‘My favorite place in Europe’: 17 journey writers on the nation that seems like residence | Europe holidays

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By Stacy Connor


At midday, steamboat S/S Stockholm pushes away from Boulevard Strandvägen; its elegant artwork nouveau buildings, piped like cake icing, are the very definition of understated magnificence. Our vacation spot is Vaxholm, one among round 30,000 islands, skerries and islets in Stockholm’s archipelago. Town itself spans 14 islands, every with its personal aptitude, like floating 3D puzzle items separated by waterways.

As S/S Stockholm begins her journey, the luxurious island of Djurgården comes into view. The masts of my favorite museum, the Vasamuseet – remaining resting place of a Seventeenth-century warship – shoot excessive above the treeline. I hear gut-wrenching screams coming from amusement park Gröna Lund as we sail previous. Thick forests, open parks and flower gardens are interlaced with biking routes and strolling paths. Our proximity to nature and water organically creates work-life stability and slows me right down to be totally current.

The odor of fish permeates the air as attendants arrange for the ship’s intensive brunch smörgåsbord, that includes conventional Swedish favourites corresponding to pickled herring (sill), cured salmon (gravadlax), and meatballs (köttbullar). Easy, unpretentious gastronomy.

We float previous extra islands – Skeppsholmen surrounded by trawlers. Previous eclectic Södermalm (“Söder”) – a former Seventeenth-century slum changed by classic shops and vegan cafes. Previous Fjäderholmarna, the place life strikes open air on the first ray of sunshine – temperature be damned.

We lastly attain Vaxholm, and through this three-hour spherical journey I’ve skilled all I’ve come to like about dwelling right here for the previous 13 years.
Lola Akinmade Åkerström


Tim Parks at the cafe counter in Italy.
Tim Parks on the cafe counter in Italy. {Photograph}: Tim Parks

There have been my cappuccino years. Then the espresso years. The years of the brioche, the risino, the treccina. Or generally even the bignè. The years with chocolate on my foam, and the years with out. Amid the confusion of my first months in Italy, struggling to study the language, to get a permesso di soggiorno, a certificato di residenza, to search out work and, even more durable, to receives a commission for work, the ritual of morning espresso shortly offered itself as an oasis of enjoyment in a distress of forms and graft.

I bear in mind notably the Pasticceria Maggia in Montorio Veronese, a village close to Verona. Outdoors, every part appeared hostile, hurried, sizzling and humid; however, inside, decorum, polished surfaces, fairly pastries, fast service. How do Italians produce your espresso a lot quicker than elsewhere, a lot stronger and higher, with a lot much less fuss? Maybe enjoying with the milk jug to hint a coronary heart in your foam. Inserting a small glass of mineral water beside. With friendliness and flourish. Leaving newspapers freely obtainable on the tables.

A lot of my Italian I realized in cafes, over the pages of the Area di Verona, attempting to get my thoughts round Andreotti and Craxi, Christian Democracy and communism. It was 1981. On the town, the Purple Brigades had kidnapped an American common, there have been highway blocks on the streets. However the carabiniere along with his machine gun beside me on the bar was all smiles and solicitude. I like this place, I made a decision. And within the 40 years since, with the one horrible hiatus of the Covid lockdown, this facet of Italy has by no means ceased to be a comfort.

“I’ve measured out my life with espresso spoons,” moaned Alfred J Prufrock, as if it was a defeat. In Italy, it’s a triumph.
Tim Parks


Dexter Fletcher and wife Dalia getting married in Vilnius.
Dexter Fletcher and spouse Dalia getting married in Vilnius. {Photograph}: Dexter Fletcher

I first got here to Lithuania practically 30 years in the past. Dalia and I had been dwelling collectively for about two years, however I’d by no means been to her residence metropolis, Vilnius. I’d been to different japanese European capitals, however Vilnius felt totally different.

There have been, in fact, the identical, giant, Soviet municipal buildings and, within the extra trendy components of the town, the ever-present heaviness of the brutalist structure, however once I went to the small residence the place Dalia grew up and the place her mother and father nonetheless lived, I noticed her in a brand new and sensible method. If you wish to actually know an individual, you need to see to the place they arrive from.

