Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
We spent a month on the move—across islands, mountains, and desert cities. Eight flights, trains, rental cars, and unfamiliar roads stitched together a route through Southern Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco. What emerged wasn’t just a trip but a series of moments that reshaped how we experience the world as a family.
Mallorca: Salt Air and Slow Mornings
We began in Cala Llombards, a quiet corner of Mallorca defined by limestone cliffs, clear water, and simple pleasures. No resorts. No agenda. Just daily swims, beachside picnics, and the rhythm of slow travel.
One of the highlights: sailing along the north end of the island, watching the coastline unfold in dramatic, jagged layers. The boat gave us a different view of the island—untouched coves, wind-carved stone, and the freedom of open water. For a week, time stretched in the best way.
Southern Spain: History You Can Feel
From Mallorca, we flew into Sevilla, where the scent of orange blossoms lingered in the air and flamenco drifted from quiet courtyards. The city feels like a mosaic—Moorish archways, Gothic cathedrals, tiled fountains, and winding alleys that beg to be explored.
We wandered through the Alcázar, its architecture a living record of the city’s layered past, and crossed bridges into Triana for ceramics and local tapas. Sevilla felt alive in every sense—textured, vivid, soulful.
Granada brought a quieter kind of wonder. The Alhambra is one of those rare places where history humbles you. In its carvings, courtyards, and gardens, you feel the gravity of centuries. The white villages of Andalusia—like Arcos de la Frontera—offered a change of pace: hilltop serenity, whitewashed homes, and long afternoon walks beneath the sun.
Morocco: Echoes of the Past, Energy of the Present
Fes was a long-awaited stop—one I had imagined for years. Having spent time in Aleppo, Syria and Sanaa, Yemen, I was drawn to the enduring spirit of Arab cities with deep historical roots. Fes completed that map for me.
Wandering the medina felt like stepping into a city both ancient and intact. The maze-like streets, centuries-old madrasas, and sound of artisans at work spoke of a living tradition. Fes doesn’t cater to the outsider; it invites you to adapt, to observe, to learn.
Essaouira was a beautiful contrast. Breezy, bright, and easygoing. We stayed at Le Jardin des Douars, tucked into the hills just outside town. There, we learned to cook traditional Moroccan dishes, rode camels beneath a wide sky, and ended each day on a rooftop terrace as the light faded over olive groves and terracotta rooftops.
What Remains
This trip wasn’t about rushing from place to place. It was about being in each one fully—slowing down long enough to notice the details, the patterns, the way people live. Traveling together gave us not just new sights, but new shared memories—ones we’ll carry for years.
We returned with more than photos. We came home with a deeper appreciation for stillness, for difference, for beauty in all its forms. And with a quiet reminder that the best way to understand the world is to walk through it, together.
Movement, Memory, and a Long-Awaited Stay in Southern France
Movement, Memory, and a Long-Awaited Stay in Southern France
Last summer, the world felt like it was finally stretching its legs again, and so did we. After years of cautious travel—testing policies, scanning headlines, and weighing what-ifs—we set out on a 3½ week sprint across Western Europe. It was more ambitious than usual. Less our typical slow-burn kind of trip and more a series of connected moments, stitched together by trains, rental cars, and early-morning wakeups.
We covered a lot of ground, more than we usually would. But the goal was clear: expose the kids to a variety of cultures, landscapes, and languages. From the coastlines to the countryside, bustling cities to quiet hilltop villages, we wanted them to feel the texture of Europe. And they did.
But somewhere along the way, between navigating busy train stations and hunting for family-sized Airbnbs, we found ourselves craving a slower pace again. The kind that lets you settle into a rhythm and really absorb a place. We’ll go back to that next time. One region. One cadence. Fewer check-ins.
Still, one stretch of the journey stood out. A place that didn’t just meet expectations but felt like it had been waiting for us.
In the hills of Southern France, tucked among old stone villages and lavender fields, was the original Dior perfume flower estate. We had tried to book it back in the spring of 2020, before the world hit pause, but the timing hadn’t worked out. This time, it did.
Passing through its gates, it felt as though we’d entered another century. The property carried the weight of history, but it didn’t feel fragile. It felt alive. Roses and jasmine in full bloom, the scent of old-world refinement in the air, and a kind of stillness you can’t find on a map.
For Lindsey and me, it was one of those rare places that immediately slows your heart rate. The kind of place you instinctively want to linger. And we did, if only briefly. We sipped wine at sunset, walked among the flowers that once inspired a legacy, and imagined what it would be like to stay the entire summer.
Maybe someday.
Golden Stone & Slow Pints
Golden Stone and Slow Pints
The Cotswolds feel like they were designed to be wandered through slowly; stone by stone, pint by pint. We spent two weeks tucked into this dreamy stretch of English countryside, crossing six counties without ever really feeling the need to rush.
We settled into a gentle routine: walking from village to village, lingering over lunches in ancient pubs, watching the afternoon light stretch across honey-colored stone. We celebrated Lindsey’s birthday there, met up with dear friends who now call this place home, and left with a few new friendships too; travel has a way of weaving people together like that.
One of the unexpected highlights was discovering Daylesford Organic. What started as a quick visit turned into something closer to admiration. Their entire approach, to food, land, sustainability, and hospitality—felt aligned with everything we’ve been trying to move toward as a family. Thoughtful, intentional, grounded.
Also worth noting: I apparently have a deep and abiding love for vintage Toyota FJs. I found myself stopping to photograph nearly every one we passed. There’s something about seeing them parked beside thatched cottages or tucked under oak trees that just felt right.
We ended the trip with a few days in London. Did the usual London things. Ate well, walked miles, saw old landmarks in new light.
