When a well known poet, author and explorer comes up with an idea and invites you somewhere special for a jolly good day out, you’d be mad not to go along with the plan. So when West Country-based James Crowden called to say he’d been enjoying the new Hesp Out West series and that he had a perfect excursion in mind, I listened very intently indeed. “There’s a beach cafe that serves top-notch food, there are plenty of options for wonderful walks along this unspoilt corner of the Dorset coast, and there’s a wonderful organic farm where you can buy some unique ingredients to take home,” said James on the phone.  We set a date and… It poured with rain.  Indeed, we visited West Bexington on the West Dorset coast on the one day last week when the weatherman was warning not only of heavy rain, but of savage gales.  Never mind. The lunch at The Club House down on West Bexie’s windblown beach was truly magnificent and at the Tamarisk Farm shop we met the farmer and bought some of his milled organic barley flour.  As for missing out on a walk it didn’t really matter as far as the writing of this feature is concerned, because a few years ago I did the best hike you can do out of West Bexington - one that takes you way up onto the coastal ridge so that you can stroll east, before descending to lovely Abbotsbury and returning along the coast path past the famous Swannery.  For those who don’t know it, West Bexington is to be found a few miles east of West Bay, the Dorset harbour village where they filmed all three series of ITV’s Broadchurch and the 2015 version of Far From the Madding Crowd, not forgetting two series of an old 1990’s favourite called Harbour Lights. Go east past West Bay’s famous red and (dangerously) crumbling cliffs and you reach a rather lonely empty section of the littoral, which is geography’s way of building up a head of steam to form the long and magnificent Chesil Beach. A high ridge escorts this shoreline as it marches east - and the B3157, which weaves its way along the contours in between, must be one of the most scenic roads in all of England. Halfway between the villages of Burton Bradstock and Abbotsbury, you’ll see the collection of seaside villas otherwise known as West Bexington, stretching down from the road towards the seashore. Most of the community would have been built after World War 2, but there are parts (including lovely old Tamarisk Farm) that are truly ancient.  A single lane served the place by descending directly to the sea and down at the end, almost on the beach itself, is the much-celebrated Club House. I say “much-celebrated” because the place has won not only two AA rosettes but a huge reputation. Despite being a stormy day, the restaurant was packed - we met diners who’d come from afar afield as Gloucester and Taunton just for lunch.  The young head chef, Will Hickton, is a talented chap who is passionate about using the freshest local produce at the restaurant, which is part of a triumvirate that includes the Hive Beach Café in Burton Bradstock and The Watch House in West Bay. Will’s lobster bisque, which I had as a starter, was one of the best soups I’ve consumed in a very long time. Light, but deeply flavoured, with a hint of citrus. A shellfish bisque would be on my list of Desert Island dishes if I were ever forced to make such a selection, and this was a very good one indeed.  James and I went for the £40 sharing platter as our main and were duly presented. A gargantuan seabass was brought to us on a large wooden board with a few beautifully cooked chips and other sides such as a watercress salad and a creamy slaw. The big fish itself was perfectly cooked - we cleared every last morsel of its succulent flesh from nose to tail. Will, who is an amiable chap, cooks in an open sided kitchen and he seemed happy to have a quick chat while he turned out dish after dish for the hungry crowd. The whole operation at The Club House is overseen by the charming general manager, Ferenc ‘Fefe’ Kovacs, who is not only in charge of the drinks offering as well as running front of house. He brought me a sublime mocktail based on elderflower which is in season right now, while James who wasn’t driving had something equally as exotic but with alcohol. Fefe is a level-three sommelier and his carefully-curated wine list and cocktail collection recently saw the restaurant reach the finals of the ‘Best Bar List’ category at the 2024 Trencherman’s Awards. As we sat there enjoying the food and admiring the wild maritime views I couldn’t help but feel that West Bexington has a sort of John Buchan-esque, 1930’s, between-the-two-world-wars, vibe. It’s a special place. And The Club House would be a wonderful place, indeed, to watch the sunset turning the sea red while sipping a cocktail just before dinner. And talking of wonderful places, Tamarisk Farm - just up the road - also belongs in such a category. I will never forget visiting this place a few years ago when one of the members of the Pearce family, which owns the farm, told me: “We have one or two elderly animals that graze out in some of the fields - and sometimes I think they have such a lovely life, they forget to die.”     It seemed such a wonderfully content and peaceful thing to say in this troubled modern world, that I based an entire newspaper column on the idea of being too happy to kick the bucket. Last week, farmer Adam Simon (who married in to the Pearce family) said another thing which tickled me… “We’re producing really good eggs from hens which are pasture-fed - they live in two nicely painted converted old caravans - one’s called Cluckington Palace and the other is Hensington Palace.” Having bought half a dozen of Tamarisk’s regal eggs, I can report that they are worthy of a Royal Warrant.    The family has been here for the best part of 70 years, farming organically. Indeed, Tamarisk was one of the first registered organic farms in the UK. Long may it continue. I also purchased a bag of Adam’s barley flour with which I made a truly delicious sourdough loaf. Barley flour doesn’t rise as well as wheat flour but what it loses in airiness it makes up for in flavour. Mixed two-thirds to one-third with a strong white bread flour it makes a loaf which acts as an ideal base for the scrambled version of those palace eggs.  So, some wonderful ingredients to take home… And having lunched so well, you might - like me - feel the need to work off some of the calories and enjoy those scenic surroundings… I promise, the following walk is one of the best coastal hikes in the entire South West region.  West Bexington Abbotsbury Circular Walk This hike scores 10-out-10 for views, history, interest, individuality and, last but not least, because there’s such a good watering hole to round things off.  High coastal ridges don’t come better than the great grassy limestone upland that runs west to east along the West Dorset coast. In fact, there’s a wondrous long distance trail called the South Dorset Ridgeway that traverses the entire shooting match. It runs from the West Bexington area to Osmington Mills, a distance of some 17 miles, and offers stunning views of the Jurassic Coast along almost every step of the way. Our shorter circular walk follows a couple of miles of the airy trail, but it begins in the car park adjacent to The Club House restaurant down on West Bexington beach. We walk up the lane to find the footpath which begins its climb out of the village near Tamarisk Farm. In climbing this path we get all the hard work over in one short sharp haul - it only takes 25 minutes to reach the top of the ridge - after that, it’s all either level walking, or downhill. So we turn east on the long distance trail and, by taking the right-hand path where the track splits, we are able to stroll through the high National Trust owned fields to Tulk’s Hill situated above wonderfully named Labour In Vain Farm. We continue along the ridge by crossing the road and heading east toward the big 10-acre earthworks with a trig point, called Abbotsbury Castle. It is believed this ancient hill fort was built by the Celtic Durotriges tribe, who lost control of it when the Romans invaded in AD 43. Apparently they didn’t put up much of a struggle when the second Augustian legion of Vespasian marched along the ridge. Then it’s on to Wear’s Hill where we take the spur down to the village of Abbotsbury. Turn right to walk down to the main road, which we cross to find Chapel Lane just a little way down on the left.  We are now heading seawards towards the famous Swannery, but just before reaching this wonderful tourist attraction, we follow the a path around to the right and pass around St Catherine’s Hill to head for what is the very beginning of the grand seven-mile stretch of Chesil Beach.  We arrive at the beach at the far western end of The Flete, which is the large lagoon which escorts the inland part of the Chesil Beach shingle all the way to Portland. From here, it’s simply a matter of marching along the coast path back to West Bexington and the excellent Club House restaurant.