We walked and talked within the streets of the previous city of Vilnius in -30C temperatures, wrapped in coats that had been made by her uncle from previous blankets to maintain us heat. We spent our time consuming, consuming, laughing and doing our greatest to speak in three totally different languages. And I felt a way of residence, connection and belonging I like to this present day. In distinction to my first journey all these years in the past, the town’s eating places are actually improbable. Amandus is especially good, with a Lithuanian chef skilled in Scandinavia who serves meals with a cool trendy twist.

The persons are stunning, hard-working, humorous with a darkish sense of humour, in addition to beneficiant and inventive. I’m honoured to be a citizen and name it my “different” residence.
Dexter Fletcher


Sandycove, Dublin.
Sandycove, Dublin. {Photograph}: Mark Henderson/Alamy

Each time my love affair with Eire wobbles – the rain, the dysfunction, the price of dwelling – I’m going to a spot that restores it so swiftly and fully I need to scream.

That’s the second I let go of the ladder on the Forty Foot, a washing spot in south Dublin, plunge into the Irish Sea, and listen to an inside voice yelling: NO. However I make no sound. The chilly takes my breath away. After a minute or two the shock eases, I’m swimming around the rocks, heading to the primary buoy, and dwelling in Eire is smart once more.

Partly, it’s the well-documented psychological good thing about sea-swimming. But it surely’s additionally the setting. The bay – the Killiney and Dalkey hills, the Aviva stadium, the Poolbeg chimneys, the port, Howth peninsula – unfurls in panorama. Past the watery horizon, Wales.

Sometimes a seal surfaces. The human wildlife is simply as attention-grabbing. There are the “hardies”, old-timers who swam right here lengthy earlier than it was stylish. There’s the “dry-robe brigade” who deliver flasks and fleece-lined hooded gear. There are the first-timers who whoop and shriek. The accents are plummy and dealing class, Irish and international, all exchanging intel.

“Any jellyfish?”

“Nah, you’re grand.”

“The present?”

“Not so dangerous at the moment.”

Watching over us all is the Martello tower, web site of the opening chapter in James Joyce’s Ulysses, with a well-known description of what awaits bathers: “The snotgreen sea. The scrotum-tightening sea.” A coded invitation, certainly, to make the leap.
Rory Carroll


Sunbathing at Kvaesthusgraven, Copenhagen.
Sunbathing at Kvaesthusgraven, Copenhagen. {Photograph}: Ian Dagnall/Alamy

When the property agent first confirmed me spherical a flat in Copenhagen, she made a degree of remarking on the harbour. “In the summertime, you gained’t have the ability to maintain us Danes out of it,” she stated. I couldn’t actually see the attraction. It was a murky splash of greenish water ignored by numerous flats. Not an infinity pool.

However after six years of dwelling right here, I’ve modified my tune. I’ve gone a bit Danish, and my favorite factor about dwelling right here is the swimming tradition. It’s not only a passing summer season fancy, a option to cool off on a sizzling day, however a lifestyle on this sea-loving nation. If there’s one factor it is best to pack on a visit to Denmark, it’s a swimsuit.

Lengthy earlier than Wim Hof and wild swimming had been a factor, Danes had been taking to the water 12 months spherical. It’s a bootleg thrill to enter the black water with nothing on however a bobble hat on a darkish winter morning, and a sunlit pleasure to splash round in the summertime. I’ll meet associates for a swim moderately than a espresso, and have playdates sitting beside the harbour basins as the children profit from the water.

There’s a lot to love about Denmark – its bakeries, biking tradition, hygge, trust-based society – however its love of swimming tops the lot.
Laura Corridor


Mary Novakovich at Restoran Anita, Croatia.
Mary Novakovich at Restoran Anita, Croatia. {Photograph}: Mary Novakovich

After I first went to Croatia on the age of 11 (when it was nonetheless Yugoslavia), I used to be a notoriously fussy eater. Fortunately, I grew out of that. Now the considered depriving myself of meals I like is just too depressing to ponder. And if there’s one place the place meals is the center and soul of a rustic, it’s Croatia.

Over the many years, I’ve watched the nation turn into extra upmarket, gathering Michelin stars alongside the best way, and I’ve had unforgettable meals in some heavenly locations on the Adriatic coast. However the ones I savour most hark again to less complicated instances in my mother and father’ hinterland area of Lika and its equally mountainous neighbours.

