The Royal Bengal Tiger was always just beyond the frame—a whisper in mangroves, a rumour in grasslands, a story told by guides with knowing smiles.
In the Sundarbans, they warned us, “Don’t look too hard. If you see one, chances are you won’t be seen after.” We looked anyway. We saw nothing.
At Ranthambore National Park, dawn and dusk gave us….. Pugmarks, droppings, and growing humility.
At Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, they didn’t even pretend. “Forget it,” they said kindly.
And then— it was the turn of Tadoba Tiger Reserve……where, quite unexpectedly, fortune decided to shift…. and behave like Lucknow hospitality.
It began like a well-directed play. Our jeep was rolling lazily when the guide suddenly sprang up, as if the forest had whispered directly into his spine— “Look behind!”
And there she was. A tigress. Standing squarely on the road. Unhurried. Unapologetic. Entirely in charge.
She gazed past us, not at us— as though we were merely an inconvenient paragraph in her story. A low, resonant rumble followed. And then another and another.
“That,” the guide declared with reverence, “is the mother calling her children.”
Of course she was. Even in the wild, mothers don’t wait forever.
What then transpired in front of our eyes was akin to a screenplay. But of the most elegant kind.
As we continued to be transfixed by the one behind, the guide shouted again and pointed. From the front, another tigress appeared—a sibling, perhaps…….She carried a prey in her jaws with the nonchalance of someone bringing snacks to a gathering.
The mother’s rumble deepened.
Translation (we imagined): “Food is fine. But where are the children?”
And then we saw them again. Three grown cubs, walking in a line— like reluctant teenagers responding to a call they had heard thrice already.
They were magnificent. And mildly disobedient.
The mother paced the shoreline now, her calls shifting between soft persuasion and unmistakable authority. It was a language older than words— half love, half command. The forest listened. So did we.
One cub made the first move. It slipped into the water, cutting through it with quiet determination—towards the waiting mother. The other two paused. Of course they did. Every family has those who hesitate at the edge.
The mother, now joined by the brave one, turned and looked back at the rest of the family on the other side. A decision was made and the mother and cub swam again. Not away, but towards the uncertain. And then, as if reminded of something fundamental, the remaining two followed.
For a moment, time forgot to move. Four tigers. Water rippling. Sunlight holding its breath. And us— utterly irrelevant, yet impossibly privileged.
We had spent years trying to see a tiger. This time we were seeing something else. Not power. Not danger. Not even wilderness. We merely saw a mother trying to gather her children.
And in that quiet, persistent calling, echoing across water and time, the jungle revealed its oldest truth:In every world, wild or civilised, the fiercest force is not the hunt—it is the pull of belonging.
The Liberty of the Seas was slipping gracefully through the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, teasing us with views of emerald islets dotting the horizon. As land loomed closer, so did our anticipation. Bermuda—a name that evoked equal parts paradise and paranormal. Our stateroom window framed the unfolding spectacle of the approaching land, pastel-painted resorts on the sea front and the occasional home peeking from behind palm fronds.
A Bermuda resort
We docked at the Royal Naval Dockyard. Once a formidable British naval base after they were unceremoniously booted out of North America, it now plays host to cruise ships instead of battle cruisers. Think of it as the colonial version of “I’ll be back!”—except the British came back with museums, not muskets.
Royal Naval Dockyard
Once ashore, as we looked around for a suitable transportation, we were greeted by Darrel, a local guide and driver. Silver-haired, sun-tanned, and equipped with the storytelling prowess of a Caribbean mistrel, Darrel introduced himself with a flourish:
“Ninth-generation Bermudian! My ancestor came here as a slave. And now I drive tourists through my island. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?”
We chuckled, unsure whether to be impressed or introspective. As it turned out, Darrel was about to take us on a version of Bermuda that the glossy brochures never dared to print.
A Personal Bermuda
Darrel wasn’t one for those touristy places. Instead, he showed us his own Bermuda. We were soon snaking past old churches and vintage homes, zigzagging across narrow causeways which connected Bemuda’s islands like hesitant footbridges between old memories.
He took us to his ancestral home; a weathered house nestled on a hillside shaded by cedar trees. “This is where I was born,” he said. There was pride in his voice, not nostalgia. He wasn’t just showing us a place, but offering us a piece of his DNA.
As we crisscrossed the islands, almost missing the transitions thanks to seamless causeways, Darrel pointed out the unique Bermudian water storage systems. There are no freshwater lakes or rivers in Bermuda; every roof thus is designed to catch rainwater and store it in underground tanks. “It’s not just eco-friendly,” Darrel declared, “It’s that, or die thirsty!”
Exploring the Bermuda water storage system
We stopped at an old fort with low embankments, a relic from World War II. What was interesting was that it was armed with British, American, and Canadian gun emplacements. A curious cross-national collaboration.
“They were allies here before NATO was cool,” I quipped. Darrel grinned, “Yeah, and those guns haven’t fired in anger—only in memory.”