In this weekend's newspapers, my Hesp Out West feature is all about the wondrous food you’ll find in the little harbour town of Porthleven, down there on the Lizard’s north-western shoreline. I first went there to write about the place nearly 25 years ago in an article for an old newspaper series called Hesp’s Harbours, in which I visited over 50 West Country ports. So here’s the article I wrote all those many long years ago… There's a famous photo of the Bickford-Smith Institute and its gaunt clock-tower surrounded by wild seas. In a way, the picture is an icon that illustrates man's mad desire to be by the sea, regardless of what the elements may chuck at him. He will sail, surf and swim, he will fish and frolic on the beach - he will even build a special place in which to read - just as long as he can be beside the sea. Anyone who's ever been to Porthleven will know the Bickford-Smith Institute because its dark, rather austere old reading rooms dominate the harbour mouth. The adjoining 70 foot clock-tower watches over the town and lords it over the occasional tempest - just like Big Ben watches over the Thames and stands aloft from the boiling cauldron of Westminster. Stark and indomitable the tower seems to say to the ocean - look, you have your mysteries-of-the-deep and your terrible violence; we have intelligence and books. Man meets sea. And when he does he must build - not only literary institutes - but groins and quays, piers and wharves so that he can protect his frail vessels from the mayhem of the waves. At Porthleven that mayhem is kept firmly outside the Baulk, the narrow mouth of the inner harbour where massive beams of timber are lowered to take the punch out of the waves that come hurtling past the pier, past the Institute and into the outer basin whenever there's a sou'westerly howling in across Mount's Bay. It's an odd name - the Baulk. Being in a reading-room frame of mind I looked up the word in a dictionary and it said: "A hindrance, a check; a disappointment." Disappointing indeed if you get home in a storm and find that the harbour staff have used the derrick on the quay to lower each beam into its special place. They're not meant to, and don't without contacting each of the port's vessels, because this is an official Port Of Refuge according to an Act of Parliament in 1860. At least, that's what a local skipper told me and he seemed proud of this curious old-fashioned status. But disappointment can also rear its ugly head when massive waves pick up the big beams and throw them about like match-sticks. I talked to some Porthleven men who were congregated by the harbour-master's shed and all of them had seen the Baulk come unseated in a gale. "It takes a special sort of wave from a particular direction," said John Russell who works at the harbour. "And it has to be big..." Gigantic I would have thought. The pieces of timber employed to create the Baulk are between 28 and 32 feet long and two feet thick. Each one weighs two tons, but John and the other men had seen the beams plucked from their settings like bits of cork. Later harbour master Ken Milburn explained to me that the timbers weren't designed to be an impenetrable dam, but float in their seatings and act as a calming influence on the big 'runs' that come into the harbour in gale force conditions. "It doesn't even have to be gale-force," said Ken. "If you get a south-easterly swell in certain tide conditions, you can get a run occurring in here big enough to damage things. Anyway, when they were tightening belts in war-time, they narrowed the channel at the bottom so they could use up some damaged pieces of timber and this narrowing had the effect of allowing the beams to float more. But they don't come out often - I can only remember it happening two or three times." "I'll tell you one thing," laughed Jim Allen who has lived in Porthleven all his life. "The timber's a lot better than the steel gates we had about 25 years ago. They only lasted two tides and were so bent and damaged they had to be cut out." Porthleven's problem is that the narrow, natural inlet faces south west, straight into the eye of the worst weather you can get roaring across Mount's Bay. A pier points nobly out to sea on the southerly side of the harbour mouth, but it can do little to prevent the waves from entering the outer sections of the port and building up into what Mr Milburn calls a run. Just past the Institute, the natural contours of the valley curve slightly to the north and this is where the Outer Harbour, with its own small outer quay, offers the first stages of protection. The community to the north of the inlet is called Breageside and it is here, near the Ship Inn, that a second quay forms the Inner Harbour where the boats are moored. You'll see the baulks of timber and the derrick on this quay, waiting for the weatherman to use the words south-westerly in conjunction with the term Gale Force. Just inside this quay are the fishing boats and it was here that I met skipper Robert Williams of the "Girl Penny" who had just been out, in what I thought was a horrible chop, to reap the harvest of his pots. He was kind enough to do us a good deal on a fiver's worth of crabs, but alas we were far too poor to even ask the value of the splendid eight-pound lobster which he proudly hauled ashore. "I remember the days when we could catch 100 of these in the 150 pots which we would put out," shrugged Robert looking down at his haul of about a dozen lobsters. "But a lot of them were really crayfish and we don't seem to get them anymore." I told him that I didn't envy him his work on a day when you could hear the surf booming at the harbour-mouth. "I'd be sick as a dog," I cringed. "I get sea-sick, suffered from it all my life," laughed the skipper. "Sometimes its worse than others. If the crew behave though, it doesn't tend to be so bad..." What about being caught out at sea when the weather's brewed up rough? "You can go to Newlyn, but the harbour master here will always radio to ask you if you're coming back or not. He's got to because its a Harbour of Refuge according to the Act of 1860." I asked Ken Milburn about the shutting of the Baulk: "You usually get plenty of warning of gales and I try to have a word with each crew before they go out to see if they intend coming back. Then, if things get worse, we'll radio each boat. If they say they're coming back, we'll wait 'til they do." None of this was necessary back in the 14th century when Breage on one side, and Sithney on the other, were tiny fishing hamlets surrounding a stream flowing into a small cove. A bar of shingle created the only protection for the tiny boats that worked out of here back then. Work on a proper harbour began in 1811 because of the increasing need for coal and supplies for local mines. It was a good time to start - soon there were plenty of prisoners from the Napoleonic wars to do the donkey work. But even with their help the development took 14 years to complete and was eventually opened in August 1825 with a feast of roast beef and plum pudding. 30 years later Harvey & Co of Hayle leased the harbour and built the inner basin so that trade could increase with imports of coal, limestone and timber and exports of tin, copper and china clay. From that time Porthleven became well-known as a ship-building port. Clippers, schooners and yachts were built in the big flat yard just behind the inner harbour in a trade that survived until the late 1970's. Much of the local fishing fleet, which crowded the harbour 120 years ago, must have been built just a few feet away. No fewer than 144 boats worked out of here in 1880 with a total crew of 583 men and boys. Hundreds of women and children were paid threepence an hour to salt and pack the large catches of pilchards which were processed along the harbour-side and, added to these, were the craftsmen making sails, nets, ropes and other equipment essential to the fleet. So thank goodness for William Bickford-Smith of Trevarno who, in 1883, spent a large sum on finding them all something to do with their spare time rather than drain the contents of bottles. He built his Literary Institute so that they could go down to the sea and have a thumping good read regardless of the tempest that would occasionally rattle the Baulk in this most pleasant of ports. Do say to a local: "Where can I get some good fish and chips?" A good chippie is a rarity nowadays but Porthleven has a great one - Chips With Everything in Shute Lane where "everything" gets fried in fresh palm oil for a lighter taste... Don't say: "Dash" The Dash was a Porthleven lifeboat last used in service during the 1920's. Now she's a rapidly deteriorating hulk in a car park wearing the sad air of the sinkable and some locals are a little ashamed of her demise.

