with them more than once and seemed to actually be a fan of them!

I watched several of his videos, seeking reassurance but oscillating between feeling fascinated and increasingly alarmed.

Firstly, most of the flights appeared to be empty. There are a couple of Josh Cahill videos where he was literally the only passenger on board!!

Secondly, I discovered they'd actually been banned from flying in Europe in 2019, after an audit found that they failed to meet international air safety standards. Not exactly the sort of thing you want to discover while looking to book a 14-hour journey with your family. On the positive side, the ban wasn’t prompted by a crash or serious incident and was lifted eight months later. I decided this was enough evidence that we would probably make it to Malaysia.

Booking directly through the airline’s website is not an option, so we booked our flights through Trip.com. It’s also not possible to check in online or pre-book any extras. You don’t receive a single communication from the airline. Everything happens at the airport, face to face, like it’s 1995.

Trip.com recommended that we arrive several hours before our flight to check in, so we dutifully arrived at Gatwick three hours before departure, fully expecting to find a quiet check-in desk and half a dozen fellow passengers.

Instead, we were greeted by one of the longest queues in the terminal.

So much for Josh Cahill and his private plane.

We’d actually hoped there might be a chance to upgrade to Business Class at the airport, but judging by the queue, that clearly wasn’t going to happen. It suddenly dawned on us that the war in the Middle East had given everyone else the same idea. Turkmenistan Airlines was having its moment.

Check-in was a frustrating experience. After queuing for 45 minutes, we finally arrived at the desk, had our passports checked and were told that we needed to complete a Digital Arrival Card for Malaysia.

Neither Trip.com nor the airline had thought to mention this small but rather important detail.

We were asked to step aside and either complete the application ourselves or pay a third-party company, conveniently located at a desk directly opposite Turkmenistan Airlines, to do it for us. We tried doing it ourselves on our phones, but the website was so laggy that it kept kicking us out. Eventually, we gave up and handed the job over to them. The privilege cost us an extra £50.

We did wonder whether this was some sort of organised airport mafia operation, with the two companies working together to make money off the backs of unsuspecting passengers, but we didn’t have much time to investigate this theory.

On the other hand, the baggage allowance was incredibly generous. Each passenger gets two 20kg checked bags.

Despite the delay we made it through security and even had some time to spare.

Then came boarding time for the first leg of our journey

London to Ashgabat.

I’d spent weeks imagining a tired old aircraft held together by duct tape. Ok, slight exaggeration, but I had seriously wondered whether we might find ourselves on some ageing Soviet-era plane. My fears disappeared as soon as I stepped onto a bright, spacious Boeing 777 with seats so wide I wondered if we’d accidentally wandered into Premium Economy.

It was an incredibly comfortable aircraft, with generous legroom, wide seats and bright and airy cabin.

Even the toilets impressed me, which isn’t something I ever expected to write in an airline review. They were huge by aircraft standards, with enough space to sit comfortably without contorting as you normally would in economy-based lavatories.

Despite departing 30 minutes late, our pilot made up the time and we landed in Ashgabat exactly on schedule.

However, not everything was quite as pleasant a surprise.

The cabin crew were professional, but very stern. They didn’t smile or make much conversation, and on a couple of occasions I watched them firmly ask passengers to return their reclining seats to the upright position.

I also became intrigued by the uniforms they wore. Some crew members wore green suits, while others wore red tunics over green. We couldn’t work out why and assumed it had to do with seniority. Maybe the green suits were senior crew and the red tunics junior. Then, halfway through the flight, one crew member disappeared wearing green and reappeared wearing red.

My husband joked that she might have been promoted mid-flight.

To this day, it remains one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of our journey.

And then there was the food. We were served our first meal fairly soon after take-off, and the tray looked surprisingly generous. Unfortunately, none of it tasted particularly good.

The hot meal consisted of what looked like chicken and rice, although it was so bland it was hard to tell for sure.

There were a lot of other items such as bread, cheese, cake etc. but the most intriguing item was this delicacy which consisted of a mysterious burgundy filling that looked like jelly, sandwiched between two biscuits. I examined it from several angles before deciding I didn’t want to discover what it was.

I’d actually read plenty about the food in the articles and videos I’d found, so this came as no surprise. We’d come prepared with our own sandwiches and snacks, which turned out to be a very wise decision.

There was also an entertainment system which I hadn’t expected to find because Trip.com had specifically said there wouldn’t be any in-flight entertainment.

But there it was. Technically.

The “New Releases” section featured films from around 2022, while the TV library consisted mostly of shows I’d never heard of and wasn’t particularly motivated to get to know.

Instead, I decided to watch the moving map for a while, which was fascinating. I’d never flown across Central Asia before, and watching as we flew over Kazakhstan and into Turkmenistan turned out to be more interesting than any of the films on offer.

We were also offered an in-flight magazine which seemed to be mostly devoted to Turkmenistan’s president and consisted of glossy photoshoots of him in various poses around the country.

Layover in Ashgabat airport

Then came the part I had been most excited about: landing at Ashgabat International Airport for our three-hour transit.

I’d seen the airport in photos and videos while researching the airline and became slightly obsessed with its dazzling architecture and surreal spaces. The current terminal opened in 2016 and cost around $2.3 billion. It was designed to handle up to 17 million passengers a year.

Turkmenistan is one of the world’s most closed countries. Getting access to visit the country requires a pre-approved letter of invitation which is issued by the State Migration Service of Turkmenistan. So why on earth did they build such a colossal airport?!!

At around 3am, it was almost completely empty. Everyone from our flight was connecting somewhere else, so we made our way through security and into the transit area. As we walked through the terminal, I couldn’t stop staring at the sheer opulence of it all. White marble, gold detailing, soaring ceilings and vast corridors that never seemed to end.

It was spectacular. And almost nobody was there.

Security personnel were everywhere though. Many looked incredibly young but their presence made me slightly nervous.

There was no wifi at the airport, and my Airalo eSIM didn’t work either. I asked a few other passengers and they were having the same problem.

I wasn’t going to sit in the waiting area twiddling my thumbs for three hours. I decided to go exploring.

Near the gates was a small duty-free area with a couple of shops selling local rugs and souvenirs, a café was still open and serving food and another little shop was selling drinks and snacks. Along with the waiting area, these were pretty much the only populated parts of the terminal.

Beyond that, the airport was a desert.

I walked through the enormous empty corridor, passing security officers every few minutes and trying not to look too conspicuous.

There was a restaurant advertising burgers, but at 3 am it was closed. And then, tucked away in a corner of this futuristic, multibillion-dollar airport, I came across something I didn’t expect to find: an internet café. With its rows of tables and individual computer chairs, it looked like it had been transported straight from 1999.

Sadly, it too was closed, so my dreams of logging into Hotmail and asking someone if they wanted to chat on MSN didn’t materialise.

Ashgabat to Kuala Lumpur

Then it was time to board our second flight, from Ashgabat to Kuala Lumpur.

This one was considerably less comfortable.

The aircraft was smaller and felt much less polished than the 777 we’d flown from London. The food was the same, and the entertainment hadn’t undergone any upgrades during our three hours transit in Ashgabat.

Thankfully, by this point I was exhausted. My body clock completely surrendered to the time-zone confusion, and I slept for most of the flight.

So, would I fly Turkmenistan Airlines again?

I think I would.

Although next time, I might be tempted to try Business Class.

For all its quirks and shortcomings - the analogue booking experience, the frustrating check-in process and the rather underwhelming in-flight experience - the journey was a long way from the terrifying one I’d mentally prepared myself for after spending time researching the airline online. In fact, the first flight exceeded my expectations. The seats were comfortable, the baggage allowance was very generous and both flights were on time.

In an age when we research every hotel and airline, and arrive at destinations convinced we already know what to expect, this experience reminded me that travel can still surprise us.

And sometimes, the greatest mystery isn’t the airline at all. It’s what on earth was inside that biscuit.

What was your most bizarre flying experience? share it below in the comments.

Forget personality tests. Give me twenty minutes at a hotel breakfast buffet and I’ll tell you who you are.

I am, by nature, an observer. It’s an occupational hazard of spending a life moving through airports, hotels and other people’s holidays. You learn to study people as much as places. And nowhere rewards that habit quite like breakfast. I’ve sat in more hotel dining rooms than I can count, watching small, unspoken dramas unfold over the pastry table. It never gets old.

In airports, we are often too stressed to be our real selves. And in hotel receptions, we are too busy being polite. But breakfast catches us in between. Before sightseeing, meetings, and before we’ve put together a version of ourselves we want to display on a holiday. At 8 am, our defences are still down. We haven’t decided who we’re being today. We’re just hungry.

And it turns out that’s when people are at their most watchable. The format of the breakfast room is what makes this so easy to do. A buffet removes the usual social scaffolding around eating. There are no waiters, no menu, and no obligation to respect the order of courses. When you give people an abundance of choice and a ticking clock, their coping style becomes fully formed within about ninety seconds.

It doesn’t seem to matter whether you’re in Sri Lanka, Portugal or Tunisia . Every breakfast buffet has the same characters.

The Strategic Scout

They never pick up a plate immediately, instead they do a full reconnaissance tour of the buffet before committing to a single item. Every dish is assessed with military precision. You can watch the calculations happening behind their eyes: portion size, freshness, logistics. Only once the intelligence is fully gathered do they return to the starting point and actually begin filling their plate.

The Pyjama Traditionalist

They walk in wearing exactly what they slept in, pyjama bottoms, oversized T-shirt advertising a holiday they took in 2009, and slippers. Unlike the rest of us who agonised over whether shorts were appropriate for breakfast. They don’t hesitate at the door, and look completely at home. Almost as if this isn’t a hotel dining room full of strangers but an extension of their own kitchen.

They stride confidently through the restaurant, nod politely at no one in particular and head straight for the coffee machine. We judge them publicly but secretly envy their confidence.

The Honeymooners

You can spot them before you’ve even found the coffee machine. They’re sitting on the same side of the table, despite four empty chairs being available. They’re smiling at each other over orange juice like it’s a private joke. Someone is photographing someone else holding a cup of coffee at a slightly flattering angle. Even the choice between strawberry and apricot jam becomes a small shared adventure, discussed at length, decided together.

The Influencer

They’re not here for breakfast. They’re here to create content. The croissant is photographed from above, then from the side, then mid-tear, steam rising theatrically into frame. The coffee cup gets moved three times in search of better composition. Then the whole buffet receives a slow pan worthy of a nature documentary, and somewhere in the background of that video, you become an unpaid extra in an Instagram reel that will be captioned slow mornings in paradise.

By the time filming wraps, the eggs have gone cold. But who cares, the reel looks incredible.

The Full English Maximalist

Their plate is a feat of structural engineering. The sausages act as load-bearing supports for the mushrooms. The eggs balance on a base of baked beans. The hash browns are slotted into whatever gaps remain. Gravity is seriously tested. They leave nothing behind. There is something truly admirable in that kind of commitment.

The Fruit Optimist

Every morning starts with the best of intentions. Today will be different. Fresh fruit, natural yoghurt. A clean, virtuous start to the day.

Five minutes later they’re walking back to the table with three pain au chocolat, explaining, mostly to themselves, that “they’re really small”. No one at the table believes them, least of all themselves.

We’ve all been the Fruit Optimist. Some of us are the Fruit Optimist every single morning of our lives.

The Toast Gambler

Arguably the boldest risk-taker in the room. They feed their bread into the mysterious conveyor toaster and watch it vanish into the glowing abyss. From this moment on, they’re no longer in control. They wait, trying to look calm but internally wondering if they’ve just made a mistake. Was it the wrong slot? Did they place the bread upside down somehow? Ten seconds pass. Nothing. Then, without warning, two slices of toast emerge. They wonder if one of them is theirs. So do the other three people waiting nearby. Then the gentleman to their left claims them immediately with the confidence of a man who has done this before. No hesitation, no eye contact. Eventually the Gambler walks away empty-handed, defeated, at which point, naturally, their toast pops out exactly three seconds later.

The Veteran Complainer

You’ll usually hear them before you see them. They may be standing behind you in the queue, or sitting at a nearby table, complaining to their partner that the eggs are overcooked, or undercooked-it really depends on what needs to be wrong that morning- The coffee is too weak. The orange juice is too sweet. The bread rolls are too hard. If breakfast was somehow served in a state of absolute perfection, they would still find fault with the fact that the plates were too round. Then at some point in the meal, almost ritually, they mention another hotel where breakfast was simply done properly.

The Cultural Adventurer

“This,” they announce, gesturing at an unfamiliar local dish with real conviction, “is why we travel.” They take one careful, deliberate bite. There’s a pause. A few minutes later, with considerably less fanfare, they’re discreetly helping themselves to scrambled eggs and toast, the local dish completely abandoned. The intention was sincere though, but the stomach had other plans.

The Secret Picnic Planner

Usually travelling with children. Officially, they’re having breakfast. Unofficially, they’re preparing for whatever family adventure lies ahead. A banana disappears into a backpack, followed by three apples. Then, with the confidence of someone who’s done this many times before, Mum begins assembling sandwiches. A bread roll is opened, a sausage slips inside, then another, the sandwich disappears into a napkin before being tucked discreetly into the day bag.

Across the table, the teenage daughter stares at her orange juice, mortified and desperately hoping nobody notices they’re travelling together.

Then one parent casually asks, “Does anyone want another croissant for later?” Nobody answers. Four croissants disappear anyway. No one in the restaurant seems remotely surprised.

The Shameless Returner

They didn’t mean to go back a third time. That was never the plan.

The first plate was reasonable. The second was a little more purposeful, but still within the bounds of normal holiday behaviour. The third is the problem. By the third trip to the buffet, they’ve started taking the long way round, skirting past other tables, avoiding eye contact with the same chef who is now serving them their third omelette.

There’s a specific kind of walk reserved for this: brisk, slightly hunched, eyes fixed somewhere, as if walking faster might disguise repetition. They tell themselves “it’s included anyway. Tomorrow I’ll only have coffee and yoghurt”.

And yet, faced with the same spread tomorrow, they will do exactly the same thing. Some appetites don’t respond well to shame.

The Child

Their plate, by any reasonable standard, should not exist.

