Autumn has arrived in Amsterdam, just this week. The leaves are turning and starting to fall, and there is a chill in the mornings that wasn’t there last week. There is a new series on the BBC I’m watching, called The Frankincense Trail, following Kate Humble along the ancient trading route of the sweet incense from Oman through the Middle East to the Holy Lands. The sights and sounds of her journey reminded me so much of my own first introduction to the Arabic world.

I arrived in Amsterdam in the middle of a wintry January. While I was semi-prepared, it was still a shock to substitute the sticky, tropical heat of high Summer in Queensland with the dark, damp cold of an Amsterdam Winter. It’s a different prospect transplanting yourself into winter – you don’t have a gradual autumn to get used to it! And as a Queenslander I had little experience of the European winter. Before I left, I had made contingency plans to alleviate the winter-itis I was sure would set in after the novelty wore off – I booked a 2 week holiday in Morocco.

This was greeted with immense surprise by my friends and family in Australia. For Europeans, Morocco is a recognised holiday destination, but for Australians it is virtually unheard of. I was seeking warmth, and was drawn to the exotic image and saturated colour of Morocco. When I was a child I lived with my family for 2 years in India, and while I love the serene, cool whites and pastels of the European aesthetic, every now and then I crave the intense blues, mustard yellows and vivid purples of warmer climates. I found them in spades in Morocco.

In 2 weeks we managed to cover quite a cross-section of this beautiful, wild and untouched country. While I am not usually a tour-group traveller, this time I was immensely grateful for the knowledge and access granted by the presence of our local guide and small group. Nevertheless, after 10 days of the dusty, rocky, endless interior deserts, the first glimpse of the bay of Essaouira appearing on the horizon caused a frisson of excitement in the group.

This beautiful, ancient, World Heritage listed port, with it’s Portuguese ramparts and whitewashed mud-brick Medina is a charming, blissfully relaxed town which feels like it’s permanently on holidays. I’m told that in summer its quiet riads and blue-doored villas overflow with an influx of tourists from Europe, and it is a particular favourite with the French. If you’re a Shakespeare fan, you might recognise the alleyways – they starred in Orson Welles’ 1952 film Othello.

Sitting in the sunny central square in the middle of February, with the balmy sea breeze wafting by, and enjoying fantastic Italian gelati at the price of 20 euro cents per scoop, it was hard to imagine it teeming with French tourists. Most of the older, beautiful town houses in the Medina are also owned by foreigners, pushing the prices well beyond the average local. I can see why they are drawn to own a piece of this haven – how could you resist retreating from the heat of the beach to the cool behind those beautiful doors and shutters?!

After fresh fish and seafood grilled straight from the ocean, and more of that gelati (I think I made it through nearly every flavour – believe me, we ate there several times a day!), we took evening strolls through the colourful market streets, open late and twinkling in the twilight. Despite its reputation as a hippie destination, there is more to the trading centre than the touristy tee-shirts and flip-flops. The port still functions as a small, but bustling fish market, and the town is renowned as a cultural centre for painters, wood carvers and musicians. The souks are as relaxed and easy-going as the rest of the town – the hard-sell of the busier cities is easily avoided here.

Mogodor Island and the Iles Purpuraires, just beyond the ramparts, sealed the port’s ancient prosperity through the availability of the murex shell: the tiny, rare mollusc responsible for the royal purple dye that coloured the robes of the Roman Emperors. The port was an important trading post along the ancient caravan routes from sub-Saharan Africa for thousands of years.

You might have noticed another recurring feature of my photographs: Morocco, like many Islamic countries, is a region where the street dogs of other poorer nations are nowhere to be seen. Our guide told me that Muhammad apparently decreed that only shepherds should keep dogs; and where there are no dogs there will always be cats. In a fishing port, of course, they have found their niche (and plenty of cosy places to curl up!).

all text and photographs by zoë yule

“Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

“In or out of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it.”

“Whether you get away, or whether you don’t;”

“whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular;”

“and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.” —The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame.

Oh, Ratty really did know what he was talking about. On a warm, summer weekend this beautiful city truly comes alive, and Amsterdammers take to the water in almost anything that floats.

To join a group of friends, both old and new, in an elegant, spotless bateau “painted blue outside, and white within”; to share in Prosecco, and tiny tomatoes, mozzarella and basil, and crisp, cheesy Italian pizza; to meander along the canals and river, the strains of Billy Holiday drifting across the water: to do all these things amongst the glints and gleams and gurgles of the water, is to spend a day cut straight from the pages of that wonderful childhood story.

And then, to escape the narrow canals of the city and take to the broad sweep of the river, where the steep brick walls of the canal houses give way to fields, and cows, and larger, old-fashioned farm houses – yes, I quite understand Mole’s enchantment.

