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

Who doesn’t like strange landscapes?  Some are just plain weird, others seem like outposts from another planet - and some can be somewhat depressing or unnerving while, at the same time, having the ability to awe, impress and shock.  I was in a weird landscape one memorable day on the island of Gozo, just north of Malta.  Indeed, it was one of the strangest landscapes I have ever cycled through. It didn’t take long to figure out that the flat tray areas hacked out of the soft coastal stone were salt-pans. Apparently, some of them are ancient.  And I was delighted to discover some are still in use - indeed, I bought three bags of freshly made sea salt from a woman who was selling the stuff at a very reasonable price just under the cliffs.  It’s good salt - I’m home now and using it in my cooking. And every time I take a pinch of it, I remember that strange, rocky landscape.  Because that’s the thing about weird places - they can come back to haunt you.

How many people will know about lamb's tail pie, a popular old Eastertime recipe commonly found across rural England ? Very few, I’d imagine. But it used to be a very common delicacy eaten in the West Country at this time of year, more than half a century ago. Now, I bet not a single portion of this curious dish will be served this holiday weekend.  That will partly be due to the fact that lambs no longer have their tails chopped off with a knife – instead, they whither and drop off painlessly at an early age thanks to those little rubber tourniquet bands that are applied shortly after birth. But it is also probable that no one would be eating lamb's tail pie anyway, because it is apparently a real fiddle to prepare.  Half a century ago, my journalist father, Peter Hesp, was investigating the region’s love of lambs-tail pie at a time when the dish was already becoming just a memory in the kitchens of the hills. “It was Mr Louis Gimblett who first told me about this delicacy when I called to see him at Blake’s Farm, Bicknoller, nestled under the Quantock Hills,” wrote my father in a newspaper at the time. “Both he and his brother Harold, the celebrated county cricketer, had eaten their share of lambs-tail in their younger days. ‘And it was absolutely delicious,’ said Mr Gimblett. ‘It tasted like veal and was best eaten cold.’ “From his mother, seated in the old farm kitchen, I learned something of the art of cooking the treat. In the old days, she told me, the tails would not be cut off until the lamb was about six weeks or a couple of months old, and the bigger the tail the better. First they were dropped into a tub of scalding hot water for the right length of time. Leave them too long and the skin peeled off; take them out too soon and the wool stuck on. “Old Mrs Gimblett did not approve of the method sometimes used,” wrote Hesp senior, “of leaving the tails in a dark cupboard or burying them in the ground until such time as the wool could be pulled away easily. “The next job was to scrape the tails. For this, the womenfolk would all sit around a tub full of cold water in which plenty of salt had been dissolved and scrape away while they gossiped. Finally, the tails were cut into short pieces and baked in a pie together with beaten-up egg and milk. Mrs Gimblett told me it was a long, tedious job – and little wonder that modern housewives would have nothing to do with it.” Around a decade ago I asked about lambs’ tail pie in the WMN and was flooded with responses from older readers. “As a child I regularly ate lambs’ tail pie at Easter,” wrote David Sercombe, of Sampford Courteney. “We also regularly ate ‘bath-chaps’ – pig cheeks rolled in breadcrumbs and eaten with salad.” “Instead of a pie,” recalled Virginia Mills from Bridgwater, “they (the tails) were dipped in egg and breadcrumbs and shallow-fried and served with bacon and tomatoes.” She was a nanny on a farm in the 1960’s and admits she never tried a tail because watching the farmer… “pick up the six inch tails in his fingers and slip them in and out of his mouth, spitting out the bone, was not a pretty sight.” Lots of people, like Sarah Preston of Kingsbridge, wrote to tell me that encyclopaedic Mrs Beeton mentioned the subject of lambs’ tails. She like to serve them “Russian-style”. Ruth Neil, of Constantine, wrote to explain that Russian-style meant: “Cooked until tender, then dipped in batter and fried.” Catherine Boyd Brent, of Chulmleigh, penned an account of the W.I.’s interest in the wagging appendages:  “Lay the tails in a pie dish with pepper and salt,” decreed the W.I. “Make parsley sauce and pour over. Cover with short pie crust and bake in moderate oven.” “I cannot give you a recipe,” wrote Colin Reed, of Braunton. “You rightly say, it was better eaten cold than hot. As a boy I used to help my mother pull off the wool after the tails had been scolded. Not an easy job!  The pie consisted of lambs’ tails, potato, onion, a little milk I think, topped with pastry. The problem eating it - but it was worthwhile, the pie was so good - was extracting the tiny bones and the occasional strand of wool from your mouth.” Apparently the next country delicacy that would traditionally have been looked forward to in the region’s calendar would have been rook pie, but I doubt many folk will be making that either.

