Picking up right where we left off, I had just wrapped up my stay in Patras. The long-awaited day had finally arrived. My ferry was scheduled for 1 PM, so I had time for a slow breakfast before heading down to the port. Boarding the ship to Ithaca, I soon found myself sailing the final leg of my Greek Odyssey.
From Patras to the Ionian
We left Patras behind. The journey was to take around four hours. Whenever I could — and for most of the crossing — I stayed out on the open deck to catch every sight as the sea journey unfolded.
By this point, I was pretty much listening to Symphony X’s “The Odyssey” on loop — my personal anthem for this trip. The cool wind whipped across the deck as the boat sliced through the Ionian Sea. Every time I spotted land on the horizon, I tried to guess which island it belonged to — more often than not, it was Kefalonia.
At one point, as I stood near the railing with my camera in hand, a sudden strong gust tore the lens cap right from my fingers. It vanished instantly — either flung straight into the sea or thrown far back across the ship where I couldn’t go. Damn it, Poseidon, I clenched my fist in abject annoyance. But if this was the price I had to pay to finally go home, then so be it.
Leaving mainland Greece behind
A few hours into the trip, the silhouette of a second, smaller island began to take shape on the horizon. Was it truly? Could it be? Ithaca, at last. In my mind, I imagined the kind of thrill one must feel after years — no, decades — adrift and far from home, finally glimpsing familiar shores again.
First, however, the ferry made its routine stop at the port of Sami on Kefalonia — a small tease before the epic conclusion.
Landfall on Ithaca — First Glimpse of Home
Not long after departing Sami, it was finally time to raise the proverbial sails and charge toward Ithaca. The crossing was straight as an arrow, the ferry ripping across the water with the wind howling in my ears. This was the final crescendo before landfall on the long-imagined homeland.
The final stretch of my journey to Ithaca
And then, just like that, the “song” began to settle as we arrived at Ithaki — Pisaetos. A small, unassuming ferry terminal greeted us: a few low buildings, a modest parking area, quiet and understated. It didn’t matter in the slightest. After the emotional build-up I had carried all this way, I could have landed anywhere and still felt exhilarated.
Arriving at Pisaetos ferry terminal in Ithaca
My hotel in Vathy offered car pickup from Pisaetos, so all I had to do was message them and wait. Within minutes, my driver arrived — a super chill, middle-aged Greek guy with long wavy hair and aviator sunglasses just like mine. If it weren’t for his impressive Super Mario mustache, I might have thought I was looking into a mirror.
We chatted easily about life in Ithaca as he drove us up the rugged southern cliffs. Then, at the very top, came one final bend in the road — and suddenly the island revealed itself in full. A breathtaking paradise: lush valleys unfolding in a sweeping semi-circle down gentle mountain slopes toward the shimmering bay of Vathy. That moment nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Arriving in Vathy
I arrived in Vathy, the main port-town of Ithaca, and from the moment I stepped into its calm harbor light, I felt the weight of homecoming. Vathy is a compact, picturesque town — whitewashed houses with colorful shutters, narrow alleys sloping down to the water, small fishing boats bobbing gently in turquoise coves, and lush hills circling the bay.
My first glimpse of Vathy, Ithaca
I was staying at the cozy Mentor Hotel, right in the town center. My room came with a small balcony that overlooked the bay — an ideal perch to watch the soft changes of light on water, and to breathe in that salty Ionian air as I settled into this new little slice of paradise.
Once I’d dropped my bag and taken a long glance out over the water, I couldn’t wait to stretch my legs and feel the island underfoot.
Sea, Sand & Solitude — Late-Afternoon at Loutsa
After a quick refresh, I set off for Loutsa Beach, about thirty minutes’ walk from my hotel. The path wound out of Vathy, climbing gently through forested coastal hills and offering shimmering glimpses of the Ionian Sea beyond. Near the top, I found an old Venetian cannon, still perched toward the bay — a silent sentry once guarding the narrow strait that leads into Vathy’s harbor, now watching over carefree hikers and daydreamers instead of warships.
Venetian canon — forever defending the entrance to Vathy
Reaching the beach felt like arriving at another world: fine, pale sand, sun umbrellas shading small clusters of sun-seekers, and eucalyptus trees swaying gently in the breeze. The water was warm and welcoming. For the first time in weeks, I had no immediate plans. No rucksack, no ruins, no hurry. I just relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil beach.
The tranquil beach and gentle sea at Loutsa Beach
The golden-light late afternoon, the gentle sea, the slow rhythm of waves… I don’t know if it was my overloaded imagination after all the myth and history, but I truly felt like I belonged. No objectives, no ticking off historic sites — just being. For some reason, it seemed like Ithaca was meant for such moments.
Sunset Stroll & Island Memories
Later, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, I wandered back into town along the bay of Vathy. I read somewhere that the Ionian Islands — including Ithaca — were among the few parts of Greece that never fell under full Ottoman control, instead spending centuries under Venetian or British influence. Perhaps because of that, the old ways, the local customs, and a certain quiet charm feel more preserved here than in many more touristic corners of Greece.
Strolling back to Vathy through the forest path
I found myself thinking back to the conversation with my driver earlier that day. I’d been bubbling with questions about Ithaca and what it must feel like to live on a legendary island like this. He spoke of the quiet, familial rhythm of life here — how locals and visitors alike drift to the same bars at the same hours, seeing the same faces night after night. Conversations start easily, not as strangers, but almost as neighbors.