Shopping Malls, Lighthouses & Cost Shock
Next came the capital city, Hamilton, gleaming with shopping arcades, business hubs, and enough boutiques to bankrupt a Kardashian. “Don’t be fooled,” Darrel warned, “This is more for you tourists and offshore finance folks than for us locals.”
We could believe it. A loaf of bread cost more than a good bottle of rum back home. Bermuda, it seemed, was as expensive as it was beautiful—a tax haven with a sun-kissed poker face.
We also visited the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, where the view from the base was majestic enough to spare us the knees wrecking climb to the top. From there, the Atlantic spread out like an endless blue silk sheet, dotted with hints of human habitation—each island a whisper in the sea.
Gibbs Hill Lighthouse
Of Pink Sands and Rose Hearts
By afternoon, the sun had cast a golden glaze on the island. The temperature was perfect for what we came for: Bermuda’s legendary beaches.
We skipped the Instagram-flooded Horseshoe Bay (thanks to Darrel’s insider intel of it being overcrowded!) and headed to a more secluded beach nearby. And what a choice that turned out to be! Powdery pink sand caressed by clear turquoise water, gentle waves that beckoned instead of bullied, and—most intriguingly—a giant heart-shaped installation of roses left behind from what looked like a beach wedding. Darrel, never missing a beat, winked and said, “That’s either love… or excellent marketing.”
Love….. or marketing?
We did what anyone would do: took photos, dipped into the sea, and pretended we had discovered the place ourselves.
The Triangle of Terror… or Hype?
As the sun began its descent, we finally popped the question everyone avoids until dessert, about the Bermuda Triangle.
“So Darrel… any strange goings-on out there?”
He glanced at the ocean and said, “Let me tell you something. Some days, you see gas bubbles rising out of nowhere. Big ones. Not your usual air pockets. These are… different.”
He paused. “Could be alien. Could be methane. Could be the sea having gas. But small boats and aircraft? They don’t always like those bubbles.”
In search of Bermuda triangle…..
Darrel’s casual eeriness reminded me of the book I’d devoured in my Jamalpur college days: Charles Berlitz’s “The Bermuda Triangle.” The author had chronicled the infamous disappearance of Flight 19, a squadron of five US Navy torpedo bombers in 1945. The flight leader’s last radio transmission still rings like a Lovecraftian riddle:
“We cannot be sure of any direction… everything is strange… the ocean doesn’t look as it should.”
Some say it was magnetic anomalies. Others blame pirates, aliens, or even the lost city of Atlantis. Even National Geographic weighed in years later, shrugging off the mystery with a headline that felt like a sigh: “No, the Bermuda Triangle isn’t real. Let’s move on.” (Source: National Geographic, 2017)
But standing on a beach where the sand is pink and the stories are surreal; logic starts to feel a bit… overrated.
A Farewell in Technicolour
As we returned to the Liberty of the Seas, the ship shimmering under the evening sun, Bermuda felt like a dream—equal parts sunshine and superstition.
Liberty of the Seas
Darrel dropped us at the dock, gave us a conspiratorial wink and said, “Now you know our secrets. Keep them safe.”
Bermuda had shown us its history, its heart, and maybe even a hint of its hauntings. Whether you believe in vanishing ships or just overpriced sandwiches, it’s a place that lingers.In your mind, in your phone camera, and if Darrel’s right, maybe even in your magnetic compass.
After years of good intentions and postponed plans, we finally pulled off the Great Family Cruise – ten of us, one ship, two waterslides, twenty-three ducks, and a Cruise Director who could’ve moonlighted as a tornado.
From gliding over ocean waves to sliding into water-slide mayhem (albeit with minor misadventures), from buffet binging to Broadway bopping – here’s how we discovered that the only real triangle in Bermuda is one made of sun, sea, and stuffing ourselves silly. Dive into our cruise tale below!
“We had joy, we had fun, we had… sunburn, and the distinct feeling that gravity works differently on a cruise buffet.”
For several years, our family cruise plan floated in the misty sea of ‘someday’. We’d talk about it, sigh wistfully, and then shelve it in favour of life’s more pressing annoyances – work, school schedules, or the sheer logistics of aligning four households across two continents. But this year, the planets and the stars finally aligned – our schedules, and the price of cruise cabins. Over a weekend, the dates and the bookings were locked in over WhatsApp calls. The dream was on!
We had zeroed in on a 6-day Royal Caribbean Bermuda Cruise from Bayonne, New Jersey. As luck would have it, both our daughters, Riya and Piya, along with their husbands and children, were in New Jersey. Add to that, grandparents (that would be us), and we had a party of ten. One grand adventure. Two Uber XLs. Four bags per family (because who travels light when going to sea?).
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The First Glimpse: Love at First Float
Royal Caribbean’s Liberty of the Seas stood docked like a skyscraper that had taken a horizontal sabbatical. Towering, gleaming, with the top decks bustling with sunhat-clad explorers and Pina Colada amateurs, the ship exuded glamour and gravity-defying engineering. How much of it was underwater, I kept wondering
The boarding was smooth; it smacked of efficiency. The Royal Caribbean staff operated with choreographed precision smiles. As we entered our 12th-floor staterooms, our suitcases were already neatly arranged at the door – not unlike obedient puppies waiting to be let in.