Chocolate cake. Pancakes. Waffles. Nutella. A single sausage, for reasons no one will ever understand. Half a cucumber that will remain untouched. A bowl of cereal. Three glasses of different juices, in various states of abandonment.

Two bites are taken. “I’m full.”

By ten o’clock the room empties out, almost on cue. The honeymooners drift off towards the swimming pool. The influencer finally eats something. The Strategic Scout has already moved on to planning lunch with the same military precision. Tables are cleared. Coffee cups vanish. Within twenty minutes it’s as though none of it happened at all.

Until tomorrow morning, when the whole show begins again.

I’ve quickly learned that breakfast rarely tells you much about the hotel itself. But sit and watch the buffet for half an hour, and you’ll learn an extraordinary amount about the people staying there.

Including yourself.

Personally, I’d like to think I’m the Cultural Adventurer.

If I’m honest, though, I’m probably a cross between the Strategic Scout and the Fruit Optimist.

Who have I missed? I know there are plenty more characters lurking around the breakfast buffet, enough to fill several more pages. Tell me who you’ve spotted over the years, or, better yet, be honest... which one are you?

There are already thousands of newsletters telling us where to travel and which hotel to book.

This isn’t one of them.

I’m much more interested in what happens when we travel.

Why do we all want to travel “like a local”? Why does everyone suddenly behave differently at an airport? Why do some places become destinations almost overnight? And what does any of this say about us?

Travel is full of strange behaviours, unwritten rules and tiny absurdities we rarely stop to question.

But underneath them are bigger stories about psychology, status, culture, technology, and an industry working largely out of sight.

That’s what In Transit explores.

I spend my working life behind the scenes of travel, and the rest of it travelling. That means I’m often as curious about what’s happening around the journey as I am about the destination itself.

I’m not here to tell you where to go.

I’m here to make travel a little more interesting to think about.

If that sounds like your kind of travel writing, welcome aboard.

Start Here

If you’re new here, these are a few good places to start:

Before long, the destination has acquired a whole aesthetic. A colour palette, a mood, a certain type of traveller. And then, almost without noticing, it becomes the place. The “omg you absolutely must visit soon” place. Eighteen months later, everyone is already over it.

Destinations have always moved through broadly the same cycle. They are discovered, embraced, celebrated, saturated and eventually abandoned, or at least replaced by somewhere newer and more exciting.

If you thought this pattern is a product of the internet, you’d be wrong.

Academics have been documenting it for decades. In 1980, Canadian geographer Richard Butler published what would become one of the foundational frameworks for understanding how destinations change over time. Known as the Tourism Area Life Cycle, it mapped a destination’s journey through six stages: exploration, involvement, development, consolidation, stagnation, and finally either rejuvenation or decline.

Butler was writing about places such as Niagara Falls and English seaside resorts like Brighton and Blackpool, where this process unfolded over the course of a century. Each phase lasted long enough that an entire generation could live through it without necessarily noticing the change.

This pattern still exists today, the only thing that has changed is the velocity.

Dubrovnik, a medieval Adriatic city with centuries of tourism history, reached crisis-level saturation in just under a decade, with the steepest part of the curve happening after it became a filming location for GoT in 2012.

Tulum is another excellent example. Both an archaeological wonder and a Caribbean paradise, it was long seen as an alternative to the resort towns further up the Yucatán coast, despite being only ninety minutes down the same stretch of the coastline. Same sea, same climate, but a completely different world- or so it seemed.

The aesthetic was carefully designed. Raw concrete and jungle. Cenote swims instead of swim-up bars. Temazcal ceremonies instead of all-inclusive buffets. It felt like a counter-culture destination, an escape from mainstream Caribbean tourism. Which is precisely why it was so easy to replicate.

First came the boutique hotels, then the wellness retreats, then the international DJs and beach clubs- which absolutely killed the concept of Tulum as an alternative scene and turned it into a tourism product.

Then came everyone. By the time Tulum was being recommended by every algorithm on every platform, the people who had made it culturally interesting had already relocated somewhere else, somewhere you hadn’t heard about yet.

I visited Montenegro at a time when tourism was barely noticeable. There were only a handful of bed and breakfasts, no curated lists of “must-sees”, and no sense that the place had already been pre-digested for you. A few years later, Montenegro and most of the Balkans went from “undiscovered” to “Europe’s hottest destination.”

Marrakech has been “discovered” so many times it has lost count. The medina, the riads, the rooftop bars at golden hour, all of it long absorbed into mainstream travel imagery. And yet forty minutes outside the city, you can still get something entirely different. Sometimes, the cycle doesn’t consume a whole country. It consumes specific postcards.

None of this is random. Places become desirable in surprisingly predictable ways, and once you see the pattern, you can't unsee it.

It starts with early adopters. These tend to be individuals from creative industries. Writers, architects, fashion artists. They go somewhere with good light and cheap property, and talk about it in the right social circles. This is the pre-discovery phase, and it’s actually organic.

Then comes the cultural press- the small-circulation travel magazines, literary outlets and publications whose readers pride themselves on being ahead of the curve. A featured piece here is very powerful.

Next are the boutique hotels. A respected, well-designed hotel opening in an “emerging” destination is almost always a signal that serious money has started to pour in.

Then comes the glossy press. Then the algorithms and influencers, who, contrary to popular belief, are rarely the originators. More often, they act as accelerators in a process that is already well underway.

By the time a destination starts appearing in mass-market travel content, the chain has usually been running for two to four years. It simply wasn’t visible to everyone yet.

A perfect example of a destination currently sitting right in the middle of this cycle is Albania. It has already had the literary press pieces. The boutique openings have started. The glossy press is underway, but Albania has not yet reached the stage where every other TikTok features the Albanian Riviera. And yet the consequences of the next phase have already started to unravel . In May 2026, tens of thousands of Albanians took to the streets in what became known as the Flamingo Revolution. The protests were triggered by plans for a $1.4 billion luxury resort development on Sazan Island and the nearby Vjosa-Narta wetland, a protected coastal ecosystem that is home to flamingos and sea turtle nesting sites. The development is backed by investor Jared Kushner. What began as opposition to the project soon turned into something bigger: a public asking for transparency, governance, and the question of who gets to decide what a country does with its most valuable landscapes.

Ivanka Trump, who co-backs the project, has described how she and Kushner first “discovered” Sazan while vacationing on a friend’s boat, swimming ashore, hiking barefoot to the summit, and becoming captivated by the island.”

It’s almost without meaning to be, a perfect illustration of how the cycle begins.

The real question is not which destination is next. It’s who gets to decide. The answer is a surprisingly small number of people, who exercise influence that’s largely invisible to the people who ultimately follow it.

The actual recommendation machine in destination culture are the editors, hotel developers, airline companies, and the travel writers whose bylines appear in publications with cultural authority. These are the people whose aesthetic judgements become everyone’s travel plans. I know I’m simplifying and the chain is larger and messier than this, but certain actors consistently appear at the start.

Infrastructure plays a bigger role than many people realise. When a low-cost airline launches a direct route to a destination that previously required a connection, it sends a clear signal that this place is now ready to enter the mainstream travel conversation.

A new boutique hotel opening can have a similar effect. So can a feature in a major newspaper or a 5-star review from a respected writer.

None of these things creates a trend on its own. But together, they accelerate one.

While tourism is vital economic infrastructure for many places around the world, it also does something else that’s worth naming: It flattens them.

The version of a destination that gets shared is always a simplified one. A colour palette, an aesthetic, a few familiar images that allow us to identify a place on Instagram before we’ve even read the caption.

The actual place, with all its complexity, contradictions and everyday life, rarely travels very far. It stays, waiting for those willing to look beyond the postcard.

It would be easy, and slightly dishonest, to make this into a simple story about overtourism and local displacement. It’s more complicated than that.

I have benefited from this machine, we all have as travellers. I travel to places I first read about in publications that form part of the recommendation chain. I also write about some of these places, which makes me- however modestly- part of that chain. My recommendations, this newsletter, the places I describe as worth your attention, none of them exist outside the system.

The traveller who sees themselves as thoughtful often likes to believe they are above the trend. They’ve been somewhere first. They went there as a volunteer rather than a tourist. They’re interested in places the mainstream tourist hasn’t discovered yet. And sometimes that’s true. But often it’s simply a more flattering version of the same story. We are all, to varying degrees, following a map that someone else drew.

The question is not whether this can be escaped. I’m not sure it can. The question is whether it can be understood clearly enough to be navigated with some honesty. To know when you are the early adopter and when you are the wave. To ask what version of a place you are actually visiting, and whose labour and lives sit beneath the aesthetic you have come to consume.

Who decides where we all travel next? I don’t think there is a simple answer to this. It’s more complicated than an algorithm or a magazine editor.

But understanding the people, systems and processes that shape our desires is, I think, the beginning of travelling with our eyes open.

If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you watched a place move through the cycle in real time? Or found yourself arriving somewhere and suddenly realising you were part of the wave?

At the time, I was very active on social media. My travel photography and videography were gaining real traction and I was getting a fair amount of commissioned work. Every trip had become, at least in part, a content opportunity. Even though the Slovenia trip was entirely for myself, and not shaped by a hotel collaboration or tourism board assignment, I still packed my photography gear and felt a slight pressure to document and share the experience.

And here I was, in the middle of fog, rain and nothing worth capturing.

I waited for the disappointment to arrive, but it didn’t.

Instead, I felt free. Free from performing, producing, finding the right angle to capture the shot. Just the trail, and a strange relief of being completely off the hook. The mountain had made the decision for me.

Eventually I gave up on the hike and made my way back to the alpine hut where I’d spent the night to collect my bag and leave. As I approached, I noticed a small house I’d seen the previous evening, perched improbably on the mountainside. I’d assumed it was someone’s holiday home. But it wasn’t. Someone lived there.

And just as I approached, a man was engaged in a serious pursuit of a chicken across his small mountain farm.

I just stood there and watched, probably for longer than was socially acceptable. The chicken had opinions and the man had a strategy, but neither seemed to be winning. Behind them was a whole world I hadn’t even noticed because I’d been so fixated on my hiking plans. The evidence of an ordinary life being lived on the side of a mountain.

I felt like I’d been let in on something private and completely wonderful.

Eventually, the man caught the chicken and, noticing I’d become far too invested in the situation, wandered over to say hello. We chatted for a bit and it turned out he was the owner of the only restaurant on the mountain, where I’d had breakfast earlier that morning. Seeing my disappointment about the weather, he suggested I visit Vintgar Gorge instead, which at the time still felt like one of Slovenia’s best-kept secrets. It hadn’t even crossed my radar and I would have completely missed it if I hadn’t met him.

That moment cost nothing. It was on nobody’s itinerary and existed only because my plans had fallen apart and I’d slowed down enough to still be standing there when it happened.

I remember feeling one of the clearest moments I’d ever had while travelling. And a question forming in my head that I’ve asked myself on every trip since: what am I actually travelling for?

I ask because there’s a growing conversation that the answer to our broken relationship with travel is simply to do less of it. Stay home. Explore your own backyard and tend to what’s already around you.

I understand the impulse. But I think it’s answering the wrong question.

Our relationship with travel is not a healthy one. Travel has become something many people consume at high speed, moving through places quickly enough to photograph them but not long enough to absorb them. And the environmental weight of all of this is real and impossible to ignore.

But broken how, exactly?

I think the diagnosis matters. Because if we misunderstand what has gone wrong, we risk offering solutions that sound sensible while missing the point entirely.

The problem was never travel itself. It was the speed with which we travel.

Slow travel, and I don’t mean that as a trend but as a genuine philosophy, is almost the opposite of what most people imagine when they picture a holiday. Real slow travel is uncomfortable sometimes, boring even. It asks you to stay somewhere long enough to feel genuinely disoriented, both physically and mentally. It forces you to eat badly once or twice, to have a day where nothing happens and you have to sit with that.

The weather in Slovenia didn’t ruin my trip. It stripped the trip of its original purpose and left something more genuine underneath.

You can’t have that experience on a ten-day, four-country itinerary. That kind of experience requires time, and time is the one thing we’ve decided we can’t afford to give travel anymore.

But I also think the conversation is shaped by who gets to have it. The loudest voices in the “travel less” conversation tend to belong to people who have already travelled extensively in their twenties and thirties. And it’s worth being clear about what travel means here - because boarding a flight at your boss’s request to sit in a meeting room on the other side of the world doesn’t make you a traveller- Now, settled into a different stage of life, they suggest that perhaps the rest of us should reconsider our own desire to go elsewhere.

When you have built your worldview, perhaps even your career, on the back of moving freely through the world, and then suggest that others might be better off staying put, that irony deserves at least a moment of self-examination.

Travel has never been equally accessible. It’s shaped by passport privilege, income, time, and life’s circumstances. For many people, the window to travel freely - before mortgages, children, ageing parents- can be very narrow. To fill that window with a philosophical argument for staying home, delivered by someone whose window has already closed naturally, is not wisdom.

The real question is whether we’re travelling with enough curiosity, enough presence and enough slowness to let a place actually reach us, and maybe change us. That’s the conversation worth having.

I often think about that morning in Slovenia. I’ve had other moments like it since, moments that produced nothing particularly shareable or impressive, but which I remember far more clearly than many bigger experiences.

These moments didn’t make me a different person overnight. But they gave me something that my ordinary life- which I value and return to gratefully- couldn’t give me in the same way. A different quality of attention and a better understanding of myself.

I don’t know if that’s available to everyone in every season of life. But I think it’s worth protecting the possibility of it, rather than theorising it away from the comfort of somewhere you have already arrived.

Travel, done honestly, is one of the few remaining places where you can still be genuinely surprised by yourself.

Yet people return from trips feeling worse than when they left. We’ve all been on trips where, on the last day, we’re snappy, overwhelmed, even relieved to be going home, despite months of anticipation.

You choose a destination you’ve been dying to visit and find a stunning hotel to stay. Everything looks very doable on paper. The old town is only twenty minutes from the viewpoint and the coastal village looks incredible at sunset. But you didn’t plan on landing exhausted, or getting lost. Then, you decide to visit the restaurant with a seaview you saved months ago. After twenty minutes of uphill walking, you find a queue because half the internet had the same idea. Everyone in your party is hungry and giving you sad, accusatory looks. It’s hardly surprising you need a whole week just to recover from your holiday.

