Cool Britannia

There’s a certain type of British pop record — S Club’s “Natural,” Victoria Beckham’s “Not Such an Innocent Girl,” late-period Hear’Say deep cuts — that hits not just the ears but the spine. It triggers pride. Not nostalgia exactly. Recognition.

Because for a brief, incandescent window — roughly 1990 to the early 2000s — Britain didn’t just compete in global pop. We ran it. And we did so with a confidence and lack of shame that America simply didn’t have at the time.

This wasn’t accidental.
It was structural.

Let’s get this out of the way: British pop didn’t pretend to be “authentic.” It didn’t hide the scaffolding. It understood pop as design, not confession. Songs were built. Groups were assembled. Personalities were defined. And no one felt the need to apologize.

That alone set Britain apart.

The US still clung to the myth of the lone star: the tortured prodigy, the church-raised vocal miracle, the individual who deserved success. Britain said: here’s the group, here’s the chorus, here’s your Saturday night.
And crucially — let’s have some fun. No irony. No apology.

Look back properly at British pop groups of the era and something becomes obvious in hindsight yet invisible at the time because it was treated as normal:

* Mixed race

* Mixed gender

* Different body types

* Different energies

Five. Blue. Eternal. S Club 7. Sugababes. Even the Spice Girls — while all white — carried cultural coding that rejected American homogeneity. Mel B’s Leeds swagger wasn’t softened or exported away. It was the point.

This was radical without rhetoric.

In America, pop groups were still rigidly segregated well into the late ’90s. Black acts were R&B. White acts were pop. Co-ed groups were rare, novelty-coded or short-lived. Diversity was something you marketed as an exception.

Britain didn’t market it.
Britain assumed it.

Part of this comes down to Britain’s blunt class awareness. We don’t pretend difference doesn’t exist — we live inside it. That gave British pop an odd realism even at its most artificial.

S Club 7 wasn’t just sunshine and smiles. It was broadcast weekly into living rooms across the world. Not siloed by format radio. Not discovered through subculture.

It normalized a version of Britain that felt modern, plural and forward-facing without turning it into a sermon. I know millennial women from suburban Ohio who were obsessed with S Club. Not despite their Britishness — because of it.

British manufactured pop worked globally because it didn’t try to universalize itself by erasing difference. It exported specificity.

American pop of the era wanted to be aspirationally blank. British pop wanted to be recognizable. You could tell where these people were from. You could hear it. See it. Feel it.

Victoria Beckham’s solo career — often lazily dismissed — is the perfect case study. “Not Such an Innocent Girl” isn’t a flawless record. It’s a little stiff. A little unsure of itself. And that’s exactly why it works.

It’s British pop negotiating American tropes without fully surrendering to them. There’s no illusion of diva transcendence here — just ambition contained by reality. That tension is the sound of Britain at the turn of the millennium.

That ’90s-to-early-2000s British pop window represents something we’ve lost:

* Confidence without cynicism

* Progress without performance

* Craft without apology

We didn’t need to explain ourselves.
We didn’t need to signal virtue.
We just built pop that looked like the country actually did and sent it everywhere.

We knew it was manufactured.
We knew it was commercial.

What made it fun was being slightly behind.

Britain in the late 90s existed in a sweet spot of cultural lag. American pop culture didn’t arrive instantly or intact. It arrived late, filtered and reinterpreted. That delay mattered. It created room to play.

This is where translation comes in.

British pop wasn’t copying American pop in real time. It was translating it, the way a paperback novel changes when it crosses languages. Something is always lost, but something else appears in its place. Tone shifts. Emphasis changes. Awkwardness sneaks in. And sometimes that awkwardness is where the truth lives.

You can see it everywhere once you look.

Billie Piper was clearly being positioned as a British Britney. But she wasn’t Britney Spears. She was a UK teenager trying on American pop fantasy with a faint layer of embarrassment still intact. That self-consciousness made it feel human.

Victoria Beckham reaching for Toni Braxton energy is even more revealing. She never fully surrendered to the role. The voice stayed restrained. The sexuality stayed polite. What you get isn’t imitation, but aspiration constrained by British reserve.

S Club 7 functioned like a British Mouseketeers project, but softened. Less competitive terror, more communal warmth. The same machinery, translated for a country that still believed pop could be a shared experience rather than a blood sport.

Because audiences didn’t yet have total access to the American originals, the British versions didn’t feel inferior. They felt local. The copy wasn’t pretending to replace the source. It was serving a different emotional need.

Back then, you had the US original and the cheaper British version and time between the two. That gap allowed the copy to develop its own identity. And sometimes the knockoff felt more authentic because it wasn’t asking to be worshipped. It was accessible pop.

American pop wanted to be mythic. British pop wanted to be available at Asda.

Cultural lag made that possible. Translation made it interesting.

Now that everything arrives simultaneously, there’s no lag and no mercy. Influence is visible instantly, which means it’s policed instantly. A British Britney would be mocked before the chorus. A local Toni Braxton analogue would be accused of cosplay within hours.

Homogenization didn’t just flatten pop. It killed the joy of approximation.

Back then, being second wasn’t a failure. It was a position. And from that position, British pop built something that felt oddly more honest than the original.

I sometimes think we did America better than Americans.

Not in reality, obviously. But in imagination. In consumption. In tone.

Britain in the 90s felt like an early draft of America. Essentially American, but with worse lighting. Smaller. Less confident. Slightly in awe. And that awe mattered.

Because awe creates care.

We absorbed American culture with reverence, not entitlement. We didn’t assume it belonged to us. We treated it like something powerful and strange arriving from across the water. That distance gave us permission to edit.

As consumers, Britain had a uniquely privileged position. We could take the American original and repackage it without inheriting all the fire and fury that produced it. We got the fantasy without the cost.

We stripped out the parts that felt too heavy. The religious fundamentalism. The guns. The trench warfare of race, region and identity that saturates American life. We could admire the confidence without having to live inside the anxiety that fuels it.

From across the pond, America looked glossy and enormous and thrilling. Like cousins who stayed up too late and spoke too loudly and somehow got away with it. We could dip in, borrow the energy and then step back out again.

That’s what made British pop translation so effective. We weren’t trying to outdo America. We were trying to soften it. To make it livable. To drain just enough intensity that the fantasy could sit comfortably in everyday life.

This is why the British versions sometimes felt more pleasurable than the originals. They didn’t demand belief. They didn’t demand allegiance. They didn’t ask you to buy into a myth of national destiny or personal transcendence.

They just asked you to enjoy yourself.

Growing up in the UK in the 90s meant living with two cultures running side by side. British and American. Local and imported. You could jump tracks depending on the day. Both were available.

Americans don’t get that option. America is not something they get to visit and leave. It’s something they have to survive.

From the outside, America could remain an idea. And ideas are often more fun than realities.

Which is why being American might actually be less fun than consuming America from afar. And why Britain, for a brief moment, managed to turn secondhand culture into something lighter, kinder and strangely more human.

Topanga Canyon — “The Alps of Southern California”

Every place tells stories about itself. Some are whispered. Others are sold.

Tucked away in archives and yellowing pamphlets is a body of early 20th-century writing that reveals how Topanga Canyon once wanted to be seen—not just as a place to live, but as an idea. What survives today reads like a blend of travel brochure, civic pride, frontier romance and Hollywood reverie.

