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Times
05-07-2025
- Times
The Portuguese coastal path that helped me heal after loss
'You are taking more steps this week than usual,' announced my phone. Ha! There were wild flowers all around me, rugged cliffs either side, blue sky above and deep blue sea below, no buildings to be seen, the only sound waves and the satisfying crunch of my boots. I smiled. Yet when an old friend suggested walking the Fishermen's Trail along the southwest coast of Portugal in early June, at first I thought of all the meetings I would have to cancel and stuff I had to do. But then I thought again. In ten months I had given three eulogies: two after the sudden deaths of dear friends and the other for my lovely mum, who had terminal cancer but was so full of life at 84 that I never once thought of her as old. Though I am used to death in my job as a war correspondent and thought myself strong, I found I was overcome with waves of sadness and also guilt that I wasn't there holding her hand the night she died. When I discovered she had still been cutting out my articles from the paper, even when she was really ill, I cried and cried. While the temptation was to throw myself back into work, I knew I wasn't functioning. After organising Mum's funeral and all the deathmin (I'm an only child), I went to northern Sardinia for a few days, staying at magical Capo d'Orso ( one of my favourite places on earth, which was a wonderful tonic but I still found myself tossing and turning in the early hours. Like many people I had read The Salt Path, Raynor Winn's bestseller about hiking the 630-mile South West Coast Path in England after losing everything and her husband being diagnosed with terminal illness, and how walking and nature had helped them to heal. The Fishermen's Trail is also a coastal path, but somewhat shorter at 142 miles from Sines to Lagos. With only six days spare, we were doing the lower half from Odeceixe to Sagres — about 65 miles. Would it do the same? I cancelled all my engagements and we booked the trip with Macs Adventure, whose staff make it easy by arranging all your lodging and transferring your bags every day to the next spot. There was one issue. While my friend Andrew is an experienced walker who spends much of his time hiking the hills and dales of the Lake District, my own walks are just a gentle wander along the Thames. Our itinerary started with a 14-mile walk — could I even walk that far? The Macs booklet arrived with a section on training tips, suggesting 'six months is a great length of time to train for a long distance walk'. Left it a bit late? asks the final part. 'Plan a day to do at least one walk similar to the daily distances.' Hmm … this was the night before. Nor did I really have the kit. My boots are for muddy trenches. With little time, because inevitably I had a story on Gaza to write, I ran and bought Isocool walking socks, which were a good investment, waterproof shorts, cereal bars and a bag of fruit and nuts. I also packed two books and five magazines. Then we were flying to Faro, exiting the plane to balmy evening air, and heading to Odeceixe, a small whitewashed town with a windmill on a hill, where we found a lively pizza place in the square still open. • Discover our full guide to Portugal After a night in one of the pretty cottages of Casas do Moinho, we headed for breakfast, which was the first surprise. The room was packed with people in boots and rucksacks — who knew walking had become such a big thing in Portugal? We took a photo by the windmill and set off. Disappointingly, the first part was along a main road, some way above the Seixe River it said we were walking along. But then we rounded a corner, sniffed the salt tang of the sea and there in front of us was the most gorgeous sandy beach, Praia de Odeceixe, curtained by dark cliffs. I also smelt much-needed coffee and we sat at a beach bar enjoying real pasteis de nata while watching the surfers. Officially this is the Algarve but it looks nothing like the tourist resorts. Duly fortified, we set off onto the clifftop and were soon spotting the single blue and green horizontal stripes on posts, stones and bushes that mark the path. There seemed little chance of getting lost. But Macs also provides you with an excellent app with a daily map on which we could follow our progress (I preferred the kilometre version because you notch up more). Soon we were looking down on a beautiful sandy cove that one couple had to themselves. They seemed rather scantily clad, we thought. This, it turned out, was Praia das Adegas, one of the few official nudist beaches in the Algarve. That was not the only wildlife. A little further on we were riveted by white storks nesting on cliffs and needle thin coastal rocks above raging seas — the only community of storks that nest at sea. • 22 best things to do in the Algarve We watched for a while, wishing we had thought to bring binoculars, then continued on the path, winding through wildflowers — bright yellow and pink cape daisies, golden gorse, purple heather — of the Vicentina Coast Natural Park. The only thing we didn't like was walking through deep sand, which was hard work and kept filling my boots. We were starving by the time we turned