It’s an odd sort of question, but it is one people sometimes ponder when considering their holidays. It’s the notion of trying to find somewhere pleasant and refreshingly new, while somehow still retaining all the basics you know and love, such as people speaking English and all the normal stuff like the kind of shops, pubs and restaurants you’re accustomed to. So is it possible to get all the excitement of a foreign holiday without going abroad? And the answer lies smack in the middle of the Irish Sea. It’s called the Isle of Man, and - a bit like the Channel Isles - it really does have a foreign feel to it even if you are still in a place that is more-or-less part of the UK. The “more-or-less” bit comes from the fact that these places are self-governing - for the most part they have their own set of laws and constitutional guidelines.   The point is that these semi-independent island states really do feel different, while at the same time being as recognisable as a county shire.  If you fly into the Isle of Man, for example, you might find yourself on the main road which passes over a place called Fairy Bridge and if you’re on public transport you’ll probably see half the passengers whispering some kind of incantation. That is because Manx men and women are very superstitious - the island is amazingly rich in myth and legend - and the “little people” have a big role to play in the historic culture of the place. I was told that no local worth his or her salt would dream of crossing that bridge without mouthing the words: “Hello Pixies”… The widespread belief in folklore isn’t entirely surprising because the island is a wild and woolly place in a Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings kind of way. As such, it is incredibly beautiful.  If you haven’t been there and you wanted a shorthand description put in distinctly West Country terms, it would be vaguely accurate to describe it as a northern kind of Cornwall, but with bigger hills. There are beaches and high moors - there are busy seaside resorts and hidden villages tucked away in wooded vales - there’s a great deal of agriculture blended with plenty of things for tourists to do. So, a form of sea-bound Cornwall, but with a noticeably northern feel to it. Before the British Guild of Travel Writers invited me to attend their world-roaming annual general meeting on the island this winter, I’d never given the place much thought. If I did, I guess my shorthand thoughts went something like this… “That’s where crazy blokes belt around racing two-wheeled rockets known as motorbikes and where greedy folk put their dosh to avoid taxes.  And it’s where questionable folk hang out after they’ve sold our Government dodgy PPE. Surely, it’s nothing but a corner of England, Scotland or Ireland that somehow found itself removed from the mainland coast?” If that is what I lazily and silently felt about the Isle of Man, then I’d like to apologise. It is a truly gorgeous and fascinating part of the United Kingdom and everyone ought to come here and visit the place at least once. It really is an island of fabulous beaches, impressive mountains and lovely countryside. And it is a place that has more ancient culture and folklore in its little island finger than most large countries do in all their broad acres.  I particularly loved the fact that it boasts miles and miles of truly scenic heritage railways - and that it enjoys a local food scene which is second to none.  But for me - and I reckon for many other Brits who might go there for the first time - there is the surprise of discovery. The thrill of finding that a place that you’ve heard about all your life can be far, far more interesting, scenic, and welcoming than you’d ever previously dreamed it could be. Take those scenic heritage railways, for instance. Remarkably, the island boasts, not one, but three… the Isle of Man’s Steam Railway, the Manx Electric Railway and the Snaefell Mountain Railway.  Indeed, it turns out the island has a long-standing tradition of railway transport - and the Manx Electric Railway has a place in history all of its own. It is one of the oldest electric railways in the world. Established in 1893, it has been operating continuously for over a century, making it not only a crucial part of the island’s transport heritage but also a significant attraction for tourists and railway enthusiasts. Weaving approximately 17 miles over hill and dale, the Manx Electric Railway runs along the eastern coast of the island from the capital, Douglas, to the communities of Laxey and Ramsey. This route showcases some of the most spectacular coastal and countryside views the island has to offer, making the view out of the window an attraction in itself. We were fortunate to be offered a special one-off winter service from Laxey to Ramsey. Did I say Laxey? Well, no one could pass this place without visiting the biggest waterwheel in the world. The Laxey Wheel is the island’s most famous structure and its renown is well deserved. The vast edifice is a towering testament to the ingenuity of Victorian engineering. It also looks, as an artist friend of mine pointed out, like some kind of AI illustration of a waterwheel gone slightly wrong. That might be because its leat runs down the valley to the wheel’s base rather than down over the upper structure, as in most Westcountry waterwheel systems. The water is then introduced, under pressure, to a vast stone cylinder which looms to one-side - i.e. the structure, which has a circular staircase running up its outer wall. Visitors can climb this staircase - and I did, which is why I can say it is definitely NOT for anyone who suffers from vertigo.  