A solo female adventure blog by Serena Coady. Serena Coady is a human lady who has written for some of Australia’s most beloved publications since not bothering to finish her communications degree. Beyond Luna, Serena’s hopes are simple. She dreams of making it to Eurovision.
Cameroonian-American blogger and lawyer Cyn travels NYC and beyond looking like a damn dream. I can barely put a look together out of my home wardrobe (let alone a suitcase!) so Simply Cyn is a constant source of “You’ve got this” when packing.
Trisha frames her travels with her proud and distinct Filipino perspective, writing about travelling the world when your parents ge don’t want you to, reverse culture shock and why #YOLO is overrated. She also has an empowering “Dear Girls of the World” series which involves various travel bloggers debunking travel myths for female travellers through their own experiences.um
Bani Amor @ Everywhere All The Time baniamor.com
Bani Amor is badASS. The queer Ecuadorian writer unpacks major travel issues through sharp feminist argument and captivating narratives. Bani’s blog is refreshing as it looks beyond the pretty pictures and endless destination listicles. Their piece “The link between tourism and settler colonialism in Hawai’i” set me off on a wild writing spree, prompting me to explore my own experiences as a culturally diverse woman abroad.
Being a fellow hiker, I was quickly drawn to Victoria’s work. But it’s through her unique voice as a translator, an immigrant and a sufferer of chronic illness that she really opens up the conversation and allows readers to explore an entirely different take on travel. Her piece “I’m a Latina who hikes” says a lot about the surprising social privilege of being able to hike.
Oneika’s blog has all the elements of a travel blog, except with more opinion pieces. Her posts weave immersive travel storytelling with social conscience and reality checks, coz let’s face it, getting paid to travel the world is bonkers and isn’t always entirely relatable. Oneika’s post “Stop pretending everyone can travel” provides a sharp take on travel privilege.
Swazilander Welile knows the meaning of life. Regular travels, spicy food and coooold tequila. Before you get into her detailed stories and colourful photography, ensure you don’t have an empty stomach or any flight booking tabs open. Temptation awaits, earnest traveller.
Are there any bloggers I’ve missed? Leave me a comment.
Until I was 18, the bush fringed every home I lived in, working its way into so much of my life. When I lived in the Blue Mountains it meant gullies of opportunity for me. It also meant failure, a reminder that I squandered what at the time I believed was my life’s enterprise: to build a gum tree cubby.
When I was a little older and living in Canberra, the bush became my hideaway, my imperfect paradise, my gym, my pal. Home life wasn’t great, but I liked that within a few seconds I could be out the gate and into the bush without anyone behind me.
Most of the time I begrudged having a family that didn’t share my outdoor interests, but in these moments I felt tailor-made to this environment. In 2009 I wrote:
Crunching dry dirt
I’d sooner be barefoot
But I’ve seen a spider bite
Couldn’t tell the difference between red earth and the blood
Eucalyptus arms reach out and up
Mirrored in my mind
With aching branches my thoughts intertwine
Sent up to tangerine skies
Make for the blue hills
Iodine waves lapping
Towards a silver moon
Grazing ‘roos the only hurdles on my path
Ask me why I’m back so late
Just enjoying a red October
Headphones happily forgotten
Learned the cantata de cicada
Nowadays, I live half a kilometre from the bush. Tough life. It’s the furthest one of my houses has been from it, but this has created new opportunity, you see.
Some evenings after work, I loiter in the bush. I think I freak people out, but they’re just the night joggers and they only see me for a moment. Really they ought to focus on keeping pace and making their Fitbit orgasm. I think.
Long after the sun dips behind the Brindies, I loop through suburban streets, homebound. I watch everybody in their houses, they’re usually alone too. The way people’s routines intersect and diverge is oddly magnetic to me.
I see late dinners, backs to the window, TVs flickering on bodies shuddering over ironing boards. Makes it sound kinky, right? It rarely is. At times I wish I glimpsed somebody nude in their house. Not nude as in sexy nude, just in a lazy vanilla way.
Figures ghost past me, across the road and beneath the trees. The few others who, like me, have more business out here than in there, feeding and de-wrinkling. When they pass I don’t see their faces. Sometimes it gives me goosebumps. It’s the invisibility right in front of me that gets me.
My arms continue to prickle at every passing car. (Might I like to get that checked out by a professional of the medica persuasion?) Their headlights meaning they see me, I can’t see them. The notion that it could be just about anybody fills me with life. Do kids still log onto Chatroulette? Hope not. Nightwalks are where it’s at.
As I walk it’s almost silent. Canberra is a small place! When I do hear something it’s a cheeky kangaroo steaming it from dry bush towards curated ‘burb turf. Please don’t get hit by a car again. I’m serious.
Where I live there are no streetlights. It’s a pretty rash oversight of the council if you ask me. Or an oversight by the game designer, if I’m right – and I am – about living in a simulated reality. This dimness has meant I’ve tripped over two dogs in the past year. If you’ve ever wronged a dog before, you’d know it is considered the highest sin.
When I’m done perving on the living, swanning about in cicada-soaked air, I take inventory of the shit strewn out front the houses. Council clean-up offerings. In my town you get two a year. I don’t use up my two because I don’t buy shit. Simple!
