The head of sustainability at Suntory Drinks was visibly vexed when I pointed to a bottle of Lucozade in the long grass. He thought I’d planted it there, so that when the cameras rolled for our interview, he’d have egg on his face—the beloved British sports drink in question sits in his company’s portfolio. It’s also, according to one study, the most littered branded item on UK trails.

But I hadn’t planted it. It’s just one of the 700,000 plastic bottles littered across the UK every day. Safe to say, single-use pollution is a major ecological problem. Sitting in an otherwise bucolic meadow in Cambridgeshire, I wanted to know what the hell Mr Sustainability—Fraser McIntosh, on his business card—was doing about it.

Our meeting last summer came on the penultimate day of what I’m calling the world’s longest litter pick. Guinness wouldn’t ratify the attempt—“too niche,” they said—but they did confirm there was no precedent. Either way, I cycled 1,044 miles (1,680 kilometers) over 22 days around the UK, picking up bottles and raising a few quid for Trash Free Trails (TFT), a charity tackling the steady creep of single-use pollution in nature.

The route, logged on navigation app Komoot, traced the outline of a country-sized Lucozade bottle. Starting in my hometown of Margate in Kent, I cut across southern England to Dorset, before heading north to the Scottish border, finally looping back, via London, to Kent.

The challenge was called, wait for it, the Lu-crusade.

McIntosh agreeing to meet me felt bold. “This is a major reputation issue for us,” he told me. Even more surprising was his suggestion that he join me for a full day’s litter-picking afterwards. As the documentary film crew and I waited for him to arrive, I expected a Big Drinks exec with a signet ring and a handful of glib soundbites. We’d go toe-to-toe, Frost v Nixon.

The hyperfocus meant I’d forget where I was, but each bottle picked gave me a little dopamine hit, like Mario collecting a mushroom.

Instead, he arrived with his bicycle and beard and boy-next-door smile. “Firstly, let me say, we really do give a shit,” he told me. “Seeing our bottles littered out on the trails is terrible news. Every littered bottle is money lost. And it’s just horrible: This is our natural environment, too.”

The solution, as far as McIntosh sees it, is the Deposit Return Scheme (DRS). Slated to launch in 2027, it will add about 20p (27 cents) to all plastic bottles and cans, refunded when they’re returned to a supermarket machine. Similar schemes abroad have been effective: Ireland collected a billion containers in its first year.

Earlier in the ride, I’d spoken to Sarah Horner, who helped design the UK’s DRS policy. She thinks the system will achieve a whopping 90 percent return rate, based on polling and similar return rates in other countries. I asked her why she thought the UK had taken so long to adopt the scheme. “Lobbying,” she told me. “The cost of setting up the scheme is enormous and there are competing pressures from industry groups, retailers and government.”

Speaking of pressure, that same day my bike’s rear brake caliper snapped off and there was no hope of fixing it. I now had one brake to tackle the Lake District—and Scotland. That was the first in a long line of mechanical failures—I’d counted over 20 punctures so far, mainly on my trailer. Made of flimsy material, I had my handiest friend, Dom, add steel, wood and tarpaulin until it looked plausible.

But appearances deceive and within 45 minutes of departing, one of the trailer’s tiddly wheels rolled off down the road. That happened another 10 or so times before the rim finally collapsed. A passing white-van man took pity and delivered the wreck to a charity bike shop near Bristol. Three superheroes fixed me up with new wheels—pinched from a toddler’s trike—and refused to accept payment.

Between the drama, sweat and interviews, I still had to pick up bottles. As many as possible. The dilemma was which ones to stop for and which to leave behind. I set a rule: Only collect what I could grab without putting my feet on the ground. Poor-man’s polo.

Spending entire days staring into hedges induces a special sort of delirium. The hyperfocus meant I’d forget where I was, but each bottle picked gave me a little dopamine hit, like Mario collecting a mushroom. I began talking to them, the bottles, imagining their delight at being rescued and promised reincarnation.

Sanity was found, ironically, at the bottom of a glass. Every evening, I’d look for a restorative pint in a pub and stay there, in the warm, until they kicked me out. More than once, a local took pity on me, offering a room and a shower. One evening, near the town of Scunthorpe, eastern England, I ended up in an army veteran’s hot tub drinking prosecco.

Speaking to Middle England, one thing was clear: A loathing of littering is something we can all agree on. So why do we do it? Shortly after my interview with McIntosh, Rachel Coleman, communications manager at Trash Free Trails, explained that it’s rooted in a “profound sense of disconnection. From nature, from community, from self.”

The act of littering, often seen as aggressive, is actually thoughtless, reflecting a fracture between us, the single-use pollution that permeates our everyday lives, and the impact it’s having around us. As we set off, I realized I’d felt that same disconnection myself—and the attrition of wellbeing that comes with it. A chance meeting two days earlier had pointed to litter picking as an antidote.

Wayne Gammon, who set up the Bloomin Wombles in Broughton, Lincolnshire, told me litter picking became a coping mechanism after his son died by suicide in 2004. What began as a way of getting out of the house has since grown into a small civic network: Junior Wombles, retirees and regular volunteers, many with their own adopted routes through town. [Wombles are fictional characters famous for living on Wimbledon Common and recycling litter].

“People in cities are disconnected from nature. There’s huge demand to be outdoors, but very few chances to learn how.”

- Eben Muse, British Mountaineering Council (BMC)

Gammon sees litter picking as good for both body and mind: “A reason to walk, talk and feel useful,” he said. On who to blame for litter, he avoided the usual tropes. “People like to point at kids,” he said, “but much of what he picks up comes from passing cars.”

Another novel solution is to gamify litter picking. On the final day of my ride, I met Sarah Parry, a former Spogomi World Champion. The sport, invented in Japan, turns litter picking into a timed contest where teams race to collect rubbish for points. Sarah and I battled it out for 15 gruelling minutes. Being a woman of grace and magnanimity, she allowed me to win.

Similar ideas are popping up around the world. In Sweden, “plogging” sees runners pick up litter as they jog (the name originates from the Swedish verb ‘plocka upp’, to pick up) and spread to other countries in 2018, following increased concern about plastic pollution, while the Litterati app turns every piece collected into a datapoint for a global clean-up leaderboard.

Of all the anti-litter advocates I met on the way, Adam the farmer is the one I remember most vividly. It was at the end of day eight, and I was lost in the folds of rural Worcestershire, eyeing up places to set up camp with Eben Muse from the British Mountaineering Council (BMC) who writes and campaigns passionately for conservation and greater access.

On this day, though, it was Muse’s wild camping skills I wanted. He agreed to spend the night with me, sharing etiquette tips on what remains a contentious activity in England. Within seconds of me setting my bike down in a field, a Range Rover appeared. Adam stepped out. “You look like a bloody Neanderthal. Or Jim Morrison,” he said. “Get your hair cut!”

It quickly became clear that Adam was one of the good guys. I explained what I was up to. “I’m OCD about litter on my farm,” he said. “Here’s £20 (USD$26) for the cause.” He left only to return with ice creams and beers. Incredulous, Muse and I pitched our tents and drank victory lagers around his camping stove.

Wild camping—permission-free, in an undesignated place—has been in the UK news lately, particularly on Dartmoor National Park, the only place in England where it’s legally permitted. Landowner Alexander Darwall challenged that right in court, but the Court of Appeal ultimately upheld it. Everywhere else in England and Wales, campers can be asked to leave (Scotland, by contrast, has had the right since 2003). Despite that, the British Mountaineering Council advocates responsible wild camping.

“Follow two simple rules—don’t disturb and don’t destroy—and you can’t really go wrong,” said Eben, wolfing down a pot noodle.

He thinks the bigger issue is access: “People in cities are disconnected from nature,” he said. “There’s huge demand to be outdoors, but very few chances to learn how.” Without that on-ramp, people are more likely to misuse the countryside—lighting fires, leaving rubbish or simply not respecting the places they’re visiting.

The toughest, most beautiful stretch of the ride crossed the North York Moors, a single gravel track scribbling over Wuthering Heights hills. Midway, my rear tyre exploded and I limped 10 miles on a flat. At that moment, feeling a little crestfallen, I wondered why I was doing this at all. With so many graver crises in the world, was litter really the best place to spend my energy?

Rational thinking resumed following a family-sized pizza at the end of the ride. I realized that picking up litter, particularly in a beautiful place, was a powerful act. Firstly, it helped me to emotionally connect with the land I was passing through. But also, more broadly, it mitigates the feeling of helplessness I can feel at the state of the world.

In the end, the Lu-crusade reshaped my idea of adventure. Type-3 fun, I call it: Rewarding not only for its difficulty but for the reciprocity between you and nature. I floated the idea to Lucozade’s McIntosh as we cycled towards London. He laughed. “You and your Lu-crusade might be a headache,” he said, “but I haven’t had this much fun for a while.”

An American pope. An award-winning film. A jubilee year. The Catholic church has been in the spotlight recently, so writer Damien Gabet decided now was the time to trek a section of the Via Francigena pilgrims trail which leads all the way to Vatican City.

Pope Francis never hid his sweet tooth. Nor that his favourite ice-cream was dulce de leche. A caramely Argentine staple, it reminded him of home. To the faithful, it was semaphore for his down-to-earth nature, refreshingly at odds with the gilt grandeur of his office.

During his 12-year tenure as Christ’s ‘man on the ground’, Francis’ favorite place to get a cone was the unassuming Padrón Gelateria Artigianale, tucked away behind the Vatican. Owner and fellow countryman Sebastián Padrón prides himself on making really good gelato.

I know because I went to try some recently. It made for a celebratory treat as I, and a group of Italian ramblers, completed a 30-mile (50-kilometer) section of the Via Francigena. A millennium-old pilgrimage, it begins in Canterbury, England and scribbles its way over some 1,200 miles (2,050 kilometers), through Champagne’s vineyards, Alpine passes and Tuscan hills, ending at the steps of St Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City.

It feels like the Catholic church is having a moment. New pope, new movie (the award-winning Conclave) and a rare Jubilee year. So now felt like the right time to play pilgrim.

Our stretch began in Castel Gandolfo, southeast of Rome, home to the Pontiff’s summer palace. Francis never visited the place—too swanky for the “pastoral pope”—and instead opened it to the public in the mid-2010s. If you go (it’s an easy 40-minute train from Roma Centrale) the thing to see is its backyard.

Slow-grown in volcanic soil, the strawberries are outrageously fragrant and sweet. We paused for coffee and silently snarfed perfumed tartlets piled with tiny red jewels. My kind of communion.

Like a renaissance canvas rendered in leaf and light, the Barberini Gardens are silently sublime. Set-square parterres and rows of umbrella pines lift the ruins of Emperor Domitian’s villa to verdant divinity. Imagine my face when I was told there wasn’t time to see it beyond a moment’s peaking through a small gap in the gate. My own little camera obscura. “We’ll check out some other amazing stuff though,” Tullia Caballero, our host and guide, told me.

She was right. We began our walk through the woodlands circling nearby Lake Albano where water fills the caldera of an extinct volcano and its slopes are cloaked in mature beech, chestnut and holm oak. “Its rising waters were once read as an omen, a sign that Rome’s fortunes hung in the balance,” said Tullia.

The area falls under the Castelli Romani Regional Park and is patrolled by rangers in smart green uniforms. They’re on the front line against loggers, fires and other human mischief. “Italy’s not without its problems,” said Tullia, “but the protection of our forests is something I’m proud of.” Indeed, 39 percent of Italy is covered in trees. In the UK, where I live, only 10 percent is forested.

As I admired the 1,800-year-old Roman flagstones that pave parts of the trail, Tullia explained that the Via Francigena route was first recorded much later in 990AD by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric the Serious, on his journey home from Rome.

Its modern incarnation is surprisingly young. After centuries of neglect, it was pieced back together in the early 2000s by a patchwork of councils, volunteers and the newly formed European Association of the Via Francigena. The self-styled ‘Group of 12’ are a band of old-boy volunteers whose efforts have brought this stretch of the Via back to life.

Our first stop, roughly 10 miles (16 kilometers) down the track, was in the chocolate-box village of Nemi, still a good 20-miles south of Rome. It’s famous for its wild, alpine strawberries. Slow-grown in volcanic soil, they’re outrageously fragrant and sweet. We paused for coffee and silently snarfed perfumed tartlets piled with tiny red jewels. My kind of communion.

In the lead-up to the trip, I watched Conclave. A taut, beautifully shot drama that cleaned up at the BAFTAs, the film tracks the scheming and intrigue of the Catholic church when the throne falls empty. It reminded me that in an age of digital predictability, the lore and stories of Catholicism—transgressions notwithstanding —still manage to tickle my agnostic mind. Angels, white smoke and miracles: They all hold a figurative flame to mystery in a way that provides respite from the grind.

Italy, in general, loves to live in its own myth. To us, its sultry romance with food, landscapes and language feels like a tonic to modernity. I’ve always enjoyed how fiction can deepen one’s immersion in a destination.

Our next viewpoint was my favorite: The Vatican, up close, but from behind. I’ve been a few times but, like most people, have always arrived on Mussolini’s Via della Conciliazone to a gauntlet of tourists and selfie-sticks. It’s enough to make you an atheist.

Speaking of tonics, we stopped a little early that day to drink wine with Carlo Attisano, Pope Francis’ personal sommelier. He’s now the face and resident raconteur of Colle di Maggio wines at their Lazio vineyard. The vineyard is near Velletri, further south on the Via than our starting point, so we cheated and traveled by taxi.

The wines here are a little iconoclastic: Local fiano is mixed with chardonnay for the white blend while a syrah-merlot (both French varietals) red thumbs its nose at Lazio’s usual ingredients list.

As we sipped his ‘sapid’ (mightily nice) wines, I asked him what the Pope liked to drink. “He’d try a little of everything I presented—out of politeness, I think,” he said. “But mainly, the holy father liked orange juice.” The day before, Attisano had been serving wine to the new American Pope Leo and his pal, Oprah Winfrey.

2025 marks a Jubilee year for the Church, the last one being 2000. To mark the occasion, the Via has been on the receiving end of some updates and we enjoyed new wood-bark paths on our walk through the Appia Antica Regional Park, on the outskirts of Vatican city limits. The whole trail feels like an open-air museum, laden with the funerary towers, villa ruins and paved road that’s 300 years older than Jesus.

The Jubilee, combined with Leo’s ascension, means that pilgrim numbers will rise to around 35 million (over double the usual number). But it was only when we reached the inner city’s limits—having cut through its suburban ring of post-war concrete—that we met anyone else on the trail. Some were religious pilgrims, others simply saw the Via Francigena online and thought “Why not?”.

I met god-fearing Angelo, from the Czech Republic, at the crest of Monte Mario, Rome’s highest hill. These were his final reverent steps of an 18-day trip that began in Lucca, 220 miles (354 kilometers) north-west of Rome in Tuscany. We sat and he regaled me of the memorable foot-washing rituals that preceded dinner in some of the hostels he’d stayed in.

Your average Via-goer backpacks and stays in bunk-bed dorms, the likes you may have seen on Spain’s Camino de Santiago. We, though, were doing things in a rather more genteel manner: Bags were driven ahead to hotels and each meal was four-courses long. “But no one’s rubbed my feet!” I said, raising my eyebrows at Tullia.