What greeted us inside made us gasp (some of it real, some theatrical I daresay). A wall-to-wall panoramic window offering glorious view of Lady Liberty herself, poised with her torch held high, seemingly wishing us bon voyage. The bed, king-sized and plush, promised to cradle us gently through the Atlantic lullabies.
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Buffet Warfare and Windjammer Déjà Vu
The first port of call wasn’t Bermuda. It was Windjammer Café – the cruise ship’s legendary buffet zone, an all-you-can-eat haven where diets land up to perish.
“Is that an Italian pasta station or an entire province?” I asked no one in particular as I watched a chef wield a spatula with ‘Keanu Reeves in Matrix’-level reflexes.
Amid spoonfuls of mayonnaise-laced salad and pasta, memories came rushing back. Two decades earlier on a Mediterranean Cruise on Royal Caribbean’s Grandeur of the Seas, we used to frequent the Windjammer Cafe. And just like that, the generations merged across time and geography over plates piled high with memories – and shrimp tempura.
The Family crew @Windjammer
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The Ship That Never Slept … so how could we
With fourteen floors of everything one could think of. From swimming pools to simulated surfing to an entire promenade that looked like it had been smuggled out of Barcelona, Liberty of the Seas wasn’t a ship – it seemed more akin to a floating nation-state. All this for a guest count of 3400 and service providing crew numbering 1200!
The fun deck
The Platinum Theatre promised nightly shows with a Vegas vibe, and boy, did it deliver. Between ice-skating opera (yes, you read that right) and a Broadway-style rendition of Saturday Night Fever—complete with Bee Gees hits that had us singing falsetto into dessert—we barely had time to digest our dinners.
Ice Opera@ Studio B
Dining was a delight. Our assigned fine-dining restaurant was Botticelli, where we were seated by a window overlooking the Atlantic. It was a view so romantic, it could’ve made an accountant recite poetry.
Fine Dining experience @ The Botticelli
But with great food came great responsibility. We soon fell into the classic cruise rhythm:
As travel writer Kate Simon once said, “A cruise is a floating hotel with the added excitement of going somewhere — and waking up to a new view every day.” We couldn’t agree more, except we were too full to sit up in bed and appreciate that view.
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Enter: Tornado Tanya and the Duck Hunter General
A cruise, they say, is only as memorable as its Cruise Director. And ours was unforgettable.
Tornado Tanya — part emcee, part event planner, part motivational speaker, and possibly part caffeine incarnate — zipped through venues, hosting dance-offs, trivia, pool parties, and late-night karaoke. She had the boundless energy of a toddler on Red Bull and the voice projection of a Shakespearean actor.
Our six-year-old granddaughter Anaysha ( we call her Tiri) , meanwhile, had embarked on her own high-seas mission: duck hunting. Not the feathered kind, mind you. This was a scavenger hunt for plastic ducks artfully hidden across the ship’s decks, bars, and even casino slot machines. She unearthed twenty-three of them – a personal best, a family record, and possibly a ship-wide headline if only Tanya had announced it.
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The Bermuda Triangle – A ‘safe’ Detour
When we finally docked at Bermuda, we were slightly disappointed that we hadn’t fallen into a time warp.
Bermuda
Bermuda was…well, let us say, stunning. Coral pink sands, aquamarine waters, pastel houses with white roofs – the island looked like it had been filtered through a tropical Instagram lens. But that tale, especially that of the triangle, deserves its own dedicated post. Let’s just say, we came. We saw. We didn’t vanish, unlike those myriad ships and planes of the years gone by.
Was this the triangle?
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The Slides, The Slips, and the Near-Scandal
Now, every cruise needs a personal epic. Mine came courtesy of The Slides – those twisting and turning tubes of water doom perched high above the ship like serpentine sculptures of fun and fear.
There were two:
The Pink Slide – dubbed “family friendly”
The Green Slide – otherwise known as “abandon all dignity ye who dare to enter here”
Those Water Slides
My first attempt was on the Pink Slide. It was supposed to be slow. It was. Too slow. Midway through, I got stuck. Yes, stuck. Picture this: an elderly man, wedged inside a tube, using his hands to scoot forward like a plumber in a pipeline.
A voice crackled on the intercom, “Is everything alright in there, sir?” To which I replied, “Define alright…”
Not to be defeated, I took on the Green Slide next. This time, I whooshed out like a human torpedo—splashed spectacularly into the pool… and got stuck sideways. Lifeguard involvement ensued. Applause, or was it suppressed sniggers, was heard. Dignity? Left behind somewhere in the tube.
**
Final Reflections: More Than Just a Cruise
As our ship finally sailed back into Bayonne and we waved a fond goodbye to Liberty of the Seas, it hit us – this had not been just a vacation. It was a story. A memory. A time capsule. A chaotic, joyful, belly-filling, duck-chasing, water-sliding tale of ten souls choosing to pause life and just be… together.