off inland to Rogil and happy to find the bizarrely named Museu da Batata Doce (Sweet Potato Museum) restaurant with a shady garden for a late lunch of chicken and, of course, sweet potatoes. Rogil has little else to offer apart from a Spar and a cash machine but walking along the main street we suddenly heard tweeting of a non mobile-phone nature and looked up to see a line of circular swallows' nests, each with a little black head peeking out. A little further on we came to a gathering of a different kind — men in sports polos with big bellies. It turned out to be the national pétanque championships. That was it for human interaction — the last few miles were boring and hot with no shade. Eventually we heard the rush of a river and spotted the ruins of a Moorish castle on a hill and then we were entering Aljezur, a pretty town of white houses with terracotta tiled roofs, and an office for the local Communist Party, which was firmly shut. Nearby was a billboard for Chega — the far right party that won locally in recent elections. Across the bridge was Hotel Vicentina, where we were happy to find a pool to cool our tired legs. My phone informed me I had done 38,530 steps, the most I have ever clocked up. It turns out the delicious tuna ceviche we shared to celebrate was not such a great idea. We were both a little worse for wear as we set off for the next day's walk to Arrifana. Years of eating dodgy food has inoculated me. By lunchtime, however, Andrew was looking rather green and by the evening he was so poorly that the helpful hotel receptionist called emergency. Soon two portly firemen in boots and hi-vis overalls came stomping into the room to measure his vital signs. Fortunately these were OK but a day of rest was in order so next morning I set off alone. This time the walk started off on cliffs, and the views even more incredible — the sea of deepest blue and limestone cliffs wind-blasted and sea-lashed into shelves, folds and columns. With no one to talk to I thought about listening to a podcast. Instead I listened to the sound of waves. When I got further from the sea I thought about listening to the news on Radio 4 and the latest on Gaza where Palestinians were being shot as they scrambled to get food. Instead I listened to the sound of the wind rustling the eucalyptus. • 10 of the best places to visit in Portugal I walked through cornfields and daisy fields and back to the seafront, where the last part of the walk took me across the largest beach yet, Praia da Bandeira, with more surfers and a kitesurfer. Just over the cliff was Carrapateira, a large mural reminding us that it is famous for its barnacles, prized off rocks at some risk, and in my opinion something you have to be Portuguese to enjoy. You couldn't call it an attractive village but our small guesthouse, Hortas do Rio, was delightful, rooms with wooden terraces overlooking the vegetable gardens and small pool, and a communal lounge with painted cushions, an honesty bar, and cocktails — I had an amazing mojito with fresh mint from the gardens. That evening I had excellent clams at Cabrita, just up the way. The bed was so comfy and breakfast the best I have ever had in Portugal, a photographic feast of everything from fresh fruit, granola and yoghurt to scrambled eggs and goat's cheese and honey. Felipe, the owner, even organised us a delicious packed lunch of cheese, ham and pesto baguettes and fruit. By now I was getting into the swing of this walking. Andrew recovered and we set off together for Vila do Bispo. Slightly alarmingly, for the first time the day's walk was described as strenuous not just moderate, probably because there was a lot of climbing. We were rewarded by the spectacular coast — I thought I knew Portugal but this was stunning. Every time I said, 'This is the most beautiful view', then there would be another. After a small deserted beach populated only by stone people — towers of stones some earlier walkers must have built, we headed inland and a sea mist came down, cooling us. We walked most of the day without seeing any settlements — though also nowhere to sit to eat our packed lunch. In the end we saw the tall, white water tower of Vila do Bispo and sat on the steps of the surprisingly large museum — the Granary of History as it is in the former granary and with a tell-tale EU funded sign. In contrast to Carrapateira, Hotel Mira Sagres looked better from outside than in, where the chlorine smell of swimming pool pervaded everything. But we were spoilt for choice for local restaurants. And as in all our guesthouses, breakfast was crowded with walkers though we never saw many on the path — maybe as we tended to leave a bit later. This was our fifth and final day of walking. I felt sad the walk was coming to an end and also that I could keep going. As this was shorter we added a bit by heading down to a beach. The end was the most dramatic of all — a geologist's dream with stratified layers of yellow, red and black stone and rock whipped into arches and cauldrons, while the sea turned from dark blue to clear emerald green. Our final point was the lighthouse of Cape St Vincent, long regarded as the end of the known European world, beyond which ships would be devoured by monsters, and the Sacred Promontory where gods