Condé Nast Traveller, June 2008. New-found creature comforts make the voyage into Canada's wildest landscape a lot more appealing.

Wanderlust, April/May 2008. The front line of the Sino-Japanese war was a strange place for a honeymoon, but this was what Ernest Hemingway insisted on calling it. He’d married fellow war correspondent and novelist Martha Gellhorn a couple of months before she was to report for Collier’s on the Chinese army in action – and he went too.

Wanderlust, April/May 2008. “You’re not thinking of going out in this, are you?” the café owner asked as he served us. There was something about his frightened eyes that suggested he was speaking to a pair of lunatics about to breathe their last gasps of salty Manx air...

Wanderlust, March 2008. The discovery of the yellow stuff near Dawson City in the Yukon in 1896 led to the greatest gold rush in history, with thousands braving the perils of the sub-Arctic wilderness in search of wealth. Polly Evans follows the trail of the Klondike stampeders

Wanderlust.co.uk, 14 February 2008. Thousands once stampeded down Canada's Yukon River in search of gold, but these days its greatest draw is utter tranquillity

Sunday Times, 23 September 2007. They say the Yukon Quest is the toughest dogsledding race in the world. It runs each February between Whitehorse in Canada’s Yukon Territory and Fairbanks, Alaska, across 1,000 miles of frozen wasteland. For 10 days mushers survive alone and unaided with their dogs in blizzards and temperatures as low as -40C – surely no environment for a Jamaican. But that’s not how 44-year-old Devon Anderson sees it...

Food & Wine, September 2007. I’m standing in a skinny cobbled street in the town of Orosei on the eastern shore of Sardinia, an island off Italy’s west coast. Above my head, curved terra-cotta roof tiles slope up toward the domes of historic churches, their cupolas and crosses scorched by centuries of Mediterranean summers...

Independent on Sunday, 12 August 2007. Csavargo was cantering up the hill like a horse on the run from a cleaver-wielding chef. He hurtled round the path's tight little bends and skimmed under the trees' low branches so that I had to lie low on his neck to avoid an unseating. It was all very exciting, but I had a problem: I was finding it difficult to communicate to this horse that, really, I'd quite like him to slow down...