I dreamt that the next time I returned to Ithaca, it would be by boat
Even for outsiders. Ithaca has a way of folding you into its slow, familiar heartbeat, and I was already feeling it — not even a day in.
The ancient King of Ithaca
As I continued walking, I had one final mission in mind: to find the statue of the legendary hero himself. And soon enough, there it was—the statue of Odysseus, King of Ithaca. Modest in size, yet to me still larger than life.
Nearby, a small group of English-speaking tourists were loudly confessing their ignorance about who the figure was meant to represent. I couldn’t resist politely intervening, offering them a quick rundown of Odysseus—king, wanderer, cunning hero—and a few words on why this little island matters so much. It felt good. It felt right.
Odyssian and Odysseus — Two travelers, one island
As my first day on Ithaca wound down, I felt like I was floating — carried by the sea breeze, the soft unhurried rhythm of the island, and a quiet sense that, for once, I had truly arrived.
Choosing a Direction on a Small, Wild Island
Come morning, map in hand, I realized something important about Ithaca: it may look small on a screen, but it does not unfold small under your feet. The island’s strange, broken shape hides steep hills, long distances, and very little in the way of convenient public transport. The western side, pinched off by a narrow strip of land, rises sharply into rugged, serious terrain—beautiful, but no casual stroll. A full crossing there and back would have been ambitious even for me.
The winding paths up the hills of Ithaca
So I chose to stay on my side of the island—the east—and roam southward at my own pace, letting the day decide the details. Somewhere along that stretch waited one of Ithaca’s eastern beaches. Whether it was Talaros, or Kaminia beach, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Above Vathy, Between Sky and Stone
Climbing the hills behind Vathy was quite rewarding. From above, the town hugged the curve of the small gulf, spreading only sparsely inland, cradled by tall, rolling, lush hills. The calm sea stretched outward in layered blues, and in the hazy distance, Ithaca was framed by faint islands resting on the horizon. One of those “stop walking, just stand there” views.
Panoramic view of Vathy and the bay from the top of the hill
Nearly every path climbs, dips, and climbs again. Somewhere along the way—either going up through Perachori or passing back through it later—I wandered through its steep streets: quiet, sun-washed, almost suspended in time. A few locals zipped past on scooters, which felt not just practical, but essential in a place shaped like this. Another sleepy village, another reminder that life here moves without spectacle.
Some of the scattered ruins I came across
Scattered along the route were traces of older lives: fragments of stone walls in the brush, half-swallowed by earth and shrubs. One cluster was clearly the remains of a small church. No signs, no plaques, no tidy explanations. Just stone, silence, and imagination filling in the centuries. Alongside them stood several newer chapels—whitewashed, modest, still breathing with quiet purpose. Old faith and living faith sharing the same paths.
Rock, Shade, and Turquoise Silence
By noon or early afternoon, I finally reached the beach. No sand this time—just pale rocks and worn stone sloping into impossibly clear turquoise water. By the time I arrived, the sun had slipped behind the tall cliffs at my back, leaving the entire cove in cool shade. The water still glowed.
Arriving at either Talaros, or Kaminia beach—I can’t recall which one this was
I didn’t swim. It felt too rugged, too sharp for that. Instead, I stayed with the theme that Ithaca had gently imposed on me: no objectives, no milestones—just sitting, looking, breathing. Letting the scenery do the work. It was enough.
The typical rocky beaches of Greece
Later in the afternoon, I turned back toward Vathy, retracing the hills for another hour or two—time loosens its grip out there. By evening, I was back where I had started, carrying that pleasant, full-body tiredness that only long walks earn you.
My final dinner on Ithaca deserved its own quiet ceremony: swordfish, perfectly cooked, a glass of crisp white wine, and the slow burn of sunset spilling across the bay. The water caught fire in golds and soft reds, boats drifting like commas in a sentence that didn’t want to end.
Final sunset dinner in Ithaca—waiting for the swordfish to jump into my plate
I already knew—I felt it in the way I lingered over every bite—that this was goodbye. My last night on the island. And even now, writing this, I feel that same gentle ache in my chest. Not sadness exactly. More like gratitude stretched just far enough to hurt.
From Ithaca to Kefalonia
Before leaving Ithaca, I treated myself to one final stroll around Vathy. The ferry to Kefalonia wasn’t until around noon, and the hotel driver would take me to the port, so there was no rush.
I wandered through the narrow streets, pausing at small shops and cafes, imagining what it might be like to retire here one day — to simply live in rhythm with the gentle pace of the island, with the bay and hills outside your window every morning. A new dream added to the file.
A miniature trireme riding painted waves on solid ground – some boats prefer pavement to the Ionian Sea
By noon, I boarded the ferry bound for Kefalonia, likely docking at Sami. From there, I caught a KTEL bus to Spartia — a journey of over four hours, giving me plenty of time to reflect on the fragmented patchwork of memories and photos that make up this trip. Arriving late afternoon, golden hour was already painting the village in soft warm light.
Arriving in the small village of Spartia in Kefalonia
In Spartia, I checked into an Airbnb apartment, my fourth style of accommodation in Greece — after hostels, camping, and hotels, now a small, cozy flat. I half-joked to myself that I was living like a professional travel reviewer: rating, reviewing, and documenting everything with meticulous care each night.
Dinner at Cavo Liakas
That evening, I found the village’s lone open restaurant, Cavo Liakas — a small, family-run patio place. The food here was a revelation. Generous portions, expertly prepared, affordable, and utterly delicious.