I’d watch my uncle grill fish he’d choose up on the trout farm close to his home. Or benefit from the barely drunken ambiance when his buddy turned up with some wild boar he had shot and made a hunter’s stew filled with paprika and cooked in an iron pot over an open hearth.

One of many joys of driving via the Croatian countryside is stopping for lunch at a roadside tavern the place lamb will probably be slowly spit-roasting outdoors. Considered one of my favourites, Anita, occurs to be a number of miles from footballer Luka Modrić’s birthplace, Zadar. Sitting on its sunny terrace close to the Velebit mountains, diving into tender lamb and crunchy salads, and consuming chilly Karlovačko beer, sums up the pleasures of consuming and consuming in Croatia. Simplicity at its greatest.
Mary Novakovich, writer of My Household and Different Enemies: Life and Travels in Croatia’s Hinterland


Tanja Rebolj at her schnapps shop in Cvet Gora, Slovenia.
Tanja Rebolj at her schnapps store in Cvet Gora, Slovenia. {Photograph}: Noah Charney

I’m on a jury – seven guys from a distant Slovenian village and me, an American expat. We’ve already downed 17 schnapps. Three to go. The official scorecard requires that I give factors for scent, style, readability and color. We cleanse our palates with cubes of delicate cheese between sips. My fellow jurors have been downing the photographs and are nonetheless (principally) upright however I’m a number of sheets to the wind. I clearly have some coaching to do.

I’m a author who has lived for greater than a decade in Kamnik, within the northern alpine area of Slovenia. Considered one of my earliest recollections of feeling welcomed right here was my first schnapps tasting, within the village the place my then-fiancee grew up. Nothing breaks the ice and helps you’re feeling a part of a neighborhood like elevating a glass (or 20).

Central Europe is schnapps heaven, with most people consuming home made distillations made out of apples and later flavoured with every part from Williams pear to blueberries to walnut, sage and extra. Everybody appears to have a member of the family who makes their very own schnapps, so village tastings are actually excuses for neighborhood events, as a lot as native pleasure.

Schnapps may be very subtle. I lead some foraging and schnapps tasting excursions, and a spotlight is our go to to Cvet Gora, in Jezersko (web site of Boris Johnson’s honeymoon, in case you had been questioning), the place Tanja Rebolj makes mixological schnapps, one among which has 102 elements she gathers herself, and one other that tastes of liquified apple strudel.

So whenever you go to Slovenia, be sure you indulge within the native tipple and study to say “Cheers” – increase your glass, make eye contact, and say “Na zdravje!” Awarding factors is optionally available.
Noah Charney is the writer of Slovenology: Dwelling and Travelling within the World’s Greatest Nation


A river party in Cádiz.
A river get together in Cádiz. {Photograph}: Paco Ruiz

When the temperature hits the excessive 30s, and, shrill with cicadas, the dusty olive groves shimmer within the warmth, folks in rural Cádiz transfer all facets of day by day life to the water. After I first pushed via reeds and oleanders and found a household sitting waist-deep in a river, on chairs, round a desk laden – with wine and tubs of papas aliñadas, ensalada rusa and pork in tinfoil; bottles of Coke, wine and beer cooling on the riverbed; a radio tuned to coplas – I gawped and apologised for intruding (within the English method). However I used to be invited to remain, given tortilla and quizzed on each facet of my life. Extra folks waded previous – octogenarians with attire tucked of their knickers, youngsters in goggles, the electrician carrying a chihuahua, a topless museum information from Madrid – everybody pausing for a chat, meals or wine, as if we had been in a home moderately than the Guadalete river.

Within the 10 years since, I’ve spent many summer season days in get together rivers, and in one other that’s extra Zen, the place folks drift alongside a gorge deep in dialog, solely their heads and shoulders above the water, in a dreamy aqueous paseo, accompanied by swimming canine.

In an age when a lot appears overcomplicated, decamping to a river in response to being sizzling has a childlike simplicity that’s very interesting. Nobody cares about their sneakers or their hair, or mud, or thighs, or noise, or private house. Cool teenagers with piercings do star jumps from rocks. There’s no fussing or stressing, and this laid-back conviviality extends to life on dry land. For all the sensible advantages, I really like this facet of mountain life, primarily as a result of it’s totally surreal.
Sorrel Downer


Poppies and cornflowers in Mikołajki, Poland.
Poppies and cornflowers in Mikołajki, Poland. {Photograph}: Picture Professionals GmbH/Alamy

Aged 15 in 1991, my Polish father took me for a summer season to the wilds of rural Poland. With rucksacks on our backs, we kicked up a cloud of mud with each step on the baking grime highway in Warmia, within the north-east of the nation. The meadows on both facet had been filled with wildflowers and dancing butterflies.

