Blog
News, notes, and reflections
A bi-monthly blog of jottings from journeys, experiences at events, and reflections on travelling
Iron Mountain Road over the rugged Black Hills near Sturgis, South Dakota is one of the wildest rides in world. . .
Plans to cruise the scenic byways of Vermont in a Mustang coupé to see the fall colors got off to a bad start . . .
The helicopter flies towards a white dot that is the Kimberley Quest swinging at anchor in Crocodile Creek. . .
Sailing into port are 63 tall ships bearing over 500 sailors ready to celebrate Sail Amsterdam; a five day festival of all things nautical.
Following in the wake of Greek, Roman, Arab, Norman, and Spanish invaders who bequeathed grand architecture, vibrant culture, and an eclectic cuisine to this picturesque isle at the foot of Italy.
As he sets out on an epic motorcycle ride across America, Stephen Starling considers what lays ahead – once he negotiates Los Angeles' notorious freeways...
Katharina is bound for a fabled volcanic island reputed to be a last sanctuary of prehistoric creatures whose bone crushing jaws possess a lethal, poisonous bite.
I never understood the emotion around of the gun ownership debate until I picked up an M16 . . .
The Leeuwin II strains her anchor chain. Wind whistles through shrouds that steady her three tall masts. An outgoing tide pulls her seaward. She longs to be unleashed.
The monuments and the myths of Hearst Castle are a fitting legacy for one of the most outstanding and controversial characters of the twentieth century, William Randolph Hearst.
The sun is setting tinting the desert with a rosy glow as I ride on towards Coober Pedy. I’ve been on my Honda ST1300 since dawn. I desperately need a cold shower, hot meal, and a soft bed.
The street crossing East Los Angeles to the freeway is ugly. Car yards, burger joints, and pawnshops line the roadside. All three lanes are bumper-to-bumper, inching forward in fits and starts. It is hot — hot from the California sun and hot from the Harley-Davidson rumbling and shaking below me. . .
A blustery Easterly wind snatched at a flag flying at half-mast on a ghostly white pole in the predawn light.
Just off la Rambla, the boulevard of shops and cafes that runs through Barcelona is a time tunnel, a pathway into the past . . .