came to sleep. All that changed in the 15th century, when Prince Henry the Navigator established a school of navigation in Sagres from which the Age of Discovery was launched and Portuguese explorers would end up finding Brazil, India and the Far East. Our own discovery was the Praia do Beliche, which we headed onto for a final swim — it was cold but we felt jubilant. I had done 167,938 steps or 70 miles. I instinctively went to WhatsApp my mum a picture then checked myself. I thought of her a lot on the trip — she adored Portugal and how much she would have loved to see these places. But for the first time I was sleeping, if not the sleep of the gods at least pretty well. My books and magazines mostly came back unread. The Fishermen's Trail might have only been a fraction of the Salt Path but there really was something healing about seeing so much beauty, something hypnotic about the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Now we want to go back and do the first half. My only gripe was the lack of benches (toilets would have been nice too). Also we never did see a single Lamb was a guest of Macs Adventure, which has seven nights' B&B on its Rota Vicentina: the Wild Algarve itinerary from £879pp, including baggage transfers and app with route guidance ( Fly to Faro
CNN
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- CNN
Uncovering the secrets of the Louvre
Christiane Amanpour speaks with Elaine Sciolino, author of "Adventures in the Louvre", about how she drew on her experience as a war correspondent to report on the legendary museum.
The Guardian
08-05-2025
- Politics
- The Guardian
‘It's so gloomy': some of UK's top broadcasters admit to avoiding news
She is perhaps the UK's most prominent war correspondent, broadcasting from the world's toughest regions, interpreting its most intractable and bloody conflicts. Yet, like many others at a time when the news agenda is so tough, even Lyse Doucet has admitted she finds herself tempted to turn off. 'I just want to say as a broadcaster that even though I'm on one side of the microphone and you're on the other, that I too have been turning away from news and listening to Radio 3 instead of Radio 4, because the news is difficult,' said Doucet, the BBC's fearless chief international correspondent, as she picked up an award last week. 'We all think: 'Oh, it's so depressing. It's so gloomy.'' There have been concerns that the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, as well as the relentless pace of stories coming out of the Trump administration, will fuel so-called 'news avoidance', a phenomenon that appears to combine a long-term decline in seeking out news with the intensity of the current agenda. When BBC News was recently restructured, staff were told by Deborah Turness, the head of BBC News, that it was partly driven by a need to take on 'the growing trend of news avoidance'. The UK appears to be among the countries most seriously affected. The proportion who say they have a high interest in news has almost halved in the UK over the last decade, from 70% in 2015 to 38% last year, according to the Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism. However, despite the difficulty of reporting on and learning about difficult world events, Doucet, who has reported extensively from Afghanistan, Ukraine and the Middle East, said it was important for people who had the 'gift of living in democratic societies' to 'stand for the values that we believe in'. 'It's an important part of who we are as citizens,' she said. 'I would like to believe that the BBC is also part of that as a public broadcaster. It's the proverbial water cooler that we can all meet together and share our stories, and we can criticise as well. 'We welcome the criticism, but I think in the time when we feel that so much is slipping, literally the ground beneath us is shaking, we all need to stand together for what we believe in and what we hold dear.' Doucet is not the only big name to admit to finding the news agenda tough. Jonathan Dimbleby also recently talked about how he struggled to discuss current news events such as Gaza with younger generations. 'I always used to be a glass half full as a person,' he told the Beeb Watch podcast. 'Whereas increasingly I find myself thinking most things seem to be for the bad, everything I look at. I don't think it's just age. I think it's the environment and circumstances which we live in. 'I've got grown up children in their 40s and one just in his 50s. They are already pretty dismayed by what is happening in the world. If you've got young children and teenagers who are at the point of A levels and GCSEs, they're looking outwards and upwards. They're filled, actually, with a lot of zest for life. You want to encourage that, but you also want to be realistic. So what do I do? I shy away from it all. That's the truth. I shy away from it.' He pointed to a recent interview on the BBC's World at One, in which a doctor in Gaza talked about the horrific injuries of a child from shrapnel. 'I can take that, but I recoiled from that,' he said. 'And I wonder how people generally cope with the perpetual horrors that emerge from there, from Ukraine and elsewhere, without just turning away from it because it's too much to bear.'