Poland can have superb, sizzling summers. And nowhere are they extra superb than whenever you lease a room within the verdant idyll of a provincial household farm with hollyhocks and goats. On the lane main as much as it, we met the farmer’s niece, a 12 months youthful than me, additionally visiting for the vacations. We went horse using, had a swim in a lake within the forest, picked apples, turned hay within the picket barn, listened to the identical two vinyl data over and over, exchanged Polish and English language suggestions, and smiled rather a lot.

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After a cold beetroot soup (chłodnik) to cut through the 34C heat, she introduced me to the delights of a shockingly tasty cucumber from the garden, laced with local honey so sweet that it blew my head off.

I had fallen in love, and was too shy to say so. Nothing happened until I went back again and, being very 18, necessarily messed it up. What hasn’t changed is that I’m still in love with summers in the Polish countryside, and always will be.
Keith Lockram


Schwarzenberg cafe in Vienna.
Schwarzenberg cafe in Vienna. Photograph: Art Kowalsky/Alamy

Before I had even set foot in Vienna, I had mythologised the Viennese coffee house. When I first entered one – very gingerly, I must admit – after moving to the Austrian capital, I was awestruck by the decor (all marble, mirrored glass and brass), intimidated by the supercilious tuxedoed waiters, and confused by the mystifying nomenclature for food and drink. I dared not imitate the locals by standing up to scrutinise the flamboyant cake display, or helping myself to the free newspapers from around the world.

Even my German deserted me, and I ordered a cola in English before downing it and scurrying off in embarrassment. In short, I had entirely missed the point.

By the time I tried again, the Viennese coffee house had been included on Unesco’s list of intangible cultural heritage, a place “in which time and space are consumed, but only the coffee is listed on the bill”. Armed with this knowledge, having in advance deciphered coffee-house speak and prepared myself to face the swagger of the personnel, I returned to Cafe Schwarzenberg (one of the original Ringstrasse establishments, opened in 1861) – the scene of my first, hopeless attempt. After all, I was now a local.

Without hesitation and without consulting the list, I ordered a Melange (a cappuccino in all but name, but the only terminology to use if you wanted to avoid the waiter’s weary eye roll), I surveyed every single cake in the vitrine, and picked up a copy of Le Monde. I ended up staying all afternoon and all evening, perusing more newspapers, succumbing to a Dobostorte and people-watching, while admiring the clockwork passing of the trams outside. I was never asked to move (even when the cafe got busy), I was never pressed to order more (one kleiner Schwarzer – a small espresso without milk – buys you an entire day of sitting, writing, working and daydreaming). As I left, the very waiter who had so terrified me on my first visit granted me an “Auf Wiedersehen”. I had finally made it.
Christopher Brennan


The annual medieval fair in Peyrolles, Provence
The annual medieval fair in Peyrolles, Provence Photograph: Hemis/Alamy

Our new French neighbours were mystified by the arrival of a young British family who had moved to a small village in Provence and, after four months of silence, popped by to see if we’d brought over any shortbread. They gave my son a tiny suit of armour and said it was for the forthcoming Foire du Roy René, the local town of Peyrolles’ medieval fair. Our “French” life began at that moment.

The first time we went, a jester in a leather hat and wearing necklaces of animal teeth told us that long before dentists existed people’s rotten molars were replaced with sheep’s teeth, and he put one of his necklaces around my tiny daughter’s neck. Thrilled and repulsed, we bought some pommes d’amour (toffee apples), tankards of hydromel (French mead) and soupe dorée (golden soup) from a giant cauldron.

The soup and the search for the toothman made it into our spring calendar every year for a decade – two days of pageantry and sword-fighting, maidens in hennins, grotty peasants, sheep running through Peyrolles’ narrow streets, brutal jousting, falconry and fire juggling on a huge field beneath the village.

