Recipefiesta

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?

Cash was king in those days, and that money was enough to last me for a month as I slowly travelled from Australia back to the UK

• Read more in the kindness of strangers series

It was a hot night in 1989 when my wallet – stuffed with $1,000 cash – fell out of my pocket.

After university, I left the UK and went travelling in Australia for a year. I saw the delights of the east coast – mostly from various building sites, as I worked my way around doing long hours in the blistering sun. But I loved every minute of it. After 10 months, I had saved enough to make my way slowly back home.

From husky sledding and chasing the northern lights in Lapland to bear-spotting in Transylvania, here’s our pick of wild and magical snowy breaks in Europe

At Ruka, the first skiers of the year slalomed down the slopes on 2 October. Just inside the Arctic Circle, Ruka’s long snow-sure season and cosy village atmosphere make it a popular ski resort with Finnish families. The long polar nights mean there are only a few hours of dim twilight each day, but the slopes here are floodlit, so that never stops play.

From a ghostly hill fort on the South Downs to a haunted farmhouse in remote Northern Ireland, you guide us to some frightfully scary places

• Tell us about an escape in the wilds of Scotland – the best tip wins a £200 holiday voucher

Dunnottar Castle, perched on cliffs above the crashing North Sea, is one of Scotland’s eeriest places. The most haunting part is the Whigs Vault, where more than 160 prisoners were confined in dreadful conditions in 1685. Standing in that dark chamber, it’s impossible not to imagine their fear and suffering. With my Fraser ancestry, the castle’s history feels especially poignant. The names of multiple Frasers are recorded, their details written on the wall. The wind whistles through the stonework, the waves thunder below, and there’s a sense that the past hasn’t quite left. It’s beautiful, tragic and wonderfully spooky, especially beneath Aberdeenshire’s brooding grey skies.
Rosie

A new trail in the national park traces the legacy of Welsh industry, while offering some of the UK’s finest riverside and mountain walks

The vital moment comes a couple of hours into the walk. I drop down from a tussocky hill towards the village of Y Fron. There’s an abandoned slate-quarrying machine and a grassy track that suddenly emerges on the rim of a deep lake-filled crater. The water is the colour of an old bruise. Around the rim is a fence of lichen-crusty slates like gravestones. It’s a dark, brooding spectacle and totally unexpected. At that moment, I know that whoever designed this route knew what they were doing.

This is the Llwybr Llechi Eryri (Snowdonia Slate Trail), an 83-mile hike that follows a great loop around the national park, starting in Bangor and ending in Bethesda. It strings together a series of abandoned slate quarries with some of the finest riverside and mountain walking in the UK. I’m doing just three days, starting in Llanberis and heading to Betws-y-Coed via stops in Beddgelert and Llan Ffestiniog.

The untamed, magical landscape takes in a vast national park, palatial houses and a sculpture garden and museum stuffed with Van Goghs – all easily accessible by bike

One minute I’m cycling through an expansive dusty pink stretch of heathland with sloping sand dunes in the distant horizon, the next I’m winding through a fragrant Scots pine forest as sunlight filters through the branches of red-barked trees to make a kaleidoscope of white shapes on the trail floor ahead.

I’m in Hoge Veluwe National Park, a 5,400 hectare (13,000 acre) nature reserve in Gelderland, about an hour and a half from Amsterdam. It’s crisscrossed by 25 miles (40km) of cycling paths, and around 2,000 free-to-use white bikes are available for visitors to explore the ever-changing scenery.

Ahead of Netflix’s Chronicles of Narnia dropping early next year, we discover the fantastical landscapes that fired the Belfast-born author’s imagination

On the gable walls of the tough, working-class streets of east Belfast, the mystical beasts of Narnia vie for brick space with balaclava-wearing loyalists. The murals of the city have long projected the power of paramilitaries, but in recent years they have also begun to reflect the more positive contributions made by other local people, including the author CS Lewis.

Lewis was born in Dundela in 1898 in an attractive terrace house that has sadly since been demolished to be replaced by rather unattractive flats. But elsewhere in this part of the city, the Lewis connection is being built on and celebrated. CS Lewis Square is in the Holywood Arches neighbourhood and has a short walking trail featuring metal sculptures of Mr and Mrs Beaver, Mr Tumnus and other beloved characters from The Chronicles of Narnia. The centrepiece is a gigantic Aslan, towering over all from atop a circular mound.

