ReKing

From pirate haven to ecological hotspot, Cuba's "Treasure Island" is a far-flung gem home to some of the Caribbean's rarest animals.

A pirate hideaway, a one time US colony and a biodiverse hotspot home to endangered crocs, parrots, sharks and turtles, Cuba's Isla de la Juventud is an enigma. The Caribbean nation's largest offshore island lies 60 miles south off the mainland and is a comma-shaped arc of palm and pine trees, citrus groves and marble hills that few visitors ever see. 

In centuries past, real pirates of the Caribbean slipped into the island's coves, with boats bearing illicit booty. Today, visitors come from the port of Batabanó, 56km south of Havana, on a three-hour ferry ride that costs $0.50 Cuban Pesos (£0.35) and requires reserving a month in advance, or securing a seat on irregular flights. 

Those who make the journey usually come to dive off the south-western tip, Punta Francés, staying at the island's one hotel. Or, they tour the island's panopticon prison, Presidio Modelo (now an eerie museum), where Cuba's late Communist leader Fidel Castro was incarcerated in 1953 for attacking army barracks – an event that triggered the 1959 Cuban Revolution. But beyond its few attractions, the island's sugar-soft beaches, unique culture and history, and protected wildlife havens offer a vastly different Cuban experience than the crumbling colonial facades and raucous rum bars of Havana.

When Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic for a second time in 1493, he dropped anchor close to the island that would later prove to be the perfect refuge for pirates. From the 1850s, Francis Drake, Henry Morgan and their ilk ransacked the Spanish Crown's treasure fleet as ships, bulging with gems, silver and spices, sailed past La Isla enroute from the tip of South America to Havana. Because of this, La Isla was dubbed both "Island of Pirates" and "Treasure Island". It was even thought to have inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's classic book, Treasure Island. 

In the late 1970s, Fidel Castro opened dozens of universities on the island for foreign students, and in 1978, the island was renamed Isla de la Juventud (Isle of Youth) from Isla de Pinos (Isle of Pines). The schools closed in the late 1990s, but their legacy remains in the island's name.

Back when Columbus' caravel sought wood and water on the island, his men glimpsed no other human soul. Ship logs reveal the sea was "covered" with so many turtles of "vast bigness", the air thick with an "abundance" of birds and "immense swarms of butterflies… darkened the air". 

Columbus would still recognise much of the remote southern third of the island today: a landscape patchworked with swamps, mangroves, beaches, coral seas, limestone forests and caves painted with prehistoric drawings, all safeguarded in the 1,455sq km region called South of the Isle of Youth Protected Area of Managed Resources (APRM). Within the APRM's marine protected area, other vulnerable creatures such as Antillean manatee, hammerheads, elkhorn coral and marine turtles seek sanctuary in the sea.

To enter the protected area, travellers must first obtain permission from the agency Ecotur or a local B&B and pass a checkpoint at the northern limit so officials can monitor the trafficking of wildlife, people and drugs. Three times a week, a bare bones bus jangles three hours south from the island's capital, Nueva Gerona, through forest rooted in limestone karst. Within its tangled embrace is Ciénaga de Lanier (Lanier swamp), refuge of the critically endangered Cuban crocodile. The elusive crocs were almost wiped out in the 20th Century by fire, drought and hunting. A few specimens were discovered in 1977 and a reintroduction programme launched in 1987. 

"We know American crocodiles and the introduced spectacled caiman are there, but in the last two expeditions, our experts haven't seen Cuban crocodiles in the wild," said Yanet Forneiro Martín Viaña,senior conservation specialist for Flora y Fauna, which manages the island's southern APRM zone. 

Forneiro Martín-Viaña is confident though. "We continue to search for [Cuban crocodiles] and reintroduce more individuals into the swamp," she said. "We know this area has great potential for the habitat of this species." 

The coarse sand of Guanal Beach, on the south coast, is veined with beach morning glory vine. Trails of the stabilising plant erupted to replace 10km of casuarina, an invasive feathery-leaved Southeast Asian tree that Flora y Fauna cut down over a 10 year period and recycled, converting the slain trunks into charcoal for export.

Across more than 1km of beach, long, lean sticks poked out of the burning-hot sand, marking a veritable "X" for treasure   yet, not the glittery kind, but a natural bounty. Empty water bottles, placed upside down on the sticks, were stuffed with paper notes indicating turtle nest sites, the dates eggs were laid and the expected hatching dates. Some 250 nests of endangered green turtles at Guanal are under guard this year. 

According to Dr Julia Azanza Ricardo, a turtle expert and professor at the Higher Institute of Technologies and Applied Sciences of the University of Havana, Guanal is one of the most important nesting areas in Cuba. However, climate change is threatening their future. Turtle gender is linked to the temperature of the nest during incubation, and the rising temperatures are resulting in fewer males being born. 

"More than 90% of turtles born in Cuba are female, Azanza said. "In a short time, we expect to reach 100%. When we started monitoring nest temperature 15 years ago, they were 28, 29, 30 degrees. Now it's 32, 33, 34. It will only take a rise of two degrees to reach 100%. If all males are wiped out, then it's the end of local populations and then the end of the species."

Solutions, Azanza explained, include vegetation shading by planting certain species of bushes, moving nests to cooler spots or watering the sand.

West of turtle country and 86km south-west of Nueva Gerona is the village of Cocodrilo, the most remote inhabited spot in Cuba. Founded as Jacksonville after English-speaking Cayman Islanders settled it in the early 20th Century, 122 families now live in single storey concrete and wooden homes facing the sea. Twenty-four-hour electricity only arrived in 2001. 

Here, conservationist Reinaldo Borrego Hernández, known as "Nene", runs a tourism and conservation project, Consytur, with his wife, Yemmy. Nene's mission is to preserve and protect the coral reef, wildlife and nature of his home village. 

"I've lived in this natural environment all my life, and my wish to protect it is in my blood," said Nene. 

By staying in Nene's B&B, Villa Arrecife (one of only three B&Bs in Cocodrilo), visitors help fund conservation work focused on collecting rubbish from beaches and the seabed, capturing lionfish – an invasive species – and serving it to guests, and growing and planting new branches of critically endangered staghorn coral.

"Lionfish get into the mangroves, seagrass and the reef, and have very few predators," said Nene, who has a Masters degree in coastal management. "They compete with local species to eat small fish and crustaceans, so capturing them limits their numbers." 

One morning at Americana Beach, a few kilometres west from Cocodrilo, we filled a net bag with 8 10kg of plastic bottles, flip flops and take-away containers from the beach. Later, we dived 15m down through crystal-clear water. We swam over coloured fans, moray eel, monochrome spotted drum, yellow French grunt and iridescent princess parrotfish before touching down on the seabed amid a large rocky field of multi-branched staghorn coral, grown by Nene these last few years. 

We picked fragments of pale orange coral, the width of a fat ballpoint pen, from the seabed. Nene hacked off blackened ends, dead from disease or microalgae. We wrapped thread around them before diving up to a special "tree" structure to tie the fragments to its long-limbed branches. 

Nene explained that each fragment is asexual and produces a polyp that forms another polyp, and so on. At one year old, the coral reproduces sexually and their planula float to the seabed and the cycle of producing polyps begins again. After a year, Nene will search for a rocky spot with no macroalgae and few predators and plant the new-growth coral. Overfishing has left the reef bereft of much of its previous fish life, Nene said, allowing algae to flourish and suffocate the corals.

"We want to increase the number of juvenile fish on the reef, and staghorn coral offers refuge to young fish," Nene said. "By restoring and protecting the reef, we increase the diversity and number of fish." 

Staghorn coral grows about 1cm a year. It's a slow process, but Nene hopes the work he started will outlast him. "My dream is that more people come to stay so that we can include and pay the young people around here. That will incentivise them to care for the sea and the coast," he said. "And they'll be able to continue my work when I'm gone." 

Unlike other islands scattered around the Cuban mainland, the no frills Isle of Youth is relatively undeveloped. Some locals claim the island is abandoned. But within this castaway island, endangered creatures have sought refuge since long before anyone was looking. Natural disasters, invasive species, over-fishing and climate change threaten its delicate ecological footprint. But with help from eco-minded visitors, Cuban scientists and conservationists are setting a benchmark to ensure nature reclaims and thrives in this remote, secluded landscape.

Recently, Egypt's Ministry of Tourism & Antiquity has launched the Holy Family Trail, stringing together some 25 stops along the celebrated route of Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

The approach to Egypt's Church of the Blessed Virgin atop Jabal al-Tayr (the Mountain of Birds), roughly 250km south of Cairo, once involved a perilous, vertical climb up a cliff rising straight from the Nile followed by a series of steep, rock-hewn steps. The handful of explorers to scale the mountain were intrigued by its mystical history. For centuries, the location – its current custodians explained to me – has produced untold miracles, even down to this day.

My recent approach to the church was much smoother – in an air-conditioned car along a well-surfaced road. Heading south along the Nile's east bank past a chiselled, white landscape of quarries dating back to the pharaohs, Coptic Christian graves began to appear as I came closer to Jabal al-Tayr's sacred core: a cave underneath the church. It's here that the Holy Family – Jesus, Mary and Joseph – is thought to have rested after fleeing Bethlehem to escape King Herod's wrath. 

As recorded in the Bible's Gospel of Matthew, the king had decreed the death of all Bethlehem's baby boys, but an angel had appeared to Joseph in a dream, telling him to "take the young child and his mother and flee into Egypt". According to Matthew, the trio obeyed this instruction and departed the very next night.

According to Coptic Christian tradition, based on alleged holy visions and local lore, the family would spend the next three-and-a-half years on the move, from Bethlehem to Egypt's Nile Delta then tracing the river as far south as Upper Egypt. Marked with many dozens of miracles, their momentous, round-trip journey racked up more than 3,000km.

When I arrived at the Church of the Blessed Virgin, it was ringed by a small iron fence like a prized museum display and its walls were freshly plastered.

Hoping to bolster "spiritual tourism" and spotlight the country's Christian claim to fame, Egypt's Ministry of Tourism & Antiquity has launched the Holy Family Trail, which maps out some 25 stops along the celebrated route and comprises some of the country's oldest houses of worship, of which the Church of the Blessed Virgin – and the sacred cave it was built to contain – is just one. In partnership with the various dioceses and other foundations – it has also been attempting to renovate these holy sites, enhancing them with landscaping, lighting and signage; improving the access roads; and developing accommodations along the route.

With some changes substantial and others merely cosmetic, the Ministry's vision is far from complete. Nevertheless, word of the Holy Family Trail is trickling out. In October 2022, I set out to trace its southward route, starting from the Nile Delta, to Cairo, and then finally into Upper Egypt where the Church of the Blessed Virgin is located.

