Bequia has long had a name for its hand-built boats and its skilled seafarers - and the fact that its seven square miles also happen to be sensationally scenic means that this green jewel can float in the imagination like some emerald vision of Caribbean perfection. At least, that’s how thoughts of Bequia (pronounced Beckway) have been for me - I first heard of the island some 25 years ago, but the place is not exactly on the tourist map - few tour operators based in this country or anywhere else for that matter are set up to oblige. So, despite a quarter of a century of yearning, I'd never been. Not surprisingly, the island’s off-the-well-beaten-track status has paid dividends – indeed this is how Frome-based travel experts, Just Bequia, introduce the island: “It stands as a reminder of how the Caribbean was 50 years ago, when only a few visitors ventured this far.” I had been warned that the flight to Bequia was going to be a treat – the 25-minute hop from Grenada takes you right up through the Grenadine Island chain passing impossibly romantic places like Mayreau, Tobago Cays, Palm Island, Canouan and Mustique along the way. But first our little Island plane dropped off two local passengers at Carriacou before heading north across the dreamy isles mentioned to arrive at the green, green jewel of Bequia. From the small new airstrip we were taken by specially adapted pick-up truck – which is the ubiquitous form of public transport on this island - to the wonderful and luxurious Bequia Beach Hotel, where I could happily have retired from journalism and just about everything else forever. The resort is set on the slopes of the hill which run down to palm strewn gardens and a beach. Friendship Beach to be exact – which has now entered my list of Top 10 beaches in the world. Think warm seas washing soft sand, shaded here and there by dramatically drooping trees and punctuated at one point by the hotel’s bar and excellent restaurant. It wasn’t the busiest season when we were there and the only things we shared the beach with were pelicans and crabs. When the heat got too much our large, air-conditioned, sensationally decorated apartment was a stylish refuge if ever there was one. A complete island tour took just three hours despite the fact we never went above 10 mph - and included stops at different altitudinous viewpoints, visits to wild beaches tucked beyond mighty palm groves, and a fascinating tour around Bequia’s turtle rescue centre. There are about 5,000 Bequians – they’re of African, Scottish, Irish, French, Indian and Carib descent – and English is the main language spoken. I’d heard that these islanders have an open friendly attitude to visitors and it is true - you can experience the full and jolly brunt of it if you spend a morning or afternoon in the tiny capital Port Elizabeth. Nothing much happens save for the comings and goings of the St Vincent ferries, as well as the pick-up truck taxis – there’s a small market, quite a few intriguing shops and the general laid back buzz that somehow pervades the numerous restaurants and eateries where you can order all manner of Caribbean foods and dishes. I went for conch salad – which was excellent in a chewy kind of way. And Port Elizabeth – like all of Bequia – is beautiful to look at. Sublimely, dreamily, enticingly, beautiful. As you sit there sipping a cooling cocktail it is easy to think that this is the best location for a holiday in the world – until you remember all those other idyllic isles you flew over to get there. Check out www.justbequia.co.uk

Foraging St George's Mushrooms in Devon: A Springtime Culinary Adventure Mention wild mushroom foraging to most people and their minds instantly drift to damp October woods, falling leaves, and autumn ceps. But seasoned West Country foragers know that spring holds one of the culinary year's most delicious secrets: the arrival of Calocybe gambosa—better known as St George’s mushroom—which pops up across sunny pastures and grassy banks precisely as May arrives. When an expert forager invites you to go mushroom picking in late Spring you might be tempted to check the calendar, but when you subsequently end up in a large industrial estate, you might also begin to wonder if he hasn’t lost his marbles. The end of summer, not the beginning, is the traditional time for a fungi foray - and I tend to think of the damp woods and hillsides of Exmoor as being ideal mushroom territory rather than places that vibrate to the sound of industry and traffic. Of course, if you really know your onions from your chanterelles you will realise that St George’s Day is in April - and that this date marks the time when a very special fungi grows here in Britain. It is, indeed, called the St George mushroom - and the forager’s lore surrounding its rather mystical appearance insists that it will pop its little creamy white head above the ground for just a month running from a week before April 23 until it vanishes just a month after. Quick Forager’s Guide & Identification Box Species: St George’s Mushroom (Calocybe gambosa) Season: Late April through May (Traditionally around St George's Day, 23rd April) Habitat: Grassy pastures, roadside verges, chalk downland, orchard edges, and fairy rings. Key Characteristics: Thick, cream-to-white caps, crowded gills, strong floury/mealy (farinaceous) aroma, solid white stem. Culinary Pairing: Outstanding gently fried in butter with garlic and fresh herbs, served on toasted sourdough, or folded into scrambled eggs. What this means in theory is that it should be more-or-less impossible to be poisoned by picking the wrong type of mushroom - but PLEASE DO NOT hold me to that. Although there should be no other fungi around at this time of year save for the odd bracket-type fruiting bodies hanging onto tree limbs, there might - just might - be some freakishly early destroying angel or other deadly amanita, which could be mistaken for a St George’s mushroom, as they are slightly similar in appearance. Identifying St George's Mushrooms: Tips for Safe Foraging I wasn’t too worried about that unlikely eventuality, mainly because I had my old friend - chef-lecturer and forager extraordinaire David Beazley - as my guide. And David really does know what he’s doing when it comes to the fruiting bodies of fungi and other delicious wild delights from the countryside. What did surprise me, though, was the location David described on the phone. I will not share it with you here because the place is his find, his secret - one he holds very close to his chest because he’s been on the look-out for St George’s mushrooms for years and this is the first location in the West Country where he’s found any. But what a location! We could hardly hear ourselves speak as we crawled around a grassy verge under an ornate cherry tree in a very large Devon industrial estate near several busy roads. “I’ve been searching for ten or 15 years and I found them here last year for the first time,” said David. “They normally crop two weeks before and two weeks after St George’s day but this year - even with all that frost we’ve had - it’s been nice and wet and also we’ve now had heat, which is ideal for them. “They always grow in grass. Grass and trees - not sure which variety, but we have cherry and birch here which they are associated with. What I can say about this location is that the council would probably have mown this if they weren’t so cash-strapped - and these would have come ready-sliced,” laughed this fan of wild food. “They are creamy in colour and the cap the stalk and the gills are all the same colour. The cap itself is wavy and it tucks underneath around the edge - and they have a very mealy smell. They are solid and heavy for their size.” David is willing to go to all the trouble of hunting the St