the vanilla tides | Mauritius

It’s funny how, when you look back, there are some things that just feel like they never happened. A level of surrealism just clouds certain memories, hazy, the way steam rises from tarmac during sunshine after heavy rain. The time we had with Pruney is coated in that same kind of fog, was she ever with us, or just a figment of a dream? It seems unlikely we were ever lucky enough to share in her spirit, her character, her big hazel eyes… was she ever real? It’s just hard to believe that she was ours, and she was real. In many ways Pruney, her loss and her being, wove inextricably into how I remember Mauritius. Those arching beaches, in shades of flax, wheat, and bone; the calm sea, clear and glassy, burbling like a baby, somehow still guarding the secrets of pods of dolphins and coral rocks. Mauritius too, was surreal, perhaps another piece of a dream, some kind of postcard for a paradise island. The French flair, the English architecture, the passion of the people for the ocean; for fishing; for raggaeton music, which made it feel decidedly island-y, and even more unreal.

There were the luxurious jungles that stuck to the sides of steep rock like verdant tattoos, trees dangerously careening too heavily around bends that hid ghostly shrines, surreptitiously guarded from the view of passing tourists. The hills and forest echoed with the calls of a thousand birds, there were views over leafy hilltops and cane plantations surrounded colonial mansions still producing rum. The road through the hills linked back to a coast road that wove lazily through fishing villages, boats calmly bobbing at the dock, fishermen and small children with corkscrew curls mending the nets. On another side of the island and under the watchful gaze of the peaks of Le Morne we found a tiny beach with water clearer than clingfilm. The shadow of every tiny ripple was visible from the surface, the sun bathed us and everything in white light, while the vanilla tides kissed sands the color of toasted coconut. Palms swayed to delineate hotels from each other, quiet despite peak season, pools gurgled, left untouched, and we drove back to our villa barefoot and with a horizon filled with nothing but the blue of the Indian Ocean.

The sea was often tiger striped, but in blues, greens and azures. A breeze would pick up in the afternoon, there would be a pleasant scent of seaweed, dogs in the small neighborhoods of Blue Bay and Point d’Esny barked, revived by the growing shade. Inland the malls were busy, Port Louis bustled, and the botanical gardens at Pamplemousses burst into a bloom of greenery with giant leaves and tropical tree trunks. You could drive for miles over tiny copper-toned roads, the carmine red earth a reminder of the richness of Africa; the canes stretching infinitely around us, hiding orchestras of singing cicadas as a reminder of Africa’s wildness. Banana plantations snuggled in the arms of rolling hills that ran gently to the sea, the wash frothing like a latte back onto the pristine shoreline.

In the evening we would walk in the neighbourhood, where beautifully unkempt villas were slowly retaken by island flowers; bougainvillea and hibiscus; friendly semi-stray dogs lazed in the long grass, pigeons cooed from crumbling rafters. Local families walked their way up from the beach, the sun began to set, streaking dusky skies into canvasses of pale orange, peach, and lilac. The island was warm, it was slow, and the dreamlike beauty of the Indian Ocean hypnotic. There were moments when we felt like we were frozen in time, sunburnt and sea-salty. We were watching kite surfers hop the waves, colourful sails cutting through the water like jellybeans through a glass jar; we were playing with dolphins who raced our boat and brought tiny babies alongside.

Sometimes, in the tangles of my head, I still don’t know if my memories with Prune are real, or if I’m imagining. Mauritius seems far away too. But then there are moments of clarity, when I can remember what the morning sun felt like as it moved over the ocean and lingered over the jungly mansions of Point d’Esny’s coastal road. When we were at that hauntingly beautiful beach, with the perfect clouds, the glasslike ripples, the tendrils of golden sun, we wrote Prune’s name in the sand. She was with us, she had been the whole time, and she would see the message on that tiny beach, because she would always be there, watching over the ocean, entangled in the coral and the palms, chasing the dolphins, always.

“The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.” - E. Lockhart

summer Corfu: part 2

the sides of the valley were densely forested, covered in a quilt of pine trees. the trees cast a warm green glow over the little dirt path and in their shade ferns colonised. where the hills and trees fell away grew sudden shocks of wildflowers in gentle lilac and blushing pink, around them hovered hundreds of butterflies; white and delicate. on the right of the path, a crude wooden fence marked out pasture; on the left, a little stone hut that the ferns were slowly reclaiming. everywhere, a heavy hush. the call of a bird of prey somewhere in the forest, a view into the valley reaching the tree-clad slopes of the Turkish mountains. a feeling that here, nature presided - that you were in a rare place where the wild things could really run wild. you'd never see any, but you felt they were there.