I discovered two new favorite dishes: feta me meli, a phyllo-wrapped baked feta with honey, and lamb kleftiko, slow-roasted lamb with vegetables, cooked in parchment paper. These meals legitimately made me pause, fork in hand, and sigh in sheer appreciation.
A Godly meal at Cavo Liakas: feta me meli and lamb kleftico
Greece continued to surprise me, even after Ithaca.
Spartia Beach
The following morning I picked out the nearest beach with a high rating on google and went for it. Thus far, I had visited a couple of beaches here and there, like the two on Ithaca and the one in Kira, but most of these were small, rocky, and I was just passing by. This time, I decided to dedicate a full day to a proper sandy beach.
Spartia Beach — the best sandy-beach I’ve seen in Greece
Spartia Beach didn’t disappoint: fine sand stretching out for hundreds of meters below the eroding cliffs, a real contrast to the rocky stretches I had endured before. Everywhere I looked, seashells were embedded in the limestone cliffs, a tangible reminder that this entire land had once rested beneath the sea before tectonic uplift transformed it into the islands I now explored.
Shells of all shapes and sizes in the eroding rocks of the old sea bed
Even with a few families and small groups dotting the sand, Spartia Beach never felt crowded. The people there moved with the same unhurried rhythm as the island itself: some reading under umbrellas, a few wading in the shallow turquoise water, others collecting shells along the shoreline.
A Day of Sea and Sun
I found a quiet spot and settled in, letting the warm sun and gentle sound of the waves sink in. Between the limestone cliffs, the glint of seashells, and the calm Ionian waters, the beach became a perfect blend of nature, history, and human rhythm — the ideal setting to just be, to do nothing but soak in the day.
Spartia beach from on top of the cliffs
The water itself was pure delight: warm, clean, and only occasionally tangled with a stray bit of algae. I alternated between long dips in the turquoise Ionian Sea and lying on the soft sand, slowly evening out the tan lines from days of hiking under the Greek sun. In the hotter hours, I’d retreat to the shade of the cliffs, only to return to the water as soon as the sun eased. For a few hours, I felt like a child again, fully immersed in the simple joys of sun, sea, and sand.
The Greek Orthodox Church in Spartia
Late afternoon, as the sun softened over the village, I returned for another memorable dinner at Cavo Liakas. The smiling host highlighted the day’s fresh catch — today it was bass — and I indulged, accompanied by crisp roasted zucchini as an appetizer. Simple, fresh, and gloriously Mediterranean, it was the perfect ending to a day devoted entirely to enjoyment and rest.
The Castle of Kefalonia
For my final in Spartia, I decided it was time for one last proper trek. My goal was the Castle of Agios Georgios, standing roughly an hour and a half away on foot.
The route led me along quiet countryside roads, the kind traced only by the occasional car and the slow passage of locals going about their day. For a long while, the scenery unfolded as wide open farmland with distant mountains sitting low on the horizon. Pleasant, but subdued. It wasn’t until I neared the village of Peratata that the views truly began to open up.
Castle of Agios Georgios view from the village of Peratata
Perched high above the lush Livathos valley, the Castle of St. George crowns a 320-meter hill in southern Kefalonia. From below it already looked imposing, but once inside the walls, the scale of the place really set in.
This was no lonely watchtower — it had once been a full-fledged fortified town. From the ramparts, the view stretched in every direction: over rolling olive groves, toward the endless blue of the Ionian Sea, and across to the distant bays of Lourdas and Trapezaki. A clean, sweeping 360° panorama that made the climb instantly worthwhile.
Old Stones and Epic Views
The heart of the fortress still bears the elegant stamp of its Venetian rulers. Above the main entrance, the ornate Venetian pediment remains proudly intact, even if the heavy wooden doors beneath it are now held together with modern supports.
The grand (and slightly patched-up) Venetian gateway into Kefalonia’s medieval past
The site itself traces back to the 12th century under the Byzantines, but it was the Venetians who transformed it after 1500 into the island’s capital — a self-contained city with mansions, cisterns, prisons, and even legend of a secret tunnel leading down to the sea. At its height, some 15,000 people once lived within these walls.
Looking out over the castle’s weathered walls: a sea of green rolling hills and the distant peaks of Kefalonia under an endless blue sky
The castle remained the island’s administrative and political center until 1757, when the Venetians relocated the capital to Argostoli to boost trade, leading to its gradual abandonment. Wandering along the uneven cobblestone paths between crumbling bastions, I once again found those familiar silhouettes of Venetian cannons — rusted, silent, but still defiantly aimed over the valley as if guarding a long-forgotten frontier.
A lone Venetian cannon still guarding the endless Ionian views
The site suffered further damage from wars, occupations (including French), and the devastating 1953 earthquake, which destroyed much of the island.
Quiet, Untouristy, Perfect
High on the fortress walls, a tattered Greek flag snapped in the wind against the rugged outline of Mount Ainos, Kefalonia’s highest peak. Below it, the simple stone façade of the old Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos stood in quiet contrast, its weathered sundial and arched doorway catching the light.
The weathered Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos inside the castle walls – sundial, stonework and all
What struck me most, though, was how wonderfully untouristy the place felt. The entrance fee was modest — under five euros if memory serves — and for views like these, it felt almost symbolic.