Somewhere down the line, holidays turned into projects we manage. We make lists, screenshot Instagram suggestions, and turn up with enough recommendations to cover three trips. When you’ve spent ages planning, leaving anything off the schedule just feels like you’ve messed up.

Travel content doesn’t help. We’re constantly shown what else we could be doing, eating, or seeing, so doing nothing starts to feel wasteful. We feel bad for having a slow morning and wasting precious time. Or for spending a whole afternoon by the pool and feeling unproductive. Or for going to the same restaurant twice and missing the opportunity to try somewhere “better”.

When the pressure starts mounting, instead of slowing down, we keep pushing harder. We drag ourselves around the museum we couldn’t wait to see, then get to the restaurant we booked weeks ago, completely drained and unable to enjoy the food. We tell ourselves we’ve invested so much in this trip that we simply can’t let any of it go to waste.

When you’re in planning mode, some of the logistics involved don’t seem so bad. Waking up at 7 am to join walking tour after landing at midnight sounds reasonable. But when you’ve actually dragged yourself off a late flight and woken up with a headache, all you want to do is drink coffee for two straight hours.

What should you do then? Throw out the plan and just go with the flow? Spontaneity seems great when you’re younger, but showing up somewhere without a bed for the night brings its own kind of stress.

Before you list out every activity, decide what you really need to get away from. Sometimes I want to see everything, all day long. Sometimes I just want sunshine and something delicious to eat. Neither choice is better than the other. I’ve learnt not to fill a holiday with endless plans when what I actually need is a lounger and a pizza.

For a five-day trip, set aside one day without plans. I’ve found that those are usually the times you remember most, because they let lovely little unplanned moments happen on their own.

Sort out the essentials first: food, especially if you’ve got kids or family along. Mark down a few go-to places you can rely on for meals. Book that one restaurant you’ve been dying to try. Get your museum tickets online beforehand. And figure out how to get from the airport before you turn up- Don’t wait until you get there to sort it out.

A perfect trip is rarely about seeing it all. Instead, it may be the one remembered for an unhurried, unplanned meal, a favourite spot visited three times, and the afternoon you chose the beach over the museum. That is not wasted time. It’s what being on holiday truly means.

And yet something feels off. The pacing is too tight, or the hotel seems somehow wrong for how you actually travel. Or you simply can’t tell anymore, because you’ve looked at it too long.

That’s usually the point at which a second perspective is worth more than another hour of research.

What I offer

A careful, honest review of your trip as it currently stands; the structure, the pacing, the hotel choices, and whether the overall shape of it reflects how you actually want to feel when you’re there.

I’ve travelled slowly and extensively across Europe, The Middle East, Asia, and beyond, and I’ve assessed properties across a range of categories long enough to know that a hotel’s rating tells you almost nothing about whether it will suit you.

I’ll tell you what’s working, what I’d reconsider, and why. Not to add more to your itinerary, but to give you back your confidence in it.

This might be for you if

You’ve started planning but can’t shake the feeling something is still missing. You’re uncertain about one or two hotel choices. Your itinerary looks full but doesn’t feel considered. Or you simply want someone who has thought carefully about travel to look at what you’ve built before you commit to it.

This isn’t for people who want a trip planned from scratch. It’s for people who are close, but not quite there yet.

How it works

You complete a short brief including a few questions about your trip and, more importantly, how you actually want to feel during it. I review everything properly and return your written assessment within seven days.

I take on a small number of these each month. Each one takes genuine time and attention, and I won’t take yours on unless I think I can meaningfully improve what you’ve planned.

The cost

£175. One written review, returned within seven days.

If you’re travelling within three months, it’s worth reaching out soon.

Request a review

There’s a misconception that winter travel in Europe means suffering through cold and misery. But to me, cold means cozying up in cafés with a comforting drink, indulging in spas, and visiting museums. The city belongs to locals in winter, you won’t see any many tour groups. And you can actually see the architecture without someone’s selfie stick in your face.

My week in Poland was split between Krakow and Zakopane. We travelled in February and were completely charmed.

The Old Town square in Krakow - one of the largest medieval squares in Europe - was nearly empty in the mornings. No groups of tourists circling the monuments and queueing up outside cafés. Just wet cobblestones and Gothic spires disappearing into the clouds.

I’d heard Krakow described as “beautiful” and “historical” in that vague way people talk about European cities they visited for 24 hours. But no one told me it would feel this alive in the cold.

Krakow is Poland’s second-largest city, home to about 756,000 people. It sits on the Vistula River and has been a cultural centre since medieval times. Most of the Old Town dates back to the 14th century, some of it earlier. The architecture is the sort that stops you mid-step and holds your attention.

Spring and summer are fine if you want long days, sunbathing in the park, and meals on outdoor terraces. But you’ll also be navigating crowds, stifling heat, and inflated prices. In winter, the city empties out. Locals reclaim the streets. Cafés and restaurant terraces stop being photoshoot backgrounds for influencers and simply become places to sit with good coffee. Museums are quiet. You can actually reflect inside them.

We stayed two and a half days, though three days is the sweet spot. Just enough time to see the essentials without rushing.

We started the first morning with breakfast on the main square, Rynek Główny. Strong coffee and delicious French pastries, we sat there for an hour just watching the square wake up. The Old Town is a living, breathing part of the city. People actually live here. They buy groceries and walk through medieval doorways to get to their places of work. History is the backdrop for ordinary life.

You don’t need a plan to see Krakow. My recommendation is to just walk. The streets do really pull you along, and every corner reveals something worth stopping for. Our first morning walk led us to St. Florian’s Gate, a fortified gateway built in the 14th century that still stands tall and strong. Empires rose and fell, wars came and went but this gate just kept standing.

From there, we walked toward the main square, drawn by the sound of a trumpet. St. Mary’s Basilica, a Gothic church built in the 14th century, marks the hour with the Hejnał Mariacki, a short five-note trumpet call played from the tower. The tune breaks off mid-melody. The story goes that in 1241, a trumpeter sounding the alarm during a Tartar invasion was shot in the neck with an arrow mid-note. To honour him, the tune has stopped at that same moment ever since. Even without knowing the story, you see people pause when it happens, looking up, registering that something has been cut short. True story or legend, it does leave an impression. The church is open to visitors daily.

Nearby, the Town Hall Tower leans slightly, about 55 centimetres - the result of a storm in 1703. It’s Krakow’s own “leaning tower,” though no one calls it that. The 70-metre clock tower is the last remaining part of the original Town Hall, which was demolished in 1820. Today, it houses part of the Historical Museum of Krakow, including medieval costumes and a permanent photographic exhibition of the Market Square.

Back in the square, we came across a bronze sculpture everyone simply calls “The Head.” Its real name is Eros Bendato, a work by Igor Mitoraj, one of Poland’s most renowned sculptors. It’s a giant fragmented head, cracked open and exposed, sitting just west of the Cloth Hall. It’s become one of Krakow’s most recognisable landmarks and a popular meeting point for locals and tourists. I don’t know exactly what Mitoraj was trying to say with it, but standing in front of this modern, broken piece of art surrounded by 700-year-old buildings felt strangely fitting.

The Cloth Hall (Sukiennice) dominates the centre of the square. Once a bustling hub of medieval trade where merchants sold textiles from across Europe, it’s now filled with souvenir shops and restaurants. I’m not sure I’d enjoy it during the crowded seasons, but in winter it felt peaceful and jovial. The atmosphere was warm, and I enjoyed watching the interactions between locals and vendors.

After lunch, we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the old town. There’s a small church called St. Adalbert’s tucked to the side of the main square. Despite its modest size, it draws attention because of its unusual shape and green dome. It’s one of the oldest stone churches in Poland, dating back to the 11th century. It looks particularly beautiful at night when illuminated. I popped inside for a few minutes, but it wasn’t what I expected. I later learned it was entirely remodelled in the 17th century in Baroque style.

We then went for a walk along the Vistula River, just as the sun came out briefly. There are boat cruises you can do but we enjoyed the peaceful view from a bench with a coffee.

We reached Wawel Castle by the end of the day, too late to go inside. Still, I loved how it looked in the evening light. The castle sits on the banks of the river, overlooking the Old Town. It’s been here since at least the 11th century, built and rebuilt by Polish rulers over centuries. Today it houses state rooms, a Royal Armoury, and museums filled with priceless artefacts, the kind of place that takes hours to explore properly, which we unfortunately didn’t have on this occasion. We walked the grounds, climbed to the top terrace, and stood there watching the city lights reflect off the river.

On the second day, we headed to Kazimierz, Krakow’s old Jewish quarter and my favourite part of the city. For centuries before World War II, this was the beating heart of Jewish culture in Poland. Then most of it was destroyed in the war. What remains is a neighbourhood trying to hold onto its memory while also becoming something modern. Cobblestoned streets lined with cafés and boutiques sit alongside old synagogues turned into museums. It’s beautiful, haunted, and alive all at once.

We found ourselves at Ghetto Heroes Square, home to a monument known as The Empty Chairs. Unveiled nearly 30 years ago, it has become one of Krakow’s most visited sites. Seventy huge bronze chairs are scattered across the square, empty and still. They represent the Jews deported during the war. Another tourist we met suggested we return in the evening, when the monument is lit by streetlights. He was right. It’s a powerful symbol of how emptiness can speak more forcefully than any inscription.

From there, we walked to Schindler’s Factory Museum, housed in the actual factory where Oskar Schindler employed hundreds of Jews during WWII, saving them from deportation and death. The museum offers an unflinching look at life in wartime Krakow through multimedia installations and personal artefacts from victims and survivors.

A note here: Auschwitz-Birkenau is about an hour outside Krakow, and if you decide to visit, I recommend dedicating a full day to it. But if you’re short on time, Krakow itself is full of reminders. You can’t walk through Kazimierz without feeling the weight of history here.

The Wieliczka Salt Mine is another place that sounds impossible until you see it. It’s an underground network of tunnels and chambers carved out by miners starting in the 13th century. The mine stretches over 300 kilometres underground. Inside, there are chapels, sculptures, and entire rooms, all carved from salt.

It’s a testament to human endurance and creativity and to what people can build with nothing but time and determination.

We loved Kazimierz so much that we made a reservation for dinner at The Rubinstein, a hotel and restaurant named after cosmetics designer Helena Rubinstein, who was born in the same building. The restaurant serves authentic Polish cuisine, and despite its popularity, we were one of only three tables on a rainy evening. The service was warm and welcoming, and we spent a long time talking with Robert, the restaurant manager, who was delightful and shared stories behind every dish.

On day three, we only had half a day before heading to Zakopane, so we took it slow, starting with a leisurely breakfast before doing a bit of shopping at Galeria Krakowska, the large mall next to the train and bus stations.

Krakow works as a weekend trip in winter because it offers a rare combination of medieval beauty, modern amenities, and space to enjoy the city at a relaxed pace. You’re not fighting through crowds to see things. You’re simply there, experiencing them.

Where to Stay

Krakow has options for every budget and vibe. Here are a few:

Hotel Pod Różą – Opposite St. Florian’s Gate. Vintage decor, spacious rooms, on-site restaurant. Perfect for history lovers.

Leonardo Boutique Hotel – Old town location, good value and they do an excellent breakfast.

Hotel Unicus Palace – 5-star, right on the main square. Gorgeous building with an indoor pool and hammam. If you want to feel fancy, this is the one.

Bachleda Luxury Hotel – Near Wawel Castle. Has an on-site spa, indoor pool and dry sauna. The rooms are flawless and tastefully decorated.

Serviced Apartments – We stayed in a beautiful private apartment near the train station. Modern, well-furnished, very quiet and only a 10-minute walk to the main square. Great if you want space and a kitchen.

Where to Eat

Krakow’s food scene surprised me. There’s a strong coffee culture and more hipster cafes than I expected for a city this size. Here are some places I kept going back:

Café Camelot – Lovely bohemian vibe. They do an incredible brunch and the portions are generous . Located on a quiet street in the old town.

Europejska – Art deco cafe-restaurant in the historic Krzysztofory Palace. Open since 1929. Sit on the terrace facing St. Mary’s Church Tower and listen to the bugle call while drinking excellent coffee.

La Petite France – French bistro near the main square. They do great baguettes, savoury tarts and classic French desserts.

Amarylis – Michelin guide regular. Try the 4-course tasting menu. Live jazz on weekends.

Rubenstein – Authentic Polish cuisine with a lovely service.

But knowing which hotel to choose is only half the equation. The other half is knowing the smart way to book a hotel, get the most value, and turn a good stay into an exceptional one.

Over the past decade of booking hotels professionally and for myself, I’ve learned that the difference between a decent hotel stay and a memorable one often comes down to a handful of strategic decisions. When you book matters as much as where you book. What you ask for (and when you ask) can be the difference between a standard room and a suite upgrade. A single email sent two weeks before arrival has gotten me restaurant reservations at “fully booked” venues and spa treatments that were supposedly sold out.

In this guide, I’m sharing the specific tactics I use when booking stays:

• The difference between booking direct versus using booking sites (and the trick that gets you both the best rate and the perks)

• Exact timing windows for different property types that maximise your negotiating power

• The specific requests to make at booking versus what to save for check-in

• What to do in your first 24 hours to unlock experiences other guests miss

• Red flags that tell you to walk away, no matter how good the photos look

If you’re planning a hotel-destination trip, whether it’s a wellness retreat, a design hotel, or a culinary experience, these strategies will help you get better value and a better overall experience.

Smart booking strategies

Read more

What I didn’t anticipate was that the days I stayed put, the mornings with nowhere to be, the long afternoons would end up being the ones that stayed with me the most.

You’ve seen them. The tourists sprinting from the Duomo to the Uffizi to Ponte Vecchio, phones up, taking photos of things they’re not even seeing. Four museums in a day, gelato on the run. I get it. There’s a lot to see in Florence. The Duomo’s dome is insane. You could spend a month in the Uffizi galleries alone. But Florence doesn’t reward urgency. The Florence that exists between all those monuments is the one worth falling for.