we'd spent four days perusing Corfu's quiet northern coast, nosing in secret coves, climbing hills for sea views and eating feta. The European summer holidays had started and things were getting a little buzzy in our sleepy neck of the woods (one person. walking along the secret cliff path to our hidden beach. one person! shock. horror.)and we were so badly spoilt, we decided we needed to head inland. into the hilly hinterland of the island, which we'd read so much about in the books by Gerald Durrell. where there were endless fields of wildflowers in the spring, where streams gurgled through mossy dells. sure, the coasts were rugged and gorgeous, but we knew that for the real end-of-the-earth wild feeling, Corfu's vertiginous heart was where to go. But we hit a conundrum: we had no transport (long story), taxis were expensive and we didn't know where to ask to go ("a taxi please... to some place off the beaten track"). this, compounded by the fact that being just Layla and I, we didn't want to wander into Greek wilderness, yet we're not the type to join a tour. Solution: Corfu Donkey Sanctuary. yes, we are the kind of people who visit a beachy island and end up at a donkey sanctuary. donkeys aside (they broke my heart, but the work the people are doing is admirable) the place is a sanctuary, precisely because it lies somewhere in that valley under the watchful eye of the Turkish mountains. it's a maze of overgrown hunting tracks that criss-cross the luscious green, there is an incessant choir of birds. all the while, you're again imagining a goat herd wandering through the high grass, playing a flute; a conductor to the orchestra of cicadas who play the anthem of the middle of the earth. It's easy to forget a taxi brought you here.

we were kids again, playing in the ruins of the fort, firing the canons and looking over the shimmering bay at the enemy boats coming in. it was ubiquitous gray stone, no architectural marvel. but Corfu's old fort sat perched at a height in the old part of Corfu Town with a view over the slate rooftops, turning the labyrinth of little streets in the Jewish Quarter into a checkerboard interrupted by the loopy spires of the old synagogue. not quite the Acropolis, wild grass grew rife in the courtyards and between the cobbles, the place had an air of dilapidated mystery. but where else could we have wandered in the blistering mid day heat, hearing the footsteps of invading armies in the tunnels, the cries of the warriors echoing off the cool stone walls. we'd barely been on the island a few days and we could have written a novel, it is no surprise that Durrell could write a trilogy after growing up among these crumbling pieces of history. not that Corfu town was totally frozen in time - people were trendy, all golden skinned and wearing dark sunglasses, sitting on pavement cafes in the charming pedestrian precinct where the roads were a glossy cream marble. somehow we strayed away from the main course, into a warren of cobbled narrow streets, like the desert plates on the banquet table. washing fluttered on lines hung from wrought-iron balconies, black paint peeling while window boxes exploded in color. a cat slumbered in the shade of a doorway, Vespas rested against graying stone walls, the sound of someone practicing the violin floated out of an open window. we hadn't gone far looking for the real people: not on a tour that revealed 'local secrets', not into some seedy area of town, but just a step away from the buzzy main streets and we were immersed in Corfiot life.

our flight home was scheduled for the evening. on our last day, we took the bus to a small beach town nearby, sands were quiet, we were pensive. the trip had been one of those last minute things: lots of hurry, little expectation. we'd lost the low cost high-rises of the package holiday brochures and found the coast where you could still hear the sea and not just other people. it's even thrum against those pebbly shores, white stones kissed by the sun. the pines still seemed to embrace the ocean; they tumbled down those rugged slopes into the water's open arms. the hot air was full of mystery, each landmark held a story, there was an inherently raw romance to the way the gnarled olive trees leaned and whispered in the breeze, how the cicadas chattered late into the night. like the hills, the crumbling stone walls, the old fort, the groves, the cicadas told stories, and after a week, we were ready to write our own. we arrived in howling wind and rain, black midnight at London Stanstead, shivering in our summer shorts and imagining the moon rising clear and silver over the sea, as the little island slept under the watchful eye of the Albanian hills and Turkish mountains.

Practical stuff

Places: Corfu Donkey Rescue: ok I know this seems weird but we can't go somewhere and not meet furry animals. Therefore, this place. It's worth the taxi trip out not only to help the cause (donkeys, till recently, have been treated very badly in Greece) but also because the location is gorgeous and the drive very scenic. I contacted the owner who gave me the number of a local taxi firm who knows the rescue center and it's not such a bad thing to have another taxi number on hand. The sanctuary is free to visit, we gave a small donation, cuddled the donkeys, brushed them and met some cute pups.totally worth it.

Corfu town: the main city is also definitely worth a day, at least. There are lots of small shops in the Jewish quarter, pretty decent shopping everywhere, lots of cafes, the old fort and some really nice looking museums too.

There is apparently lots of hiking on the island, we saw lots of trails but had no map and no desire to get lost. If you're more organized than us, there's hiking on the volcano which is probably amazing, judging by what we saw without climbing much at all.

I'd also recommend visiting the little towns Kassiopi (cue Indiana Jones moment in an abandoned Byzantine fort) and Kalami which is home to one of Gerald Durrell's houses (the White House). AND rent a boat! In Nissaki we rented one through Nissaki rent-a-boat, you can rent one for the day and stop in deserted coves and pretty places like that. Also, the boats are very easy to handle even for incompetent people like me, and the sea is very calm.