One large ski chalet in the French Alps and 17 strangers. An organised trip for solo travellers is a leap into the unknown

Everyone had their reasons for joining the trip. Louisa from south London was putting her life back together after a split from her partner; first-timer Tim was strapping on ski boots following years of hesitation; and Lexi from Bristol had a classic case of the non-skiing boyfriend.

I was there because I needed a ski gang. None of my friends ski, and my brother was out of action with an injury. Not only that, I needed a good night’s sleep. I love my two-year-old son dearly, but I have somehow spawned an insomniac – still waking four times a night. Weary from bedtime battles, Holly, my partner, bluntly pointed out we could both benefit from “a temporary break from family life”. In other words: separate holidays.

Gondolas on demand, electric piste-grooming and chemical-free snow cannons – how Laax is ‘greenstyling’ its future

It’s the worst ski resort nightmare: hillsides of shaggy yellow grass streaked with slush under a leaden sky that’s coughing up sleet. Parts of Europe – places previously accustomed to crisp snow fields and pristine blue skies – are now facing this calamity, something meteorologists might describe as a British winter.

Not everywhere, of course. Only lower altitudes are seeing such disasters. Higher up, normal service continues. I’m in the Swiss resort of Laax, where most of the slopes are at about 2,000 metres, lofty enough to be snow-secure, for now. The halfpipe is busy with dudes in baggy trousers and headphones nonchalantly practising their double corks. On the traditional pistes there are four-year-olds who could probably ski before they could walk. And then – Switzerland has its wacky side – three young men in first-world-war greatcoats on antique wooden skis propel themselves with rough-hewn quarter-staves.

From cosy Alpine villages to queue-free skiing, you tell us where to head to avoid the crowds

• Tell us about a conservation tourism experience – the best tip wins a £200 holiday voucher

Bad Gastein is a relatively unknown gem. The Austrian state it sits in, Salzburg, offers free local transport (the guest mobility ticket) if you are staying in the state, so you can travel to the resort via train for nothing. The slopes are directly next to the station, too.
Rob Owen

Sick of relying on internet recommendations, I left my next destination to chance. Luckily, it led to me discovering a magical hamlet in the Cévennes mountains of south-central France

An unruly rabble bursts on to the street: a noisy eruption, bubbling towards us. This isn’t closing time on the Croisette in Cannes. A flock of sheep bustles past our cottage towards the shade of a huge chestnut tree, driven by three generations of herders and their dogs. The waterlike cacophony of their bells slows until only the odd tink tink punctuates the cicadas’ hum. The sheep graze, the shepherds doze off, and the mountain hamlet is still again.

My partner and I had set off by Eurostar less than 24 hours before, yet this place felt a world away from the ad agency where I work.

The first stage of an ambitious new hiking route that will link woodlands across Wales takes walkers into the wild hills above the valleys’ old mining villages

Bracken and heather ripple across the plateau. I exhale into the chill autumn air and my breath mists a view that reaches all the way to Gower and the ochre peaks of Bannau Brycheiniog (formerly the Brecon Beacons). Far below, the Ogmore valley’s terrace houses look like tiny constellations but up here on Tarren y Fforch, it’s just me and a few sheep taking springy steps between tufts of bilberries. If this corner of the south Wales valleys feels a long way from its coal mining past, that is, partly, the point.

I’m hiking the new Llwybr Coedwig Cymru Trail, or Wales Forest Trail. Running from Porthkerry Park, near Barry, to Pont Walby, close to Glynneath, this 50-mile (80km) pilot route is the first section of what the National Forest for Wales hopes will eventually be a trail linking woodlands across the length and breadth of Wales: a sylvan counterpart to the Wales Coast Path.

The landscape of rolling hills and chalk valleys that inspired Tennyson is the perfect setting for an autumnal short break. Here’s where to eat, where to stay and what not to miss

Wide skies, gentle footpaths through gold and copper wooded hills, thatched cottages, cosy pubs and quirky shops: the Lincolnshire Wolds have all the ingredients for the perfect autumnal mini break. Victorian poet Alfred Tennyson lived in the village of Somersby for most of his first three decades and the local landscapes echo through his verses. In The Lady of Shalott: “Long fields of barley and of rye / That clothe the wold and meet the sky …”

The Lincolnshire Wolds National Landscape covers an area of 216 sq miles. On its southern boundary, halfway between Lincoln and the coast, the friendly market town of Horncastle bills itself as the “gateway to the Wolds”. With handsome brick houses, great cafes, a market on Thursdays and Saturdays and decent public transport links, it’s a perfect base for exploring the area.

If you’re looking for a last blast of summer, these sunny resorts offer quiet beaches but enough life to stave off the end-of-season blues

A Kalkan sunset is always a beautiful thing – the horseshoe-shaped bay deepening to azure blue against an apricot-rose sky – but, in October, when the light is low and the sun drops early, it’s almost transcendentally lovely. In some Turkish resorts, you’d be sitting watching it surrounded by quiet streets, half-empty bars and that melancholic sense that another season is over. In Kalkan, it still feels like summer; the harbourfront restaurants throng with visitors, the day gulets (wooden boats) still putter in and out of the bay and you don’t have to wait an hour to get a taxi back to your villa.

An out-of-season journey through the peninsula reveals Byzantine villages, deserted beaches and friendly tavernas

As I drove across the causeway which links the tiny fortress island of Monemvasia to the south-eastern coast of the Peloponnese, the Aegean sparkling on all sides, I recalled a line by Yiannis Ritsos, one of Greece’s greatest 20th-century poets. Ritsos lived in Monemvasia, in a house that is today a museum on a cobble-stretch by the tawny castle walls. A favourite passage goes: “The voyage is neither a leave-taking nor a home-coming – an ethereal bridge …”

The excuse for my trip to the Peloponnese’s deep south – Messinia, the Mani, and Laconia – fell between those two ideas. My mother has roots in the Peloponnese – a sort-of homecoming that I’ve long wanted to explore – and with the summer over and greedy for an adventure to myself, I set out by car, leaving Kalamata, the leafy port city and gateway to the area, on a coastal road circuit.

As a new film about Sherpa Tenzing Norgay is released, we visit Pen-Y-Gwryd, the Snowdonia hotel which served as British ‘base camp’ for the 1953 expedition and where the spirit of adventure lives on

In the early hours of 2 June 1953, guests at the Pen-Y-Gwryd hotel in the heart of Eryri (Snowdonia) were woken from their sleep by the sound of footsteps running down the corridor outside their rooms. The commotion was followed by gleeful shouting and the sound of champagne corks popping. A late-night telephone call to the hotel’s owner had moments earlier confirmed that Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay had successfully summited Mount Everest. It had taken two days for the news to travel from the Himalayas to London. Serendipitously, news of the historic achievement coincided with the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II later that day.

In the days and weeks that followed, the two mountaineers were feted across the front pages of newspapers around the world. Posing awkwardly for the cameras, their beaming smiles shone out of frost-burnt faces. In the decades that followed, Tenzing Norgay’s role in the expedition was increasingly marginalised – he was a Sherpa, indigenous to the area, and the load-carrying guide, while Hillary firmly planted his ice axe in the history books.

From ancient forests to spas, medieval cities and the birthplace of Bauhaus, Thuringia packs a punch for a car-free autumn break

It’s early morning in Erfurt, the capital of Germany’s Thuringia region, and Domplatz is abuzz with local growers setting out crates of vegetables and flowers beneath the soaring medieval cathedral towers. This 14th- and 15th-century engineering wonder holds the Gloriosa, the world’s largest medieval free-swinging bell, cast in 1497 and weighing 12 tonnes. Though the city and surrounding landscape are notably flat, its skyline is pierced by soaring church towers and steeples, the atmospheric old town hardly changed over the centuries.

Thuringia – often called the “green heart of Germany” – lies in the centre of the country, between Hesse, Saxony and Bavaria. It’s famous for its dense forests, intellectual heritage and hearty cuisine, and I’m here for four days to explore using public transport.

Smaller and less visited than Como and Garda, Lake Iseo harbours a gorgeous car-free island ideal for easy-going cycling and sightseeing

Rust red and burnt sienna speckle the green mountain rising from Lake Iseo. Golden autumn sunlight shimmers on the water. Monte Isola, Italy’s largest lake island, is a peak of sheer cliffs and dense forest, dotted with old fishing hamlets and hillside villages, each as pretty as the terraced villas of Lake Como and Garda, but with far fewer visitors. I arrive at the small port town of Peschiera Maraglio – where striped wooden boats jut from the water like the gondolas of Venice – on a ferry from Sulzano, a five-minute hop across the water.

“Only three people on the island are allowed to own a car: the priest, the doctor and the mayor,” says Chiara, my tour guide from Brescia. Residents can zip up and down the steep island roads on mopeds, and a small fleet of van-sized buses trundle around throughout the day, but nearly all cars are forbidden and visitors have to explore on foot or bike.