One such text opens grandly:

“The early days of Topanga were rich in the romance of our Indian and Spanish settlers…”

From the start, the tone is unmistakable. This is not neutral history; it is booster prose, written to enchant, reassure and elevate. Native life, Spanish settlement, Anglo homesteading, geology, archaeology and movie stardom are woven together into a single, flowing narrative—one that positions Topanga as timeless, storied and quietly exceptional.

The text names early settlers—Jesús Santa Maria, Columbus Calen Cini, Dolores Trujillo, George Melcher—not merely as facts, but as proof of continuity and legitimacy. It situates wagon roads in creek beds, ties the canyon to El Camino Real, and places Topanga neatly between the Pacific and the San Fernando Valley, connected yet removed.

Even the geology is romanticized:

“Topanga Canyon, said by geologists to have been under the Pacific Ocean many thousands of years ago…”

Fossils become not data, but treasure—objects of wonder for “youthful explorers.” Indigenous burial grounds are described with the detached curiosity typical of the era, framed as archaeological richness rather than living heritage. The language is dated, sometimes uncomfortable by modern standards, but historically revealing. It tells us less about ancient Topanga than about how early 20th-century Southern California wanted to imagine itself.

Then comes Hollywood.

Just before his death, the silent-film star William S. Hart is said to have returned to Topanga to feast his eyes once more on its cliffs and red rock canyons. This is not incidental. Hart’s presence functions as a cultural stamp of approval: Topanga is not just scenic—it is cinematic. Worthy of myth.

A second piece of copy, clearly meant for motorists and weekend escapees, shifts the tone from nostalgia to invitation:

“Drive from the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean over wide, high-gear road through magnificent alpine scenery to see Topanga Canyon, one of the most enjoyable natural playgrounds of the Pacific Southwest.”

Here, Topanga is sold as accessibility without compromise. Alpine scenery within reach of Santa Monica. Rugged mountaintops and shade trees. “Sturdy modern homes” that are both fearless and civilized. The canyon becomes a paradox on purpose: wild, but safe; remote, yet close to Beverly Hills, Westwood, Hollywood, Burbank and the motion picture studios.

This is where the famous phrase emerges, sometimes explicitly, sometimes implied:

Topanga Canyon — The Alps of Southern California.

It’s an audacious comparison, and that’s the point. Early Southern California marketing thrived on metaphor. If Europe had mountains, California would have better ones—warmer, closer, freer. Topanga wasn’t just a canyon; it was a lifestyle upgrade before the term existed.

What makes this writing so compelling today is that Topanga never fully abandoned this self-image. Unlike places that urbanized beyond recognition, Topanga absorbed the myth and carried it forward. The ranching era faded. The booster pamphlets disappeared. But the idea remained: a place just outside the city where beauty, individuality and history quietly persist.

These texts are not objective history. They are acts of invention. They show us Topanga not as it was, but as it wanted to be remembered—and perhaps, in subtle ways, as it still is.

In that sense, they aren’t relics at all.
They’re mirrors.

Postcard from Hotel El Roblar

A sense of place announces itself immediately. In the Old West–style lobby, worn leather sofas sit by a rough stone fireplace, setting the tone for a hotel grounded in Ojai’s past. The Spanish Revival property comprises 31 rooms and 11 bungalows and is conceived as an homage to the town itself, long known for its pink-hued sunsets and surrounding avocado and citrus groves. Archival photographs line the hallway near reception; custom Pendleton blankets, woven with “Hotel El Roblar. Ojai, California 1919”, rest at the foot of every bed.

Opened 105 years ago, El Roblar is Ojai’s oldest hotel and once served as the town’s natural meeting point. That role faded during its later life as The Oaks at Ojai, a private, long-stay spa largely closed to the public. Today, the hotel has been carefully restored and returned to its original name by a group that includes producer Jeremy McBride, designer Ramin Shamshiri, filmmaker and impresario Eric Goode and restaurateur Warner Ebbink. Drawing on extensive archival research, the team reinstated original architectural details with the aim of continuity rather than reinvention.

References to the natural world are woven throughout, most notably the California condor, once widespread across North America and later reduced to just 22 birds surviving in the nearby Sespe Wilderness. “As the species’ last refuge, it felt important to honour the condor here,” says Goode.

Ojai’s artistic DNA is equally present. Guest rooms feature vintage Ojai Music Festival posters, works by local artists and pieces sourced from estate sales. A wraparound lobby mural nods to the town’s cultural past, depicting figures including developer Edward Libbey, ceramicist Beatrice Wood and philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurti.

Hotel El Roblar is a dog-friendly property. A non-refundable pet fee of $250 per stay will be applied to your bill.

theroblar.com

Postcard from Joshua Tree

Sometimes the best escapes are in the most unexpected places—and within a four-hour drive of Los Angeles, there are plenty. For me, that place is the 29 Palms Inn, tucked into the high desert, a world apart from the city. Joshua Tree is practically on your doorstep here, with its iconic Yuccas and ancient boulders that hark back to a prehistoric era.

Founded in the 1930s as a desert retreat, the Inn has long attracted artists, musicians, and writers seeking the quiet inspiration of the high desert. Today, it’s celebrated for its warm LGBTQ-friendly welcome, embracing all travelers with openness and inclusivity. This spirit of acceptance, paired with the Inn’s distinctive architecture and desert landscaping, creates a rare sense of belonging in such a remote setting.

Step into the Apache Plume room, and the appeal is immediate. A walled gravel courtyard offers a contained space where my pup can bask in the sun without wandering into the untamed desert beyond, where coyotes roam. Low, sprawling California junipers and desert brush frame the view, adding texture and grounding the space, while bushy oasis palms punctuate the compound’s 30-acre preserve, lending just a whisper of lushness amid the arid landscape.

From the window, the brush and junipers stretch against the cobalt desert sky, perfectly framed, as if painted. The effect is instantaneous: a deep sense of peace and calm, where nature feels close yet never overwhelming.

The town of 29 Palms itself stands in stark contrast to the polished glamour of Palm Springs. Streets are rugged, buildings simple, locals drive trucks, and small businesses hum with life. It’s raw, honest, and grounding—a desert community that feels authentic rather than staged.

29palmsinn.com

The Rock House

Tucked into a canyon deep within the rugged Santa Monica Mountains lies a landmark steeped in both history and counter-culture: the building once known as the “Rock House,” today popularly recognized as the Rock Store — a destination for adventurous souls on wheels and on foot alike.

According to local lore, the building dates back to around 1909, in the hamlet of Cornell, California, and served as a stagecoach stop on the once-treacherous route between Calabasas and Camarillo on the long journey north toward San Francisco. Its sturdy stone construction made it a rare sanctuary for travelers braving the steep canyons and unpaved roads of the era — one of the last outposts from the age of horse and wagon just as the automobile was beginning to change California forever.

Half a century later, that same structure stood like a relic from another world. When Ed and Veronica “Vern” Savko arrived from Pittsburgh in 1961, the Santa Monica Mountains still felt remote — an untamed patchwork of oak groves, ranches and winding backroads that had yet to be touched by the sprawl of Los Angeles. Land was cheap, the pace was slow, and the old stone building must have seemed both out of time and full of promise. For a couple from Pennsylvania to simply arrive and purchase a store in what would one day be among the most idyllic and expensive corners of the world is almost unimaginable today. The Savkos bought it, opened a small grocery store and gradually transformed it into something far more distinctive: a gathering place for motorcyclists, locals and Hollywood wanderers drawn to its unpretentious charm.