There’s a wonderful painting by 19th-century Russian artist Vasily Raev—View of Rome from Monte Mario—that must have been created very close to this spot. What you realize, when comparing his 1845 view with today’s, is how little the landscape has changed. It’s still a low-lying city and, from a distance, remains largely a palette of stone and brick, cypress and pines. By walking to Rome, and watching it come into focus slowly, there’s a sense that you can appreciate its lineaments as if they were made of impressionist oils.

Our next viewpoint was my favorite: The Vatican, up close, but from behind. I’ve been a few times but, like most people, have always arrived on Mussolini’s Via della Conciliazone to a gauntlet of tourists and selfie-sticks. It’s enough to make you an atheist.

From our vantage, though, the coast was clear. A nun and monk sat together in what I hoped was a moment of forbidden love. The concrete step below them graffitied with: “Tell me how many times you have seen the sky above Rome and said, ‘How beautiful!’”. Nearby, a couple were having a picnic and smoking weed.

Immediately below is a bridge that once conveyed the sitting Pope to the Vatican by his own railway and station. Today, it’s a tourist-free footpath—and the final stretch of the Via Francigena. A walk through the railway tunnel towards the divine light and Rome proper.

Before arriving at St. Peter’s Square, we made a beeline for the Pilgrim’s Desk, where we were awarded a Testimonium. In medieval times, completing the Via Francigena could earn you a plenary indulgence (read: Get-out-of-Purgatory-free card). Today, alas, it’s just a pretty certificate.

“Right then, pilgrims,” said Tullia. “Ice cream?”

The Goonies turns 40 this year. And so does lifelong fan Damien Gabet. To celebrate their birthdays, he visits the film locations in Oregon

The first time I travelled to the States in 2009 I was so excited I thought I might die. I wanted to see where Disney and donuts came from so badly I half expected the universe to smite me mid-air.
As it happens, I flew BA business and the crossing was Krug smooth. But I was mortally excited. Why? Sustained childhood exposure to US cultural hegemony: Back to the Future, Top Gun, Home Alone… Technicolor Americana at its pre-internet finest. I was obsessed.

But the film that sparked my fiercest bout of Yankophilia was Spielberg’s The Goonies: pirates, treasure and derring-do led by a motley troupe of misfit kids. Just like me. This wonderful film is, quite terrifyingly, celebrating its 40th anniversary this year. Also like me. What better reason to look fate in the face again and fly back to the land of the movie.

Not Hollywood, though, but Oregon. Capital city Portland first, which City AM called the “best of the West in our city guide”, where we stayed the night in a miniature house, before going onwards to sleepy Astoria, where The Goonies was filmed.

Visiting Goonies filming locations, and recreating the iconic ’80s look

To celebrate, Astoria was hosting an anniversary event, and actual Robert Davi – who played arch-baddie Jake Fratelli – would be there to hang with fans. A host of events were planned: Comicon-style expo, 80s prom and an obligatory treasure hunt (geo-cache, not gold). Rather upsettingly, I was strong-armed into a family barbecue and missed the whole thing – by a single day.
When I arrived on Monday, everyone, including Davi, had left. American mega-fans are the finest quote machines on earth, so this was a blow.

It did mean, however, that Mac Burns, exec director of the Oregon Film Museum, had time to give me a proper tour. “The queue was round the block yesterday – you’re lucky!” he said. The museum is in the same jailhouse the Fratellis break out of at the start of the film. “Astoria owns the 80s,” said Mac as he showed me Short Circuit, Kindergarten Cop and Free Willy memorabilia. “They were all shot here and remain part of our DNA.”

Astoria certainly has a film-set feel: Queen-Anne houses, yesteryear diners (the burger at Custard King is filthy good) and a sweeping cantilever bridge that rivals the Golden Gate. Mac assured me locals love being in the films too: “If a request for 50 extras goes out, 500 will turn up – not bad for a town of 10,000.”

The best exhibit was the rear-projection Fratelli-mobile: a young visitor and I acted out lines while being filmed in a rocking car. As I left, I read some of the fans’ post-it notes near the entrance: “I watched The Goonies in Afghanistan before patrol,” read one.

Next, the Goonies house – the one on the hill where brothers Mikey (Sean Astin) and Brand Walsh (Josh Brolin) live. There’s no getting in as it’s privately owned. Even seeing it from outside is somewhat discouraged – traffic, noise – so finding it felt cloak-and-dagger. “Go and see Judy, who lives nearby,” Mac’s colleague told me, scribbling down the address. “Maybe she’ll point you in the right direction.”

On the way, I hit the town’s vintage stores in search of 80s-looking garms. Set-jetting (as in, visiting film locations) is so much more fun if you dress the part. First stop: Vintage Hardware, where I scored a metallic blue bomber jacket so fetching a slew of hipster envy flooded my DMs after my gloating Instagram story. Then to subterranean Mystic for a pair of stonewash Levi’s that hugged my bum so neatly I felt obliged to wink at passers-by. Billy-from-Stranger-Things energy.
Bent on not being an overtourism lemming, I parked far away and quietly mooched up the hill to Judy’s. She’s been in Astoria for 50 years and worked in the art department for Kindergarten Cop. Now she makes Goonie memorabilia for the “200-300 cars that turn up here on Saturdays” and hosts fans in her themed Airbnb annex.

Bingo. I was slapped right back to 1980-something

Despite my impromptu visit, Judy was happy to chat and offered me a can of Coke as we sat in her garage. We spoke about the “Goonie family” – the diehards – of which she’s the self-appointed Fairy Godmother.

“They often swing by before heading up the hill to Goonies House,” she said. “I watch out for them – I don’t like it when people talk bad about them. They’re nice people who just want to relive their childhood. It means so much to them.”

But why? “You’re dealing with a generation of ‘latch-key’ kids from split families. They didn’t have that dream mom-at-home scenario. She had to work and the kids were alone. Then they’d watch this film – adventure, friendship… and they got to be the hero.”

Before things got teary, I asked her partner, John, if he’d walk me up to the house for a gawp and a snap. “There were 10,000 people here this weekend,” he laughed. Now, though, we were alone and I had a front-row view of a house I’d seen a thousand times on TV. Like a slingshot to my childhood, suddenly I could smell the Findus pancakes on the dinner table, slowly going cold as I refused to pause the VHS.

That evening I’d planned to go bowling at the Lower Columbia Bowl – unchanged since Jeff Cohen’s character, Chunk, was filmed there in the opening sequence. With a free afternoon, I asked Judy what to do and she suggested I meet Richard Bates, owner of the next most important film location in Astoria: the Short Circuit house. “He’s in town,” said Judy, “but some uber fans are staying with him, so I’m not sure if he’ll be free.”

Bingo. I rocked up to a house that, again, slapped me straight back to 1980-something. Through the window I saw a group in matching T-shirts. Richard, a lifelong Short Circuit fan, invited me in as if it were planned and gave me the tour of what is now an Airbnb-cum-movie museum.

His story felt like a movie in itself: “I visited a few years ago and the house was in bad shape, but I forgot about it and moved on,” he said. “Years later, I was down and out, working the railroads in Montana – and a photo came up on my phone. Then it came to me: ‘I’m going to buy the Short Circuit house!’” A friend texted back the next day: “I’ve checked. It’s for sale.” Richard quit on the spot and 45 days later moved in. “Were you Americans like this before movies were invented?” I asked.

Sat next to me in the lounge was Virginia, a bagpipe teacher and possibly the world’s biggest Short Circuit fan – she’s watched it over 500 times. “The first time I saw it, it changed my life,” she said. “Now when I’m here, it’s just like being in the movie.”

I couldn’t have hoped to land on a lovelier bunch and decided to return their hospitality by inviting them all bowling. After embarrassing myself on the lanes, Richard and I went for a nightcap at Merry Time, a short walk away. Getting drunk on Pabst and playing pinball in a dive bar felt like a fitting end to my day of 80s immersion.

The hangover the next day was acute, so I hid inside my five-star bath at the rather lovely Bowline Hotel until it was time to visit Liberty Theatre for a screening of The Goonies – the very cinema that hosted the film’s premiere in 1985. I’m told it hasn’t changed since and the $5 ticket price felt suitably retro.

Of course, there’s more to the Beaver State than Astoria, so I used my remaining days to chase Oregon Film Trail hotspots down the almighty Pacific Coast Highway. Point Break’s beach scenes, the Fratellis’ hideout amid the redwoods of Ecola State Park, quick stops in corn-fed Brownsville (Stand by Me) and Salem’s Oregon State Hospital (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) – finishing with a walk around Bella Swan’s Twilight house.

Short Circuit turns 40 next year. Richard’s planning a party. “Nothing big, just proper fans and a good time.” I’ve blocked the weekend on the family calendar. Barbecues be damned.

Visit The Goonies heartland in Oregon yourself

America As You Like It (americaasyoulikeit.com / 020 8742 8299) has a seven night Oregon fly-drive from £1695 per person, including return non-stop flights on British Airways from Heathrow to Portland, fully inclusive car hire, one night at the McMenamins Kennedy School in Portland, two nights at the Bowline Hotel in Astoria, two nights at the Newport Belle in Newport and two nights at the Tiny Digs Hotel in Portland.

The history of time, and a touching family connection, brought Damien Gabet closer than ever to rural Wales

During the war my grandmother, Gwyneth, would walk from her parents’ farm in the South Swansea Valley to a neo-gothic mansion called Craig-y-Nos. Once home to the fabled opera singer Adelina Patti, it had since become a children’s hospital. My nan and other young women from the village gathered there to knit woollen gloves and scarves for the freezing boys on the front line.

Last autumn, 82 years later, I was sitting in the bar at Craig-y-Nos, now an events venue in the Brecon Beacons National Park, wondering if this was where she knitted. I’d been invited by New Scientist Discovery Tours to their inaugural Science of Deep Time weekender (the New Scientist runs other short breaks incorporating science, history and wellness in Austria, France and across Britain).

Our host, the author and science journalist Richard Fisher, was joined by a lineup of gloriously geeky experts. Together, they’d help us guests to grasp the inconceivable.

Beyond the obvious draw of clever, curious company, the trip appealed as a personal pilgrimage into the relatively deep time of my 92-year-old nan’s life – and therefore mine. Before I left she gave me a little hand-written note with a list of the spots to visit. “Make sure you see the castle’s opera theatre too,” she said. “It’s spectacular.” And that’s exactly where things began. Built to host Patti’s “astonishingly agile” soprano performances, it’s now a Grade I-listed rococo cove that still hosts occasional shows. Quite the spot to tell the story of time.

“The universe is 13.7 billion years old; Earth, 4.6 billion. Humanity? We’ve only just arrived,” said Richard in his gentle overture. “But where does our concept of time come from?” He reeled off the milestones, from the cyclical rhythms of agriculture to the Industrial Revolution’s merciless ticking clock. My little mind, so frequently fixed in ‘no tomorrow’ mode, was beginning to flex.

The room’s gilt stucco and velvet drapes notwithstanding, things were beginning to feel like an exciting school trip. When the national park’s geologist, Alan Bowring, came on stage, I was suddenly back at Cub Camp 1994, listening to an anorak effuse on rocks.

The difference was that Alan has talent. His eloquence and erudition would convince the cast of Love Island that stones are sexy.

Wales has some incredible caves, labyrinths of twisted formations that ripple and coil like sea beasts

“This is a four-dimensional landscape, time sits heavily on these hills,” he declared, like Keats in a cagoule. “It’s a layer cake of rock and we are merely the decorations.” I loved the synchronicity he found in the last three geological periods – Cambrian, Ordovician and Silurian – and their association with Wales.

“Every rock is on a journey and the tectonic plates move at the same rate as your fingernails grow. Geology isn’t just in the past. It’s happening today. And it will happen tomorrow.” I enjoyed his soothing concept of “Timefulness”, too: how rocks help us think about time passing and so help us appreciate what little we have of it.

After lunch, he walked us to the nearby Dan yr Ogof caves, officially the National Showcaves of Wales, to put his prose into place. In 1939, my young nan and her father were the first members of the public to see the caves. When the war broke out a few months later, they were closed and turned into a secret munitions dump. “They told us it was a place to store sugar!” she told me, with a little grin.

Today, there are no candied bullets, but the walk round its three main caves is otherworldly. Particularly the Show Cave, a labyrinth of twisted formations that ripple and coil like sea beasts frozen in stone. I couldn’t hear what Alan was saying at the front of the pack, so I put classical music in my ears and leaned into some timefulness. Handel’s Water Music hit just as we reached the underground lake, its surface like polished slate.

In rural Wales, I peer at Saturn through a boss-level telescope

The evening’s session was hosted by the brilliant Martin Griffiths, director of the Brecon Beacons Observatory. He spoke of his work in securing the beacons’ Dark Sky status before taking us outside to see Saturn through his boss-level telescope. Miraculously for Wales, the clouds cleared and he was able to point his way around the firmament with a laser pen. “Right now you’re looking at light that’s older than humanity.”

The most ebullient of the speakers was Joe Botting, a mad-prof paleontologist who made a major discovery during lockdown. “Wales’s ancient seabeds, now rock, hold delicate imprints of creatures from half a billion years ago. Tiny, intricate forms preserved against all odds!” Joe and his wife are genuine trailblazers, finding fossils previously thought not to exist. Nearly as remarkable was their story of struggle: they had to crowdfund for microscopes, “because we’re not official academics.”

Later, Lauren Holt, author of The Great Rearrangement, had us pinned to our seats. She explores how complexity evolves and breaks down over deep time, be it in natural systems like whales or human constructs like cities and AI.

“What if DNA stops being the blueprint? If we upload ourselves to the cloud, are we still us?” she asked. Her book also looks into history’s most terrible ideas: “How about painting Greenland black to absorb heat and turn the Arctic arable? It’s stuff that makes you wonder what wild theories we’re clinging to now!” The final part of the weekend will last longest in my memory: a guided 4.6km walk over the Beacons, with a narrated account of Earth’s 4.6 billion-year history. Each metre, a million years. It was a brilliant, playful piece of learning. And, as Deep Time Walk Project co-founder Robert Woodford said, “A chance to foster awe, humility and responsibility for Earth’s future.”

First Robert asked us to consider and share our earliest memory. We then took a literal leap back to the beginning of everything. “Right now there’s actually nothing under your feet because we’re in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way!” From there, he spirited us through the formation of the Moon, the “zoological big bang” and the concept of Luca, our last universal common ancestor.

After some of the more impactful facts, we were invited to walk in meditative silence and enjoy the red kites hovering over bracken yonder. The group chats were some of the best mingling of the weekend: I met a physicist, an artist from San Francisco and a fella who invented night-vision goggles. “Ultimately, we are stardust!” Robert shouted, against the wind. “We are chemically connected to all of life – to all of the planet.”

His comment would soon prove crushingly poignant: shortly after returning from Wales my grandmother passed away. The next time I visit the Brecon Beacons it’ll be to spread her ashes. Back into the hills that raised her. Where time sits heavily. And we are merely decorations.

A trip to Oslo left our writer feeling we could learn a thing or two from the Norwegians

Why can’t we be a bit more like the Norwegians? Fair distribution of wealth. Proper access to nature. Prioritisation of public health. Perhaps then we’d be happy and friendly and active, too. This was my daydream while walking around Ekebergparken, Oslo’s free sculpture park, last week. Safe, clean, lovely Oslo, with its never-too-crowded attractions, tree-fringed fjords and actually-nice locals.