For this entrancing experience we  had Pia and French Boy’s friends to thank. They invited us all on their recently renovated beautiful ex-lifeboat for the day. We were, in all, a cosmopolitan lot – Romanian, Danish, French, Australian, and Indonesian – and by the end of a long, warm day full of fun and sunshine, I think we all agreed that there really was “absolutely nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

all words and photographs by Zoë Yule

I couldn’t have put it better than Hemmingway.

It’s certainly difficult to see much of Switzerland without travelling as much vertically as you do horizontally! Growing up in Queensland, I’m not particularly well acquainted with mountainous terrain, and my last visit to the Alps was many, many years ago. So I was completely enchanted with the excursion planned by some seriously alpine-minded friends of mine. Luckily, they didn’t expect me to climb anything more than a few stairs!

As our journey progressed from train, to rack-and-pinion rail, to cable car, the scenery changed too. From rolling green hills and jewel-like aquamarine lakes to narrow valleys and jagged, vertical cliff-faces, eventually the snow-capped peaks rose in front of us, and behind, row after row, disappearing as far as the eye could see.

Words deserted me at the top. The true impact of the magnificent views from the top of the Schilthorn (the quieter, less touristy cousin to the famous Jungfraujoch), nestled in the centre of the Alps, with the majesty of the Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger spread before you in all their glory, must be experienced to be believed.

With mind reeling from the dizzying heights and thin air, my delightful tour guide had yet another hidden jem to share, nestled in the valley below the mountains. On the hillside above the Brienzer See (another of those eye-wateringly blue lakes) is an open air museum, the Ballenberg, which showcases the history of rural living and traditional customs, including more than 100 authentic buildings from all the different regions of Switzerland.

The architectural styles differ quite dramatically from canton to canton, and most of the buildings are furnished or in working condition. While the buildings have been brought in from other regions of the country, they are all old (some date back many hundreds of years), and are carefully dismantled and reassembled in much their original state. Nestled into the hillside they create an idyllic village atmosphere.

Rare indigenous breeds of goat, sheep, cattle and horses are also kept, and small plantations of traditional crops, vegetables, herbs and nut trees, including medicinal plants, are grown. Many of the buildings host demonstrations of traditional crafts, including wood carving, lace-making, pottery and weaving, agricultural techniques and cheese-making.

And in such a small country, who would have thought that the architectural styles could differ so widely?! From Germanic half-timbered dairies to the large Tuscan-style farmsteads based around a central courtyard, each canton is identified by its unique architectural style, perfectly designed for both function and environment. The tiny, basic alpine huts sheltered the cowherds and functioned as cheeseries while the cows spent the summer high in the alpine pastures, while wood-shingled grain stores were raised on posts and stone disks to keep out the mice.

This fabulous, beautifully executed museum is a wonderful day out – a true slice of Switzerland in a manageable space. There are spaces for picnics, activities for the children, great cafes and several giftshops selling the craft items and produce from the museum. While we did a lot of walking, and the park stretches to over 66 hectares, it is not strenuous (though there are horse-driven carriage rides for the weary) and there were plenty of rest stops (a.k.a. photo opportunities for me!). The entire day was a magical glimpse into the life and history of a country that has seduced me in no uncertain terms. Yes, the scenery is stunning, but the people are also lovely – polite, and friendly, and very welcoming. I can see more of Switzerland in my future – and maybe in yours as well!

all photographs and words by zoë yule.

Over the years, as I’ve done more travelling as an adult, to places far flung and exotic, I’ve come to realise that there are some aspects of a place that attract and intrigue me more than others. And, as Pia noticed almost from the moment I met her (insightful girl!), I am perpetually fascinated by the unseen, the behind the scenes, the “no access” side of a public space. When I travelled with my family several years ago to visit my brother in Japan, my research unearthed an amazing book, which tapped into that fascination and promised fulfillment in return for a little hard work and perseverance. The book was Old Kyoto, by Diane Durstan, and for these travellers at least, it transformed the already magical city of Kyoto into a truly memorable experience. A chance to witness the crafts and techniques of an ancient tradition, and to meet with people committed to maintaining a living tradition in a modern world.

Kyoto is a truly ancient city of art and learning, and a place where traditional techniques and methods persevere, albeit in small shops and by aging practitioners. Japan can seem like a country obsessed with modernisation and technological advancement, but hidden behind the usual tourist haunts is a world time seems content to forget, for the moment at least.

The Miyawaki fan shop seems to sit somewhere between the two worlds; the hundred-year-old shop has been modernised with air conditioning and subtle modern lighting, but retains the air of restrained elegance and luxury in keeping with its history of royal patronage. The folded fan is a Japanese invention; an intrinsic part of traditional Japanese dance and one of the few highly decorative items of dress worn to accompany the kimono. The surface provided Japanese artists with a canvas to showcase their delicate, finely-wrought brush strokes; the shop contains some extremely beautiful examples painted by eminent artists in the early 20th century.