We went in early April, deliberately before Easter to avoid the holiday crowds. The weather was already warm for the season. T-shirt weather during the day, but you needed a jacket once the sun went down.

There were tourists, obviously, but Florence hadn’t yet tipped into its summer crush.

And the light in April is stunning. Clear but not harsh. Perfect if you’re into photography.

But the highlight of our trip was the place where we stayed. A local artist's apartment, located in a 16th century building a stone's throw from the Duomo. The place looked like a museum. Original frescoed ceilings, antique furniture and paintings everywhere. The windows opened onto this quiet courtyard where you could smell roses and fresh herbs growing.

It was weird staying somewhere that beautiful while being steps from the most tourist-packed part of the city. But it also meant when the crowds got too much, we could just duck back into our absurdly elegant apartment. There were even landscaped gardens with fountains and full-size statues. Waking up in that place, in the centre of Florence every morning never stopped feeling surreal.

The art of Florentine breakfast

Most mornings we had a leisurely breakfast in the apartment. Making coffee in a Moka pot with the window open, listening to church bells.

But on days we were doing day trips and didn’t want to waste time, we’d go to our local bar- not the booze kind, the Italian kind, which is a café where people stop for their morning cappuccino and a cornetto (that’s what they call croissants), standing up while chatting to the bartender. No one lingers over coffee in the morning. That’s just the rhythm.

I ended up at Caffè Cibreo regularly. It’s attached to a fancier restaurant but the bar is where locals go. Their pastries are excellent.

If you want to sit down for a traditional pastry breakfast, go to Forno Ghibellina. Their stuffed croissants are popular with both locals and visitors.

Local tip: If you want the absolute best cornetto in Florence, go to Pasticceria Buonamici near Piazza Tasso. I’m picky about pastries and generally not a huge fan of Italian croissants, but I was impressed by the variety and quality at this place. Don’t expect French-level, but it’s close. Get there early as everything tends to disappear by 11am.

Cappuccino rule: Never order a cappuccino after 11am if you don’t want to look like a tourist. Milk-based coffee is a morning thing. After lunch, it’s espresso only.

By the end of the first week, we ditched the satnav and the maps and just walked. We ended up in San Frediano, a neighbourhood often described as authentic. We got lost in narrow streets, following the smell of bread and woodsmoke. We stopped at a workshop where an old man was gilding picture frames the same way they’ve been doing it for four centuries. There was a tiny piazza whose name I never caught, where people had planted geraniums in old olive oil tins on their windowsills.

San Frediano is actually interesting because it's been dealing with gentrification for decades now. It used to be a working-class neighbourhood full of artisans, leather workers, furniture makers etc. but it couldn’t escape rising rents and tourism. Still, it's managed to hold onto more of its local character than some other neighbourhoods. You'll still find butchers and hardware stores mixed in with the wine bars and restaurants.

How to do lunch like a local

Lunch in Florence is a simple but leisurely affair. Il Santino is a good example of how locals eat at midday. Small plates, simple food, excellent wine.

Sant'Ambrogio market mid-morning is where actual Florentines buy groceries. You’ll hear vendors yelling out prices while old women inspect the vegetables like they are art critics.

The market is open Monday through Saturday, mornings only. This is also where you find some of the most Florentine things you can eat. You can grab a porchetta sandwich- slow-roasted pork in focaccia bread. Or you can go all in and order a sandwich filled with trippa or lampredotto, the city’s beloved tripe dishes. Give it a go, there’s nothing worse than lying on your deathbed thinking, I was in Florence and I didn’t even try the tripe sandwich!

If you want something lighter, you can also assemble your own lunch. Pecorino cheese, warm bread, and heavenly sweet tomatoes is all you need. In April there were artichokes everywhere, which I had in every form possible. Take it to a nearby park or a garden and eat slowly while watching old men argue about nothing, mothers with strollers, university students enjoying picnics.

Local tip: Inside the covered part of Sant'Ambrogio market, there's a tiny restaurant called Da Rocco Trattoria that serves the most delicious florentine dishes. You share the tables with complete strangers but you don’t have to make conversation. Lunch costs around 8 euros for a plate of pasta or 15 euros for a main course, side dish, and wine.

For something a bit fancier but still local, I loved Trattoria Da Burde. Their Ribollita or Fabbri pasta are worth trying. But if you’re a meat eater, you don’t want to miss their bistecca alla fiorentina: a thick cut T-bone steak, grilled over coals, served rare (don’t ask them to cook it more). If you do order the bistecca, it's charged by weight (usually €4-5 per 100g) and the minimum cut is usually 800g-1kg. Hopefully you’ll have someone to share it with but if not just ask, a lot of restaurants offer smaller portions or just buy the whole thing and take the leftovers with you!

Local tip: Florentines almost never eat pasta as a main course. It's a primo-a first course, which can also be a soup or risotto. Then you have a secondo (meat or fish) and a contorno (vegetable side). Ordering just pasta marks you as a tourist. You don't have to order the full 3-course meal, but at least know that's how it works.

Museums, without the chaos

You can’t skip museums in Florence. Buy tickets in advance, but if you want space, you’ll need to go early.

The first time we went to the Uffizi galleries, I was disappointed. The Birth of Venus is one of my favourite paintings, and I’d wanted to see it in real life since I was a child poring over my father’s art books. Even though we booked a slot and were able to avoid the queue at the entrance, once inside the museum it was chaos. When we reached the Botticelli’s rooms, the crowd felt more like an auction than a gallery. You had to line up and wait your turn while everyone took a picture with the painting. We left, did the rest of the museum, and came back another day at the first slot when the galleries were nearly empty. I had it to myself for a good 15 minutes which felt like a private viewing.

We learned from this and went early again to visit Galleria dell'Accademia. We planned to see Michelangelo's David, (don't miss it, it's nothing like the fake replicas scattered around Florence), but the museum also has so many other beautiful pieces by Michelangelo, like his unfinished series of prisoners, which I equally loved. The figures seem to be struggling to emerge from the marble, forever trapped. Michelangelo abandoned them later in life, when his energy for art had waned. Some say he was depressed after losing his lover and no longer interested in his art. Seeing these figures beside the David was unsettling and a lesson in what a person can achieve at the pinnacle of their brilliance, and what is left when the fire that once drove it begins to fade.

If you love Renaissance art, Florence will overload your senses. There’s just too much. Museum fatigue is real, so be intentional about what you want to see. Trying to see everything means you see nothing.

But I also found museums almost nobody visits. The Museo Bardini, in a palazzo with a stunning view of the city. The Museo Horne, a house-museum that belonged to English collector Herbert P. Horne who donated his palace and collections to the Italian State. So intimate it felt like snooping through someone’s home. The cloisters of Santa Maria Novella, where you can sit in a Renaissance courtyard and not see another tourist for twenty minutes straight.

And then there’s the gardens. The Boboli Gardens get mentioned in travel guides, but most people rush through on their way to or from the Pitti Palace. I went on a sunny afternoon with a book and stayed for a couple of hours. It’s a great way to escape the noise.

The Bardini Gardens are less crowded. There’s a wisteria tunnel that was in full bloom in April. Absolutely beautiful.

Famous sunsets and gentle evenings

The rest of the time, you can just walk, sit, go back to the same café. Go shopping. Shopping in Florence isn’t really about going on a spree, it’s more about wandering and seeing what catches your eye. The big fashion brands are all around Via de’ Tornabuoni , but the smaller shops are more interesting- leather goods, paper shops, places where someone is actually still making things by hand. Keep in mind that many shops still observe riposo: they’ll close for a few hours in the early afternoon, usually reopening around 4 or 4.30pm and stay open until 7pm. Some don’t open at all on Sunday, Which may be perfect when you are not on a tight schedule.

Most afternoons we just walked. Along the Arno, away from Ponte Vecchio, where the river path opens up and you can see the hills beyond the city.

One very obvious thing that’s still worth doing is going up to Piazzale Michelangelo for sunset. Yes, it’s touristy and you won’t be alone, but it’s popular for a reason. The view over Florence as the light drops is genuinely beautiful, the kind that makes you stop talking for a minute. Some places are allowed to be famous, and this is one of them.

If you insist on seeing a sunset without the crowds, one good alternative is San Miniato al Monte, just above Piazzale Michelangelo. Most people stop at the viewpoint and don’t bother walking the extra ten minutes uphill, but be prepared to climb a steep hill.

Evenings are the best time to walk in Florence. When the tourists have gone back to hotels and the streets are quieter.

Passeggiata is an Italian tradition of the after-dinner stroll. In Florence, people walk along the Arno, through shopping streets, around Piazza della Signoria.

But we preferred the quieter neighbourhoods. San Niccolò, where residents walked their dogs and stopped to chat to each other. Tiny streets where you could hear dinner being cooked and get a waft of garlic frying in olive oil as you walked past an open window.

What to eat for dinner in Florence

We tried a couple of places for dinner. Trattoria da Sostanza, you need a reservation as it’s a tiny family restaurant and the locals love it. They’re famous for their butter chicken but the star of the show was their tortino di carciofi, an artichoke tart that’s crispy and creamy at once.

Another excellent spot was Trattoria Sabatino. The ribollita here is the best I had in Tuscany.

Local tip: In Florence, bread comes to the table without butter or olive oil. It's meant for mopping up sauce, not eating on its own. Florentine bread is also traditionally made without salt (long story involving salt taxes). This is why it tastes bland by itself but works perfectly with the region's flavourful food.

We also ate a lot at Mercato Centrale which was very close to our apartment. Upstairs is a busy food hall with everything from wood-fired pizza and fresh pasta to burgers, seafood and desserts. The pizza stand quickly became a favourite, delicious pizzas and genuinely friendly cooks who recognised us by the third visit. The whole place feels relaxed and social rather than restaurant-formal. You order what you want, grab a seat at the communal tables, and settle in. It’s perfect for evenings when you want good food without committing to a full sit-down meal.

Final Thoughts

In the end, this is what I missed the most in Florence after I left. The evening walks, the slow dinners, watching the city transition from day to night. Not the Duomo. Not even the art.

When you give yourself permission to slow down, you learn to move with the city’s rhythm. You stop taking photos of everything, have conversations with vendors and bartenders, learn to say “per favore” and “grazie” with the right emphasis.

You sit in the same café enough times that the waiter stops bringing you a menu. You develop strong opinions about which bridge is best for watching sunset and you walk past the Duomo without looking up because you’ve seen it every day for two weeks and it’s just there, part of the landscape of your regular life, as a temporary resident in Florence.

When I asked what she and her partner wanted to do, I expected the usual list. A day in Innsbruck. Cable cars up to the Nordkette. Scenic drives through alpine villages. Instead, she was very clear.
“We’re not doing museums or hopping between towns this time,” she said. “We want to stay in one place and actually rest.”

What they were looking for was equally specific: thermal pools with mountain views, a spa with a large selection of treatments, good food, long walks straight from the hotel, and the freedom to do almost nothing without feeling like they were missing out.

A decade ago, this would have sounded wasteful. Now it feels increasingly normal.

More and more travellers are choosing hotels based on what they offer. According to Skyscanner’s 2026 Travel Trends report, 27% now choose accommodation as part of the travel experience itself, rather than treating it as a place to sleep.

And yet, this is where many trips fail. Because while hotels have become the destination, most people still choose them the wrong way.

In this series, I’m sharing how travel designers actually research and book the right hotels: the questions we ask, the warning signs we notice, and the details that matter more than star ratings or Instagram appeal.

How we got here

Instagram changed what we value in hotels. A property that photographs well is now worth more than one that’s near museums or beaches. Some hotels, like Habitas AlUla in Saudi Arabia, exist almost entirely because they look incredible in photos set against dramatic desert landscapes.

The wellness industry turned hotels from rest points into places where you go to change your life. You don’t go to SHA Wellness Clinic in Spain to explore the Spanish coast. You go to commit to a week of structured health work, to the point that the Mediterranean outside your window barely registers.

COVID-19 reset our priorities. When travel opened up again, many people realised they didn’t miss rushing between tourist sites. They missed comfort and being looked after. The hotel room went from storage space for luggage to a place you actually wanted to spend time in.

The most surprising thing is that younger travellers also started caring more about what they could experience and feel at a hotel than the attractions they find nearby.

Most of the examples in this piece come from high-end hotels, simply because that’s where service and design are easiest to observe. But the logic behind them isn’t exclusive to luxury.

A well-chosen mid-range hotel can deliver more satisfaction than an expensive one if it’s aligned with how you actually travel.

When should the hotel be the destination

Choosing a hotel as the entire plan makes sense in certain contexts. Short breaks. Solo trips. Returns to places you already know. Moments of transition, recovery, or celebration.

It makes less sense for first encounters with a culture, or places where life unfolds outside the hotel walls.

Five types of travellers who prioritise hotels

Not everyone wants the same thing from a stay. But when people choose a hotel as the reason for the trip, they usually fall into one of these categories.

The wellness seeker

This type of traveller checks the spa offers before they look at room prices. They want to know where the treatments and ingredients came from, and whether the yoga instructor has depth or just branding. They have already scheduled their colonic appointments before they’ve started packing.

At Lanserhof Tegernsee in Germany, guests do blood tests and follow fasting protocols. They discuss their cellular health over carefully portioned vegetable plates. Munich is an hour away but they couldn’t care less. They don’t want anything to interrupt the optimisation process.

The design enthusiast

They travel for atmosphere and notice materials, proportions, light. They know who designed the building and can tell whether a space was conceived thoughtfully or assembled for effect. These guests will happily spend an entire afternoon examining the architecture and landscape design of a hotel. They'll request specific rooms based on which local artist's work hangs on the walls.

The food-focused traveller

These travellers book restaurant reservations before they book the room, sometimes half a year in advance. The hotel’s dining program isn’t a nice extra, it’s the entire reason they’re there. They research chefs, sourcing, wine lists, and kitchen philosophy long before they arrive.

At Schloss Schauenstein in Switzerland, travellers build their entire three-day visit around the restaurant’s tasting menus. The medieval castle setting is lovely, but they’d rather take cooking classes and walk through the kitchen gardens.