New York Times
08-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
‘Paris Here I Come!'
My favorite Paris guidebook is not from Lonely Planet, Wallpaper or Monocle. In fact, I'm sure you have never heard of it. Titled 'Paris Here I Come!' and published by the Afro-American Company in 1953, it is a slim volume, a mere 30 pages set inside a cheerful yellow cover emblazoned with a white line drawing of the Eiffel Tower. Full of charming, conversational advice, the booklet describes Paris as 'not a place, but a way of living — unique, lusty and uninhibited.' The book's author, Ollie Stewart, was my father's uncle, born in Louisiana in 1906. He was the first Black reporter accredited as a war correspondent during World War II, and after the war, he lived in Paris until his death in 1977. In the e-book 'Race Goes to War,' Antero Pietila and Stacy Spaulding describe Uncle Ollie's wartime travels for The Afro-American, a Black newspaper based in Baltimore. He covered skirmishes in North Africa in 1942, the battle for Sicily in 1943 and the invasion of Normandy in 1944. He described conditions of segregated soldiers, attended trainings of the Tuskegee Airmen, and was 'treated as a celebrity in The Afro and other Black newspapers.' After the war, instead of returning home to the Jim Crow South, he stayed in Paris, where I met him for the first and only time in 1976. I was a small child, traveling with my parents, and I remember just fragments of visiting Uncle Ollie's tiny apartment: his cigarette smoke, his piles of books and papers, his hulking black typewriter, his wrinkled grin. Uncle Ollie died the next year. He never married, and had no children. But his writing about Paris reveals how he fell in love with the city. In addition to 'Paris Here I Come!' he wrote lots of other unpublished Paris-oriented articles and essays, including a 4,000-word piece titled 'Café Sitting: A Way of Life.' So when I am in Paris, as I was last year to cover the Olympics, I seek out Uncle Ollie's words. Though 'Paris Here I Come!' is over 70 years old, its approach feels energetic, fresh. 'With money, a companion, a good stomach and an appreciation of good living,' the introduction reads, 'Paris can be the most satisfying place in the world — even if you don't speak the language!' A few years ago, I stayed at a small hotel in the Ninth Arrondissement, near Montmartre. I checked to see what Uncle Ollie had to say about the nearby Place Pigalle. He wrote, 'You'll have your choice of nude shows, private exhibitions, smutty movies and men in dresses and women in pants.' There were indeed signs for table dances, lap dances, lingerie and 'spécialist aphrodisiaque.' More than one store was offering a sex toy in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. But these days Pigalle is also home to a McDonald's and is lined with bars and nightclubs frequented by the young and stylish. Bouncers on thresholds survey their circumscribed kingdoms as lines of patrons smoke and laugh. Snippets of pop songs leak from the doorways. It's impossible to know what Uncle Ollie would think about that. But I know he would have disapproved of the giant suitcase I packed to cover the Olympics. He was firmly against heavy luggage. 'You may have to run to make a train, with no porter in sight,' he wrote, adding: 'That's when packing light will make you proud of yourself.' The 'Wine and Liquor' chapter of Uncle Ollie's guide insists that 'Champagne is the perfect drink.' And it still is. For me, no Paris trip is complete without bubbly; I'm partial to French 75s and kir royales. I've sipped Champagne in front of the magnificent view at the sky bar on the 34th floor of the Hyatt next to the Palais des Congrès; in the cinematic, dimly lit wood-paneled bar at Le Meurice hotel; and outside in the Parisian air at various sidewalk cafes, just as Uncle Ollie did. When treated to attentive service, I tip well, even though Uncle Ollie's guide grumbles, 'Americans usually spoil everything by giving too much wherever they go.' Some of the restaurants and bars Uncle Ollie recommended closed ages ago. But during the Olympics, I took his advice and dined at Le Dôme in Montparnasse. Uncle Ollie described it as a good place to 'sit and watch the world go by' and noted that Hemingway was once a regular. As I slid a fork into a delicate piece of fish and admired the plates — octagonal, emblazoned with Art Deco lettering and an illustration of a harried server in a jacket and an apron — I wondered: With whom had Uncle Ollie dined? What had they discussed? He had interviewed Josephine Baker in Morocco during the war — had they also met for moules at midnight? I like to imagine him at