The familiar smell of ethanol that I had picked up earlier that day when stopping for gas was at first overwhelming when we entered Yerevan. We were staying almost an hour outside of the capital in Ujan, a village in the province of Aragatsotn, and until this point aside from my travel companions I had enjoyed the solitude of the mountainous landscape. The contrast between the city and all that's outside of it was notable; after the collapse of the Soviet Union vast resources have been poured into building a cosmopolitan city out of Yerevan, and with tree-lined avenues and grandiose buildings like those found in Republic Square, you can see the Parisian streets the city's architects were trying to mirror. It's only when you venture away from the quaint squares and trendy cafés and into the district of Nor Nork, the last remaining Soviet housing projects, that you get a true understanding of how life once was here.

Outside of the capital city improving the standards of infrastructure, health and social care seem to have been overlooked, resulting in around one million Armenians, many of whom are from the poorer regions, leaving for pastures greener - even if that means without legal immigrant status. Our temporary home in Ujan was a world away from Yerevan and its traffic-filled streets. 

However, despite the economic disparities Armenia certainly shares one heart. The people who we encountered throughout our travels were full of life and with an incredible sense of generosity and kindness. Food was a central theme: an offering, an act of celebration, moments to break bread and share stories with one another. Traditional sharing plates comprised of khorovats, fresh salads, lavash, dolma, cured meats and pickles, and pouri havov pilaf (roast chicken with rice) adorned tables and would become quickly devoured in between the ongoing clink of glasses filled with local cognac as we'd say cheers for various things - a practice I myself know well from my own Armenian family.

Maybe it was this familiarity, the unexplained understanding of a place where I was a stranger yet connected by history, that made me feel welcome wherever I went. After all this was my ancestral homeland, and even though my family had left 100 years before I could still feel a part of them and their story in this now not so alien land. 

Some photos from a weekend spent wandering in Copenhagen. 

At the beginning of February Stephanie from Angel's Belly asked if I would fly out to Benahavís, a small mountain village some 7km inland from the southern coast of Spain, to shoot their first yoga and brunch retreat.

Stephanie set up Angel's Belly as a way to reach out to people with a shared interest in healthy eating, and with an aim to spread a healthy message and help educate others to feel empowered to make better choices about their bodies and what they put in them. Recently she launched Angel's Belly retreats, the first of which took place at the Gran Hotel Benahavís. Guests started off with a yoga class, followed by a plant-based brunch club with things like cold-pressed juices, cashew yoghurt parfait, homemade granola, baked quinoa-stuffed mushrooms and a variety of plant-based/vegan spreads and breads on offer. To finish there was a lecture given on the benefits of eating a plant-based diet and a few myth-busters on foods and alternatives that are promoted as being good for you. It was hugely inspiring to spend time with a group of passionate people who take a considered and holistic approach to eating and personal well-being, and I came away with a few new opinions and a lot more knowledge. 

I spent a few days in Benahavís exploring the village and surrounding area - the landscape was nothing like I have seen in Spain before: brooding, mountainous, wild. The village itself is perched on patch of mountain that stays sun-soaked through til dusk, with steep, winding cobbled streets lined with white-washed houses. There was a certain charm in its isolated location, I felt as if I'd stumbled across a secret place that no one else knew about. 

Below are some of my favourite photos from the project.

I travelled to New York twice last year to visit my brother, here are some photos from those trips. 

Head 250 miles north of the Arctic Circle and you’ll find an island surrounded by mountains under the cover of darkness: Tromsø. As capital of Northern Norway and home to breathtaking fjords, snow-covered landscapes and some of the best Auroral activity in the world, this is a destination that you’d be hard-pressed to forget.

Given Tromsø’s northerly position, between late November and January the sun remains below the horizon resulting in almost two months of polar nights, enveloping all life in a fascinating faux light that glows blue. It is quite an experience in itself, yet it’s another kind of light that brings in visitors, and one that comes and goes as it pleases: the Aurora Borealis. The city’s geographical position means your odds of witnessing this natural phenomenon are fairly high, but never guaranteed. Taking my chances and with my camera at the ready, I set off on my own chase of the Aurora and found much more than I had bargained for.

And Then There Was(n’t) Light

Landing into darkness just after 10pm, we couldn’t tell the difference at our new latitude. You’d be forgiven for being dubious about whether the sun could cease to exist until you see it for yourself. My body clock switched off without the usual rise of the sun and I managed to sleep through until midday, awaking only to find a colourless sky and the city’s snowy, lamp-lit streets. I began to find the notion of daytime a distant memory. 

Dramatic as I was, I took to the city and headed across Bruvegen bridge  to get a better look at my surroundings. Battered by Arctic winds I stopped midway and felt a sense of being on the world’s edge; cold yet humbled. Suddenly the lack of light didn’t seem to matter so much, the landscape had more than made up for what was missing.

Reaching the other side of the bridge our next stop took us 420m above sea level up to mount Fløya to see the city below us sparkle. Up here you could see the sun light the sky from behind mountain peaks, and without a watch it could pass as the break of day. I contemplated this before the light slipped away, returning us to darkness for the next 20 hours.

Dog Sledding in the Lyngen Alps

Anticipating 3-4 hours of light, the Lyngen Alps required an early start to get to. After travelling a little over an hour we arrived in Svelsby town where we got weather-ready suited and booted before we met our dogs. We seemed to get the seal of approval after a few affectionate dog noises were exchanged between us and we concluded that they liked us. Apprehensions at bay, we set off into the blue light.

Quickly we were out in the wild, encased by vast white plains and crystallised mountains – the experience was exhilarating. I could have gone off course then and there, fulfilling my Iron Will childhood dreams, but before I could try and ya! the dogs where the wind would take me, the light told us it was time to head back.

We began our short journey across the fjord to Tromsø, this time welcoming the darkness with open arms and hopeful thoughts.

Solar Winds and Silence

‘Like most women, Aurora is a little temperamental’ our guide told us as we clambered onto the bus wielding tripods and gear. I agreed to disagree with his statement and kept a firm eye out of the window.

One hour into our drive north to Kvaløya Island we made our first stop by a lake where the Aurora was out in full force, filling the night’s sky with a dusting of green. I fumbled with my camera as our guide took pleasure in explaining the science behind the lights, failing to capture what was my first experience of them.

Eventually complaints from the group were made about the light pollution coming from nearby houses, so back on the bus it was to find another spot where we wouldn’t be bothered by lights in a place where the next sunrise was 4 weeks away.

20 minutes, winding roads, daring not to look away from the window in case she vanished without a goodbye.

But then we made it. On a curve of the mountain we stopped at a point overlooking the sea, and there she was. This time bold and unafraid, first snail-like, trailing across the star-studded sky, then dancing furiously. Greens and reds, then greens, then reds; we all watched without saying a word.

It was just her and us, and it was silent.