Watching the World Cup this year feels a bit strange. Not in a conspiracy way. Not because of upsets, or Argentina turning a simple match into a drama again. It’s a different kind of strange.

The more I travel, the more I’m drawn to the Maghreb. It’s not just a region, but a meeting point—where the Sahara, the Mediterranean, and the Atlantic come together, shaped by Amazigh culture over generations.

This remains one of my favourite road trips in China — a route that brings together an extraordinary range of landscapes.

When I think back to the Qatar World Cup final, it was meant to be an ordinary Sunday — hopeful, heartbreaking, triumphant, ordinary.

Still, part of me wishes that the new version had kept more of the old humility — the feeling that the restaurant belonged to its street rather than to a district’s reputation.

To understand this Oasis nostalgia, it is about economic decline, rising taxes, pubs closing, trains rattling, supermarket prices climbing, England’s men football team losing again and again.

That afternoon, we found a place where we could watch the sea for hours. From the hill, under a clear sky, the mountains of Andalusia seemed almost within reach.

By the time the Nile reaches Cairo, it no longer feels wide and gentle as it does upstream. It carries a sense of urgency, as if eager to reach the sea.

Every generation has its anger. The parallels with 1970 are striking: race, war, civil rights, women’s rights, environmental activism — the themes return.