George mushroom because he says it’s one of the best edible fungi we have. “I love them because of their texture and their amazing flavour,” he told me. “They are among my favourites - they are definitely up there with the chanterelle and the ceps. If you’d seen these in the autumn when the amanitas are out, they have the same sort of creamy white top, stalk and gills - and you could kill somebody with one of those. People say that because they grow in April they are definitely safe, but I would certainly still go through the identification just to be sure. “So I’ve used to my skill as a forager to find them and pick them - and I use my skill as a chef to maximise that flavour. I love to pan-fry them in the same pan as the one in which I’ve fried smoked bacon in - and then put some cream in it to pick up all that lovely flavour. Place on top of a muffin with a poached egg on top. Absolutely delicious. It is a springtime breakfast - or you could leave the bacon out if you were a vegetarian, but you would miss out on that flavour because you need a bit of saltiness. “I’ve also taken the idea of garlic mushrooms - so with these growing at this time of year I’ve fried them in butter and then put some shredded wild garlic through it. Then, to serve it - to make it a bit cheffy - I’ve put it into a wrap. You could eat it hot or cold - either way - and take it with you on a spring walk.” Fond out more at https://www.wildfooduk.com/mushroom-guide/st-georges-mushroom/ David is a part-time chef-lecturer at Exeter College... “I run the restaurant kitchen that supplies the food for the public restaurant - it’s open five days a week and I’m there four days. Your readers can dine there and you can go online to book or phone. It is very popular - three courses and a glass of wine for a tenner.” As a life long forager he is also to be found out and about in all manner of landscapes across South Devon. “I don’t really take the public out foraging because you need permissions, a licence, insurance and so on - but I do take my students out and also some scouts at times. It is encouraging to see the youngsters out there,” said David. “Lots of people say to me: ‘Dave, can you take me to the woods to get some mushrooms?’ But when we get there and they see the hundreds of varieties they are completely put off. They expect to see just one or two. “You have to know what you are doing, or you can kill yourself - and others. I started in 1981 and I am still here after nearly 40 years. So I must be picking the right ones,” he grinned. “The beauty of finding the St George mushrooms here is that now I know they are around at the moment, which means I can go out and about looking for other locations knowing that this is exactly the right time here in Devon.” You can read about David’s expertise in hunting food from the wild and find 50 of his Devon recipes by reading his ebook, The Forager’s Apprentice, which is available on Amazon for £2.99. Cooking with St George's Mushrooms: Recipes and Flavour Profiles David Beazley’s St George mushroom RECIPES St George’s breakfast muffin This dish showcases St George’s mushrooms at their very best, the flavours all brought together by the double cream. Perfect for a Sunday brunch. For 2 people you will require. 2 muffins lightly toasted 2 fresh eggs 300grms of cleaned St Georges mushrooms 100grms smoked bacon lardons 150 mls double cream 25grms butter In a small frying pan, melt the butter and fry the bacon until crispy, remove from the pan. In the same pan fry the St Georges for 2 minutes. Return the bacon to the pan along with the cream, bring to the boil and season. Poach your eggs whilst toasting the muffins. Place the muffin on a plate, cover with the mushroom sauce and top with the poached egg. With freshly cooked pasta this sauce creates a lovely supper dish. St Georges mushrooms with wild garlic in a wrap 25g butter 12 cloves garlic leaves, finely shredded 200g St Georges mushrooms, sliced thickly Salt and black pepper 2 wholemeal wraps Melt the butter in a pan. Add the mushrooms, salt and pepper. Cook and stir for several minutes until mushrooms are soft. Add the garlic leaves, stir in and remove from the heat. Divide between the wraps and fold in your preferred way. 🍄 Foraging Across the Seasons: Looking for autumn wild food guides? Read my features on autumn mushroom foraging and West Country game, or explore my complete archive of West Country food and drink. Frequently Asked Questions: St George’s Mushrooms & May Foraging When do St George’s mushrooms appear in the UK? True to their name, St George’s mushrooms typically begin popping up around St George’s Day (April 23rd) and fruit throughout May across grassy fields, meadows, and hedgerows in the UK. How do you identify St George’s mushrooms (Calocybe gambosa)? They have thick, off-white to pale buff caps, white crowded gills that meet the stem, and a thick, solid stalk. One of their most defining features is a distinct floury or cucumber-like (farinaceous) smell when bruised or cut. Where are St George’s mushrooms usually found? They thrive in unploughed grassland, chalk downland, pasture edges, roadside banks, and orchards. They frequently grow in distinct circles or "fairy rings" that return in the exact same spot year after year. Are there any poisonous lookalikes to watch out for in spring? Yes, spring foragers must be careful not to confuse St George’s mushroom with the highly toxic Reddening Inocybe (Inosperma erubescens), which can appear around the same time near broadleaf trees, bruises reddish, and lacks the floury smell. Always be 100% certain of identification before eating any wild fungus. "Love gathering wild ingredients from the West Country hills? Check out my full collection of West Country food and drink features."

High on the wind-swept southern ridge of Exmoor, nearly 1,000 feet above North Molton, stands a mysterious, isolated circle of trees known as Bampfylde Clump. To passing walkers, it looks like a scenic hilltop vantage point—but locals and folklore enthusiasts know it as one of the most eerily quiet and strangely unsettling spots on the entire moor. The other day an old friend phoned to ask me to remind him of the ghost story concerning Bampfylde Clump. I dug it out of my old files and repeat it here - but have another old pal, Tim Bannerman, to thank for this very spooky tale. Walkers at spooky Bampfyld Clump, Exmoor Location & Practical Overview Box Location: Bampfylde Clump, near North Molton, Exmoor (Devon) Nearest Village: North Molton / Simonsbath Nearest Pub: The Poltimore Arms, North Molton Grid Ref / Coordinates: High ridge on the southern edge of Exmoor National Park (~1,000 ft elevation) Terrain: Open moorland tracks, exposed ridge walking Question: take a romantic young poet, a lonely ring of trees and a haunted pub, and what do you get? The answer is – one of the most chilling ghost stories that you’ll ever hear. The young poet is now a middle aged man with a successful media business in London’s West End, but the other night he recounted the following West Country based yarn at a pre-Christmas dinner - and even the streetwise youngsters present were scared witless. Before we begin, let’s first say that the central element in this story focuses on a ring of trees – you’ll find such places dotted all around the region and, for many, they do hold a special place in the imagination. I do not know the history of Bampfylde Clump, perched almost 1000 feet up on the southern ridge of Exmoor above North Molton – but I do know that such rings occur for various reasons. Many are situated around ancient cattle pounds – and the pounds themselves may have been located on even more ancient hill fortifications dating back to the Iron or even Bronze Age. But let us travel back a mere trice