A truly unforgettable journey was coming to a close
Leaning over the fortress walls, the warm wind rising from the valley below, I couldn’t help but think how fitting this moment was. Standing atop ancient stone, overlooking sea and mountains alike, it felt like a proper, epic punctuation mark at the end of a journey rooted in legends.
Echoes of the Bronze Age
As I left the castle behind, I took a small detour on my way back to Spartia to visit another historical landmark I had spotted on Google Maps: the Mycenaean Necropolis of Mazarakata, the largest and most important Mycenaean cemetery in the Ionian Islands.
Stepping back 3,400 years through the doorways of Mycenaean chamber tombs at Mazarakata
Dating to the Late Bronze Age, roughly 1400–1100 BC, this site belongs to the same dramatic era as the palaces of Mycenae and even the legendary Trojan War. This was the time of the Odyssey — my ancient times. The site was free to enter and wrapped in a deep, unbroken calm. If the castle had been untouristy, this place felt almost completely off the radar, which only made it more special.
An entire Mycenaean city of the dead
The necropolis consists of seventeen rock-cut chamber tombs carved into a gentle hillside and arranged in three separate clusters. These were family vaults, used over generations, with some tombs containing up to thirty burials. Standing there among those silent stone chambers was yet another reminder of just how densely layered Greece truly is. Even in what feels like a quiet, rural corner of Kefalonia, you can still stumble upon traces of lives lived over three thousand years ago.
The ancient dromos (passageway) into a silent Mycenaean family vault
As a small side note, my review of this site ended up becoming my most viewed one on Google — probably helped by the low number of reviews at the time, which pushed mine right to the top. Every now and then I still get an email saying how many people saw it, and it always makes me smile, knowing that this tiny, peaceful place continues to ripple quietly through other travelers’ journeys.
Argostoli — Wandering Between Departures
On my day of departure, I had a late-night flight from Kefalonia to Athens, followed by an early-morning connection out. There was no rush to the airport just yet, so I took a morning bus from Spartia to Argostoli to spend my final hours roaming the island’s capital one last time.
Walking along the promenade in Argostoli
Even though Argostoli is the beating heart of Kefalonia, it never felt overwhelming. Within minutes I had walked along the northern promenade by the shore, watching boats idle in the harbor and the town ease into its daily rhythm. As the day warmed up, I drifted toward the park and spent a few slow, quiet hours migrating from bench to bench, updating my mom on everything I had seen and felt over the past days. It was one of those soft pauses in travel where nothing spectacular happens. An epilogue to the story I guess.
Victorian-era bandstand in Napier Park, Argostoli
When hunger finally set in, I picked a small, family-run taverna near the port and ordered a spread that felt like a farewell feast to Greek home cooking. There was gemista — stuffed tomatoes heavy with rice, herbs, and a hint of sweetness — imam baildi with its glossy, olive-oil-soaked aubergines, and a generous plate of horta, simple wild greens dressed with lemon and olive oil. Nothing fancy. Just honest, comforting food. Exactly what I wanted on my last afternoon.
Walking the Long Goodbye
By mid-afternoon, I had completely run out of plans. Even though I had loved my days in Kefalonia, I’d already been saying my internal goodbyes to Greece ever since Ithaca. I still had hours to fill, but no more destinations to chase.
So I did what I had done best for two weeks straight — I walked. This time slowly. Toward the airport. Letting memory after memory drift by with every step: Athens, Delphi, Patras, Ithaca, Spartia. The excitement had softened into something heavier now — not sadness exactly, but that gentle ache that comes when an adventure is truly ending.
Makris Gialos Beach with daily flight’s overhead
At some point along the way, it hit me that if I still had time, I might as well spend it properly. The road toward the airport followed the southern coast of Kefalonia, and just like that, Makris Gialos Beach presented itself as my final refuge. Big rucksack and all, I settled into the sand and watched the waves roll in under the golden evening light, planes carving quiet arcs overhead as they came in to land. It felt like the island itself was escorting me to the end.
Full Circle
A few hours and one short flight later, I was back in Athens, spending the night once again on an airport floor — just as I had before this entire journey began. Only this time, the conditions were far kinder. Athens Airport, with its dark corners and surprising pockets of quiet, earned a quiet victory over Geneva in my internal ranking of places one can actually sleep.
A pleasant overnight snooze awaited in a dim-lit corner of the Museum Section in Athens Airport
And just like that, the circle closed.
Greece had delivered everything I had hoped for — and more. This truly was my personal Odyssey. One I know I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. Somewhere between myth and memory, sun and stone, sea and ruin, Greece had become more than a destination. It had become a distant, familiar home in my heart.
After the memorable spring of 2019, with a new future awaiting me in Canada that fall, I was determined to make the most of my summer holiday cravings. Following a short stop in Romania, my first destination was once again Switzerland. But not Zurich this time. Instead, I was heading to the western French-speaking part of the country — Lausanne. And as I would soon discover, it felt like stepping into unexpected tropics in the heart of Switzerland.
I went there to visit Eddy, my close friend from university back in Denmark. He had recently moved to Lausanne to begin a PhD at the local university.
Tropical Switzerland
The weather was blisteringly hot. Not just hot, but humid-hot. Tropical hot. This was June 25th, and summer was already in full swing. I had just landed in Geneva, and the heat hit me like I’d stepped into a steam room. I’m guessing the 30 degrees and the massive lake had something to do with that. Still… it was Switzerland. I hadn’t expected such heat in Switzerland of all places. Back in the summer of 2008, when I went camping in the mountains, I didn’t recall it being anywhere near this intense.