The experience collector

These travellers want settings so unusual and specific that geography almost doesn’t matter. They want to sleep in treehouses, underwater rooms, ice suites, caves, or wake up to giraffes at their breakfast table.

At Giraffe Manor in Nairobi, guests choose to stay there to have Nubian giraffes poke their heads through the windows during breakfast. The fact that it’s in a Nairobi suburb barely registers. They’re there for this specific surreal experience that happens to exist in Kenya.

The social traveller

These people are all about connections. They want to feel part of a community, even temporarily. They seek shared tables, conversations, programming. They check the events calendar before booking and are drawn to places where interaction feels natural rather than forced.

These patterns show up at every budget level. A luxury wellness retreat might offer medical screening and personalised programmes. A modest mountain hotel might have long breakfasts, silent rooms and direct access to walking trails.

How to choose the right hotel

When the hotel itself is the trip, you need to look beyond thread count and minibar prices. Choosing well comes down to how you do the research.

Read more

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. Khalil Gibran.

Macmillan Cancer Support is a major UK charity that provides medical, emotional, and practical support to people living with cancer, as well as their families and carers, helping them navigate life during and beyond treatment. When my mother was fighting cancer, they were a lifeline for me and my family. The hike fell on the tenth anniversary of her passing, and it felt like the right way to honour her memory and give something back.

I’ve always wanted to do something physically challenging. I had friends who were into all sorts of trendy challenges with intimidating names like Tough Mudder, Wolf Runner, and Total Warrior, which sounded more like torture sessions to me. The idea of a hike seemed like a leisurely stroll in comparison.

I read the ad description:

The Jurassic Coast Mighty Hike takes place on the stunning Dorset Coast along the UK’s first natural World Heritage Site. With stunning coastal views and trails including famous sites such as Durdle Door and Lulworth Cove. This is a stunning, and challenging location to hike. The route covers approximately 26.5 miles between Lodmoor Country Park, Weymouth and Norden Farm, Wareham.

I spent the rest of the afternoon googling images of Dorset, Weymouth, and Durdle Door. I had never been to that area but it looked incredible! I imagined myself walking on the cliffside trails, looking over the stunning coast, having a picnic lunch on the sandy beach, I could even squeeze in a little swim if the weather was nice. It was like planning a holiday but with a side of physical torment.

Except I wasn’t much of a walker. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a couch potato either, I avoided driving and ran most of my errands on foot. I dabbled in jogging and paid my respects to the gym deities few times a month. But I had never hiked a long distance before. Still, it was just a walk, right?

“It’s a marathon, uphill, with a side order of 3000 feet elevation! Thanks but I’ll pass.” said a friend of mine when I asked her if she wanted to join me.

Another friend suggested I look at their other challenges which were much less strenuous.

I was determined not to let negativity deter me so I tossed all my doubts to the wind and clicked the sign-up button! I was going solo.

Signing up for the task

And so, armed with willpower and a dash of madness, I embarked on a dual task: getting myself into shape to walk 27 miles in 3 months and raising funds for charity.

I started by creating my JustGiving page and felt a surge of pride. It was like engraving my name into the annals of heroism.

I was ready to tell the world. I shared my link with friends, family, and colleagues. There was no turning back now.

Macmillan dispatched a starter kit loaded with tons of information about the hike, including a comprehensive training regime and a detailed map of the Jurassic Coast walking route. They also invited me to join their Facebook group, which I promptly did. I spent an hour or so reading posts from previous hikers. The tales were inspiring. Some had completed the hike two years in a row, others had been participating for years. There was also a lot of talk about scary hills and dangerous terrains but I chose to ignore that and only focus on the positives.

I learned a lot from the group, there was invaluable advice on training, nutrition, and the world of hiking gear. I went shopping over the weekend, armed with a list of the best hiking boots and socks.

I had never worn hiking boots before and didn’t even know where to begin. The fashionista in me was also having a crisis, having just discovered that hiking boots are universally ugly! Eventually, I found a comfortable and decent-looking pair with help from the shop assistant. I also bought a pair of walking poles, as everyone on the Facebook group advised. I didn’t think I would use them at all, but they played a crucial part on the day.

My training sessions were limited to the weekend initially. I joined a local hiking group and did a couple of small hikes with them. 7 miles each. It wasn’t bad. I live in a semi-rural area surrounded by beautiful nature and hiking trails but it’s all flatland. I needed a substitute for the mountainous terrain that awaited. Desperate times called for desperate measures, leading me to spin classes at my local gym, which I had previously fled in terror.

I must admit, they helped a great deal and soon enough I started to feel my legs getting stronger.

I was really enjoying my walks in nature. Spring was in full bloom and the weather was warming up so I started to go on walks after work.

The prospect of tackling the challenge alone left me apprehensive. Most people sign up with a friend or a partner. I enjoyed my own company, however, this wasn’t a small task. I was worried I might feel overwhelmed by the burden of the challenge, with no one around to offer support or provide that extra push when needed.

Training hike and walking buddies

A few weeks into the training, a member of the Facebook group suggested a training hike in the area to familiarise ourselves with the terrain. I jumped at the opportunity and set off to Dorset on a sunny Saturday morning, armed with snacks and my hiking gear. There were at least 20 people, many were already in groups but the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.

That’s where I met Christina and Geraldine, who had travelled from London and invited me to walk with them. We were also joined by Elly who lived in Weymouth and like me was doing the challenge solo.

We were handed a map outlining the route and its various stops. Our hike covered a total of 20 miles but included a diversion from the original hiking route. The outset was gentle, leading us along the gorgeous seafront promenade. Despite some mild inclines, it didn’t feel difficult as our time was spent talking, laughing, and taking photos. With each step, my confidence in completing the hike grew stronger. We stopped for lunch at one of Dorset’s popular pubs called the Smugglers Inn, where I enjoyed one of their award-winning pies.

After lunch, we sat together and exchanged stories. Each one of us had lost someone to cancer, or knew someone fighting it. It felt unexpectedly intimate to connect with strangers over something so heavy, and yet there was comfort in knowing we were walking for the same reason, carrying different names but the same weight.

As we approached our final stop on the day, located a mile shy of Durdle Door, we caught a distant glimpse of the famous three hills of doom as they were called, the subject of much discussion on the Facebook group. From the distance, they looked almost flat and easy to climb.

I had so much fun that day and our little group got on so well we decided to do the challenge together in June. I went home feeling a sense of accomplishment and anticipation for the upcoming hike.

I binge-watched a ton of videos of previous hikes. The one from 2018 was in the middle of a heatwave, and folks were practically melting as they trudged along. But the views of Durdle Door were simply amazing, and many hikers took a dip in the sea. I prayed for the weather gods to be on my side.

As the big day approached, I ramped up my training. I was feeling a lot stronger and more energetic than I did 3 months prior.

Setting off: A buzzing atmosphere

The big day finally came! My start time was 8 am, so I decided to travel the night before and sleep in Weymouth. Christina and Geraldine did the same so we met at the registration point and got our passes for the following day, then I joined them at their hotel for dinner before retreating to mine.

I had plans for an early night, but sleep decided to ghost me. In addition to that, my period arrived unexpectedly, leaving me in a whirlwind of anxiety.

After a sleepless night, I drove to Lodmoor Country Park, where I met up with my walking buddies. The energy was buzzing. Breakfast was served so I drank a gallon of coffee to keep me awake. We checked our gear, got some well-wishes from the Macmillan team, and off we went.

The walk started off easy, following the bay before hitting a series of small climbs out of Weymouth. The next five miles were a breeze until
We reached our first pit stop, where Macmillan laid out a feast fit for kings. There was a huge selection of food, energy bars, fresh fruit, hot and cold drinks, sweets and chocolates, water stations etc. There were tables and chairs for people who wanted to sit, but we wanted to keep the momentum so we stocked up and moved on. The weather took a turn for the worse, but I had layers of clothes and a raincoat so I was prepared.

Overcoming mental hurdles and battling the elements

We knew the dreaded hills were getting close but we felt confident. We stopped and chatted to other walkers. There were cancer patients among the participants, and I couldn’t help but feel so much admiration and respect for their courage. Some had just finished chemotherapy and others were waiting for their treatment to start but nothing was going to stop them that day. It was so inspiring and I felt more determined to finish the hike.

And then I saw them.

The cliffs of doom. They were bigger than I thought.

In that moment, I wished we’d climbed them during our practice hike. I would have had plenty of time to bail out with grace! We looked at each other and smiled nervously.

As I took the first step, my mind started to wander to all the worst-case scenarios. What if I face-planted at the top or rolled back? Would I start a domino effect with the climbers behind me? How long would it take a rescue team to be helicoptered in? Is it too late to turn back and pretend I never signed up for this madness?

We pressed on despite the mental minefield. The uphill walk wasn’t as brutal as we expected, but the wind was so relentless it turned us into human kites. I felt so thankful for my walking poles, without them I don’t think I would have reached the first peak. Once at the top, rain lashed from all angles, and I struggled to keep my eyes open. I looked down the hill and closed them again. It looked like a death trap. Maybe if I protected my head and rolled down the hill like a human boulder I would get to the bottom unharmed? Some people resorted to an undignified bum shuffle which looked just as uncomfortable. It was a surreal moment of hilarity and horror and I found myself instinctively wiping away tears from my face, unsure whether they were tears of laughter at the absurdity of it all or tears of sheer terror.

The ground was very slippery and one wrong move could result in an accident so we walked slowly in a chain, helped by other climbers. Miraculously, we reached the bottom in one piece, but there were still two daunting hills ahead.

I looked up at the second hill, it looked bigger than the first one. The weather was relentless now and a few brave souls were turning back in defeat. I looked at the collective panic on my friends, their faces a mixture of determination and mild hysteria. With each step, the hill seemed to grow steeper but we soldiered on, encouraging each other all the way. Finally, we reached the top, where the wind was howling, the rain was pouring, and the view was… non-existent. But hey, at least we were alive.

My memory of the last hill is a blur. By that point I was delirious with exhaustion. Reaching the summit, we were greeted by the Macmillan photographer, whose job, it seemed, was to patiently wait for hikers at their most fragile, hovering somewhere between triumph and collapse, and capture the moment for posterity. He took a photo of us against the backdrop of Durdle Door. I wished the weather had been kinder so we could properly enjoy the view of this iconic landmark, but the sense of accomplishment was stronger than my disappointment and questionable life choices.

From Durdle Door, it was another 2 miles of walking inland through a wooded area until we reached our lunch stop. Having covered 13 miles, we felt hungry and deserving of our meal. The lunch spread was fantastic and included a huge selection of food that catered for every dietary requirement. We filled our plates and sat inside the tent to escape the rain, but the sun came out as soon as we did, and I felt a tinge of regret for not lingering longer on the hill. Our experience might have been different had we climbed during those sunny spells. Oh well. I grabbed a cup of hot coffee and sat in the sunshine, revelling in the moment of tranquility.

From there, it was pretty much smooth sailing, with sunshine and blue skies lifting our spirits for the remaining 13 miles. After changing into fresh socks, we resumed our journey towards Lulworth Cove. As we made our way towards the beach, we passed through the picturesque West Lulworth village and its cobblestone streets lined with cute coffee shops and cosy pubs.

This marked the end of our coastal walk. After crossing the pebbly beach, we arrived at Lulworth Cove, another dreaded spot for hikers as it involved climbing 97 steps! But I rather enjoyed it thanks to the breathtaking panorama of the cove and the beach beyond! As I started to climb the sun came out, casting emerald green reflections on the water and making it look like a watercolour painting. I felt grateful to be there in that moment and the intermittent pauses to capture several photos made the climb easier. It was my favourite moment from the day!

The rest of the journey led us along farm tracks and fields for several miles before transitioning to roads. Walking on the tarmac felt punishing to my feet, my legs were screaming from pain at this point. We reached the second pit stop and the 20-mile mark, and decided to take a longer break. While I hadn’t set a specific target time to finish, I still aimed to complete the walk before nightfall.

The final stretch

The route continued along more roads until we reached the final challenge: Knowle Hill. Yes, another hill!!! My heart sank when I saw it but knowing we were close to the end gave me the energy boost I needed. The last two miles were a pleasant stroll towards the beautiful Corfe Castle. As I walked past, I turned for a final view of the ruins before reaching the finish line.

I did it!

After 12.5 hours of walking, our group reached the finish line under a glorious sunset, where we were greeted by a crowd of supporters cheering and offering congratulations.

I received my medal and was invited to join in drinks and food, but I was feeling too sick to eat anything. I said goodbye to my friends and sat down briefly pondering whether it was a good idea to drive back home for 2.5 hours in my exhausted state or book a room in a hotel. My brain was screaming for a hot bath and my comfy bed but my legs were in full-on rebellion mode.

I traded my walking boots for a comfortable pair of shoes and drove home. By then my legs were so sore they were questioning their life purpose but despite the cramps and the red toes, I didn’t have any swelling and not a single blister. I sent a silent thank you to the shop assistant who recommended my wonderful boots. They really made a difference. I slept like a baby, knowing my mum would be proud of me for believing in myself like she always taught me and surmounting such a formidable challenge.

Reflections on the journey

The Macmillan Jurassic Coast Mighty Hike taught me valuable lessons about resilience, purpose, community and goal setting. Facing the physical and mental challenges made me discover capabilities I didn’t think I had. The camaraderie among fellow hikers and the friends I made highlighted the importance of connection and giving back to others. I am not sure I would have completed the walk had I been all alone, there were many moments when I thought about turning back but my walking buddies were really amazing and kept me going.

Embracing mindfulness and presence allowed me to appreciate the beauty of the journey and feel gratitude for my body and what it can achieve.

This challenge also marked the beginning of my passion for hiking and I have since been back to the Jurassic coast several times and climbed the cliffs of doom in much better weather conditions.

Somewhere along the way, though, it started to feel exhausting. People got tired of performing their holiday rather than living it, of moving quickly through places without quite “seeing” them.

From logos to low-key

I’ve noticed this change through my work as a travel and experience designer. More and more, clients aren’t asking for the most impressive hotel or the most talked-about destination, they’re choosing comfort, privacy, and time over trends.