A startling thing happened to me the other day - I was in the middle of a capital city when I was awakened from my early-morning reverie by the one and only cuckoo I’ve heard this year.  We used to hear cuckoos every year in our Exmoor valley, indeed, several of my neighbours have heard the unique and inspiring call this spring, but I haven’t and I miss the old bird. So you can imagine my surprise when, right bang in the middle of Copenhagen, I heard it’s optimistic cry. There was a reason I doubted my own ears for a moment. I was strolling around the area called Christiania which, as many of you will know, is the famous hippie quarter of that fair city. And even though it was early on Sunday morning, I could sniff the strange herbal, earthy, miasma of marijuana smoke. So the moment the bird let rip, I was thinking: “Blimey Hespie…. You must be stoned on the fumes coming out of all these much-graffitied houses!” However, I realised that hallucinations and apparitions caused by second-hand dope smoke wafting about in the open air were most unlikely, so I pressed record on my phone’s video app just to prove to myself and anyone else interested that I really was hearing a cuckoo call right there in a large and busy city. Perhaps the location isn’t quite so surprising when you know that the rear of the Christiania area is ringed by a large rampart from some bygone age and a lake. It’s all been left to go semi-wild - there are woods and thickets - so the place is a haven for wildlife. Unexpected magical moments… I’d spend my life collecting them if I could - they add a sparkle to proceedings and make life worth living. You certainly do not need dope smoke in your lungs to inspire such things or to help you enjoy them when they do occur.  Which brings me to the two elderly ladies I met during the lengthy train journey I endured (and mentioned in last week’s column) on my way to Denmark. It seemed unlikely, but I did wonder if the pair hadn’t been smoking the old weed just previous to climbing aboard the Hamburg to Copenhagen express.  Why? Because we’d got chatting, as people do when travelling in those old-fashioned sealed-off compartments that all trains had years ago and some still do. The ladies asked why I was visiting their country. When I told them I was on a press trip designed to introduce British journalists to the glories of an area called the Triangle Region they demanded, in a very jolly way, to examine my itinerary. I handed them the Danish version and after a minute or two they both began to roar with laughter. I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be inspiring such merriment, but the laughter soon turned into an almost hysterical gasping for breath as the tears flowed. Why? What could possibly be causing such hilarity in a simple listing of visits to restaurants, tourist attractions and castles? That’s when I began to suspect they may have been puffing on something stronger than a cigarette before boarding the train. Eventually, one of them managed to control her laughter for long enough to explain… “They have apparently booked you into a nudist restaurant where the wearing of clothes is banned. You and your journalist colleagues are going to be naked!” I was pretty shocked, I can tell you. And all I could think to say was something about hoping the restaurant wouldn’t be too cold - which, from a male point of view is very much not what you want in a bare-it-all-situation. When I muttered the words, “diminutive in size anyway” the two old ladies collapsed even further into mirth.  So I sat there remembering an old joke from years ago - one which did the rounds when “streaking” became a strange and unlikely pastime. It features two old military types who are attending a hunt ball and chatting when a 90-year-old woman runs by, naked as the day she was born. The joke explained that she’d seen streakers on TV and, being a bit of an exhibitionist, she was determined to have a go at it before going to that inevitable nudist camp in the sky.  As she flitted past, one old colonel looked at the other and barked: “What the devil was that?” The other shrugged and said: “Dunno. Whatever it was, it needed a damned good ironing!” I told the two Danish ladies this joke just before they alighted from the train and it had them falling about with laughter to such an extent they were still in stitches on the platform as they waved and cried: “Enjoy your naked lunch, Martin!” I fretted about that nudist meal, until my Danish minder said: “Don’t be daft. Those ladies must have read it completely wrong. We’re going to a restaurant where everything is stripped back. The food and the service, that is. Nothing to do with nudity.” One flew over the cuckoo’s nest. That was how I felt. You don’t need dope smoke to sometimes feel a little unhinged.  Christiania: Fact File Overview Christiania, also known as Freetown Christiania, is a self-proclaimed autonomous neighborhood located in the borough of Christianshavn in Copenhagen, Denmark. Known for its alternative lifestyle, colorful houses, and unique community rules, Christiania has become a significant cultural and historical landmark. Founding and Early History Established: September 26, 1971 Founders: A group of hippies and squatters Location: Former military barracks and parts of the city ramparts Key Historical Milestones 1971: The area was taken over by a group of activists, artists, and squatters who sought to create an alternative society based on communal living. 1972: Christiania's status as a social experiment was recognized by the Danish government, which tolerated its presence despite its unofficial status. 1989: The Danish Parliament passed the Christiania Law, legalising the collective settlement while maintaining some state control. 2004: Efforts to normalise Christiania's status led to conflicts between residents and the government, resulting in various protests and legal battles. 2011: Christiania's residents collectively purchased the land from the state to maintain its autonomy through the Foundation Freetown Christiania. Culture and Lifestyle Communal Living: Residents share resources and responsibilities, adhering to a community-driven decision-making process. Art and Architecture: Christiania is known for its vibrant street art, murals, and eclectic, handmade houses. Green Spaces: The area is characterized by lush greenery, gardens, and a focus on sustainability and environmental consciousness. Notable Features Pusher Street: Famous for its open cannabis trade, which operates in a legal grey area. The sale of hard drugs is strictly prohibited by the community - when I was there a sign declared this street had been closed because of unscrupulous and sometimes violent gangs. Christiania Bikes: The cargo bike, known as the Christiania bike, was invented here and is a popular mode of transportation in Copenhagen. Cultural Events: Regularly hosts music festivals, art exhibitions, and communal gatherings that reflect its alternative and inclusive ethos. Legal Status and Governance Foundation Freetown Christiania: Manages the area, ensuring its preservation and self-governance. Autonomy: Operates with its own set of rules and regulations

This week I have been thinking about potatoes. A lot of people think about potatoes a lot of the time - chips and crisps, after all, are two of the nation’s favourite things. For me, this love of the humble spud was highlighted by the vast amount of feedback this column received after we featured oven-chips cooked over charcoal in a rotisserie basket - I stand by the claim that cheap frozen supermarket oven-chips prepared in this way are as good as you can get. But when you get down to basics, at this time of year fresh spuds - steamed and eaten immediately they’ve been harvested - are hard to beat. Something happens to the sugars in a potato after it’s been left hanging around for a while - new potatoes cooked and eaten just minutes out of the ground do have a sweeter, more pronounced, earthy, flavour.  The same experience can be enjoyed with good fresh shop-bought potatoes, albeit to a slightly lesser degree. The Jersey Royals in the stores at the moment are a case in point, although many will argue they’re not as good as they used to be. I’d say that Cornish Earlies are just as good. It was 20 years ago that I was asked to write about a marketing push that was being launched to promote Cornish Early potatoes. I went down to West Penwith to find out more about these wondrous spuds (which were being marketed with the tagline “Dirty Delicious”) and we visited a farmer near Land’s End so that we could taste these marvellous pomme de terre. They had a fabulous, almost ready-salted flavour and a firm but creamy texture.  At the time I wrote: “The true ‘early’ from West Cornwall is so delicious, you can happily eat a bowlful with nothing added save for a knob of local butter, a little mint, pepper and salt.” Farmer Jeff Thomas told me he thought the flavour had something to do with the layer of black peaty soil that thinly covers the granite rocks of Penwith. I wondered if it might also be linked to the constant veil of salt spray which comes off the Atlantic. Early potatoes have been grown in Cornish cottage gardens since the mid 1700s when, along with pilchards, they made up the staple diet of most local working families. But it wasn’t until the early 19th century that a market developed for the distinctive new potatoes of Cornwall and the Scillies. By 1808 the first Cornish potatoes of the season were in such demand they were being shipped all round the UK, to Europe, and even as far as Barbados and Newfoundland.  In the Isles of Scilly, top quality early potatoes were the main source of income for the islands’ farmers for a century or more. Alas, that trade has disappeared, although one or two farmers still grow the odd field for local consumption. I spent the entire summer of 1976 living on the Scillies and earned a few quid helping a farmer on the remote isle of St Agnes harvest his spuds. Half a century later, I still maintain that those new potatoes (of the Home Guard variety) were the best I have ever eaten.  To harvest them in the tiny warm fields - surrounded by the tall, protective, Pittosporum hedgerows - you had to clear away a thick layer of desiccated seaweed which the farmer had harvested during autumn storms and put on the land. I am pretty certain this salty fertiliser had something to do with increasing the flavour. Or maybe it was just the fact that we’d eat these wondrous spuds with nothing but a knob of homemade butter, fresh from the farm’s one Jersey milking cow, and a sprinkle of fresh-picked wild fennel that grows on most of the islands.   If they’re top of my own spud-you-like listing, what’s the second best potato I have ever eaten?  I came across them in Japan, of all places. The beautiful northern island of Hokkaido is famous for its potatoes - indeed they grow 99 different varieties in the valleys between the island’s many forests and its scattering of extinct volcanoes. One of the best is a variety called May Queen, a dense, waxy number that’s marvellous for use in salads and the like. I was told by a local farmer that the mineral rich soils, created by so much volcanic action, gave the Hokkaido spuds their pronounced potatoey flavour.  Third in my list of super-spuds are the amazing wrinkled new potatoes cooked in sea salt which are a speciality in the Canaries. Papas arrugadas are early potatoes encrusted with a thin layer of salt - they’re cooked in highly salted water (traditionally, seawater) for long enough that evaporation occurs and the salt forms a crust, giving the spuds a wrinkled look. The dense, velvet-fleshed, orbs have an intense flavour and are usually served with a small bowl or two of the island dips or sauces, known as mojo - pronounced mo-ho.  Having said all this, nothing quite beats the new potatoes you grow in your own garden - the ones you are able to cook and consume with some good butter and garden mint just a few minutes after they’ve been taken from the soil.  QUICK WALK IN NEW POTATO COUNTRY A 300-mile round trip to taste a potato? Sounds mad, but that’s what I did some years ago to report on a newly launched campaign to market Cornish early potatoes. As I mention in the main article today, we visited a farm near magnificent Cape Cornwall just a couples of miles north of Land’s End.  I certainly made good use of the visit. Not only did I purchase a large sack of spuds I took the opportunity to enjoy a walk so that I could admire the stunning coastal scenery. Indeed, Cape Cornwall is one of the most dramatic places I know in which to enjoy a quick hike.  Officially speaking, a cape is the point of land where two bodies of water meet - and the reason this mighty finger of rock earned itself the name was because, until the Ordnance Survey came along and mapped Britain properly, it was believed that Cape Cornwall was the most westerly point in England, dividing the Irish Sea and English Channel.  There’s a car park on the shoulder of the cape and from here walkers are spoilt for choice. You could, for example, take the coast path south - above Priest Cove - to walk along the top of the high cliffs which would take you around Carn Gloose, past remarkable Ballowall Barrow, and down into the deep valley where another footpath will take you sharp right down to the tiny cove at Porth Nanven.     I elected to go the other way by turning my back on the cape and cutting across from the car park to find the coast path heading north. This took me around the steep seaward slopes into the Kenidjack Valley, which is riddled with old mine chimneys and workings. The path wends its way high along the contours between the fields and the wild terrain of the steep slopes, but eventually it descends down towards Kenidjack Farm.  At the bottom, by the stream, a track leaves the coast path to head off down the valley towards the sea, and (not for the first time - this is one of my favourite places in Cornwall) I walked down it to visit the rough and rocky beach at Porth Ledden, before retracing my footsteps back the way I’d come.  Only this time I left the coast path up on the ridge of Cape Cornwall to extend my short walk around the head-land itself - which you can do by following a footpath that heads out along its north-facing ramparts to round the chimney that marks the head-land for miles around.  What a place in which to go mining… That is what I always think when I visit this place. The mine was operated intermittently between 1838 and 1883 - and the chimney was, sensibly, retained as a navigation aid.  Around the corner heading back now towards Priest’s Cove you might see traces of how the former ore dressing floors were converted into greenhouses and wineries - now long gone alas.  Like so much of this coast, the cape is now in the hands of the National Trust and so preserved for the nation’s enjoyment. And enjoy it you will - I promise - if, like me, you go out there for a quick hike after you’ve bought some of the delicious local Cornish Earlies. Fact File Basic Walk: around Cape Cornwall, either by heading south above Priest Cove for a visit to Porth Nanven before visiting the cape, or by walking north, as we did, to Porth Ledden, then enjoying views from the old mine chimney.  Recommended map: Ordnance Survey Explorer 102. Distance and going: anything between one and three miles.

