Writing
Travels with My Mandolin
A memoir of music, chance encounters and restless journeys — told through the unlikely companion of a small mandolin.
The book
Travels with My Mandolin is a memoir of music, chance encounters, and restless journeys, told through the unlikely companion of a small mandolin.
Over more than a decade, the instrument travels through deserts, old European towns, island villages, railway stations, festivals, border crossings, hostels, beaches, bars and borrowed rooms. It opens conversations where language fails, turns strangers into temporary friends, and gives each place its own song.
This is not a conventional travel book. It is a personal map of memory: part road story, part musical pilgrimage, part search for connection. The mandolin becomes a passport of its own — small enough to carry anywhere, strange enough to invite curiosity, and warm enough to turn lonely places into human ones.
The journey ranges from the cold streets of Kraków to the sunlit alleys of Madeira, from the castles of Romania to the deserts of Jordan, from the cafés of Morocco to the forests and islands of Casamance. Some chapters are comic, some reflective, some full of music, grief, kindness or absurdity. Together they form a portrait of travel as it really happens: improvised, imperfect, sometimes uncomfortable, often beautiful, and always shaped by the people met along the way.
Coming soon
Selected extracts from Travels with My Mandolin will be published here. Check back or follow Sound Routes on social media for updates.
Extract coming soon — a chapter about music, sunlight and a borrowed terrace above the Atlantic.
Extract coming soon — a chapter about desert hospitality, campfires and an unexpected audience.
Extract coming soon — a chapter about a café, a kif pipe and a musician who didn’t speak the same language.
Fragments
Short notes, images and fragments from the journeys behind the writing.
“A borrowed room. A borrowed guitar. Palms outside the window, and a song that no one translated because it didn’t need translating.”
“Playing in the dark, sand cooling, stars so clear they looked like an affectation. Three Bedouin sitting close enough that the music was shared.”
“A courtyard. Cobblestones. The mandolin echoing strangely off brick. A woman stopped and listened, said nothing, and walked on smiling.”
“Wind off the Atlantic. Seagulls and the distant drift of Gnawa. The mandolin sounded foreign and right at the same time.”