The Nile Delta

After following Egypt's Mediterranean coast from the city of Rafah to the classical port of Pelusium, the Holy Family's route cuts south towards Cairo through the ancient city of Bubastis. Here, according to Coptic Christian lore, the baby Jesus' arrival caused the temples' foundations to shake, echoing what Isaiah prophesised in the Old Testament when he said, "The idols of Egypt will tremble at his presence."

When fleeing from the locals' fury, Jesus then caused a spring to burst forth to quench the trio's thirst. A well believed to have been built on the site of the spring is now ringed with a fence to keep pilgrims from drinking its water.

The family received a warmer welcome on the outskirts of modern Cairo in Mostorod, a town now swallowed by the city's sprawl. I stopped at the 12th-Century church that was built to enclose al-Mahamah (the place of bathing), another well from which the family is thought to have drunk and washed. It was encircled by worshippers, some writing prayerful notes to be stuffed into a nearby sacred grotto.

The route then swerves to the north before crossing the westernmost fork of the Nile. I caught up with the family's trail on the fringes of the desert in Wadi El Natrun, a valley where Jesus called forth yet another miraculous spring. Beginning in the early 4th Century, thousands of aspiring hermits would settle along its length. At three of the four surviving monasteries, renovations are now complete, including the careful uncovering of Al-Sourian monastery's stunning medieval frescoes of Jesus' life. 

Cairo

After fanning the Delta, the trail circles back to the outskirts of Cairo at Shagaret Maryam (Mary's Tree), a twisted old sycamore said to have offered the Holy Family shade. Entering the complex containing the tree, I found another well from which the family is thought to have drunk, freshly coated in plaster, just steps from an inaugural plaque that was installed within the last week. Further along, the old trunk stood propped by supports beside a low picket fence erected to guard against pilgrims' temptation to peel its bark or pluck its leaves as souvenirs.

In historical Coptic Cairo, I walked around the corner from Roman Babylon's Hanging Church to the 4th-Century Church of Abu Serga, built over the family's next major stop. The church encloses a sacred cave, which is thought to be among the family's longest-serving places of rest and is among the trail's holiest stations. The site is neatly labelled in Arabic and English for the crowds that bottleneck at the narrow set of stairs leading down to the crypt where the family resided for three months.

The family's last Cairo stop was in today's leafy suburban district of Maadi. Here, they are thought to have used the same steps that connect the Church of the Virgin Mary to the Nile, where they boarded a papyrus boat and sailed toward the ancient city of Memphis and Al-Bahnasa, the latter the site of another future monastic hub. When I stopped by the church, the old steps were barred by a locked iron gate, and a police boat docked nearby. Inside, along with icons of the Holy Family, is a glass-encased relic from a much later date: a water-worn Bible plucked from the Nile near the sacred steps in 1976, its pages miraculously open to Isaiah 19:25: "Blessed be Egypt my people… "

Hours later, I was speeding to the south on a train from Cairo's Ramses Station, unaware that from here on out I wouldn't be travelling alone.

Upper Egypt 

At the junction of Lower and Upper Egypt, the Holy Family finally reached Jabal al-Tayr and the Church of the Blessed Virgin. Security concerns and long closures in the surrounding region have seen it scrubbed from the map since the 1990s, with tourists most often whisked past it on trains between Luxor and Cairo. Now open for a decade, this stretch of the Nile south of Cairo has been dubbed a key focus area for those developing the Holy Family Trail, with hopes that its slew of historical churches will add to the allure of its magnificent but little-visited temples and tombs.

Upon stepping off the train, it was clear that old security concerns have yet to fully fade. In line with the protocol for all foreign guests, police would insist on keeping me company for the remainder of the route through the governorates of Minya and Asyut.

Just steps from the new Holy Family Hotel, I slipped off my shoes to enter the Church of the Blessed Virgin, where the enormous, rough-hewn pillars of the nave appeared quite a bit older than the basilica-style church. From somewhere behind the church's iconostasis (the ornate wooden screen separating the church's sanctuary from its nave) came the sharp buzz of sandblasters, a cloud of fine dust seeping through the small cracks and rising to the ceiling. Renovations here, it appeared, were not quite complete.

Beneath the last stretch of scaffolding still to be taken down, I sat on a stone bench in the corner, watching the ebb and flow of pilgrims as they entered the church in noisy bursts, most having just stepped off tour buses parked in the new lot outside. When passing the altar, almost everyone paused to touch or kiss the curtain draped over its doorway, the haze of dust that now filled the nave only adding to the sanctuary's spirit of mystery. Before leaving, almost everyone bowed at the tiny cave where Jesus and Mary took shelter.

I peered into the tiny cave myself, less adorned than expected and even smaller than most I'd yet seen. At the back stood an icon of Mary and Jesus propped on a small wooden stand; beside it was a large metal padlocked box with a slot for pilgrims to submit their offerings.

From this humble setting, the chief engineer on the site would explain, a great many "miracles" have occurred over the years – from healings and heavenly visions to the answering of all manner of appeals: for pregnancies, promotions or even the curbing of nagging doubts that miracles indeed occur at all.

After leaving the cave at Jabal al-Tayr, the Holy Family crossed the Nile and continued southward. They eventually reached ancient Hermopolis, now a vast field of rubble encircled by the scruffy town of Al-Ashmonein. Jesus' miracles here, including the toppling of more temples, are described in the oldest surviving text on the family's flight, A History of the Monks in Egypt, an anonymous account of the 4th-Century travels of trailblazing pilgrims. 

Hugging the desert's edge, the family soon arrived at the slopes of Mount Qusqam, their most hallowed stop. It was here that at last an angel told Joseph that Herod was dead and that it was safe to return North. The holy ground here is encircled by a fortress-like monastery known as Al-Muharraq. Considered a "Second Bethlehem" by Coptic Christians, the site is believed to have hosted the family for six months, far longer than any other stop on the route. 

Past the monastery's giant gates, a monk led me straight to Al-Muharraq's oldest church. Inside, he pointed at a patch of the carpet beside the iconostasis and explained that a miraculous well from which Jesus once drank had stood on this spot. "We usually say that it ran out of water, but in truth it was buried", purportedly to stop its flow of miracles. Such miracles, however, the monk went on, continue to occur to this day.

At the turn of the 5th Century, it was here at Al-Muharraq that Theophilus, Alexandria's 23rd pope, first fleshed out an actual route, which he claimed to have received from the Virgin Mary in a vision. Over the centuries, further stops were added based on miraculous accounts. About 50km to the south, the Monastery of Saint Mary at Drunka is now widely considered the route's final stop and is listed as such on the Ministry's map of the route.

For the drive to Drunka, I tagged along with the required police detachment. The monastery complex here was the largest I'd seen along the entire route, stretching up a mountain near the city of Asyut with plenty of new construction underway. Speaking excitedly of various modern-day miracles, a young nun led the way to Drunka's sacred caves, explaining that one had housed Joseph and the other the Virgin Mary and Jesus. She explained, while pointing into Joseph's cave, that in 1986 the Virgin appeared right here "to confirm to us the truth" of the Coptic Christian tradition's claims.

Like the line between chronicled history and myth, the exactness of the route is certainly murky. Even the Ministry's announcements have varied regarding the stops, their number and even their order, reflecting the challenge of dealing with multiple accounts from so many centuries past.

One thing that's for certain is that the Holy Family's story continues to intrigue and inspire. And now, the sacred sites that dot their celebrated route are easier to visit, thanks in part to broad-based efforts to develop the Holy Family Trail. As for whether the Ministry's vision will be fulfilled, that remains to be seen: the trail has yet to lure the desired busloads of visitors from abroad. In Egypt, however, the efforts have bolstered local pride, illuminating one of the country's oldest, most cherished traditions – one that viscerally links the "miracles" of scripture to the Nile.

On the back patio at Owamni – the Minneapolis, Minnesota, restaurant owned by Sean Sherman and Dana Thompson – the late-evening sun cast my dessert in a natural spotlight. Marigold-coloured agave squash caramel cascaded slowly down the sides of a sunflowerseed cake the colour of sandstone, and a deep red berry sauce shimmered atop a maple chaga cake so earthy in tone, it felt as though it were plucked from the forest floor.

The connection to nature is palpable here, where sweeping views of the Mississippi River, along with curated indigenous plants like prairie dropseed – whose high-protein seeds can be eaten raw or ground into a flour etch themselves into the landscape like a painting.

"We named this restaurant Owamni from the Dakota name OwamniYomni, for the waterfall that used to surround this area," said Thompson, a descendant of the Wahpeton Sisseton and Mdewakanton Dakota tribes. "It was said to be as beautiful as Niagara Falls. Spirit Island was the most sacred of the four islands here, and the Dakota and Anishinaabe communities would take their canoes there for ceremony, and women would come from far away just to give birth there."

Thompson's grandfather, who contributed historical knowledge to the book Where the Waters Gather and the Rivers Meet, an atlas of the Eastern Sioux published in 1994, made it possible for this important piece of indigenous history to live on.

One of Owamni's many strengths is its ability to bridge the past to the present, knowing one can only exist because of the other. You feel this in the dining room, perched on the second floor of two abandoned flour mills, restored after the Minneapolis Park and Recreation Board and Parks Foundation raised more than $19 million to honour the indigenous history of the area by creating a park with Owamni as its inspiration. It's an investment that has already paid off in powerful ways.

Eating the food here brings with it a profound sense of place difficult to put to words Less than a year after opening in July 2021, Owamni was named 2022's Best New Restaurant in the United States by the James Beard Foundation – whose annual awards recognise exceptional talent in the culinary arts, hospitality, media and the broader food world. The accolade is big deal for any restaurant, but a monumental one when a decolonised menu is on the table. At Owamni, this means never using ingredients introduced to North America after Europeans arrived including cane sugar, wheat, dairy, pork and chicken. Instead, only indigenous ingredients like turkey, bison, walleye, beans, wild rice, mushrooms, sweet potatoes, herbs, maple syrup and blue corn are featured.

Other ingredients – like crickets, acorns and timpsula (or prairie turnip) might be unfamiliar to more mainstream American palates, despite coming from the places we walk, cycle and drive past. But eating the food here brings with it a profound sense of place difficult to put into words.

While I've had sunflower seeds and honey before, I never expected that, with the addition of water, such simple ingredients could become a cake befitting any pastry shop. And though I can only imagine what a molten sunset absorbing a field of pumpkins into its hot, sticky flow would taste like, I feel certain nothing would come closer than the ethereal squash-agave caramel painted on top. It was so addictive I could have eaten an entire bowl of it. But then I wouldn't have had room for the blue corn mush a hazelnut and berry porridge from the Ute Mountain Ute tribe in Colorado. A pool of maple syrup lay in wait at the bottom of the dish, and its sweetness, combined with the tender grit of the corn meal, the crunch of the hazelnuts and soft, tart berries, felt like a hug from my grandma.