It didn’t last long, but we did have a few days of warm and sunny weather - which was enough to make millions of us head outdoors to cook and eat under blue skies. After a long wet winter, it seemed like a good idea. Essential even. Hopefully a proper summer will be with us soon.  So this week the phrase “Out West” translates to simply going outside for lunch or dinner. Dining al-fresco has come a long way. A large industry has built up around the concept of outdoor cooking and today there are appliances and gizmos that can have the humble home-cook preparing outdoor meals as well as any chef. Having said that, the basic idea remains as old as the hills. Kindling a fire and cooking over the flame is what our forebears were doing thousands of years ago - but what many of us love today is the innovative marriage that has taken place between Stone-Age and Space-Age cookery. My only regret, as I admire the chicken revolving slowly on my Kamado Joe with its clever rotisserie attachment, is that none of this new-old technology was available 50 years ago when I started cooking. If I knew at 17 what I know now… If I’d had the remarkable array of appliances and gizmos… then I’d have been dining in much greater style for decades.  Take that rotisserie, for example. In former times only well-equipped professional kitchens had such devices - and even then they were heated by electric or gas, not the live flame of charcoal which can impart such deep flavour. Now manufacturers like Kamado Joe have developed kits which allow you to rotisserie in your own backyard. Even better, not only are you able to cook evenly over charcoal, you’re also getting the slow-cooking qualities of a clay-lined oven (which is what ‘kamado’ means in Japanese). Some might think the idea of a rotisserie is a gimmick, designed solely to show-off delicious looking items turning golden in a restaurant window. But anyone who has ever burned anything on a barbecue will know the concept is spot-on… When only one surface is facing hot coals - as in a piece of meat lying on a grill - then that’s the bit which is in danger of burning while the opposite surface stays raw. By slowly revolving an item you, to some extent, remove the danger of burning. I leave a chicken spinning slowly in my kamado for an hour or more without having to check - and I do this with even more confidence if I’ve taken the trouble to inject the carcass with melted butter or garlic oil so the meat doesn’t dry out. Special meat-injectors being another useful and inexpensive gizmo in the modern al-fresco cook’s armoury. Of course, the idea of a hunk of meat revolving over a live flame is hardly new - many a rural-life museum will have antique fire-irons which show how the art of the rotisserie was in use centuries ago - although, it did require some poor blighter to sit there for hours turning the crank. Now we just press a switch. What is new (to me, anyway) is the concept of the rotisserie basket. By clamping some kind of fireproof cage onto your spinning crank, you can rotisserie much smaller items. Simple delicious things, such as panzanella - an Italian dish consisting of toasted hunks of bread, cherry tomatoes and prawns…  Drizzle chunks of stale sourdough with a little olive oil and place in a rotisserie basket, then spin over the coals for three or four minutes. Add the cherry tomatoes for a few more minutes, before eventually bunging in the raw prawns to revolve over the fames until they’ve turned pink. You can tweak by adding cloves of garlic, or herbs or a sprinkle of species, like paprika. The point is that the tumbling action inside the turning cage will help blend the flavours together, resulting in a delicious but ludicrously simple starter.   Chicken wings, drumsticks or small hunks of some other meat rotisseried in a basket alongside new potatoes and whole shallots are a sensation. Again, add a drizzle of oil and herbs or spices to your own taste.   If you want the best shop-bought frozen oven-chips you’ve ever tasted, just spin them for ten minutes over hot coals, to which you’ve introduced a pinch of oak or applewood chippings for a bit of aromatic smoke. Then loosen your belt. I warn you, they are extremely more-ish.  Simple - and you don’t have to be a good cook or even a mediocre one to do any of this. There are plenty of inexpensive rotisserie options which will fit most barbecue appliances - but, like everything, it is a bit of a learning curve. However, the results should be delicious from day one.  THE MEAT MEN Whether you have the most sophisticated barbecue set-up or you’re relying on a simple grill, you’ll be needing the right stuff to cook on it - and for a great many of us that means meat.  I cook many things over a live flame - from different kinds of bread to a wide variety of vegetables - but I am a meat-eater, and as such I have always been choosy about where I get my carnivorous fix from.  A few years ago I came across two Somerset lads who were developing what has now become one of the most exciting meat-industry businesses in the West Country. Scott Cartwright and Edward Davies - both aged 33 - are two of the youngest Master Butchers in the region and it is refreshing to discover and support two talented individuals who are making a name for themselves in an industry which, nowadays, is attracting very few youngsters.  Scott and Ed, who have both worked in the meat-industry since they were boys, have only been running their Somerset-based Meat Men business for six years, but in that time they have built a remarkable customer-base which includes more than 30 high street butchery shops as well as hundreds of restaurants and high-end chefs, not to mention countless thousands of domestic consumers like me who buy from the company’s website (https://www.meatmen.co.uk/). I am one of the latter because the quality is second to none. So I went to meet them at their base just outside Taunton this week because I was interested to discover how it was that two such young men came to be running such a successful business in an industry which no longer attracts many youngsters.  Despite being comparatively raw in years, they have amassed a wealth of experience between them. Ed began helping out at a local meat business as a teenager and Scott started working as a general dogs-body for a well-known Somerset butcher at weekends while still at school.  Not surprisingly after nearly 20 years experience apiece, both are now accredited Master Butchers.  But that’s only part of the reason behind their success - the other element is their passion. Scott’s idea of a “gap year”, for example, meant working in butchers’ shops around the world.  “At 19, I wanted to learn as much as I could about the butchery trade, so I decided to go travelling. I went to New Zealand and Australia, and worked in France,” he told me, explaining that he’d picked up on all manner of alternative and interesting ways of doing things during his travels.  Then, in 2018, the friends decided to develop their own business. “We thought we’d have a crack at going out on our own. So we began with events like the Bath and West Show and Badminton Horse Trials. We were preparing food initially - steak sandwiches, burgers- things like that. “I’d been doing this kind of thing for another company, so I knew the scene - but we were doing it differently and it really took off,” said Scott. “We were being asked to come back next year by all the shows.” The pair put their money into a catering van (which required a last-minute dash up the motorway so they could purchase it at a bargain price) and everything was looking very promising indeed. “Then Covid came along. Everything was cancelled. So we had a bit of a choice to make. Because, although we had invested everything, we still had decent jobs.  “However, we had set ourselves up - we’d made our projections - so we thought about it and realised there can be such a thing as good luck and good timing. Covid meant no one was going to the shops - they wanted stuff online - so we set up a Facebook page and put together some barbecue packs. Within two days it had 35,000 hits, which was absolutely crazy.” The business grew rapidly from that moment, but the lads knew the lockdowns would not last forever, so began adapting their business to also provide a wholesale offer supplying other butchers, chefs and restaurants.  “That’s where the premium quality has to come in,” explained Ed, who does a lot of the buying, much of it at Sedgemoor Market just down the road.  The Meat Men focus on Westcountry-based produce - they have started fattening much of their own beef and do so to the highest of standards, while all the pork comes from just one award-winning Devon farm (“By far the best pork I’ve ever dealt with,” says Ed). Lamb is all sourced within the region.     The pair work hard not only to maintain high standards, they also create all manner of new and interesting cuts which keep the high-end chefs happy, not to mention domestic customers. And the business is expanding - this summer the Meat Men processing hub will grow to three times the size - which means Scott and Ed will by purchasing a lot more West Country grown meat.  Which is good news for the region’s farmers, and good news for us home-cooks.  Something to slurp with the BBQ? Did you know that Thursday (23rd May) is International Chardonnay Day? No, I didn’t either. There are so many special days in the calendar nowadays you could fill a newspaper with them and nothing else.  However, I mention this one because a PR from Tesco recently sent samples from the supermarket’s new Chardonnay range, and very good they were too. The range spans various continents and includes no/low alcohol options. I particularly liked the D’arenberg Witches Berry - a wine fermented and matured in old French oak for seven months. Witches Berry is apparently a weed that grows in the vineyards. Italian women once put the juice of the berry in their eyes which dilated their pupils, making them appear darker and more beautiful. Since 1912 the Osborn family have tended vineyards in McLaren vale, South Australia. Today, family member Chester is making distinctive wines using traditional and sustainable methods. Delicious, and I reckon ideal to go with some of my rotisserie delights.