A Stateroom with a view
As travel writer Pico Iyer said, “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.”
Well, we certainly lost our diets. And found laughter, connection, and yes – even a part of ourselves.
And thus ends the tale of the Bermuda cruise. Bon voyage, until next time.
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
References:
Simon, Kate. Cruising: The Only Way to Travel. Travel Weekly, 2016.
Iyer, Pico. Why We Travel. Salon.com, March 2000.
CruiseCritic.com – “Top 10 Cruise Director Superstars” (2023).
Royal Caribbean Official Website: Liberty of the Seas Deck Plan & Amenities (2024).
From the breezy ferry crossing over Cook Strait to sipping Sauvignon Blanc in a sun-drenched vineyard, our final days in New Zealand were an ode to quiet charm, coastal beauty, and surprising encounters. Dolphins, Blue Crayfish, and the gentle resilience of Christchurch—this last leg gave us a sense of what it truly means to journey, not just travel
As our journey across New Zealand’s North Island drew to a close, a sense of calm anticipation took hold. We were about to cross the Cook Strait—nature’s moat dividing the North and South Islands. After breakfast, we boarded the ferry at Wellington, following the well-worn advice to keep our eyes peeled for the scenic spectacle of Marlborough Sounds.
The Cook Strait has a reputation for being dramatic, both in its swells and its views. Ours was thankfully a smooth crossing, the deck wind-swept but tolerable—as long as you held tightly to your cap. While no seals or orcas showed up to greet us, a joyful surprise awaited mid-journey: a school of dolphins, dancing alongside our ferry near the starboard bow. It was a moment that felt choreographed by the sea itself.
Crossing Cook’s strait
The ferry eventually pulled into Picton, a sleepy harbor town where time seems to slow down. After our coach rolled off the ship’s lower deck, we headed into Blenheim, nestled at the heart of Marlborough—New Zealand’s most renowned wine region. As wine writer Michael Cooper once noted, “The Sauvignon Blancs here speak with piercing clarity and freshness, as if the land itself had whispered the recipe” (Wine NZ Magazine, 2022). Our lunch at a vineyard, paired with one of these signature whites, was a perfect blend of terroir and tranquility.
Marlborough region
Post lunch, the drive to Nelson was comfortably uneventful. Known as New Zealand’s sunshine capital, the town lived up to its name. Bathed in golden light, its leafy streets invited slow, deliberate exploration. We took a detour to the Abel Tasman National Park, where aquamarine coves and golden beaches teased us with just a glimpse of their natural magic. Later, a short cab ride took us on the Prince’s Drive, a winding hill route offering panoramic ocean views. It was one of those rare moments when the vastness of the ocean made one feel wonderfully small.
Abel Tasman National Park
From Nelson, our coastal drive traced the edge of the South Island’s spine. The Kaikoura stretch was especially dramatic—dark cliffs tumbling into turquoise waters. We stopped here, as one must, to try the region’s famed Blue Crayfish. Served fresh and simply, it needed little more than a squeeze of lemon. As travel writer Brook Sabin put it in a Stuff NZ feature, “Kaikoura offers a kind of wild luxury—the bounty of the sea framed by snow-capped peaks.”
Kaikoura
The inland leg to Canterbury gave us rolling pastures, distant alpine backdrops, and a lingering sense of serenity. Finally, we arrived in Christchurch, a city still tender from its past, yet confidently looking ahead. Much of it felt brand new, and understandably so—years after the 2011 earthquake, which damaged more than 80% of the central city.
Christchurch Tram Tour
But there was pride in the restoration, and even more in the spirit of the people. We hopped onto the Christchurch Tram Tour, a delightful old-world loop through a new-age city. Glassy riverbanks, modern architecture, and gentle storytelling from the conductor made it feel like a living museum, still writing its narrative.
Christchurch
And then, just like that, it was time to leave.
At Christchurch Airport, waiting to board our flight home, we reflected on what had made this journey special. Not just the landscapes—though they are indeed epic. Not just the food or wine or wildlife. It was the rhythm of New Zealand: slow when it needs to be, stirring when you least expect it.
New Zealand doesn’t just show you its beauty. It reveals it, bit by bit. Like its shifting light, it rewards those who take the time to look closely.
We departed with tired feet, happy hearts, and the quiet promise that someday, we would return.
References
Cooper, Michael. “Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc: Still Leading the Way.” Wine NZ Magazine, 2022.
Sabin, Brook. “Kaikoura’s Wild Luxury: Where the Sea Meets the Snow.” Stuff.co.nz, 2021.
Tourism New Zealand. “Christchurch Rebuild: Resilience and Renewal.” newzealand.com, 2023.
From the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay to the Art Deco charms of Napier and the cultured vibes of Wellington, our North Island journey in New Zealand was a heady blend of scenic beauty, fine wine, coastal elegance, and urban character. Here’s a glimpse of three unforgettable days soaking in the essence of Kiwi culture, cuisine, and charm.