The Laxey Wheel, with a diameter of 72 feet and a breadth of six feet, was certainly a marvel of its time. It could pump over 250 gallons of water a minute from the nearby mine-workings more than 600 feet below ground, a fact which allowed it to play a crucial role in enabling the miners to reach deeper in their search for valuable minerals. Down in the south of the island, Castletown narrow gauge railway is another must-see. As many will know, narrow gauge railways are often used for mountainous or intricate landscapes where the construction of a standard gauge line would be more complicated and costly. This toy-town line’s story dates back to the late 1800s, a period when the Isle of Man was developing its transportation infrastructure to boost tourism and provide essential services to remote areas. The line terminates at lovely Port Erin with its wonderful beaches, located way out on the south-west corner of the isle. Along with my fellow travel writers, I was staying in the IoM capital, Douglas, which is a charming coastal town somewhat reminiscent of those wonderful “kiss-me-quick - we do like to be beside the seaside” days of yore. The place has all the modern shops, restaurants and other facilities you’d expect in any busy British town - and it has a quite magnificent seafront, which in summer, boasts the famous horse-drawn tramway. It also boasts the main island museum, which I’d heartily recommend even if you don’t particularly like museums. We spent a truly fascinating afternoon there learning about all those myths and legends and about the tough, rough and, it has to be said, picturesque lifestyles enjoyed or endured by islanders down the centuries.  My other recommendation in Douglas would be a very good pub called the Quid’s Inn. There’s a turnstile at the main door and you really do have to put in a pound coin in order to gain entry. Which sounds a bit much, until you reach the bar and realise the excellent ales are far, far cheaper than a pint would cost here in the mainland UK. But of course, the main thing to do when visiting any island is to get out and about to see as much of that distant sea-bound landscape as you possibly can. On the Isle of Man this is relatively easy to do, thanks to the transport department’s Go Explore cards. These are available for one, three, five or seven days for adults and children (alternatively, there’s a family card for a reduced rate for two adults and up to three children). A single adult Go Explore card costs £19 for one day or £56 for the seven-day - and it is well worth the money because there is an excellent public transport system covering most of the island    There’s also a Go Explore Heritage card which allows both unlimited travel on all Isle of Man Transport scheduled bus and rail services AND admission to all Manx National Heritage sites (such as Douglas Museum and the Laxey Wheel) - available for five days only, this costs a bargain £63 per adult. As I’ve said, this is magnificent island. The self-governing British Crown dependency boasts fabulous rugged coastlines, vast rural landscapes, wild moorlands, a surprising number of medieval castles, and much else. It is an absolute jewel - and certainly a wonderful surprise for anyone who thought it was just the home of mainlanders wanting to avoid tax, and leather-clad men who like nothing more than riding motorcycles at suicidal speeds.  Speaking of which, we haven’t even mentioned the world-famous Isle of Man TT races here. They are, as everyone knows, one of the most exciting and perhaps perilous road races to be held anywhere on the planet - but unless you’re into very high speeds and motorcycles it is advisable to avoid the island during early June when tens of thousands of visitors come from all around the globe. Apart from the vast crowds, many of the roads are closed and you will not find any kind of accommodation vacancy for love or money.    I am told the island goes into full party-mode when the TT is on and I bet it’s a lot of fun. But if you want to see a very special place, boasting wonderful scenery, friendly locals, wonderful attractions and great food and drink - and you want it to feel like you’re abroad without actually leaving the UK - then the Isle of Man should come close to the top of your list.  FACT FILE  To find out more about exploring the Isle of Man visit https://www.visitisleofman.com/