And that glistening berry topping on the maple chaga cake? It's a Lakota berry soup called wojape, which Sherman uses as a sauce in both sweet and savoury dishes. As a child, he'd gather buckets full of fresh chokecherries to make it but uses many different berries today.

The food, while beautiful, is so much more than a plate of art. It's a thoughtful entry point for conversations about indigenous history – something inherent to the mission of The Sioux Chef, the company Sherman, an Oglala Lakota chef, founded in 2014, and co-owns with Thompson. Their business started with catering and pop-ups and now includes a food truck, the non-profit North American Traditional Indigenous Food Systems (NATIFS) from which the Indigenous Food Lab, a professional indigenous kitchen and training centre in Minneapolis' Midtown Global Market is based and, of course, Owamni. The wheels are already in motion to replicate the Indigenous Food Lab across the country, with immediate plans for locations in Montana and Alaska, and, eventually, into more than 45 satellite locations across the United States, Canada, New Zealand, Australia and South America.

"North America's history begins with indigenous history," Sherman said. "There should be Native American restaurants all over the place."

While he and culinary cohorts like James Beard finalist Crystal Wahpepah, chef Nephi Craig of Café Gozhóó in Arizona, cook and educator Hillel Echo-Hawk and I-Collective co-founder Neftali Duran have long been working to shift the conversations around indigenous food, the cuisine is still just gaining a foothold in the US.

"North America's history begins with indigenous history. There should be Native American restaurants all over the place."
Recognising the limited time they have to capture guests' attention, Owamni brings the past to life with intentional design touches from a map that hangs in the foyer, noting the original indigenous names for the waterways and villages throughout Dakota Territory, to the sunlight-flooded dining room, whose wall of windows gives guests a clear view of the pulsing river below.

At the door, a neon sign reminds you: You Are on Native Land. Thompson asked if I'd like to pose under it for a photo and snapped away on my iPhone. Though she and Sherman know some people still favour trendy food photos over the story behind the food, they're banking on the fact that the more exposure people have to indigenous culture, the more they'll want to learn its history.

But what that history is and isn't makes their work all the more challenging.

"History books were written by the US government," said Sherman. "You always hear how Native Americans died from starvation and disease, but people were intentionally mutilated, murdered and killed brutally.

"When you follow American history, you'll see that from 1800 1900, indigenous people still had [access to] over 80 percent of land [in the US], but by the end of that century, had access to just two percent."

He pointed to a shockingly long list of historical events systematically designed to stamp out indigenous culture, such as the US government's massive slaughtering of buffalo. Before 1800, an estimated 60 million buffalo roamed the land, offering crucial food sources, along with material for shoes and clothing, housing, cooking vessels and medicine. By 1900, after widespread efforts eradicated the buffalo population across the country, only a few hundred animals were left, effectively paralysing the mechanisms that existed for indigenous people to maintain a self-sustaining way of life.

In his cookbook, The Sioux Chef's Indigenous Kitchen, Sherman explains that fry bread often the only thing people associate with Native American food – is "a difficult symbol connecting the present to the painful narrative of our history. It originated [nearly 155 years ago] when the US government forced our ancestors from the homelands they farmed, foraged and hunted, and the waters they fished. Displaced and moved to reservations, they lost control of their food and were made to rely on government-issued commodities canned meat, white flour, sugar and lard. Fry bread contributes to high levels of diabetes and obesity that affect nearly one-half of the Native population living on reservations. Obesity and tooth decay did not exist among indigenous people of North America before colonial ingredients were introduced."

Sherman, who grew up on South Dakota's Pine Ridge Reservation, says these historical events devastated so much for human beings and their knowledge base, yet no one is talking about it.

"It's not ancient history," he said. "This just happened."

Every culture has its own connection to food, including how it's prepared, grown and consumed. For indigenous people, food sovereignty the right to healthy and culturally appropriate food and the right to define food and agriculture systems – was erased through colonisation. Sherman hopes to put the power back in the hands of the people, because he believes when you control your food, you control your destiny.

"It's not ancient history. This just happened."
In North America, ingredients like the tepary bean, a culturally appropriate food and an important heirloom crop brought back from near extinction by Ramona Farms in Arizona, grow abundantly in areas without a lot of water. And at Owamni, when mixed with salt, sunflower oil, pepita meal and maple syrup, it creates an immensely comforting foundation for the tender tumble of smoked Lake Superior trout (from the Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa in Wisconsin) piled on top. The fish was remarkable – evoking memories of a snuffed out campfire that left the tiniest trail of smoke lingering in the air, catching you off guard when you walk past.

The duck sausage, served with roasted turnips and a watercress puree, was succulent and elegant, notes of maple whispering on the palate. It was the perfect companion to a bowl of tender and nutty hand-harvested wild rice actually the seed of an aquatic grass – with dried currants and root vegetables.

The natural world was always a connective thread in Sherman's life. Even in the year he spent after high school working as a field surveyor for the US Forest Service, identifying plants and trees in South Dakota's Black Hills National Forest  whose name comes from the Lakota words, Paha Sapa, meaning hills that are black he said memories coded into his DNA began to unlock. 

"We know the names of more Kardashians than we do trees," Sherman said. "Plant knowledge is power. Everything has a purpose. Even poisonous plants, if used correctly, can be medicine."

MEXICAN INSPIRATION
The roasted, skin on sweet potatoes with indigenous chilli crisp served at Owamni are inspired by Sherman's time in Mexico. "There'd be this guy who came around with steamed sweet potatoes he served with chili and lime," he recalled. "His cart whistled as he came down the street. I liked that combo of sweet and spicy. I harvest chillies in my own garden to make this using maple sugar, dried chiles, sunflower oil and salt."

Most of his career was focused on restaurants bussing tables, washing dishes, learning to make pasta, studying wine and, eventually, becoming an executive chef at 29. In 2008, he took a year off from his job rebuilding the restaurant program for a large fitness corporation, and moved to the village of San Pancho in Nayarit, Mexico.

"I saw so many commonalities between the way the indigenous Huichol people in my village were living, and how I grew up, and realised I didn't know much about my Lakota ancestry," he recalled. "I started researching everything I could find, and the more history I learned, the more important this work became. I wanted to open up doors to something that has been very hidden, and I can do that through food. We all have a connection to it as humans, and it's a gateway to understanding other cultures."

While Sherman won the James Beard Awards for Leadership in 2019 and for Best American Cookbook in 2018, this year's best new restaurant honour opens more space for conversations about history, privilege and the continued fight for a seat at the table.

"It's a game changer," he said. "Typically, it's saved for high-end restaurants for very privileged people – European chefs making European foods. Not much diversity has gone into that award, so to stand out in a crowd like that and get the attention we need to pull off what we're doing, is incredible."

"There's a lot of damage in our history, and a lot of healing that needs to be done."

"There's a lot of damage in our history, and a lot of healing that needs to be done, but we have to start somewhere. What we're doing is just a little step into something much larger."

Thompson sees the impact of their work mirrored by the community. "The staff, city, other business owners, Native community, people who come with their roller bag from the airport who didn't make a reservation it's this organism now," she said. "People are truly invested in this existing." 

And while Sherman admits that a restaurant is perhaps one of the worst business plans you can come up with, he also believes one restaurant can change an entire community.

"We're just trying to take as much knowledge from our ancestors and creating spaces to learn – working backwards to start to reclaim it so that we have a true (r)evolution of indigenous foods," he said. "Our restaurant is just showing what's possible, and I think it's proving its point."

Mixed Berry Wojape (makes about 2-4 cups)
Owamni by The Sioux Chef

Ingredients:
1 cup water
1 pinch mineral salt [such as sea salt]
1 cup blackberries
1 cup blueberries
1 cup raspberries
1 cup strawberries, tops removed
2 tablespoons maple syrup

Instructions:

Bring the water to a simmer in a medium saucepan; add the salt and the berries.
Let simmer for 20 to 30 minutes, continuing to stir as the berries break down. Cook to your
desired consistency.
Remove from the heat and stir in the maple syrup. 

France is facing a widespread dearth of Dijon mustard, which news outlets wasted no time in attributing to the war in Ukraine. But the story is a whole lot spicier than that.
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Take a wander down any condiment aisle in France these days, and you'll notice a pervasive absence between la mayo and le ketchup. Since this May, France has faced a widespread dearth of Dijon mustard, leading one French resident to advertise two jars for sale to the tune of €6,000 or about £5,000 (since revealed to be merely in jest). The shortage has incited expats (this author included) to not-at-all-jokingly smuggle squeeze bottles of Maille back into the country from places like the US to get their fix, while author and Paris resident David Lebovitz even resorted to hunting his jars down at a local gardening store, of all places.

While French news outlets wasted no time in attributing the shortage to the war in Ukraine, the real story is a whole lot spicier than that.

Omnipresent on French tables, Dijon mustard, made by combining brown mustard seeds with white wine, is a beloved condiment that provides a counterpoint to rich, hearty dishes thanks to its acidity and heat. It's the perfect accompaniment to a slice of crisp-skinned roast chicken, the ideal way to jazz up a simple ham-and butter sandwich and an essential ingredient in homemade mayonnaise.

That the condiment is so anchored in France's Burgundy region of which Dijon is the capital city is thanks to the historical co-planting of brown mustard seeds with the region's renowned grapevines, a practice introduced by the Ancient Romans to provide the vines with essential nutrients like phosphorous. Monks continued to cultivate mustard in this fashion for centuries, and, in 1752, the link between Dijon and mustard was cemented thanks to Dijon local Jean Naigeon, who married the seeds, not with vinegar, but with verjuice the juice of unripe wine grapes historically used to add a pleasantly sour flavour to recipes in regions inhospitable to citrus.

Dijon mustard stands out from other mustards on the market for its subtle, balanced flavour. Packing more heat than American yellow mustard but less than powerful Chinese mustard or Bavarian senf, it capitalises on the pungency of the mustard seed by marrying it with the pleasant acidity of local Burgundian verjuice or, in most contemporary iterations, white wine.

But the truth is that despite its historical link the to the region, Dijon mustard has been delocalised for quite some time.

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After Burgundian farmers largely abandoned mustard cultivation in favour of higher-paying crops decades ago, moutardiers (mustard makers) began looking further afield for the tiny seed at the root of the condiment that launched 1,000 "Pardon me, sir" jokes. Their mustard seed needs were chiefly met by Canada, which produces about 80% of the world's supply. But this winter, Canadian-grown mustard also dried up, when, after several years of declining production had reduced stores, dry summer weather obliterated the Canadian crop, sending mustard seed prices skyrocketing threefold.

Though the shortage was not caused by the Russian invasion of Ukraine, it was exacerbated by it, impacting Dijon mustard makers "indirectly", according to Luc Vandermaesen, CEO of mustard producer Reine de Dijon. Rather than the brown seeds required for Dijon, Ukraine predominantly produces the white variety used in yellow and English mustard. Given the conflict, producers less tied to specific mustard varieties turned to Canada's already meagre supply, intensifying the shortage.