If the idea of painting your own fan in traditional Japanese style appeals, then Saiun-do (Painted Clouds) is the place to start. The shop has been catering to artists and painters since 1863, when Tsukio Fujimoto, himself a painter of some renown, began producing the delicate plant-based water-soluble pigments of his own recipes. The current proprietor, Fujimoto-san, is the great-grandson of Tsukio Fujimoto, and the shop continues to supply pigments, minerals, brushes, paper and mixing utensils to Japanese and overseas artists alike. The tiny, one-room shop displays an array of intriguing coloured powders and minerals in medicinal vials, with brushes made from badger and deer hanging from every rafter. The Fujimotos, husband and wife, are charming and welcoming, even to amateurs, and despite their lack of English. My Mum, herself an artist, had no trouble communicating her delight.

In yet another hundred-year-old building in the heart of the city, an age-old traditional craft process has been revived to replace that of another dying art. Aizen Kobo used to manufacture the beautiful woven obi belts worn around the kimono, using a complicated jacquardweaving system. With the advent of mechanical looms, and of modern clothes to replace the kimono, the Utsuki family re-purposed their workshop to manufacture heavier linen and cotton fabrics suitable for real indigo dyeing. Here, Kenichi Utsuki still produces the beautiful dusky blue of true indigo, and is happy to demonstrate the almost mystical process maintained in huge pungent vats in the courtyard at the centre of the building. The leaves from the real indigo plant, indigofera, are fermented and mixed with lye to release the dye. They are then added to a series of heated vessels where an anaerobic bacterial fermentation process converts the insoluble indigo dye to a soluble solution. The dye is tested for it’s readiness the old-fashioned way – by taste. When ready, the solution is a murky greeny-yellow, and the immersed fabric shows no sign of the customary blue colouring until, like magic, it is lifted from the liquid, turning blue almost immediately on contact with oxygen. The piece is re-dipped several times until the desired shade is achieved, and contiues to develop with age and wear. The dyeing solution can be maintained almost indefinitely – refreshed with new fermented dye leaves – and the older vats are said to produce a superior colour. The range of products sold are extensive – from traditional happi workers coats to modern designer handbags and scarves – a truly evocative souvenir that will only improve with age.

When the tiny lanes and alley-ways of the old town are too bewildering to negotiate any further, take to the hills above the city to restore your inner peace along the tranquil temple garden paths. There is much to see in Kyoto to entice the casual tourist or interested visitor; but, like most cities, there is pure gold to delight the curious adventurer willing to delve behind the scenes.
 

words and photography by zoë yule.

I’ve never really been a good apartment-dweller. Growing up under the wide open skies of Queensland, and an avid gardener, I feel claustrophobic without a green space of my own. While the canal-houses of old Amsterdam are undeniably beautiful, and the many trees and great parks soften the edges, I sometimes find the unbroken lines of imposing brick facades a little intimidating. Which is why I snapped up the opportunity to peek behind the brick walls on Open Tuinen Dagen (Open Garden Days), an annual festival that offers a glimpse of the oases hidden in the centre of Amsterdam’s most atmospheric suburbs.

Property in the beautiful canal district is understandably incredibly expensive, and most of the larger houses now incorporate offices and museums. While some of these spaces are open to the public on a regular basis, others serve as private, restful courtyard lunchrooms for the staff within. Can you imagine Friday afternoon drinks on a warm July evening, or a mid-morning cake-break from all those pesky meetings? I can!

Oh look, someone else had the same idea!

Throughout the city, several of the grand 17th century manors have been lovingly restored to their former glory, inside and out, providing a wonderfully evocative glimpse back in history, albeit a history of wealth and indulgence!

Imagine the glamorous parties, the rustle of silk gowns, the lavish dinners in the breathtaking dining room; perhaps dancing in the ballroom, and a secretive assignation between sweet young lovers behind the rose bower? Shh, can you hear the violins from the house?

Phew, just when all that glamour might be going to my head, the reality of the more diminutive of these garden spaces hauls you back. For those Amsterdammers lucky enough to possess their own slice of canal-side living, the tiny green space at the back provides a welcome respite from the busy city just metres away on the other side of the front door. Some of these gardens are true revelations, secret and cosy, private and lush.

A space for repose, a warm sunny spot perfect for a lazy Sunday morning coffee, and an opportunity to convert Amsterdam’s ample rainfall into lush colour and delicate blooms.

It is such a pleasure to be offered a glimpse behind the solid walls of the rather imposing canal district, though my rampant case of canal-house envy shows no sign of being cured by the experience. As if I didn’t already have a serious case of houseboat envy, thanks to the lovely writer of this blog! Ah well, there is much in this beautiful city to fuel the imagination.

Coffee, anyone?

all writing and photographs by Zoë Yule.