Try a massage. The staff here have all been trained at the brand’s international spa academy, located just down the road, and they use traditional Ayurvedic oils and herbs to address everything from muscular tension to dehydrated skin and improved circulation.” Blind Rivet Nut Factory Paul Kennedy/Getty Images Head straight for the jungle. Though the mangrove forests and white, powdery Hat Sai Kaeo beach to the north are absolutely worth seeing, the area can also get a little touristy, thanks to its proximity to Phuket Airport, along with several mega-resorts along the water. Motorcycle is the preferred transportation mode on this island, as it allows easier access to off-road beaches and the island’s smaller neighborhoods (just be sure to keep on the left-hand side of the road, and always wear a helmet). Once you’re here, choose from diving, nature hikes, massages, or even a day trip out to the surrounding Phi Phi Islands, Similan Islands, or the narrow sea caves of Phang Nga Bay. Instead, try Khao Phra Taew National Park, on the other side of the island. If you’re feeling adventurous, try hopping on a Songthaew, the blue buses that locals use.

The biggest misconception about the island? “That Phuket equals Patong,” laments Schmidt. As a travel destination, Phuket is a breeze to navigate. It buffers one of Phuket’s last remaining virgin rainforests, and is a natural, unsoiled habitat for wildlife like langurs, barking deer, and monkeys (there’s even a dedicated research facility for rehabilitated gibbons).. Here’s how to plan the perfect vacation in Phuket. For instance, on an intimate, guided walking tour of Old Town Phuket, you’ll learn how the island made its fortune in the tin industry, and was a hub for traders and merchants from all over Southeast Asia, particularly China. Layan Beach, which is at the end of Bang Tao beach on the west side of the island, is a popular spot, with good reason: it backs up to a thick forest, offering plenty of shady nooks to shield sandy bodies from the hot sun. Sirinat National Park, one of two national parks in Phuket, covers an eight-mile stretch of beach along the island’s northwestern edge. Further away from the built-up shops and tourist area is the alluring Kata Noi Beach, which sits near the island’s southern tip, at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac.April 03, 2017 The case for spending a long weekend in Phuket (the most infamous party island in Thailand) is easy. After some real R&R? The options for a traditional Thai-style massage here are limitless — though some are more thorough than others. As a rule, he encourages travelers to venture outside what he calls Phuket’s “party city,” with the goal of exploring the lush nature and unique cultural heritage, rather than just noisy bars and hostels. At the luxe Banyan Tree Phuket, for example, you’ll be rubbed down in an open-air pavilion, while waves lap up from the Andaman. Courtesy of Banyan Tree Phuket Skip the party in Patong. Getting there is even easier — with 59 flights from Bangkok per day, travelers can show up pretty much on a whim. '“Very few tourists know this park,” says Schmitt, “but it offers some of the best hiking opportunities in a real jungle setting. Polonskiy/Getty Images Cruise around like a local. “Especially when time is not of importance, it’s nice to hop on and just cruise along. And let’s not forget the beaches — thanks to its dense, forested landscape, this “pearl of the Andaman” offers an abundance of well-hidden, romantic white sand beaches to choose from.

These architectural gems, marked by a deceptively narrow facade that opens onto a spacious inner courtyard, date back several centuries, and many still contain family businesses that have been passed down for generations. Charming Thalang Road reveals scrumptious Thai-Chinese fusion restaurants, as well as the beautifully intact Sino-Portuguese “shophouse” buildings. The whole island is accessible by road, and none of the beaches require an admission fee.” Kevin Miller/Getty Images Pick a beach, any beach. “It’s one of the cheapest ways to get around, and it goes to all the main beaches,” says Nathan Schmidt, 26, a diving instructor with Aloha Diving in Rawai, Phuket. Even more secluded: Ao Yon Beach, a sleepy little cove slung with coconut trees, and blissfully free of amenities and resorts. There’s fresh seafood, great weather, friendly people, and tons of options for travelers on every budget

