Author Mina Holland

A professional hedonist and writer, Mina is South London born, Norfolk bred and a little bit Hispanic at heart; her eclectic roots and insatiable greed have fuelled an interest in food, culture and food culture. She has a weakness for octopus, good quality drinking vessels and reggaeton. She is a Contributing Editor at The Observer.

The Culturist
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Can the food at a festival rival the music line up? Mina journeys to the Scottish Highlands for Rockness, where the food on offer makes as much noise as the bands on stage…

Travel
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“As a kid I had a sentimentally-illustrated bible, depicting events in the Holy Land circa 2000 years ago. They were pretty, in a chocolate box kind of way, but somehow they didn’t make the place seem real.”

Asian
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Street food fever is upon us, and with good reason. Both quick and cheap, the…

Tipples
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Despite renewed tensions over the Falkland Islands, Argentina and Britain have peacefully collaborated to produce…

Music
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“Her vocals were at once those of a big cat and of a butterfly – a flurry of emotions vocalised instinctively and immediately. It was only later that I realised this was what soul music was.”

Travel
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“No wining is complete without dining, so I went to Chile determined to unfurl the treasures of its cuisine. And I came away with a handful of little gastronomic tales: some enlightening, some delicious, and some neither of the above…”

Travel
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Sleek hotels, an embarrassment of natural riches, and the promise of adventure make Chile’s Atacama Desert a thoroughly alluring destination. So, asks Mina Holland, why is it so little known?

Spas
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“I’m proud to say that I’ve recently discovered a trio of holistic treatments to keep me looking forward positively. They are (drum roll): Bikram yoga, colonic cleansing and aromatherapy massage…”

Hotels
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Mina thought spending four days in one hotel would be a dull holiday, too much like organised fun. That was until she stepped into the rosemary-scented oasis of The Almyra in Cyprus, and found it very hard to leave…

Music
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Wilderness was my friend Vinnie’s idea. Less music, more rounded arts experience. It seemed a new kind of festival. It felt as if a little piece of the folkloric California after which our fathers hankered, might still exist.

Hotels
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Madrid. July. Heat. Three words inextricably bound together and, for me, charged with excitement and a dash of dread. Having lived there several years ago, Madrid is one of the few places where I feel at home outside of London.

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