The medieval fair inspired my children to dress as a knight and princess for much of their early childhood (there’s no school uniform in France), but it was also the first time I ever heard them speak French. They were talking very seriously to other children, all dressed in chainmail and kirtles, about King Arthur and Merlin. Being transported back 500 years gave us our first bond with France, a country filled with medieval villages, chateaux ruins and ancient stone fountains.
Jon Bryant

Czech Republic

U Zlatého Tygra pub is on Husova lane, Prague.
U Zlatého Tygra pub is on Husova lane, Prague. Photograph: Alamy

It was Franz Kafka who said that the “sharp claws” of Prague “never let you go” – but for me, it was the writings of a different Czech author that pulled me into the city.

Dopily eating a plate of fried cheese in a Vinohrady pub 14 years ago, I hadn’t yet managed to grasp Czech culture – the people seemed angry, the humour seemed odd, the language plain ridiculous. But noticing the shining bronze head of Bohumil Hrabal affixed to the wall, and being told that the pub, Hlučná Samota (Too Loud a Solitude), was named after one of his books, I decided to give him a go.

I was spellbound. Both childishly funny and acutely philosophical, he unpacks the warm, outlandish Czech character like no other – the large-bellied raconteur, the bellowing drunk, the quiet-yet-contented loner. Through his stories, I realised that beneath the pessimistic, post-communist scowls I’d encountered, lay a nation of welcoming and jocular souls.

A museum trip to nearby Nymburk (one hour by train), where he grew up in the town’s brewery, provided further insight into the Czech persona. But it was spending time in U Zlatého Tygra pub (the Golden Tiger), Hrabal’s old hangout in the centre of Prague, that really brought the city’s characters to life.

The pub is quite the experience. When the doors open at 3pm, you stampede inside to try to bag one of the few tables (they’re all reserved by locals from around 5pm), then frothy pints of delicious Pilsner are perpetually dumped in front of you, whether you want one or not. Although Hrabal no longer holds fort there (he died in 1997), the place is awash with the characters he described – and for a good two hours you can drink great beer and bask in the splendour of his fascinating world.
Mark Pickering


The statues of Erechtheion at the Acropolis, Athens.
The statues of Erechtheion at the Acropolis, Athens. Photograph: Jozef Sedmak/Alamy

There was no eureka moment. In the recesses of my mind it is the light that drew me here. It could have been the stones that spoke of history, the poetry of a language little known, the food. All, in their own way, elegant and spare; all as delicious in an odyssey of self-discovery, which is what Greece will always offer. But from the first it was the light, intoxicating and all embracing, the force that is elemental to the magic of this place.

I cannot say when or where it struck me most. Perhaps in the illumination of the marbles at the Acropolis, when on my first visit to Athens aged 13, I was inducted into the language of heat and the yellow white of their glow; perhaps in the intensity of a summer’s day when the light is so fierce it trembles. Or perhaps it all began when I swam into the sun, as I would first learn to do chasing the light in Koufonissi, when Cycladic isles could still be remote and beacons of spare living.

In the throb of change that has come to Greece it is the one constant, irradiating the faces of the old, putting joy into the steps of the young, lighting up the shores from the sea, inspiring artists and poets, underpinning the luminosity of shadow in a country I fell for long ago.
Helena Smith


Fishers repairing nets on the quayside, Olhão.
Fishers repairing nets on the quayside, Olhão. Photograph: Stuart Black/Alamy

The old fishing town of Olhão in the eastern Algarve captured my heart on a short visit in 2012. The market – housed in twinned redbrick buildings with green domes – was one of the best I had ever been in (and I’ve been in many). I loved the people: they seemed to me like Glaswegians, only in sunshine – warm and funny and kind.

I had come with my friend, the Portuguese journalist Célia Pedroso, to visit a new hotel in the countryside called Fazenda Nova, which I wrote about for the Guardian (it’s about to reopen its doors after a refurbishment).But it was the gnarly old town that did it for me. I kept coming back for its clams, dug fresh from the Ria Formosa, and its blazing sunsets, the light and the vast, open skies.It was just short, long weekends. With pals. Alone. For my birthday. It became my place.