Pacific Coastline
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New Zealand often conjures images of snow-capped peaks, sheep-dotted meadows, and fjord-streaked landscapes. But on the North Island’s eastern edge lies a less-trumpeted triad of experiences that seduce the senses in a quieter, more intimate way: the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay, the Art Deco elegance of Napier, and the cosmopolitan charm of Wellington.
We began the day heading toward Hawke’s Bay, a region known for its Mediterranean climate, rich soils, and status as one of New Zealand’s finest wine-producing areas. The road wound through rolling hills and vineyard vistas that stretched out like pages from a postcard. It’s no wonder that Lonely Planet calls Hawke’s Bay “a food and wine lover’s paradise… where long sunny days and fertile plains create the perfect recipe for indulgence.”
Hawke’s Bay
Our stop at Mission Estate Winery—New Zealand’s oldest established winery dating back to 1851—was the highlight of our visit. The elegant colonial-era structure welcomed us like an old friend, and we quickly found ourselves immersed in a world of subtle textures and fragrant bouquets. The Sauvignon Blanc stood out with its crisp minerality, but it was the velvety Syrah that stayed with us long after the last sip. A relaxed lunch followed in a shaded courtyard adorned with trellises, garden blooms, and birdsong. It felt more like a countryside dream than a scheduled stop.
Mission Estate Winery
The next chapter of our journey took us to Napier, a gem of a coastal town shaped by both tragedy and triumph. Rebuilt in the 1930s following a devastating earthquake, the town now proudly showcases one of the most concentrated collections of Art Deco architecture in the world. A stroll down its palm-lined promenade revealed a town wrapped in pastel tones and whimsical curves, as if time itself had taken a gentler turn here.
Art Deco
Condé Nast Traveler once described Napier as “a place where you’ll want to slow down and look up,” and that’s exactly what I did. As I meandered through the town, every façade seemed to carry a story—of resilience, rebirth, and remarkable aesthetic unity. Our hotel, perched with unobstructed views of the Pacific Ocean, felt like a poetic pause in this narrative. The sea, ever restless, offered a calming counterpoint to the symmetry of the streets.
The following morning, we descended further south to Wellington, the capital city nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling harbour. Where Napier wore nostalgia on its sleeve, Wellington was vibrantly alive—a city that fused culture and creativity with surprising sophistication. Its streets, both parallel and sloped, gave it a geometric charm, while cafés spilled out onto sidewalks filled with young creatives, office-goers, and the occasional street performer.
There’s something beautifully paradoxical about Wellington—it’s compact yet buzzing, orderly yet expressive. The Wellington Marina invited us to pause and breathe in the city’s rhythm. Boats bobbed gently in their berths, while locals wandered past us with wind-blown hair and takeaway coffees. No surprise then that the BBC once referred to Wellington as “the coolest little capital in the world.”
Wellington Marina
Dinner was a quiet affair, but we couldn’t resist passing by the city’s political heart—the Beehive, a part of the New Zealand Parliament complexes. The building’s modernist circular form is either intriguing or awkward, depending on your point of view. I found it oddly compelling, a symbol perhaps of the country’s bold architectural spirit, unafraid to provoke a reaction.
As we wound down our day in Wellington, I couldn’t help but reflect on the journey. Each place had offered something distinct: Hawke’s Bay’s pastoral elegance, Napier’s vintage soul, and Wellington’s urban charisma. Yet all were stitched together by a common Kiwi thread—warmth, nature, and quiet sophistication.
In a world where travel often tries to impress through spectacle, this journey stood out for its graceful subtlety. It didn’t shout; it sang.
Abstract :Volcanoes, Redwoods, Maori traditions, and turquoise waterfalls—our journey through Rotorua, Murupara, and Taupo was like walking through nature’s raw and sacred diary. From the haunting silence of a buried village to the fiery hiss of boiling mud pools, and the warmth of a traditional Maori Hangi—New Zealand never stops surprising. 🌋🌲🌊
We skirted the edge of Lake Rotorua in hopeful anticipation, eyes squinting past the mist, searching for the silhouette of the legendary Mount Tarawera. But nature had other plans. Clouds draped the landscape like a reluctant curtain, denying us a view of the volcano that, in 1886, tore apart an entire region in a violent, unforgettable eruption.
Lake Rotorua
As we moved closer to the remnants of this catastrophe, we reached the Buried Village of Te Wairoa. It was haunting, almost sacred. Buildings lie preserved in ash, stories frozen in time, and silence whispered louder than words. Our guide painted a vivid picture of the night the earth roared—of ash raining down, of craters splitting open, and lives changed forever. According to the Buried Village site, it is “New Zealand’s most visited archaeological site, where stories of resilience and survival rise from the earth.” (Reference 1) And indeed, walking among the ruins, one feels that spirit deeply.
Buried village of Te Wairoa
From volcanic scars, we sought the solace of trees—and what trees they were! The Whakarewarewa Forest, just outside Rotorua, offered a surreal contrast. We wandered under towering Redwoods—some over 100 years old—and marveled at the magnificence of Douglas Firs and the ethereal grace of silver ferns, New Zealand’s national icon. Walking in their shadow, one feels both infinitely small and impossibly privileged. As described by Whakarewarewa Village, this forest is home to “majestic trees from California alongside native species in a uniquely Kiwi blend,” and the harmony between old world and new world flora is breathtaking.