I listen to Big Mama Thornton songs… I go a little mad. I imagine cavorting about my house, fussing over six defunct washing machines, a basketball arcade set-up and just the ass part of a swivel chair. Street-strewn items I’ve treated myself to. “You won’t tell me where you been / Whiskey running all down your chin.”
I arrive at my doorstep sans the trinkets, thank Zorp.My house is dark, empty and cozy. I’m grateful for no flickering screens.
It’s easy to feel a bit average when you arrive in Mykonos. The people of Mykonos are a mighty fine bunch. Everywhere you turn there’s perfectly browned skin and crisp white shirts. Kaftans also dominate the summer uniform of the Meditteranean’s elite. Think styles of an apocalyptic Burning Man wind smock nature, rather than an Eastern ‘burbs Camilla.
Aside from learning how to write truly out-of-character sentences about farshun, I learned to appreciate the mystique of Mykonos.
The white-washed – never thought I’d use that phrase in a positive sense – exteriors of Mykonos celestially glowed with otherworldly charm, a contrast to my home country’s red brick suburbia and taupe gum trees.
Yet this small-town idiot still had a lot to learn from the island where hedonism is a given. It’s an island of the gods, baby. Be as extra as you like.
First, I was to ditch the monk-like sack dresses and high school footy shorts I’d wear by default on lazy summer holidays.
It helped that I was travelling with my mate Breanna Espina, a ridiculous Eurasian Megan Fox / Angelina Jolie hybrid who is always immaculately styled. When we’re together, I look like her girly teen son who she would’ve needed to birth when she was 10. But her effortless, fashion-forward ways had a positive impact on me that trip.
Like always, she influenced me to make an effort, and ensure we captured these rare moments with a helluva lot of photos.
Exploring the Island of the Winds first – without taking photos – meant we could properly learn the secret and not-so-secret corners of Mykonos before we returned to attack with our cams.
Along the way we also picked up immeasurable tips, like:
Don’t wear heels. Cobblestone streets and Greece’s triple portions of alcohol are a Dionysian error.
Get your tan but definitely try to avoid heatstroke because your m8 might have to give you an ice bath and supervise you when you’re about to faint on the toilet
And for your pictures…
Go early! It’s simply the only way to achieve the calm, crowd-free aesthetic you’ve seen all over Instagram. If you’re lucky you might come across a few leftover revellers who offer you gyros and ask you to snap pics of them.
Little Venice’s alleyways
Ninnolo Ice Cream Shop
Kato Milli Windmills
Kick it at home
Little Venice waterfront
Petros the Pelican (wherever he is)
Agios Sostis Beach / Kiki’s Tavern
Follow the smell of Gyros
The cliffs of Northeast Mykonos
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Ethereal deer-filled forests, hillsides peppered with historical castles, Harry Potter movie locations and grass that’s green on every side. Scotland is a dronie’s paradise.
A location that’s surely already on your list, Eilean Donan is the classic Scottish castle site. Arrive before 8am and have the place to yourself. If it’s a clear day? (Goooood luck finding one of those, mate.) Get there for sunrise.
If you’ve ever dreamed of running away from home and heading for Hogwarts, you’ll know this fantastical destination. Arrive before 10.30am to capture footage of the magnificent Jacobite train coasting past the loch and through the highlands.
Fondly regarded as ‘The Jewel of the Highlands’, wee little Plockton does not disappoint. The coastal town is resplendent with its lush forests, sapphire blue waters and hidden historic ruins.
Home to the tallest mountain in the UK, the glen is where you’ll get the most classically Scottish nature shots. Waterfalls, rivers and munros abound in this quietly energetic valley.
Loch Loyne Wind Farm
Pull over, stretch your legs at this picturesque spot, and send your gadget to the skies. Capturing dozens of wind turbines moving in harmony is an unexpected treat.
94% of Scotland is considered rural. So get a good car!
While your drone might go far on its own, you may not. Soz. So find yourself a sweet ride. Whether you’re after a practical 4WD or perhaps a spiffy sedan is more your style, Avis will hook you up.
I got my Mercedes from these guys and I could not have been happier. On my highland travels I covered about 900 miles (unfortunately not 500 miles, Proclaimers style) and during the long journey, comfort and practicality were a priority.
Thankfully, my Avis beast was perfect for that. The car had an intuitive interface for GPS and music, a roomy boot for all my equipment and the sleekest reclining seats. Even the window wipers automatically flung into gear when it detected a drizzle. When you get to the beautifully damp Scotland you’ll understand just how wondrous a feature this really is…
…Scotland is by no means a dry country, so:
When there’s a break in the rainfall, it’s go time. Take to the skies STAT.
Be wary of drone rules at each site.
Sites like Eilean and Glenfinnian only allow flights outside of standard business hours and with the property owner’s permission. So just be alert and respectful, and you’ll be more than fine.
To thank you for making it this far through my dribble, I’ve included a spicy treat, right at the end. Y’know, like in the closing credits of a Marvel film.
The superheroes at Avis are gearing up for their End of Season sale. If you book in before 29th September 2017 you can save 25% on the cost of your rental ride. Just ensure your pick-up is before 14th December 2017 to claim this offer.
So get your butt into gear and ready yourself for the road trip of a lifetime. Book here!