Inadvertently, this all shed new light on the discrepancy between the name "Dijon mustard" and where it's made. After all, unlike Champagne or Roquefort, the "Dijon" in Dijon mustard refers to a specific recipe and not to a geographic region protected by an Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée (AOC) or Appellation d'Origine Protégée (AOP) designation, which regulate products like wine, cheese and even lentils with an iron fist.

"There are no rules keeping the production of Dijon mustard in [the city of] Dijon," said Sophie Mauriange of the Institut National de l'Origine et de la Qualité (INAO), the governing board that controls the AOC and AOP labels in France. "You can make it anywhere in the world."

And they do. Grey-Poupon, created in Dijon by Maurice Grey and Auguste Poupon in 1866 (and the preferred mustard of American hip-hop artists), has been made in the US since the 1940s. And in 2009, nine years after its purchase by Unilever, France's biggest Dijon producer, Amora-Maille (which makes Maille mustard), closed its Dijon factory, moving production to the nearby commune of Chevigny-Saint-Sauveur. 

"As far as we know," said Mauriange, "there is almost no production of mustard in Dijon itself, save a very small amount at [La Moutarderie] Fallot's Dijon shop." (The artisanal producer has long made the bulk of its mustard at its factory in the nearby town of Beaune, where it was founded in 1840, and only opened its Dijon boutique, complete with a small, on-site workshop, in 2014.)

The truth is that while Dijon is in the mustard's name, the product is – and always has been – rooted in the city's surrounding countryside, where mustard production flourished in the decades that followed the condiment's 1752 invention. Charcoal producers would sow mustard seeds in fields filled with coal residue, a natural fertiliser, and the resulting seeds, explained Marc Désarménien, CEO and third generation head of La Moutarderie Fallot, were sold to master moutardiers in Dijon or Beaune.

"They had organised into a cooperative, at the time," Désarménen said of the local master moutardiers, of which there were already 33 in the early 19th Century. "So, there was what I would call a fairly powerful, fairly strong mustard industry."

The decline of truly local mustard nevertheless began nearly a century ago: when Désarménien's grandfather purchased Fallot in 1928, he relied on "French mustard seeds, but not only", said Désarménien. "He needed to source seeds in other French regions and in other European countries in order to have a stable, high-quality product."

After World War Two, Burgundian farmers turned their back on the little mustard seed in favour of producing other crops, notably rapeseed for cooking oil and animal feed, which garnered them better pay thanks to government subsidies. By the 1980s, Mauriange said, "almost all mustard production was made with seeds imported from Canada."

The Association des Producteurs de Graines de Moutarde, an association of mustard growers founded in 1997, couldn't have existed even a decade earlier, when low demand for local seeds meant that production of Burgundian mustard had, according to its head Laure Ohleyer, "practically disappeared". But Burgundian mustard seeds began to experience a quiet renaissance in the '90s, thanks in large part to Unilever.

"They wanted to re-localise production," Ohleyer said of Amora-Maille's parent company. "And that's how it all began."

In recent years, thanks to demand from mustard producers, Burgundian farmers grew some 5,000 tons of mustard seeds annually – a portion of which have had an even more illustrious destiny than simple Dijon mustard.

As French producers of Camembert learned in the '80s, it's nearly impossible to protect a product's geographic origin retroactively. But in the early 2000s, some mustard producers sought to take better advantage of the newly blossoming mustard seed industry and rekindle the notion of tying it to the local terroir. In 2009, they established an Indication Géographique Protégée (IGP) a protected label similar to the AOP, but with fewer constraints. And while Dijon certainly gets more name recognition, it is this IGP called Moutarde de Bourgogne that actually means something: that the mustard is made in the Burgundy region with Burgundian seeds and Burgundian wine.

The IGP endeavour was spearheaded in large part by La Moutarderie Fallot's Désarménien, who Mauriange cited as "the most active in the request for recognition of the IGP". Indeed, of the five large mustard producers sourcing their mustard seeds from the mustard growers' association, Fallot is the only one that is making the entirety of its mustard within the IGP.

While Dijon certainly gets more name recognition, it is this IGP – called Moutarde de Bourgogne   that actually means something.For Désarménien, localising production was essential to maintaining the values of his artisanal business, which still stone-grinds its seeds at low temperature to maintain a slightly grainier texture and a fuller flavour. Of course, if Fallot can use exclusively Burgundian seeds, it's in large part because the company is far smaller than the four other mustard producers (Amora-Maille, Reine de Dijon, Européenne des Condiments and Charbonneaux Brabant) sourcing at least some of their seeds from the association's producers. 

The four others, Désarménien said, are responsible for about 80 to 90% of all French Dijon mustard production, with Fallot representing about 5% of the total local mustard market. Reine de Dijon's Vandermaesen said that less than 1% of his production is currently in the IGP, in part due to the price of the Burgundian white wine required. "But [this percentage] is growing," he said.

Of late, climate change and resulting infestations of mustard-loving meligethes (a type of pollen beetle) have halted and even reversed – the growth of the local mustard market. And while pesticides were long the first line of defence, widespread insecticide resistance – not to mention the European Union's increasing stringency regarding chemical pesticides  has made it more difficult for growers to control these types of problems and bounce back.

"Until now, industrial producers were buying more and more from us each year," Ohleyer said. "But production can't keep up." Despite the demand, she said, Burgundian seeds currently represent only 20-30% of the supply.

For Mauriange, while these issues have certainly caused short term problems for the mustard industry, there may be a silver lining to the recent shortage.

"This project had been facing climate challenges these last few years, which discouraged a lot of farmers," she said, noting, nevertheless, that a rise in prices for seeds following the shortage "has rekindled the dynamic" and encouraged farmers to devote themselves ever more diligently to successful production of this now-scarce crop.

For Désarménien, the answer may indeed be found in the rich history of the region.

"Our ancestors had growing methods that allowed them to limit these eventualities  insects and the like," said Désarménien. "Today, we're more in this mindset: of learning how we can move beyond chemicals to produce crops that may not be organic yet, but that are sustainable, if you like. That's our goal."

While "Dijon mustard" will likely never refer to a truly local product again, Moutarde de Bourgogne seems destined to develop its own reputation: not the connotations of grandeur or luxury Dijon producers have long capitalized on, but rather of sustainability and terroir.

And, if this year's harvest is any indication, the times seem to finally be changing for the little Burgundian mustard seed. Burgundian mustard growers brought in yields 50% higher than last year's, exceeding even the historic precedent set in 2016, French news outlet 20 Minutes reported in late July. As a result, moutardiers expect to be able to restock the condiment shelves this November – just in time to add tangy, spicy flavour to France's most beloved autumnal dishes.

The journey to reach this elusive destination helps travellers grasp the power and fragility of our changing planet.

The world is filled with wondrous places, but there are still many far-flung corners of the globe that few people ever get to see. In their forthoming book, Remote Experiences: Extraordinary Travels from North to South, photographer David De Vleeschauwer and travel journalist Debbie Pappyn journeyed to 12 of the world's most hidden, uncharted and remote territories relatively untouched by tourism. By going where the crowds don't, the duo is hoping to encourage others to travel slower and more purposefully, and to take better care of the planet we all share.

Owned by no one, claimed by many, the enigmatic North Pole is a constantly shifting sheet of ice in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. The world's largest and strongest nuclear-powered icebreaker, 50 Let Pobedy, sails every summer to 90° north with 100 passengers aboard, all eager to set foot on the geographical top of the globe. For most of them, this moment is much more than ticking off a list. It is all about the voyage.

When the ship cracks an ice sheet 3m thick on its way there, it sounds raw and without reservation. The name of the ship means "50 Years of Victory" in Russian, and refers to the 50th anniversary of the Soviet Union's triumph in World War Two. To commemorate its launch, the ship carried the Olympic flame to the North Pole in 2013 during the run-up to the Sochi Winter Olympics. Powered by a pair of 171-megawatt nuclear reactors and two 27.6 megawatt steam turbo generators, the almost 160m-long icebreaker can reach 21.4 knots – almost 40km per hour – and sail nonstop for almost six years without returning to land for refuelling. With nuclear reactors on board, fuel stops become almost a thing of the past.

The behemoth's primary mission is to carry super sized cargo ships through the frozen Northeast Passage in winter. During summer, the icebreaker transforms into an expedition ship for exploration and adventure, departing from its home port of Murmansk. From here the ship sails in the direction of the mythical Franz Josef Land, where only Russian ships are allowed to drop anchor. 

There is a throwback quality to those who travel this far north, an eccentricity reminiscent of early explorers who were not deterred by extremes or afraid of challenging situations. After leaving Murmansk, it takes two days to reach the pack ice. This is the realm of the polar bear, where human visitors face a new set of rules. From here onwards, the frozen silence, the supernaturally white panoramas, and the murky gloom of the frigid ocean below seem endless. As 50 Years of Victory slices through the blank landscape, the thunderous groan of the ship's steady progress reverberates through its red-painted, reinforced hull. Passengers wrapped in thick layers of warm clothes stand on the bow, watching the ice split, snap and crack, followed by the blue of the Arctic Ocean surging through, as if gasping for breath.

This is not an ordinary sea voyage aboard a fancy cruise ship. The route to the northernmost point on the planet, where the Earth's axis of rotation meets its surface, takes 11 laborious days, moving not much faster than 20km per hour when cracking through the ice. The presence of polar bears gives this voyage an extra dimension: in this frozen world, man is not king. Travellers take this trip not only to set foot atop the world but to be immersed in the raw beauty of the high Arctic.

Gazing at vast expanses of sea ice is addictive and even soothing. The sun never sets in the Arctic summer and yet the light transforms constantly, reflecting off the pale white ice sheet. Sometimes the weather is cold, moody and dull, with a thick fog. Other days there is a velvety sheen to the light, flushed with pink or lavender tones. The frozen ocean is often delicately shrouded in a flowing palette of shades of white. It doesn't matter whether you are out on deck or gazing through a porthole in the warm belly of the ship to this ever-changing panorama. After a couple of days sailing, when the North Pole is finally reached, excitement ripples through the ship. Some passengers describe it as a feeling of recalibration, a new beginning.

FROM THE AUTHORS
"The North Pole is an exceptionally rare and raw place where there is no concept of time and where every direction the traveller looks is south. In 30 years' time, it's likely that the geographical North Pole will be entirely ice free during the summer months and this unique feeling of otherworldliness could be lost forever."