Those Redwoods of Whakarewarewa
Yet Rotorua wasn’t done with its drama. The ground here breathes fire. Boiling mud pools gurgled around us, sending plumes of steam into the crisp morning air. Lakes hissed and steamed as though conversing with ancient gods. The smell of sulphur lingered, sharp and earthy. And yes, the unsettling thought did strike—what if another eruption lay dormant beneath our very feet?
Boiling mudpools of Rotorua
From geothermal energy to spiritual energy, we travelled onward to Lake Aniwhenua in Murupara. Here, the journey took a cultural turn. We were welcomed by the Māori people in a traditional ceremony that blended chants, fierce expressions, and deep respect. Though the language was unfamiliar, the sincerity needed no translation.
Maori temple
The highlight was witnessing the preparation of a traditional Hāngi meal—an earth-oven cooking method that has nourished Māori communities for centuries. Watching the fire-heated stones laid into a pit, food wrapped and buried under earth, felt remarkably similar to the tandoor cooking I’ve seen in North India. Different continents, similar soul food.
Hangi preparation
Later that afternoon at the Māori lodge, as the Hāngi was unveiled and its earthy aroma filled the air, it felt like we were not just eating a meal—we were partaking in a ceremony of memory, tradition, and togetherness. As the village itself puts it, “Whakarewarewa is more than just a village—it is a living legacy of Māori culture and community,” (Reference 2) and every moment we spent there reinforced that truth.
Traditional Maori meal
The final leg of this segment took us to Taupo, but not before a breathtaking interlude at the Huka Falls. The water there doesn’t just fall—it thunders. A hypnotic blue torrent squeezes through a narrow gorge before erupting into a frothy cascade. According to LoveTaupo.com, this “220,000 litres per second of crystal clear water” ( Reference 3) surging through the Waikato River is one of New Zealand’s most visited natural attractions—and for good reason. It’s power and poetry in motion.
The blue torrents of Huka
As we stood watching the falls, droplets misting our faces, I realised New Zealand isn’t just a destination—it’s an emotion. It stirs awe and respect in equal measure. One moment it shows you the fury of nature, and the next, it cradles you in cultural warmth.
And so, this chapter of our journey closed—not with an exclamation, but a deep, quiet breath of gratitude.
Away in the lush hills of New Zealand’s North Island, the Waitomo Glowworm Caves offer a breathtaking, almost surreal experience. In this post, we share our unforgettable journey through the glowing underworld—highlighting the ethereal beauty, fascinating geology, and a boat ride that felt like drifting through the galaxy itself.
**
It’s not every day that you find yourself in total darkness, floating quietly through a cathedral of stars—underground. But that’s exactly what we experienced at the Waitomo Glowworm Caves, one of New Zealand’s most magical natural wonders.
Waitomo, a small town in the Waikato region, is famous for its network of limestone caves and the tiny bioluminescent creatures that live in them: Arachnocampa luminosa, the native New Zealand glowworm. We visited the brightest of these caves, one that has even played host to the legendary Sir David Attenborough during the filming of one of his BBC documentaries. That fact alone raised our expectations—and the cave delivered in spectacular fashion.
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As we entered the cave, we found ourselves in a world carved over millions of years. Stalactites and stalagmites stood like silent sentinels in a cool, damp chamber. Another part of the system featured truly astonishing limestone formations, some resembling frozen waterfalls, others like delicate curtains suspended in time.
But nothing prepared us for the glowworm grotto.
We stepped quietly onto a small boat, guided by a rope in pitch darkness. There were no torches, no artificial lights—just the sound of gentle water and the soft echo of a distant underground waterfall. Then, as our eyes adjusted, the ceiling of the cave revealed itself: a galaxy of living lights. Thousands upon thousands of glowworms dotted the darkness, shining blue-green like a perfectly clear night sky.
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We sat in awe, heads tilted back, silently gliding through this dreamlike world. The experience was not only visually stunning but oddly humbling. It reminded us of how much wonder still hides inside nature, waiting to be discovered by us.
The boat turned just before the waterfall; the roar of the falling water had become fully audible; then slowly made its way back. It was one of those rare moments where no one spoke, everyone too spellbound to interrupt the magic.
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The Waitomo caves are a powerful reminder of the slow, silent work of nature and the strange beauty of life in the dark. If you’re ever in New Zealand, this is a journey not to be missed.
For those interested in learning more, the official Waitomo Glowworm Caves website offers great insights, and showcases just how enchanting these creatures can be.
Final Tip: Book early and wear warm clothes—it gets chilly underground! Based on out own experience we would recommend you opt for a guided tour to hear more about the fascinating biology and geology of the region.
“The adventure begins at the edge of the Shire — welcome to Hobbiton!”
