Faraway Skies

We wake to a morning of monochrome grey, though the promise of a brighter afternoon hides behind clouds like a scolded child. Water sloshes over pavements already stained with the rise and fall of an encroaching sea and my boots crunch over debris discarded by the tide. The air is thick with the call of gulls and they swoop and sweep for the goods offered by a nearby stand dealing with wares of the sea. One is lucky in his pursuit and snatches a cut of fish. He flies to the steeple of a nearby church, cry loud in his victory as grey scales quickly disappear into a greedy beak. 

The streets are winding, each marked with flecks of sun-bleached paint and the reflection of canals wavering on crumbling brickwork. We cross bridges and pass shop fronts crowded with detailed masks and colourful glass. Often, we walk paths no wider than my outstretched arms. Here, in the alleyways of more residential districts, the scent distinctive to the passage of water lingers. My fingers catch maze-like walls that usher us to our eventual destination and they are damp to touch. I look to see that the sky is a thin line in the distance.

After many twists and turns, backtracks and dead ends leading to water, we eventually find ourselves on the plain of Piazza San Marco. Groups of tourists are evident by shouts in multiple languages, though they are greatly reduced compared to the heaving masses seen throughout the summer months. In early spring, the square is almost void of people. We enter St Mark's Basilica without a pause of breath.

Whatever light that enters the church is absorbed by mosaic tiles that shield the ceiling like armour. There is a heavy silence to this place, one that I am afraid to break. It’s a relief to fall under the open sky once again. Saltwater blows across the open sea though we are somewhat sheltered by the walls of Doge’s Palace. My sister and I enter the former seat of government, admiring the colourful scenes of Venetian life that hang on richly decorated walls. We never do discover who Doge was, though. 

Diligently, we pay our respects to the Bridge of Sighs, walking further beyond its crowded balustrade towards the Arsenale di Venezia. Streets in this area are quieter and civilian boats bob on rising waves. It's strange. I know that this island city will eventually be lost to the sea, but it's still a shock to witness water rising onto pavements that it should not reach. 

We turn inland, loosing ourselves to the floods until we find Liberia Acqua Alta. It's a mess of literature in all languages; a chaos of publications, prints and newspapers. A gondola, stuffed with books, rests precariously on wooden floorboards, its lacquer marked with water stains. A draft enters through an open window, stirring pages and my tangled hair. I exclaim at a stairway constructed of books, then spot a reading room that has slowly become reclaimed by the canal edge it exists on. The sun finally makes its way through clouds and I watch dust motes dance in shards of light cast by the shadows of window shutters. 

I notice details on our departure. The way canals react to the motion of boats, the caress of dawn on the water. The sun is warm on my upturned face, making it that much harder to abandon my time here to memory. We leave Venice in a haze that awakens the city with a golden kiss and reveals the crest of mountains on the distant horizon. Their snow-capped peaks are a dusting of cream that captures the colours of sunrise. 

• Take advantage of late night openings in the Louvre (Wednesday and Friday until 9.45pm) and the Musée d’Orsay (Thursday until 9.45pm). There are no queues!

• A lot of attractions in Paris – including the Palace of Versailles, Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre and Musée d’Orsay – are free to visitors aged 18-25 who are members of the European Union*. Just bring your passport along to benefit from this.

• You don’t need to queue or buy a ticket for the Versailles gardens.

• If someone asks you to sign a form or petition around major tourist attractions, don’t. It’s a scam to distract you. Mollie almost got her purse and passport stolen outside the Eiffel Tower two years ago because of this.

• Buy all of your tourist goodies from street sellers throughout Paris. It’s so cheap – where else are you going to find five Eiffel Tower keyrings in various colours for €1?

Venice shrouded in golden fire, and I flaming in its embers.

At least, that’s what it feels like to me in the thirty plus degree weather. Stepping of the bus, Venice doesn’t look like much from the clogged station. But walk between the green-painted stalls and across the bridge, and suddenly your enveloped in Venetian charm.

