Gatwick Airport Downplays Impact of Easter Weekend Strikes

It happened in Lisbon — although it really could’ve been anywhere. I’d turned down a narrow street on my way to the Miradouro da Graça viewpoint, certain I knew the way. Ten minutes later, I realised I had absolutely no idea where I was. No map. No plan. Just me, the warm smell of baked custard tarts drifting from a nearby café, and a hill that felt steeper every time I looked up.

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There’s something oddly romantic about the idea of holiday travel — snow falling outside the terminal, coffee in hand, gifts tucked neatly in your luggage. But let’s be honest: it rarely feels like a Christmas film. It’s queues, traffic, missing chargers, and that sinking feeling when you realise you’ve left someone’s present on the kitchen table.

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There’s a peculiar magic to sitting in a dark theatre, surrounded by strangers, as the lights dim and a story flicker to life. For some, it’s entertainment; for others, it’s oxygen. Film festivals are where that magic becomes tangible — where cinema steps off the screen and into the streets.

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There’s something about a festival that stays with you long after the crowds have gone home. It’s not just the music or the colours or the food — it’s the way a place suddenly opens itself to you, how strangers become companions for a night, and how you end up learning something about yourself in the middle of all that noise and light.

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