Within 10 minutes of sitting down to my half-price beer at waterside Los Tacos, two separate glossy-locked men passed my lonely table and said hello. No agenda – just a bit of who’s-your-football-team small talk, while actually looking me in the eye. The self-consciousness of solo travel was softened and it put a spring in my step for the night ahead.

The Post Office released its annual City Costs Barometer recently and Oslo was rated the most expensive in Europe: £636.20 for a “short break”. Being a penniless writer, I decided to attempt a fulfilling few days in Oslo – in high-season July – on less than half that budget: just £300. I’d been meaning to kick-start some intermittent fasting anyway – it would be a great excuse to begin.

Flights with Norwegian were £76 return and accommodation at the new Citybox Oslo was £61.20 a night. Self check-in, comfy bed, right in the middle of town – zero complaints. The next non-negotiable was Oslo’s wonderful City Pass. £66 for 48 hours gets your free train travel from the airport to the city centre, free boat rides, free access to 30 museums and attractions, and discounted food in certain restaurants.

A woman I met on the clean, quiet, punctual train into town tipped me off that Los Tacos was the place for cheap(er) beers before 9pm. As a nation of lushes, Norway promises financial ruin – if you get change from a tenner you’re doing well. So a cool £3.92 for this pilsner was a serious win. What about food? I asked the latter of the two lads in the bar where to get a reasonably priced meal. “McDonald’s or you go hungry,” he said.

I asked him why Oslo was so expensive. “Well, you pay what things actually cost to do properly,” as if it was blindingly obvious. But what does that mean?

Everyone knows about Norway’s oil-made pension pot: at £1.3 trillion – about the same as Australia’s GDP – it’s the largest sovereign wealth fund in the world. The corollary is high wages and pricey services. Combine that with strong unions, high taxes – particularly on the fun stuff – and an allergy to cheap foreign labour, and a £10 Heineken begins to make sense.

The new-ish Edvard Munch museum – all wonky glass and 13 storeys high; you can’t miss it – is about 50 metres away and open till 9pm, so I swung by for a post-pint mooch. Three of the five existing versions of The Scream are on show, one at a time. The version you get – they differ a lot – depends on when you arrive.

A whole museum dedicated to one artist feels excessive till you realise his wonderfully macabre oeuvre is more than 1,000 strong. My don’t-miss is The Kiss, where two embracing lovers’ faces melt into each other. Klimt meets Dalí meets Freud. Indeed, Munch’s paintings laid the groundwork for Expressionism and Symbolism, later helping to shape the dream-logic of Surrealism.

I’d left it too late for anything proper for dinner, so I walked over to the vaunted Illegal Burger in Oslo’s going-out district. Anywhere else and the cook’s hipster livery – snapback baseball cap; black-latex-gloves – would be semaphore for an eye-watering rip-off. And yet his award-winning cheeseburger was £11. “Perfectly reasonable!” I bleated, remembering the £16 I’d paid for the same thing in Margate the week before. “Yeah, it feels like the rest of the world is catching up,” he said. “Norway doesn’t feel as expensive anymore.”

I started the next day with a decent filter coffee – available everywhere for about £3, often with free refills – and a kanelboller cinnamon bun. Then it was a short cycle (Oslo Bysykkel; £6.90 for a 72-hour Discover Oslo pass) on near-empty roads to the City Hall. It is home to Oslo’s only queue, but free entry and a free tour with an eccentric local make up for it. Home of the Nobel Peace Prize, this paean to Nordic Functionalism is plastered with frescoes that espouse Norway’s utopian ideals: a nation choosing to benefit the collective over the individual.

I’d been advised to check out at least one of the fjord’s islands, so I hopped one of the free ferries, about 100 metres from the City Hall. Alarmingly quiet with its electric motors, it took me and one other couple aboard about six minutes to dock at Hovedøya. A post-Second World War women’s internment camp, it’s now home to an artists collective, and happened to be exhibiting their works in what was once a munitions store and prison (free to enter).

Allemannsretten – the “every man” law that permits people a right to roam in nature – means you can walk, respectfully, over the island in whichever way you please. Be sure to meander around the unfenced ruins of its medieval Cistercian monastery. Founded in 1147 by English monks, it was later burnt down by a pirate keen on claiming the Norwegian throne.

I considered a pit stop in the island’s lovely little café, but the best waffles in town are at Haralds Vaffel in Grünerløkka (Oslo’s hipster district) so I hopped back on the boat and bike for the 15-minute journey. First timers should try the “classic”: brunost (salty-sweet brown cheese), raspberry jam and sour cream. A most peculiar flavour bomb for £5.10.

The streets here – neatly fringed with pretty bars and twee clothing stores – fizzed lightly with activity and things were beginning to feel like a benevolent Truman Show scenario. “Where are the discarded poo bags?” I wondered. “And why do I feel so unsettlingly safe?”

There’s a tourist board video titled “Is it even a city?” that echoes this sentiment. In it, a local lad is mock-criticising Oslo for being “too available”. “If you don’t have to stand in line for at least a couple of hours is it even worth seeing?” he complains.

I put this to the test at the city’s Historical Museum, where I queued for zero minutes to ogle the world’s best-preserved Viking sword. It was nice to be able to stay until exactly 5pm (closing time) instead of being passive aggressively shooed to the door at a quarter to. The weekend’s best coffee was at nearby Fuglen (£3.45). And lovers of vintage Scandi interiors will swoon.

So, nature, waffles and culture complete – there’s only really sauna left and the options abound. I went for fjord-side Salt (£15), 11 minutes away on a bike, where bars, low-fi DJs sets and three different sauna options make for a fun pre-dinner sweat. Sauna can be boring; this wasn’t.

Dinner. Let’s imagine I had some delicious Japanese-style street food from Salt for £12 and that I didn’t go to Madonna (named after Munch’s famous painting), where a Michelin-vibe set menu costs £45. Crab-stuffed doughnuts, oysters with jalapeño and trout roe, celeriac with almond, potato galette, lamb shoulder with romesco and a gooseberry tart with buttermilk ice cream. For £45. I had blown my budget, but it was a bargain.

I was served by co-owner Sara Johansson, previously restaurant manager at three‑Michelin‑star Maaemo (tasting menu: £175), round the corner. She and her business partners wanted to offer something akin to the same quality but for a price that her and her friends could afford.

So, did I spend more than £300? Well, maybe a bit. But I’d proven one thing beyond all doubt. One needn’t have deep pockets for a perfectly agreeable weekend in Oslo. And it’s soothing to know what you are spending is contributing to a system that ultimately creates a clean, functional, safe city. Shouldn’t we think just a little bit more like the Norwegians?

A new 100-day tour takes in 32 destinations in 13 countries, but prices are not cheap

It’s one thing to dream up a 100-day train journey around the world. It’s quite another to make it happen – and then justify the £112,900 price tag. Just ask Jim Louth, the man behind the new Adventures by Train itinerary, which promises to carry 12 guests from London to Tokyo, across the Pacific to North America, and back again via the Queen Mary 2 – all without boarding a single plane.

“You can’t just pick a date and expect it all to slot into place,” he says. “You’re dealing with trains that run once a week, ships that sail twice a year, and borders that are still catching up with the 20th century. You’ve got to choreograph everything around that.”

The linchpin is sailing across the Pacific: a 21-night repositioning cruise run by Viking, which travels from Tokyo to Vancouver each spring, when the company shifts its ships for the Alaska season. “That’s the one fixed point,” says Louth. “Everything else has to work around it.”

Around the world by train in 100 days

It helps, too, that Louth has spent two decades building a network of trusted fixers and local partners. “For every leg of the journey, there’s someone on the ground I know and trust to make it work.”

Louth’s passion for rail runs deep. His father worked on the railways, and by the time he joined British Rail himself in the 1980s, he was already criss-crossing Britain and Europe on staff travel perks. “It’s been more than 40 years of loving trains,” he says.

This isn’t his first go at an around-the-world itinerary. “Back in 2019, I put something similar on our website,” he recalls. “It included Russia and the Trans-Siberian, but then the pandemic hit – and after that, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine made it unworkable.”

Instead, the new route takes a more southerly path, threading through Turkey, the Caucasus and Central Asia. Countries such as Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan – once notorious for their bureaucratic visa processes – have opened up to British travellers with visa-free access. “Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan no longer require visas for UK nationals,” says Louth, cheerily. “It’s worked out really well.”

Only China now requires a traditional visa, which must be applied for in person. Overall, the red tape is minimal – surprising, perhaps, given that the journey passes through 13 countries. To help ease things along, Louth employs an experienced tour leader who liaises with his network of local partners. “In most cases, we’ve worked with them for 10 years or more. They’re excellent at keeping us up to date.”

The itinerary also builds in a number of “buffer” days – spare time between trains, should a timetable shift or a delay occur. “If a train only runs three times a week and suddenly moves to a different day, we’ve got the space to adjust,” he says. “Of course, if something ever became unsafe, we’d look at re-routing – or, if absolutely necessary, take a short flight. But right now, the route is stable.”

Louth is aware of the competition but isn’t particularly impressed. “Most of them aren’t really around-the-world trips,” he says. “They rely on long-haul flights to skip between a few luxury trains.” His goal was to create something global and flight-free. “Yes, it’s first-class rail – but I also wanted it to feel real.”

So what’s the actual experience like? Louth is quick to point out that this isn’t about black tie in the dining car. “This is proper travel,” he says. “We’re using regular trains – particularly through Central Asia – so you’re mixing with local people, eating whatever’s served in the dining car, and just immersing yourself in the journey.”

It’s also very social. “On these long stretches – 24 hours or more – something shifts. People open up. Especially if you’re on a route that doesn’t often see foreigners, fellow passengers are curious and friendly.”

That said, he doesn’t pretend it’s always easy. “Some legs can be tough. Which is why, when we get off the train, we check into the best hotel in town. You can recharge, get cleaned up, enjoy a good meal, maybe join a guided tour – and then we do it all over again. That’s the rhythm.”

Along the way, guests can expect a handful of “signature moments” – including meals at Michelin-starred restaurants. “It’s not just dinner,” says Louth. “It’s theatre. That sort of thing stays with you.” A particular highlight is the three-star Taian Table in Shanghai.

So who’s it for? Louth expects a mix of seasoned, often solo travellers looking for one last great adventure. People who have got “the means and the time”. None have signed on the dotted line yet, but there’s plenty of interest, particularly from the United States, according to Louth. “Considering we start in the UK, I’m surprised,” he said.

The highlight of the trip for Louth is the three-week stretch through the American West. After arriving in Vancouver, the group heads south to Seattle to board Amtrak’s Empire Builder to Montana’s Glacier National Park. From there, a private road trip winds through Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota and Colorado.

“You can cross the US by train in about four days,” he says. “But with three weeks to play with, I wanted to showcase the parts of America that most people overlook.” The itinerary includes Yellowstone, the Badlands and wide-open landscapes reminiscent of the films Into the Wild and Nomadland. “It’s not undiscovered,” he adds. “But it’s definitely under-visited – even by Americans.”

The journey ends in classic style, with a seven-night transatlantic crossing aboard Cunard’s Queen Mary 2. And yes, someone did ask if the train goes on the ship. “Sadly not,” he says. “But it’s a lovely way to finish the trip.”

I didn’t know I was in a nature reserve behind a Wagamama when the security team at Rushden Lakes Shopping Centre in Northamptonshire interrupted my wild camp. Pat and Roger, who were wearing hi-vis tabards, politely insisted I move on. I ended up sleeping a few hundred metres away, in a field beside a dual carriageway.

I wasn’t sleeping rough out of necessity, but as part of a 26-day responsible trespass and wild-camping trip I embarked on last summer. I walked 505 miles, more or less in a straight line, from Hastings to Gretna on the Scottish border. On the way, I crossed just about every kind of terrain England has to offer – from cities to fields, mountains to manor estates.

My aim was to raise awareness for the Right to Roam, a campaign for greater access to nature in England. I also turned 40 this year and I can’t afford a Porsche, so the adventure felt like good grist for the midlife crisis mill. ‘Responsible’ trespass meant not trampling crops or breaking fences – or interrupting anyone’s back garden barbecue.

The story dates back to lockdown. In beachless Worcestershire, I was shocked by the lack of places to swim in nature. Near me, there were none, so I trespassed on a local manor’s grounds to night-swim in its lake. It was then I came across Who Owns England, a book by Right to Roam co-founder Guy Shrubsole. In it, Shrubsole explains that about 92 per cent of land in England is private. That is to say, just eight per cent is accessible without permission.

Meanwhile, proper wild camping – packing a tent and bedding down for the night, away from an official campsite, and for free – isn’t permitted anywhere in England except for Dartmoor National Park. And that’s now that access is under threat due to landowner Alexander Darwall’s appeal to the Supreme Court to overturn a decision by the court of appeal. In July 2023, the court of appeal overturned a decision by a judge in January of the same year that had ruled wild camping didn’t count as open-air recreation and so wasn’t permitted under the Dartmoor Commons Act.

Last October, after Darwall brought his appeal, hundreds of people gathered on Dartmoor to campaign for the right to wild camp. Among them was Lewis Winks, from Right to Roam. He helped me prepare for my journey and on the phone told me: "Wild camping is about connecting with nature on its own terms – and without having to pay."

My walk began where, arguably, public access went wrong: Hastings. After William the Conqueror seized the crown in 1066, he and his barons carved up England, evicting commoners to create deer parks. The laws made then to punish those who resisted still echo today.

And the disparity of ownership is just as stark: around 1 per cent of the population own half of England. Elsewhere, the story is very different. In Norway, private landowners exist, of course, but the”'Allemannsretten” law guarantees free access to uncultivated land. It’s a similar story in Scotland, where the 2003 Land Reform Act gives people the freedom to walk and camp almost anywhere.

Author and Right to Roam co-founder Nick Hayes (The Book of Trespass) argues that England’s property and privacy laws inform many of our modern woes: environmental collapse (England has one of the lowest biodiversity scores in the world) and the mental health crisis are just the start. He argues that we need to challenge the idea that the countryside should be reserved for a select few “custodians” – and that we commoners don’t belong.

I’m a paragon of the nature-divorced townie. I don’t hike or camp. I bought my not-so-waterproof boots on Amazon a week before I left. I did no training. My first evening’s illegal wild camp – among the private redwoods of the Beech Estate near Battle – was unsettling. Being alone in the woods, in the dark, will do that. But I gave myself a talking to, lit my little stove for some light and drifted off to a history podcast on the Normans.

Waking up to the sound of birdsong and the smell of pine sap and petrichor was special, though. I felt oddly gleeful and ready for another day’s stomp. I began to notice just how much prison-like barbed wire there was and stopped counting ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ at 30 odd. The irony is that they’re not true. Trespass, per se, isn’t a criminal offence. On almost all types of land, if you leave when asked then, legally speaking, that’s an end to it.

I only learnt this by meeting with and interviewing experts and enthusiasts along the way. People who might explain how to wild camp and trespass safely and responsibly, while better connecting with nature.

They included Emma Linford, a full-time expedition leader and Right to Roam campaign organiser. We trespassed on the grounds of Rushton Hall, once home to Sir Thomas Tresham, infamous for his illegal enclosures (fencing off land without legal backing and dispossessing commoners) that led to the Midlands Revolt of 1607. “It was one of the earliest mass protests against privatisation of common land,” she told me as she calmly, confidently walked across the hall’s manicured lawns.