to the spring of 1976 when we find a young Cambridge graduate climbing ever higher from the great vale of mid-Devon to the southern moors. His name is Tim Bannerman and he has set out on a long walk from South Molton to Bristol in a bid to clear his mind and sort out his future. I jotted the following notes when Tim was telling this tale at supper. “Towards the end of the day I noticed a big hill with a clump of trees on top, and I climbed towards it feeling marvellous and wonderful - as you do when you are free and walking for days. “As I got closer I realised what a wonderful vantage point the place had. The trees were planted in a perfect circle and I thought I’d go in and revel in the wonderful expanse of England on a spring evening. “There was a gate set into the outer ring of the wood and I went to hop over it but, as I put my hand on the wooden bar, it was like getting an electric shock. But a different sensation to that… “It was this sense of difference that instantly struck. And there was more -all the noise stopped – the birds, the wind in the trees - everything became still. And the temperature suddenly dropped. “I went on into the wood and headed straight to the centre – and as I did I realised it wasn’t so much me doing the walking, as me being walked. It was as if I was being drawn in. Like being pulled by a magnet. “I found myself slowing down – I realised I was being literally rooted to the place. Whatever force had drawn me there was now holding me - sucking the sap, the juice, the lifeblood, from my body. “I was no longer in control, but I knew if I didn’t move I’d be sucked dry. As I looked around I could see the strange shapes of the trees - and they started to take on eerie forms. “I had to apply a huge sense of will – like when you are in a dream and you know if you don’t, something terrible will happen. I literally pushed one limb in front of the other. And, one step at a time, I forced myself from the centre. “As I tried to escape I went past a stack of tree roots - and I realised it was actually a stack of bodies. The skeletal forms of soldiers – one with remains of a uniform sash. There was woman – possibly with a child in her arms wrapped in muslin… All in a state of decay – it was all loss and death and despair. “I thought: these people have been claimed by the wood - and I am not going to be. For some reason, this wood had chosen me - and I thought: what can I give this wood instead of me? All I had was an orange – so I solemnly peeled the skin, opened it in a perfect fan, and laid it on the ground to formally present it to the wood. “Then I headed toward the gate and, as I went, the sense of silence was so heightened every footfall I made was like an explosion. I realised the trees were closing around me - the wood was making one last effort not to let me go. But, after the moment with the orange, I was feeling quite strong - believing I could make it – and I leapt over the gate, then ran like the wind. “Back on the road I started heading towards Simonsbath – I will always remember a sign to a place called Bentwitchen – and after a mile or so I turned a corner and to my amazement saw a sign swinging in the breeze. “It was getting dusky and I realised a miracle had occurred - here was a pub, completely in the middle of nowhere. The Poltimore Arms was an answer to a prayer - I opened the door and, to my joy, it let me into a warm stone-flagged room.” A much relieved Tim talked to a customer and to a friendly barmaid or landlady and told them of his terrifying adventure – and they, in return, replied with a story of their own about a ghost called Charlie who frequented the place. Fast forward, just for a moment, a couple of years and we see Tim returning to the area. Time had soothed his fears and he wanted to revisit the wood (which on this occasion offered none of its erstwhile threat) and call at the lonely pub. He was told a disturbing tale. It seems that the barmaid who’d made him feel so at home had since been murdered by a jealous lover. Tim was also told that the resident ghost had disappeared one day with a customer who’d come to live in the parish, and had taken up a haunting residence in his home. So much for the poet’s tale. Tim is one of my best friends and I know that the sepulchral afternoon was a major turning point in his life. He stayed at Simonsbath that night and the next morning hitched a lift with a man who happened to be the chief reporter of a local newspaper. That man convinced Tim to take a vacant reporter’s job (recently vacated by one Martin Hesp who was going travelling), and the poet turned his pen to journalism, came to live in West Somerset, met his lovely future wife – and the couple now have four children and five grandchildren. But here is a weird an unsettling rider to this tale. I cannot give any reason or meaning to the strange apparitions which overtook my friend 33 years ago in Bampfylde Clump – save to say that WMN photographer Richard Austin and I went there recently and we two old cynics were scared half to death. While in the middle of the trees, we heard the most blood curdling, unearthly, scream either of us has ever encountered. Two friends, who were walking around the edge of the wood, heard not a single thing. However, what I did discover in some old records is the possible – nay probable – identity of the mysterious ghost Charlie, who used to haunt the pub. This is taken from an old newspaper called Trewman's Exeter Flying Post – dated Thursday, December 30, 1852. “An inquest was held on the body of Mr John Avery, late of the Poltimore Arms. It appeared that on Saturday the 18th, he purchased at Mr Attwater's (druggist), three ounces of oil of vitriol, which he took home with him, and about six o'clock the same evening he swallowed the whole of it. “He lingered on in the most awful agonies until about the same hour on Sunday, when he expired. A post-mortem examination was made, the result of which plainly showed that the deceased had died from the effects of the poison.” I ask this question: what had caused John Avery to become so horribly “despondent” that he’d swallowed vitriol knowing it would give him the most painful death? Had he been claimed, I wonder, by the awful phantoms of that nearby ring of trees? To read about our Exmoor walks click here Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ Section) Paste this at the bottom of the post to help capture search traffic looking for Exmoor hauntings and local folklore: Frequently Asked Questions: Bampfylde Clump & Exmoor Ghost Stories Where is Bampfylde Clump located on Exmoor? Bampfylde Clump is a prominent, circular plantation of trees perched nearly 1,000 feet up on the southern ridge of Exmoor National Park, just north of North Molton in North Devon. What is the ghost story behind Bampfylde Clump? Local legend and walker accounts tell of an overpowering sense of dread, sudden drops in temperature, and absolute silence within the tree ring. Visitors have reported feeling rooted to the spot by an unseen force and witnessing eerie, spectral visions among the tree roots. Which haunted pub is associated with Bampfylde Clump? The story connects Bampfylde Clump to The Poltimore Arms near North Molton. Historic records show a 19th-century landlord, John Avery, met a tragic death there in 1852, giving rise to tales of a resident ghost named Charlie who haunted the inn for generations. Can you walk to Bampfylde Clump? Yes, the clump can be accessed via public footpaths and moorland tracks leading up from the North Molton area along the southern marches of Exmoor. Sturdy footwear and warm clothing are recommended due to the exposed, high-altitude setting. "Looking for more walks and tales across the moor? Explore my full collection of Exmoor walks and features."