One day, these maze-like streets will be home to schools of fish, flooded building submerged forests to an unforgiving sea. But not today. Today the city is a burnt sienna against the cloudless sky. We walk for hours upon hours; from one end of Venice to the other. Too hot to marvel at this home, at that bridge, yet marvel we do. It cannot be helped. From the charming bookstore on Campiello Del Tintor, to the elusive Piazza San Marco – which, try as we might, takes us two days to locate – Venice is this city where everything takes us by surprise; the heat, the wine, the sights.

Certainly, I wasn’t a wine person until I tasted the homemade strawberry wine of Café la Ramblas. Sat against a backdrop of canal and bridge, I enjoyed a steaming plate of spaghetti served by the most joyful waiter I have ever, and probably will ever, meet. I even received the two cheek kiss, which felt like an embrace from the whole of Venice.

Sweet, fair and lower humidity Verona was chosen as a daytrip destination. Being only a two-hour train journey from Venice, it was by no means the longest trek in our travels. And besides, I wanted to visit Juliet’s Wall again.

Hopes, dreams, heartbreaks and heartaches are literally splattered in various shades of felt tip like blood on a crime scene wall there. Press your hand against the sun-warmed stone, and you can almost feel the weight of scrawled expectations.

I wonder about the lives of those brave enough to declare their love through Sharpie. Are F + C really 4eva? What about Shaun and Elise? Are those who cried over lost loves happy now? Mostly I wonder about those asking for love. Has Juliet answered their pleas? I visited Verona back in 2011 with a request for Juliet to bring me love. I have returned five years on, again with no name to tag onto mine. Perhaps Casa di Giulietta is just a wall graffitied with human noise. The desire for love, for a happy ending, is strewn across Verona’s cobblestones like confetti. It blows in the breeze and lingers on your skin. Whether a true love magnet or tourist trap, Juliet’s Wall is a truly beautiful paean to humanity.

Things To Know, Things To See

Füssen will remain the town dappled by sunlight, nestled in jagged peaks west of the Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau Castles. The sense of Bavarian heritage has permeated the very cobblestones here; from town house that stand artful and alluring in winding streets, to the smell of roasting pork and melting strudel that settles surprisingly well in the heavy July air. There is a peaceful sleepiness to this town reminiscent of lore and fairy tales. I find myself somehow disappointed that rather than witches, goblins and blonde-haired twins, I am instead greeted by Chinese tourists. I do spy a family dressed in the traditional Bavarian costume though; lederhosen, dirndl, and all. Their fading silhouettes juxtapose whimsically with the modern crowds that surround them.

The Neuschwanstein Castle itself is well worth a visit if staying in Füssen. The mile uphill trek from Hohenschwangau can of course be done in a horse drawn carriage, but there’s something so magical about the early morning hike through the trees. No people, no hustle, just the shifting sigh of the breeze and the hum of birdsong. The sunlight stains the ground with intricate lace as it filters through the tree branches.

It is true that the early bird catches the worm in the case of Neuschwanstein Castle. When I arrive, sweaty and dishevelled from the climb, my only other companion for that clear shot is a lone traveller who kindly offers to take a photo of my sister and I together in front of King Ludwig’s unfinished masterpiece. And what a view is captured. Neuschwanstein perched proud on its hill, a cascading waterfall under the closed Marienbrücke, and swathes of green, green, green in every which direction I turn.

I have not left the mountains eye for three whole days. Everywhere I turn, these mountains stand, an omnipresent and faithful compass to evening strolls along a glacier fed river.

Those mountains surround me now as I manoeuvre a wooden rowboat with some difficulty across the clear shores of Lake Alpsee. For €4.50, these waters are mine, at least for half an hour. For a while, the only sound is the slap of the oars, the drag of the water, and the distant hum of nature. Leaning back against the faded stern, I feel the late afternoon heat leach through my palms, my face, my chest. My mind drifts like the rowboat underneath me; lazily, gently. This is the first stop in our month-long journey through Europe, and already I cannot imagine leaving.

But leave I must, and all to soon I am waving goodbye to mountains that have been a constant companion for eight days; tied to a train bound for Vienna, and later, Venice. Austria blurs by me in rolls of greens and browns. Soon my mountains will fade and flatten into canals and sinking waterways.

Things To Know, Things To See: