Recipefiesta

This picturesque corner of the East Midlands is a well-kept secret and it’s great for exploring by public transport

Fallow deer are grazing under ruined brick walls in the house where Lady Jane Grey was born. It’s a moody spring day at Bradgate Park in Leicestershire and there are few visitors. Instead, there are fieldfares in the hedges and skylarks singing in the mist. I’m walking, through bracken and craggy outcrops, towards Old John Tower, a folly that looks like a giant beer mug on the hill ahead.

It sometimes feels as though England’s much-photographed beauty spots get more booked up and overpriced every day. But there are scenic corners of the country that still fly under the insta-radar and Charnwood, around Loughborough, is one of these. The largest borough in Leicestershire, Charnwood is the area between Leicester and the Nottinghamshire border. Its gentle wooded hills and well-kept villages offer country walks to gourmet pubs and cafes. It’s like a cheaper, quieter Cotswolds with better transport links.

In the last of the series, the writer returns to three passed-over places where he used to live – Harrow, Clitheroe and Princetown in Devon

• Where tourists seldom tread, parts 1-19

The last in this series of underexplored, overlooked, bypassed towns revisits three places loosely linked to somewhere I’ve lived at different stages of my life. Relocating is grand-scale vacationing, as there are a few months when the new place feels like a holiday destination – fresh, strange, not filtered and tainted by habit or prejudice. Going back years later is part-pilgrimage, part-funeral.

A fabled boutique hotel in the Atlas mountains makes a stunning base for hikes to spectacular viewpoints

Coming up the footpath from Imlil, Hussein and I step aside to let a laden mule go past and I look back. On the wooded lower slopes of the valley are clusters of tall houses, some plumed with wood smoke. There appears to be a lot of building work going on, some of it to repair the damage caused by the 2023 earthquake. The sound of a concrete mixer comes cutting through the cool mountain air mixed with birdsong and human voices. Turning back to face south, I can see the Atlas mountains, austere and aloof, a few snow patches on the upper slopes. That’s where we are going, to the top of Toubkal at 4,167 metres, the highest peak in North Africa.

Hussein has been a guide in this beautiful Moroccan valley all his adult life. “Most people here work in tourism now,” he says, waving a greeting to a muleteer who is passing us. The man is clutching the tail of his animal to steady himself up the steep track. “Twenty years ago everyone grew walnuts and subsistence food,” Hussein says. “Now we’ve still got walnuts, but we’ve also planted apple trees as a cash crop. It leaves time for the tourist work.”

With pine-fringed beaches, crystal waters and affordable seafood restaurants, L’Étang de Thau is a hidden gem worth visiting at any time of year

When I asked Nordine Nid Hsain, the owner of my favourite Parisian bistro, why he sold up and left the capital to join the arty diaspora living in the Mediterranean port of Sète, he said: “What really drew me here was not Sète itself, but the natural paradise of the adjoining Thau lagoon. I love cycling and, after 10 years here, I am still excited to go out every day to explore the bike paths that run around the lagoon.”

He added: “There’s always something new to discover – beaches; wetland landscapes; enjoying a plate of freshly harvested oysters at the water’s edge; riding through the vineyards then tasting the wine in the vigneron’s cellar.”

A cricket match kindled my love affair with the Greek island, inspiring both a literary festival and my new novel

This is not where you would expect an article about one of the Mediterranean’s most beautiful islands to start. It’s the tail end of winter, 2021. Kensal Green Cemetery in west London: the imperial mausolea canted and crumbling, low clouds dissolving into rain. We are still  in that  strange phase of the pandemic when we are masked, newly aware of our bodies and the space around them. We are here to bury Nikos, a man who for me, for many, was the incarnation of Corfu.

I had spent my 20s trying to find the perfect Greek island, hopping from the well-trodden (Mykonos, Santorini, Cephalonia) to the more obscure (Kythira, Symi, Meganisi). None quite matched the vision I had dreamed into being as a child, when I segued from Robert Graves to Mary Renault, then to Lawrence Durrell and John Fowles. Greece was an idea before it was a place: freedom and deep thought, a constellation of sand, salt and thyme.

The best places to seek respite from the wintry UK weather in France, Italy and Germany

• Tell us about a family adventure in Europe – the best tip wins a £200 holiday voucher

Saint-Jorioz in Haute-Savoie will provide a springtime lift for your spirits. On the shore of Lake Annecy, it’s a short bus ride from the city of Annecy, but less busy and with superior lake and mountain views. Hike to the surrounding peaks, towards the lesser-known Col de l’Arpettaz, or cycle on the excellent greenways. Relax by the cool blue alpine water. Behind you lies the underrated Les Bauges Unesco Geopark. The department only joined France in 1860, and has its own Italian-influenced regional cuisine.
Brian Lowry

A trail named after a brutal marcher lord passes through tranquil countryside between Shropshire and Herfordshire but is rich in reminders of the area’s turbulent past

In the UK, there is a proud tradition of naming long-distance walking paths after talented reprobates. I mean the various opium fiends, international terrorists and child murderers who make up our colourful national tapestry (see the Coleridge Way, Drake’s Trail and the Richard III Trail). So perhaps a 30-mile weekend walk dedicated to the Mortimers, and their most notorious scion, Sir Roger, is an appropriate addition to the weave.

After all, this is the man who allegedly slept with a reigning queen (Isabella), probably killed her husband (Edward II), and certainly became de facto tyrant of the realm for three turbulent years in the 1320s, feathering his own nest relentlessly during that time. They don’t make world leaders like that any longer, do they?