On top of the world, it is time for a toast with ice-cold vodka. All passengers gather in a circle around the geographic North Pole and raise their glasses in cheer. The moment is almost triumphal. And then there is the infamous Polar Plunge, perhaps the most iconic swim anywhere in the world. This plunge, which is nothing more than a dip in the Arctic Ocean, is a once-in-a lifetime thrill. Daredevils warm up with mulled wine and more vodka, while the ship's crew sets up a barbecued lunch on the ice. In the few hours spent at the Pole, the sun is out, the wind picks up, the clouds arrive and it snows. There are four seasons in one hour on top of the world.

The North Pole is elusive; this place does not want to be caught. This is a very brief anchorage; remaining at the exact latitude 90° north lasts a minute or so. By the time the ship leaves, it has already drifted two nautical miles, almost 4km. The frozen ocean is in constant motion. On its way back south, the ship tries to retrace its tracks in the thick ice sheet.

At Hooker Island, inflatable Zodiac boats take passengers along towering glaciers near Rubini Rock to witness spectacular bird cliffs where more than 70,000 kittiwakes, ivory gulls, little auks and guillemots nest. Helicopter rides allow bird's-eye views of the packed sea ice and the remote territory of Franz Josef Land. Passengers are invited to join these aerial jaunts to grasp the true vastness of this frozen desert. When the helicopter lifts, the massive, floating steel colossus that is the ship transforms into a tiny red speck in an ocean of bright, shimmering white, its tracks in the ice still visible like an artery filled with dark and cold Arctic Ocean. The helicopter swoops around the ship, letting the passengers grasp how endless and timeless – always bright or always dark – this landscape is.

Before this voyage, nobody would be able to realise that this panorama stretches all the way up there to the elusive North Pole. Now, after setting foot on that pole at 90° north, these travellers finally understand the vastness and magnitude of this thick blanket of white ice that stretches around the extreme and surreal top of our world.

A 70 mile strip of the A39 is more than just another thoroughfare. It's where generations of Cornish ingenuity blend with an influx of newcomers seeking a more rural life.
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Locals wouldn't say there's much romantic about the A39, a national highway that crosses south-west England. To most, it is a convenience at best, a site of accidents at worst   so many accidents, in fact, that it has the unfortunate reputation as Cornwall's deadliest road, the likely result of everything from its often-narrow, winding nature to some tricky junctions.

But the A39 – particularly the section dubbed the "Atlantic Highway", a 70-mile strip that runs from Barnstaple, Devon, to Newquay, Cornwall   is more than just another thoroughfare. It is one of the only arteries connecting an especially disconnected part of what is already a remote region.

That remoteness means two things. For one, it helps keep the area relatively wild. To be clear, north Cornwall is not a secret. The summer tide of tourists is felt everywhere, the area's carparks, beaches and pubs frothing over with visitors. But it's almost always possible to find a quiet cove or a cafe filled with locals. In the off season, even the most popular spots can be empty. And aside from Tintagel Castle of King Arthur fame, none of Cornwall's top 10 most-popular attractions sit here. 

The remoteness, especially given the area's lack of train stations, also means that there are few good ways to explore the area.

I lived in this area with my family for two years. In that time, I fell in love with north Cornwall's ocean views, rolling farmland and dramatic cliffs, but with its lesser known attractions, too. Despite its remote and rural nature, north Cornwall is dotted with farm-(and sea)-to-table favourites, art galleries and unique museums devoted to everything from witchcraft to military history – the result of generations of Cornish ingenuity and artisanal heritage blended with an influx of newcomers seeking a more rural life, many of them even before Covid.

And so, when my family, lured by a job opportunity, chose to move out of England, I knew I had to explore this special region one last time. And that meant one thing: taking to the road, specifically the A39. This entailed navigating twists, turns and, more annoyingly, the odd overzealous car that rode my bumper if I dropped a mile or two below the speed limit. But it still made for an easier drive than many of the smaller, single track roads that link up to the A39. Then there were the benefits of using the main highway: its convenience but also – surprisingly – its moments of beauty.

Despite its name, the Atlantic Highway runs mostly through patchworked fields, bucolic villages and emerald green woodland, with occasional slices of sea seen from a distance. Technically, it starts seven miles inland of Newquay, home to Cornwall's only public airport.

This first section skirts some of the heart of Poldark country and the locations where some of the television series' lushest landscapes were filmed, including Park Head and Porthcothan. I headed here first. This is the Cornish landscape at its most dramatic and striking, the wildflower-covered cliffs plunging down to sandy coves, lapped by blue green water. After a hike along the South West Coast Path, I quickly worked up an appetite.

Luckily, one of England's prime "food capitals", Padstow, is just eight miles north off the A39. Once a pretty fishing village, today Padstow is better known for its restaurants. Rick Stein launched his culinary empire here, while Tripadvisor travellers recently rated Padstow as being the best place for Michelin-quality meals in the world.

So, it was only fair that I tried out the Michelin-starred Paul Ainsworth at No. 6, a restaurant known for its inventive plays on Cornish fare. While No. 6 pays homage to the area's fishing heritage, it doesn't overlook Cornwall's more land-locked offerings. Sometimes in one dish   like my first course, a warmed, raw scallop in an acorn ham broth with kohlrabi tartare.

"It's a prerequisite that we have got incredible fish and shellfish," said chef Chris McClurg, the restaurant's chef de cuisine. "But what often goes overlooked is the quality and standard of the husbandry and farming in Cornwall."

One of their most beloved dishes, for example, is a main course called "all the pigeon"   that uses every part of the bird in ingenious ways. A roast leg is wrapped in kataifi pastry (made of fine strands of shredded phyllo dough) and fried; the livers whipped into a parfait; the offal, mixed with dark chocolate, turned into a "pain au chocolat" and dipped into a "ketchup" made from Japanese sour plums. I'd never known a pigeon to be turned into such a balanced mix of sweet and savoury, crunch and tenderness.

But one of my favourite dishes was the simplest: a buttered scone. The scone itself was one thing. Then the server brought a glimmering yellow log. He hovered a knife through a candle flame, then glided it through the log with a motion that felt almost visceral. The butter tasted as good as it looked, creamy and lush, heightened with just the right amount of Cornish sea salt.

Despite its reputation, Padstow is far from the only place nearby to find good food. Back on the A39, I drove the 10 miles north to St Kew. I was still full from my Michelin-starred experience   which is available as a set tasting menu only. But if I hadn't been, right off the highway is one of the area's finest farm shops, St Kew Farm Shop & Cafe, serving up a short menu of changing specials (think buttermilk-fried chicken with local slaw and jalapeno cornbread) and top-notch coffee, as well as one of my favourite grilled cheese sandwiches in the area, made with local sourdough and cheddar from Davidstow creamery just down the road. Or there's local favourite Aunt Avice's Pasty Shop, whose hot, fresh-baked Cornish pasties often sell out early in the day.

Turning through the quaint village of St Kew, I headed along one of the smaller B roads to the coast. Before long, the single-track road, high hedges on either side, opened up to the blue of the sea. Compared to its neighbours, Port Quin is a hidden gem. The only people here were a small group of kayakers bobbing out on the water. After popping coins in the car park's honesty box, I headed up the coastal path to walk off some of my lunch, ducking through thickets of blueberries beaded with rain.

Another couple of miles up the coastal road (or 3.5 miles up the path) is Port Isaac. Made especially famous by the long-running series Doc Martin, airing its final series this year, it is the quintessential Cornish coastal town: whitewashed cottages, small harbour, narrow lanes, and on either side, cow dotted hills with steep cliffs and views of the blue ocean. Like its neighbour Tintagel, it is one of north Cornwall's better-known destinations.

For something lesser-known, though, I prefer St Nectan's Glen, where a short hike takes you through an ancient woodland to a towering waterfall. Over time, visitors have strung the surrounding trees with prayer flags and ribbons, a practise often seen at sacred sites in Cornwall, and have built "faerie stacks" of stones. At the top of the glen perches an old hermitage, said to have been the residence of the 6th-Century saint Nectan himself. It's a spot that feels as mystical as any King Arthur castle.

No. 6's "all the pigeon" dish uses every part of the bird in ingenious ways (Credit: Lateef Photography/Paul Ainsworth at No. 6)

For now, I was headed further north to Boscastle. One of Cornwall's more unusual towns, it's known for its quirky Museum of Witchcraft and Magic as well as the chefs, artisans and artists drawn both to its beauty and the opportunities afforded by tourism industry   like new upstart The Rocket Store, which serves up dishes like wild sea bass sashimi with ginger and tarragon.

At the Old Forge Gallery, a centuries-old blacksmith's shop, I rummaged through prints and paintings depicting the area's striking scenery. The artist, Helen Setterington, moved here from Yorkshire 16 years ago. "We came so that I could study the sea and paint the rugged colourful and dramatic north coast," she said. "One day calm, the next day a storm of swirling waves. Just breath taking and very inspiring."

"One day calm, the next day a storm of swirling waves. Just breath-taking and very inspiring."
Back on the A39, I stopped at a spot that revealed a different side of the area: the Cornwall at War Museum. Despite north Cornwall's remoteness, it's played a key role in past wars. During World War One, the coast was heavily defended from the German U boats thick in the water; in World War Two, the region hosted RAF bases, served as a launching point for the D-Day landings in Normandy and was the target numerous bombing raids. Even today, the area plays a role in the UK's national security thanks to GCHQ Bude, one of the UK government's main intelligence and security organisations. On a clear day, you can see the base's large, eerie white satellite dishes, perched on the coastline, from miles away.

Just off the highway, opposite Davidstow creamery, the museum sprawls across three acres of a decommissioned RAF airfield from WW2. It's the passion project and full-time job of local couple Steve and Sheila Perry, who gave me a whistle-stop tour.

"People spend hours just going around," Steve said, ushering me into a room crammed with naval artefacts. "And we see the same faces come back again and again." I could see why   it would take a lifetime to take in everything he and Sheila had collected: medals, uniformed mannequins, hundreds of photographs and documents, even tanks and armoured vehicles.

Another 15 miles north on the A39 brings you to the turn-off for Bude   one of the area's bigger "hubs" with almost 10,000 residents. The seaside town is known for a few things: its 19th-Century castle and heritage centre, its striking sea pool, its surfing (it is home to the very first surf life-saving club in Great Britain).

It's also known for one of the best cafes and bakeries in the region, Electric Bakery  named after the former Western Power electric depot in which it's housed. Opened in 2019, despite never advertising, it quickly took off. "It grew quite organically because we were local first," said Christine Apiou, chef and one of the bakery's four directors.

Today, it's the kind of place where the staff seems to know everyone's names, it's impossible not to run into everyone you know on the weekend, and where customers happily queue for rotating specials like toffee apple buns or fried chicken bánh mì with pickles and lemongrass mayonnaise.

One aspect that sets Electric Bakery apart is that their mission isn't just to provide top notch coffee and baked goods, but to support locals as much as possible. That includes staff, none of whom are on seasonal or zero-hour contracts (which offer no guaranteed minimum hours). It also includes food producers. The cheese comes from a small dairy three miles up the road, the vegetables are mostly from a half-acre market garden in Bude, and they've even started growing their own wheat on the farm that co-director Alex Bluett owns – the flour behind the bakery's "three-mile loaf". 

The result has been a local following so loyal, Bude real estate agencies even have started putting proximity to Electric Bakery as a "sell" for their properties.

Back on the A39, I drove through the medieval village of Stratton – my soon-to-be former home once known for its pivotal role in the English Civil War, but today a sleepy parish of Bude. The road curved and dipped through arcs of green trees, so close to the road that their branches embraced overhead, and took me past the Little Pig Farm Shop, which serves breakfast, lunch and brunch using products sourced from within 30 miles.

Pulling off the main road, I headed towards the coast to one of my favourite spots: the Rectory Farm Tearooms. Rectory Farm isn't a hotspot like Electric Bakery or The Rocket Store. It's an institution, opened in 1950 and since featured in magazines, on TV programmes and even as the set for films like the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

I reminded myself to heap jam on to my scone first
Sitting in the tearoom's garden, I reminded myself to heap jam on to my scone first cross the border to Devon, less than two miles away, and I'd be obligated to put cream on first instead (the forgetful, beware!). Taking a bite, watching bees buzz around fat pots of flowers, listening to hikers trade tales from their time on the South West Coast Path, just a 10-minute walk away, I found myself, already, missing this part of the world: its scenery, its people, its history, its flavours, and yes, even its highway.

The Open Road is a celebration of the world's most remarkable highways and byways, and a reminder that some of the greatest travel adventures happen via wheels.

Found on every corner and renowned as one of Istanbul's favourite and oldest street foods, halka tatlisi has long been associated with the city's seedier side.

As I entered the grand arches of Istanbul's Misir Carsisi (Egyptian Bazaar)  considered by many locals to be the city's greatest marketplace  I was hit by a heady aroma of spice and kaleidoscope of colour. Moving with the current of busy shoppers sifting through a sea of produce, I spilled out on the market's backstreets where carts of stuffed mussels and barrels of stringed cheese sat alongside piles of pistachios, rose bud tea and bright pink olives. Transfixed by these treasures, I drifted, dream-like, until I spied the storied sweet I'd come in search of, beckoning beneath a pastry shop's glass.

Halka tatlisi ("ring dessert" in English) is one of Istanbul's favourite and oldest street foods. Found on every corner and said to help restore one's vigour after hours spent walking the busy streets, the circular dough that's deep-fried to a golden-brown and soaked in syrup has long been associated with the city's seedier side. And it's that connotation that gave rise to its local nickname of the "brothel dessert".

" [It's] known as a 'natural viagra'," said Turkish celebrity chef and restaurateur Somer Sivrioğlu, explaining its cheeky nickname to me.

Halka tatlisi was traditionally sold in Karakoy within the Beyoglu district on Istanbul's European side. The historical waterfront neighbourhood, formerly known as Galata, is positioned at the northern end of the Golden Horn – the main inlet of the Bosphorus Strait that has served as a shipping passage since Byzantine times.

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Karakoy has been a port area since Byzantine times, and was once a hub for prostitution (Credit: Thipjang/Getty Images)

Originally a colony for Genoese merchants, Karakoy became home to various immigrants from the 13th Century onwards, including a large population of Sephardic Jews, when Ottoman Sultan Bayezid II invited them to settle here following their expulsion from Spain in 1492.

As a busy port, increasingly industrialised Karakoy also became a hub for prostitution. And in 1884, when a new regulation legalised Istanbul's first brothels, this red-light district originally intended for foreign visitors – continued to thrive for the next 137 years.

"Back when this was the old port, Anatolian tradesmen from rural areas and smaller cities would come to Karakoy for business and often visit the brothels," explained Istanbul tour guide Leyla Capaci. "Being cheap, delicious and high in sugar, the ring dessert became popular here because it's said that it gave men the energy they needed before – and after – visiting the working women."

Even though the brothels have closed, you still see a lot of halka tatlisi vendors hanging around this area
Today, however, Karakoy looks very different. As I made my way from the viewing platform of Galata Tower, down through the cobbled backstreets, evidence of gentrification was all around. The last decade has seen warehouses converted into modern art galleries, while workshops have made way for hipster cafes, barbers and boutiques. But it's the recent closing of the remaining brothels on Zurafa Street that's the biggest indication of change their demolition currently making way for an arts and cultural centre as part of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism's Beyoglu Culture Road Project.

"Even though the brothels have closed, you still see a lot of halka tatlisi vendors hanging around this area," Capaci said.

I soon experienced this first hand. With seagulls swirling overhead, as I strolled over the Galata Bridge and passed fishermen casting their lines out over the glittering surface of the Bosphorus, it wasn't long before I met two men making and selling the city's darling of doughnut-like desserts. As I watched them squeeze batter  traditionally made with semolina and plain flour – into hot oil through the star-shaped nozzle of a pastry syringe, I saw a familiar pattern emerging in the pan. Is the "ring dessert" simply a churro, I wondered?

"With its ridged edges, halka tatlisi is very similar looking to the churro, which is thought to have arrived with the expulsion of Spanish Jews as the result of the Alhambra Decree," Capaci told me. "The difference is that our version often called the 'Turkish churro' – has a circular shape and is derived from tulumba tatlisi."

Tulumba tatlisi ("pump dessert" in English) is a Turkish sweet that takes its name from the pump like apparatus or syringe used to distribute batter. Cut into small tubes before being fried and drenched in syrup, these "Ottoman doughnuts" are especially popular at celebrations such as weddings and during the month of Ramadan, giving a sugar hit to people who have fasted all day.

Although there seems to be a few theories as to halka tatlisi's exact path to Istanbul, I learned that halka tatlisi, tulumba tatlisi and churros all share a heritage in medieval Arabic cuisine, with the earliest known record of desserts of their kind stemming from a fritter called zalabiya mushabbak that appears in Kitab al-Tabikh (Book of Dishes) by Ibn Sayyar al Warraq. Considered the most comprehensive work of its kind, this 10th-Century Baghdadi cookbook offers a rare glimpse into medieval Islam's culinary culture and the role food played during the politics of its "Golden Era", when Baghdad was a centre for scientific and cultural learning, and religious and civil leaders gathered at opulent banquets.

"Tulumba is indeed the same stuff as halka tatlisi except the latter is identified by its shape," explained Iraqi-born food writer and food historian, Nawal Nasrallah, who translated the ancient cookbook into English for the first time as Annals of the Caliphs' Kitchens. She explained that many dishes migrated to Istanbul when Arab cooks were employed by the Ottoman sultans to work in their elite kitchens. "And while it's quite possible that Sephardic Jews could have influenced the churro look of this pastry with its ridged edges, we know that the fried fritters of Muslim Spain were influenced by Middle Eastern cuisine."

All these desserts share the same basic ingredients and method, where a designed instrument is used to pour batter into hot oil. "While zalabiya mushabbak was traditionally made by passing batter through a hole in a coconut shell into hot fat, halka tatlisi, tulumba and churros are formed using more modern utensils such as a kitchen syringe or piping bag to distribute the batter into the oil," Nasrallah said.

But what of these fried sweets' libidinous qualities, which gave rise to halka tatlisi being sold outside brothels? While the ingredient, rose – found in the rose water and honey syrup that historically perfumed zalabiya is a known aphrodisiac, Nasrallah said that sugary treats in themselves were believed to enhance sexual drive.

They believed that sweets in general were an aphrodisiac – boosting libido due to their hot and humid properties
"People in medieval times followed the tenets of Galen's theory of the four humours, according to which they believed that sweets in general were an aphrodisiac boosting libido due to their hot and humid properties," she said. "And zalabiya mushabbak was a favourite, found on the tables of caliphs as well as the busy marketplaces."

Today, while no longer sold outside of brothels, halka tatlisi continues to be a beloved street food snack for Istanbulites, found in vendors' carts, pastry shops and now restaurants.

Sivrioğlu has plans to include an elevated, modern take of halka tatlisi on the dessert menu of his newly opened Istanbul restaurant, Efendy. "Our aim is to take this common street dessert and bring it to restaurant level," said Sivrioğlu, who is known for challenging preconceptions about Turkish food.

Also a judge on MasterChef Turkiye, Sivrioğlu gave contestants a halka tatlisi challenge a few years ago when he asked them to recreate the street-food favourite.

"The filming of the challenge was lots of fun because, although it seems like a simple dessert, halka tatlisi is actually quite difficult to get right. The oil's temperature has to be just right to create the crunch on the outside and the softness inside which proved terrible for the contestants, but great TV for us," he joked.

Sivrioğlu's new version, which uses pistachio flour sourced from Eastern Turkey in addition to the traditional semolina, comes drenched in sherbet water (a popular drink from the time of the Ottoman Empire made with fruit, sugar and water) and delicately dressed in dulche de leche. It's topped with crushed pistachio nuts, a sprinkle of sea salt from the seaside town of Ayvalik and a dollop of goat's milk ice cream.

In the affluent neighbourhood of Etiler, amid soft lighting, polished wine glasses and sophisticated guests, this elegant version of Istanbul's infamous "brothel dessert" was a far cry from the city's backstreets where I first came in search of the sweet. Instructed to eat while hot, I lifted a delicate morsel to my mouth. As the initial crunch gave way to creamy, velvety softness, an explosion of sweet delight ensued as sherbet water trickled down the back of my throat. Wickedly good, it was easy to see how this decadent dessert has endured through the centuries, giving pleasure to everyone from "sinners" to sultans.

For many, seeing the world's most famous shipwreck is a lifelong dream. And now, paying adventurers called "mission specialists" can get the chance to explore Titanic up close.

Four hundred miles from St Johns, Newfoundland, in the choppy waters of the North Atlantic Ocean, a large industrial vessel swayed from side to side. Onboard, Stockton Rush expressed a vision for the future:

"There will be a time when people will go to space for less cost and very regularly. I think the same thing is going to happen going under water."

Rush hopes that his company OceanGate will do for deep-sea exploration what innovators like Elon Musk, Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos are trying to do for space travel: allow anyone with enough money to venture to new worlds, even if they lack the specialist training.

Rush's location in the North Atlantic is unremarkable at first glance. However, it is here that one of the most renowned and tragic events in history took place: 3,800m below the surface lies the wreck of the Titanic, which sank in April 1912 after striking an iceberg on its maiden voyage.

"There are three words in the English language which are known throughout the planet. That's Coca-Cola, God and Titanic."

For Rush, who is trying to make deep-sea exploration for the masses commercially viable, the site of the world's most famous shipwreck was a "must-do dive". He added, "I read an article that said there are three words in the English language which are known throughout the planet. That's Coca-Cola, God and Titanic."