Residence is wherever you happen to live: domicile is where you hope to die. It was long the favored retirement home of majors in the British Army, and it still has an air of West Britishness about it—in the laid-out squares, statues, and vistas. Falling as in sleep, in green and opaque dream." Back in the Dublin hills, it's the names that take my fancy—Glenmalure, Blessington, Stepaside—names begging to tell a story. She's a nurse, she'll know. Depending on your point of view, it's bungalow blitz or bungalow bliss." The leach of emigration has been stanched: our greatest export is no longer our people. That moment before you leap when you don't entirely believe you'll dare. Other plants had more prosaic names—hedge garlic and butcher's broom—that hinted at a time before the coming of supermarkets and the weekly shop. You cannot but hush your voice. Nowadays, it houses the James Joyce Museum, for the great man lived there a time, and Ulysses has its opening scene set there. Townlands that in my youth were but names on a map are places once more. Ears fill with the roaring quiet. And I cannot stand here but I feel it in my bones, the urge to seek and be who I am. There is a legal nicety between residence and domicile. The demesne grounds are golf courses—this land is mad for golf, and the landscape is patched by greens, nature's little tidy spaces. We have traveled the globe, but we have rarely explored. At that age words are a private treasure, and I loved the naming of things, of plants in particular—gentian, fritillary, spurge. But if I close my eyes I conjure the sea, and I'm far, far out, released from my bounds, riding the billowing waves. The neighborhood holds some of the most expensive real estate in Europe, and the village of Dalkey, in particular, has restaurants to match. But on this present visit, it is not from England that I return, but from the wilds of Ireland's west. There naked flesh would casually be displayed and studiously be ignored, while we in our schoolboy way spoke of serious things and homework. (No emigrant may return otherwise—it's the cardinal rule. It's as though half the country has yet to catch up. Its shaft is like a beam from heaven, as though God searched creation. The past startled you in the sudden stones of old cottages, long since nettled over, where generations of families had lived be-fore moving away to settle the far corners of the globe. Southward they range to the Wicklows, the true heights; as I grew older I would venture there, tent on my back and dog at my side. B. I'd take it in mind to trace a river to its source or search the highest ridge. The round tower pokes the sky. A freezer of a sea that punches the breath from out of you. A pepper-pot tower looms behind, and beyond stretch the craggy rocks: it's a place where man and nature mix with and lose each other, one in the other like the land in the sea. In the mist it hangs, it seeps below in the suck of turf. But when I wrote my own novel of the sea, I could think of no surer place to set it, with the great man looking over my shoulder. Country pubs have a charm, and sometimes a hazard, all their own. That said, the Irish have an odd relationship with the new tiger economy. Its accent is a shade posher than the nasal drawl of Dublin, and we natives pride ourselves on our clear consonants and spoken vowels—a product of the sea breeze, no doubt, for the sea is everywhere here. In my boyhood it was a sleepy resort of Georgian villas and convalescent hotels. Well, my domicile is down there, within the salt of the waves, in the shadow of these hills, half lost and half found, next door to my city, between the mountains and the sea. Sometimes, indeed, we swam. "Sure we do often climb the hill of an evening to look at it. Such storms here you wouldn't believe, and I loved their lawless solitude. A city built for flight from the world. Sundays we walked the Dún Laoghaire pier. The hills about are the home now of our current glitterati. My particular mountains were the Dublin hills. The pastures give way to bracken, green and gold; the bracken gives way to the high moors—their gorse and heather and the suck of turf underfoot.) Today I return to my childhood home, to south County Dublin, where the mountains call to the unlistening sea.