Transport Haha. Big warning here: rent a car from the airport through an international firm like Hertz or Avis or something. We planned on renting a motorbike, which is common, but were given a dud whose engine was broken and had no fuel. We tried to arrange a car instead but they decided you have to be 23 (yeah, what about 21 at least?) to drive a car and we lost the money we'd paid for the motorbike, real clever. So we really struggled: everything in Corfu is quite strung out. Taxis are available but unreliable at best - the central taxi company Alfa seems to organize most taxis. Also if you are renting a motorbike be aware that the roads are very, very hilly, so maybe best avoided if you've never done it before.

We ended up taking the bus around and though it's routes are not endless, where they did go, they really worked. We were very sceptical but they ran on time, had English speaking conductors and all had AC. Their website is not very clear but bus stops have schedules which are accurate and they operate between islands too! Island hopping by bus just might become a thing.

Before you go, I'd recommend you read at least one of the Corfu trilogy by Gerald Durrell who put the island on the map. His descriptions of the wildlife, the scenery and the people are insanely vivid and whether you visit or don't, you'll be taken there.

"as the ship drew across the sea and Corfu shrank simmering into a pearly heat haze on the horizon black depression settled on us, which lasted all the way back to England" - Gerald Durrell, My Family and other Animals. Corfu has that effect on you.

Hope you enjoyed the final part of the guide! If you have any questions or anything feel free to ask any time. Hugs xo

summer corfu: part 1

The apartment was perched up a steep hill, as if the climb into the village had not been high enough. The balcony was a typically Aegean affair, stone the colour of turmeric, with black iron grills. Plastic table and chairs, dark wood shutters, cream stone tiles. From those plastic chairs was the view of the curving bay, a crescent that was kissed by stony beaches backed by forests of pine. The trees clung to the rocky slopes, and everywhere the forests tumbled into the ocean in masses of emerald needles. The air was constantly alive with the sound of birdsong, the tingling smell of the pine, the mountains of Albania cloaked in a blue haze on the horizon.

This was Durell country. Not the Corfu of high rise package holidays, not the Corfu with throngs of tourists, but the Corfu where we found an apartment to rent in an olive grove. Like the pines, the olives hugged the rugged slopes, gnarled branches bleached by a 40 Celsius sun. In the cooler patches orange and lemon trees grew rife, like moss in a Northern European garden, so much fruit that the branches sagged under their weight. Roadside shops sold seedlings and vibrant Bougainvillea, the flowers that adorned so many of the white village houses.

We were great fans of the books by Gerald Durrell and following his footsteps, Layla and I rented a boat from the small taverna by the village beach. "Here are the papers" the boatman said, handing us a pile, "in case the coast guard stops you. Oh, and also, don't go too much to the right there, that's Albania and they don't like it". He gestured vaguely to an area on the map. It was a small speedboat, easy enough to master. The sky was bright blue, that colour that you only find in the tropics, not the muted pastels of Europe. Our boat sent white foam flying with the breeze, other boaters gave us a passing wave, we got sunburnt. All the while those Albanian mountains and their haze lay on the horizon, like the "sleeping giant" Durrell had so vividly described in his books. We passed cove after cove of deserted golden beach, the water beyond brochure blue, the hulls of yachts whiter than the movies, the sun sharper, the spray a cool blast. Our hair was tangled from salt water, shoulders beyond repair.

The evening faded into a chorus of cicadas. I don't know why, but it wasn't what I was expecting. I'd been out in the bush on safari but this place had the feeling of being more alive than anywhere I'd been; like the hills and groves held stories. That from among the crumbling stone walls you could imagine a shepherd leading his flock of sheep; that out of the olives could emerge a herdsman, that the deserted hillsides were not quite deserted. It was the kind of place where you could sit, at a plastic table and chair, listening to the grasses and branches hum with life, since there was not much else to listen to. By the time it was dark, the hills were enveloped in a silence more deafening than the cicadas themselves and the moon was a bulb, suspended over the still mirror of sea.

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Practical stuff

My sister and I spent about a week in Corfu in July and it really was the best week ever. We were choosing between a couple of Greek islands but we really couldn't have chosen better, it's a beautiful place and the photos don't do it justice. I've never seen bluer, clearer water or more epic coastline (and I've seen a few)

We decided to go self catering which was a great decision, I would totally recommend the place we stayed in Nissaki in the quiet north of the island. It's called the emerald coast and it's a good choice because there are pockets of all inclusive high rises etc but not here! The Amalia apartments were pretty simple but beautiful among the lemon trees, close to the town and beach but in general pretty quiet. The kitchens are well equipped but they're also close to the buzzy cafes and tavernas by the beach; there are 3 supermarkets in walkable distance. vegetables that are super fresh + actual sheeps feta cheese is dinner done. Greek yogurt + strawberries and oh my goodness the peaches and that's breakfast done. For lunch, take a picnic or find a little taverna. I could just sit on those balconies forever. There is AC too, which is great in the summer.

I will talk a bit more about things to do and transport etc in part 2, I think I've talked too much already. I hope that you enjoy these travel posts (but don't worry there is Apple pie and cookies coming this way shortly). If you've ever been to Corfu or are planning on going, please let me know! For more photos you can check out my instagram, and you can subscribe so you see part 2! Also shout out to the sister (Layla) for being such a nice looking person in my photos. Hugs xx

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