Over the decades, the Rock Store evolved into one of the world’s most iconic motorcycle pit-stops — a living monument to freedom, community and the California dream. Its fame grew thanks to its dramatic setting, its easy camaraderie and a parade of riders, celebrities and gearheads who made the Sunday pilgrimage up the canyon roads.

Its location is dramatic — perched along Mulholland Highway, where the ride itself is as much part of the experience as the destination. Its weathered rock façade gives it a tangible sense of continuity with the past. (You may even recognize it from Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning.)

The Rock House / Rock Store stands as a bridge between eras — a place where the echoes of stagecoaches and the roar of motorcycles somehow coexist. Built at the twilight of the horse-and-wagon age and reborn amid California’s postwar boom, it remains a time capsule in stone — proof that history, in the right hands, can keep on moving.

A Love Letter to Taylor Swift’s America

“Taylor knows how to make something feel eternal.” — Jack Antonoff

There are days when I think I came to America because of Red.

That album made me want to see this country — really see it — the way she saw it. I’d been to Miami and New York before, but those were postcards. Red made me want to travel through the heart of America — and eventually make it my home. To belong to the place where the autumn leaves fall “like pieces into place.”

I. Taylor’s America
Taylor Swift’s music is a living map of American mythmaking. Across Red, 1989, Folklore and The Life of a Showgirl, she charts the psychic geography of small-town and suburban life — plaid shirts, car rides, high school bleachers and dancing ’round the kitchen in the refrigerator light.

Her America isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a character in its own right — a muse for her storytelling. When she sings of Ferris wheels, kisses and lilacs, she isn’t just recalling a romance; she’s resurrecting a national mood. Her songs transform ordinary places into emotional landmarks, imbuing them with longing, memory and the ache of almost. Each domestic image becomes sacred Americana — ordinary yet mythic, intimate yet universal.

II. The Haunting of Memory
What makes her writing so piercing is the compression — how nostalgia and regret coexist inside just a few words. “Ferris wheels, kisses, and lilacs” feels like a Super 8 reel discovered in an attic: flickering, fragile, too beautiful to be real.

When she repeats beautiful, it isn’t vanity — it’s preservation, as if she’s trying to hold on to something already dissolving. And when she sings, “Things I said were dumb / ’Cause I thought I’d never find that beautiful, beautiful life,” you feel the ache of hindsight — that quiet regret of not realizing you were in the good days until they were gone.

Her melodies mirror that ache: minor sevenths, suspended chords, phrases that reach for resolution and never quite find it. It’s the sound of yearning made harmonic — her unique brand of narcotic melancholy.

III. Suburban Mythology
Few artists have transformed suburbia into such potent mythology — or blurred its edges so tenderly with small-town memory. The “basketball hoop in the front yard” is her shorthand for the dream of belonging.

She turns the ordinary into sacred Americana: a backseat becomes a chapel of first love, a cul-de-sac becomes a cradle of destiny. Her nostalgia isn’t regressive; it’s radical. She insists that small, tender memories matter — that emotional truth can be epic. “This is the golden age of something good and right and real” — even when it happens on a Wednesday in a café.

You can hear this mythmaking instinct even in her deep cuts. Ruin the Friendship plays like a Polaroid of adolescent longing — its imagery so vivid you can smell the September rain:

Glistening grass from September rain
Grey overpass full of neon names
Gallatin Road and the lakeside beach
Watching the game from your brother’s Jeep

Every detail — the grass, the overpass, the Jeep — feels local, even holy. This is Swift’s secret language: small-town memories elevated into something cinematic, places you’ve never been but somehow recognize. It’s not nostalgia for a real America — it’s nostalgia for the idea of one.

IV. Red and the American Autumn
For me, Red is still the defining work — the one that changed how I saw this country and, in a way, myself.

When she wrote, “autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place,” she wasn’t just describing a season. She was inventing an emotional geography. Her America — beautiful, vanishing and full of promise — became the dream I chased when I finally moved here.

In her songs, the country itself feels like a character: the backroads and streetlights, the small towns and city corners, the fading glow of headlights on a long drive home. Each image feels lived-in, half-remembered — eternal for a moment, then gone.

Even for those of us who weren’t born here, her imagery feels like home. Through her words, we inherit a memory that might never have been ours — the sense of getting lost upstate, both literally and spiritually, and finding ourselves somewhere in that golden in-between.

V. Bigger Than the Whole Sky
Some songs you understand instantly. Others you feel in your bones before you can name them. “Bigger Than the Whole Sky” belongs to the latter.

It’s grief suspended in air — the ache of something unfinished. Jack Antonoff’s production is at its most delicate here: synths that shimmer but never settle, a melody that climbs and falls like a sob caught mid-breath. You can hear her inhale between lines — that fragile hum of someone holding back tears.

“Did some bird flap its wings over in Asia? / Did some force take you because I didn’t pray?”

It’s not just about loss — it’s about a life that never had the chance to begin. The story that ended before the first line was written. “What could’ve been, would’ve been, what should’ve been you” — that refrain hits like a ghost of possibility.

There’s a strange serenity in it, too — the way she gives shape to the unspeakable. No melodrama, just the quiet devastation of love’s echo.

That’s what she does better than anyone: she makes sorrow sound sacred.

VI. Eldest Daughter
“Eldest Daughter” feels like the sequel to all of this — a song that carries the weight of memory, responsibility and sadness all at once. It’s the sound of someone who has spent her life documenting the world’s emotions and is now looking back, tenderly, at her own.

We lie back
A beautiful, beautiful time lapse
Ferris wheels, kisses and lilacs
And things I said were dumb
'Cause I thought that I'd never find that beautiful, beautiful life that
Shimmers that innocent light back
Like when we were young— Eldest Daughter (2025)

Taylor’s genius lies in that shimmer — the light of innocence refracted through experience. The girl at prom, the woman at the piano, the mythic songwriter — they all exist in the same frame.

So yes, Taylor — have fun, it’s prom. You’ve already written the anthem for everyone who ever longed for a person — or a place — to call home.

Postcard from Woodland Hills

For most, “Woodland Hills” evokes the flat, broad valley streets—Burbank Boulevard, Canoga Avenue and the Warner Center grid—lined with towering office blocks—the “Mahatten of the Valley.” The real magic, however, begins in the whimsical, winding streets of the hills south of Ventura, areas few ever explore.

These hills trace back to the 1920s, when developer Victor Girard turned cow pastures into the fanciful Girard subdivision. Inspired by Turkish and Moorish architecture, he created dramatic, though largely fake, storefronts along Ventura at Topanga to suggest a thriving town.

Shaded by imported sycamores, eucalyptus and pepper trees, the “leafy hills” are in many ways a man-made illusion, the product of Victor Girard’s boosterism in the 1920s. Naturally, those hills were mostly dry chaparral and oak woodland, not the shady, almost storybook lanes people imagine today.

