Dingle

It took a day and a night for me to fall in love with the Dingle peninsula. They followed two nights and a day, but I know Tuesday - from morning 'til night - was the turning point.

A leisurely drive with wonderful company, that aimed only to see some stone age monuments and the coastline, became a pilgrimage. We stalked some basking sharks around the Slea Head drive. The sharks lured us in, and we took the bait for ninety minutes at one point, gazing at their sleek forms as they fed at the bottom of the sea cliffs.

Delicious hake for dinner, followed by the pub, and a brief liaison with a lovely girl - all combined to create a most magnificent day.

But there is something in the very air of Dingle that pleases the soul. An infectious bliss. The abundance of cafes. Pubs with character (and snugs). The sea breeze carrying the cries of Fungie... okay, that's mostly my imagination.

Though it's full of tourists and day-trippers, the town retains a reserved air - calm, enduring, unflappable. With my current position on the Iveragh peninsula, I cannot help but draw comparisons to traffic-choked, noisy, expensive Killarney. I suppose the Ring of Kerry offers better value to tourists with limited time.

Portmagee is reminiscent of Dingle town though - quietly observing the coming and going of fisherman, visitors and locals. People the years particular houses were built, so little has it been expanded.

Belgrade

Serbian drivers are nuts, but the people are the friendliest I've encountered. A day with my niece's godfather, desperately struggling to remember my Leaving Cert German. An evening on the terrace drinking beer and schnapps with Sneza's father, whom I had previous essentially snogged. I'm sure my quite nature is sometimes mistaken for aloofness, but everywhere I was greeted by smiles and the warmest hospitality.

The city itself is perhaps in a state of transition still. The museum is being renovated, the national assembly and the massive St Mark's are both clad in a cocoon of scaffolding. Communist era façades dominate the centre, but elsewhere glass-fronted offices vie for space beside ailing apartment blocks. One failing bridge over the Danube contrasts with several modern spans on the Sava. Maybe the Sava is thought of as Belgrade's, and the Danube is in shared custody, and only given attention once in a while.

Capitalism has not become a scourge yet. Stalls are abundant, but hawkers do not impose. Only one street has the air of a tourist trap, with maître d's hovering outside, tempting passers-by. Muscisians plays by the tables, romancing couples with renditions of Sinatra.