Arriving in Lausanne on a hot summer day
In any case, I arrived in Lausanne and quickly met up with Eddy at the university. He gave me a tour of the campus and introduced me to some of his new friends before wrapping up his work for the day. Soon after, we made our way to the Lausanne Aquarium.
Diving Into AQUATIS: A Freshwater Odyssey
After our walk and settling in, Eddy suggested we visit AQUATIS Aquarium-Vivarium in Lausanne, where I hoped we’d get to cool off a bit. The aquarium was split into different sections reflecting different biomes, and we started out in the tropical one which felt just wonderful: more heat, more humidity, waves of warmth and mist pressing in…
Eddy was in his element and I looked like the crazed uncle—the humid heat was getting to me.
Just what I dreamed of after escaping the scorching sun outside. Stepping through that door was like entering a steam room of nature. On the bright side, when we emerged from it, the Swiss heat suddenly felt much more tolerable.
Free me, human, and I will grant you your heart’s desire!
AQUATIS is Switzerland’s large freshwater aquarium-vivarium, a place that doesn’t just show fish, but builds entire environments. The building spans some 3,500 square meters over two levels, with dozens of aquariums, terrariums, and vivariums.
A prehistoric grin under the waves
The biomes take you from the Rhône’s glacial sources, through Alpine rivers, along Lake Geneva, and all the way to tropical wetlands, mangroves, Asian rivers, African Great Lakes, Amazonian rainforest—and even Oceania’s ecosystems.
Mongoose/Meerkat pups
Among the many species on display they even had one of my personal favorite reptiles. The King of all living lizards today—Big daddy Godzilla himself… or herself… I guess she might have been a female. Regardless, none other then the famous Komodo Dragon!
Look at that cute little dino-face giving me the sass!
It had been forever since I’d gone to any aquarium, and seeing all those colorful aquatic species—fish flashing, tropical plants dripping moisture, amphibians perched or creeping, reptiles sliding through their tanks—was a real treat to behold.
A colorful display of shallow sea life
After sweating through the tropical greenhouse, the cooler Alpine and freshwater biomes felt wonderfully refreshing. The shift in temperature and atmosphere was immediate—soft blue lighting, rippling reflections, a calmer rhythm in the air. It was a relief after spending so much time in the heat outside, and it made the experience even more immersive.
A shy axolotl peaking from around the corner
We lingered over the axolotl display for a while trying to find the critter. After a while the fella peaked around the rocks with a goofy grin and frilly gills sticking out like antennas. It looked part dragon, part cartoon character. Just another Pokémon.
Preparing for the Next Day
After the aquarium, we headed to the train station to catch a ride to where Eddy was living — a quiet spot just outside Lausanne in the countryside. I also had to figure out what to do the following day since Eddy would be working. There was no shortage of things to see in the area, but to get around I’d need a travel pass.
Walking through Lausanne
Like everything else in Switzerland, the cost of the pass was steep. Still, it offered unlimited access to all sorts of transportation: trains, buses, and even ferries. As stingy as I could be, my trip there was a once in a lifetime experience, so I could convince myself to forget about the cost that time.
Beautiful old castle remnants all over the city
With the pass in hand, I pulled up Google Maps to get a sense of the landscape and attractions nearby. And there were plenty! The railway line along the shores of Lake Geneva promised a scenic ride through several picturesque towns, stretching from Lausanne all the way to Veytaux. Castles, museums, famous casinos and more awaited.
Sunshine & Exploration: Arriving in Montreux
The next day was just as hot. On the flip side, you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful, sunny day to spend wandering the Swiss coast of Lake Geneva. Early morning, I hopped on the train in Lausanne, heading to Montreux.
Lake Geneva with the Alps in the background—what a sight!
I had no real idea what the place was all about. On the map it just looked like a resort-y town you get off the train in, soak up sun, maybe eat ice cream. As it turned out, Montreux had a seriously rich history. It’s made up of three formerly separate communities (Le Châtelard, Les Planches, and Veytaux) that merged in 1962, and lies along several kilometres of lake shore, protected by mountains that shelter it from strong winds. Because of its setting, natural beauty, and mild climate, Montreux long ago became one of Switzerland’s most fashionable health resorts.
Montreux—must be an amazing place to live in
To top it off, Montreux is famous in my book because it was a favourite haunt of (among others) Freddie Mercury. Yes, that Freddie. He frequented Montreux and was deeply connected to the Casino Barrière and the old recording studio there.
Casino Barrière Montreux & The Queen Studio Experience
Naturally, I felt compelled to visit the casino—to walk in Freddie’s footsteps. The Casino Barrière Montreux isn’t just a pretty building by the lake; it played a part in rock history. I wasn’t there to gamble, simply to soak in the vibe. Fun fact: this was the first casino I’d ever stepped foot into… and of course it had to be a place that’s been graced by rock royalty.
Statue of Freddy Mercury in Montreux
Inside the Casino is Queen: The Studio Experience, which used to be Mountain Studios, the real deal where Queen recorded many of their albums from around 1978 through the 1990s. The studio was theirs between 1979 and 1993.
‘A Kind of Magic’ vinyl and iconic stage costumes
The museum is a gem. Memorabilia everywhere—handwritten lyrics, costumes worn on stage, instruments, promos, photos, tape boxes (some marked with early, even abandoned titles). The control room is preserved more or less as it was (there’s even a reproduced Neve mixing desk so visitors can try remixes of Queen classics).
