Europe holidays tips

“Hello, over there in Albania!”, my kayaking guide Gigo shouts across the water as he paddles along effortlessly. He doesn’t really need to shout, because although we’re in Montenegro, we’re only a few metres away from the Albanians. We’re on the Buna (Bunë) River, a 40km stretch of water which divides the countries and is so tranquil that every sound is amplified, from the dip of our paddles to the rousing tones of the Muslim call to prayer.

It’s hard to know if Milan’s fashionistas are bemused more by my driving or by my vehicle as I stall, splutter and crunch the gears while double-parking the tuk-tuk on Via Monte Napoleone, the city’s swankiest street. Both it and I look comically out of place on a thoroughfare dripping with designer shops and high-end motors. I’ve just seen a Hermès shirt with a €10,500 price tag and spotted the Argentina World Cup winner and Inter Milan star Lautaro Martínez laden with Gucci shopping bags, and bouncing into a blacked-out Hummer with his girlfriend and minder.

One aspect of the Paris Métro is minimalism. Most stations are simply white subterranean vaults with no surface building to sully the beauty of the streets. Sometimes, a station entrance is indicated by art nouveau iron flowers of no known genus (except possibly triffid), and these – the creations of Hector Guimard in the early 1900s – signify the flamboyance that coexists with the minimalism.

Wearing a crimson and sunshine-yellow flower crown, the young man is surrounded by his family, before there is the pop of the vino frizzante and the royal blue cups are filled for a merry toast to celebrate his graduation.

A statue of Cristiano Ronaldo towers over a crowd of admirers as they queue to have their photos taken with it. One young man with a leather satchel thrown over his shoulder giddily takes his turn. I’m watching from the roof of the Pestana CR7 hotel in Funchal, Madeira.

Approaching the castle, we felt as if we were joining a medieval procession. Ushers were guiding opera-goers down the cobbled streets and over the bridge which earlier that afternoon had swung open to allow us to sail into Savonlinna.

Seven of us are roped in a line, with hiking poles in our hands and crampons on our boots. Led by our guide, David, we take it in turns to step from rock into the marbled grey ice beyond. I hesitate before taking my step; the act feels oddly disrespectful. It takes a few minutes to trust that the spikes will hold their grip, but I get used to the crunching rhythm and the occasional tug of the rope. The summer sunshine is warm but a coldness radiates from below. It is a six-hour hike to the hut we will sleep in tonight.

It has to be Berlin. During a month-long summer trip in the late noughties, I fell in love with Kreuzberg’s €2 kebabs, cheap pilsner and vibrant street art. I strolled through leafy Prenzlauer Berg, home to endless coffee, cake and culture. This city has whatever food you could possibly want (currywurst is a must – meat, veggie or otherwise, big and budget-friendly). But the highlight was taking a train out to the stunning lake Wannsee. We packed a picnic, stripped off, sank our toes in the sand and swam, swam, swam until the canalside clubs began calling our name.Jessica Cole

There’s something immensely satisfying about being able to see the point you’re aiming for on a long hike. Far below Erice, a hilltop town in north-west Sicily, I can make out the arc of Trapani on the coast – my target, three hours away by foot. Paths wind down the hillside, past wild flowers and giant cacti, the city looming ever larger, its buildings a palette of pastel pinks and greys that blend into the surrounding salt flats and ocean.

Last summer I cycled 7,600km (4,722 miles) along a route called the European Divide Trail, which runs through nine countries, all the way from Arctic Norway to the Atlantic coast in Portugal, mostly camping out along the way. The idea was sparked by an article I saw on the internet – on a website called bikepacking.com. I slowly went from thinking, “That looks cool,” to, “I’m going to do it.” It seemed a bit crazy, but somehow a few months later, in June 2022, it was happening! I was heading off for three months – and I’d even persuaded my friend Max to come along for the first three weeks.

It’s a gloriously sunny, if gusty, early-June day at Gothenburg’s new bathing harbour. My son Zac and I are among the first to brave the elements at an open-air complex of swimming and diving pools occupying part of Frihamnen, the city’s docklands that began to fall into disuse in the 1970s.

Last summer I took a cruise of the Baltic. I wanted to know if a millennial could cruise independently and still have a laugh. (They can. Just.) I was writing a book about fun at the time, and fancied that two weeks of shuffleboard and Nordic stop-offs might prove a decent source of the f-stuff. And so it proved. Though I could have done with more than an hour in Stockholm.