Emma described the act of trespassing not as defiance, but as a means of reconnection. “We’re reclaiming a shared history,” she said. “Nobody should own the natural world – we should all be stewarding it.” She invited me to feel which direction I wanted to take next – rather than following the path.

As we walked along the edge of a field, we were intercepted by the landowner in his Range Rover. Emma took the lead and by the end of a surprisingly affable chat, he said he sympathised with the access cause but feared litigation if anyone got hurt on his land. “There’s no such thing as getting caught,” Emma said as we walked away. “It’s just a chance to start a conversation.”

Most evening’s I’d celebrate my 20+ miles of walking with a pint in whatever pub I could find. I was surprised to find that almost everyone I spoke to supported the cause and were more than typically curious. As if by explaining the whats and whys, I’d unwittingly roused some sense of indignation in them: for the loss of our land, our disconnection from the living world, and how we all suffer as a result. Dave Jones, a curator at the National Maritime Museum, even helped me find a place to camp on the local manor house grounds near the Fleur De Lis pub in Leigh, Kent.

Others who joined the walk included Paul Powlesland, a barrister and founder of Lawyers for Nature (a community interest company that seeks to create change to protect nature in the UK JUST UK?). He leads a team of locals – ‘Friends of the River Roding’ – that plant and rewild neglected stretches of the river without waiting for landowner approval.

Near Sheffield, I walked and talked with scholar-activist Maxwell Ayamba about reframing the countryside through Black history – in part by confronting how wealth accumulated through English colonialism helped fund vast estates and shape who owns the land today. “But also, the black community has been part of the English countryside dating back to the Romans,” he said, “and these stories aren’t told”. The same day, Leigh Rose of non-profit organisation Trash Free Trails told me how running litter-picks can mend both trails and minds.

And then there was Issy Howie from the 15,000-strong Sheffield Outdoor Plungers, who took me trespass-swimming in a reservoir. She showed me how to scout safe entry and exit points, while debunking some of the usual reservations: “Reservoirs are usually placed where there’s minimal pollution, upstream from sewage plants,” she said. “'We keep an eye out for blue-green algae, a sign of farm runoff, but it’s rare.” The water was chilly, but not unpleasant. I was taken aback by how untouched the surroundings were. Fields and trees and open sky. Not what you’d expect from a manmade lake. We dried off and had a little picnic from the back of Issy’s car before I was off again.

Miraculously, most of my body was holding up the strain of around 40,000 steps a day. Save for my feet. In London, only 90 miles in, I wept at the pain on a park bench and considered throwing in the towel. My achilles’ screamed, but with a good night sleep in a hostel, I tried again and completed my biggest day yet. Near Nottingham, my bubonic feet were so blister ridden that I decided to visit the city’s NHS walk-in centre. A no-nonsense nurse lanced, sponged and patched me without complaint. As I waited for the painkillers to kick in, I spoke to a recovering alcoholic. He made a point of reminding me to appreciate how much of a privilege it was to be enjoying the outdoors, day after day.

One of the more laughable issues I encountered en route was access islands – locked-off pockets of “open country” you can technically roam on legally, but which can’t be reached legally, short of parachuting in. To highlight this preposterousness, I trespassed in a precisely straight line between two of the country’s biggest access islands in Cumbria. Watched only by cows, I made it unscathed, save a few more blisters.

From there, I walked to Gretna over the Scottish border towards a symbolic finish: Scotland’s 2003 Land Reform Act enshrines the right to roam and wild camp for all.

“Having this much freedom is powerful and life changing,” said Nadia Shaikh from Right to Roam, who greeted me at the finish. She lives on the Isle of Bute and cherishes the connection to nature her home allows her.

Immediately after the walk, I caught the train to Shambala Festival, back in Northamptonshire, to share my experiences with a sympathetic crowd.

Though as ​Sidharth Sharma (the festival’s founder and a vocal access advocate) rightly said afterward: “Access is about so much more than recreation. It’s about justice, connection and community."

What I tell people now, with first-hand confidence, is that the countryside is, for the most part, empty. And it’s mad how little of it we ever see. My vision of it as a place of Sunday-walk boredom has changed. The thrill of trespass helped, but I also found satisfaction in subtle nods from nature: the wind through the trees, circling red kites overhead and the wonderfully inquisitive nature of cows. I’ve camped out since – nothing epic – but each time with a little more confidence and less fear of the dark. And nowhere near Wagamama.

On my first visit, I spent £40 on a cherry-red Ellesse jumper. Vast, vast sums of money, but it didn’t matter: this dangerously cool, deeply sensual sweater was my best chance of getting girls’ attention at the upcoming school Christmas party.

Compliments flew in from both sexes as I arrived at the low-lit sports hall a week later. The Ellesse-effect was working a charm. But the dance floor was soon a sizzle of sweat and hormones, so I left my prized pullover on the back of a chair. When I returned it had, of course, gone – and with it any chance of snogging Lauren Harrison. Worst party ever.

Fast forward 26 years and Ellesse was back from the dead (in my world at least) as the main sponsor of Tomorrowland Winter, a high-concept dance music festival in dreamy Alpe d’Huez. Knowing very little about the event, I decided to scratch my itch for cherry-red redemption and agreed to go.

Tomorrowland is, by sheer numbers, the world’s biggest music festival. Its summer edition in Belgium draws 400,000 people from more than 200 countries. This, its snowy counterpart, is a more intimate affair at 22,000, but still feels like the most ambitious event in the Alps. A total of eight stages, up and down the mountain, all lean heavily into high-fidelity fantasy.

My year’s theme was “Amicorum Spectaculum” – a kind of vintage-circus-via-Roman-forum concept. It sounds like nonsense because it is, but that doesn’t detract from the spectacle. Watching the show from the mezzanine level in the main-stage super tent was tantamount to looking through a kaleidoscope on psychedelics.

The production is, suffice it say, staggering. Intergalactic light shows, gargantuan mechanical props and the cutting edge of projection tech collide to create a Vegas-esque dopamine fever theatre the likes of which your eyes have never been force fed.

As for your ears, Armin van Buuren, Afrojack and Steve Aoki were the big hitters, with the latter pumping a relentless confetti of beats that made me down my Tuborg and smilingly snow plough into the bedizen crowd below. The real fans. The slightly toe-curling “People of Tomorrow”.

Any pre-event predictions of superciliousness, though, were quickly bedded. As a demographic, I found the POTs a bit older, a bit more enthusiastic and – because they’re from a broad smattering of nationalities – a bit nicer. That is to stay, a bit nicer than if it was an exclusively British affair, with privately educated cliques sousing the mountain in Whispering Angel.

Sure, this is skiing in the Alps – so a fairly bougie endeavour – but the crowd feels more or less inclusive. I’ve never really felt welcome on a slope before and so we were off to a good start. My beloved, who’s never been skiing, felt that too.

At night, in the festival village, we particularly enjoyed the festooned chalet-style bars away from the stages, still popping, but at a volume that made chatting to strangers unstrained. And when an EDM remix of Back Street Boys’ “Everbody” came on we all knew what to sing.

Around us, at a stage crowned with an enormous tilting head, flags from Colombia, Japan, Belgium and Brazil flapped in the wind. It was cold enough to see your breath, but hot enough – after a few Jäger bombs – to unzip your ski jacket.

Debby Wilmsen, Tomorrowland’s media mogul, told me that a number of festival goers come alone, so giving people a “warm, welcoming feeling” is a priority.

“Especially today, with so much conflict and division, it’s important for a festival to show that people can still come together – to enjoy themselves, to care for one another, and to look out for each other.” The People of Tomorrow, indeed.

Debbie admits, too, that guests are here for skiing first – with the added bonus of a festival.

“They stay for four or seven days in lodges or hotels, enjoying skiing by day and the festival by night, often combining it with a city trip to Paris, Nice, Lyon or Bordeaux,” she said, “so it becomes a proper holiday.”

I don’t think I’ve ever preferred the daytime at a festival before, so the novelty kept coming. On day 2, we woke late, skipped breakfast, and headed for the slopes. Instead of skiing, we ordered a takeaway pizza, bought some plonk, borrowed a beanbag by the nursery runs and chain-smoked while watching the POTs slide past. Peak living, if you’ll pardon the pun.

As my gal went off for a skiing lesson, I took the opportunity to jump off the side of a mountain and paraglide down. James Bond-style fantasy nearly fulfilled, were it not for the instructor big-spooning me from behind. The slopes, when I eventually went skiing, were busy and, lower down, a bit slushy, so I went as high as possible and found empty powdery pistes.

There are very few things more enjoyable than carving down a mountain to meet your waiting partner at a bar converted into its own festival stage. A Macbook-crisp cerulean sky backdropped a bamboo mis-en-scène, with its dreamcatcher centre piece. Not sure how the Crystal Garden stage fits the roman theme, but it looked pretty.

Concerned with set-building wastage, I was comforted when Debby told me that reusing, recycling and retelling the respective concept’s story across its various sites was an important part of Tomorrowland’s MO.

We and a goldilocks-number of revellers beamed while dancing a jaunty daft-punk-style jig in our awkward ski boots. I even did a Michael Jackson toe stand before pirouetting on my heel. Then a Slovakian woman, in a vintage one-piece, gave me her last Haribo.

Everyone knows that skiing tipsy is another of life’s great pleasures and I delighted in very slowly pizza ploughing down the mountain as golden hour haloed the town below.

Nature’s superlative good looks are the other production highlight here. At dusk, we both got dressed in silly outfits and took posterity snaps together on a hill behind the hotel. There’s nothing like a sky of bleeding lilac, peach and raspberry sorbet hues to crank the romance.

For tonight’s action, I put on a box-fresh snow-white Ellesse beanie, the half-tennis ball logo pointing head on like a glowing third-eye chakra. We slipped into a corporate VIP bar on the belle etage and necked a few free rosés before getting caught and heading down to the d-floor for the Euro-cheese euphonia of Van Buuren’s “This is What it Feels Like”.

I held my gal tight and kissed her like we were teenagers again. The Ellesse-effect, doing its thing. Best party ever. Looking her deeply in the eyes, I asked: “Have you ever been to Merry Hill? …I’ll take you some time.”

You get to 40 years old and something in your psyche screams: “You’re halfway there, buddy – if you’re going to make something of yourself, you’d better hurry the hell up.”

Kids are the obvious legacy fodder, but I’m still on the fence about all that. Attempting to create a cultural artefact feels more feasible. I did try writing songs once, though that dream did a synchronised nosedive with Myspace.

But I can write, damn it. So, a novel then? That time-honoured paean to the ever-heavying heft of mortality. Existential dread, writ small.

The issue with novels, of course, is that they’re famously hard to finish, demanding quiet concentration and passive income. Kryptonite to an ADHD-addled writer. I was going to need a leg up.

Enter the University Arms, Cambridge’s smartest hotel, which, at my time of panic, had just begun offering guests the chance to spend time writing at neighbouring Cambridge University. Yep, actual Cantab, with its limestone erudition and lettered line of poet laureates.

Specifically, guests are now permitted to use one of the stately private rooms overlooking the quadrangle of Christ’s College, a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. By chance, I’d be visiting during the Cambridge Literary Festival and so planned to attend a few talks to learn from the literati.

It started badly with my poor Rover 75 dying on the M11, but when we did eventually arrive the martinis were cold – write drunk, edit sober – and our lovely corner bedroom had all the dark-academia chops we’d hoped for. Lovely view, too, onto Parker’s Piece: a linden-fringed square, perfect for chin-scratching walks and nature’s inspiration.

The book I’m writing, in case you’re interested, is a mostly-made-up tale of a young lad who becomes addicted to progressively more daring trespasses. Roald Dahl high jinks with a bit of Brass Eye bite.

Anyway, my day at Christ’s College was bloody lovely: quietude, the must of old tomes and the topical feeling of sneaking into somewhere you don’t belong. It made fine fuel for my first 1,000 words. No wonder this place turns out Blighty’s brightest.

“The ire lining the teacher’s tone made the room brittle and the single-glazed windows behind Gabriel seemed to bulge out like an infected eardrum.”

A little try-hard, granted, but I was having fun – and isn’t that the point? I actually hit a flow state. That lovely mix of focus, immersion and enjoyment where time seems to disappear. Like a bubble bath for the brain.

That evening my partner/muse/minder and I dined at the hotel’s “English brasserie” restaurant. The dish to order is the Creedy Carver duck, dry-aged like beef and roasted till the skin turns lacquer-like and the flesh blushes just-so. But it was the simple burnt cream pudding that I’ll remember the longest.

My full English the next morning was in the same space and that’s when we noticed how charming it is: palladian arched windows, dark parquetry and eccentric Brit-coded art lend the place a Bloomsbury Group tone. Spot on for my literary delusions.

Day two was spent zigzagging (on an electric scooter) over wet cobbles, around dreaming spires, looking for the festival’s various venues. We were most looking forward to seeing historian Janina Ramirez, billed to talk about her new history of women in the Middle Ages, Femina. But she flaked and we were given a hard-to-hear Zoom call projected onto the wall instead. We left early, dodging tuts on the way out. Not a great start, though sitting in the Old Divinity School at St John’s College was its own reward.

Sebastian Faulks’ evening talk, A Life in Writing, made up for things. His advice: write what you don’t know, research hard, plan loosely – and accept that the norm of literary life is “qualified disappointment.” Belly laughs went round the room for the last point, as he went on to admit that it took four books for him to write something he considered readable. Ah, humble British writers – a beautiful thing.

The next day, I took his tips and dragged out another 1,000 words at my bedroom’s desk. We celebrated a successful weekend with an ale at the Diagon Alley-worthy Mill pub and my gal dutifully listened to me harping on about my nascent works. “...so, yeah, I can call myself a novelist now, right?”

The challenging 870-mile trail cuts diagonally across Romania and takes in mountain meadows, fairytale forests and medieval monasteries

It was about seven minutes into my cycle ride that the first signs of addiction became apparent. My ebike’s “power assist” button felt more like a morphine clicker as we climbed the misty hills of Bucovina in northern Romania. Sergiu, my group’s guide, knew what I was up to. “Be honest with yourself – only use ‘turbo’ if you have to!” he shouted. My thumb cowered under the handlebar.

On previous adventures I’ve resisted assistance, maintaining that battery power is the preserve of the unserious. Nowadays, though, my pins aren’t as powerful, and on these vertiginous hills the extra oomph was near essential. But as with all drugs, moderation is key. After all, one wouldn’t want to run out of juice on hills that are home to wolves, bears and lynx.

I’d been invited to take part in tour operator Slow Cyclist’s inaugural ebike ride (and hike) along a section of Romania’s Via Transilvanica. Dubbed the “Camino of the east”, the trail ties together ancient trade and livestock droving trails, threading its way south-west from Putna, near the Ukrainian border, to the village of Drobeta-Turnu Severin, 870 miles (1,400km) away and within spitting distance of Serbia.

Equal parts eco-tourism attraction, art project and economic lifeline, the Via Transilvanica is a trail with a tale. It was conceived by environmentalist Alin Ușeriu and his brother Tiberiu (once imprisoned for armed robbery and now a celebrity ultrarunner) who successfully navigated corruption, mafia interests and the natural obstacles of the Carpathian mountain range. It’s as much a triumph of resilience as of route planning. Over four and a half years, defying the odds, they carved a path uniting seven regions, powered by hundreds of volunteers. The result? A compelling invitation to lose yourself in Romania’s time-travelling countryside.