There are three graves tucked away in a corner of a lonely Dartmoor graveyard which represent one of this region’s greatest ever stories. The tombs contain the remains of three kings who had the power of life and death over countless thousands. Collectively the men who lie there are known as the White Rajahs. Many West Country folk interested in the region’s history will have heard of them and perhaps know a little about the remarkable Brooke family - but there is no way anyone could understand just how big their story is without going half way around the planet to visit distant Sarawak. It is now one of two Malay states on the vast island of Borneo, but Sarawak used to be kingdom of the Brookes - and to this day their name survives long, loud and highly conspicuous in that distant, hot, humid, rain-forested land. Go to Sarawak’s capital, Kuching, as I did recently and you will see evidence of the Brooke dynasty everywhere. There are streets and roads named after the family, trendy bistros bear their name, dockyards, boats, bridges, roundabouts, institutes... Indeed just about everything imaginable that has some kind of public face or input will have at least one example named Brooke. And if the Brooke title doesn’t do it then there are places named after the Christian names of the three White Rajahs - James, Charles and Vyner - who all now lie in peace in the graveyard of St Leonard’s Church at cool and quiet Sheepstor. But it’s not just in the physical presence of place names that the Brooke dynasty remains highly conspicuous in Sarawak. It’s right there at the heart of the way in which people think and talk about their country. You hear constant reference to the “Brooke Era” or to the “Post Brooke Era”. For Sarawakians the dynasty remains a much more important part of everyday life than, say, our own historical link with the Tudors - or even, nowadays, to our referencing of concepts like “post-war Britain”. The men who rest at Sheepstor were everything to Sarawak. They ran it, they built it, they extended it - they just about invented it. In the past dozen years writing for this newspaper I have referred to the White Rajahs on numerous occasions, simply because I’ve always been in awe of the pure exoticism of their story - but never did I imagine they held such massive sway over an entire nation.  When I was invited to Sarawak by the Malaysian government recently to take a look at the eco-tourism they’re developing in the magnificent rainforests there, I promised myself I’d grab the chance to follow in the footsteps of the White Rajahs and put aside some time to see if any trace of them remained. There was no delving necessary. As I say, I was confronted by Brooke-this-that-and-everything-else the moment I entered the small and charming city of Kuching. I say small, but the place is beginning to sprawl in the most anarchic and materialistic of ways – the sort of thing none of the Brooke’s would have ever allowed. They were a disciplined and controlling trio - nothing much happened in the 105 years they ruled the roost there that they didn’t create, inspire, ban or veto. After talking to various people in Sarawak I think you could say that the Brooke Dynasty could otherwise be described as a benign dictatorship. They controlled everything - sometimes with a rod of iron, sometimes with violence - but they did it for the general good. And I came away with the impression that, although no such dynasty would be welcome now, the Brookes are generally regarded as having been a good thing rather than out-and-out bad - and that their form of colonial imperialism, though riddled with faults, eccentricities and failures, helped establish Sarawak to be the rather civilised place it is today. So who were these people who’ve now turned to dust in deepest, dampest, Dartmoor - and how on Earth did they get to be monarchs of such a distant land? The story has been written many times before - in fact there are even references to it in famous tales like The King and I. Joseph Conrad’s novel Lord Jim is said to have been based on James Brooke, the first White Rajah - and, believe me, by the end the whole dynastic shooting match had become very eccentric and colourful indeed. Here’s a brief outline of what must be one of the best ever tales to be related to the West Country… Just under 200 years ago James Brooke was trying his luck as a trader in the Far East, and not doing particularly well at it. But in 1833 he inherited £30,000 - a vast sum back then - and he spent some of the money on a 142-ton schooner called The Royalist. Five years later he was in Borneo where he found the town of Kuching facing a tribal uprising - he promptly offered to help the Sultan of Brunei and, with his crew, was able to help bring about a peaceful settlement. The Sultan was impressed and - to cut a long story short - eventually offered Brooke the title Rajah of Sarawak, but not before the Englishman had threatened him with military force to come good with his promise. Once Brooke was on the throne, he wasn’t about to give it up - on the contrary, he set about extending his influence and his domain. He formed a proper Western-style administration and civil-service, drew up laws and fought piracy which was endemic in those parts. In 1847 Brooke returned temporarily to England where he was granted all manner of great honours - and also given an estate at Burrator on Dartmoor as a thank you from a grateful British nation for his work in enlarging our