High on the eastern flanks of Dartmoor, where granite outcrops tower above ancient oak woods and the River Bovey carves its way through a deep rift valley, lies Lustleigh Cleave—a landscape so breathtakingly beautiful that old moorland writers called it one of the loveliest nooks in Devon. Combining rugged moorland ridges with a picture-postcard village, it is arguably the ultimate Dartmoor walk—especially when paired with an outstanding pint at the end. Half a dozen years ago, I set out to explore this glorious corner of the moor with my old pal Patrick McCaig, of Otter Brewery, as part of a classic pub walks series. This is one of them... If there is one particular type of country hike which ticks more boxes than most, it is the pub walk. The single comment I used to hear most as a newspaper walks writer was the one where people say they love a walk when it either starts or finishes at a country inn. Say no more - your wish is our command. I have to say that we begin by setting the bar very, very, high indeed. The perambulation around Lustleigh Cleave on the flanks of eastern Dartmoor is one of the finest walks to be enjoyed anywhere in this amazing peninsula - and the thatched Cleave inn, located at the very centre of the pretty village of Lustleigh, is one of the best pubs I’ve visited in all the years I’ve been journalising in the region. IFYOU ENJOY THIS POST CHECK OUT OUR DEDICATED DARTMOOR PAGE HERE Landlord Ben Whitton is a charming fellow - he serves an excellent pint and the affordable food is way up there among the best posh pub nosh I’ve ever tasted. Do not dare to call it a “gastro-pub” though - it’s the one thing that might make the cool, laid-back, Ben lose his rag. This is a pub-lovers’ pub, if you know what I mean. Just because everything is first-class, doesn’t mean it needs any fancy labels. Ben has ensured the Cleave has remained what it’s meant to be - a country inn, not a restaurant. Anyway, let’s allow the managing director of Otter Brewery to explain why he decided to sponsor pub walks in a newspaper: “When we did the pub series over the past year we were looking at what made the successful ones places tick,” said Patrick McCaig as we put on our walking boots one fine day last week. “And walking came in to the equation a lot. It was amazing to learn how many successful West Country pubs have excellent walks nearby. Today’s hike is an ideal example - and we will certainly be earning your reward when we return to the pub,” he went on. When it comes to alluring place-names, surely few locations in England can boast more seductive an appellation than the valley at Lustleigh Cleave. Seductive by name, seductive by nature; that is what I reckon and I am in good company: the old Dartmoor expert and author William Crossing described the place as, “One of the loveliest nooks in the whole of Devon.” Having explored the big hidden valley several times, I am happy to second his claim and his description of the Cleave. “Placed amidst congeries of moor-stone, and embosomed in trees,” wrote Crossing of this rift valley betwixt high moor and lowland vale... Embosomed, now there's a word. One that fits so snugly with both Lustleigh and with Cleave. Is it just me, or does the curious name conjure some hint of erotic appeal? In it there are hints of desire and fertility, undertones of femininity, whispers of a gorgeous promise lingering deep within the hills. Ah well, let's get on with the hike. The place is more Oregon than Devon and its grandeur comes as something of a surprise to anyone who has studied the Ordnance Survey map before entering the secretive demesne. Look up Lustleigh and you will find a village surrounded by myriad fields and country lanes situated just beneath the eastern flank of Dartmoor. Run your finger to the left and you will come to an interesting concentration of contour lines and somewhere in the middle of this sharp geographical undulation will be the name Lustleigh Cleave. The first thing that strikes the visitor about the village of Lustleigh is how well-heeled the place appears. Victorian villas dot the jumble of hillsides that surround the village and give the parish a holiday resort air that, at first, is hard to understand. But the Victorians loved the picturesque and nothing would do for them but to have a chunk of it once a railway had been driven through. In this case the broad gauge Newton Abbott to Moretonhampstead line which, opened on July 4th 1866, effectively exposed this secluded corner to an admiring world. Remains of the old line exist and some sections are given over to walkers - but on this hike we must find the track which exits the village heading west just a few yards north of the fine old church. It crosses a small field or two before running alongside a wood just below Mapstone. Shortly after this we can cross the stream to climb around the edge of Middle Combe Wood and continue upwards to the hamlet of Hammerslake. We are heading for Sharpitor which must be reached by ascending steeply through the woods just south of the hamlet. The narrow track is clearly marked and passes between two gardens before issuing out into the trees. After a steep climb we are introduced suddenly and dramatically to the spectacular, gaping abyss of Lustleigh Cleave. We can stand on a rock called the Nut Crackers and gape at the vastness of the great rift; we can see Houndtor Wood just opposite, curving up its steep coombe to Becka Falls; then there's the hamlet of Freeland poking out of the trees above Water Cleave and, higher still, lonely Manaton guarding its distant marches with its extraordinary church lording it over Neadon and Horsham Cleaves. As we proceed north-west along the edge of Lustleigh Cleave, so the views in front of us open up to reveal the mysterious and complex flanks of Dartmoor's north-eastern territory. The rocks at Harton Chest make the most glorious picnic spot I know. Here's another Dartmoor Walk you might like Further north-west along the ridge we go until we come to Hunter's Tor - a massive collection of granite bed-rock and boulders that truly dominates the corner of this spur of hill. A hill that millions of years ago was divided from the main Dartmoor massif by the geological rift of the Cleave. Far below we can see the glittering light of the River Bovey as it meanders through patchwork fields from the village of North Bovey, beyond which is Bovey Castle looking so grand a pile that you might find yourself thinking of Brideshead Revisited or some such aristocratic nonsense. And from the Tor you can peer around to the right of the hill and spy Moretonhampstead looking gloriously important among the endless fields and moors. Lurking beyond is Castle Drogo which is still clad in a vast plastic overcoat while the National Trust carries out £11million’s worth of roof repairs. And so we bid a fond farewell to the sweeping views and descend by taking the footpath past Peck Farm and swing left down under Hunter's Tor to Foxworthy. This small hamlet looks for all the world like one of those Victorian water-colours of an Arcadian idol. Thatch and mullions dominate the place and the clear-as-crystal Bovey rumbles through its bed of mighty rocks. A plethora of other walks could take you across the stream should you so desired, but for this hike we keep to the north side and find the bridleway that wends and weaves its way along under the ramparts of the Cleave. Just below the Nut Crackers there's a chance to turn right downhill, and this path swings around to join a track to Pethybridge. What is it about this area that insists its hamlets must fit in with the Victorian painter's ideal? Pethybridge is yet another thatched wonder. As they put it in the fashion world: think hollyhocks, think lilacs, think old men smoking pipes and comely maids shelling peas... At any rate, that is what I was thinking as we found the footpath that curves around the little hill, through the wood and onto the tiny lane that leads back down to Lustleigh and its community orchard. After we’d descended the hill and were sitting in the attractive garden of the Cleave inn, consuming skate wings, crab turnovers and a delicious looking burger in the witty company of landlord Ben, ever-cheerful Patrick was smiling even more than he usually does… “It’s healthy as well - that’s another thing I’ve just thought of about these pub walks…” he grinned. “We’ve gained richness in so many ways. There’s been the view and spectacle - we’ve had a good lunch and a pint. “And the walk today was just beautiful - a mixture of everything…” he waxed lyrical. “You’ve got open spaces, spectacular views, rocks that look like huge eggs… A bit of everything. It was all so good we very nearly walked on to the Ring of Bells at North Bovey - we could see it there like a magnet. But we were strong and decided to stick to the plan. And, having tasted the food and the beer, I’m very glad we did.” Fact File Basic Hike: from village of Lustleigh up to Sharpitor and along ridge to Hunter's Tor, before returning via flanks of Lustleigh Cleave and the hamlet of Pethybridge. Recommended Map: Ordnance Survey Outdoor Leisure 28 (Dartmoor). Distance and going: about six miles, steep and muddy in places. To find out more about the Cleave at Lustleigh - visit hwww.thecleavelustleigh.uk.com - or phone 01647 277223 Frequently Asked Questions: Lustleigh Cleave Pub Walk Where does the Lustleigh Cleave pub walk start and finish? The walk starts and finishes in the picturesque village of Lustleigh on the eastern edge of Dartmoor National Park (TQ13 9TJ). It begins near the historic village church and ends at The Cleave Inn, a 15th-century thatched pub right in the center of the village. How long is the walk and how difficult is it? The circular route is approximately 4.5 to 5 miles (7.5 km) long and takes roughly 2 to 2.5 hours to complete at a moderate pace. It includes a steep initial climb up through the woodland from Hammerslake to Sharpitor, so a reasonable level of fitness and sturdy walking boots are recommended. Is the walk dog-friendly? Yes, it is a very popular route for dog walkers. However, keep dogs under close control or on leads near livestock on the high moorland edge and around farm areas near Mapstone and Hammerslake. What are the main highlights along the route? Key scenic points include: Sharpitor & Nut Crackers: Offering panoramic views across the deep rift valley towards Becka Falls and Manaton. Harton Chest: A dramatic granite outcrop that provides one of the best picnic vistas on Dartmoor. Hunters Tor: The commanding granite tor dominating the north-western spur above the River Bovey. The Cleave Inn: A traditional, thatched country inn serving local ales (including Otter Brewery) and quality food. Where can I park in Lustleigh? Limited parking is available near the village orchard and along designated roadside spots in Lustleigh village. Please park respectfully without blocking narrow lane access for emergency vehicles or farm machinery. Walk Overview & Practical Details Distance: 4.5 miles (7.2 km) circular Time: 2 to 2.5 hours Terrain: Village lanes, woodland paths, rocky moorland tracks, and steep gradient ascents. Sturdy walking boots essential. Difficulty: Moderate (one steep climb up to Sharpitor) Start/Finish: Lustleigh Village Center (Postcode for parking/pub: TQ13 9TJ) Map: OS Explorer OL28 (Dartmoor) Refreshments: The Cleave Inn, Lustleigh Step-by-Step Route Directions 1.Lustleigh to Hammerslake: 0.75 miles. Start near the St John the Baptist Church in the center of Lustleigh village. Take the lane heading west, passing north of the churchyard. Follow the track as it passes below Mapstone, crossing the small stream. Head uphill around the edge of Middle Combe Wood until you reach the quiet hamlet of Hammerslake. 2.The Climb to Sharpitor: 0.5 miles. At Hammerslake, locate the signed public footpath heading south-west into the woods. The narrow path climbs steeply through the trees between garden boundaries before emerging dramatically onto the high granite ridge at Sharpitor and Nut Crackers rock. 3.Along the Cleave Ridge to Hunters Tor: 1.5 miles. Turn north-west and follow the ridge track along the top rim of Lustleigh Cleave. Enjoy the grand views into the rift valley below towards Houndtor Wood and Manaton. Continue past the granite outcrops at Harton Chest until you reach the massive boulder heap of Hunters Tor at the northernmost point of the ridge. 4.Descent to the River Bovey & Return: 1.75 miles. From Hunters Tor, take the path heading eastwards down off the spur towards the valley floor near Hisley Bridge. Join the woodland track following the eastern bank of the River Bovey southwards. Bear left onto the bridleway heading east that leads you back through the lane network directly into Lustleigh village, finishing at The Cleave Inn.

There are times when you taste something that’s so good, you feel an urgent need to know more. What exactly is this, you ask? Who made it? Why and how were they able to develop it and make it so good? If you are really serious, such questions can turn into a quest which takes you on a journey of discovery. That is what happened recently when I tasted a truly amazing perry made by a man called Tom Oliver. It was like champagne. Indeed, this fermented pear juice drink was better than champagne. Without more ado I phoned one of the country’s leading experts when it comes to anything and everything to do with orchards, James Crowden, who has written several books on the subject including the best-selling Ciderland. Discovering the Magic of Traditional Perry “I know Tom - I’ll take you to see him,” he enthused immediately. “Indeed, if you are going to write anything about perry you need to go to Gloucestershire and Herefordshire because they’ve been the home of fine perries for centuries. They say you can’t make a really good perry unless you’re in sight of May Hill in Gloucestershire.” James added: “The making of fine perries has been enjoying something of a renaissance - partly thanks to three men who were all given prizes at this year’s Bath and West Show for their work on this often overlooked but delicious drink. I’ll take you to meet all three of them.” Which happened one day last week. But before we meet the three, it’s worth talking about that magical elixir known as perry. You could call it a form of cider, but one made with pears instead of apples. Like cider, certain varieties of pear will make a better perry than others. Perry or Cider: What's the Difference? And, just like cider, you can have both still and sparkling versions of perry. Anyone who has ever tried making cider will know it can be tricky. All sorts can go wrong when sugar-rich fruit juices are fermenting with the help of wild bacteria. But it seems the juice of the pear can be even more ticklish and problematic - which might help to explain why perries are not anywhere near as common as ciders. And this is sad because many would argue that a top-notch perry is the nicest natural drink that’s ever been produced in these isles. I said it’s every bit as good as champagne, and it turns out that centuries ago unscrupulous dealers used to actually pass it off as champagne to the London rich. There’s also a theory that when Roman generals were given rich fertile lands around the River Severn as a reward for invading Britain nearly 2000 years ago, they introduced the domesticated pear tree. Apparently those guys would never drink anything but the best and the theory goes that, without vines producing fine wines, sweet delicious perry was their booze of choice. Three Perry Heroes Charles Martell Anyway, let’s get ourselves to Perry Country and meet the first of those pear-heroes. Charles Martell began the quest to rediscover and save the county’s ancient perry pear varieties. If you haven’t heard of Charles, then you might well have heard of one of the seven the cheese he produces. Stinking Bishop is a rind-washed cheese - washed in a perry that bears the singular name. Charles told me that just over 50 years ago when he bought a small farm in the village of Dymock (in the heart of perry country), he was developing a huge interest in anything and everything to do with the county of Gloucestershire. “It began with Old Gloucester cattle - there were only 68 left in the world. A few of us got together and we documented all the cattle that were left. Then there were the Gloucester Old Spot pigs. And so it went on. “I was working as a lorry driver at the time, going around the farms picking up livestock. And I’d seen these bloody great big trees. I asked: what the hell are these trees? Well they're perry pears, I was told. Of course, I had to find out more and I got in touch with an expert called Ray Williams (a well known expert from the Long Ashton research establishment). Some years later, I stopped working as a lorry driver and I was making cheese by then - but my interest in the pears and the perry continued. Eventually we started the National Pear Collection.” Charles is a great story-teller and fascinating and entertaining anecdotes came thick and fast. We haven’t room here to tell the whole perry-pear renaissance story, (which includes support from the Three Counties Show) but basically Charles helped turn around the future of both the Gloucester rare breed cattle and the county’s forgotten pears, while building a successful cheese-making business which has now expanded in to a distilling enterprise (check out https://www.charlesmartell.com). It is worth noting, however, how his love for pears, perry and cheese came together. Charles spent time in his youth working on a dairy farm in France where they made a form of rind-washed cheese. “I didn’t like it then, but years later I wanted to make a cheese like that because it looked so nice. So we did. And I thought, I need a name that really describes what the cheese is. One of the types of pear I was studying was called Stinking Bishop - so called, because it grew on a farm owned by a man named Percy Bishop. “He was nicknamed Stinking, because he was a horrible bloke. He used to beat his missus, that sort of thing. He had a cow and one day he said to his wife, ‘I'm taking the bloody cow to market and I'm not coming back until I’ve sold it and drank all the money.’ Which, as beer was just a penny a pint, must have required a lot of drinking. When he got back he demanded a cup of tea, so she put the kettle on the range - but as it was summer it was taking hours to boil. What did Stinking Bishop do? He got out his gun and shot the kettle!” You get my drift. Charles Martell is a wonderful storyteller and during our hour at his home there were a great many more fascinating tales along with myriad details and theories about the region’s perry pears. Suffice to say that Charles has done more than anyone to trace and collect rare and forgotten pear types, ensuring their survival and reintroduction into local orchards. Indeed, his efforts have led to the propagation of several pear varieties that were on the brink of extinction. “By nurturing these diverse types, he preserves the genetic richness and unique flavours that traditional perry embodies,” James Crowden told me later. “His botanical detective work highlights the importance of biodiversity and the intricate flavours that these ancient pears contribute to perry.” Jim Chapman But now we must hand the perry-baton on to a man called Jim Chapman. Why? Because the original National Pair Collection became too large for its original home at Malvern’s Three Counties Agricultural Society show-ground and Jim, a local solicitor (who is also fascinated by all things Gloucestershire) decided to begin a new collection in 1999. He had inherited some land in the parish of Hartpury (situated in Pear Country, as the second half of its name suggests) and he donated 25 acres of it to a special trust with the idea of keeping the county’s ancient pear varieties alive and flourishing. “By 2015 the perry pear collection here had increased to 105 distinct varieties,” said Jim who took us around the large orchard at the National Perry Pear Centre, which, by the way, is free to visit. “I have to pay tribute to Charles who set up the collection - he recognised that these old varieties were dying out and so he set about collecting them. To improve bio-security, it was decided, as far as possible, to replicate the collection on each site, and in 2016 the Malvern collection was increased to 75 varieties. “It’s ironic, my father, who was a farmer, was pulling out orchards as fast as he could. He was in dairy production and these trees spoilt the grass. In fact, we even had the local Army Cadets coming along and putting explosives to blow up to the pear trees - it was the only way to shift them. That’s as bad as the story ever got.” Again we could fill this newspaper with the stories, facts and figures Jim told us about the Gloucestershire pear-world. All fascinating stuff… from legends about pear-hating giants on May Hill to tales about beetroot red pears which make a kind of rosé perry. To find out more about the free-to-visit National Perry Pear Centre see https://www.nationalperrypearcentre.org.uk/ Tom Oliver But now we must actually get to taste some of the ambrosia which these celebrated pears can produce. To do that James and I travelled north of Much Marcle to meet Tom Oliver, who is widely recognised as being the doyen of perry-making. Each step of his production process, from selecting the pears to fermentation and bottling, is carried out with precision and care. He told us how his grandfather had made cider for home consumption but the market had dropped out of the apple selling market, so the family had grubbed out the trees and replanted the area with hops. Indeed, Tom’s present perry and cider-making company is based in the old hop barns. “I funded my existence by working as a road-manager for bands like The Proclaimers,” says multi-award-winning Tom, describing his life before the perry and cider-making bug took hold. “Pear trees are much longer-lived than apples - they can go on for 300 years,” he continued. “So once you've got them in the ground and they’re doing well, you’re on a winner. The problem, though, starts once they start producing fruit - because it’s harder to harvest and perry is much more awkward to make on an annual basis. It’s even more awkward to consistently come up with good perry year after year. “It can be soul destroying for a cider-maker who has a go at making perry. He can find that the very first time he makes it, it’s glorious - maybe also in year two - then year three comes along and… No, something’s gone wrong.” Perry maker Tom Oliver in his cellar “But when faced with a very good cider and then the best perry, most people will pick the perry. It has all the complexity and nuance.” As I stood there sipping a tiny glass of Tom’s finest perry I could only agree - and I told him I thought it surprising that the elixir wasn’t better known in Britain… “That is a thing which baffles me too,” smiled this magician of the pear orchards. Check out Tom’s website to find out more and perhaps buy some of his amazing Perry https://www.oliversciderandperry.co.uk/ FAQ section What is perry? Perry is a traditional alcoholic drink made by fermenting the juice of specially grown perry pears. Although similar to cider, it is made entirely from pears rather than apples. Is perry the same as pear cider? Not exactly. True perry is made from specialist perry pears grown for making the drink, while many commercial "pear ciders" are cider flavoured with pear juice or made using dessert pears. Where is the best perry made? Many experts believe the finest traditional perries come from Herefordshire and Gloucestershire, where specialist perry pear orchards have been cultivated for centuries. Why is perry so rare? Perry pears are more difficult to grow and process than cider apples, and fermentation can be more challenging, making traditional perry a specialist craft. Who is Tom Oliver? Tom Oliver is widely recognised as one of Britain's leading artisan cider and perry makers, producing award-winning drinks from traditional orchards. Can perry age like wine? Yes. Many fine perries mature beautifully over several years, developing complex aromas and flavours in much the same way as quality wines. Is perry making becoming popular again? Yes. Interest in artisan cider and perry has grown in recent years, with specialist producers helping to revive traditional orchards and historic pear varieties.

January can be a grim cold time in the northern hemisphere. I, for one, like heading south if I can, come the end of the month when winter seems to have gone on just too long. Gran Canaria is a place that can be high on the list for winter destinations. Think green. Think boundless mountainsides covered in flowers. Think running water tinkling through pretty villages perched on the sides of dramatic gorges. Think almond blossom gleaming all white and lovely in secret coombes two thousand feet above the sea. And, higher still, conjure an image the cool green scented zone of coniferous cloud forests wafting in the warm breeze. Having said all that I stayed in the in somewhat unlikely location of the capital city, Las Palmas. A great many northern Europeans will probably not have heard of this place but, with a population of nearly 400,000, it’s one of the 10 biggest cities in all of Spain. Or to put it another way, it is the largest European Community city outside Europe. Located just over 90 miles off the Saharan coast and more than 830 from the Iberian peninsula, it does at times feel more African or South American than European. Unlike its neighbouring mountain range, you could in no way describe Las Palmas as beautiful or even handsome – it’s a sprawling community built across a great isthmus between volcanic cliffs and what would otherwise be a small island. However, I loved the place. It has a pounding vibrancy that I’ve not seen in other European cities for some while – and the South American link is relevant. In 1492 Christopher Columbus anchored here and spent time on the island while on his first trip to the Americas. He also stopped on his way back, and the city has a museum dedicated to him in its charming old Vegueta quarter. Aside from teeming streets lined with the usual tapas bars and restaurants this city is seems more in tune with the sea than most. That’s not really surprising as one side of the downtown area plays host to a large port, while the other is dominated by an even larger beach. It’s to this beach that the entire population seems to decant in the evenings and at weekends. The tower blocks spill their human content and what does that spillage do? It surfs the giant waves. It promenades along the seafront. It preens, looks, admires, laughs, talks, preens again, and eats. As I say, I loved it - but I loved getting out of the city just as much and enjoyed some of the finest hiking routes on the island. They call Gran Canaria the “miniature continent” because of its amazing array of different climates and landscapes. The round, dart-board of an isle is built around a massive volcano system which rises, at Pico de Las Nieves, to an impressive 6,390 feet. Just about half the land area, 667 square kilometres, falls under the Canary Islands Network for Naturally Protected Areas. In total Gran Canaria has 33 protected areas including a couple of large national parks.