The sun seeks its path through the clouds. They encroach a mile on the sea, and the wind is unforgiving of your trespass. His books were still frowned upon in Holy Ireland. Nothing dismayed that spirit, neither kindness nor crowbars. "Oh, that,' she said, realization dawning.. We're in gentry land. Glendalough at last, the bourne of my journey. For on a blue day there's sufficient of the Mediterranean here to warrant the names on the signposts: Sorrento Park, the Vico Road. Often we strolled as far as the Forty Foot, then a gentlemen-only bathing place. But it's pleasant, in the spray of the waves, to look back on the town, with its three spires (Catholic, Protestant, and municipal) and its parade of seafront houses, palely painted, that carry your gaze to Sandycove, with its rocks and outcrops and huddled spills of sand. rivet nut You follow the coast road to Bray, then at last you turn inland. On a summer's day it's a heavenly release. And there is something sacred about the spot. The signs stretch, deceitfully, the length of the building, and often I've entered by the wrong door. Shaw was born down the road, in Dalkey; Playboy Synge lived up the road, in Glenageary." I objected that she must surely have seen it herself: some refinery or other disturbing the familiar view. The sea lies behind, the sparkling reckless beckoning sea; before you loom the mountains. In those hills history was ever present. In summer we sun-basked, in winter we dodged the waves. I asked my aunt what it was and she looked at me all confused, then said, "I'll ask Nora. For Dún Laoghaire was the port where the emigrants sailed away. Joyce, and others, too, for this area is steeped in literary history. You saw it in the bleak roads that traverse the bogs, the "famine roads" laid by the hungry who had asked for bread. In my boyhood, a wonder garden of whispers and shades. There's a tendency to regret what has been lost, but as the writer Maeve Binchy puts it, "The good old times are now. In the intervening years I discovered myself to be something of a writer, and I have been able to come back to my country with the tokens of a small success. And come to Enniskerry, a Hobbiton kind of village nestling in the glens, where it's good to take a sup of something in the local pub. Here at last are the wild moors. And it is rather a joke to walk those piers.

The cities reached out their roads to trample it. Triumph, I suppose, is every teenager's quest, and many a lonely triumph I recorded in that rugged land. In the blustering wind, we listened to the band playing"Come Back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen" and the grand resonant mournful horn of the mailboat in reply. You can tell by the demesne walls—high, smooth stone affairs that hedge the road. Bono lives here and others from U2, and Enya and Van Morrison. I went to school in Sandycove, and lunch hours and after school we lounged on the seawall there. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, the thrill of the deep, and the mystery of the deep reaching up to take me. He raised cities and walls against it. Of a morning their countenance told the day's weather: blue or gray, and rain was on its way; vivid and etched against the light, and the rain, God willing, might hold off till evening.) It's a homely coast of fishing harbors, sandy half-moons where the hills sweep to the shore, inlets of wind and weed and tide—marvelous places for a child to grub in with fishing net and collecting jar. If you close your eyes you can still picture Buck Mulligan sauntering the Forty Foot steps to take his morning dip in the "snotgreen," the "scrotumtightening" sea. I'll always remember the grace of her apology, that she had only bottles to give, but—her face brightening—"There's a pub next door: maybe you might try there?" We had entered the lady's sitting room. Take the coast road from Dublin, six miles south, and you come to Dún Laoghaire, which marks the beginning of what rather grandly is termed the Dublin Riviera. We take the high road home and all of a sudden we're in the mountains true. In their lee, like an animal pacing its cage, the water chops and changes. Once, I came into a pub with a friend, and there was nobody about, so we sat and awaited the lady of the house. It drove the foreigner mad for liberty, or wicked to stamp that liberty out. Our journey has always been a leaving-from, never a coming-to. My parents waved their handkerchiefs and watched in sadness. My sea then was Dublin Bay, reaching south from Dún Laoghaire, the old port of Dublin.

A river trills beside us, oaks and sycamores arch overhead: we drive through a fairy-light of trees. In those hills, knowledge seemed always at hand, a revelation that was just—always just—beyond the next brow. (Pronounce it Dun Leary and you'll get along fine. She appeared eventually, a little flustered, and we ordered two pints of stout. I was about 12 when I first took to rambling these hills. Yeats lived here; G. There's not a soul in sight, not a car on the road, not the smoke of one lone cottage: bewildering to think that Dublin, with all its bustle and life, is but an hour's drive beyond. Our utilitarian age, when one mayn't take a walk but it be sponsored for some good cause. We schoolboys, of course, had never heard of Joyce.May 04, 2009 I was brought up between the mountains and the sea, and those spirits still haunt me: the urge in the mountains to search and find, and in the sea the longing to lose myself. I suppose that even as a child I knew—how could I not?—and my father knew, as so tightly he gripped my hand, that one day I too must take that boat. Here they sought God's face and found it in the sun on the lake, in the leaves of the trees that glisten in the rain with a silver all their own. Deep in the "glen of two lakes," and shadowed on all sides by mountains, lies an ancient monastic settlement. The riviera stretches on through Bullock with its tumbling rocks (good for crabbing), Dalkey and its seven castles (you may count them), Killiney Hill where the trees sweep precipitously to the strand, and where the Dublin Riviera properly earns its title. Swimming holes, too, where I learned to dive; and learned also that no matter the crowd, you're always alone in the sea. Now, on these lower slopes, the new Irish prosperity is there for all to see. That is the Gaelic way. Sanctity clings here; it's in the ivy and stone. The regular bathers at the Forty Foot, who swim the year long, are known colloquially as daily communicants. The chill is soon overcome, and you float on the skin of the water. Nowadays, invariably, the Big House has been transformed into a country hotel, with comfy sofas and honest fare. Such ancient dedication to the ultimate: our age is crass and futile in comparison. There's a spirit in these mountains that cries for freedom. Bronze and purple and gold they stretch, the colors of tweed, and the rust grass of the turf. The yachts and pleasure craft nudge one another, for all the world like an audience sharing a joke. Glendalough thrived in stone and treasure when Dublin but hoveled in mud.