influence in the Far East  Back in Sarawak, Brooke took charge of what amounted to 3,000 square miles of swamp, jungle and river, much of it populated by various tribes who were basically still living in the Bronze Age. They marked important events in their lives by taking the heads of other people in the community. If a Dayak husband failed to present a human skull to his wife after the birth of a child then it was feared that the newborn would meet with illness or even death. Likewise, no young Dayak warrior ever went courting without first donning an animal mask and skins and ambushing a fellow, often a woman or child from his own community. He then made his intended a present of his victim’s skull. Such acts were quickly outlawed by Brooke - as the new nation’s self-appointed judge, he presided over court sessions in the front room of his own house, a hastily assembled plank-and-thatch affair in Kuching. With his pet orang-utan, Betsy, scampering around in the background, the legal proceedings attracted much interest in Sarawak, although not for the reasons Brooke had intended. For many, the main draw was the opportunity to place bets on the fate of those on trial including, in one bizarre case, a man-eating crocodile. This creature stood accused of killing a court translator who had toppled drunkenly into the river one night and, after much weighing of the arguments for and against its punishment, Brooke solemnly recorded the verdict in his journal: “I decided that he should be instantly killed without honours and he was dispatched accordingly; his head severed from his trunk and the body left exposed as a warning to all the other crocodiles that may inhabit these waters.” Brooke never married - indeed, Google him today and you will find mention of his rather worrying liking for very young men - but before his death in 1868 he nominated as heir his sister’s son Charles Johnson, a former sailor, who changed his surname to Brooke upon becoming Rajah. A beneficent and much-loved ruler who was 39 when he came to power, Charles extended the boundaries of the land under his control into the interior until Sarawak was the size of England. He also abolished slavery and built roads, waterworks and even — in the style of a true Victorian — a railway. He also encouraged his British officers to take native women as lovers in the hope that they would become ‘sleeping dictionaries’ who could teach them the local language. But at home he was somewhat less easy-going. Charles was “a queer fish” according to his British wife, Margaret - an understated description of a man who had lost his eye in a hunting accident and replaced it with a glass one, taken out of a stuffed albatross. Charles did all manner of odd things – for example he forbade his sons to eat jam because he deemed it effeminate. His marriage became strained after he killed his wife’s pet doves and served them in a pie for her supper one night. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Margaret spent much of his 50-year period of rule back home in England - seldom seen without a green parrot perched on her wrist, she lived in a house near Ascot called Greyfriars and became obsessed with finding wives for their three sons. She did so by inviting eligible young women to join them in forming a musical ensemble known as the Greyfriars Orchestra. Among those attending the first rehearsal in 1902 was the Honourable Sylvia Brett — daughter of the 2nd Viscount Esher — later to become known by newspapers of the day as Sylvia, Queen of the Headhunters. Although she had no musical skills, Sylvia’s contribution to the Greyfriars Orchestra was as a percussionist. She obviously performed with beguiling effect, because one day the Brookes’ eldest son, Vyner, then 28, made his move, asking if he might tune her drum. A subsequent courtship resulted in their marriage in February 1911, after which they set sail for Sarawak. By then, the Rajah’s Palace was an imposing affair, perched on a hill overlooking the river in Kuching and comprising three airy bungalows with wide verandahs. The couple would sleep through the afternoon, then have tea and play tennis or golf in the cool of the evening. It might have been an idyllic existence living there as son and daughter-in-law of the Rajah, had Sylvia produced a son to ensure the succession. She became pregnant almost immediately, but the child she gave birth to in November 1911 was a girl — much to Rajah Charles’s disappointment. The following year, however, he received news from England that filled him with joy. His second son Bertram had married Gladys Palmer, an heiress to the Huntley & Palmers biscuit fortune, and she had a boy called Anthony who would serve as an heir if Sylvia failed to produce a son for Vyner.  Sylvia went on to have two more daughters, but no sons - and the antics of Princesses Gold, Pearl and Baba, as they were nicknamed by locals, would for decades fascinate the press in both Europe and America. By the 1930s Sarawak had become something of a music-hall joke and as he grew older, Vyner (who’d succeeded his father Charles) appeared to lose interest in the day-to-day business of government and considered abdicating.  