The name Lanzarote used to be a byword for lobster-red torsos, winter sun, gallons of cold beer and all the other things generally summed up under the term package-holiday, and there are still plenty of opportunities to enjoy a week or two of excess in the heat just 72 miles off the coast of Africa. But anyone who goes to the Canaries and ignores the natural beauty is missing out on a very great deal indeed. Lanzarote is unique. There is nowhere else like it unless, in some places, you imagine the surface of the Moon. There are black mountainsides dotted with green oases, wild lonely beaches, ancient towns in the hills, forms of agriculture that haven’t changed in centuries, dramatic gorges, remote villages… The island’s 327 square miles hide myriad surprises. There are massive lava flows, iridescent green pools, rare birds, hidden inlets, sea-caves, historic farmers’ markets, tiny restaurants in villages that rarely see tourists, intriguing forms of architecture… I could go on listing the pleasant surprises that Lanzarote has to offer beyond the human honeypots down on the coast. The 37-mile-long island, which is just 16 miles wide, is a vast volcanic enigma - and as such it makes a fabulous location for those of us who love to hike. Timanfaya National Park is, quite simply, one of the weirdest places on Earth, being made almost entirely of vast volcanic lava flows. On this occasion we walked for miles across the strange black rocks - and very difficult going it was too. But we ended the walk with a fantastic seafood lunch at the little fishing village of El Golfo, and then, just around the corner when the sun came out, we explored the coast just south of the village and discovered the remarkable Playa de los Ciclos and its weird green lake, El Lago Verde. El Golfo is built on a half-submerged cone of a volcano, which over centuries has been eroded by the sea, leaving behind only the striated wall of the crater displaying a myriad of red and russet colours. At the foot of the crater wall is Lago Verde, a half-moon-shaped striking green lagoon filled with volcanic minerals and micro-organisms that are believed to be unique in this lake.

One day a few years ago I joined a group of people on a hike across the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya in western Lanzarote. It was one of the most tortuous walks I’ve ever done - almost every step was made difficult by the sharp black rock of the old lava streams which make up this remarkable landscape. Anyway, half way across this bleak terrain our walk towards the sea, we came across a man who’d been out on the coast harvesting the slim blue limpets which grow in these slightly warmer waters. Patella caerulea is the Latin name for the rayed Mediterranean limpet. I have eaten these both in Greece, Madeira and in Sardinia - they are very good indeed when fried slowly in pork fat. And here’s the thing for anyone more accustomed to our bigger, fatter, far more muscle-bound North Atlantic limpets… You can eat those too - but you will need to slow-cook them for quite a while, preferably in white wine which helps to take the chewiness out of these muscular beasts. In Sardinia I was told to marinate the limpets before cooking them… A friend both marinates the shellfish in parsley, garlic, olive oil, bay leaf, pepper and salt overnight then boils them by adding white wine. He will either then serve the limpets as they are with fresh bread, or put the whole mix into a seafood stew, adding fish stock, tomatoes, more garlic and peppers. Just south of the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya are the salt-pans of Salinas di Janubio - and I can highly recommend buying some packs of this wonderfully rich sea-salt to bring home if you are ever staying on Lanzarote. Let me tell you, a chap really does need a good lunch after four hours of walking across the lava flows of that bleak black terrain - but there is a kind of austere beauty to the place…

The massive backbone of La Palma curves itself into a shape that makes it the world’s biggest question mark, which is apt because the Canarian island presents quite a mystery. It is simply this: how can it be that one of the most beautiful islands in the whole of what could loosely be described as Europe remains so unknown, unvisited and unspoilt? You only have to look a few miles across the ocean from its precipitous eastern flanks to see what happens when lovely islands become known, visited and spoilt. Tenerife has many wonderful attributes, but its big bow to mass tourism isn’t one of them. “Go to La Palma, ­it is like Tenerife was 50 years ago,” said my contact when I told her I wanted to go somewhere very scenic and reasonably quiet, with a little bit of sophistication and good living thrown in for good measure. La Palma hit the jackpot. In fact, I have no trouble in putting it way up there in my top worldwide holiday recommendations . The list of what the place lacks is so short it would be far easier to deal with it first. If you like long nights out in noisy resorts heaving with well lubricated humanity, forget La Palma. It really is quiet. If you like lolling about on endless white beaches, forget that too. La Palma is very short on sandy strands and the few it has are black as coal. Now for the positives. If you like beautiful places rich in dramatic and interesting landscapes, then you really would have to go a long way to beat La Palma. There are corners of its vast mountainous interior where you could easily pretend you were in some place like the wilds of Wyoming. Most people who visit this island go for the scenery. It’s the only sunshine destination I’ve ever been to where nine out of ten fellow tourists climb off the plane armed with hiking boot and poles. Walking is by far La Palma’s biggest attraction. Daily walking tours are offered at every hotel and the routes followed by the professional guides are as interesting as they are scenic and stunning. The organised tour I joined explored the far north of the island where we passed intriguing hippy villages, mythical and amazing dragon trees, prehistoric cave drawings, precipitous gorges, old ladies selling hand-glazed almonds, young men selling hand-made ice cream, feral but friendly dogs and a truly amazing local farmers’ market which put many of ours to shame. I used the word precipitous, but I will refrain from doing so for the rest of this article. Everything about La Palma is precipitous. It is a world on a slope - and a steep one at that. The island doesn’t boast a volcano ­- it is a volcano. Or a whole variety of volcanoes to be exact. It is, by the way, the place that might one day - according to some geologists -­ be responsible for wiping out the eastern coastline of America with a vast tsunami. They reckon that half the island will slide into the Atlantic and cause the biggest wave in history. Our walks guide laughed when I mentioned this and told me she knew the scientists involved and what they’d actually said was that it wouldn’t happen in the next 2,500 years. Which, I have to say, allowed me to sleep more soundly for the rest of my stay. The northern part of the island is dominated by the mighty Caldera de Taburiente, the largest erosion crater in the world measuring six miles across and more than 5,000 feet deep. The mountains that surround the crater climb to almost 8,000 feet and you can drive around much of this rocky altitudinous ring if you have the courage and inclination. I say courage because the road to the top could win the accolade of being one of the most zig-zagged in Europe. My arms ached with steering around so many bends by the time I’d been to the top and back. The reason the road exists, by the way, is because the summit is home to the world famous Roque de los Muchachos Observatory where so many galactic observations of great note have been taken in the past few decades. The one place you can’t reach by car is the enormous, forested, gorge-riddled, crater far below. Only the deep Barranco de las Angustias