Girard marketed small hillside homes with ocean breezes, free lunches, and sightseeing “sucker buses,” sometimes selling the same lot multiple times. Despite the Stock Market Crash and Girard’s shady tactics, the area survived, evolving into the dual Woodland Hills we know today: the flat, wide boulevards of the valley most see, and the hidden, curvy, whimsical streets Girard imagined.

Amid this improbable history, the hills became a stage for architectural brilliance. Start at 22051 W Martinez Street, where H.H. McCulloh’s 1923 house recalls the community’s early Queen Anne-style era. Nearby, 22550 Cass Street, A. Quincy Jones’ 1960 home introduces airy, open lines of mid-century modernism framed by the Valley landscape.

Venture further into the hills to encounter Richard Neutra’s Kuhns House (4359 Camello Road, 1964) and the Bruce Goff Struckus House (4510 Saltillo Street, 1983), whose sweeping, whimsical forms evoke a giant redwood. R.M. Schindler’s Van Dekker House (19950 W Collier Street, 1940) is completely shielded from view, rising from the wooded hills as if it grew from the land itself.

Crossing into the northern Valley, John Lautner’s 1979 creation at 6530 Winnetka Avenue—now home to the Israeli-American Council—captures the “therapeutic architecture” of its era. Designed as a rehabilitation center for children, it once embodied mid-century ideals of openness and social engagement. Today it reads very differently: compound-like, fortified and inaccessible. What began as an optimistic experiment in healing architecture now reflects a world where heightened security has become the norm.

Close by, the Neutra Baldwin Residence (6025 N Lubao Avenue, 1962) floats on a private hilltop, hidden from the road. When it was built, Baldwin’s perch still overlooked a patchwork of open land and newly minted suburbs. The Ventura Freeway had just reached Woodland Hills, but it was a quiet four-lane stretch—nothing like today’s roaring artery—and the Warner Center’s dense office towers were still years away from reshaping the skyline.

Many of these structures couldn’t be built today. Modern zoning, safety codes, liability concerns, seismic regulations and accessibility mandates leave little room for the daring experiments that define Woodland Hills’ architectural legacy. All would face insurmountable scrutiny under today’s planning rules. Where architects like Neutra, Schindler and Lautner once tested the edges of human ingenuity, today we have Target.

Top 10 Dog-Friendly Destinations You’ll Both Love

Traveling solo with your dog is one of the most rewarding ways to explore new places — the freedom to roam, the joy of companionship and the chance to discover hidden gems that welcome both you and your furry friend. Over the years, Jackson and I have explored some incredible dog-friendly spots, mostly in California, where landscapes and communities embrace the bond between humans and pups. Here are my top destinations for solo dog travelers craving adventure, relaxation and connection.

🌵 Southern California & Desert Magic

Ojai, California — Artistic Vibes and Trails at Your Doorstep
Ojai Rancho Inn is a dog-friendly gem with a beautiful garden perfect for pup relief and a scenic trail right behind the property. It’s a welcoming spot where you and your dog can enjoy peaceful walks and artistic small-town charm.
Stay: Ojai Rancho Inn — Cozy, welcoming, and perfectly placed for exploring local dog-friendly trails.

Joshua Tree National Park — Desert Nights & Starry Skies
While dogs aren’t allowed on official hiking trails inside Joshua Tree National Park, the surrounding desert camping areas offer peaceful retreats perfect for solo travelers and their dogs. Jackson and I cherished nights under California’s clearest skies, with stars shimmering like diamonds overhead.
Stay: Airbnb desert retreat — Perfect base for exploring.

🌊 Coastal California: Mendocino to Carmel

Howard Creek Ranch, Mendocino Coast — Rugged Beauty & Seaside Freedom
Tucked away on the remote Northern California coast, Howard Creek Ranch is a magical, historic inn set on sprawling acres of meadows, creeks, and private beach access. Jackson and I wandered along windswept bluffs, crossed quaint wooden bridges, and fell asleep to the sound of crashing waves. Dogs are treated like part of the family here — welcome in rooms, on trails, and even at the breakfast table if you sit outside.
Stay: Howard Creek Ranch Inn — Rustic and dog-friendly, with direct access to trails, beaches, and wild Mendocino beauty.

Mendocino — Coastal Charm and Clifftop Trails
This peaceful Northern California town blends pristine coastline, quaint architecture and dog-friendly walks atop windswept headlands. Mendocino is a calming retreat for solo travelers seeking solace and companionship. It is also the proxy for Cabot Cove, as featured in Murder, She Wrote.
Stay: Nicholson House — Charming historic inn with dog-friendly rooms and close proximity to walking trails.

Tomales Bay — Nick’s Cove, Coastal Cottage with a Ghostly Vibe
Perched atop the water in a rustic cottage, Jackson and I felt like we were gently floating — more boat than bungalow. The surrounding area was famously featured in the supernatural film The Fog, and staying here puts you within easy reach of exploring Point Reyes’ windswept charm. It’s an ideal hideaway for dog lovers drawn to nature, mystery and the quiet beauty of the Northern California coast.
Stay: Nick’s Cove Cottages — Dog-friendly cottages right on the water.

Half Moon Bay — Vintage Airstream and Ocean Views
For a unique stay, try a vintage Airstream perched on a rugged bluff overlooking the wild California coast. This serene spot welcomed Jackson with open arms, offering sweeping ocean views and refreshing sea air. It’s an ideal getaway on a private 9-acre plot for reflection and rejuvenation with your pup.
Stay: Airbnb Airstream

Carmel-by-the-Sea — Beachside Bliss for Dogs and Humans
Carmel’s legendary white-sand dog beach is pure bliss. Jackson could run free, splash in the surf, and soak in endless coastal beauty. The town itself is incredibly dog-friendly — many hotels, restaurants, and shops welcome pups with open arms. Strolling through quaint streets feels like stepping into a storybook, with your dog happily by your side.
Stay: Green Lantern Inn — Steps from the beach with a warm welcome for dogs.

🌲 Northern California & Mountain Escapes

Sonora, California — Friendly Town, Giant Trees
This Gold Rush–era town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada offers small-town charm, dog-friendly streets, and a gateway to one of California’s most underrated natural wonders: Calaveras Big Trees State Park. Standing beneath ancient sequoias with your dog by your side is a soul-stirring experience — a majestic link to Earth’s prehistoric past. The townsfolk are warm, the pace is slow and the natural surroundings unforgettable.
Stay: Hotel Lumberjack — reimagined vintage motel located in the center of town—and just over an hour’s drive from Yosemite.

Dunsmuir, California — The Hidden Gem for Outdoor Lovers
Nestled in Northern California’s Shasta Cascade region, Dunsmuir is a paradise for dog lovers who crave fresh air and peaceful mountain vibes. We loved hiking the Sacramento River Trail, breathing in crisp pine-scented air, and watching the river shimmer beside us. The town itself is charming and laid-back, with local cafés welcoming well-behaved dogs. Bonus: Nearby Mossbrae Falls is a magical, off-the-beaten-path waterfall accessible via a scenic railway trek — perfect for adventurous pups (though not without some risk).
Stay: Cave Springs Resort — A dog-friendly historic resort right by the Sacramento River, offering cozy cabins and easy access to trails.