Having been strong-armed into attending a family wedding back home, I arrived two days into the adventure. By chance, that meant narrowly missing a huge storm, which had given the others in my group a good dousing the day before. I caught up with them, a little windswept but in good spirits, outside a 16th-century monastery in Vatra Moldoviței, about 20 miles south of Putna. It has one of eight Unesco-listed churches in the region that are unique for their exterior frescoes, which were designed, Sergiu told us, as “bibles for the illiterate”. They’ve been remarkably well preserved thanks to some clever architecture and posh paint. The Voroneț blue, made from rare lapis lazuli, still pops.

The painted Church at Moldovita Monastery. Photograph: Robert Wyatt/Alamy

Some parts of the trail are too steep and slippery for all but the most advanced bikers, so we tackled the morning’s section on foot. The rain had abated and the air was full of the scent of wet conifer, exotic soil and wood smoke. The views were already living up to the snaps in Slow Cyclist’s brochure: Swiss-style mountain meadows, pine-spiked peaks and farmsteads which wouldn’t look out of place in a Robert Eggers folk horror movie.

Cow bells pealed, though I soon realised they weren’t being worn by heifers, but by the hulking Bucovina shepherd dogs that guard the herd from wolves, bears and passing hikers. “Stay in the pack or they’ll think they’ve separated you,” warned Sergiu. The beasts slowly approached with bellowing barks, but Sergiu’s ready bag of treats kept the peace.

I tore downhill – tongue out, heart hammering – chasing the blur of bikes through the trees. No bears, alas, but brilliant riding

If you’re hiking or biking in these hills, Sergiu is a good man to have at the helm. Besides being to the mountain born, he was chosen by Tășuleasa Social – the NGO run by the Ușeriu brothers – to map the Via Transilvanica from a cyclist’s perspective. He duly did a recce of all 870 miles on two wheels. “If you don’t know the trail, you can die,” he warned. “Some climbs are almost vertical.” Indeed, this is the debut route in the Slow Cyclist’s new Expedition Series – built for more adventurous cyclists, rather than the lunch-with-cycling crowd.

That said, our midday stops were things of simple beauty: cold cuts, the reddest of tomatoes and homemade cheeses. With moreish plum brandy on the table, I felt fortified for the afternoon ride. Support vehicles and a friendly team were on hand with pumps and Allen keys before we put our push irons to the task.

Lunches of cold cuts and homemade cheeses. Photograph: Ryan Le Garrec

“We’re about to go uphill. Would anybody like a sugar hit?” asked Sergiu. As we burned through calories up to a rudimentary ski station with another almighty view, we were grateful for the nutty bars he’d handed out. So much open space and not a soul in sight. I checked with my group and they had met only three other hikers since the trip began.

The next morning began with a gentle weave through meadows dotted with pudding-shaped haystacks. Then, without much warning, we dropped into an ancient forest – the kind that feels like the setting for a Brothers Grimm tale. “What’s living in here?” I asked. “Bears, deer, even lynx sometimes,” said Sergiu casually. “But you’ll be lucky to see them.”

The forest marked my first attempt at single-track riding. I hung back on purpose, letting the others slip ahead, then tore downhill – tongue out, heart hammering – chasing the blur of bikes through the trees. No bears, alas, but brilliant riding.

Way markers by different sculptors stand sentry every kilometre of the trail. ‘It’s the world’s longest art gallery,’ said our guide

It was here that I noticed the 250kg slabs of anthracite, way markers by different sculptors which stand sentry every kilometre of the trail. Each one is carved and marked with a bold orange T (for Transilvanica). “It’s the world’s longest art gallery,” said Iancu, our second guide. “The trail was built by volunteers – people who gave up their free time for something bigger than themselves, so I think that says a lot.”

One of the Via Transilvanica’s missions is to stem the flow of people leaving the countryside, giving them a reason to stay or even come back. Over lunch on my second day’s ride, with Iancu translating, I spoke to our host, who told me the number of visitors she receives has increased sixfold since the trail opened in 2022.

That night’s lodgings at La Moara guesthouse – all carved wood and Alpine dreams – offered another wink to Switzerland. At dinner, I couldn’t resist a second helping of the găluște broth: meaty semolina dumplings floating in a dill-filled cuddle of a soup. The mains were chicken paprikash and a towering heap of baked polenta mixed with unpasteurised cheese from our hosts’ own flock.

Damien Gabet with the owner of Maria Bidian – Punct Gastronomic Local restaurant in Transylvania. Photograph: Damien Gabet

On the final day, the afternoon run was up a ski slope and the varying fitness levels of the group became more obvious. Thumbs hovered over the power assist button, but even at max power it was a challenge. By now, I’d found my stride and was loving the sweat session. Others were struggling, though, which made things a little stop-start. I’d advise checking, before you book, whether others in the group are more or less at your level.

That notwithstanding, the Slow Cyclist team has struck a lovely balance between cardio and culture, offering a rosy glimpse of Romania’s past and present – via a muddy dive into its dreamy countryside. Over three days, I’d ridden through fairytale landscapes and eaten like a happy Saxon farmer. I’ve already vowed to return to ride more of the trail.

We crested the final hill in a loose, panting line and stopped while Sergiu made friends with a farmer who was following cows around with a milk pail. She offered us a sip. “Not for me, thank you,” I said. “But have you got any plum brandy?”

The Slow Cyclist offers a five-night Bucovina Expedition from £1,750 per person, based on a group of 12, including airport transfers, a support vehicle and luggage transfers, English-speaking local guides, five nights’ accommodation, all meals and activities, and ebike and helmet hire. There are regular scheduled departures between June and November, and private group tours can be arranged upon request, theslowcyclist.com

With reasonable prices, comfort and beautiful scenery, this route makes it easier than ever to explore some of Europe’s most stylish cities

The problem with catching a train from Paris is that you have to go to Paris, which has Parisians in it. I was born in Paris to a local dad, so I’m allowed to say that. Tough crowd. Or rather, they used to be. Because something odd happened when I arrived on the 8am train from St Pancras last week. People were smiling. Waiters were affable. Things looked clean(er). That ain’t the Paris I know. “A ‘be nice’ memo must’ve gone round ahead of the Olympics,” I thought, as I sipped on a comfortingly bad, perversely expensive coffee in the Gare du Nord.

I was due to catch a high-speed direct train to Milan on relaunch day. In 2023, a landslide covered the tracks in France’s Maurienne Valley, halting the service. Following a €13.5m restoration project, the line has reopened with five services daily. My plan: stop and scoff in underrated Turin before checking into super-swish Portrait Milano at the end of the line – all the while feeling smug that I’d be making an 80 per cent carbon saving by not flying.

The sun was shining in that sharp, vernal way that makes Haussmann look new, so I committed to the low-carbon schtik by cycling over to the Gare de Lyon – 17 minutes instead of 34 in a taxi and a damn sight cheaper. Follow the new ‘Paris 2024’-stencilled cycling paths and you’ve got yourself a lovely pootle that takes in the new Notre-Dame along the Seine.

For lunch, I had intended on treating myself to some rococo lamb at Le Train Bleu in the station, but it was booked until Judgement Day, so I sauntered into Marius, a smart new brasserie immediately below, for its prix fixe. Beaming staff served three neat, nourishing plates and a demi for under €40. By this point, it felt as if Paris was gaslighting me. But the day just continued unfolding like a musical – Les Agréables.

My train, Trenitalia’s Frecciarossa 1000, was an exciting Golden Age of Speed-looking thing. Inside, its sporty grey bucket seats were surprisingly comfortable, with a dignified amount of leg space. It was fast (up to 300 kph), quiet and, because it’s Italian, there was decent coffee for €1.50.

Speaking of reasonable prices: tickets start at €29, while a journey from London to Milan, booked through the Trainline app, starts at £122.89. I’d pay double to avoid the 5am shakedown at Stansted. “The Paris to Milan line is part of a wider success story across Europe,” said Sarah Helppi, Trainline’s UK country director. “As more rail lines open up to new operators, competition is increasing, prices are coming down and demand is going up.”

The train through France is especially lovely for its rapidly changing scenery: flat arable turns to forest to vines to the snow-cloaked splendour of the pre-Alps. It’s like a very long postcard. We slowed down considerably in the mountains – all the better to look out and up at those dusky peaks – and I called my mother with an update. “You sound like you’re in a good mood,” she replied.

Exactly six hours later, I was walking over the road from Turin Porta Nuova station to the recently revamped Turin Palace Hotel. Bags were dumped and I hopped on an Uber scooter to the new Madama Piola Vini e Piattini for an avalanche of Piedmontese small plates and ballsy barbera by the glass. Their plin – veal-filled fresh pasta – with caramelised Normandy butter sauce was unbearably good. The beef-cheek bon bons with hazelnut mayonnaise too.

I woke up still full, so skipped breakfast and went for a walk along the city’s arcades with local guide Stefano Ricca, who didn’t miss a beat in his account of the city’s story. House of Savoy, who built and ran the place for 900 years, had a penchant for pared-back baroque, so the city is all straight lines and easy to navigate. “Everything about Torino is square,” said Stefano, “even its people.” (Read: less hot-blooded than other Italians.)

Go to Palazzo Madama to see the history of the city in one place. Roman ruins are visible beneath a glass floor and above it is an exhibition of hand-drawn maps showing how the city’s progress over the centuries. Up in the view-porn lookout tower, Stefano pointed to a set of unassuming blue doors near the Royal Palace: “San Lorenzo, the city’s most beautiful church, is hidden in there.” Architecture anoraks will swoon for the slightly unnerving Torre Littoria opposite, built to house Mussolini’s cronies, now Rationalism’s best effort.

Turin also has a thing for cars, chocolate, clothes, cinema, vermouth and Belle Époque coffee shops. We stopped at Stratta, a family-run confetteria on the theatrical Piazza San Carlo, for a civilised espresso and some hazelnut chocolate. “This is where the precursor to Ferrero Rocher was born,” waxed Stefano, as I made one disappear. “Some say the reason Turin became the first capital of united Italy was because of its favour-making chocolate.” Lunch was more delightful pasta – mezzi paccheri with braised onion cream, veal and Parmesan – at Stefano’s favourite spot, Pastificio De Filippis.

Turin has 52 museums, but I was swayed by actor Linda Messerklinger (a friend of a friend) to visit the National Cinema Museum. We met in the art nouveau glow of the Galleria Subalpina after her day on the set of Paolo Sorrentino’s latest film. “I’m a star, you know?” she declared as we wandered through the museum’s brilliant James Cameron exhibition (on until June 15). The building is worth the visit alone.

The most Italian day of all time then red-lined when I visited Osteria Rabezzana for dinner paired with live opera (every Wednesday). Butter-soft mountain lamb and gale-force Puccini is quite the way to finish a stay in Turin.

Milan was Milan: brash, beautiful and – with Design Week about to kick off – busy. But that’s why you go. At the historic, high-fashion Portrait Milano, you’re ushered through a late-Renaissance stone portal into the cloistered courtyard of what was once Europe’s oldest seminary.

I parked myself at the bar for a spritz (did you know Milan invented happy hour?) and some first-rate people watching. Couture-clad patrons give the place genuine swagger, while design cues call on the blonde walnut and rattan panels of 1950s Milanese living rooms. A walk around the first-floor colonnaded loggia felt like a waltz through time, and my suite – with its tonnes of marble – looked like the sort of place cardinals repair to during conclave.

My second-favourite activity was a session in the Longevity Spa’s -90°C cryo chamber, because it afforded me the necessary extra life points to drink ‘Tobacco’ Manhattans upstairs. Dinner was down the road, at uber-trendy La Specialità, where the Culatello di Zibello ham with Andria burrata will make you wish your mum had married an Italian instead.

If you can be bothered to leave the hotel, check out free-to-enter Cortile Del Museo Della Moda, and see what Armani and Chloé were making in the Eighties. Then rush back to your suite, crack open some Franciacorta on one of its two balconies, and toast Trenitalia’s dignified return to form.

Actually, I went for Carnival. Ciprianis and twerking. But it happens that Brazil’s dive scene is having a moment. Locals are plunging in their droves and yet few gringos know of its charms. Brazil’s marine biodiversity is superlative: 9,100 identified species and counting. The state of Rio has some of the country’s most varied underwater topography – reefs, caves, wrecks and submerged islands form a Disneyland for divers.

PADI, diving’s best-known diploma mill, got in touch and suggested I attempt their Open Water Cert in Brazil. Scuba’s golden ticket, it lets you descend 18 metres unchaperoned. Without it, you are but a lowly snorkeller. To raise the stakes, I’d also attempt to dive on a shipwreck – within a week.

Training began the morning after a fairly biblical night in Rio’s Lapa district, so the thought of immersion was almost welcome. Mar do Rio marina, home to the dive school, felt like a sanctuary. Forewarned that I might be a wimp, they’d deployed Pascal, their gentlest, most lovely dive dad. He found me the only double-XL wetsuit in South America and I waddled over to the training tank.

The setting was unlikely – a giant baked bean can of a pool surrounded by beeping forklifts and bronzed yachters. In one lapse of focus, I looked up at Corcovado and watched the clouds part to reveal JC himself, open armed and benevolent. Surely a good sign?

Pascal carefully explained the kit, signals and safety checks. “The most important gesture is ‘Everything is OK’,” he said, forming a neat circle with thumb and finger. That’s about all I remembered as we plunged in. Clearing my goggles underwater was oddly satisfying and the rest was surprisingly straightforward. Perhaps I was a natural. Perhaps I was the new Cousteau.

That evening, my improved odds of survival felt worth celebrating. We dined at Fogo de Chão, a slick churrascaria where skewer-wielding waiters carve meat till you say stop. “It’s the best way to undo all the benefits of exercise,” said one, free-pouring port from a rehoboam.

Day two, we returned to the tank for longer, deeper dives. I wasn’t quite as gung-ho and had a wobbly moment during an exercise simulating regulator failure. The urge to bolt surfaced, briefly, then passed. I breathed, gestured a shaky ‘OK’, and carried on.

My digs were at the vaunted Fasano, Rio’s hottest hotel. Ten minutes on its rooftop terrace, cocktail in hand, and you see why. Sugarloaf, Ipanema and the setting sun frame a very forgiving world. But Carnival beckoned. So, out we went, chasing blocos. My tip: Sargento Pimenta, where an orchestra plays samba versions of Beatles bangers.

Day three was at sea. I was late and had to leap aboard. The boat was full of twitchy beginners. This was it: the big bad blue. The temperature was low – 16°C – and visibility wasn’t great. Still, I tried to enjoy Rio’s coastal drama from the top deck.

We anchored off Ilha Comprida, a wild island patrolled by frigatebirds. My first jump in wasn’t unlike leaping from a plane. Faith is required. The kit is heavy and your instincts scream “sink”. But, as promised, I bobbed like a buoy and awaited instructions.

We pressed the button to release air from the gilet and slipped downwards, following a white rope into gloom. My heart thumped like Bonham’s snare. “Equalise ears. Follow Pascal.” The cold ached across my forehead, the fear close behind it. But by the time we reached the seabed, the panic had eased. My breathing slowed. The tasks went fine.

Later, we drifted through schools of sergeant majors, trumpetfish and angelfish flashing carnival colours. But nothing beat the green turtle, gliding slow and perfect through the rocks. That’s when I got it – why people dive.

