Recipefiesta

Minas Gerais’ natural wonders sent Charles Darwin into ecstasies, but the area has always been dominated by mining. Now ecotourism offers a lifeline

When we come out of the bamboo forest and enter the high-altitude grassland, Marcelo begins to walk faster. All around us, dark peaks loom through the early morning clouds. The grasses and flowering mimosa bushes drip from the mist. It is hard to imagine, but this area suffered a devastating fire two years ago. Marcelo has not been back since, and he is anxious. “We have some extremely rare endemic species up here,” he says. “I hope they’ve survived.” A hummingbird zips past, heading for a banana-shaped yellow-and-red flower. “Planalto hermit,” identifies Marcelo. “The bill fits the flower.”

We are in Brazil’s Santuário do Caraça, a 40 square-mile haven of rugged wilderness in the state of Minas Gerais. That name may be unfamiliar to many outside Brazil, but landlocked Minas Gerais, which borders the states of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo to the south, covers an area larger than mainland France and Switzerland combined. Not only that, but with abundant mineral resources, a rising population, and fabulously rich flora and fauna, it makes for an intriguing place to explore.

Former loggers and poachers have embraced ancient traditions to promote and protect the Cardamom Mountains’ ever-threatened natural wonders

I’m two hours downriver from the Chi Phat community ecotourism camp, in the Koh Kong region of Cambodia, when my phone signal fizzles out completely. It’s dawn and we’re chugging through the snaking Preak Piphot River towards the starting point of a 9-mile (15km) overnight trek into the country’s sacred, spirit-filled Cardamom mountain range. The region, a six-hour bus ride west of the capital Phnom Penh, recently made global news for being home to a raft of new species of fauna and a sanctuary for rare and endangered wildlife.

As well as its plant and protection initiatives, it is also known for its storied history, from ancient burial grounds to the last stronghold of Pol Pot’s fleeing Khmer Rouge fighters into the late 1980s. If trees could talk … Well, many believe these ones can.

A project to convert the country’s traditional kulla houses into guesthouses offers a true flavour of ancient hospitality in a part of the country almost untouched by tourism

Sunlight pours through a tiny stone window, causing the wooden floorboards to creak as they warm up. The sound of sheep’s bells filters in from a passing flock. The scent of baking bread mingles with smoke from the previous evening’s fire. I wake up feeling I’ve been transported back to another time – but in reality I’m in modern-day Albania.

I’m staying in a kulla, one of the traditional stone tower houses that are found throughout northern Albania, Montenegro and North Macedonia. They once protected families during times of conflict and sheltered weary travellers on trade routes, before mostly falling into disrepair in the 20th century. A new long-distance trail developed by the Albanian Agritourism Association aims to return some of them to their former glory and give visitors a chance to discover a part of Albania almost untouched by tourism.

A new optimism pervades the Serbian capital following the recent elections, making it a great time to visit its bars, clubs, markets and riverside hotspots

There’s a celebratory mood in Belgrade, the Serbian capital. For almost two years protest has shaped everyday life as a student-led movement demanding accountability and an end to corruption gathered momentum after a concrete canopy at Novi Sad’s newly renovated railway station collapsed in November 2024, killing 16 people.

Demonstrations grew into a nationwide challenge to the government and finally, last month the student-backed list won an outright majority in parliamentary elections – a dramatic shift in Serbia’s political landscape. Crowds gathered in Slavija Square, and celebrations spilled into the streets and bars. The formation of a new government still lies ahead, but the city feels full of possibility.

With its secluded orchard location, private sauna and hot tub, this off-grid cabin is the perfect place to kickback, with beaches and pubs just a short stroll away

As we walked through the orchard to our cabin at dusk, shadowy figures emerged from the mist. We stood stock-still and held our breath. Most of them saw us and fled, but one held its ground, unwilling to relinquish its stolen goods. Muntjac have clearly developed quite a taste for windfall apples.

My boyfriend and I left the little deer to dinner and walked on to the quince orchard, where our cabin waited in the far corner. This is the sixth Red Cabin to open in the UK. The first was on a sheep farm in Kent; others followed on farms and vineyards in south and east England. Ours was on Drove Orchards on the edge of the village of Thornham, on the north Norfolk coast.

Just an hour from London, this idyllic area, beloved by painters and poets, is brimming with history, beautiful walks and fab places to eat and drink

In the 1820s, a young painter left London to live in Shoreham in the west of Kent. In his waterside cottage, Samuel Palmer – remembered now as a key figure of British Romanticism – depicted moonlit cornfields, apple trees bowed under fruit and hills swollen with light. He dubbed the area his Valley of Vision. Two centuries on, Palmer’s own vision of Shoreham – and the surrounding Darent Valley – as a demi-paradise isn’t too far from the canvas.

I’ve lived in the area for five years and can’t quite believe how few people come to Shoreham. It feels like a secret yet is less than an hour from London by train. The village itself sits on the River Darent, remarked on by Edmund Spenser in his poem The Faerie Queene for its gentleness and clear water: “The still Darent, in whose waters cleane, ten thousand fishes play and decke his pleasant streame …”.

With just a few short hours of daylight, the usual boundaries marking time fall away in Abisko, one of the most reliable places to see the northern lights

Looking over the edge of the snow-smoothed canyon down to dark rushing water, we thought we saw a moose or a reindeer, but it could have been a rock. The light was fading fast so it was hard to tell. It was time to turn back; we didn’t want to get lost in the wood, or fall into the river. By the time we’d retraced our steps to Abisko, the blue world had turned to black and dust-like snowflakes whirled around the little village. Back in our hotel room after our expedition, I looked at my phone – it was only 2pm!

Travelling to the Arctic Circle in winter had always been a dream, but when I realised the sun wouldn’t get above the horizon on my holiday, it made me twitchy. I usually pack my limited annual leave as tightly as I pack my working life. I was already using up three days’ holiday travelling by train from London to Abisko. How would I make the most of my time there with barely any daylight?