🏝️ Pacific Northwest Bonus: Whidbey Island

Captain Whidbey, Whidbey Island — Historic Charm & Island Serenity
Located in Coupeville, Washington, Captain Whidbey is a historic inn nestled among old-growth firs on the shores of Whidbey Island. The property offers dog-friendly cabins, allowing you to bring your pup along for the adventure. Enjoy serene walks along the waterfront and explore the island's natural beauty together.
Stay: Captain Whidbey Filson Cabin

Top 10 Cinematic Road Trips

There’s a rare kind of alchemy in visiting the places where our favourite films and TV shows unfolded — an intangible energy that draws you in, inviting a walk in the footsteps of storytelling itself. Over the past decade, I’ve pursued such cinematic pilgrimages across the United States, traversing haunted hotels, windswept coastlines and ancient canyons. Here are ten unforgettable road trips that brought beloved stories to life.

1. Estes Park, Colorado — The Shining

The Stanley Hotel’s grand, ghostly halls remain an enduring muse for Stephen King’s classic tale of psychological suspense. Roaming its corridors, you can almost hear the echoes of Jack Torrance’s chilling descent, where history and horror entwine.

2. Mendocino, California — Murder, She Wrote

Nestled on the northern California coast, Mendocino perfectly channels the fictional Cabot Cove’s quaint charm and subtle mystery. Wandering its streets, I could also imagine Jessica Fletcher cycling by.

3. Genoa, Nevada — Misery

This unassuming town’s rugged character was the unsettling backdrop to Misery. Standing amidst its quiet streets, the story’s tension feels tangible, lending a thrilling edge to the journey. "I'm your number one fan.”

4. Lake Tahoe — A Place in the Sun

A serene retreat, Secret Cove’s crystalline waters and alpine stillness provided a contemplative pause, a natural setting steeped in the quiet drama of this timeless romance.

5. Cambria, California — Arachnophobia

Cambria’s fog-kissed coastline and misty mornings conjure an eerie mood, perfectly suited to this suspenseful thriller. Here, nature’s beauty meets a subtle frisson of unease.

6. Fern Canyon, Prairie Creek Redwoods, California — Jurassic Park 2

Towering walls cloaked in moss and ferns rise forty feet above — a living, breathing prehistoric set. Walking Fern Canyon is a step back to the age of dinosaurs, immortalised on film.

7. Twede’s Café, Twin Peaks, Washington

At Twede’s Café, every detail — from the classic diner booths to the aroma of fresh coffee — evokes David Lynch’s surreal universe. A sip here is a sip of television history.

8. Astoria, Oregon — The Goonies

Astoria’s iconic house and nearby Cannon Beach brim with 1980s nostalgia. Recreating scenes from The Goonies felt like reclaiming a moment of childhood wonder.

9. Martha’s Vineyard — Jaws

From the stillness of the pond to the windswept dunes and lighthouse perched on the cliffs at Aquinnah, the island carries the quiet residue of cinematic suspense. You can still drive onto the Chappaquiddick Ferry, just as Chief Brody once did.

10. Moab, Utah — Thelma & Louise

Canyonlands’ dramatic cliffs offered a breathtaking vantage point for Thelma & Louise’s final, unforgettable leap. Here, raw nature and cinematic legend converge.

Bearing Witness at PCH – A Landscape Erased

Today marks the long-anticipated reopening of the Pacific Coast Highway. Just before 8 a.m., we arrived at the Topanga checkpoint, eager to make the familiar descent to the sea. The fire-scorched canyon greeted us in full spring regalia—lush, vivid, almost defiantly alive. Its vertiginous cliffs stood clad in green, shrouded in morning mist and studded with wildflowers that caught the sun like tiny, glinting jewels. Orange poppies, yellow mustard, violet lupine and pink snapdragons—the darling buds of May. A quiet reminder that nature, in time, heals all things.

But the illusion dissolved at sea level.

At the shoreline, the devastation was total. Ruined neighborhoods. Whole communities wiped off the map. Where there had once been homes and the quiet choreography of coastal life, there was now only absence: buckled foundations, twisted rebar, the charred skeletons of cars. The silence was profound. Loss hung in the air like ash.

This loss reaches beyond structures; it’s the erasure of history—the whimsical, fairy-tale charm of the “sand castles” along PCH, the weathered shacks, characterful restaurants and vintage landmarks that once made the city feel enchanted. What’s gone are not just buildings but cultural DNA.

Nearly 30,000 acres reduced to cinders. 13,000 homes lost. More than 380,000 people evacuated—greater than the population of a mid-sized American city. The numbers are staggering. And yet, Los Angeles has always been a city of second chances. A sanctuary for the restless and the exiled, a haven for creative black sheep—for those who come here not just to live but to reinvent themselves.

Joan Didion once wrote that Los Angeles lives under “the weather of catastrophe.” She understood, intuitively, what we are forced to confront again and again: that in this place, disruption is not the exception, but the norm. And yet, amidst the smoke and ruin, there were moments of grace—fire crews who stood their ground, pilots who flew through flame, neighbours who shared water, comfort and silence.

Driving the reopened highway home this morning, I did not feel elated. I felt sober. Grateful, yes—but mostly weighted by the knowledge of what’s been lost. This remains a remarkable place: beautiful, contradictory, rich in history and heartbreak.

The "For Sale" signs now peppering Topanga suggest that others, too, have made quiet calculations. Although the equal amount of “Sold” signs indicates that the love for this place hasn’t vanished. But it has changed. It has grown wary, conditional—less romantic, more clear-eyed.

This is still a land of dreams. But dreams, too, must be maintained—and perhaps now, reimagined. Malibu’s beauty endures, but it is edged with the sobering truth: this stretch of coastline, possibly one of the most iconic in the world, will never be the same again.

Postcard from St. Augustine

Here in St. Augustine — America’s oldest city, founded by the Spanish in 1565 — history leaves its trace on every sunworn coquina wall and shaded courtyard. It drifts on a jasmine-scented breeze, threads through old brick streets and lingers in the rhythm of local storytelling.

Listening to the guides, a quiet theme emerges. The British era (1763–1783) is often handled with a light, almost affectionate irony. Some refer to it as an "occupation," framing the Spanish settlers as native sons and daughters despite their own colonial roots — a reminder that every layer of history here is more intricate and more human than a simple timeline suggests.

The British chapter, though sometimes treated as a footnote, left a lasting mark. Inheriting a city of crumbling Spanish structures, the British reinforced, reimagined and formalized it, bringing with them a sense of tidy order rooted in colonial ideals.

During the 1702 Siege of St. Augustine, British forces and their Native American allies fought together against Spanish rule. In that moment, alliances were pragmatic rather than ideological — Native nations choosing between colonial powers based on the futures they foresaw. The British, favoring trade and loose alliances over cultural domination, offered a different calculus than the Spanish, whose mission system aimed to reshape indigenous lives entirely.

Walking along St. George Street — named for England’s patron saint — it’s easy to sense these overlapping influences. And in the late 19th century, another transformation unfolded: the arrival of Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate who reimagined St. Augustine as a winter retreat for America’s Gilded Age elite. Flagler’s vision polished the city into a new kind of jewel, layering grand hotels and glamorous boulevards atop centuries of earlier life.

Today, visitors can still wander past Flagler’s enduring landmarks, from the former Ponce de León Hotel — now Flagler College — to the ornate Casa Monica Hotel. Nearby, the Governor’s House, once a seat of Spanish, British and American power, offers a further glimpse into the city’s layered past. Even the Old Plaza, where croquet matches once played out under shifting flags, hums with history.