A grand afternoon tea is a wonderful thing - there are people in this world who’d survive on it and nothing else if they could - but most of us like to ring the changes. And when we’re somewhere as maritime as Cornwall, we like to eat as much seafood as we can. Cornwall’s seafood capital, Newlyn, sits snug in the most sheltered corner of Mount’s Bay just a mile or two west of Greg’s high tea. It is one of the largest and most important fishing ports in England, and I love the place. But years ago there was something puzzling about Newlyn which I could never get my head around. Although the boats were bringing in some of the best, freshest, most beautiful, fish in Europe and the large auction facility was selling it daily by the meg-truckload, there was not really anywhere in town cooking or preparing the stuff so you could eat it on the spot. That would not happen anywhere else in Europe! Indeed, when I first visited Newlyn as a journalist, a whopping 96 percent of the catch was being exported to Europe! That has changed. I first noticed the change a decade ago in the form of a queue of hungry looking people. I have seen this line of folk many times since, standing outside a small but jolly-looking establishment known as the Mackerel Sky Seafood Bar. So, while visiting St Michael’s Mount recently, I went there for lunch to find out what the fuss was all about.  A much-deserved fuss… Because the food served at Mackerel Sky is every bit as good as that queue would suggest (it partly exists, by the way, because there is a no-booking policy at this small restaurant).  The place was opened in 2015 by Nina and Jamie MacLean and the tag-line of the place is: “We aim to bring you the freshest and most local produce. The plates are ‘taster’ size, so order one or two, plus a side to make up a meal - or just go ‘tapas’ style..”  Which is what I did with my local friends, Newlyn born and bred seafood expert Robin Turner and his wife Rebecca, who is the mastermind behind the excellent Indulgence Catering business.  It was really first-class. We’re talking about dishes such as crispy sole with katsu curry sauce (£9.00), grilled local white fish with samphire and capers (£9.75), beer-battered local white fish with tartare sauce (£9.00), grilled mackerel, pickled cucumber, horseradish (£9.00), crispy monkfish burger, seaweed mayo (£11.50) etc etc… Like Greg Milne, neither Nina nor Jamie went to catering college or had a background in cooking. Jamie had a degree in Russian history and classics, although Nina did do a Masters’ in international hospitality management. As is so often the case in life, a bout of foreign travel changed things for the couple. In Australia they found themselves working in catering establishments and so, literally, got a taste for the world of catering. They returned to London where they worked for several years in various restaurants, before moving to Surrey and then to Cornwall, where they bought a lease on a cafe.  To cut a long story short, they now operate their much-acclaimed seafood bar in Newlyn, which they recently enlarged by annexing a shop next-door but one. The property between the two Mackerel Sky outposts is about to become their own delicatessen, specialising in Cornish delights, and should be open by the end of next month.  In a way, I’m sorry to be adding to the constant queue by writing this review - but I do so because I reckon every harbour town in the West Country deserves to have such an establishment. Check out their ever changing menu at https://mackerelskycafe.co.uk/

I began the last Hesp Out West article by saying that sometimes it’s a good idea to climb a mountain or hill in order to get a better view of the world that surrounds you. Being up high can literally lift your spirits and somehow help to put the complexities of life into perspective.  The South West region has a variety of summits which will do the job, but some are better than others when it comes to supplying the drama of that all-round 360-degree panorama… Five West Country eminences which give you that “closer to heaven” feeling… Burrow Mump: Hills don’t have to be mountains to make you feel very high indeed - Burrow Bump, which looms above the hamlet of Burrowbridge in the heart of the Somerset Levels, only rises 80 feet from the plain, but will give you views second to none. Brent Knoll No single bit of terra firma in the entire West Country is more obvious than Brent Knoll – the great big mini-mountain that presides over the M5 motorway just north of Bridgwater. It looms like some vast sentinel guarding the very gateway to the region.  Godolphin Hill: Down in West Cornwall, this eminence does a similar job - despite only rising just over 500 feet above sea-level, that’s enough to show you a massive slice of the far west. Lewesdon Hill: At 915 feet, this is the highest point in Dorset, and well-worth a visit. Not many climb this out-of-the-way eminence, but you are rewarded with stunning views of the West Country’s heart-lands if you do. Dunkery Beacon: A relative giant at 1703 feet. What makes this hill so remarkable is that it’s only a couple of miles from the sea, so you really do feel on top of the world. On a clear day you’ll see no fewer than 15 different counties from the cairn at the top, and may even spy the sparkle of the English Channel 50 miles to the south.