Since his brother Bertram had suffered a nervous breakdown and was incapable of rule, his natural successor was his nephew, Anthony. In 1939, during one of Vyner’s annual pilgrimages to England for the flat-racing season, the 23-year-old heir apparent was left in charge of the country for six months, but was never made Rajah. He made a good impression on the British Colonial Office, despite his aunt Ranee Sylvia accusing him of inflated self-importance. She reported, among other things, that he had attached a gold cardboard crown to his car and ordered ox-carts and rickshaws to draw aside as he passed.  He denied these charges, but he was never allowed to inherit the rule of Sarawak because in 1946 Vyner agreed to cede it to the British Crown in return for a substantial financial settlement for him and his family. So it became Britain’s last colonial acquisition - and by then it was a broken nation having endured some of the worst horrors of the Japanese empire building in the Second World War. After failing in a long legal battle to have the sale of Sarawak reversed, Anthony began a second career as a self-styled ‘ambassador-at-large for the people of the world’, travelling the globe and campaigning for peace.  By then all three White Rajahs were lying in their final resting place at Sheepstor. Go there now and it is quite impossible to understand or imagine what power the three men had on the exotic and distant nation which is now part of Malaysia. Likewise, if you describe their modest Dartmoor burial plot to people in Sarawak they will gaze at you in disbelief. My rainforest guide Henry was appalled: “Surely,” he said, “the Brookes have tombs in one of your great cathedrals?” He couldn’t believe the photographs I showed him of Sheepstor. It is the very antithesis of the hot jungle where the Brookes held so much sway for 105 long, sweaty and eccentric years.

A few years ago we enjoyed one of the loveliest holidays we’ve ever had, travelling in absolute luxury and at an incredibly slow speed for a week through the lovely countryside of Burgundy with European Waterways … Happiness is a path, not a destination… The ancient quote dreamed up by some philosopher thousands of years ago still rings as true today as it did when the likes of Homer were taking to the seas. Which is just as well if you are holidaying on a canal barge, because getting there isn’t the point of the exercise at all.  Passing gently and slowly through beautiful countryside is what the mission is all about - and you may as well add luxury and a little decadence to the experience to make the journey something you will remember for years.  Travel: to go through or over a place during a trip or journey - to move from one place to another… So says one online dictionary, but the whole art of travelling is more elastic and thought provoking than that. And the speed at which you travel can change the experience immensely - so that if you are roaring through Central France on a motorway you might get the feeling that the countryside, formed of great endless plains, is a bit boring and bleak. But many of you will know that it is not monotonous at all - slow down or stop and you will discover scenic river valleys and forests dotted with villages so historic that they make our own medieval honeypots look like modern housing estates. I have known this fact about Central France for years - what I did not know until recently was that the very best way to see and immerse oneself deep in some of the most fabulous countryside in Europe was to journey through it by boat.  The good ship L’Art de Vivre started life as a Scottish lumber carrier, but she has been carefully transformed - according to the British holiday company European Waterways - into a floating celebration of the Burgundian “good life”.  I can vouch for that - I have rarely, if ever, been on a more luxurious journey - which is why this wondrous experience isn’t exactly the cheap.  The L’Art de Vivre’s four recently refitted cabins have modern en suite bathrooms and there’s a delightful saloon where you dine and generally loll about - and better still is the sizeable sun-deck where you can relax with a glass of wine as you glide through the pretty Burgundian countryside. There’s even a new spa pool near the bows in which I recently spent an extremely pleasant hour sipping Chablis - near Chablis - while being pummelled gently with hot bubbles. I am not, as many readers of this website will know, in the habit of going about the place looking like some posh millionaire - but I do believe that on this one occasion some folk walking on the towpath may have assumed I was one hell of a rich geezer.  