Here, the past isn’t a closed chapter. It’s a living palimpsest — a testament to resilience, reinvention and the quiet charm of a city that tells a uniquely American story.

Moonlight and Magnolias: How the South Was Repackaged

In the years after the Civil War, the American South lay in ruin. But by the 1870s, a curious transformation was underway—not from within, but from outside. A new image emerged, crafted not by former Confederates but by Northern industrialists chasing not industry, but fantasy.

Before the Romance: The British Blueprint

Long before verandas and juleps entered the frame, Major William Horton came ashore on Jekyll Island in the 1730s. A British officer under General James Oglethorpe, founder of the Georgia colony, Horton established one of the region’s earliest plantations. The tabby ruins of his estate still stand: unembellished, unromantic. Horton laid a template for those who would later see the coastal lowlands not as wilderness, but as canvas—for profit and pleasure.

From Ruin to Romance

By the late 19th century, the symbols of collapse—crumbling columns, ivy-choked ruins, moss-draped oaks—had been recast as emblems of a genteel past. The plantation aesthetic was quietly co-opted. On Jekyll Island, the Clubhouse wasn’t a plantation—just styled like one. The land’s story wasn’t erased; it was artfully edited. A stage set for Northern elites chasing charm, not context.

Barely twenty years after a war that split the nation in two, luxury resorts were rising on Southern soil. The speed was striking—but so was the selective memory. Within a generation, the South’s bruises had become backdrops for bridge games and oyster roasts. What had been fields of conflict were now curated lawns. Nostalgia proved more bankable than reckoning.

A Gilded Age Stage Set

Opened in 1888, the Jekyll Island Clubhouse offered more than warmth and seclusion. It offered narrative. Beneath the oaks, tycoons arrived by yacht and private railcar. The so-called “cottages”—mansions in all but name—belonged to the Cranes, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts. Membership never exceeded 100, and the island thrived as a private playground until World War II brought the idyll to a close—though not before it hosted the secret 1910 meeting that helped shape what would become the Federal Reserve.

Servants moved like shadows. Conversations drifted from bridge to business. Leisure masked legacy-building. Wealth was managed quietly, and always with taste. The tabby ruins and overgrown rice fields offered atmosphere—a vibe. The past became palatable: a soft-focus antebellum fantasy, carefully tailored for the Gilded Age.

When Steamboats Ruled Florida's Fabled Waterways

Once upon a time, long before theme parks and high-rise condos, Florida was a vast, untamed wilderness. Dense forests dripped with Spanish moss, wild rivers wound their way through unbroken swamps and adventure lay waiting around every bend. This was the Florida of forgotten legend — a place where daring travelers boarded creaking wooden steamboats to explore the unknown.

After Florida became a U.S. territory in 1821, paddlewheel steamboats soon began to dominate its waterways. By the mid-1800s, they ruled Florida’s greatest highway, the mighty St. Johns River, and a new era of exploration was born.

The St. Johns River: Pathway to the Wild

Flowing 310 miles northward, the St. Johns River was the main artery into Florida’s interior — a land still more swamp and forest than settlement. From the bustling docks of Jacksonville to the far reaches of Sanford, steamboats ferried dreamers, explorers and fortune-seekers into the unknown.

For a century, more than 150 steamers plied these waters, carrying not just cargo and mail but the spirit of adventure itself. With 38 stops along the way, the journey was as much about survival and discovery as it was about transport.

Palatka: Florida’s Last Frontier Town

In those days, Palatka wasn’t just a stop — it was the very edge of the map. Known as the "Gem City of the St. Johns," Palatka was a bustling outpost where civilization thinned and wilderness took over. Here, massive paddlewheelers lined the docks, unloading crates of citrus and winter vegetables and taking on daring passengers headed deeper into the heart of wild Florida.

It was from Palatka that the bravest travelers boarded smaller steamers bound for the Ocklawaha River — one of the most fabled waterways of old Florida.

The Ocklawaha River: Into the Heart of Darkness

The Ocklawaha was no easy river. Narrow, winding and overgrown, it dared captains to tame it. Snags and stumps hid beneath its mirrored surface. Floating islands of hyacinth clogged its channels. Vines brushed against the decks, and snakes sometimes dropped from the trees overhead.

But for those who dared, the rewards were unforgettable: a 24-hour odyssey through a primeval Eden. Cypress trees towered overhead, their roots submerged in still, tea-colored waters. Alligators sunned themselves on muddy banks. Deer, wild hogs and brilliant birds flashed between the shadows.

There were no guidebooks, no maps — only the river and what lay beyond the next bend.

Life Afloat: Rough Luxury on the River

Steamboat life was a strange mixture of hardship and luxury. Staterooms were tiny but comfortable, with simple beds and washstands. Meals were hearty affairs, served in grand saloons lit by flickering torches. By night, music, card games and tall tales filled the air — along with warnings of riverboat gamblers and other shady characters.

For many, a steamboat journey was the adventure of a lifetime — a brush with a Florida that still belonged to the wild.

The Great Floating Palaces

Among the most magnificent vessels were the City of Jacksonville and the Hiawatha.

• City of Jacksonville (1882–1928): A 160-foot floating palace with 32 staterooms and electric lights, it carried travelers through the wilderness in style.

• Hiawatha (1904–1919): Smaller but nimble, she was built in Palatka to brave the narrow, dangerous Ocklawaha, carrying 80 passengers into the very heart of old Florida.

The End of the Dream

By the late 1800s, the iron rails of the railroad crept across Florida. By the 1920s, automobiles roared down new highways. The days of the steamboat adventure faded into memory. By 1930, the great paddlewheelers were all but gone.

But if you listen closely along the quiet banks of the St. Johns, or drift under the ghostly cypress of the Ocklawaha, you can still hear the distant echo of a whistle, the churning of a paddlewheel and the whispers of a forgotten Florida — a time when wild forests ruled, and every journey was a grand adventure into the unknown.

Postcard from Hardy's Wessex

In rural Dorset, near the small village of Higher Bockhampton, is an almost impossibly perfect thatched cottage, surrounded by a typical cottage garden and mature, towering woodland. It looks exactly how you would imagine a thatched cottage should look; small and rustic with irregular outbuildings, little windows tucked up in the eaves of the thatch, chimneys sprouting through the roof and creepers growing haphazardly over a central front door. This cottage is the birthplace of Thomas Hardy. Born in 1840, he lived here until he was 34, during which time he wrote Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), among other works.

The English mentality makes perfect sense once you’ve stood still in a country garden. It’s not like France, where everything is clipped, preened and formally arranged into polite symmetry. Here in the rolling Wessex countryside, I find myself inside what feels like a yew-hedged compound — but the hedges aren’t meant to exclude so much as to create little pockets of privacy, soft boundaries rather than hard walls.

The garden here isn’t laid out in grand beds or regimented borders. Instead, it’s an "organized mess" — a layered, lived-in tangle. Bluebells and daisies erupt straight from the earth, no one tells them where to go, and the garden seems to politely agree. Everything is both contained and wild at the same time, as if nature and human intention reached a quiet handshake.