But to make his Titanic dream a reality, Rush has had to create a new type of submersible made of lightweight materials that could take up to five people down from the ocean vessel to Titanic's depth. Many thought it couldn't be done.

Now though, Rush was at the site (after successfully reaching the wreck in the submersible last year) with a large mix of people, including the crew aboard the vessel, OceanGate staff, scientists and a small but crucial group of paying adventurers called "mission specialists" who each paid up to $250,000 (about £225,000) for a chance to see Titanic up close.

While there, they would also have the chance to help as citizen scientists, gathering pictures and video of the deep-sea biodiversity.

This particular dive included banker Renata Rojas, businessman Oisin Fanning and television professional Jaden Pan, plus oceanographer Steve Ross and submersible pilot Scott Griffith.

Rojas explained, "I'm not a millionaire. I've been saving money for a long, long time. I made a lot of sacrifices in my life to be able to get to Titanic. I don't have a car, I didn't get married yet, I don't have children. And all those decisions were because I wanted to go to Titanic."

"I'm not a millionaire. I've been saving money for a long, long time. I made a lot of sacrifices in my life to be able to get to Titanic."

For Ross, these dives offer a rare chance to study the deep ocean environment by taking water samples around the wreck site and making a record of the biodiversity with his camera. He said, "There is sort of a race to understand the deep sea, which is the largest environment in the oceans and the most poorly explored. Changes in the ocean have a huge impact over the whole globe."

As the submersible descended for more than two hours to the bottom of the ocean with its passengers, onboard, Ross observed this biodiversity through the porthole window.

"On the way down, we saw mesopelagic animals [that are] involved in the largest migration on Earth. Every evening, this big community migrates to the surface, and each morning they migrate back down to 500 to 1,000m. A lot of those animals have bioluminescence, so you get flashes of light here and there." 

When the submersible hit the ocean floor, it landed in the 15sq m debris field that surrounds Titanic's severed bow and stern.

"All five of us unofficially had this moment of silence," said Pan. "The first thing I see are pieces of coal. That's the moment that connected me to the humanness of the Titanic. The fact that people had shovelled this, had brought it onto the boat, and during the sinking, it just all spilled out."

From the other end of the submersible, Pan heard pilot Griffith say, "Oh no. We have a problem."

"When I'm thrusting forwards, one of the thrusters is thrusting backwards," Griffith explained. "Now all I can do is a 360." On the ocean vessel above, Rush considered remapping Griffith's controller. "It's not going to be easy", he told his fellow support crew.

"I thought, we're not going to make it!" Rojas said. "We're 300m from Titanic and all we can do is go in circles."

The solution which came to Rush was brilliantly simple: "Tell him to hold it the other way," he said. After establishing that turning left on the controller will move the submersible forwards, he concluded that turning the controller 90 degrees clockwise will make the submersible possible to go forward again.

assing colourful tiles, plates and a sink in the debris field, they soon reached their goal: the bow of the Titanic – iconic from when romance blossomed between the fictional Jack and Rose in the movie Titanic. Selfies taken, the remaining hours on the ocean floor were spent exploring the rest of the bow and more of the debris field before ascending to the surface.

While the analysis of the data they collected (from the video) will take some months to complete, the mission was instantly gratifying. Soon after emerging from the submersible back on the ocean vessel, Rojas wiped away a tear, saying "I needed to do it to feel complete. I feel now complete."

It was Independence Day in the Republic of North Macedonia, a landlocked Balkan country sharing borders with Greece, Albania, Bulgaria, Serbia and Kosovo. Along the northern shores of Lake Ohrid, bright yellow sunbeams of North Macedonian flags fluttered in the breeze that swept down from the Jablanica Mountains as bands played, rakia flowed, and beers were cracked open in celebration of independence from the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia in 1991.

However, it was coincidence, rather than by design, that my trip coincided with these annual festivities. Instead, I was heading to Vevčani, a fascinating village with its own little-known history of independence.

My bus left the lakeside revelry behind, and we turned into the foothills of the nation's mountainous western border with Albania. As we entered the village, there were few signs of a party atmosphere. The North Macedonian flag was flying outside the local government building, but it wasn't alone. Next to it, flew a flag I'd never seen before.

"That's the flag of the Republic of Vevčani," said Aleksandra Velkoska, a former tour guide who now works for the Vevčani municipality. "We don't celebrate independence today. Vevčani has its own independence to celebrate."

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Despite having a population of just 2,400, Vevčani has attempted to declare independence three times from two different countries over the last five decades. In 1987, it first threatened to secede from Yugoslavia. Then, in 1991, the village proclaimed itself to be an independent republic just 11 days after the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (as North Macedonia was previously named) had itself declared independence during the breakup of Yugoslavia. And in 2002, the libertarian spirit of the Republic of Vevčani was revived by locals as a tongue-in-cheek micronation in an unusual effort to draw tourists and poke fun at politics by flying a "national" flag, issuing passports and printing currency.

Vevčani's independent streak goes back centuries. Although it's located just a 20-minute drive from Struga, the largest town on Lake Ohrid's northern shore, the isolated and impenetrable terrain of the Jablanica Mountains ensures that the people of Vevčani have long been able to assert their autonomy.

Vevčani was nominally part of the Macedonian, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman empires before falling under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Serbia, communist Yugoslavia and now North Macedonia. But after meeting me at the bus stop, Velkoska explained that Vevčani was never truly conquered.

"We are very traditional in Vevčani," Velkoska said, as she guided me up a hill to the Church of St Nicholas. From here, we looked out across the neighbouring villages, where minarets on the surrounding mountain slopes reflected the sunshine. "During the Ottoman era, for example, we kept our culture and our Orthodox religion, even though all of the surrounding villages are Muslim."

From the late 14th Century until 1912, the region came under the rule of the Ottoman Empire, which had its capital in what's now Istanbul. Around 33% of North Macedonia's population now identifies as Muslim, with the Ottoman legacy being particularly strong in the north-western region that borders Albania and Kosovo (both Muslim-majority countries). Vevčani is effectively an Orthodox Christian enclave in a Muslim-majority area.

The Church of St Nicholas dates to 1824, and beneath the hand-painted murals and frescoes inside, Velkoska introduced me to church caretaker Lambe Shurbanoski, who explained how Vevčani had considerable religious freedoms under the Ottoman Empire.

In the Ottoman era, you would normally enter a church by going down steps to symbolise that Christianity was below Islam

As Velkoska guided me further into the village, she explained how Vevčani's history of non-conformity under Ottoman rule inspired resistance during the communist era that followed World War Two, when the region became part of the Socialist Republic of Macedonia, one of the six republics within Yugoslavia.

"During the communist times, the government tried to stop our traditions," she said. "They didn't allow traditional weddings or baptisms, but our mothers and grandmothers still did these things in secret."

Locals also held onto a unique Slavic dialect found nowhere elsewhere in the country, and each January, the village hosts a 1,400-year-old carnival that draws thousands of visitors from across the Balkans to see revellers dressed up in elaborate costumes and masks.

At the centre of all the village's unique local customs is the Vevčani springs, which Velkoska took me to see next.

The Vevčani springs lie at the heart of the village's unique customs and celebrations (Credit: Richard Collett)
The Vevčani springs lie at the heart of the village's unique customs and celebrations (Credit: Richard Collett)

"The springs are the most important part of our culture and history," she said, as we crossed over a small bridge and followed the riverbank towards the source of Vevčani's natural spring water. The source was hidden inside a darkened cave, but the entranceway was verdant and green where the spring water flowed into the riverbed. "Almost all celebrations and rites of passage are held here. It's why people were so annoyed when the Yugoslavian government tried to take our water away."

In May 1987, the people of Vevčani rose up in protest against the Yugoslavian government's plans to divert spring water to new villas being built by Lake Ohrid for the communist elite. In response, the village spent that summer building barricades, protesting and threatening to secede as the independent Republic of Vevčani.

The Vevčani Emergency, as it became known, lasted for three months. The government response was heavy handed, and special police armed with batons were sent in to end the uprising. Even so, the government backed down first, and the Vevčani Emergency became one of the first successful instances of mass resistance against the Yugoslavian government. Many of Vevčani's citizens continued protesting on and off for the next four years in Skopje and Belgrade in an ongoing attempt to hold the authorities accountable for arrests and injuries.

I learned more about the community's independent streak when we stopped for lunch at Restaurant Kutmicevica. "Do you have a passport?" asked restaurant owner Nasto Bogoeski as we sat down to eat. He wasn't talking about my British passport and was happy to see that I'd already purchased the red Republic of Vevčani version, complete with a dated entry stamp, from a souvenir stand near the springs.

Bogoeski told me that he was training to be a police officer in Skopje during the Vevčani Emergency. Despite this, he says he was there in spirit, and he's been involved in supporting the Republic of Vevčani ever since. When he retired from policing in the 2000s, he opened this restaurant, which serves local specialties like gjomleze (a type of slow-cooked pie), sheep's cheese and grilled vegetables served with a garlic sauce. All are cooked by Vevčani chefs, while Bogoeski regales tourists and travellers with stories of his beloved Republic.

Restaurant Kutmicevica serves up local specialties cooked by Vevčani chefs (Credit: Richard Collett)
Restaurant Kutmicevica serves up local specialties cooked by Vevčani chefs (Credit: Richard Collett)

As he poured me a glass of rakia, Bogoeski explained what happened in Vevčani when Yugoslavia began to unravel in the 1990s.

"In 1991, there were referendums for independence all over Yugoslavia," he said. "In the same moment, the people from Vevčani decided they wanted a referendum for independence. We were politically motivated by everything that had happened during the Vevčani Emergency, and so we also wanted to be separate from Yugoslavia and from [North] Macedonia."

On 8 September 1991, the Socialist Republic of Macedonia declared independence from Yugoslavia and became the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Not content with their new government, on 19 September 1991, the town almost unanimously declared itself an independent republic, with just 36 out of 2,000 locals voting against the motion.

The former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia never recognised Vevčani's peaceful bid for independence, but given their government were also dealing with armed separatists in ethnically Albanian regions of the new country, they did eventually concede to demands for autonomy. In 1994, they allowed Vevčani to separate from the larger Struga Municipality and form their own autonomous municipality, which still exists today.

Bogoeski's daughter, Nikolina, added that in the early 2000s, the rebellious spirit of the village was revived and used to encourage tourism by marketing the Republic of Vevčani as a micronation.

People across the Balkans wanted to know more about the story behind our flag, passports and money
"We made local passports and printed currency to advertise Vevčani," she said. "It worked, and people across the Balkans wanted to know more about the story behind our flag, passports and money. We have more plans to make a 'customs post' at the border to the village, where we can stamp the passports."

The village has a long history of rebellion and non-conformity (Credit: Richard Collett)
The village has a long history of rebellion and non-conformity (Credit: Richard Collett)

Nikolina also said that, if necessary, the Republic of Vevčani could again become a serious entity in the future. "This is a very political village," she said. "Our village always comes first. If we held another referendum in the future, I think it would be possible for the village to be independent and stay successful."