On the sail back, snarfing salty sausage, Pascal said: “Sometimes I go down with a question and come back up with an answer.” I couldn’t quite claim the same, but the usual rolodex of worldly woes had stopped spinning. That was enough. That was also the day I gave up smoking. Haven’t puffed since.

Back on land, poor water conditions ruled out the wreck dive in Rio. Luckily, our next stop down the coast – Angra dos Reis – offered another shot. I booked in at Pousada Jamanta, a family-run hotel and dive school, and set out across the emerald waters to the Pinguino – a Panamanian cargo ship that sank in 1967.

The same squeaky-bum scariness returned as we suited up. But there was no way I’d miss this. We descended. The wreck emerged, vast and ghostly. Nothing I’ve done compares.

At one point, my instructor’s foot knocked the regulator from my mouth. I didn’t panic. I channelled Pascal and made a wide arm sweep to catch and reinsert it. Later, we entered the wreck itself and swam through a corroded hole. I corkscrewed unnecessarily, just in case someone was watching.

The next day, homeward bound via São Paulo, we stopped at the box-fresh Pulso Hotel for breakfast and a spa. Polished concrete, tropical planting and lazy beats from hidden speakers. We floated between loungers and the pool and let the salt lift from our skin.

“So, are you going to dive again?” my gal asked. “Only if Pascal’s free.”

As Japan celebrates another winter of epic snowfall, Damien discovers some of the world’s best skiing on it’s northernmost island

Last Christmas, I distinctly remember staring at a slush-laced piste in Cortina d’Ampezzo, repeating the words: “You booked too early, you fool.”

The lowest runs were greener than Wentworth in June and I sighed as someone rode past on a mountain bike. We all know the Alps are fighting a losing battle, firing their Sisyphean cannons at an army of advancing warmth. So is it curtains? Well, that depends on where you ski.

Fast forward to February and I was in Niseko, Japan, quite literally waist-deep into what is probably the world’s best snow. A recent record-breaking dump had delivered 311cm of powder – the most since 1956 – turning the mountain into a Hokusai canvas. Here, nobody talks about melting glaciers or dodgy snow conditions. The only thing disappearing are my legs, swallowed by the white stuff – all light, dry and dreamy.

But how, when the world is warming up? Niseko sits on Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island, in the perfect position to catch the Siberian weather fronts that barrel down across the Sea of Japan, drinking up moisture before spewing it out as a white whisper. Jaw-dropping Mount Yotei – the “Fuji of Hokkaido”; adjacent to Niseko – helps by creating a lot of high pressure, which hits the cold air, creating huge snowfall. This cycle repeats, pretty consistently, from early December through March.

“There’s just nothing quite like it,” said Patrick Ohtani, a local expat, as we carved through pristine morning sheets in the pocked-sized resort of Hanazono. “And the word is out. Niseko has long been an Aussie secret, but the Americans have now caught wind.” I thought back to a snowboarder I met in the airport who’d come straight from Aspen with a treasure hunter’s glint in her eye.

“But you can’t use carving skis here,” said Patrick. “They just won’t float – you need wider skis.” It certainly took a minute for me to get used to things. Eventually I found a sweet spot with my weight on the back of the ski.

Niseko’s four resorts are much smaller than their Alpine counterparts. But a lack of acreage is offset by a skiing experience entirely novel to the European veteran.

The latter’s big peaks and deep ravines are swapped for a “volcanic topography” of shallow valleys and sweeping tree runs. Strawberry Fields, a breezy off-piste area with hyper-real Yotei views and comfortably spaced conifers, is prime paragon of the Niseko experience.

“Gated side country access is something that’s unique to Niseko,” said Patrick. “There’s rigorous avalanche management, so people can go off-piste safely. And if you’re feeling particularly intrepid, you can hire a guide and hike up Mount Yotei at 2am, summit for sunrise, then ski straight into the crater before hiking out and skiing down.”

But it’s not just the fluffy stuff that’s different. Après-ski in Niseko is incomparable. That is to say it’s not really a thing; less shots at the bar, more seated sake – and real-deal dining experiences. On the first night, I ate at Bang Bang, an authentic yakitori restaurant, run by a father and son, and gnawed at grilled skewers until my stomach hurt.

My favourite meal, though, was Yakiniku Kuroushiya, where one sizzles gossamer wagyu strips over a grill at the table. Sushi lovers, I’m told, shouldn’t miss Taru. Run by an 80-year-old couple, it’s Niseko’s best nigiri. Book as far in advance as possible.

On my final night, things livened up a little at the brilliant Bar Gyu – accessed via a speak-easy-style fridge door, before sitting down to on-point cocktails and hip-hop vinyl. An Old Fashioned slipped down as I swayed to music quiet enough for conversation. If you’re keen for karaoke – when in Rome? – then Utaya’s the (only) spit-and-sawdust spot to go for fruity cocktails in plastic cups and Bon Jovi in the wrong key.

It’s not all cottage industry kawaii (‘cute’) though. The big money’s coming: bellwether Six Senses and Aman have broken ground and will open in 2026 and 2027 respectively.

One of the grandest private properties now open is the five-bed, 530 square-metre Tsubasa Chalet. Few properties merit the Bond-villain-lair cliché more.

Ultra-luxe minimalism sees floor-to-ceiling windows frame Mount Yotei. There’s a gym, in-out onsen and round-the-clock butler service to ensure you’re fed and ferried to match your whim. The grand piano in the vast living space was played for our pleasure as we dined on sukiyaki – Japanese hot pot – one evening. At upwards of £7,000 a night, the chalet attracts a rarefied demographic, but compare it to equivalent-sized luxury lodges in Europe and you’ve got yourself a bargain. Ditto the lift-passes, food and booze in resort.

The downside to skiing in Asia, of course, is the journey. At between 18 to 24 hours on the move, it’s a slog. But plan it right and you can mitigate the pain.

I paused in Tokyo for a day and a night at the exquisite Auberge Tokito, a new culinary sanctuary headed up by Michelin-starred Yoshinori Ishii (previously of Umu in Mayfair).

If I wasn’t totally rid of the jetlag by the time I hit Hokkaido (a 90-minute flight from Tokyo), it was vanquished with a stint in the chalet’s balmy onsen (Japanese hot spring baths). I returned as many times as I could during my stay.

After a thigh-burning day, there’s little more reparative than flopping into mineral-rich volcanic water – strictly in the nip, of course. The best of them, I was told, is sulphur-rich Yukichichibu, a natural spring tucked away in the mountains.

Ski holidays in Europe will always be, well, familiar: the peaks, the prestige, the easyJet flights. But if you want champagne powder and a skiing experience that borders on spiritual, Niseko is your ticket to glide.

Like Patrick said: “It really is Japan’s time.”

Essentials

Stays at Tsubasa Chalet in Niseko cost from £5,280 for two nights minimum, sleeping 10. Auberge Tokito in Tokyo has rooms from £1,800 per night, half board. Flights with British Airways from London to Sapporo cost from £1,037 return.

So when I was invited to Peru at the behest of nature-first Inkaterra, I knew I was being offered something that would make me feel a little better (and look more virtuous in front of my judgey peers).

Seven-property Inkaterra was founded in 1975 by José Koechlin, a conservationist and former film producer. He was the first in Peru, by some stretch, to combine luxury with environmental stewardship. Starting with eco-lodges in the Amazon, he expanded to the likes of Machu Picchu and the Incan capital of Cusco.

Today, Inkaterra operates seven eco-luxury properties and leads major conservation efforts, from reforestation to scientific research stations. A recent headline of note: ‘Machu Picchu, now the world’s first carbon-neutral Wonder.’

Literally buried in a cloud forest at the end of one of the world’s great railway lines, Inkaterra’s property in Machu Picchu (‘old peak’) is a place where a muscular, refulgent kind of nature seems to consume everything. The grounds of the hotel are a rampage of rare orchids, waterfalls and ceaseless birdsong. As I was ushered to my little lodge, I saw the uncanny clustering of hummingbirds around a feeder. They were being shot by a military-clad birdwatcher with a camera the size of Megatron’s cannon.

Of the world’s historic wonders (that I’ve visited), most have been a lasting disappointment. Pompeii and the Pyramids were a glut of nylon-clad tourists and selfie stick salesmen. Any attempts at immersing oneself in the space is kiboshed by the vision of the gorpcore hordes abusing the view for perishable culture points.

Before arriving at Machu, I spent the evening in a 16th-century colonial mansion in the heart of Cusco. Inkaterra La Casona is a classy place to acclimate to the altitude, though nothing truly prepares you for 3,400m above sea level.

I was told ‘no booze’ for the first few days, but I had an afternoon free and couldn’t help myself when I saw a bar offering pisco sour masterclasses over the road. The national drink of Peru, pisco has been a point of pride (and contention with Chile) for centuries. Distilled from grapes, it varies in style from region to region. Mixed into a sour – with lime juice, sugar syrup, egg white and a few dashes of Angostura bitters – it’s dangerously smooth. Obviously I regretted drinking five of them, but my sarcophagus-sized stone bath back at La Casona mollified nicely.

On my way out of the mountains, I took a midday interlude at Inkaterra’s Hacienda Urubamba. The Sacred Valley stretched out in front of the lodge, its contours traced by ancient agricultural terraces. Lunch was farm-to-table finesse, but I still had an appetite after. The solution? A roadside guinea pig skewer – crispy, gamey, and eaten with my fingers. Like a Sunday roast with none of the ceremony.

Next, another world, in the Peruvian Amazon. I’d swapped Andean cool for rainforest humidity at Inkaterra Reserva Amazónica, a jungle lodge accessible only by boat. It’s part of a 17,000-hectare private ecological reserve adjacent to the Tambopata National Reserve. Focus on anything for more than a few seconds and the place starts moving. I was transfixed by two blue dragonflies performing a balletic mating session.

The sheer number of species I observed on my guided birdwatching tour would have a Home Counties twitcher spinning out. The next day, I walked the lodge’s canopy walkway, one of the longest in South America. Suspended 40m above the forest floor, I watched, agog, as a troop of rowdy Black-Capped Capuchins passed, smashing through branches, punching fruit into their mouths. A pair of King Vultures perched at a distance, but the Jabiru Stork – the tallest flying bird in South America – will live longest in my memory. I joined a night walk after dinner, where torches picked out the glinting eyes of caimans and the flash of bioluminescent fungi.

My final stop, just down the river, was Inkaterra Hacienda Concepción. Another boat tour of a nearby lagoon introduced me to taricaya turtles basking in the shallows and red howler monkeys who looked on, lugubrious and suspicious. We passed an abandoned boat, a relic, I was told, from the filming of Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, that fever-dream movie about dragging a steamship over a mountain.

Another night walk reinforced the rainforest’s inherent strangeness. Under torchlight, tarantulas and acid-green snakes emerged that had been invisible by day. My guide pointed the former out in tree hollows, their leg-span wide enough to make my knees tingle. “The rainforest doesn’t sleep, it just shifts its players,” he said.

On the boat home, I read of Inkaterra’s most recent collaboration with the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute. Since 2023, they’ve been creating a 70,000-hectare forest corridor in the Madre de Dios region, aimed at maintaining landscape connectivity between protected areas, ensuring the free movement of wildlife and the preservation of biodiversity.

So, after two weeks of guilt-washing my trip with the comfort of conservation, I feel a touch less existential about long-haul travel. One simply has to pick better hosts. And besides, my next trip is to Devon, so that makes me a good person. Right?

This one’s tricky to explain, so hear me out. You and several others are in a super-sized sauna. You’re naked. A sauna master, clad in theatrical garms, throws spheres of ice, infused with essential oils, on the rocks. It’s 82.5°C. The steam rises. Said master then wafts the evaporating aromas into your face using a host of acrobatic towel twirls that call on the skills of a nunchucking ninja. There’s music and a light show; there are props and a storyline. But, most importantly, there’s a moral teaching to take home.

This, friends, is aufguss. And, permitting you’re happy in your birthday suit, it’s a hoot. Because beyond the sensorial blast, it transforms you from a silent, sedentary sweatosaurus into an active participant, clapping and whistling as part of the performance. Wafting salubrious smells has been a mainstay of sauna culture in central and northern Europe for a hundred years. But am-dram aufguss – with its narrative arcs and emotive scores – is a millennial invention, created by the saunarati of Italy’s Sud Tyrol region.

I visited recently, staying at the five-star, adults-only Preidlhof in Naturno. It’s part of the Dolce Vita Collection, all polished spa destinations and early adopters of performative aufguss. Preidlhof’s 5,500 square metre spa comes with seven pools and a six-story Sauna Tower, with views that puts a valley of apple orchards and the distant Ortler Mountains into wistful focus. Luxury seldom veers into anything too outré, so to mix steam theatre with rental Porsches and Michelin-star tasting menus seemed a refreshing concept. I was excited.

And then I was terrified. Arriving late to a near-boiling amphitheatre packed with punctual Europeans in the nip will do that. Coy and English and clutching my tiny towel, I scurried to the last sweltering spot on the top bench. The first performance of today’s trifecta was a retelling of the 19th-century ballet Coppélia, where a character of the Geppetto mould creates a life-like dancing doll that a village boy falls for. A fable on the perils of obsession and the power of love. The cast: aufguss super duo Michael Niedermair and Kasia Klajn.

The pair met in a sauna in 2018 and now have a three-year old daughter. Besides hosting regular aufguss sessions at the Dolce Vita hotels, they teach budding steam weavers to become masters just like them. Michael, a local lad, is the current men’s aufguss world champion; Polish Kasia is a former doubles gold medallist. I was about to experience peak aufguss.

Kasia’s theatre and dance training came into full swing as the mechanical doll and her props added something pleasingly panto. Michael’s strength is with the towel, swinging it around like some kind of pizzaiolo. Various essential oils, all natural and local, were ferried into our nostrils while the score swung from classical for the acting bits, to jacked-up dubstep when Michael spun.

What a scene: two fancy-dress athletes mixing drama and wellness for a room of interim nudists, some of whom were clearly wilting in the heat. For those who might find normal sauna a little slow going, it is awfully stimulating. The show’s 20-minute running time felt just right. I began thinking “this needs to end soon” and then the doors flung open. The relief from the heat punctuated the Disney ending, leaving me feeling rather uplifted on the way out. I jumped into the openair cold plunge, with its stupefying views, and tried to process what had just happened.

South Tyrol is a singular place: half pasta, half schnitzel; officially Italian, with a German mother tongue. It makes for a funny, functional muddle. But it works. Even Preidlhof’s interiors are fetchingly contrary: hot-pink post industrial meets trad alpine chic. The meld that matters, though, is the sensible sauna culture of middle Europe with Italy’s sensual flare. “Aufguss tells the story of the people,” Michael later told me.

Round two. Kasia, on her own this time, in Anne of Green Gables. A wig, culottes and zero irony. The crowd had warmed up, so to speak, and we started clapping to the beat. My girlfriend, a known prude, was suddenly at one with her new no-clothes lifestyle and particularly enjoyed the various narrative-matched essential oils. “Peppermint suggests a fresh start for Anne!" said Kasia in the bar that evening.

Dolce Vita’s hotel hop concept allows guests to use any of the five properties’ facilities, so I waited a day and went to see Michael’s solo show, 7even, at nearby Lindenhof. Inspired by the Brad Pitt movie and local folklore, he dressed as a goblin that embodied sin, while a mannequin of mother nature signalled salvation. I think. Sage, juniper and smoky birch bark circulated as Michael threw two towels in the air at once and pirouetted before catching them behind his back. “You must choose between good and bad, light and dark,” he concluded.