Some years ago, we travelled to Venice in the depths of winter because my stepdaughter Emma was having a major exhibition of her jewellery in the city. What follows is the newspaper article I wrote at the time… The Silent City. That’s what I call Venice now that I’ve been there in the back end of February. As a countryman, the thing I dislike most about any urban environment is the general, all-pervading, mind-numbing, noise. I have never been to a city that doesn’t shake with the roar of traffic. Or rather, I hadn’t until I went to Venice last week.  At this time of year Venice is one big watery, lapping, twinkling, void of quiet. Sure, you hear the engines of the water-taxis and floating buses beetling about on the Grand Canal, but step a few metres into the myriad alleys and back-streets and all you’ll hear is the sound of human voices. Often extremely animated voices, but then, that’s the Italian way. The sparkling jewel in Europe’s Crown is just about empty. I stood in St Mark’s Square as the multitudinous bells tolled the midnight hour and, with one exception, I was the only person in the ornate rectangle which is usually awash with tourists.  The exception by the way, was a be-robed and masked figure called Marco who had, for a few hours, been entertaining my partner, her daughter, and me. But once we got to St Mark’s he insisted on regaling us with his own versions of various Michael Jackson songs. My companions left and I would have taken to my heels only the paving stones of the square were covered in one big sheet of ice. Marco’s attire may seem odd, but wearing a robe and mask put him in the majority. Arriving in Venice is a sensation at any time, but when you are confronted by hordes in costume it is like stepping onto another planet. We arrived during the last night of the city’s two week midwinter carnival.  People from all over Italy descend on the sinking island to party beneath those weird, sometimes attractive, sometimes spooky masks, but when it’s all over they leave, and Venice gets to enjoy a brief breather before the tourist season begins at Easter. The Venetians might lose even that short window of peace and quiet soon. That’s because journalists like me are flying there on EasyJet and waxing lyrical about the wonders of the place out of season.  A quick trip to Venice just became an easy option for those of us living in the West Country thanks to easyJet, which has a daily lunchtime service from Bristol International Airport. Painless internet booking, a quick drive to the airport, a scenic flight over the snowbound Alps, a pleasant boat ride from Marco Polo Airport into the heart of Venice and we were on my stepdaughter’s doorstep four and a half hours after leaving our own on Exmoor.. That’s cheaper than taking the train to London. EasyJet’s prices vary from flight to flight – sometimes it’s cheaper than that, and sometimes it can be more expensive. If you can go sometime around mid-week, the costs tend to be lower. My stepdaughter whizzed back earlier this week to pick up a few things and a one-way ticket cost a ludicrous £1.50. And so, to Venice itself. I won’t rattle out loads of facts about the architecture, the great works of art, the painted church ceilings and Harry’s Bar, because it’s all been written about too many times before. But I will jump up and down with enthusiasm because, like millions before me, I fell in love with Venice.  Of course, I did it the hard way. Basically my trip to Italy’s ancient mercantile capital turned into a walking holiday. I reckon we walked more than 25 miles in two-and-a-half days. Although the island upon which Venice is sinking is only three miles long, it is riddled with alleys and streets (not to mention canals), and if you unravelled the entire lot and placed them end to end, the single route would stretch for hundreds of miles. Hardly a single inch of it is unattractive, so the will to see what’s around the next corner becomes overwhelming, no matter how tired you are.

Exploring the Majestic Beauty of Castelluccio and the Piano Grande Plain Many years ago we were staying with friends in Umbria and we all went up into the Sibillini Mountains to visit the old town of Castellucio and the famous Piano Grande Plain. You’ll find all this in the very heart of Italy. This enchanting and captivating locale offers a tranquil escape with its stunning landscapes. The Village of Castelluccio: A Glimpse into Pastoral Elegance Castelluccio, the highest settlement in the Apennines at over 1,450 meters, is a small village that epitomises rustic Italian charm. We were there way back in 2005 - just over a decade later, the area was badly hit by the terrible earthquake of 2016. Despite this, the community's resilience shines through its ongoing restoration efforts, preserving its medieval allure. The village is famed not only for its scenic backdrop but also for its historical architecture, with the Church of Santa Maria Assunta standing as a solemn reminder of its rich past. The Spectacular Piano Grande Plain Castelluccio overlooks the breathtaking expanse of the Piano Grande plain. Spanning over 10 square miles, this rather unexpected plateau is a geological wonder, formed by ancient glacial and tectonic activity. The plain is almost completely surrounded by the rugged peaks of the Sibillini Mountains, creating a dramatic contrast with the flat valley floor. A Seasonal Palette: The Fioritura Phenomenon Visiting the Piano Grande in late spring and early summer unveils its most captivating spectacle: the Fioritura, or ‘the flowering’. This natural event sees the plain transform into a vibrant tapestry of colours. Fields of lentils, poppies, cornflowers, and other wildflowers bloom in a dazzling display that attracts visitors from across the globe. The phenomenon is not only a feast for the eyes but also a crucial period for local farmers who cultivate the renowned Castelluccio lentils, prized for their unique taste and nutritional value. Sibillini Mountains Fact File Location: Central Italy, spanning the regions of Umbria and Marche. Highest Peak: Monte Vettore, reaching an elevation of 2,476 meters. Area Coverage: Part of the larger Apennines range, the Sibillini Mountains cover an area of about 70,000 hectares. National Park: Established in 1993, the Monti Sibillini National Park encompasses much of the range, aiming to protect the area's biodiversity and promote sustainable tourism. Geology: Characterized by karst topography, the mountains are composed mainly of limestone, leading to numerous caves, sinkholes, and disappearing streams. Flora and Fauna: The area hosts diverse species, including the Apennine wolf, the Marsican brown bear, and a variety of orchids and other endemic plants. Historical Significance: The name "Sibillini" derives from the legend of the Sibyl, a prophetess who, according to local folklore, inhabited caves within these mountains. Popular Activities: The region is popular for hiking, mountaineering, and skiing in designated areas during the winter months. Cultural Influence: The landscape has inspired numerous Italian poets and artists and remains a subject of local folklore and legends. Accessibility: The area is accessible through various small towns and villages that serve as gateways for exploring the range, such as Norcia, Visso, and Castelluccio.

It was a quarter-of-a-century ago that I began working for regional daily newspapers in South West England and in doing so I found myself following in the footsteps of my feature-writing father who spent his entire journalistic career preferring to avoid hard news… He used to say: “If the truth be known, I don’t care which councillor or politician said what - I’m not even interested in who murdered who. But I am fascinated in all those incidental stories and activities which are either deeply meaningful or which give people great joy.” One thing I learned from writing features for the West Country’s daily newspapers has been that, if I have thoroughly enjoyed working on some subject or other, then the likelihood is other people will tend to enjoy reading about it.  Hence the entirely selfish - but hopefully inspirational - idea behind this new series, Hesp Out West . This weekly offering will be devoted to things which are delightful or interesting or pleasurable - and preferably all three. So there’ll be plenty about food and drink, because media-industry research shows that a great many people love to read about culinary delights at weekends. But we’ll also travel beyond those carnal delights and feature all manner of different things we humans love to do in our leisure time. Like, for example, walking in lovely places or perhaps enjoying a stay at some special location, like a wonderful hotel or a cottage by the sea.  In short, if it is likely that most readers would think to themselves, “I would enjoy that…!” then it’s the sort of thing which will appear in this series.  The articles will often focus on the kind of subjects that you might not see in other newspapers - like foraging for, and cooking, some delicious morsel collected from the wild; or visiting an uninhabited island; or walking through some long-lost ruined village. We will visit places that’ll fascinate even the most world-weary and unadventurous of readers. We will try things that will make folk want to give it a go for themselves. And we will celebrate the kind of special food and drink that is more or less unique to this region. Why embark upon such a series? Well, as the writer, all I can say from a personal point of view is that I have reached an age in my 60s when, very selfishly, I just want to do what I want to do. Time is perhaps running a little short, so let’s enjoy filling our days with the good and interesting stuff rather than the boring twaddle.  Knowing the demographic of this newspaper, I believe there’ll be many readers who will feel the same way.  However, there is a serious reason for the series... And that is to do with something I’ve taken to calling CARE - or Campaign for Real Experiences . As Artificial Intelligence makes increasing inroads into our every day lives, so more and more of the stuff we see and hear is likely to be generated by some algorithm or other.   Until very recently, many of these AI generated wonders would have been impossible. Today, though, you can get the robots in your phone or computer to do the most incredible things - like “write” entire articles on just about any subject at a touch of a button. AI can also create amazingly realistic photographs of just about anything the human mind can imagine. It can compose music, edit videos, perform voice-overs, create recipes… The list of things robots can do is becoming endless. But what AI will not be able to provide for a long time yet is absolute authenticity. It’ll have a damned good go - the robots are becoming ever more adept at pretending to be real. But they are a long way from having the ability to genuinely emulate the human experience.  