Colombia

Colombia hit me differently from the moment I landed in Cartagena. The old city is all pastel-coloured walls and carved wooden balconies spilling over with flowers, and the heat sits on you like a warm hand. I spent my evenings on a rooftop watching the twin domes of San Pedro Claver catch the last pink light while the Caribbean shimmered beyond the walls — that image has stayed with me longer than almost anything else from this whole trip.

Medellín felt like a completely different country. The city fills an entire valley, and at night you can stand on the hillside and watch it light up from the bottom to the ridge like someone slowly turning on a switchboard. The comunas — those brick neighbourhoods stacked up the slopes — carry a weight of history that you feel just standing there. The street murals down below in El Centro are massive and unapologetic, the kind of art that stops you mid-step.

Guatapé was the surprise. I climbed El Peñón early enough that the clouds were still low over the lake, and when I reached the top the whole valley opened up — a thousand green islands scattered across the water, stretching to every horizon. I stood there for a long time. The food in Medellín that evening — whole grilled fish and chicha at La Fogata — felt like the right way to close the day. Colombia gets under your skin fast.