Unveiling Thessaloniki: Greece’s Historic Cultural Capital


“We’ll have to cycle through at least one swamp” announced Tim, suddenly self-satisfied. The three of us frowned whilst we mulled over the prospect of the impending challenge. We had only scraps of information about the remote Patagonian border crossing between Chile and Argentina, most was rumour and hearsay gleaned from other cyclists who had braved the passage before us and whom we all suspected had toyed with the truth by weaving exaggerated tales of hardship. But in amongst the hyperbole
Before us was the appropriately named Lava Falls and it was everything I had expected and so much more. Akin to staring into a fire, we looked into the river in front of us and were mesmerised. Our eyes taken on a journey our bodies weren’t sure they wanted to embrace. I was scared and there’s no other way of selling it. We were two weeks into our trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon and everything that had gone before seemed to pale into insigni
I walked in under an early night, handrailing on a small river out from the tiny settlement at the Bridge of Balgie. Balgie lies at the heart of the longest valley in Scotland. Glen Lyon itself is sited in the belly of the highlands and was once a military stronghold for the Picts. The glen seems to flow over with history, yet speaks of an everlasting present. There’s a bite in the air as I walk alongside the burn and out onto the open moor. On the moor it’s dark. Nothing to challenge the