While Instagram influencers pose in front of the Burj Al Arab and crowds funnel through Santorini’s whitewashed streets at sunset, a different kind of traveller is heading to places you’ve probably never heard of. They’re staying in unbranded guesthouses, eating at restaurants with no social media presence, and paying premium prices for the privilege of being left alone.

This emerging trend, sometimes called “stealth wealth,” is a wholesale rejection of overt display. The focus has moved from what money can buy to what it can unlock, namely, time, space, and a true reset.

In travel, this means the new status symbol isn’t a first-class ticket to Bora Bora or a suite at the Ritz. It’s knowing about a restored farmhouse in rural Umbria that doesn’t do marketing, or having a connection who can arrange a private island in Indonesia that isn’t on any booking platform.

In many ways, it’s a return to something older, when travel was about immersion rather than consumption. But it also feels very modern, shaped by burnout and a desire for simpler pleasures.

The psychology behind low-key travel

Why is this form of travel resonating so deeply right now? There isn’t one single reason, but a mix of cultural and economic changes.

We are the most travelled, most documented, most stimulated generation, and perhaps the most tired.

Social media has flattened luxury. What once felt rare now feels replicated endlessly. The hotel balcony facing the Eiffel Tower, the floating breakfast tray in a swimming pool overlooking rice fields. We’ve seen it all, often before we’ve even arrived.

Many travellers started behaving more like content creators, planning trips around what could be captured and posted.

Understated luxury is a break from validation. The ultimate flex is the trip you take that no one knows about.

The pandemic changed how many of us think about space, comfort, and safety. After long periods of isolation, followed by crowded public spaces, privacy started to feel more valuable than ever. Being somewhere calm, uncrowded and easy to navigate began to matter more than filling every day with activities. For many travellers, the focus changed from doing more to feeling rested.

Many luxury travellers today are highly experienced, knowledgeable globetrotters. They have “been there and done that.” They are no longer impressed by generic five-star amenities. The real value for them is access to experiences, places, and knowledge that cannot be bought off a shelf or found through a basic search engine.

The paradoxes of soft luxury

For all its appeal, low-key luxury is riddled with contradictions. It’s described as “quiet” but is in fact louder than it sounds. It’s featured in luxury magazines, and marketed by the hospitality industry.

There’s also the question of whether this is truly more sustainable and ethical, or just better at appearing so. Does a private villa in Bali have a smaller environmental footprint than a large resort, or is it using even more resources per guest? Does flying to an unknown corner of Patagonia support local communities, or does it bring tourism to places that were better off without it.

Perhaps the most important point is that understated travel can deepen existing social divides. Traditional luxury was exclusive, but at least it was visible. This new kind of luxury is designed to stay out of sight. This widens the gap between those who can access these experiences and those who can’t .

But, is understated luxury only for the wealthy?

It’s true that this type of luxury is most visible at the top end of the market, where privacy, space, and discretion can be bought more easily. But the underlying principles are not exclusive to wealth.

It’s about understanding what enhances your experience and letting go of what doesn’t. That might mean spending more on one meaningful element of a trip and less on everything else. It might mean choosing fewer destinations, travelling in the shoulder season, or prioritising rest over activity.

For some, understated luxury may look like a secluded villa or a private guide. For others, it’s a simple room in a local neighbourhood, long walks instead of tours, and meals chosen for pleasure rather than popularity.

The future of understated travel

As this type of travel becomes more popular, it will likely follow the same path as other exclusive trends. What starts out as rare tends to evolve, and eventually lose some of its edge. We can already see this happening, with hotels and travel brands trying to package and sell “low-key” experiences, which, by definition, makes them less low-key.

What comes next is harder to predict. The wealthiest travellers may push even further toward privacy, creating completely separate ways of travelling through private terminals, or invitation-only destinations. Or the trend could swing back the other way, with younger travellers drawn to more visible forms of luxury simply because they feel new again.

What seems clear is that as long as travel is used to signal status, taste, and values, it will keep evolving. Right now, what feels luxurious is stillness, comfort and privacy. In the future, it may be something else entirely.

The more interesting question is what this transition says about us today. It points to a growing wish to step back from constant visibility, to travel with more intention. In many ways, it’s not just about the destinations people choose, but about the values and identity they want their travels to reflect.

As travel becomes less about showing and more about feeling, what does “luxury” look like to you now?

Yet, beneath all the glitter and commotion lies another kind of London: one where Christmas feels intimate, atmospheric and not staged. It’s the London where regulars slip into candlelit wine bars, where Georgian squares glow under fairy lights, where you can actually hear carollers without a crowd roaring behind them. This is Christmas for those who seek tradition and charm over trend and chaos.

Belgravia

While everyone’s queuing at Harrods, Belgravia remains blissfully quiet as most visitors don’t venture beyond Sloane Square.

Elizabeth Street

This is a gorgeous street where you’ll find independent shops with floral façades, delicious bakeries, and pop-up festive shops. Weekday mornings (10-11am) are usually very quiet.

Motcomb Street

Motcomb Street is home to the Pantechnicon, a former arts-and-crafts warehouse now transformed into a beautifully curated space. Inside, you’ll find SACHI, a serene Japanese restaurant, and Amélie, a Provençal-inspired dining room with cinematic elegance.

Ebury Street

Ebury Street takes on a quiet, festive charm in December, its elegant façades elevated by wreaths and window lights. At the heart of it all is The Thomas Cubitt, a warm, fire-lit pub where a hearty Sunday roast becomes the perfect winter comfort.

Mayfair

Mayfair’s Christmas centres around its grand hotels, and timing matters.

Claridge’s

Want to see Claridge’s iconic designer Christmas tree? Go before 9 am and you’ll likely be the only one. The Fumoir bar opens later for seasonal cocktails in a dark, intimate space that holds about 20 people maximum.

The Connaught

The Connaught’s approach to Christmas is graceful rather than grand. Expect winter florals and cosy corners perfect for a fireside drink. The Bar runs festive cocktail menus throughout the season. Expect to pay £20-25 per drink, but the drinks selection and art deco interiors justify it for special occasions.

If you’re seeking a sophisticated evening without needing an actual membership, visit The Beaumont Bar- their award winning Christmas afternoon tea is legendary.

The Ritz does its traditional afternoon tea in the Palm Court under chandeliers but this requires booking at least a few weeks ahead of December so you may be a little late this year.

Most Mayfair hotel bars don’t require bookings for drinks, but arriving before 6pm on weekdays guarantees a seat.

Marylebone

Marylebone High Street handles Christmas crowds better than most because it’s genuinely local. You’ll see more residents shopping here than day-trippers. The street is narrow enough that lights create a festive atmosphere without being overwhelming.

The Landmark

Possibly the most beautiful hotel in London. Their gorgeous Winter Garden sits under an eight-storey glass atrium. The afternoon tea here is not cheap, costing around £60-75 per person, but the setting: palm trees, Victorian architecture, pianist- makes it worthwhile for a one-off experience.

Daunt Books

Don’t skip it if you are in the area. This Edwardian bookshop with an oak gallery and skylight will steal your heart. Their travel section is comprehensive and attractively presented. Go mid-morning to avoid the crowds.

La Fromagerie

If you like cheese you’ll go crazy for their cheese cave and selection of cheese boards. Or go for breakfast and enjoy their excellent Italian coffee. Their prepared foods make lovely gifts. Go on weekday afternoons when it’s quiet.

Chiltern Firehouse

Tucked away from major shopping streets, Chiltern Firehouse’s festive menus celebrate the season with sophistication, making it perfect for a leisurely December lunch or a quiet evening cocktail. Sadly, at the time of writing, the hotel is temporarily closed following a fire earlier this year, and no reopening date has yet been announced.

Chelsea

Chelsea is effortlessly elegant and is perfect for those who prefer small shops to department stores.

Sloane Street’s boutiques have lovely decorated windows but minimal crowds.

Visit Pavilion Road, a pedestrian street lined with food shops, wine merchants, and small restaurants. It gets busy around 6pm when locals finish work, but daytime stays quiet.

Bluebird on King’s Road (restaurant and homeware shop) does seasonal menus . Booking is recommended for dinner but lunch walk-ins usually work on weekdays.

Duke of York Square runs a Saturday market with Christmas stalls.

Kensington

Kensington’s advantage is access to major museums after most tourists have left.

The V&A and Natural History Museums

Both stay open until late on Fridays (until 10pm and 9pm respectively). The Christmas tree in the V&A entrance hall is worth seeing, but both have several Christmas events and installations, and you can also join craft workshops, great if you have kids!

Kensington Palace gardens

They are free to visit from 10 am and stay open until 6pm.

The Design Museum (Holland Park end)

This is a fantastic and under visited museum. They make some really cool Christmas gifts for design enthusiasts including a Wes Anderson collection. Their café is also lovely and overlooks Holland Park.

The Wallace Collection

A wander through its galleries followed by tea under the glass roof feels like celebrating the season in a private home. There is a lovely and bright courtyard restaurant under glass which is run by Peyton & Byrn and doesn’t require booking during the week for lunch. I haven’t eaten there but it’s consistently recommended by Time Out London.

Notting Hill

Portobello Market

It’s packed on Saturdays but Tuesday through Thursday, the antiques section (past Elgin Crescent) stays civilised, and shops selling vintage Christmas decorations open as usual.

The Electric Cinema

If you happen to be there on a rainy afternoon, The Electric Cinema on Portobello Road is one of the oldest working film theatres in the country and runs Christmas films through December. Tickets are not cheap at £20-30 depending on seat choice, but when was the last time you watched a film sitting on velvet armchairs with blankets, and sipping champagne? Book online to avoid sold-out screenings.

Blenheim Crescent

Has an Ottolenghi (prepared foods, festive treats) and several independent shops that don’t get overwhelmed.

Worth noting: Notting Hill is picturesque but expensive. It’s worth visiting for the aesthetics, but don’t expect bargains.

Bloomsbury

Bloomsbury’s squares

Russell Square, Gordon Square, Tavistock Square are all lit with simple fairy lights and rarely crowded. They’re pleasant for cutting through on winter walks.

The British Library

Runs several Christmas family events and workshops in the evening. Their bookshop offers lovely gifts for book lovers, like this stunning edition of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Sir John Soane’s Museum

Runs candlelit evening tours throughout December. They tend to sell out quickly though so check their website for availability.

Hampstead and Primrose Hill

Hampstead feels separate from London with its steep lanes, independent shops and cute village pubs. Flask Walk and Hampstead High Street both decorate for Christmas without overdoing it. The Holly Bush pub (dating from 1807) has open fires and serves traditional British food.

Hampstead Heath offers some of the loveliest winter walks in London, with frost-tipped grass and wide, and cinematic views stretching over the city. At its edge sits Kenwood House, a stately home that feels especially charming at this time of year. This month, they are running a Neverland-inspired outdoors trail that looks wonderfully magical! But even a daytime visit is a treat as it’s peaceful, elegant, and completely free to explore (you just need to pre-book online).

Primrose Hill locals gather at The Princess of Wales pub, particularly on Christmas Eve. Expect crowds on that specific night, but regular December evenings stay relatively calm.

Trafalgar Square/ Westminster

Candlelit Concerts at St Martin-in-the-Fields

Trafalgar Square’s Christmas market can feel underwhelming in its offerings, yet overwhelming in its crowds, but just steps away, this historic church offers a completely different world. Inside, the candlelit classical concerts feel almost otherworldly; the moment you step through the doors, the noise dissolves and you’re wrapped in a warm, deeply festive calm. Tickets range from £10–£55.

Ham Yard Hotel

Ham Yard is part of Firmdale Hotels and they do Christmas beautifully. Ham Yard’s interiors make it feel like Christmas in a designer’s home. Its festive decorations are stylish rather than showy, and its Gingerbread Village irresistibly charming. Their festive afternoon tea is a seasonal favourite, but the real magic happens in the courtyard, which twinkles just enough to feel Christmassy without being overwhelming. This year, their Carols in the Courtyard event brings extra warmth to the space, with performances by the cast of Les Misérables on Wednesday 10th December. No need to book, just turn up and join the celebration! Check the website for specific times.

Hidden Experiences

Dennis Severs’ House, Spitalfields

Dennis Severs’ House is one of London’s most extraordinary festive experiences, part art installation, part time capsule, part theatre, yet unlike anything else in the city. During December, the house is lit entirely by candlelight for its famous Silent Nights tours, where visitors move from room to room without speaking. Each space feels suspended in time: tables left mid-feast, fires still glowing, scents lingering in the air, as if the 18th-century residents had just stepped out and might return at any moment. It’s immersive and truly magical!

St James’s Church, Piccadilly

Just a few streets from the chaos of the West End, St James’s Church offers a gentler way to experience the season. Their candlelit carol services fill the church with warm light and beautiful music, creating an atmosphere that feels deeply festive without the frenzy. Outside, the churchyard hosts a small craft market throughout December which is far calmer than the Southbank version. It’s one of those rare pockets of central London where you can slow down and enjoy Christmas without feeling crowded out.

Free (or nearly free) Experiences

The Geffrye Museum

Now known as the Museum of the Home, this is a beautifully curated journey through how Londoners have lived over the last four centuries. Each room is designed as a period interior and offers a glimpse into domestic life throughout history. At Christmas, these rooms are dressed for the season as they would have been in their respective eras. Tickets are inexpensive and worth it for such an immersive experience.

Wilton’s Music Hall

One of London’s oldest surviving music halls, a beautifully weathered Victorian treasure that still hosts performances and even the occasional wedding. Its bar is often open to the public, even if you haven’t booked a show, so you can step inside and soak up the atmosphere for free. During December, the hall’s ornate balconies and wooden interiors are dressed with subtle festive touches, which create a nostalgic Christmas setting that feels like stepping into a bygone era.

Lincoln’s Inn Fields

If you love history and Dickensian London, take a walk in this peaceful Georgian square that feels almost untouched by modern London. At dusk when the lamps switch on, it feels deeply atmospheric and cinematic.

Middle Temple Hall Courtyard

This hidden courtyard turns into a serene winter hideaway and offers a quiet Christmas walk among centuries-old buildings.

St Bartholomew the Great

The oldest surviving parish church in London. Even if you don’t go inside (it’s inexpensive), the exterior courtyard alone feels ancient and festive. It has a vibe of what Christmas might have felt 900 years ago.