‘Made in Heaven’ memorabilia at the Queen Studio Experience
One cool highlight: in the “Made in Heaven” room, you stand in the very spot where Freddie laid down his final songs. It’s emotional but in a grounded way—less shrine, more quietly powerful.
Freddie Mercury’s handwritten lyrics and heartfelt reflections on Montreux
One surprise after another, Montreux was impressing me more and more by the minute. My next stop would be a lakeside castle on the far-eastern end of town, Château de Chillon.—but more on that in a bit.
A Medieval Break: Château de Chillon
One thing I absolutely love about travel passes is that you can constantly hop on and off rides. This definitely made my day a lot easier rather than having to walk long distances in that merciless sun. Still, by the time I reached Veytaux at the far eastern tip of Montreux, I was sweating buckets. What better way to cool off and escape the glare, than by stepping inside a medieval lakeside castle?
The bridge entrance to Château de Chillon, Montreux
Château de Chillon sits on a rocky islet just off the shore of Lake Geneva, connected to the mainland by a wooden bridge that creaks slightly underfoot — charming, a little rustic, and perfect photo material. The castle has been there for a very long time: the first written records go back to around 1150, though archaeological digs show that its rocky base was used even in the Bronze Age.
The little moat-like part of the lake surrounding the castle
Walking over the wooden bridge you pass by the surrounding moat-like defenses (though it’s more of a lake boundary than a full moat in the stereotypical sense). You enter into the inner courtyard — stone walls, towers rising overhead, a hushed kind of grandeur. Inside, there are underground rooms with Gothic vaults built into the rock itself; these were used as armories, stores, and then later dungeons.
A historic cannon stands guard in the ancient stone halls of Chillon Castle
Beneath the elegant towers and stone courtyards lies a dungeon where countless prisoners once languished in the damp shadows. The walls are etched with names, prayers, and perhaps curses—ghostly echoes of people who never made it out. Iron grates, thick chains, and a single wooden pillar with a shackle still stand as chilling reminders of what went on below.
The Castle of the Counts of Savoy
One room that stuck with me was the prison of François Bonivard, a Genevan monk and political prisoner who was chained to a pillar for years by the Duke of Savoy. The pillar is still there—simple wood, scarred and old—with a single iron chain dangling from it.
Wooden pillar in the castle dungeon that shackled François Bonivard
Lord Byron later immortalized Bonivard’s story in his poem The Prisoner of Chillon, even carving his name into the wall himself when he visited in 1816. Standing there, I couldn’t help but picture the flicker of torchlight, the echo of chains, and a poet scribbling notes in the dark.
The view from the uppermost tower was quite something
Chillon wasn’t always a prison, though. For centuries, it served as a luxurious lakeside residence and strategic fortress for the powerful Counts of Savoy. Its position—guarding the narrow road between Lake Geneva and the Alps—made it a key checkpoint for trade and defense.
Centuries old wall murals highlighting the French heritage of the castle
These days you’ll find a surprising blend of military architecture and aristocratic elegance in the castle museum—inner courtyards lined with Gothic arches, murals still faintly visible on faded walls, and massive oak barrels once filled with Savoy wine.
I assume these barrels were decorative, but they sure looked yummy!
Somewhere in a corner room, I stumbled upon a guestbook and couldn’t resist signing it—adding my name to the long list of travelers, dreamers, and history nerds who’d been captivated by the same walls.
I wonder if they still have this old guestbook laying around there
Before leaving, I caught a view through the barred prison window: the lake shimmering outside, and a little French ferry sailing past. For a moment, the castle’s past and present felt intertwined—centuries apart, yet somehow connected by that same stretch of water.
French ferry of freedom seen trough the oppressive grate of the dungeon
With half the day behind me, I had learned so much about Montreux and its history, both old and more recent. However, my tummy was rumbling, and I had to find a place to eat soon. Not an easy task when you’re on a budget in one of the most expensive places in the world! Those exact thoughts running through my head, with travel pass in hand, I suddenly had a crazy idea: since ferries were included, why not hop across the lake to France and eat cheaper? The ship was right there, showing me the way from between the dungeon grates!
Bonjour France!
As soon as I made my way back to Lausanne, I headed straight for the port to catch a ferry. Ferries across Lake Geneva between Switzerland and France ran quite frequently, so I didn’t have to wait long at all. The crazy twist came when I realized where in France I’d end up—it wasn’t just any border town, but one of the most famously pricey spa resorts in the country: Évian-les-Bains.
Even the ferries there had this retro-luxurious look to them. What a place…
Yes, that Évian—the birthplace of the world’s most overachieving bottled water. Nestled at the foot of the French Alps, Évian is a charming lakeside town known for its Belle Époque architecture, therapeutic springs, and air of old-world elegance. A place where people once came “to take the waters,” and where today, the waters come to you—in a plastic bottle with a designer price tag.
I did not see this coming when I started planning my summer travels
Still, no matter how expensive, France was cheaper than Switzerland! And here I was—a soon-to-be humble PhD student, still unemployed at the time, somewhat thriving on savings from my old student cleaner job and Danish unemployment benefits (thank you again, Denmark)—casually ferrying across Lake Geneva to have lunch and explore Évian. I couldn’t believe it. It all felt so surreal!
Another ornate casino on the opposite side of Montreux, across the lake
Yet there I was, strolling along the sunlit resort streets, then sitting down at a lovely patio on a cobblestone lane, ordering my meal. Man… life was good. Such a powerful feel-good memory—one that still makes me smile from ear to ear as I write this years later.