There’s something a little Eurovision about it all: embracing the art and aphorisms certainly requires you to park your Britishness (read: sarcastic, snooty) at the door – next to your pants. But it’s an impressive show and I’ve (sadly, perhaps) never had more fun in a sauna.

Aufguss arrived in the UK in 2022 and we hosted our first national championships last year. Entrants included a skit on Boris Johnson: he saw the light, spoke to Attenborough, and became an eco-warrior. “Spas in the UK often have a ‘prosecco-with-the-girls’ feel to them,” says Gabrielle Reason, secretary of the British Sauna Society. “Aufguss brings a madcap quality to things and that somehow feels a bit more inclusive.”

On returning, I paid the Sauna Social Club in Peckham a visit to compare notes. Their aufguss, to my surprise, was rather more tranquil. Cozzie on, no jazz hands. Though, there were DJs playing outside, with a bar selling no-and-low cocktails. Very London and perfectly nice, but where was the Eurovision spectacle and the crowd hooting in the nude? Give me Katrina and the Heatwaves any day.

AIRE Ancient Baths, Spain

Candlelit and subterranean, Barcelona’s best spa blends Roman-style bathing with expert-led aufguss sessions. Don’t miss its Himalayan salt sauna, which hosts beautifully choreographed infusions, mixing aromatic steam and meditative rituals.

Website: beaire.com

Therme București, Romania

A tropical-themed wellness complex with a mighty aufguss programme. Skilled ‘saunameisters’ deliver multi-sensory experiences using essential oils, music and icy towel whipping. Also home to Romania's largest botanical garden, with over 800,000 plants.

Website: therme.ro

Aqua Dome, Austria

Imagine sweating it out in a glass-walled sauna, while snow falls outside and the Alps loom in the distance. The varied aufguss sessions – from traditional to theatrical – certainly take full advantage of the setting. Don’t miss the huge martini-glass-shaped outdoor mineral pool.

This man walked 500 miles—and says yes

In August 2024, Damien Gabet walked 500 miles from Hastings in southeast England to Gretna Green on the England-Scotland border. But it was no ordinary hike. This one included a series of trespasses.

Somewhere near Carlisle, I hit the biggest wall of the walk. My feet cramped inwards like figs shrivelling on a gnarled branch, the rain came at a vindictive slant, my useless boots soaked up water like a biscuit in tea, and the blisters grew more confident with every step.

Then I saw it—a semaphore of salvation flapping in the wind; a red flag with chubby lettering promising one thing: ‘Food’. Inside what I now realized was a trucker’s café, the lights were off, but Oktay, the owner, agreed to refire the grill and prepare his most calorific bap. I punched it into my mouth, then pleaded for painkillers. “I’m all out, sorry pal!” he said, in his Turkish-Geordie lilt. It was a ‘goodbye’ from me and a wincing ‘good luck’ from him as I set off for another marathon of pain.

Three miserable hours passed before I saw a car pull up on the pavement, main beams blinding me through the gloaming. It was Oktay. He’d driven miles to the nearest petrol station to buy me paracetamol and water.

During the British summer of 2024, I walked 505 miles—1,040,360 steps—from Hastings on the south coast of England to Gretna just over the Scottish border. Along the way, I responsibly trespassed and illegally wild-camped to raise awareness—and a few quid—for the Right to Roam, a campaign that advocates for greater access to nature in England and Wales.

I find most contemporary causes so overwhelmingly unsolvable that a paralysing weltschmerz, a sort of melancholy and world-weariness, sets in. But there’s something about our medieval attitude to owning land that grinds my gears.

To understand how we’ve got to this place—and how we can escape it—we have to dust off the 1,000 year-old prism of property and privacy laws.

It’s clear that our forced divorce from the countryside actually precursors many of the hot-button subjects du jour: Poverty, mental health, biodiversity collapse… It starts with the stats. Did you know that 92 percent of England is out of bounds? That is to say, only eight percent can be accessed without permission. And of that eight percent, next to none is woodland.

On the trail, I was surprised by how moved people were by the cause—indignant, even. Quietly angry that we’ve been severed from the land, disconnected from the very thing that has always sustained us.

Meanwhile, 0.01 percent of the population owns half the country. The lords, the landed, the yacht-polishing classes—their legal right to exploit the soil and exclude us commoners dates back to William the Conqueror and his barons, who carved up the land for their hunting habits.

Our exclusion is not just a moral failing, but an ecological disaster. In global rankings, we’re in the bottom 10 percent for biodiversity. Even Malta, a (large) rock in the Med, has more birds and bugs. And we’re bottom in Europe for ‘nature connectedness’. The good news? Scotland and Sweden have shown us the way forward. Over there, the land is (mostly) everyone’s to explore. In England, “Trespassers will be prosecuted” signs successfully induce fear and shame, even though trespass, per se, isn’t a criminal offence. Yet.

My walk began where it all went wrong: Hastings. There, in 1066, William the Conqueror defeated Harold II, and the land-grab began. I walked up to Battle Abbey, built by William to immortalize his win, and hopped its wall for my first thrilling trespass. It was after hours, the grounds were deserted, and the buzz of doing something mildly naughty was intoxicating. There wasn’t enough cover to camp, so I pushed on, eventually finding a spot under the stately sequoias of the Beech Estate.

Its 2,000 acres were originally enclosed by two historical families, both beneficiaries of the Norman Conquest. This was my first time wild camping, and I rolled out my sleeping bag with the elegance of a toddler unwrapping a Christmas present. To stymie the scariness of being in the woods alone, I lit my first-ever fire and drifted off listening to a podcast about the Normans.

The next few days, through chocolate-box East Sussex, were a mix of public footpaths and enforced detours. Blocked trails, barbed wire and unfriendly signage are all part of the English countryside experience. On day two, my trusty Ordnance Survey (OS) map app ushered me along a public path, but I soon found it fenced off. A farmworker caught me mid-hop and laughed when I said I was walking to Scotland. “Farmer’ll ‘ave ya,” he warned, before suggesting I take a shortcut through the neighbor’s woodland. “Why not,” I thought.

Scaling fences, wresting my singlet from hedgerows, missing ditches—it was Roald Dahl-coded, a bit ‘boy on an adventure’. I was discovering the footloose joy of veering off-piste, even if it came with brambles and scratches. When I returned to the path, I felt a sense of triumph: In my own little game of cat and mouse, I’d made it back to safety.

The inspiration for this walk struck during lockdown. With travel off the table and my career as a travel writer taking a nosedive, I needed something —anything—to temper the Sartrean woe. Wild swimming became the fashionable antidote to cabin fever, so I searched Google Maps for the nearest blue patch. It turned out to be a grand lake on a private estate. The wall wasn’t high, so I started sneaking in at night, plunging into a shimmering obsidian sheet beneath the stars. It was bliss. Free therapy.

The claustrophobia of COVID-19 was compounded by the knowledge that there was nowhere sensible to swim without permission. So I put my hack’s hat back on and looked into it. That’s when I came across Nick Hayes, author of the Book of Trespass. He, with author-activist Guy Shrubsole, had recently set up the Right to Roam campaign. Its central tenet was compelling: Principally, that by enshrining into law a full right to responsible access in England, we could begin to address the plights of people and planet.

Carly Butler, a researcher on Nature Connectedness, explained how 15 minutes counting butterflies eases anxiety, and a two-hour woodland walk boosts immunity for a month. We tested her ideas on a guided walk, even veering off-path to admire a sweet chestnut tree. “Connection requires access,” she said.

On the trail, I was surprised by how moved people were by the cause—indignant, even. Quietly angry that we’ve been severed from the land, disconnected from the very thing that has always sustained us.

Even so, I was—and still am—equally moved by how frequently people, like Oktay, showed kindness to the clueless rambler. Steve, a tattoo artist in Tunbridge Wells, handed me Haribo gummies and £20 for my next meal. In Hertfordshire, a museum curator bought me a pint before pointing out a trespass route onto an estate owned by an access-denying bitcoin billionaire. And in Gaddesby, Leicestershire, a pub landlady turned a lock-in into a sleepover, slinging me the keys to Bedroom 4 when she found out I’d planned to camp in a nearby coppice.

My first on-the-road and probably most memorable interview was with barrister and Lawyers for Nature co-founder Paul Powlesland. We met, and I slept at, his narrow boat on the river Roding in East London. He and others have removed tonnes of fly-tipped waste and used a digger to carve a new path on a stretch of riverside that the landowner, Transport for London, doesn’t want people to access. “To me, this is an incredible urban nature reserve,” he said. “More people should be able to see it.” His work with Lawyers for Nature amounts to a sort of legal guardianship for the forests, rivers and wildlife that can’t defend themselves.

It wasn’t all derring-do and righteousness, though. In nearby Highbury & Islington, north London, a hundred miles or so into my trip, I nearly threw in the towel. An acute stabbing pain in my right Achilles forced me to stop on a park bench. Staring at my cankles, I contemplated failure before heading to a hostel for a 14-hour sleep. The next day I somehow managed 23 miles, the furthest I’d ever walked in a day.

Physical pain became a constant companion. Blisters multiplied. My wet socks began to smell like kombucha. Descending hills backward (I called it the ‘Jackson’) became my go-to tactic to protect my knees, and my trusty Birkenstocks made an appearance when my boots became sponges. I dropped into an NHS walk-in center more than once, where no-nonsense nurses lanced, sponged and patched me without complaint.

Limping through the Midlands, I started to pay more attention to my surroundings. My vision of the countryside as a place of Sunday-walk boredom was starting to blur. The thrill of trespass helped, but I also found satisfaction in the subtlest nods from nature: Susurrating leaves; the particular dapple of a deciduous canopy.

Carly Butler, a researcher on Nature Connectedness at the University of Derby explained how 15 minutes counting butterflies eases anxiety, and a two-hour woodland walk boosts immunity for a month. We tested her ideas on a guided walk, even veering off-path to admire a sweet chestnut tree. “Connection requires access,” she said.

In Northamptonshire, I trespassed Rushton Hall with explorer, mountaineer and campaigner Emma Linford. Once the seat of Sir Thomas Tresham, Rushton Hall is infamous for the Midlands Revolt of 1607, when Tresham’s illegal enclosures led to an uprising that ended in bloodshed. The leader of the rebels, Captain Pouch, claimed to have divine protection from a magical pouch—though it failed him in the end.

As Emma and I made our way through a field, a farmer intercepted us. His initial hostility melted when Emma calmly explained our cause. Liability, he admitted, was his main concern. “If someone gets hurt, it’s me who gets sued.” Emma later said, “Getting caught trespassing isn’t a failure—it’s a chance to start a conversation.”

“In Scotland, you can walk anywhere, camp anywhere. It’s powerful. It changes how you see the world.”

- Nadia Shaikh, co-director, Right to Roam

In Sheffield, I joined photographer Leigh Rose of Trash Free Trails, a group that uses litter-picking as a way to connect people with nature. He snapped me camping in a woodland behind a Harvester restaurant and we spent the morning talking about ‘purposeful adventure’—the kind that benefits the environment while boosting mental health.

We then met Maxwell Ayamaba, whose work on rural England’s forgotten Black history blew me away. Did you know the African-born Roman Emperor Septimius Severus probably built some of the roads we still use today? “The story doesn’t begin with Windrush, like most people think—we’ve been here longer than you!” Maxwell’s passion for reframing the countryside as a shared space—one that belongs to all of us, not just the tweed set—was inspiring.

Later, Issy from the Sheffield Outdoor Plungers invited me to trespass-swim in Royd Moor Reservoir. A full 97 percent of our inland water is privatized and the ‘danger of death’ signs on reservoirs are the semiotics of liability rather than safety. “It’s safer than swimming in the sea,” Issy pointed out, wading in. “When I swim,” Issy said, “I don’t need wine to relax!”

As I moved north, the views, all bruised skies and Brontean moor, began to feel freer. Yorkshire’s vast estates lacked the endless ‘Keep Out’ signs I’d grown used to, and the open-access areas gave me a taste of what could be. In the Dales, I tackled my longest day: 60,000 steps over Ribblehead Viaduct and Whernside before collapsing into a pub in the mint-tin village of Dent, where live music and Guinness were the perfect panacea.

Near the border, I met Jamie Norrington, a senior figure at the Wildlife Trust, who explained how managing land for game-bird shooting harms the environment. Shooting, Jamie told me, is becoming an increasingly popular status symbol activity with “bankers from London”. Controlled burns (done to promote the growth of heather, grouse’s favorite food source) dry out the peat beneath ground—a vital carbon sink—and illegal traps kill predators to protect game birds.

Now that I know this, the landscape suddenly felt artificial, like a backdrop for a Victorian shooting party. Earlier that day, I’d spoken to a gamekeeper who defended these practices, claiming they help protect ground-nesting birds like curlews. Jamie wasn’t convinced: “Curlews are a convenient cover for bad practices,” he said. “An overabundance of any one species usually signals poor biodiversity.”

Finally, in Gretna, I crossed into Scotland, where land access is enshrined in law. Nadia Shaikh, conservationist and co-director of the Right to Roam campaign, welcomed me with a hug and a smile. “In Scotland, you can walk anywhere, camp anywhere,” she told me. “It’s powerful. It changes how you see the world.”

This walk gave me more than blisters and pub stories. It gave me confidence—to follow my curiosity, to veer off the beaten path, to see the land as something that belongs to all of us. The kindness of strangers and the quiet joy of nature reaffirmed my belief that adventure doesn’t need an exotic backdrop.

I’m conscious, being a noisy white man, that the countryside is a less daunting place for me than others. Solo trespassing is a privilege. But I urge you to grab a friend, a tent, and a Tesco meal deal, and explore your local area. It’s startling how much of England none of us see. As Nick Hayes writes in The Trespassers’ Companion: “It’s time to reclaim what’s already ours.”

WE POUND THE STREETS... YOU REAP THE REWARDS!

THERE’S more to Dijon than its mustard. Home to France’s International City of Gastronomy and Wine – a 16-acre site devoted to eating and drinking with museums, workshops and tastings – Burgundy’s capital celebrates dining as a ritual art form. The city’s medieval streets, pictured, Gothic churches and proximity to the region’s famed vineyards offer plenty to savour over a long weekend. Hop on a morning train from London, change in Paris, and you’ll be sipping chablis by lunchtime.

Where to stay

■ Maison Philippe Le Bon

ROOMS in this charming hotel with 15th-century origins have exposed beams and period furniture, while stone hearths and a large gothic courtyard garden lend a stately tone. Its restaurant, Les Oenophiles, serves inventive dishes – and the wine list is long. Located in the old town, it’s close to the Musee des Beaux-Arts. Doubles from £92 (maisonphilippelebon.com).

■ Hotel des Ducs

CLOSE to the Palace of the Dukes – this hotel is in Dijon’s medieval centre. Its clean, simple rooms have wood accents and crisp linen, but the highlight is its wine-tasting room. Local cheeses, honey and pastries make up a fine continental breakfast. Doubles from £80 (hoteldesducs.com).

■ Vertigo Hotel

THE cool cousin of Dijon’s more traditional digs, this hotel overlooking Place Darcy pairs Haussmann architecture with minimalist interiors – sleek furnishings, Mac minis and Nespresso machines. Its Nuxe Spa has a pool, sauna and hammam. Or borrow an electric BMW or bike for free. Doubles from £104 (vertigohoteldijon.com).