AI can borrow, or copy, or approximate, the writings or thoughts or images created by real people who may have experienced a particular moment or occurrence or circumstance, but it cannot describe in very human terms what happened in a particular place on one specific day, under those very skies, in those temperatures, with those emotions, as well scents, touches and flavours… And it won’t be able to do it for a long time to come because, to do that, AI would have to send out some kind of robot-driven drone full of amazing sensors in order to report on, say, what visiting a place was like at a particular time, or what something tasted or smelled like fresh out of the oven. The drone would have to be capable of talking to people. To do the feature writer’s job properly, it would need to be able to sit down and listen to their stories and perhaps share a joke with the folk concerned. It would be required to feel empathy for whatever it was the humans in the situation were experiencing. As yet, no such drone has been invented. And why would you want to pour millions of pounds into creating such a machine? It’s already here - in the form of a human journalist who’s got the T-shirt and been around the block a few times. Having said that, I sometimes do use AI to help me write what could be described as very factual, “non-experiential” articles. But if you wanted an entire feature to be trite, boring and full of cliches and ridiculous superlatives you could let the robots write the article entirely. Indeed, I can tell when lazy editors have allowed robots to deliver the finished item - and it is not a good idea. You could not, for example, ask AI to help write an article about a beach picnic. I single out the subject because, of all the features I’ve written in the past 25 years, those describing various beach picnics I have enjoyed have been among the most popular. We did several of these down the years with North Devon’s Dan Garnett, who used to be known as Dan the Fishman before he retired from running his roving seafood stall. We prepared and cooked fabulous seafood in all manner of maritime locations - from wide sandy Atlantic beaches to muddy estuaries - and several times on the wondrous shores of Lundy. And I know people loved reading about those far-flung culinary adventures because of the massive feedback.  In order to describe it, you had to be there to fully experience the joys of beach cookery. If you weren’t there - if you were a reader - then you wanted to emulate the experience for yourself. If I had a fiver for every time a reader told me the articles had inspired them to have their own beach picnic, I’d be able to afford lobster lunches for the rest of my life. The same, I recall, happened when we carried a feature about joining Lyme Regis fisherman Harry May on one of his hour-long mackerel trips out of the harbour. Photographer Richard Austin and I caught a few, then set up a portable barbecue on the beach to cook the fish while they were still almost flapping.  Anyone who has ever eaten mackerel when it is that fresh will know it is one of the most delicious fish in the sea. We were inundated with requests from readers asking us to recommend other mackerel fishing trips around the South West region.  Seaside adventures on the Scillies remain some of the most memorable in my entire journalistic career. Days out like the amazing Tresco Low Tide Picnic pop-ups, held on a sand bar between two islands that would normally be under 20 feet of water, proved to be hugely popular. These low tide picnics would attract more than 300 people to one of remotest corners of the UK. On the same bit of seabed, I recall going razor-clam hunting with my friends, the Pender family, who run their first-class Island Fish business on Bryher.  Back on the mainland I recall spending a day out with seaweed expert Rachel Lambert harvesting edible delights on a beautiful beach in Cornwall… These are very real and hugely enjoyable human experiences. Try getting a robot to describe going to Lyme Regis for a day-out that included bumping about on the high seas while dealing with hand-lines taught with flapping fish, then lighting a BBQ to cook and eat that wondrous seafood back on the beach.  A robot couldn’t do it. All it could do would be to nick one of my old articles and dress it up with double the cliches.  The point is, that Hesp can. Which is why he’s going to be out and about sharing all manner of wonderful things for you to enjoy.   Having knocked AI just a little in the main article, I have asked the robots to outline why it’s such a good idea to have a series like Hesp Out West - Feature Writing in South West England will include… Real Experiences Campaign - Highlighting the series’ unique angle against AI-generated content. Culinary Adventures in the West Country - Attracting food enthusiasts interested in regional cuisine. Beach Picnics and Seafood Cooking - are activities that have shown popularity among readers. Authentic Travel Experiences UK - Such articles have a broad appeal for travellers looking for genuine experiences. Weekend Culinary Delights - Targets weekend readers interested in food articles. Walking Tours South West England - For outdoor enthusiasts looking to explore on foot. Unique Hotels and Cottages by the Sea - For those planning vacations or special stays. Foraging and Wild Cooking - Attracting readers interested in sustainable and natural food sources. Visiting Uninhabited Islands UK - Appealing to adventurous travellers and explorers. Leisure Activities in the West Country - Broad, appealing to those looking for various recreational activities. Lundy Island Adventures - Example of a specific location that has been popular in past features. Mackerel Fishing Trips Lyme Regis - Example of an article which targets a specific and popular past activity. Low Tide Picnics Tresco - Example of a unique event that draws interest from niche audiences. Seaweed Foraging Cornwall - Example of an article combining a location with a unique activity. Stories of South West England - emphasizing a unique narrative and regional pride. Campaign for Real Experiences - Highlighting the series' philosophical backbone. AI vs Human Journalism - Engaging readers interested in the impact of technology on media. Enjoying the Good Stuff - A lifestyle-oriented phrase that conveys the positive outlook of the series.

Travel is a word laden with ambition. There are so many places and things to experience on this amazing planet of ours that one of the only ways of thinking about how to enjoy a fraction of what’s out there is to put together a wish-list of things you really must see and do. Driving Highway One along the Pacific Coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco is up there in many people’s Top 10 – it’s been on mine ever since I read Steinbeck’s Cannery Row as a boy, and now I’ve done the journey I can vouch that it deserves a place in anyone’s wish-list.  Big Sur is the big highlight. It’s 90 miles of nothing but pristine natural glory with hardly a village, let alone a town, to mess up the magical mountain-meets ocean feeling you get every panoramic inch of the way.   The name comes from the Spanish “el sur grande”, meaning “the big south” – and it is big beyond any measure we Westcountry folk can imagine. The nearest we have to it is the Exmoor coast, but its modest length seems to pale somewhat after you’ve driven all day from the town of San Luis Obispo to the coastal resort of Carmel. We started our Highway One journey far from all that in crazy, not so wonderful to drive in, Los Angeles. Once you leave Santa Monica, though, it’s easy motoring with ocean views just about all the way. First port of call is Malibu where the highway passes the beach homes of movie stars - then there’s Ventura where you see the kind of folk who are at the opposite end of the social scale. Teams of immigrants from Mexico and South America are dotted across the alluvial plain picking and planting strawberries. From the comfort of your open top car you can smell the fruit and feel guilty about being a paid up member of a First World economy.  Things get altogether more scenic and hilly as you approach Santa Barbara, which must be one of the most civilised and lovely communities on the planet and is a perfect place in which to stop off lunch on the journey north.  Next comes San Luis Obispo – another pleasant burg – but we chose nearby Pizmo Beach for our two night stay so that we could explore this beautiful area.  There are three sides to this seaside resort – one is the long golden beach with its surf, the second is the kind of holiday town you might find Homer Simpson in, (think down-market fast-food joints, tattoo parlours and bars) but hugely enjoyable nevertheless, the third is a more upmarket area of good hotels with stunning sea views.  We stayed for a couple of nights in the latter at the Sea Crest Resort where we could whale-watch from our comfortable and airy suite perched above the ocean. And to really forget Homer quaffing Duff Beer we drove up the coast a few miles one evening to the sumptuous Sycamore Mineral Springs tucked behind Avila Beach, where we enjoyed fine dining in the modern Californian style followed by a few moonlit hours in our own private hot-tub (amazingly hot) on the side of the mountain.  The hot-tubs have a history: in 1886 two prospectors started drilling for “liquid gold” here - they didn’t find any but they did discover scalding hot sulphur mineral water. Because of the water's curative effects, the proprietors established a popular spa and mineral springs resort. Sunday morning in this area can mean many things to many people, the whole of California seems to be out in the great outdoors - and one of the most scenic and interesting bits of that outdoors is Morro Bay, which acts as San Luis Obispo’s small port.   There’s no better way to explore this large natural harbour than by joining the Chablis - a 50-foot, two-story riverboat that plods across the gentle protected waters of the bay while staff serve a huge champagne breakfast. From your table on the upper deck you can admire the town’s most striking feature - Morro Rock is an enormous 500 foot high volcanic plug that dominates the entrance to the harbour. I liked Morro Bay so much I bought a baseball cap to prove I’d been there. Actually it was to keep the hot Californian sun off my head during the next long stage of our drive – but we didn’t head off north without doing the guided San Luis Obispo walking tour. Founded in 1772 “SLO”, or “SLOtown”, as it’s known locally, is one of California’s oldest communities and the walking tour gives a good idea as to how this part of the State become colonised. SLO’s pleasant lo-rise streets (there’s a reason for low – think earthquakes) act as a kind of gateway to Big Sur. This is where Highway One leaves the much bigger more busy 101 to reach the coast beyond Morro Bay, which it then more or less adheres to all the way to Carmel and Monterey far to the north.  