The foreigner never touched it. I have known the tepid delights of the Mediterranean, and the wild Californian surf, but there is nothing the equal of a rock dive into the Irish Sea. They were raised to prevent idle contemplation of the mansion within, the Big House of Irish lore. You've barely time to bless yourself—Father, Son, the Holy Ghost—you lift, drop, splatter. The lights are lovely shining in the night. Streams ramble through the ruins: all is birdsong and river-rush. The boat carried me to England, where the lights of London brightly called. Recently I visited my farming relatives in County Clare, and driving along the Shannon I was surprised by a giant rig-like affair newly parked in the estuary. The town's glory is its harbor, or rather the piers that enclose the harbor: two cradling arms that reach to cuddle a calm from the sea. That pepper-pot tower—it's a Martello, one of the series of batteries that dot this coast, remnants of the old Napoleonic scares. And it's typical of those gentry that they weren't content to own the land, but presumed to own the view of it too. Here is the Gaelic heart of this land

Seldom has the truism about geography being destiny rung truer than in Slovenia. This spring, as war broke out in Kosovo, 350 miles to the southeast, my wife and I were making our way to Ljubljana, the capital of what was once a republic in the former Yugoslavia. Although Ljubljana (pronounced "lyoob-lyah-na") wasn't at all touched by the ravages of war, the spirit of NATO was, one might say, in the air. During late-night strolls along the banks of the Ljubljanica River, we heard the dull roar of NATO bombers making their way from the nearby Aviano Air Base, in Italy, to targets in Serbia. Nobody seemed worried by the disruption; in fact, all eyes turned skyward and small smiles broke out on the faces of passers-by. The Slovenes' own armed struggle for freedom took place nearly a decade ago, but they are still wary of Yugoslav president Slobodan Milosevic and company.

Having won independence in 1991 and recognition from the European Community and the United Nations in 1992, Slovenia is now busily preparing itself for the ultimate acknowledgment of its postmodern cosmopolitanism: membership in NATO. Slovenes have always resisted being lumped together with their more tempestuous Balkan neighbors. Under Tito (the half-Slovene, half-Croat leader who held the former Yugoslavia together for 40 years), they prided themselves on being the most Western republic in a country that was, in turn, the freest and most Western part of the Eastern bloc. Unfortunately, Slovenia is still perceived as the northernmost region of the war-torn Balkans, a misconception that has resulted in a large number of cancellations by jittery European tourists. It didn't help when, for insurance purposes, Lloyd's of London declared the entire eastern Adriatic coastline—on which Slovenia has 28 miles of gorgeous resorts and beaches—a "war zone." The terrible irony is that Slovenia is probably the most peaceful country I've ever visited—a bucolic micro-paradise about the size of Connecticut, almost half covered by dense forests (where the Slovene partisans spent World War II hiding from the Nazis) and surrounded by snow-topped mountains that rival anything in Austria or Italy. weld studs Manufacturers Although I'd traveled all around Central Europe in the early nineties trying to divine the shape of the post-Communist era, I don't think I could even have found Ljubljana on a map. Then, as now, it was one of Europe's best-kept secrets: beautiful, friendly, inexpensive, and manageable—a bona fide city, with less attitude than Vienna, fewer crowds than Prague, and better food and nightlife than Budapest. If, as conventional wisdom has it, the Muse took up residence in Paris during the 1920's, New York in the 1950's, and Prague in the 1990's, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she makes Ljubljana her next home. Awash in history, Ljubljana conveys a marvelous sense of as-yet-untapped potential. Were I a young novelist looking for an inspirational setting in which to complete my masterpiece, this is where I'd go.