My cheap late lunch in France after a day of exploring Switzerland
After a leisurely late lunch, I started feeling thirsty. And being in Évian, what else could I do but find the public spring of the famous water itself and fill up my bottle straight from the source? The taste was incredible—fresh, crisp, and delightfully pure. Hydration never felt so poetic.
The holy fountain of fresh liquid wealth. Even the statue can’t handle it
Now that I knew what liquid luxury tastes like. I was ready to become a millionaire!
Late in the Day
I spent a bit more time exploring Évian before heading back to Lausanne. Soon enough, I met up with Eddy to relay my wild adventures of the day. He absolutely loved it—especially the part about taking a boat all the way to France just to find a slightly cheaper meal. The stingy student spirit never dies.
Walking back to the ferry dock on the French side, Alps in the background
We spent the rest of the evening hanging out at his place. If I’m not mistaken, I had a plane to catch super early the next morning from Geneva—and since trains didn’t run all night, my options were limited. I’d have to catch the last train around midnight and spend the night at the airport.
One last look across Lake Geneva—wondering if I’ll ever go back there again
That night marked the beginning of many airport sleepovers to come. I even started ranking airports by “overnight comfort level” later on. Midnight came sooner than I expected, and by the skin of my teeth I managed to catch the last train. Would’ve been pretty stupid to miss that one!
Although my time in French-speaking Switzerland was short, it was wonderfully sweet. If it weren’t so bloody expensive, I’d go back in a heartbeat.
My main objective in 2017 was finishing my Masters thesis. It was going to be a highly work-intensive year with no plans to travel abroad. Cycling had always helped me relax and clear my mind in the past. So in my attempts to cope with the stress and mental fatigue of a demanding year, 2017 would turn out to be a year of cycling and exploring Eastern Denmark.
Cycling: The solution to everything
After moving to Farum at the end of 2016, I was heavily reliant on the Danish S-trains to get into Copenhagen for work. Luckily the trains were fitted with plenty of bicycle areas so passengers could bring their bikes aboard. However, things would get very chaotic during rush hours when the train would be absolutely packed with bike-wielding people. If you were unfortunate enough to be stuck in the middle, you’d have no chance of getting out in time for your stop.
Late winter in the Danish forests
To avoid the nuisance of train chaos, I began cycling back home, instead of taking the S-train. Cycling the 20 km distance would take me just around 30 minutes extra, but it would be much more rewarding. Especially on a beautiful sunset evening with good weather!
Cycling also became my solution to keeping up my gym routine. Farum didn’t have a FitnessDK gym, which I was a member of, and I wouldn’t always want to go all the way to Copenhagen just to work out. Instead, I would cycle to the nearby village of Birkerød. Thus Farum-Birkerød became another regular cycling route.
An old friend
A few months into the year, a close friend of mine from my undergrad years decided to move to Denmark for a fresh start. At around the same time, my old flat-mate was moving out, so my friend Cipri moved in in his place. I had really talked up the Danish cycling culture to him and he was keen on getting into it.
Throughout the year we did several long day rides across the island of Zealand. From Helsingør and Hillerød, to as far as Steven’s Klint in the south and Gilleleje at the top north of eastern Denmark.
Cipri and I on our Helsingør cycling trip
Our first big cycling trip of the year was Copenhagen to Helsingør and then back to Farum. A respectable 85 to 90 km ride that would take us the better part of the day.
A gorgeous day trip to Helsingør
We set out on our big cycling trip on the 20th of May. It was a gorgeous sunny day. Nice and warm with a constant gentle breeze. We took the S-train to Østerport and started cycling from there. The reason I didn’t want to start from Farum was to show Cipri the beautiful coastal road heading up north from Copenhagen.
A great day for water activities and biking along the coast
Starting off with the beautiful neighborhoods at the outskirts of the Copenhagen, the road passed by my old “sanctuary” at Charlottenlund beach park. After passing the last vestige of outer-Copenhagen at Klampenborg, the road followed along the eastern edge of the beautiful, forested Deer Park.
Danish peer in the foreground, Swedish coast in the background
Occasionally losing sight of the coast, the road to Helsingør, continued north with intermittent beaches and marinas on the Øresund straight. Given the beautiful weather that day, a rarity in Denmark, the seawaters were filled sailboats and various other pleasure-crafts.
Sailboat on the Øresund
For the next stretch, the road would cross several wealthy coastal small towns and neighborhoods, offering endless appealing sights to admire. This was by far my favorite cycling route in Denmark.
Helsingør
After a few hours of cycling we had arrived at Helsingør. The coastal road now continued along the Helsingør harbor and waterfront. There, daily ferries connect Helsingør to Helsingborg (Sweden) across the narrowest part of the Øresund straight. Once a key maritime trade hub, the harbor now blends history with modern attractions, featuring lively promenades, seafood restaurants, and cultural landmarks like the Culture Yard (Kulturværftet).
Helsingør harbor and the ferry to Helsingborg
Continuing along the coast, we stumbled upon a curious sculpture. Known as the “Garbage Fish” it was created in 2014 by Japanese artist Hideaki Shibata from plastic waste collected from the sea. The sculpture serves as a powerful reminder of the environmental impact of marine debris and emphasizes the importance of recycling and waste management.