That, I think, is the soft power of the English country garden: it offers freedom, but within subtle boundaries. Nothing shouts, but everything whispers. The English mind, too, seems to value this — an affection for the understated, for imperfection, for gentle order without overbearing control. It’s the kind of place that makes you understand the nation without a single conversation.

Postcard from Mendocino

Tucked along Northern California’s rugged coastline, Mendocino offers a striking balance between natural beauty, historic charm and understated luxury. This coastal enclave, with its misty headlands and crashing waves, is perhaps best known for doubling as Cabot Cove in Murder, She Wrote. During winter, the fog that rolls in from the ocean lends a uniquely atmospheric quality to the town, where nature and nostalgia seem to coexist seamlessly.

My stay at Nicholson House, a meticulously restored Victorian property, was an embodiment of Mendocino’s duality—where history and modernity meet in a sophisticated yet approachable manner. The boutique hotel, with its reimagined Victorian charm and subtle Art Deco touches, offers an experience that feels both timeless and contemporary.

We stayed in the dog-friendly garden room, which was as cozy as it was elegant. The heated bathroom floors were a welcome luxury, adding a touch of modern comfort to the otherwise old-world ambiance. The owners had also left a handwritten note and a snack for Jackson which was deeply appreciated. 

Outside, the sounds of croaking frogs and the distant crash of waves served as a soothing soundtrack to the untamed beauty that surrounds the property, while the location itself—just a short walk from dramatic clifftop hikes—provides the perfect backdrop for both quiet reflection and exploration.

After an 8-hour drive from Los Angeles, I was welcomed by the warmth of a local pub, where the simple choice between Cornish game hen or ham for dinner was a perfect reflection of Mendocino’s understated charm. We ate our meal back at our lodgings, accompanied by a muted Murder, She Wrote episode playing for the full effect. 

Mendocino, with its blend of natural beauty, history and calm, offers an ideal setting for those looking to slow down, reconnect with nature and embrace a quieter pace of life. At Nicholson House, the seamless fusion of Victorian elegance, Art Deco charm and warm hospitality ensures that this coastal retreat is as welcoming as a hot cup of cocoa on a stormy winter’s night, chez Jessica.

Postcard from Nevada City

In the heart of Nevada City, nestled among the relics of California’s Gold Rush, stands the Powell House, a building that, at first glance, seems to defy convention. Originally built as a Baptist church in the 1850s, its oval porch and bright, cheerful facade are a playful contrast to the somber religious structures more commonly associated with that era. Yet, this exuberant architectural style feels fitting for a town born from the gold-laden optimism of the time.

The Powell House is a striking example of American Victorian architecture, a style that, particularly in the West, took on a life of its own. Unlike the restrained and formal Victorian architecture of mid-19th-century England, where symmetry and muted tones dominated, the American adaptation—especially in California—was far more eclectic and expressive. Here, local materials, a warmer climate, and the hopeful, sometimes chaotic energy of the Gold Rush all played a role in shaping a unique visual language.

While English Victorians sought to evoke the grandeur of Gothic and classical revival styles, with an emphasis on stone, brick, and ornamentation, their American counterparts embraced a more carefree approach. The Powell House, with its gingerbread trim and bold color choices, exemplifies this spirit, as homes and public buildings in the West often flaunted asymmetry and vivid hues. These design choices not only reflected personal expression but also embodied the exuberance of a region on the rise.

Nevada City in the 1850s was a hub of activity, fueled by the hopes of prospectors and settlers looking to strike it rich. That collective optimism infused the community, both spiritually and materially. The Powell House, though built for worship, likely carried the aura of a congregation that saw itself as part of a grander story—one where divine providence and economic fortune went hand in hand. Its joyous architecture seems to reflect the buoyant mood of a town convinced of its own bright future.

In this way, the Powell House is more than just an architectural curiosity. It is a symbol of a unique moment in American history, when faith, ambition and creativity converged in the rush for gold. While its roots lie in the Victorian styles of England, its playful, unreserved character is distinctly American—an ode to the freewheeling optimism of the West.

Postcard from the Ahwahnee Hotel

Since its opening in 1927, this iconic lodge has welcomed luminaries from royalty to world leaders, all drawn to the sublime serenity of the Sierra wilderness. Beyond its storied past, the Ahwahnee holds a special place in pop culture as the architectural muse behind the haunting interior of The Shining's Overlook Hotel.

Designed by architect Gilbert Stanley Underwood, the Ahwahnee’s aesthetic mirrors Yosemite’s rugged elegance. A masterclass in “Parkitecture,” the hotel’s blend of stone, timber, and Native American motifs evokes a seamless connection to the surrounding landscape. Over the decades, it has hosted Queen Elizabeth II, John F. Kennedy and countless others who appreciate its refined wilderness charm.

Though The Shining's exterior scenes were filmed at Oregon's Timberline Lodge, and Stephen King's inspiration came from the Stanley Hotel in Colorado, the Ahwahnee’s interiors informed much of Stanley Kubrick’s visual concept for the fictional Overlook. The Great Lounge, grand lobbies and distinctive Native American-influenced decor became the blueprint for The Shining's eerie grandeur.

The hotel’s vast, cavernous spaces and long, empty corridors perfectly capture the isolation and psychological tension that permeate The Shining. This link between real-world architecture and cinematic terror reveals how design can profoundly shape mood and narrative.

Today, the Ahwahnee continues to captivate visitors, its cultural and architectural legacies intact. For those familiar with The Shining, the echoes of the Overlook Hotel are unmistakable, where design and film converge in a lasting impression of beauty and dread. A visit to the Ahwahnee offers more than a place to stay—it’s an immersion into the intersection of history, nature and pop culture.

Postcard from Egypt

As descendants of one of the world’s oldest civilizations, the people of Egypt, known as the sons of the Nile, carry a profound legacy. Positioned as the most populous Arab state—114 million people and counting—Egypt serves as a vital link between Africa and the Middle East.

Enter the Viking Aton, purpose-built for the Nile in 2023, the latest addition to Viking's modern Nile fleet. Replete with clean Scandinavian design, the overall atmosphere on board is airy and elegant. There’s also plenty of outdoor space for soaking in views of the lush riverbanks, including a sun deck, plunge pool and Aquavit terrace. Guiding us through the wonders of ancient Egypt was Ahmed, our expert Egyptologist, whose passion and knowledge breathed life into each archaeological marvel we encountered. With a masterful touch, he unveiled the mysteries of hieroglyphics and painted vibrant pictures of Egyptian rituals at every temple we explored. Likewise, the ship's crew were attentive without being intrusive, adding a layer of warmth to our journey.

What sets a Viking experience apart from other Nile River cruises? Viking’s ships stand out as the newest on the Nile. After a day filled with exploration in the scorching Egyptian heat, the tranquility of your 82-passenger vessel offers a welcome respite. What makes cruising down the Nile so captivating are the picturesque vistas from your veranda, showcasing the lively riverbanks adorned with sugarcane, banana trees, papyrus, date palms, feathery reeds, bulrushes and village children frolicking in the water. It's an experience that completely engulfs you. Join me as I recount some of the highlights from my unforgettable 12-day Pharaohs & Pyramids voyage along the Nile, which starts and ends in Cairo and sails between Luxor and Aswan.

Day 1: Arrival in Cairo

Touching down at Cairo airport, I bypassed the queues with my e-visa and smoothly made my way through passport control before transferring to the Fairmont Hotel. 