There is no getting away from it, the L’Art de Vivre style of barging is all about opulence - indeed, it is just about as far from the boat’s original life of lugging lumber as you could imagine. In the old days people didn’t want to touch things with bargepoles - with European Waterways you’d do anything to get hold of one of their bargepoles. Indeed they refer to the boat as a “hotel barge”. There were just six passengers aboard for the week when we journeyed north up the Burgundy Canal (she takes a maximum of eight) and we were looked after and generally pampered by a crew of four. There was a young French pilot who had his work cut out guiding the big barge through seemingly impossible locks, sometimes with just half an inch to spare; there was an even younger hostess who served us high quality wines, among other things, with great charm and knowledge; there was the captain or tour guide who drove us around in a luxury minibus so that we could spend a few hours everyday exploring rather than just lolling about (an Englishman with immense historical knowledge of the region), and last but certainly not least there was a master chef who turned out multi-course lunches and dinners, the likes of which you’d only normally find at top-end restaurants.  We were doing European Waterway’s “classic cruise in Burgundy” which, in our case, meant doing it south-to-north. This began with us being conveyed from the meeting point in Paris down to a village called Chevroches about 60 miles south of Auxerre. We were lucky - the weather was fine and as soon as we’d left the motorway we began to realise we were in a very lovely area indeed.  It became ever more beautiful, so that by the time we reached the L’Art de Vivre tucked away in a silent, sylvan, river valley, we felt a world away from the French capital, even though the journey had only taken three hours. If the road trip had all been a bit of rush, then time was now to enter a kind of joyous, un-rushed, go-slow mode.  We were welcomed with good champagne and excellent canapés made by the chef - and this enjoyable repast was to set the tone for the week. Great food, great wine. And, as it happened in our fortunate case, great company. My wife and I instantly got along well with the wealthy young American couple who amazed us by saying that they were on their honeymoon - and with the more elderly English couple who’d been on many European Waterways cruises before.  By the time we’d unpacked and settled into our cabins it was time for pre-dinner drinks - and then came the mighty meal itself, beautifully cooked by a great chef who hailed from the Channel Isles, which meant he was a master of French cuisine but also knew how to adapt it to broader international tastes. During an entire week on the boat we were not presented with a single dish that I disliked. On the contrary - I liked them all. And although they weren’t really anything to do with the chef, the series of local cheeses we were treated to throughout were enough to harden the veins of the most ardent dairy-food-fanatic. I haven’t eaten a single mouthful of cheese since - you could not refuse any of the wondrous morsels on offer, which meant I almost ended the week mooing. Anyway, the next morning we began our go-slow journey in earnest - which meant a cruise through beautiful countryside past Chevroches in the Yonne Valley, to eventually arrive at Lucy-sur-Yonne.  Aboard the L’Art de Vivre you are master of your own slow-moving destiny, in that you can do what you wish. You might prefer to sit in a comfortable recliner watching the countryside go by, or you might feel like walking or cycling all those calories off by tootling up or down the towpath (good bikes are provided).  You are also offered a trip each day in the minibus - and, in the interests of seeing more of this beautiful area, all six of us took the opportunity throughout the holiday. On this first day we saw the only rain to fall all week - so it was a timely chance to visit the amazing Chateau of Bazoches, whose many illustrious visitors included Richard the Lionheart. The stately homer was later remodelled by Maréchal Vauban who was a find a French answer to Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The next day we tootled our splendid way north again from Lucy-sur-Yonne to Le Saussois - and now we were able to take the minibus up to one of the most remarkable and historic villages in all of France. Vezelay, perched on its hill-top with views for miles around, has more history in its little finger than many huge cities can boast. Much of it is centred on the Romanesque Basilica of St Mary Magdalene, which houses the female saint’s remains. Scratch the ancient stone surface in Vezelay, and you are instantly into a Dan Brown type world of religious secrets and conspiracy theories.   Could Mary Magdalene have had a child by Jesus? And if she did, did the male line go on to become the ancient Kings of France? Some people like to believe all this - and if you like such stuff then Vezelay is the capital of such mystery. Richard the Lionheart set forth from this place to go on Crusade, not once - but three times… All very interesting, and exhausting - so time for another big dinner aboard the L’Art de Vivre. The next day is Wednesday, which means it’s market-day in the beautiful 14th century medieval village of Noyers. So off we go to buy in provisions for the chef - then return to lunch aboard and wile away an easy afternoon watching the countryside get a little bit more dramatic as it approaches the cliff-lined region of Saussois. That evening, after mooring at Mailly-la-Ville, we were driven to dine at one of the best auberges in the region. The journey was worth it, the rib of beef was sublime. And perhaps I needed a trencherman’s portion of good red meat to be ready for the morning after - which meant being driven over to Chablis for a wine-tasting at the family-run winery of Jean-Marc Brocard.  