‘Warm days, clear skies, chattering parakeets and a riot of wild flowers’

From balmy Malaga to the souks of Damascus, your wanderings in the cities of the world inspired some colourful writing

It’s a long way from Leicestershire to Antarctica. A stopover made sense, if only to acclimatise to summer in February – and we chose Montevideo. Maybe all Uruguayan taxi drivers have Formula One ambitions: by the time ours took the chequered flag outside our hotel, he was ready for Silverstone.

“Do not enter the Old Town after dark,” warned the receptionist. It was dusk, we were thirsty and all the bars were in the forbidden zone. Checking our wallets, we crossed Plaza de la Constitución to find bars where the only threat was the cocktails. Fortyeight hours later, after a tour of the stadium that hosted the first World Cup final, we were ready for Antarctica. Richard Guise, Leicestershire

SOUTHERN COMFORTS

We found our way to Savannah, Georgia, via John Berendt’s haunting book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. He covered a trial there and met exotic locals, including Emma Kelly, “the lady of six thousand songs”. She played piano in a local bar, singing any song requested… and we tested this.

Savannah has many lovely squares surrounded by large oak trees with the trailing Spanish moss so ubiquitous in Southern films. We visited during the annual Homes and Gardens Tour when locals open up their houses. A wonderful “high tea” with prayers was followed by a feast of fried chicken, collard greens, biscuits with gravy, corn, and crumbly fruit pies. Evelyn Moss, Cambridge

BRIDGE TO THE PAST

The reception was frosty when we landed in Poland. “Walk over the mat, disinfect your hands!” barked an official. The UK was in the throes of mad cow disease. This was forgotten, however, when we set eyes on the old city of Krakow, a treasure chest of exquisite architecture, its 16th-century Cloth Hall teeming with life. A trumpeter appeared in St Mary’s tower, filling the air with his mournful tune.

Splashing out for our anniversary, we took a ringside seat on the square, still spending only a modest amount on food. It was sobering to watch a wartime film in the Jewish quarter: residents herded by men in Nazi uniforms, over the bridge we had crossed. Celia Harris, Hampshire

Spanish steps: take in the view of Malaga’s port from Gibralfaro

GOLDEN MOMENTS

The arrivals hall at Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) swarmed with people. It was the day before Tet (Vietnamese New Year), the busiest time to visit. En route to my hotel I passed sweeping boulevards of French colonial buildings alongside ancient pagodas and gleaming skyscrapers. Every corner had a street food vendor, and I breathed in a mixture of sweet incense, honey and fried noodles.

As night fell, lanterns glowed and dancing dragons shimmied to a throbbing beat. At midnight, fireworks illuminated the city. A girl in a red silk ao dai dress touched my arm and held out candied ginger. I tried out my Vietnamese. “Cam o’n ban.” She giggled and hid behind her mother. What a welcome to Vietnam and the Year of the Golden Pig. Sarah Owens, Cornwall

SOUK AND YE SHALL FIND

We arrived in Damascus on a Friday (holy day) during Ramadan with a small picnic stowed in our case as I knew we would not be eating in public until the evening call to prayer. At our budget hotel, we were greeted by an elderly gentleman who, much to our surprise, offered us a drink of fruit juice. “You are guests in my country – Ramadan is my concern, not yours,” he explained.

We walked along Straight Street, where the small shops were no more than a cupboard-door wide. It was like stepping back in time. Stalls on street corners had net bags full of pomegranates ready to juice. Delicious.

We explored the small, dark alleyways leading into the two-centuries-old souk selling everything from paint to table cloths. The kindness and friendliness of the people in this deprived city made our visit one we will never forget. Shelagh Parry, Surrey

GLORIES OF GHENT

In 1989, after a long search, the Red Cross traced my cousin Olive who had been taken to Belgium as a child at the end of the Second World War, but we were saddened to learn she had died the previous year. We decided to camp in Belgium with our three children that summer, in the hope of meeting Olive’s family. Instead, we received an invitation from her husband, Oscar, to stay with him on the outskirts of Ghent.

For three days Oscar showed us his city’s splendours: the cathedral, belfort (belfry), castle, post office, and a manystoried shop with books from floor to ceiling. Trams clattered by as we sipped coffee on a terras before diving again through narrow alleyways to discover further architectural wonders. With its bustling streets and quiet squares, Ghent worked its magic, giving us a never-to-be-forgotten city experience. Christine Hesslegrave, Pembrokeshire*