Day 2: Exploring Cairo's Treasures

Explored the winding alleys of Coptic Cairo and the Old Quarter of the Egyptian capital, a UNESCO site. Roaming the vibrant streets, I soaked in the atmosphere of Muizz Street and the Souk bazaar. Then enjoyed a spot of relaxation by the hotel's rooftop pool, a perfect end to a day of discovery.

Day 3: Unveiling Ancient Marvels

The Step Pyramid and the majestic Great Pyramids of Giza stood as timeless testaments to Egypt's rich history. Amidst the backdrop of the last of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, I marveled at the grandeur of these architectural wonders, each stone echoing tales of centuries past.

Day 4: Journey to Luxor

Fly to Luxor, where we rendezvous with our ship after immersing ourselves in the breathtaking wonders of Karnak Temple—the second largest religious complex in the world after Cambodia's Angkor Wat. Steeped in the whispers of ancient civilizations, Karnak Temple's cinematic magnetism has graced numerous films, including classics like "The Spy Who Loved Me" and the original "Death On The Nile." As dusk descends, Luxor Temple casts its mesmerizing glow, serving as a stirring testament to the timeless legacy buried beneath the sands of Luxor. This city's history is intricately interwoven with that of Thebes, the fabled metropolis revered by ancient Egyptians as Waset.

Day 5: Delving into Quena's Mysteries

Dendera Temple beckoned with the allure of Goddess Hathor, its ancient stones echoing with tales of devotion and reverence. Amidst the ruins, I felt a connection to a bygone era, each step a testament to the enduring spirit of human ingenuity.

Day 6: Luxor's Timeless Charms

Exploring the Valley of the Kings and Carter House, I traced the footsteps of pharaohs and pioneers. Tutankhamun's modest tomb belied its historical significance, a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of power and prestige. I gazed in wonder at the mortuary temple of Hatshepsut near the Valley of the Kings, one of the world’s most striking architectural masterpieces.

Day 7: Esna

Taking a midpoint break, I savored moments of quiet reflection while cooling off in the infinity pool on the aft deck, allowing the sights and sounds of Egypt to soak in.

Day 8: Aswan's Enigmatic Beauty

Guests have the opportunity to visit the temples at Abu Simbel and the Aswan High Dam as optional excursions. I chose to retrace the steps of Agatha Christie at the Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan, a captivating spot on the banks of the Nile overlooking Elephantine Island. 

Day 9: Mystical Encounters in Aswan

Boarding a motorboat, I journeyed to Philae Temple, its majestic silhouette standing proud against the Nile's shimmering waters. A short walk from our ship led me to Kom Ombo Temple, perched atop a hill, offering panoramic views of the timeless river below.

Day 10: Edfu's Ancient Splendor

A visit to Edfu Temple unfolded like a journey through time, each column and carving whispering tales of ancient rituals and divine reverence. A horse-drawn calèche ride through the village streets added a touch of romance to an already enchanting day before sailing back to Luxor.

Day 11: Return to Cairo

Bid farewell to the remarkable crew before boarding our flight back to Cairo. During the afternoon, I took time to contemplate the countless marvels I had experienced, each moment leaving an indelible mark on my soul.

Day 12: Homeward Bound

As I journeyed home, I reflected on Egypt's profound significance in human history, recognizing the enduring impact this enchanting land will have on me.


Viking’s 12-day Pharaohs & Pyramids itinerary costs from $5,999 per person (not including flights). Visit Viking.com

Retracing the steps of Agatha Christie at the Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan

Entering the gates of Aswan’s Old Cataract Hotel, it was as though time itself had frozen still. The corridors exuded an air of faded grandeur, with framed pictures of Egyptian dignitaries alongside notable figures such as Winston Churchill and Howard Carter, the British archaeologist who famously discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun. Whispers of a bygone era echoed through the marble halls. It is said that Agatha Christie herself stayed here in the 1930’s while writing her 1937 novel "Death on the Nile.” Nevertheless, the hotel's prominence in Christie's famed novel lends an undeniable allure to its storied history.

Standing proudly on the banks of the Nile since 1899, the historic British colonial-era hotel was built by Thomas Cook, founder of the pioneering travel agency. The tranquil strains of classical music greeted me as I stepped onto its terrace, offering a breathtaking vista of the Nile, where feluccas glided gracefully, their billowing sails painted against the canvas of the sky. 

Seated amidst the timeless elegance of the terrace, I couldn't help but feel transported to a different era. The distant silhouette of Elephantine Island stood sentinel in the river, a silent witness to the passage of time. It was easy to imagine oneself as a character in one of Christie's mysteries, ensconced in a world of intrigue and suspense.

As I sipped my tea, I found myself contemplating the secrets that lay hidden within the hotel's walls. For if Agatha Christie had once walked these hallowed halls, surely she had left behind more than just the memory of her presence. With a bittersweet farewell to the captivating ambiance of the Old Cataract Hotel, I embarked on the next leg of my journey, tracing the course of Egypt's ancient river.

Postcard from Howard Creek Ranch

While exploring the rugged coastline of Mendocino County in Northern California, I recently discovered Howard Creek Ranch in Westport—the last stop along Highway 1 before the road leads inland. A time capsule that effortlessly blends history, art and nature into an unforgettable vacation experience, the ranch sits on 60 acres of pristine natural beauty, with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean, sandy beaches and rolling mountains. The best part? Howard Creek Ranch is also dog-friendly (by advance reservation only), making it the perfect spot for Jackson and me.

Built in 1871, the hand of history has touched every weathered surface of the ranch, creating a timeworn aesthetic that exudes charm and nostalgia. A swinging bridge, gently swaying over the babbling creek, whispered secrets of forgotten adventures, while thoughtfully scattered antiques hinted at tales from times long past. As we scampered down to the beach, weaving our way through the blackberry bushes, I found myself captivated by this whimsical wonderland. 

Perched atop a hill, the hidden gem of the property, Sea View Cottage, boasts breathtaking views of the Mendocino Coast. At night, I could hear the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore, creating a soothing backdrop that cast a hypnotic spell. It felt like the world outside had faded away, leaving only the beauty of nature and the comforting embrace of the cottage’s rustic charm. 

In 1974, Charles (Sonny), a visionary artist/builder, and Sally, a free-spirited flower child, discovered the homestead in a state of disrepair and together, they transformed it into an Inn. As he prepared my breakfast, Sonny shared captivating tales of hillside adventures with his loyal companions, Blue the Great Dane and his spirited Arabian horse. Today, the Inn stands as a living work of art, an embodiment of their boundless creativity.

This is the California of our dreams, the one that lingers in our hearts, a treasure that almost slipped away amidst the march of progress. But here, in the magic woven by Sonny and Sally, something extraordinary thrives—something no AI-engineered, tech-enabled replicant could ever hope to emulate: authenticity.

In an increasingly homogenous world shaped by artificial intelligence and sleek technology, Howard Creek Ranch is a testament to the power of originality. Here, each room is unique and every interaction is guided by the warmth of real human hearts, leaving a profound imprint on all fortunate enough to experience it. And amidst the enchantment, you’ll realize that you’ve stumbled upon a rare gem—a vintage vision of carefree California.

howardcreekranch.com