After lunch, Velkoska took me for a sneak peek inside Vevčani's new museum, which is set to open later this year. Inside, political artworks depicted the Vevčani Emergency and the Republic of Vevčani, alongside a photographic exhibition devoted to Vevčani's centuries-old carnival. Interestingly, she said, the carnival is effectively a centuries-old satire, because satire is what Vevčani does best. Like its self-appointed micronation status, it's a way for Vevčani to mock the authorities, and many of the costumes and masks are politically charged, parodying the government or ridiculing recent political events.

Before I caught the bus back to Lake Ohrid, I asked Velkoska whether she thought the Republic of Vevčani was serious or satirical. "Vevčani still has its disagreements with the government," she said. "But we are too small to be independent. We would have a weak economy. It's a nice idea, but right now it's only for fun".

Held every five years, the Zenkyo beef competition is only partially about winning. It's also about the Japanese concept of "ikigai" and the search for the Shangri-La of steak.


There's a unique competition in Japan that's reminiscent of the Westminster Dog Show, where animals are celebrated for their beauty, breeding and other attributes. But unlike their canine comrades, this contest is about food, these animals are cows, and the winning breeders get the opportunity to sell their cattle and carcasses to the best restaurants and butchers in the world at the highest price.

This is the Japanese Wagyu Olympics, and these are high "steaks". But that's only half of the story.

The Wagyu Olympics (formally known as Zenkyo) was launched in 1966 to help encourage a high level of cattle breeding, tourism and promote Wagyu beef in and out of the country. The competition takes place every five years and awards cattle farmers with the designation of the best beef in the world.

There are two main competitive categories: Breed Improvement, which judges a cow on its size, proportions and other outwardly visible standards; and Meat Quality, where the carcasses are judged on fat quality and content. At the end of the competition, the best breeding cows and carcasses are sold at auction to the highest bidders in Japan. Beef sales from the auction can run upwards of ¥72,000 (about £442). And if you've seen Wagyu beef on a menu and were shocked by the price, this is why.

Both a competition and a trade show, the Wagyu Olympics always starts with a theme. For the 2022 event, the theme roughly translates to "shining a spotlight on the power of regional Wagyu beef", which aims to highlight the diversity of Wagyu beef throughout the country. This year's competition takes place 6-10 October and will see 41 prefectures competing for the best Wagyu, with the show attracting nearly half a million people during the five-day event.

Over the course of the week, pairs of breeding cows and fattening cows will be paraded and prodded and (sadly) slaughtered for Wagyu beef supremacy. But winning is only partially about competing. It's also about the Japanese concept of ikigai and the search for the Shangri-La of steak.

"[Ikigai] is a deep sense of purpose; the reason for getting up every morning; that which gives one's life much of its meaning," said Andrea Fazzari, James Beard award-winning photographer and author of Sushi Shokunin. "Iki means "life" and gai conveys a sense of value. What a shokunin (master) does daily should not only bring him or herself meaning, but it should also bring meaning or pleasure to others."

In Japan, craftspeople and practitioners of all stripes are known for their relentless pursuit of perfection in whichever field they trade in. You can see this in everything from rice cultivation to the elaborate artistry of Raku tea bowls to sushi masters like the protagonist of the acclaimed film Jiro Dreams of Sushi.

It's this pursuit of excellence that also drives Wagyu beef farmers to breed the ultimate cow and the Olympics is their opportunity to share their life's work.

But let's back up. Technically speaking, "Wagyu" simply means Japanese cow. They are cows that are selectively bred for their ability to produce intramuscular fat, which gives the beef its signature marbling. If you see a steak with white lines streaming throughout (as opposed to fatty blobs around the edges), you're seeing the marbling first-hand.

"Intramuscular means the fat is within the muscles. It's the last fat that gets deposited. It's the most metabolically expensive, and it's the hardest to achieve," said Mark Schatzker, author of Steak: One Man's Search for the World's Tastiest Piece of Beef. He explained that the Japanese farmers achieve this high level of marbling because they feed their cattle a "cooler ration, like barley, that's diluted with higher fibre feeds such as hay, that are far less calorically intense over a much longer period of time." As a result, the Wagyu cattle put on weight slowly, which helps give the beef its marbling. Schatzker goes on to say that in contrast, a hot ration, often corn, is what cows are fed in a feedlot that is much more energy dense and pushes the cattle to put on fat much faster – hence the blobs.

Marbling is only one factor in giving Wagyu beef its distinctive taste. Schatzker says the cattle "retain more flavour because they're eating more green stuff, so that they have time to actually develop some flavour and deposit that flavour in their flesh." But the selective breeding also plays a major factor because Wagyu cows have a prominent gene called delta-9 desaturase.

"This is interesting because Wagyu is a breed which really does have distinctive traits that you can taste… And one of the traits is the soft fat. All cattle have the delta-9 desaturase gene, but Wagyu express it more," Schatzker explained. "And this [gene] converts stearic acid  which is a saturated fat – into oleic acid, which is a monounsaturated fat that's the fat that's predominant in olive oil."

"The result is that the fat has a lower rendering point. And it has a softness you can feel in your mouth, and I think it also has a slightly sweeter taste. It produces a different flavour profile."

When it comes to competing within the Wagyu world, there are scales that determine the beef's quality (and ultimately its price). Perhaps you've heard of A5 Wagyu. The "A" means that a particular cow had a high yield (how much meat you can get from it)  a "B" or "C" is a lower yield but doesn't mean less quality. And that cow's fat content  the "5"  was very high as well. On top of the A1-A5 scale, there's also a Beef Marbling Standard (BMS) with a scale that goes from 1-12. So, if a steak is rated A5-12, it's considered the very best of the best.

"It has a softness you can feel in your mouth, and I think it also has a slightly sweeter taste. It produces a different flavour profile."
"I think the thing that makes it so interesting, as with everything the Japanese do, they take it to such an extent that seems almost unimaginable," said Schatzker. "The American beef industry is driven by marbling, and everybody thinks Prime [the highest grade] is the apotheosis. And then you see, like an A2 ribeye in Japan, and the scale goes up to A5 and it just destroys Prime. It makes it look like a joke. And the Japanese do this with everything. They take things other people have done in other cultures, and they perfect them. Everything they touch, they perfect. And they've done that with beef."

Achieving steak perfection in Japan is more about the journey than the goal, however. Fazzari explained that one aspect of ikigai is kaizen, or the notion of constant improvement.

Chef Kentaro Ikuta at the newly opened AMA Sushi inside the Rosewood Miramar Beach hotel in Montecito, California, leans into this notion of kaizen when considering the fish and Wagyu he's serving to customers. "I am a family man, passionate about my craft and the constant [search for] perfection [while] being aware that perfection never comes. Every day, when I shine my knife… or use my hands to measure the salt and the vinegar in the rice, I know that one millimetre or one-gram counts and I am aware how much a little detail can make the difference in my life and in the world around me."

EATING WAGYU IN JAPAN
Looking for the Shangri-la of steak while visiting Japan? Head to Kitashinchi Fukutatei in Osaka, a one-Michelin-starred restaurant that's known for its furnace grilled chateaubriand steak sandwiches. If you're in Kyoto, check out Miyoshi, another Michelin-starred spot with a bevy of steak dishes. For the Wagyu Olympic champion Miyazaki Prefecture, you can find a list on their website of restaurants in Japan (and around the world) that carry their award-winning beef. If you want to see a Wagyu farm first-hand, you can find tours that will get you up close and personal with the cows.

Like other trade masters around Japan, Wagyu farmers also embody this idea of kaizen. According to Mika White, a tourism marketing specialist at Tourism Exchange Japan, "Wagyu cattle farmers pride themselves to raise the best Wagyu a consumer could have. It's their life's work to keep on perfecting the highest quality and be recognised with the quality by the consumer. Honorary awards mean a lot here in Japan."

Although there's no cash prize for the winning prefecture at the Wagyu Olympics, there is an immense sense of pride and honour for the winning farmers. And winning is important in several other ways.

"It's a great way to showcase a beef brand [that's] lesser known nationally," said White. "By winning the competition, the beef price will go up, so this is the most important competition for the farmer and the prefecture as well." She added that when specific regions get recognition for their Wagyu, tourists will come to seek out the best of the best, wherever it may be.

The 41 prefectures competing in the 2022 Olympics will all bring their cattle to Kagoshima Prefecture on Japan's southern island of Kyushu. The island is also home to the dominant force in the Wagyu competition world: Miyazaki Prefecture. Miyazaki is readily considered the best producer of the highest rated Wagyu steaks and has won in at least one category at the previous three Olympics (something that's never been done before). And this year, they're competing on their home turf.

You can find Miyazaki beef at the best restaurants in the world, and chefs will contend that it's due to the consistency of the product. (Consistency in exported Wagyu can vary and is often due to restrictions on beef imports by local governments.)

Hilary Henderson, a private chef and the former chef de cuisine at world-famous Wolfgang Puck steakhouse CUT Lounge in Beverly Hills, added, "It's good to give people different options of things to try, but you want to be able to produce the same results over and over again. And having Miyazaki be consistently rated so high makes that easier for a chef to know that they can continue to be consistent with the product." 

Chef Ikuta uses Miyazaki Wagyu at his restaurant because, "[It's] the combination of care of raising the cattle, the extreme regulations they must go through to ensure quality, and the feeding and the genetic makeup of their marbled meat." He continued, "The feeding of [Miyazaki's Wagyu cattle] the kuroge washu (one of the Japanese wagyu breeds) comprises 15 kinds of feed, such as grass from the meadow, moist barley mash (a by product of beer brewing), maize and so forth, with no preservatives or antibiotics whatsoever. The feed for the cattle is mixed every morning and evening during an extremely labour-intensive process lasting two hours."

When you ask the Japanese farmers themselves about this labour of "steak" love, it's easy to get a sense that these cows are more than just a commodity. "The most important thing is to create the best environment for the cattle and to give them as much love as possible… We do not see them only as animals; we treat them with respect and love," said Karatsu Maeda, a fattening farmer from the Saga Prefecture, a main rival of Miyazaki that is also located on Kyushu.

For Maeda and other farmers, however, raising the best beef always comes back to ikigai, which for him means "ultimately [being] able to deliver delicious beef to consumers". He continued, "We need to work cautiously with our cattle (and give them as much love as possible throughout their life). If we win, our family and employees, as well as our ancestors, will be most pleased with the news for sure."

While it's impossible to achieve true perfection in any one thing, much less beef (especially since food quality can be subjective), the Wagyu Olympics helps drive farmers to get really close as they pursue their life's work. And thanks to the Japanese concept of ikigai, we might be eating better because of it.