The Burlington Arcade Stroll

This elegant, historic arcade does Christmas beautifully, with tasteful decorations. It’s luxurious but totally free to wander through. This one gets busy in the evening but if you go right when it opens, you’ll feel like you own the place.

Southwark Cathedral’s Courtyard & Free Choir Practice

The cathedral often rehearses carols in the afternoons, and you can sometimes sit quietly or catch the sound drifting from the open door.

St Katharine Docks Christmas Lights

Enjoy a peaceful evening walk on the marina among beautiful lights and reflections on the water.

The Royal Exchange at Night

After 6pm, the City empties. The Royal Exchange, with its enormous tree and grand pillars becomes gloriously empty. It’s completely free and wonderfully atmospheric.

Final Thoughts

The truth is, Christmas in London will always have its crowds, its glitter, its show-stopping moments. But over the years, I’ve found that some of my favourite memories happened in much quieter places, looking up at handmade wreath on a townhouse door, reading by the fireplace in an old pub, or hearing someone practicing carols through an open window.

These places don’t advertise themselves. You have to slow down a bit, wander off the main routes, and let yourself find them. When you do, they feel personal in a way the big attractions never quite do.

Whatever your style of celebrating, whether you love the sparkle and spectacle or prefer the quieter corners of the season, I wish you a peaceful and beautiful festive season.

The Maldives is overrated.

A postcard with nothing behind it, a honeymoon cliché for couples with more money than imagination.

And as someone who approaches most things in life with a healthy dose of cynicism, I leaned into that narrative too.

Why I Avoided the Maldives for Years

I “knew” the Maldives without ever going. Years ago, I worked as a project manager for the hospitality sector, and dealt with many hotel brands across the Indian Ocean, including several Maldivian resorts. I’d sat through operational briefings, studied villa layouts and understood the back-of-house logistics. But I had never actually gone, and never felt the urge to go.

I’m not even a beach person, and that’s despite growing up near the sea. I genuinely don’t understand people who do a whole “beach day”, lying flat on their backs for hours, being slowly roasted like rotisserie chicken. I can’t sit still for more than twenty minutes without feeling jittery. I don’t like watching other people swim or children build sandcastles. I like a sandy beach but I hate the feeling of sand on my skin.

And while I genuinely love a swanky hotel with a unique design and boutique vibes, I’m not a resort person either.

I love the comfort of a nice hotel with good water pressure and luxurious sheets, but I mainly travel for the glorious mess of real places. For the chaotic markets that smell like spices. For late-night food stalls where you order by pointing because no one speaks English. For the kind of genuine human connection that only happens when you get lost and someone who has zero obligation to help you decides to anyway.

The idea of being confined to a tiny island for an entire week, eating in the same handful of restaurants until you’ve memorised the menu, walking the same strip of beach until you’ve counted every palm tree, with nothing but “relaxation” on the agenda, sounded a bit like sophisticated torture.

And for all those reasons, I was secretly afraid the Maldives might ruin beach holidays even more and make me hate them entirely.

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Growing up in Morocco, on the warm shores of the Mediterranean, “winter” meant mild days in the low double digits and maybe putting on a light coat in January. I’m the type who would willingly hibernate for three months, wrapped like a burrito in blankets, battling brutal SAD, and complaining about the cold while everyone around me seems perfectly fine. I am always the coldest person in the room. Always.

So when I casually told everyone that I was heading to the Arctic Circle in February, my friends, family and colleagues genuinely thought I’d lost it.

“You? In the Arctic? You won’t survive a day.”

Maybe, I thought. But something in me really wanted a crazy challenge. I wanted to see the world in a way I never had before, to step outside my comfortable warm bubble and meet winter head-on.

And that’s how Norway, unexpected, silent, and dazzling, made me fall in love with winter for the very first time.

The call of the fjords

While I disliked winters, I’ve been obsessed with fjords for as long as I can remember. There’s something almost mythical about those long, deep, glacier-carved arms of water tucked between rugged mountains.

I learnt that Norway has around 1,190 fjords. They’re not just part of the landscape, they’re part of the culture, the way of life, and the stories people tell everyday.

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And I love it because it’s the closest thing to travelling the world in condensed form: hundreds of cultures, perspectives, and landscapes gathered in one place. This was my second year attending, and it’s one of the best opportunities to connect with other travel writers, bloggers, and creators offline.

While WTM is primarily a business event, the themes that emerge there influence how we actually travel. They shape the kinds of experiences that get promoted to us, the types of stays that are designed, and the way destinations begin telling their stories.

And this year, one message felt particularly clear:

The future of travel is moving from consumption to connection.

The travel industry is projected to grow faster than the global economy over the next decade. Travel isn’t slowing down, it’s evolving. The question now is less about whether people will travel, and more about how they want to feel when they do.

Key Travel Trends for 2026

1. Slower Travel and Longer Stays

Data and panel discussions highlighted growing traveller preference for fewer destinations per trip and longer stays. The value is shifting from how much you see to how deeply you experience it.

2. Human-Centered Hospitality

Small-scale, design-forward guesthouses, boutique hotels, and heritage accommodations are gaining momentum. Travellers are seeking intimacy, individuality, and warmth instead of one-size-fits-all luxury.

3. AI in travel

Travel tech leaders agreed that AI is broadly beneficial for the travel industry, especially for handling routine queries, personalising recommendations, and improving operational efficiency. However, speakers emphasised clear caveats: AI must not replace the human warmth, emotional context, and storytelling that make travel meaningful.

4. Ultra-Luxury is Expanding but Changing Shape

WTM insights show the ultra-luxury sector is expected to grow faster than the wider travel market. But the definition of luxury is changing to include privacy, nature, slow movement, personal attention and architectural and cultural texture.

5. Nature as the New Wellness

Travellers increasingly view landscapes — coastlines, forests, mountains — as restorative environments. Time outdoors is no longer considered adventure tourism and is being positioned as a form of emotional regulation.

6. Cultural Depth Over Consumption

Many sessions and partners emphasised a demand for meaningful local interaction, culinary and craft heritage, narrative-rich neighbourhoods
and experiences co-created with residents.

7. Travel as Quality of Life

One of the standout presentations revealed the World’s Most Livable and Loveable Cities (Resonance/Ipsos).

London ranked #1 globally for the 11th year, for culture, connectivity, neighbourhood identity, and emotional belonging.

This matters because people are no longer just visiting cities, they are evaluating where they could return, stay longer, or live part-time.

8. Sustainability as Standard Practice

Sustainability has noticeably evolved from a marketing claim to a baseline expectation. Travellers and communities want traceability, community partnership, and visible environmental stewardship instead of slogans.

How Destinations and Hotels Are Responding

Several destinations emphasised fewer visitors, richer experiences as a strategic response to overtourism, prioritising depth of engagement over volume.

In short:
The future of travel is being built on smaller, slower, more intentional foundations.

What This Means for Travellers

Over the next few years, we should expect:

• More emphasis on slower itineraries

• A rise in thoughtful boutique stays over large-scale resorts

• Destinations marketing the feeling of being there, not just what to do

  

Closing Thought

The future of travel is definitely evolving toward depth and intention and the industry as a whole is shifting toward the very qualities many of us have quietly been craving:

Space. Connection. Presence.

And that definitely feels like a movement worth noticing.

A friend of mine had just visited London. I didn’t get a chance to see her while she was here, so we caught up afterwards. When I asked how her holiday went, she didn’t sound thrilled at all.

Before she left, she did what we all do: she asked for recommendations, scrolled, bookmarked, and made The List.

It had everything: the museums, the jazz clubs in Soho, the vintage shops in Notting Hill, the London Eye, etc.. Every morning and afternoon was accounted for.

By day three, she was wrecked.

She spent the rest of the trip in her hotel room, sleeping and staring at the ceiling, feeling like she’d failed at something she couldn’t quite name.

When she told me this story, her voice had that familiar edge, half-laughing, half-defeated.

“I went all the way to London, and I never actually saw London.”

I knew exactly what she meant because I used to be that kind of traveller too.

There’s this version of travel we’ve collectively bought into. It sounds like FOMO. It feels like an exam you didn’t study for.

Did you go to that restaurant?
Did you see that famous thing?
Did you get the photo everyone is posting on Instagram?

We arrive somewhere new and immediately start performing for the algorithm, for some imaginary audience keeping score of whether we’re doing it “right.”

We pack our days so tightly that nothing unexpected can seep in. No margins. No pauses.

And then someone asks: So how did it make you feel?
And we realise… we don’t remember.
We were too busy moving.

I remember one morning in Lisbon. I’d been several times for work, but that time I extended my stay for a long weekend, determined to finally “see everything.” The tile museum. That Fado restaurant in Alfama which was recommended by my colleagues. The markets. The sunset at Miradouro da Senhora do Monte. I had it all mapped.

But on Sunday morning, when my alarm went off, I wondered why I was scheduling myself like this on a day that was supposed to be mine. As I stretched in my hotel bed, the light coming through the window was the colour of honey, warm and slow and perfect, and I just wanted to lie there all day long.

I made coffee and sat on the balcony. I watched an old woman hang laundry on a line across the street. A cat stretched itself awake on the roof tiles. A tram bell sounded somewhere far away.

I didn’t check my phone. Or the time. I just sat there, soaking up the sun for probably an hour or two.

When I finally left the apartment, I ditched the list completely. I decided to walk and I let my feet make decisions. I found a tiny bookshop I never would have sought out, and ended up talking about Pessoa’s poetry in broken English with the man behind the counter. He still managed to make me laugh.

I never made it to the tile museum that day.

And yet, of all the times I’ve visited Lisbon, that unplanned Sunday morning is what I remember most vividly.

It taught me that the moments that stay with us are almost never the ones we meticulously plan.

They’re the slow pauses where we breathe. The impromptu conversation with a shopkeeper. The Uber driver who insisted on showing you their favourite neighbourhood. The wrong turn that leads to a hidden courtyard.

We’ve mistaken a crammed schedule for a rich experience.

We’ve convinced ourselves that white space is waste, when in reality, it’s the doorway to depth.

Travel has its own rhythm. It reveals itself when we loosen our grip and start to feel instead of do.

Think back to the last time you felt truly present somewhere. I doubt it was the day you saw six sights before lunch.
It was probably the coffee you sipped on a park bench. Or the evening you skipped dinner reservations and bought bread and cheese from a corner shop instead. Or the rainy afternoon you ended up in a bookstore for three hours.

Here’s what I’m practicing now:

When I plan a trip, I schedule the white space on purpose.

One morning with no plans.
One afternoon with no map.
One evening surrendered entirely to mood.

I think of it as breathing room, or space for happy accidents. As a way to give permission to myself to change my mind, or do absolutely nothing at all.

My friend is planning another trip now. Somewhere warm this time. She asked for my advice. I told her: make a loose list. Note a few places you’re genuinely curious about. Then leave the rest blank.

Leave room for the trip to surprise you.

Because the journey you’re looking for is probably waiting for you to slow down enough to actually notice it.

What about you?
When were you last truly present while travelling?
Was it the days you had everything planned or the moments you just let go?

How destinations go viral

It’s deceptively simple. One person discovers a gorgeous location a little off the tourist path. they post a photo on Instagram, the algorithm does its job, the more visually dramatic the photo the better. The post performs well, then more people look at it, save it, share it and add it to their itineraries. Travel bloggers publish listicles: “10 Hidden Gems in Bali You MUST Visit”. The geotag becomes a beacon. What once took decades to grow through word-of-mouth and niche travel publications now unfolds in months, even weeks.

A lavender farm in Provence suddenly went from a family business into an Instagram star overnight when it became the subject of a single viral post in 2019. The owners showed up the next morning to find their fields trampled and hundreds of people taking photographs in their private property without permission. The farm shut its doors to the public in less than a week. This isn’t an isolated incident. Arizona’s Horseshoe Bend went from 4,000 visitors a year to nearly 2 million people. It gets worse when people put their lives in danger for a photo. In Trolltunga, Norway, rescue operations spiked 500% as unprepared tourists tried the strenuous hike in flip-flops for the photo.

Perhaps the most symbolic example is the Wanaka Tree in New Zealand. The lone willow standing in Lake Wanaka became one of the country’s most photographed spots, with visitors wading into the water at all hours, climbing on fragile branches, and carving initials into its bark. The tree became so synonymous with Instagram tourism that when it was vandalised in 2020 and had several branches cut off, it sparked a national conversation about what we’re willing to destroy for content.

The content creator’s dilemma

Travel bloggers and influencers are caught in a difficult position. The premise of these apps is built upon the sharing of locations, but thankfully a lot are increasingly recognising the harm it brings. Some creators are geotagging vaguely (as “somewhere in Portugal”) or not tagging at all. Others have stopped going to the popular spots, and are searching for new remote locations. But this raises its own problem- the search for unknown places just pushes the destruction deeper into untouched areas.

I felt this dilemma several years ago when I was working in Oman and a colleague invited a small group of us to his local village. We got to stay with his family in a place that was very remote and absolutely stunning. And even though I took photos, I decided not to share them.

It felt like the right thing to do. I felt so privileged to visit this place where I was welcomed in good faith. But I knew that if I don’t post them, someone else will.

I’m not writing this from a moral high ground- far from it. I’ve geotagged other places without thinking. I’ve written articles and made content that I questioned later. I’ve faced this dilemma more times than I’d like to admit, and I still struggle with where the line is. I am, in many ways, part of the problem I’m writing about, and that’s exactly why I think it’s worth talking about.

When locals lose their spaces

The human cost of Instagram tourism often gets overlooked in favour of environmental concerns, but i think it’s equally significant.

Take Positano as an example. The colourful cliffside town has been photographed to death, with certain doorways and staircases becoming so popular that homeowners have installed signs begging tourists not to sit on their steps. Some residents report being unable to leave their homes during peak hours due to crowds blocking streets for photos.

I’ve witnessed this happen in Chefchaouen, the blue city in Northern Morocco. Once, a small town known mostly to locals and a handful of backpackers. Today, it’s hard to walk through the medina without passing multiple staged photoshoots and cafés designed specifically for content creation.