As long-time admirers of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit trilogies, visiting the real-life locations where these epic tales were brought to life had always been a dream. So, when we planned our trip to New Zealand, a visit to Hobbiton — the iconic Shire of Frodo and Bilbo Baggins — was a non-negotiable stop. We simply couldn’t leave Middle-earth behind without stepping into its most charming corner.
Hobbiton is nestled in the heart of Matamata, a region of lush pastures and gently rolling hills on New Zealand’s North Island. It was here, in the late 1990s, that director Peter Jackson conducted aerial surveys in search of the perfect location for the Shire. Legend has it that when his team spotted the Alexander family farm, it was love at first sight. The unspoiled beauty of the land — its sweeping meadows, mature trees, and bucolic charm — was exactly what Tolkien had described in his books.
“A view straight out of Tolkien’s imagination — rolling hills dotted with hobbit homes.”
Initially, the Alexanders weren’t too keen on turning part of their farm into a movie set. But with some persuasion (and an undisclosed agreement), they eventually agreed. And so, the world’s most beloved village of hobbits came into being. One delightful piece of trivia we learned during our visit was that Peter Jackson ran out of funds during the initial stages of development. To keep the project going, he approached the New Zealand government, who in turn had the New Zealand Army assist with the early groundwork — an unusual but heartwarming collaboration that helped build movie magic.
Our tour began with a tranquil ride in a golf cart through the countryside. As we crested a hill and caught our first glimpse of the Shire, a wave of excitement washed over us. There they were — the familiar round doors, grassy rooftops, and colorful gardens tucked into the hillsides. Every corner of Hobbiton was bursting with life and detail, from miniature wheelbarrows and rustic lanterns to tiny clotheslines with hobbit-sized laundry flapping in the breeze.
“Every round door tells a story — could this be a baker’s home or a gardener’s cottage?”
We explored the Shire with childlike wonder, moving from one hobbit hole to the next. Each home had its own character and charm — some for bakers, some for fishmongers, each with a story hinted at through props and signs. The stone bridge with its iconic double arches, the waterwheel gently turning by the mill, and the peaceful lake all brought scenes from the films vividly to mind.
“The iconic bridge where Gandalf once rode into the Shire — picture perfect.”
A true highlight was visiting the inside of Frodo Baggins’ house. Walking through the rooms, we could almost imagine him pacing about, deep in thought, the weight of the Ring heavy in his pocket.
“Stepping into Frodo’s world — the journey truly begins here.”
Although we couldn’t go inside Bilbo’s house, Bag End, just seeing it up close — with its iconic green door and lush garden — was magical in itself.
“Bag End in all its glory — the green door that launched an adventure.”
And then came the perfect ending: a visit to the Green Dragon Inn. Stepping inside, we were welcomed by a roaring fire, wooden beams, and the unmistakable coziness of a true hobbit gathering place. We ordered a round of their specially brewed ales and sat by the hearth, sipping slowly and soaking in the atmosphere. It truly felt like we had been transported into Tolkien’s world.
Raising a mug of Hobbit ale at the Green Dragon — a toast to the Shire!”
Our visit to Hobbiton was not just a tour — it was an experience, a nostalgic walk through a world that had enchanted us for years. If you’re ever in New Zealand, take the detour to Matamata. Whether you’re a die-hard fan or just someone who appreciates storytelling, nature, and craftsmanship, the Shire will leave you spellbound.
“One for the memory books — peace, beauty, and a touch of magic.”
Porto greeted us like an old friend with a tale to tell. Perched on the cliffs of the Douro River, its charming houses, adorned with colorful azulejos, cascaded down towards the water, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Overhead, the majestic Dom Luís I Bridge, an iron marvel designed by a student of Gustave Eiffel, stretched across the river, connecting the historic heart of Porto to Vila Nova de Gaia.
With every step on its cobbled streets, we felt transported to a different era—one where history, literature, and music wove together in an enchanting dance. Had we unknowingly stepped into a storybook town? It certainly felt that way.
A walk through History
Porto’s origins date back to Roman times when it was known as Portus Cale—a name that would eventually shape the very identity of Portugal. The city has seen centuries of maritime explorations, witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and remained resilient through wars and revolutions. Yet, despite its rich past, Porto doesn’t merely live in history; it embraces the present with a dynamic energy that makes it one of Europe’s most captivating destinations.
Wandering through its labyrinth of streets, we stumbled upon grand baroque churches, lively squares, and hidden corners filled with stories. But among all its treasures, one place stood out—Livraria Lello, a bookshop that seemed to pulse with an almost magical energy.
Where Magic and Literature collide
If there was ever a bookstore that felt like it belonged in the world of Harry Potter, Livraria Lello was it. The moment we stepped inside, we were mesmerized. The towering bookshelves, the elaborate wood carvings, and the intricate stained-glass ceiling bathed the room in a golden glow. But the real showstopper? The sweeping crimson staircase—elegant, almost alive, as if it had a mind of its own.
It was easy to see why J.K. Rowling, once an English teacher in Porto, found inspiration here. It is said that the Hogwarts moving staircases were born from this very place. As we traced our fingers along the wooden railings, it wasn’t hard to imagine young witches and wizards bustling about, spellbooks in hand.