Chablis happens to be one of my favourite wines - partly because shellfish happen to be one of my favourite foodstuffs. As everyone knows, the two go hand-in-wondrous-hand. And what you learn in this world-famous village is that the local soils are full of fossilised shellfish - indeed the geological term for the rock there is Kimmeridgian - which refers to the Dorset village of that name, famous for its high grade white chalk. I don’t know about you, but I find it mind-boggling that a type wine today can go so well with one type of foodstuff - i.e. shellfish - because the vines that make it are grown on billions of crushed and fossilised shellfish which perished 150 million years ago. I love synergy. And I love countryside. And the next day we tootled through plenty of lovely scenery as we made for our final destination of Auxerre, admiring vineyard clad slopes and limestone escarpments as we went. A turn around the town, a vast and sumptuous captain’s dinner, and that was it… The next morning it was all over and we returned to being mere mortals. By which I mean - we were no longer served upon hand and foot while doing nothing much at all but moving slowly - suddenly we were back in the real world of help-yourself and dashing to catch trains. Even slow-motion dreams eventually have to end somewhere.   Fact File European Waterways is the largest luxury hotel barging company in Europe, offering 6-night cruises on a large fleet of fully-crewed barges along the canals, rivers and lakes of France, Italy, Scotland, England, Ireland, Holland, Belgium, Germany and Luxembourg. Charters are also available.  To find out more about European Waterways: https://www.europeanwaterways.com

We’ve had two visits to the South Hams recently and soon we’ll be putting up several posts about two wonderful places in which to stay. But for now I thought we’d pt up a few images and videos of one wonderful beach you can reach if you drive far enough and are then prepared to walk down a steep slope. And, of course, back up again. The cove in question hasn’t got an actual name as far as I can make out from looking at the details maps - but if you look at the OS map for the South Hams you will find it between a place called Abraham’s Hole and Deckler’s island - which I shouldn’t think will mean much even to locals. Garra Rock will be a much more well known local landmark.

One of the loveliest places this website has ever visited was Norman Island, located in the picturesque British Virgin Islands (BVI) in the Caribbean - a hidden gem that offers a blend of unspoiled natural beauty and tranquility.  We visited a few years back and, alas, we were only there for one single long sunny day. But that was enough to make us want to return any time we can.  Norman Island is one of the over 50 islands and cays that make up the British Virgin Islands. The island is known for its landscapes which feature lush greenery, pristine beaches, and crystal-clear waters. The climate, like the rest of the BVI, is tropical, with warm temperatures year-round and a relatively dry season from January to July. History  The history of Norman Island is intertwined with that of the British Virgin Islands. Originally inhabited by the Arawak and later the Carib people, the islands were sighted by Christopher Columbus in 1493. Over the centuries, they became a melting pot of African, European, and indigenous cultures, which is reflected in the island’s traditions, music, and cuisine. Today the island is a haven for those seeking both relaxation and adventure. The main attractions include: Beaches: The island boasts some of the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean, with soft white sand and turquoise waters, perfect for sunbathing, swimming, and snorkelling. Water Sports: Visitors can indulge in various water sports, such as sailing, fishing, kayaking, and paddle-boarding. Hiking Trails: For nature enthusiasts, there are hiking trails that offer scenic views of the island and its surroundings. Local Cuisine: The island’s cuisine, a blend of Caribbean flavours, can be enjoyed at various local restaurants and beachside cafes. Accessibility Norman Island is accessible by boat or ferry from Tortola, the largest and most populous of the British Virgin Islands. The nearby Beef Island Airport on Tortola is the main gateway for international travellers to the BVI. Sustainable Tourism The British Virgin Islands, including Norman Island, are committed to sustainable tourism. Efforts are made to preserve the natural environment and promote eco-friendly practices, ensuring that the beauty of the island is maintained for future generations. The island most definitely provides a tranquil escape from the hustle and bustle of modern life. Its unspoiled natural beauty, rich history, and array of activities make it an ideal destination for travellers seeking both relaxation and adventure in the Caribbean.