The colorful Garbage Fish. A landmark in Helsingør
Further along the waterworks, we reached Helsingør top attraction and my destination point for the day: Kronborg Castle.
The history of Kronborg Castle
Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Kronborg Castle is one of the most famous Renaissance castles in Europe. Tthe castle is renowned for its role in Shakespeare’s Hamlet and its strategic location controlling the Øresund Strait. With a rich history spanning over 600 years, Kronborg has been a royal residence, military fortress, and cultural landmark.
Kronborg Castle courtyard from the top floor
The site of Kronborg Castle was originally home to Krogen, a medieval fortress built in the early 15th century by King Eric of Pomerania. Its purpose was to enforce the Sound Toll, a tax on ships passing through the Øresund Strait, making it a crucial part of Denmark’s economy. The revenue from this toll contributed significantly to the Danish crown’s wealth for centuries.
The row of cannons along the battlements pointed towards the Øresund Strait
A grand Renaissance castle
In the late 16th century, King Frederick II ordered the transformation of Krogen into a grand Renaissance castle, renaming it Kronborg. Influenced by Dutch and Flemish architectural styles, the new structure featured ornate towers, decorative facades, and elegant interiors. Under Frederick II, Kronborg became one of the most splendid castles in Northern Europe and a symbol of Denmark’s power.
Dining table in one of the many rooms at Kronborg
In 1629, a massive fire broke out, destroying much of the castle’s interior. However, the outer walls remained intact, allowing King Christian IV to rebuild it in a similar style. The new interiors were less extravagant but retained the fortress’s grandeur.
Holger Danske, the eternal protector of Denmark in Danish folklore
In 1658, Kronborg was captured by Swedish forces during the Dano-Swedish War. Though they plundered the castle’s valuables, it was later returned to Danish control. Over time, Kronborg evolved into a military barracks, housing soldiers for nearly 200 years until 1857, when it ceased military operations and was restored as a cultural landmark.
Sights and thoughts
The fortress boasts around 40 rooms that are open for visitors, as well as the dungeon. The rooms range from royal dining rooms and bedrooms to game rooms and study rooms. The Chapel remains as one of the best preserved parts of Kronborg and the only section that survived the devastating 1629 fire untouched.
Kronborg inner courtyard and clock tower
The dungeon bellow offered its own interesting story, from casemates to beer cellars. our tour guide told us about how Danish soldiers of old would drink several beer a day instead of water because the water was so polluted. A hardy bunch!
View of Helsingør harbor from the castle tower
On top of all this, the outside views like the inner and outer courtyard, as well as the rooftop terrace offer fantastic views of the fortress and it’s surroundings. One could easily spend hours in and around Kronborg and I would highly recommend a visit to this historic Castle to anyone planning a trip to Denmark.
On top of the fortress
I highly enjoyed my tour, but I tried not to dawdle too much. After all, we still had two and a half hours of cycling left to get back home. With sun in our face, we bolted off towards Farum. In total, cycling around five hours that day.
About a year after our exceptional journey to Norway, I ended up visiting my good friend Daniel in his hometown of Mediaș. Located in the central Transylvania, Mediaș is quite far away from my hometown of Baia Mare in the north-west. Since I wasn’t keen on driving the chaotic Romanian roads, I had to go by train. A very slow train without air conditioning that heats up like a tin can left in the scorching summer sun. Good old Eastern Europe…
The prehistoric trains still in use today in Romania
It was my first time visiting that part of the country. On day one, after the gruelingly long train ride, we set out to explore the rolling green hills and medieval remnants surrounding Mediaș. The weather was excellent. Sunny and warm, just perfect for sightseeing and outdoor buffoonery. It was a day of reconnaissance, forest exploration and medieval sword flinging. It was also a day of complete clumsiness, on my end, due to the long, tiresome, trip to Mediaș.
Treasure hunting
We visited the town of Moșna and its fortified medieval church. In the courtyard, we took our time, looking around for artifacts and treasure. This place is so full of history that apparently one can still find small overlooked artifacts in the soil.
In our endeavor, we found a rusty old nail in the dirt. The nail told the story of past battles where great armies crashed into the fortified walls like the raging waves of the seven seas colliding with unrelenting rocky shores. The forces unleashed were so great that they knocked the nails straight out of the opposite sides of the walls! On the other hand, it could have just been someone misplacing a nail in more modern times.
Moșna fortified church, 2014
In our search for the truth, we found another piece of the puzzle: a shattered piece of pottery. Using our professional deductive abilities, we concluded that this fragment obviously implied that even the pots flew off of the shelves when the battle raged on the other side of the walls. Before heading back to Mediaș, we stopped by the local woods to test out Daniels new acquisition: a glorious Viking sword. Being my first time flinging around a sword, I had a fun time with it. The surrounding bushes and ghosts never stood a chance!
No caption is sufficient to explain this photo, so just sit back and take in the visual spectacle
Where to next?
Arriving back in Mediaș, just before sundown, we hiked up a nearby hill and enjoyed a few beers in the wilds. It wasn’t long before we became the wilds… We had to find a purpose for our empty beer cans, so Daniel’s airsoft handgun gave them new purpose. I was quick to show my prowess in both ranged and close quarter shooting, missing every conceivable and inconceivable shot. In my defense, I was tired… The alcohol didn’t seem to help either.
As the evening set in, we packed up and went back to Daniel’s house for a well deserved meal and rest. The next day we planned to take a road trip to the Făgăraș Mountains, Romanian’s tallest mountains.