Then in the middle of the pandemic, when we were released after the first lockdown, I came back. I ended up on Ilha da Armona, a 15-minute ferry ride from Olhão. I got stuck, though it never felt like it. Then one day I saw a house with a wooden, handwritten sign, “Vende se”. For sale. I went to see it a couple of times and loved it. Then I had the collywobbles for a week. But one evening I swam in the sea under a fiery red moonrise. That April moon is called a pink moon. I bought the house and called it Lua Rosa.
Audrey Gillan


Midsummer celebrations in Sinimäe, Estonia.
Midsummer celebrations in Sinimäe, Estonia. Photograph: Xinhua/Alamy

There is a smell that is Estonian summer. It’s a combination of asphalt and flowers, most notably lilacs and peonies, which bloom as the weather warms up after a long winter. I hadn’t planned on settling in Estonia, the birthplace of my grandparents, but those scents invoked childhood memories and called to me to stay a little longer, reminding me each year that winter is only temporary. Twelve years later, the allure of such simple pleasures anchors me.

One of my favourite rituals is gathering with friends and family for midsummer – which coincides with my birthday –, celebrated on the evening of 23 June (a holiday more important than Christmas). We gather at my summer home in Kojastu and kindle the charcoal grill. A potluck ensues, with fresh salads, pickles, sweets and offerings for the grill. I take pride in preparing my father’s mother’s potato salad, subtly enhanced with a touch of apple, and my mother’s mother’s rhubarb cake, a beloved delicacy that adorns our table for as long as the rhubarb season permits.

As twilight descends, the fading scent of charcoal makes way for the bonfire, a towering structure composed of old trees, garden clippings and, perhaps unknowingly, the burdens of the last year. The flames dance to life, engulfing the pile, symbolically bidding farewell to the past. The embers glow with a comforting warmth, lingering for days to come and, with their fading light, we begin again, laying the foundation for the bonfire of the following year. Estonia is a tapestry of memories, scents and traditions. It is the feeling of home.
Kristina Lupp

The Netherlands

Skaters by Kinderdijk’s windmills.
Skaters by Kinderdijk’s windmills. Photograph: Lourens Smak/Alamy

The Netherlands is famous for its bicycles, but if you spend time there you’ll soon realise there’s another mode of transport that the Dutch love perhaps even more than two wheels: two blades. When the weather turns cold enough for its lakes, canals and rivers to freeze, half the country dons ice skates and takes the day off work.

These days, ice skating is perhaps the closest thing to a national religion. When the big lakes near my house froze last year, the ice was soon packed with everyone from toddlers learning to skate by holding on to the back of chairs, to muscular young men in Lycra who looked like Olympic champions. There were even a couple of very elderly people being pushed across the ice on wheelchairs.

People lit campfires on the ice and neighbours passed around cups of Glühwein, while local teenagers raced motorbikes across the frozen lake. It captured the national character at its best: intensely social and communal, outdoorsy and athletic, with a flagrant disregard for health and safety.

These days, the fun is tempered by poignancy: we all know that on a rapidly warming planet winter skating might not be an option for much longer. The epic Elfstedentocht race – a sort of Dutch Tour de France on ice – hasn’t been held for more than 25 years now, because the ice is never thick enough. But, for now, I’ll keep sharpening my blades and praying for cold weather.
Ben Coates


A musician at the Gărâna Jazz festival.
A musician at the Gărâna Jazz festival. Photograph: Albert Veress/Alamy

Now in its 27th year, the Gărâna jazz festival gathers international bands and hundreds of aficionados every summer on top of a mountain in the West Carpathians. For me, the mountains are Romania’s greatest treasure. Getting there involves travelling through layers of Romanian history and culture. We went via Timișoara, this year’s European capital of culture. Close to the Serbian and Hungarian border, Timișoara is one of Romania’s most multicultural and architecturally best-preserved cities. It is also where the 1989 revolution that brought down the communist dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu started.

From Timișoara, we took a train to Resita, an old industrial town, whose steelworks and machine building plant date back to 1771. Following privatisation in the 1990s, the factories were reduced to a fraction of their former size – when I first saw the town years ago, it looked abandoned, but now a series of artistic initiatives transforming old industrial spaces into cultural hubs is giving it a new lease of life.

From Resita, we took a minibus to Gărâna. Some people camp in the outdoor concert venue; others get a bed in one of the traditional homes in Gărâna village, enjoying homemade pies, local cheeses and meats. We booked a hut right on the bank of the breathtaking Lake Trei Ape (Three Waters), where every morning we were woken up by booming Europop (one more facet of contemporary Romania). The highlight: listening to the final concert from the cemetery on the hill – a magical experience.
Paula Erizanu

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