Die-hard Disney fans know nothing compares to visiting a Disney park that's different from the one you’re used to. That feeling that everything is familiar yet new is what causes attraction fanatics to crisscross the globe in search of the latest rides, coolest hotels, and can’t-miss castles. If you’ve never been to Disneyland Paris—or, better yet, still call it EuroDisney—there’s plenty more at the French park than what you may be envisioning. Planning a trip to the City of Light and wondering if Disneyland Paris is worth a visit? Let’s just say it’s the only place in the world you can eat dinner at a Mickey Mouse rodeo and experience "Ratatouille" in real life. As Disneyland Paris approaches its 25th anniversary, here is a primer on what this European park even is, and why you should absolutely go if you get the chance. 1 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Sleeping Beauty Castle Disneyland Paris is home to two theme parks—Disneyland Park and Walt Disney Studios Park—as well as multiple hotels, entertainment offerings, and restaurants. It’s remarkably close to the Paris city center, making a trip to Disneyland extremely easy via suburban commuter trains or car. In terms of design, Disneyland Park is similar to Disneyland and Magic Kingdom back in the states, but there are plenty of differences. Disneyland Paris’ stunning Sleeping Beauty Castle has to be seen to be believed. Not only is there a moat in front used for nighttime entertainment, but there is a dragon living beneath it. Advertisement 2 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Space Mountain Beloved rides are different at Disneyland Paris, too. Space Mountain goes upside-down, the Haunted Mansion is known as the more frightening Phantom Manor, and It’s A Small World has additional scenes. 3 of 10 BERTRAND GUAY/Getty Images Mad Hatter's Tea Cups Unlike the stateside parks, Disneyland Park is weather-proof.

Two walkway arcades parallel to Main Street, U.S.A. make it easy to navigate in inclement weather, and the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cups are somewhat enclosed. Advertisement 4 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Rock n' Roller Coaster There’s no Hollywood Studios at Disneyland Paris, but there is a Rock n' Rollercoaster, featuring the high speeds and Aerosmith beats you know and love. Advertisement 5 of 10 BERTRAND GUAY/Getty Images Walt Disney Studio Park Walt Disney Studios Park is Paris’ answer to Disney’s Hollywood Studios, but it is distinctly different from the Walt Disney World park. Here, Hollywood Boulevard is indoors and located within Disney Studio 1, a mock movie sound stage. Advertisement 6 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Ratatouille: The Adventure Disneyland Paris is home to two Pixar attractions that don’t exist anywhere else, The "Finding Nemo"-themed Crush’s Coaster and Ratatouille: The Adventure, both at Walt Disney Studios. Advertisement 7 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Ratatouille Bistro Chez Remy There’s even a "Ratatouille"-themed restaurant, Bistrot Chez Rémy, which "shrinks" guests down to the size of the famous four-legged chef. Advertisement 8 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris Evening Fireworks at Disneyland Paris Disneyland Paris’ entertainment options are delightful, even if you don’t speak the language. CinéMagique at Walt Disney Studios Park is a Martin Short-fronted spectacular, and Disneyland Park’s evening fireworks show is extraordinary. Advertisement weld studs Factory 9 of 10 Razvan/Getty Images Disneyland Hotel Disneyland Paris has seven hotels in total. The most noteworthy is Disneyland Hotel, a beautiful rose-colored Disney resort just steps from Paris’ take on Downtown Disney. Americana plays a big part in the design of Disneyland Paris’ hotels. Disney resorts like Disney’s Hotel Cheyenne, Hotel Santa Fe and Sequoia Lodge are deeply influenced by U.S. national parks and Southwestern styles. The East Coast is on display at these Disney resorts, too. Disney’s Newport Bay Club has Cape Cod written all over it, and Disney’s Hotel New York is styled after the skyscrapers lining the Big Apple. Most Disneyland Paris hotels are walking distance to the entertainment, shopping and dining at Disney Village. Advertisement 10 of 10 Courtesy of Disneyland Paris It's a Small World Pay close attention on this classic ride, because the Paris version features extra scenes you haven't seen before.