Porto’s literary magic doesn’t stop there. Even beyond Rowling’s influence, the city has long been a haven for writers, poets, and dreamers. In many ways, its winding streets, misty evenings, and old-world charm make it the perfect setting for a fantastical tale.
A Sip of Tradition – The World of Port Wine
Leaving behind the world of books, we set off to indulge in another of Porto’s legendary offerings—Port wine. A short walk across the Dom Luís I Bridge took us to Vila Nova de Gaia, home to the centuries-old wine cellars that have made Porto famous.
The sweet, fortified wine that bears the city’s name has been produced here since the 17th century. We toured one of the many historic lodges, where enormous wooden barrels lined the dimly lit cellars, aging gracefully over time. The scent of oak, fruit, and a hint of spice filled the air as we sipped on rich ruby, tawny, and vintage varieties, each one telling a story of the Douro Valley’s sun-drenched vineyards.
The experience was more than just a tasting—it was a journey through time, where ancient traditions met modern refinement. With every sip, we felt a deeper connection to the land and the generations of winemakers who had perfected their craft.
Fado – The Soulful Sound of Portugal
As the sun began to set over Porto, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, we found ourselves drawn to yet another defining element of Portuguese culture—Fado music.
Fado, meaning fate, is the heart and soul of Portugal’s musical heritage. Rooted in deep emotion, it tells stories of longing, nostalgia, and the bittersweet beauty of life. We entered a small, candlelit Fado house, where a singer, draped in black, took the stage alongside a guitarist.
As the first notes of the Portuguese guitar rang out, a hush fell over the room. Then came the voice—haunting, powerful, and filled with raw emotion. The lyrics spoke of sailors lost at sea, of distant lovers, of dreams that never came true. Though we didn’t understand every word, the melody transcended language, speaking directly to the heart.
It was a moment of pure magic—one that seemed to suspend time. When the final chord faded into silence, there was a collective sigh in the room, as if everyone had just awoken from a dream.
Porto, You have truly cast a Spell
As we strolled back along the riverbank, the twinkling lights reflecting on the Douro’s surface, we couldn’t help but feel enchanted. Porto had given us so much—history, magic, melody, and flavor—all wrapped in its unique charm.
It is a city that whispers tales of the past, yet sings with the vibrancy of the present. A city where Harry Potter’s magic lingers in the air, where every sip of wine is a tribute to centuries of tradition, and where the sound of Fado echoes through the night like a poet’s last verse.
Porto, you have truly cast a spell on us. Until we meet again!
“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed Nomini tuo da gloriam“ ( Latin). In English it translares to : Not to us, Lord, not to us, but to Thy name give the glory
Tomar in the heart of Portugal, is a town steeped in history, mystery, and legend. During our recent visit, it transported us back to the era of the Knights Templar, the Crusades, and the Church Order.
The Convent of Christ, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a masterpiece of medieval architecture. A Templar stronghold, it was both a church and a fortress with a unique blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Renaissance styles.
We entered the Convent and as we walked through the corridors, we could almost see in our mind’s eye the knights riding in. As the legend goes, the knights would even pray while on horseback as they chose never to be caught off guard and remained ever ready to fight on behalf of the church. This was the reason for the spectacular Templar’s round church with its high archways being built in the heart of the convent.
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The Convent of Christ and its structure was inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The latter had been built at the traditional site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial and thus it is no surprise that it was in this city that the legend of the Knights Templar started.
The Knights in their white mantles and a Red Cross emblazoned on the chest were arguably the best fighting units on the side of Christianity in the Crusades. For centuries they remained committed to defending Jerusalem as also offering safe passage to Christian pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land.
The Knight Templars achieved the zenith of their fame in the 12th century when in the Battle of Montgisard, six hundred odd knights beat the redoubtable Muslim general Saladin and his army numbering twenty-six thousand!
The other noteworthy aspect of the Templars Order was that it became the banker to Europe from a Papal sanction. Knights desirous of joining the order donated large amounts, nobles going to Crusades would place their wealth and businesses with the Templars for safe keeping. This huge aggrandizement of wealth though led to its eventual downfall. It is said that in the early fourteenth century, the French Monarch Philip IV, deeply indebted to the Templars and unable to pay back, started to arrest, torture, and execute the French knights.
After the dissolution of the Order, the Templars found refuge in Portugal under a new ‘Order of Christ.’ Our guide spoke of the secret knowledge the order brought in and how that influenced Portugal’s Age of Discoveries, including Vasco da Gama’s travel to India. Ostensibly, much of the so called ‘secret knowledge’ of the Templars had been acquired from Arabs during their travels to Jerusalem and beyond.
For us, Tomar wasn’t just about history; it was more about the Knights Templars’ valour and enduring legacy. Their closely guarded secrets included that of the Holy Grail which forms the basis of Dan Brown’s famed thriller ‘The Da Vinci Code’. In the book, the Knights Templar order is portrayed as the guardians of vital information relating to Christianity spanning over one millennia.
A New Beginning 