I’ve come back from Coron five shades darker, a souvenir I never asked for and don’t particularly like. My skin bears the evidence of long days under an unfiltered sun, the kind that doesn’t negotiate and doesn’t apologize. I tried hats, I tried shade, I tried convincing myself it would fade quickly. It didn’t. But with a beach like this, how could I complain? There are worse prices to pay for beauty, and this one felt almost fair.
Last year, I stumbled into Geneva like a man walking into a well-made watch—everything precise, everything ticking in harmony. Four days was all I had, just enough to taste the air and realise I hadn’t even scratched the surface. Switzerland isn’t just mountains and lakes; it’s a place where snow crowns the peaks like a blessing and the water is so clean it reflects your face with an unsettling honesty. The towns feel hand-painted, the streets lined with quiet perfection, and time here is not wasted—it is respected. Now I’m back, older by a year, hungrier for the country’s undercurrents. Zurich will be my base, but the real gift for my 35th birthday will be in the journeys outward—to the smaller places where trains whisper through valleys and life feels both deliberate and infinite.