The environmental toll

Beyond the social impact, there’s also considerable environmental damage. Maya Bay in Thailand, made famous by the film “The Beach” , had to close in 2018 after 80% of its coral died from tourist activity. Scientists estimated it would take a decade for the ecosystem to recover. The bay has since reopened, but with strict regulations: daily visitor numbers are capped, boats can no longer enter the bay itself, and the beach is closed for two months every year to allow nature to regenerate.

Iceland, a country of just 398,000 people, now receives over 2 million visitors annually, many come to chase the same dozen Instagram-famous locations. The country has had to close several natural sites due to damage from overcrowding. Moss that takes decades to grow has been trampled in minutes by tourists stepping off marked paths for unobstructed photos.

The problem escalates when visitors don’t know how to treat these places as ecosystems. In 2024, a tourist at Pompeii was caught carving initials into a 2,000-year-old home at the archaeological site.

Instagram created a mindset of “ leaving your own mark and proving you were there” that matters more than respecting history. We now have a generation of travellers who interact with places as if they exist solely for their feed.

The cost of virality

The system encourages the wrong kind of financial growth. When a location goes viral, local economies can initially boom. Business boom and jobs get created . But this prosperity is often short-lived because these investors are mostly outsiders who seize the opportunity before locals get a chance to do the same. International hotel chains and tour operators move in, this drives up property prices and pushes out small businesses and residents. The town of Hallstatt, Austria, is a good example. After becoming phenomenally popular due to social media, the 800 people village now receives up to 10,000 visitors per day. Property prices have skyrocketed, leaving locals massively priced out. The mayor has implemented visitor restrictions and the town is now considering a permit system to allow visitors in.

Do we have a responsibility to protect places?

This brings us to the central ethical question: if you find a beautiful, remote place, do you have a moral obligation not to share it?

Ask a successful influencer and you will immediately be flooded with arguments for sharing: knowledge should be free. No one owns a public space. Why should you get to enjoy something that others can’t? Isn’t the whole point of travel to discover and share experiences? Plus, if you don’t post it, someone else will anyway.

The arguments for not sharing are equally compelling: not every place has the infrastructure to handle mass tourism, local communities should have autonomy over their spaces, and some ecosystems are too fragile for heavy tourism. Just because you can visit a place doesn’t mean you should broadcast its existence to millions.

There’s also the question of who should decide what remains hidden. Often, the people who advocate for gatekeeping are those who’ve already had their moment of discovery. It’s easy to say “stop coming here” once you’ve gotten your perfect sunset photo.

What responsible sharing might look like

I’ve had many conversations about this topic with influencers and content creators and many have started experimenting with alternative approaches:

Delayed posting: Sharing locations weeks or months after visiting, to reduce the immediate rush of copycats.

Vague geotagging: Tagging the general region rather than the specific spot, forces people to do their own research and naturally filter out those who aren’t willing to put in effort.

Paywalling sensitive content: I know several writers who do this on platforms like Substack. It’s about creating a small barrier to entry that filters for readers who are seriously invested rather than casual scrollers looking for their next photo op.

Community consultation: Some travel bloggers now reach out to local communities or tourism boards before posting about lesser-known locations, asking if they want the attention and how to direct it responsibly.

Leading by example: Showing the effort required to reach a place (the early wake-up, the difficult hike, the research etc) rather than making it look effortless, can discourage casual visitors.

These aren’t perfect solutions, but they show effort and a will to move away from the “tag everything” culture that has prevailed for so many years.

The places we’ll never see

There are places in the world you and I will never visit, and that’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary.

There are many Indigenous communities around the world who maintain sacred sites and don’t share them with outsiders. Conservation areas exist where human access is strictly limited or prohibited. Some of the world’s most pristine ecosystems remain that way precisely because they’re difficult or impossible to reach.

The idea that we have a right to go anywhere and share everything is relatively new and tied to a mindset that assumes access and visibility are always justified. Maybe the question isn’t whether we should share secret places, but whether we should be seeking them out in the first place.

The Instagram Effect isn’t going away anytime soon. Social media is too embedded in how we travel and will continue to shape where people go and how they behave. But we can, as individuals, choose how we participate in this system.

Before posting about that perfect hidden beach or secret viewpoint, ask yourself:

• Can this place handle more visitors?

• Am I sharing because people will really benefit, or because I want engagement?

• What are the consequences of this going viral?

• Have I asked locals how they feel about increased tourism?

The most powerful thing you can do is to simply enjoy a place without needing to broadcast it and to understand that not everything beautiful needs to be seen by everyone.

What’s your take on this? Have you ever chosen not to share a location? Have you ever visited somewhere that was ruined by Instagram tourism? Let me know in the comments.

From the street, their house looked plain. Whitewashed walls. A heavy wooden door with an old brass knocker. Nothing special.

But when that door opened, an entire new world appeared.

Suddenly I was standing in a courtyard filled with light and air. There was a large fountain bubbling in the middle. Orange trees stretched upwards, their blossoms filling the air with a sharp, sweet scent.

After the noise and chaos of the medina, it felt like I had stumbled into a secret paradise.

Back then, riads weren’t boutique hotels. They were homes for large, often affluent families. Grandparents, uncles, cousins, all lived under one roof, circling the same courtyard. It wasn’t just about easthetics. It was an architectural philosophy. The design offered privacy from the outside world, and protection from the harsh Moroccan sun.

Eventually, many of these family homes were abandoned as lifestyles changed and families moved into modern houses. For a few decades, the riads sat empty, their courtyards gathering dust. Then a wave of artists and investors -mostly French- came and saw their potential. They restored the riads to their former glory, carefully preserving the traditional architecture and craftsmanship, while adding just enough comfort for modern travellers.

What is a Riad?

Riads are traditional houses located in the medinas or the oldest parts of the cities in Morocco. A “Riad” is an Arabic word which means “garden”. They were inspired by traditional Arab-Andalusian architecture and were called so because they were built with a focus on an interior garden or a courtyard.

They were designed with a view to offer families privacy from the outside world and protection from the elements and as such they don’t have windows on the exterior.

A riad typically has:

• a square or rectangular shape

• an open courtyard in the centre (often with a fountain; some modern ones have a pool)

• living rooms and kitchens downstairs,

• bedrooms upstairs arranged over one or two floors with balconies or galleries that face into the courtyard

From the outside, a riad looks ordinary, sometimes even uninviting. From the inside, it’s rich with detail: hand-carved stucco, zellige tile mosaics, painted cedar ceilings.

Every element has a purpose. The courtyard creates shade and coolness. The fountain adds moisture to dry air. The high walls block the noise of the souks outside.

Riads have a small number of rooms, usually no more than 6 or 7, so expect a relaxing and quiet stay with very accommodating staff.

The roof of a riad is also arranged to accommodate a terrace on which a solarium is built with a panoramic view of the roofs of the other riads in the medina.

How to choose a riad without losing your sanity?

Marrakech has more than 1,500 riads. Yes, you read that right.

It’s overwhelming. Scroll through booking sites and you’ll see endless courtyards, fountains, rooftop terraces. But how do you even begin to choose?

Here’s what you need to know before booking a riad.

Location matters more than you think.

Most riads are inside the medina, which means cars can’t get there. If you’re not familiar with the city, choose one that offers an airport transfer. Some even send a staff member to meet your taxi at a landmark and walk you in. Trust me, after dragging a suitcase through the medina at night, I learned this lesson.

Decide between authentic and modern

Some riads preserve every traditional detail: no pool, no spa, just the courtyard and hospitality. Others are fully modernised, with hammams, jacuzzis, and plunge pools. Neither is “better”, it all depends on the kind of experience you’re after.

Budget vs. luxury.

If you’re planning to spend all day exploring Marrakech, a simple budget riad will do the job. It gives you a clean room, a warm welcome, and that classic courtyard charm.

But if you want your accommodation to feel like part of the experience, then a more luxurious option makes a huge difference. The atmosphere in high-end riads is truly unforgettable, and so is the comfort.

The pricier options usually mean better sleep: good mattresses, stylish bathrooms, proper insulation, and rooms that stay cool and quiet even when the medina is buzzing outside.

You’ll also notice the difference at breakfast. Luxury riads tend to offer a wider variety - fresh fruit, homemade breads, local pastries, eggs cooked to order- and many have on-site dining options if you don’t feel like heading out at night.

So the choice depends on your trip style. Explore all day? Go budget. Want to slow down and soak in the magic? Go luxury.

Read the reviews.

The physical beauty of a riad is important, but what makes the experience memorable is the staff. Riads are small so service is very personal. A friendly, attentive team can make you feel at home in a city that often feels overwhelming.

Think of it this way: hotels give you convenience. Riads give you immersion.

Things nobody tells you before booking

Here’s the stuff nobody warns you about until you’ve already booked a riad:

Finding your riad is an adventure in itself

The medina is a maze. Google Maps are pretty useless there as the streets twist, turn, and sometimes disappear. If your riad doesn’t offer airport pickup or a meet-and-greet service, you may end up lost with your suitcase while locals shout directions in different languages. Paying a little extra for the airport transfer will prevent a lot of stress.

Morning noise is unavoidable

Riads are quiet at night, but remember that all the rooms face the courtyard. You’ll hear other guests at breakfast if they are loud. And you’ll definitely hear the call to prayer at dawn, amplified by a loudspeaker from the nearest mosque. Some consider it part of the local charm, but if you like your morning lie-in then a riad might not be the best choice for you.

Cash is king

Many riads don’t accept card payments so make sure to get cash before you arrive. This applies to pretty much everything else in Marrakech including transportation and dining inside the medina. There’s also a city tax (often around €2–€3 per person per night) that isn’t included in the online price so bring enough cash to cover these surprises.

Safety after dark

The medina is very safe, but alleys can be dark and confusing. Ask the riad staff which routes are best at night. Most will be honest about where to avoid.

It can feel lonely if you’re solo

With just a handful of rooms, some riads feel almost too quiet, especially if you’re traveling alone. No bars, no crowds, no background music, and no TV. Just you, the fountain, and the silence. I absolutely love that kind of peace but some people may find it isolating.

These aren’t deal-breakers. But knowing them helps you choose better and avoid disappointment.

What exactly is the advantage of staying in a riad over a hotel?

For me, it comes down to one thing: personalised service. Riads are small, so the staff treat you like family rather than a room number.

Like that time when I hurt my foot and had to cancel my dinner reservation. Instead of leaving me hungry, the staff cooked my favourite tajine and served it in the courtyard. The next morning, they brought breakfast up to my room so I wouldn’t have to move around. I felt like an Arabian Nights princess.

And it’s not just the service. Marrakech has some of the best sunsets in the world and my favourite thing to do is watch them from from a rooftop terrace. Many riads have intimate spas and hammams where you can end a busy day with a massage under candlelight.

Some of my favourite riads in Marrakech

Over the years, I’ve stayed in a couple of dozen riads, from sumptuous palaces to cosy budget gems. And here’s a confession: I love them so much that on some longer trips, I’ve actually stayed in a different riad every single night.

Yes, it’s crazy and I probably looked like a nomadic suitcase merchant wandering through the medina. But they’re my guilty pleasure and totally worth it.

Each one felt different and told a different story. And that’s the beauty of Marrakech: there’s a riad for every mood, every budget, and every kind of traveller.

Here are the 10 riads that stood out for me:

• Riad Kaiss – Pure elegance. Originally a palace owned by a Sultan, restored in the 1980s. It has marble floors, hand-carved doors, a hammam and a rooftop terrace with city views. If you want luxury steeped in history, this is it.

  

  Riad Kniza – An 18th-century gem, family-run, and full of antiques. The food is excellent, and the staff treat you like old friends.

  

  Royal Mansour – The collection – The Royal Mansour is actually a set of 53 private riads spread across its grounds. Each is decorated uniquely, with traditional craftsmanship. This is the ultimate Moroccan luxury experience.

  Izza Marrakech – For lovers of art and design. It channels the spirit of designer Bill Willis and hosts a notable collection of digital art.

  

  Riad Nayanour – Warm, bright and welcoming, with just seven rooms. A pool in the courtyard, a stunning rooftop terrace where you can have a leisurely and delicious breakfast.

  

  Riad Lyla – The courtyard in this place feels like a jungle, with plants spilling from balconies and walls and the most beautiful swimming pool. It’s peaceful, green, and full of character. Perfect if you want to relax after exploring the souks.

  

  Riad Nelia – This one’s special because it has not one, but two pools (a courtyard pool and a rooftop plunge pool). Add in a full spa, soundproofed rooms, and sunset views from the terrace, and it feels like you’re getting luxury without the luxury price tag.

  

  Riad Palais des Princesses – Gorgeous decor, an indoor pool, a rooftop terrace, and even spa options. If you want a riad that balances style, comfort, and budget, this one nails it.

  Riad El Maktoub – Centrally located in the medina, so you’re steps from the main sights. The small pool and tranquil courtyard feel like heaven after a day of bargaining in the souks.

  Dar Nour el Houda– My favourite budget riad in Marrakech. Once the home of a French painter, the artistic touch is everywhere. Cozy pool, rooftop terrace, and creative vibes at a very wallet-friendly price.

  

Final Thoughts

Here’s my argument: you can’t get the full Marrakech experience unless you’ve stayed in a riad.

Hotels offer modern convenience. Air-conditioning, elevators, 24-hour room service. And those are great. But in a hotel, you could be anywhere in the world.

In a riad, you’re firmly in Morocco. Every tile, every arch, every scent is rooted in this place. That’s what makes the difference.

I don’t want to pretend riads are perfect. They’re not. Some are noisy. Some are hard to find. Some will frustrate you with little quirks like not having a TV in the room, the loud call to prayer or only accepting cash.

But a riad forces you to slow down. You can’t rush past the sound of a fountain when its trickle is the only thing breaking the silence. You notice the jasmine in the courtyard because its scent lingers in the air. And when the sun dips beyond the rooftops, you stop, because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

You will always remember the kindness of the staff, the mint tea on a terrace, and the magic of stepping through an ordinary wooden door only to discover a secret garden inside.

So if you ever go, do yourself a favour. Book at least one night in a riad. Step through that unmarked door and let it surprise you.