■ Hotel du Palais

THIS boutique charmer in Dijon’s historic centre has just nine rooms, each with quirks like hand-painted ceilings and elegant Burgundy stone staircases. It is intimate, understated and perfectly placed for exploring the sights. The hotelier’s husband does a fantastic wine tasting, too. Doubles from £101 (hoteldupalais-dijon.com).

Where to eat

■ Chez Leon

THIS is the kind of unpretentious, convivial bistro that feels like it’s been around for ever. Stick to the classics: the beef bourguignon and escargots are famed. For dessert, don’t miss the crepes suzette, flambeed tableside. Mains from £14 (restochezleon.fr).

■ Le Bistrot des Halles

OPPOSITE Dijon’s famous Les Halles food market, this brasserie has its pick of ingredients. Try the tarte flambee (a thin Alsatian-style pizza topped with creme fraiche, lardons, and onions) or the saucisson chaud (hot sausage), a Burgundian specialty. Mains from £16.45 (lebistrotdeshalles.fr).

■ La Maison des Cariatides

LA Maison des Cariatides sits pretty in Dijon’s antiques district, its 17thcentury façade adorned with caryatids. Chefs Vincent and Marie Cecile Gomis deliver a seasonal tasting menu that sings Burgundy’s praises. And a spot in the Michelin Guide seals the deal, but do book ahead. Four courses from £67 (maisondescariatides.com).

HOW TO GET THERE

DIJON is 1 hour 40 minutes from Paris by TGV train and tickets cost from £26.50 each way (raileurope.com). London-Paris return trains from £64 (eurostar.com). Drivers can reach the city in about 5.5 hours from Calais. Lyon and Geneva airports connect to Dijon via regional trains.

Minus-20C temperatures usually call for a beanie to avoid a frozen barnet – but not in Canada. Damien Gabet travelled into the wilderness to wet his tresses and let the frost style an up-do worthy of the Yukon’s International Hair Freezing Contest

There was once a band called Static-X. Their late lead singer, Wayne Static, had the most remarkable shock of hair. Long, hellraising spikes, straighter than a razor blade. As a rock-loving teen, I would use GHDs (or my mum’s iron) to electrify my mop, too. But I could never quite achieve the same mane as Wayne. At 19, I gave up and let it flop like Kurt Cobain.

Twenty years later, I was at the Eclipse Nordic Hot Springs in the Yukon, Canada. I’d flown from the UK to compete in the International Hair Freezing Contest, where every year, competitors are invited to jump into Eclipse’s balmy waters, wet their tresses and let Jack Frost have his way. Someone in the foyer asked what I was planning to fashion. “Well, have you heard of Wa…”

The caveat of the competition is that there must be cold weather. A minimum of -20C. If the mercury doesn’t sufficiently drop, your follicles won’t freeze and the fella with the camera won’t take your photo. When I arrived last winter, it was around -10°C. Damn cold, but not cold enough. You see, I’d unwittingly chosen an El Niño year, when North America warms up.

My guide assured me that the temperature could drop: “Let’s just wait a few days and see,” she said, in a kindly tone. Fortunately, the competition isn’t a one-day affair: photos are taken across the season and judged in spring. “So, what can a solo traveller, bumbling around the Canadian subarctic, do while waiting to freeze their hair?” I asked.

Obviously, you start by trying to freeze other parts of your body. Which is why I went for a dip in a lake a few miles from my lodgings in the state capital Whitehorse. Trevor Braun, who in the summer months heads up Yukan Canoe, had on that February day chainsawed a hole in the ice large enough for masochism. I’m a fan of cold water swimming in my native Kent, but no amount of North Sea can prepare you for the gelid slap of a bona fide ice dive.

Genital pangs aside, it was a joyful, jetlag-zapping experience, augmented by the view: pristine snowy hills, spiked with serried pines. I managed five minutes before Trevor and I thawed in his mobile sauna. I asked him whether Yukoners were all as brave as he was. “It’s a place that attracts misfits who do fun things for the sake of it,” he said. “Don’t ask what someone does for a living; ask what they do on a Saturday night.”

Getting dressed in Victorian garbs and watching burlesque is what they do. At least, during the annual Rendezvous Festival (7-23 February in 2025). A three-week celebration of all things Yukon, it’s customary to chi-chi, so I hired a top hat and tails and headed to a mildly raunchy show in town. Later, at The 98 Hotel Bar, they were hosting the Bum Bum Contest. I’ll let your imagination run with that one.

I kept my finery on the next day for Rendezvous’s chainsaw throwing competition. Ahead of me in the line was last year’s champion. Eric Studerus, a Herculean firefighter from Seattle, flies up every year to compete. “Dig your toes in, throw with one arm and roar,” he said when I asked for slinging tips. My first throw was disqualified (foot over the line) and my second looked as if the chainsaw was throwing me. Studerus retained his crown.

I took a stroll around the festival’s snow sculpture park and met former world champions Gisli Balzer and Shaila Baxendale. They were busy carving a brace of bison, wearing goggles, driving a Cadillac. I asked Shaila, a third-gen local, for her thoughts on Rendezvous and the chainsaw comp: “We allow you to do more here than anywhere else in the world,” she said. “We take risks because we’re Yukoners.”

One of the wildest things you can do in the Yukon is dog sledding and wild camping with real-deal champion mushers. No photo-op nonsense – proper freezing wilderness with moose and bears and wolves.

I drove three hours on roads longer than the horizon to find sled royalty Michelle Philipps and her husband Ed. They live offgrid, at Tagish Lake Kennels, with their 65 Alaskan huskies. Michelle had just won the Yukon Quest, a 1,000-mile unassisted race considered the toughest in the world. She’s decided to give city folk a taste of the musher’s life by launching a sled-to-tent wild camping experience (the only one of its kind in North America).

My outing today was with Ed. A proper Yukoner, full of old-school frontier spirit, he’s been mushing for 40 years. His hounds make quite the sound and stink as they set off, but the methane was fleeting and we were soon carving at a clip through snowy forests and over vast frozen lakes. Later, I was given the chance to conduct my own sled (attached to his). “If you don’t do as I say you’re going to eat snow,” said Ed. I ate snow. Twice.

Our camp that night was a pair of propane-heated Arctic Oven tents. At dusk, we dined at my place on homemade chicken pie. Ed described a recent UFO sighting and retold his son’s rather chilling Sasquatch-sighting story. I asked for three tips to win in the wilderness: whistle for the Northern Lights; drink hot choc to stay warm – not coffee; and always leave your toothpaste outside the tent. “Bears love it,” he said, earnestly.

Outside, Ed lit a fragrant aspen fire in an old tumble dryer drum before bedding down for the night. I sat and scared myself by staring at the nearly full moon and contemplating how this was the only fire I’d ever huddled around that wasn’t purely ornamental. I whistled and whistled but only the slightest sliver of the aurora appeared. The next morning, Ed informed me that I’d missed it by minutes. It didn’t matter, though, because the whole experience was among the best of my career. Authenticity in extreme conditions – nothing like it.

I always know when I’m impressed by nature because the Jurassic Park theme tune starts playing in my head. Further north, in Unesco-protected Kluane National Park, an orchestra thundered. This is the home of the largest non-polar icefield in the world, where 2,000 glaciers join across 13,000 square miles. The most dramatic way to take in its vertiginous vastness is from the air in an old Cessna 206. Terrifying. Well, to begin with, at least: under the steady stewardship of John, owner of Rocking Star Adventures, I soon settled enough to marvel at 6,000-metre-high Mount Logan and the oceans of ice around it. Our 400km whip-round passed in a flash and I felt almost annihilated by the beauty of it all. As I alighted, all ponderous, my guide smiled at me and said “It’s going to be really cold this evening.”

Now, on my final night in the Yukon, we headed to Eclipse. I checked into one of its new onsite apartments and skidded over. In a word? Triumph. I finally created the coif I’ve always wanted. Me winning the comp was about as likely as Wayne returning from rock’n’roll heaven. But I could, at least, go home with my hair held high.

How to do it

Frontier Travel offers a Yukon package from £3,995pp, including return international and internal flights with Air Canada from London Heathrow to Whitehorse via Vancouver, seven-day intermediate car hire with Driving Force, two nights at the Best Western Goldrush Inn Whitehorse, one night at the Raven Inn in Whitehorse, two nights at Mount Logan Ecolodge in Haines Junction (all accommodation is room only), a snowshoeing trip in Kluane National park, Kluane Flightseeing Trip, a Nordic Eclipse Hot Springs ticket, a Yukon Wildlife Preserve ticket, a dog sledding tour with lunch, and a Northern Tales aurora viewing tour; wild camping is available on request. Price based on February 2025 departure and subject to availability.

JOALI

A Mediterranean-flavoured island retreat with no gimmicks and some of the most passionate, experienced staff in the region.

Reviewed by Damien Gabet

Why book?

Five years in and Joali is still one of the most chic and characterful island resorts in the Maldives. A love of art and world-class design (it bills itself as the Maldives’ “first art-immersive resort”) adds cultural flair and helps guests to gently connect with the beauty of their surroundings. Joali also cleverly manages to make a broad church—from families to solo travelers—feel as if this is their own resort. Next-level attentiveness from friendly staff certainly helps.

Set the scene

Finding a resort whose layout and design genuinely complements the Maldives’ staggering natural beauty—it’s harder than you’d think. Though this is perhaps Joali’s strongest suit. Notice how the arrow-head pool at the Mura Bar seamlessly traces the shape of the sandy spit beyond. The interiors, meanwhile, never shout but still seem to wow with luxe Mediterranean touches and tasteful art. The latter is Joali’s first passion: its latest immersive art program features eco-conscious commissioned works by over 13 international artists. The island’s permanent Art House invites guests—of all ages—to get creative on canvas or pottery with the guidance of its resident artist. At the bar, and in its five restaurants, there’s a more convivial feel than the Maldives is known for—must be that broad mix of guests.

The backstory

The Joali brand reflects the style and tastes of its Turkish owner, Esin Güral Argat. A successful businesswoman in her own right, she’s part of the family-run Gürallar Group, a multinational based in Istanbul that covers tourism, manufacturing and construction. When Argat first visited the Maldives in 2000, she was smitten. Following subsequent trips she realised there wasn’t one resort that ticked all her boxes and so set about creating her own. “It’s magic, and a destination that’s alive for all 12 months of the year,” she said. In 2022, Argat opened her second Maldivian property, Joali Being, “the region’s first wellbeing island of its kind.”

The rooms

The 73 villas—some beach, others overwater—are divided into 11 categories and all come with thatched roofs (made entirely with palm fronds by local craftspeople) and a large private pool. The super-sized family beach villas have two. Interiors are serene, sophisticated and incredibly spacious with vaulted ceilings, oversized beds and vast bathrooms with freestanding bathtubs. In every room, a marble-and-rose-gold drinks bar sets a playful deco tone, while the outdoor rain showers, with their bright-green bamboo tiles, are fun and fitting. Elsewhere, dark-wood bas reliefs and miles of Norwegian green marble (Enigma Verde Lapponia) are the handsome hallmarks of design studio Autoban (famous for London’s Duck & Rice and Baku airport’s extraordinary makeover). If we had to choose? The beach suites: abundant flora and so much space. Sunset fiends will want the jetty, though.

Food and drink

Among the most enjoyable activities on the island is a mixology masterclass with spirited Vix, the bar manager at Saoke. He’ll teach you to turn some Joali classics before inviting you to make (and name) your own concoction. The Japanese-Peruvian restaurant in the same space is not to be missed. For the Nikkei treats—you have to try the hamachi ceviche and sake pairing—but also simply to admire the work of much-vaunted architect Noriyoshi Muramatsu. His glass-pillared wine cellar is nothing short of dramatic. Elsewhere, Bellinis is the spot for Italian classics (the truffle risotto was game changing) from Michelin-starred Theodor Falser. Finish the trip with pan Asian cuisine as part of a specially designed dining experience at Vandhoo.

The spa

While it doesn’t feel like the priority, a series of ‘wellness journeys’ begin in one of the eight overwater treatment rooms, each with a glass-fronted sauna. Enjoy an Espa-designed treatment, sweat a little and then take a plunge in the sea. Pretty points go to the grey-marble hammam, but it’s the floating yoga pavilion you’ll remember the most. Particularly those sun salutations at dawn.

The neighborhood/area

The Raa Atoll, where Joali is located, is under an hour by seaplane from the capital, Malé. The island is 24 acres in all, making it a large property in relative terms. That sense of space is soothing as you pedal your way round the sandy paths that scribble through a dense array of palms.

The service

It’s always a pleasure to interact with staff who strike the right note because they themselves are well looked after. Instinctively, that’s what you feel here, particularly with the jadugars (private butlers), who deftly find balance between attention, friendliness and savoir-faire. They also seem to have a sixth sense for what you might need before you know you need it, gently reminding you what not to forget for the spa—and then factoring in enough time to turn back when you inevitably do.

For families

Joali’s efforts to welcome and entertain families is evident even before arriving: the website offers a virtual tour of the kids club and you can read up on FAQs. Family beach villas will comfortably sleep five while the resort goes out of its way to offer activities for parents and kids to bond over. Oceanography lessons, cooking and art classes, and kids yoga. The marine talks by JOALI’s resident marine biologist are a hit, too.

Eco effort

While over 80% of the reefs around the resort were bleached following the dramatic temperature rises of El Nino in 2016, the resort is throwing everything at its coral nursery and the green shoots are showing. On land, over 1,000 trees were preserved while building the resort. Single-use plastic is banned on the island.

Accessibility

There’s an accessible path to the main lobby and guest rooms, with wheelchair accessibility to the hotel's main public restrooms. Staff are on hand to help guests check-in or concierge services.

Anything left to mention?

Art lovers should aim to be there in April when Joali hosts its annual Imagi-Nature Art Festival. Artworks included limited edition pieces and installations—from interactive sculptures and virtual reality soundscapes—that celebrate World Art Day.

Southern Peru

With the Machu Picchu-Sacred Valley-Cusco loop well trodden, Peru travel specialist Andean has created a route round the country’s less-explored south, with its pre-Incan cultures and colossal landscapes, near the Bolivian and Chilean borders. The trip tends to start in Quechuan-colonial Arequipa with a stay at Cirqa, a 1540-built monastery that still has the old rough volcanic stone walls but is now a gorgeous 11-room bolthole, and a base for architecture tours with helpings of local queso helado (cheese ice cream).

Then the journey goes high, up to about 16,100 feet above sea level, across the Altiplano, with a pause on the eye-defying Patahuasi plateau to see the gurgling Misti, one of Peru’s highest volcanoes, over a cup of coca-leaf tea. Up here, Andean has added a pit stop in the remote Colca Valley, home to godlike condors and ancient Collagua culture. Puqio is Peru’s first safari-style camp, with eight romantic tented villas among swaying cereals and grassy pathways. There’s a central adobe rotunda, for no-menu homegrown meals, as well as condor-spotting excursions, including from the top of the ancient Chimpa fortress, overlooking a gorge twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.

The route moves on through salt flats, plains, vicuña-rich nature reserves and rock forests on the way to Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake, where guests stay at Titilaka, a waterside property with an outdoor tub. For all the hypnotic appeal of the nesting black ibises, the highlight is an all-day trip to meet, eat and laugh with the Uro-Aymara communities who live on self-fashioned islands of junco reeds – a long way from the madding crowds. andean.travel. Damien Gabet