a table full of Black expats conferring over coffee while back home, Brown v. Board of Education dominated the news. His guide, written by a Black man for a Black audience, acknowledged the racial cruelty of the United States in 1953 and informed readers of their rights. Of Parisian cafes, he wrote, 'Just walk into any one you like. There is no segregation in France — in restaurants or any other place.' But 'Paris Here I Come!' doesn't dwell too much on the country he left behind, instead encouraging readers to find pleasure in the city of light. The 'Paris After Dark' chapter showcases Uncle Ollie's nondiscriminatory and diplomatic character, as he writes: Of course, some of the tips are outdated. Paris, and the world, have changed since 1953. You can skip Uncle Ollie's advice to get traveler's checks, and the entire chapter about arriving in Paris via ship. His declaration that 'the French never serve or drink water with meals' is no longer true, especially at establishments frequented by tourists. But the bookstalls by the Seine that lured him are still there, and as he wrote: 'When you get tired of books and prints, you can sit on a bench and doze in the sun. It's a good old French habit, and nobody will criticize you for not sweating your brains out on a job all day long.' And Paris remains a great city to walk in. In the sightseeing section of his guide, Uncle Ollie wrote, 'Taking a stroll and getting lost is the best way to learn a city.' On one afternoon walk, I passed at least a dozen dazzling landmarks — the massive classical columns of La Madeleine; the brilliant, gold winged monuments on top of the Paris Opera; the Egyptian obelisk at the Place de la Concorde. Walking the city reveals its musical rhythm — narrow, twisty side streets open up into noisy, bustling plazas like a tinkling melody giving way to a boisterous chorus. To accompany this composition: visual delights. Triumphant angels, grimacing gargoyles, intricately wrought balcony railings, bright green shutters, gray mansard roofs punctuated with curious dormer windows. Beauty for beauty's sake. When I crossed the Pont de la Concorde, I wondered which bridge was Uncle Ollie's favorite. After the brutality of the war, had he slowly strolled the Quai d'Orsay and marveled at the sheer extravagance of the Pont Alexandre III — with its cheeky cherubs, smiling nymphs and gold accents — as I was doing now? On Page 21, Uncle Ollie wrote that if a reader required a recommendation not found in the guide's pages, 'you'll have to look me up when you get to Paris, and we'll see what we can do.' He added: So I walked to 7 Rue du Laos, taking in the stony Art Deco facade, built in 1925, with carved poppies and ornate ironwork accenting the doors and balconies. It is just steps from the imposing 18th-century complex of the École Militaire and the broad, open park space of the Champ de Mars, which sits at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I tried to imagine it as it might have been in 1953, or in 1976, when I met Uncle Ollie. Perhaps some businesses had changed names, but surely the streets and the cream-colored buildings were the same. Although the city was full of tourists, I was the only person standing in front of 7 Rue du Laos, staring and taking pictures. It's a pretty building, but not one of the stunning, notable monuments tourists flock to Paris to see. To me, it is a landmark. I could imagine Uncle Ollie coming home late, flush with wine and gossip, entering the doorway under a shower of chiseled blossoms floating in the stonework above his head. 'You're going to be a writer, just like your Uncle Ollie,' my father used to say, when I was young and dabbling in poetry and fiction. When I was sent to Paris on assignment, as Uncle Ollie once was, it felt destined. My grandparents and my parents have all died, and none of them left much in the way of tangible assets. No property, no precious gemstones or wedding gowns. What they passed down is what they taught me, how they lived, how they loved. And Uncle Ollie's guide is a priceless heirloom. He bequeathed his passion for Paris, and for exploring the world with humor and gusto. His directive is to take hold of life and wring it dry, to blow past expectations and limits, laughing, to make your own rules and, for as many shimmering moments as possible, truly bask in the joy of living. As he wrote of spending an afternoon by the Seine: Follow New York Times Travel on Instagram and sign up for our Travel Dispatch newsletter to get expert tips on traveling smarter and inspiration for your next vacation. Dreaming up a future getaway or just armchair traveling? Check out our 52 Places to Go in 2025.