After you pass San Simeon (location of famous Hearst Castle) you reach the Santa Lucia Mountains which make up the terra-firma bit of Big Sur’s marriage made in heaven. Mountain and ocean – I can’t think of a more exciting geographic combination. At least, it’s esciting to a tourist – the place must be a nightmare for the road-menders who constantly have to work on Highway One after bits fall into the sea.  Big Sur is one of central California’s least messed-about with zones, for centuries it remained an inaccessible wilderness - as late as the 1920s, only two homes in the entire region had electricity - but the area changed when, after 18 years of construction, the paved two-lane road was completed in 1937. Fortunately, the locals had the good sense to jealously guard the wild integrity of the place after that and still fight tooth and nail to keep this more or less virgin territory. For example, the local authority won a landmark court case allowing it to ban billboards and other visual roadside distractions – sadly that’s a rare state of affairs in the USA.  The isolation and natural beauty of Big Sur has attracted all manner of iconic American writers and artists - Henry Miller, Richard Brautigan, Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Kerouac, among them. It is pointless trying to describe the sheer grandeur of the drive – suffice to say if there was just one single thing in all of North America I’d recommend, motoring up Big Sur would be it.  Eventually you reach Carmel, which is beautiful, quiet and charming – and as such is a place where very discerning, very rich people, go to live. Clint Eastwood was mayor for several years and still lives just outside town now. Even visiting Carmel costs – if you want to drive around the amazing coastal back road to Monterey, you pay a toll.  I’ve written about the delights of John Steinbeck’s favourite fishing port on another occasion, so we’ll skip Monterey this time and drive 40 miles north around the bay to wonderful, dreamy, Santa Cruz. So fond am I of this town and its surrounding area that if I didn’t live in my beloved English Westcountry, this is where I’d put down roots. Imagine a pleasant university community blessed with some of the best surfing beaches anywhere, backed by beautiful wooded hills where they grow grapes that go into the mind-bogglingly good local wines.  We spent our first night at the Santa Cruz Dream Inn, which is actually just that – a dream inn rising high above the town’s central beach – which in turn happens to be one of the best novice surf beaches in the world. Our room in this luxurious multi-storey hotel had stunning views across the famous old town pier – beyond which we could see the entire curve of massive Monterey Bay. How do I know its one of the best nursery surf beaches in the world? Because super-cool Ed Guzman told me so. Ed owns Club Ed and has designed special wide long boards for idiot learners like me - and he showed me how, because of the contours of the sea bed, big waves arrive an easy-to-ride slow-motion.  The next night we stayed in a charming little B&B called Adobe on Green Street. Comfortable and welcoming, this is an ideal place in which to base yourself for an inexpensive exploration of this unique area.  Our adventures included a tour of the scenic Summit Wine Trail and an inevitable wine tasting at the excellent Burrell School Winery. We also went sea-kayaking in a bird, seal, sealion and otter filled estuary at a place called Moss Landing, just down the coast. After an enjoyable paddle-powered safari with the guide from Kayak Connection we discovered the harbour’s excellent Phil’s Fish Market – which I’m told, and now believe, is one of the best seafood joints along the whole of the Californian coast.     And so after yet more oysters, lobster and wine it was eventually time to drive the last 60 miles north to San Francisco Airport having enjoyed a two-week Californian adventure that definitely fits into the “trip-of-a-lifetime” category. Which is of course where all really good holidays belong. Fact file Martin travelled with America As You Like It who offer tailor-made holidays across the USA ( www.americaasyoulikeit.com .

At various times over the years I’ve been invited to go walking on the Channel Isles. Both Jersey and Guernsey have regular walks festivals – and it was to the latter’s springtime event that I was invited one year.  With 28.5 miles of spectacular coastal paths, Guernsey offers walkers a great many excellent hiking opportunities. Getting out and about on foot is the best way to get a real feel for the island which, interestingly, is utterly different from its neighbours. Guernsey is the second largest Channel Isle after Jersey, with a total area of 25 square miles. From the windows of the aeroplane, Guernsey looks built up, but the view is deceptive. Although no fewer than 65,726 souls live on a lump of rock identical in size to the area covered by the city of Plymouth – the isle is a treasure trove of country lanes, wooded valleys, empty coves and wild windswept cliff-top heaths. Basically, the island can be divided into two halves: the Haut Pas , the high southern plateau, and the Bas Pas , the low-lying and northern region with its dunes and wide beaches.  The south coast is by far the wilder of the two areas, with rugged cliffs separating a series of charming coves. It would take about six hours to walk the footpath that traverses this glorious section of coast, but I did half the route then caught one of the excellent regular bus services back to St Peter Port.   It was an accredited guide who told me that one of the most popular hikes for visitors was a circular route, south of St Peter Port, along the east coast.  This coast path takes you higher and higher every step of the way until you eventually reach lofty Jerbourg Point which is a vantage point that allows you to see all the other Channel Isles on a clear day.  However, I was enjoying the coastal walking so much that I couldn’t resist continuing at least some way along the south coast to make the best use of my time.  My walk began at the island’s main harbour in St Peter Port, which was still picking itself up and dusting itself down after a day of intense and crowded celebration. Each year Guernsey celebrates Liberation Day on 9 May – the moment in 1945 when the occupying Germans eventually threw in the towel. This brief and sorry part of Guernsey’s long history is something you cannot escape from, no matter where you are on the island. German World War Two fortifications are to be seen everywhere – indeed, just five minutes from the beginning of our walk we pass the Underground Military Museum which is located in an old Nazi tunnel complex.  Our path south continues to pass various bunkers and other fortifications built down the centuries to defend the island against invading forces. Many are linked to the fact that Guernsey has had a somewhat up and down relationship with its big Gallic neighbour just 30 miles across the waves… The French have attacked on numerous occasions since Guernsey was claimed by the English crown in 1093. Back then the Channel Islands were called the Isles Normandes, but by 1204 they were showing a more English slant, being known as Les Isles Anglo-Normandes.  The islanders, in return for certain privileges and protection, opted to remain loyal to the English Crown - and have done ever since - although the French returned on plenty of murderous occasions including the Hundred Years War when Guernsey was promptly seized along with Alderney and Sark. Two years after that war began the ping-pong ball of island history saw it being returned to British hands – 16 years after that the French were back, but this time only for a few months. And so it went on… And on this walk you will see plenty of evidence to show that the island which is now a tax-haven wasn’t, for many centuries, any kind of haven at all. Our path marches past Soldiers Bay then climbs low cliffs to descend again to Permain Bay – both of which are sandy wonders capable of stalling all but the most determined of hikers.  But now, after passing tiny Marble Bay, we climb again – this time to the heights of Jerbourg Point which marks the very south eastern tip of Guernsey. And it was here, after admiring the views – that I decided to continue west along the south coast as far as I could.  The south coast path is some nine miles in glorious length, and it ducks to sea-level at a few coves, and in true coast path fashion then climbs to the top of high cliffs, only to descend back down to the occasional fisherman’s inlet.  First comes the great, steeply bounded, sweep of Moulin Huet Bay, followed by lesser, but equally as precipitous, Saint’s Bay in the parish of St Martin. By the time you’ve passed beautiful Petit Bot Bay, with its old Martello tower, you will be realising that the south coast path is a serious walk that requires a whole day. But my afternoon was drawing to a close and, as I’ve already mentioned, one of the marvellous things about this long and sometimes gruelling walk is that you can always throw in the towel. Guernsey is blessed by excellent bus services and wherever you are along the south coast you can head inland along footpaths to reach the round-island Route 7 bus which runs every half hour or so. This is what I did once I’d reached a place called Le Gouffre - which is headland that hides a remarkable fishing inlet once described by Victor Hugo (who lived on the island for many years) as the “port on the fourth floor.” It was an accurate description – the tiny fishing boats here are hauled up from the sea on a near vertical wooden railway to a rocky platform some four storeys above the waves.  It really is an amazing place – an ideal location, perhaps, at which you can say goodbye to this dramatic coast and head inland via local footpaths, past the German Occupation Museum, to the road and the bus stop. You could write an entire book about Guernsey’s walks, but this five mile taster has to be one of the best… Fact file Basic walk – along Guernsey’s coast path – south from St Peter Port to Jerbourg Point then west to Le Gouffre – catching regular bus service back to town.Distance and going – just over 5 miles, easy going