canyon leads into the inner area of the caldera and the only way for you to get in is to hike along one of the numerous marked trails. The entire shooting match is a national park, by the way, and jealously guarded so that there are very few signs of civilisation. My daughter was rendered speechless as we walked along one of the higher trails to reach a vertigo-inducing viewpoint. It was like being in the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone National Park - vast and silent, save for the distant crash of water falling somewhere down in one of the many gorges and coombes. And like everywhere else in La Palma above a certain altitude, the place is scented with the heady, fresh, aroma of pine – it is, indeed, the most forested island in the archipelago. The Canarian pines are truly remarkable trees ­- they grow anywhere -­ on inaccessible crags and on bare volcanic rock. Our guide explained how the trees “milk” the clouds that gather around the higher slopes with their exceptionally long needles, and can take in more moisture from these six-inch long appendages than from their roots. The billions of needles in the “cloud forests” (as the stands of pines are known) are so efficient at “milking” the moisture they can take too much which leads to a rather magical result. On hot days (and there are a lot of hot days on La Palma) you can be toiling across bare and broiling mountainsides only to enter one of these forests and find it raining a cool and refreshing vapour that falls not from the sky but from the trees. Hot days… The mere thought is magical enough on a miserable January day here in the UK,­ and it is a thought that makes La Palma seem even more desirable. The temperature down in the Canaries at this time of the year is perfect for human consumption, and it’s the closest winter sun destination to the wet and windy UK. I stayed at the Hotel Taburiente Playa in Los Cancajos, ­and the Hacienda San Jorge Apartments located in the same resort. To call Los Cancajos a resort is a bit of an over-statement ­it’s merely a collection of a dozen or so hotels dotted around a few shops and restaurants,­ but it does boast a sandy beach (albeit of black volcanic sand) and it is just a ten minute bus ride from the charming, friendly and picturesque island capital of Santa Cruz. More about that mini-city in a moment, first a brief description of the Hacienda San Jorge. The comfortable apartments are situated in colonial style two storey buildings around a tropical garden, which itself is centred around a vast swimming pool. So proud is the hotel of these gardens it arranges daily botanical tours so you can admire the attractive little jungle at close hand. As is usual in the Canaries, the hotel restaurant operates on the buffet-style model and is no worse for it, there being always one fresh-cooked station where a chef prepares cuts of fish and meat to order. The breakfast service was particularly impressive in that it boasted the notable addition of help-yourself orange-presses so you could crush your own juice, then add it to the champagne style bubbly that was freely available on ice. Just the early morning holiday lift I needed in readiness for a shopping trip into town ­- shopping being something of a nadir experience for me. Not in Santa Cruz, it wasn’t. The place is stuffed with sophisticated designer label shops, but it also is adorned with a unique form of architecture which is quaint and pleasing to the eye. Intricate wooden balconies hang over just about every street down in the old part of town and many of these are festooned with a wealth of hanging baskets that would make the average English parks department green with envy. It is in Santa Cruz that you begin to glean something of the island’s rich, sometimes violent and always swashbuckling history. Before the Spaniards turned up it was divided into a dozen or so kingdoms inhabited by a kind of Neolithic indigenous people called the Benahoare. They, alas, are now long gone, but remains of their remote island existence still remain dotted around the mountain slopes. It was inevitable that the Canaries would become a target for incursion - once the New World was discovered across the ocean the archipelago became an important steeping stone to the distant west. But the merchants who thrived here didn’t just trade in shipping, they realised that the combination of a warm climate and fertile soils was perfect for grape growing. Madeira, not far north, is still famous for the strong wine of that name ­but long ago northern Europe’s favourite tipple was “malmsey”, ­and it came from La Palma. The island wines are still well worth quaffing today and I enjoyed several that would shame stuff sold in this country at four times the price. But it is bananas that La Palma goes bananas about nowadays, which takes us to the remote south west coast of the island. Under the black and vertiginous slopes of some fairly new volcanoes, these yellow plantains rule the coastal roost in vast man-made plateaus built into the moonscapes of lava. It is a weird place to be sure, but the bananas are excellent in that they are sweeter and creamier than the ones sold in this country. It was to the very heart of these coastal plantations that we went to find our other hotel – the huge La Palma Princess - and establishment which is more like an entire resort than a single hotel, but is nowhere near as daunting as it sounds. It is the island’s only bow to large-scale tourism - and one hopes the government keep things that way – but I have to admit we hugely enjoyed luxuriating in its many acres. There’s not much else to do on this side of the island but luxuriate. At the Princess that’s easy to do because the place boasts no fewer than 11 swimming pools, a spa, a gym, endless tennis courts and other amenities too numerous to mention. It’s all attractively laid out so that despite its massive size nothing is too “in your face” as it is in many larger resorts. The food is as good as you’ll be served on any package, anywhere – and the general level of service is first class. If you wanted nothing more than a lazy week in warm winter sun far from freezing Britain, then you could do no worse than chill-out beside one of the Princess’s many landscaped pools. But La Palma is not really about that. It is an island that offers the ultimate in scenic adventure – much though I loved lazing by the pool, I adored the hard work of exploring its wondrous peaks much, much more.

The Levadas A while ago I was in Madeira. I loved the place. Really loved it. I desperately want to visit again - and especially I want to go walking along the mountain levadas… Those are the remarkable irrigation canals that run through the island mountains in a myriad of flowing delight. I’m not going to write about the experience here but instead please have a listen to the podcast - and here are some photos taken on a delightful Sunday morning hike with a lovely local lady called Lilly - who you can hear in the podcast…

Getting off-road in precipitous mountains in a four-wheel drive vehicle can be exciting - and let me tell you, getting high up into the mountain of Madeira is very very exciting indeed. I did just that exactly one year ago - and here are the photos and a podcast to prove it…

The British Government continues to have Portugal on its “green-light” list of countries, UK citizens can visit without having to go into voluntary isolation once they return - so if I had the dosh and the wherewithal this weekend I’d definitely return to Madeira for a few days just to get out of the valley. I loved Madeira - and keep remembering a drive took across the mountains to the vertiginous northern shore. The main road passes through Serra de Agua and Vargem before descending down to Sao Vicente on the coast. That is as far as we got in our chauffeur driven Land Rover - I really wanted to go on west to Seixal or east to Ponte Delgada - but you can’t have everything. And at least I’ve got these photos of the journey we did take.