Kevin Rushby's Blog

Crooked buildings, welcoming inns, ancient woodlands … it’s easy to see why the location scouts chose this idyllic corner of England

The door creaks as I push it back and move forward into the gloom. The ceiling is vaulted and dark, but light falls in shafts of gold from the upper windows, revealing ancient stone carvings and tombs. It’s the right atmosphere for a ghost-hunt. I take a few steps and the door clicks, making me jump. Must be the wind.

Exploring old English churches is always a pleasure. There is no one to disturb you, and in the dim quiet will be a historical jaw-dropper: a centuries-old face carved in oak, a grisly tomb, an inscription to the dead hero of a forgotten battle. Each site is a mini detective puzzle, waiting to be unravelled, often with a helpful booklet available near the door. The spirits of those who have shuffled off this mortal coil hang in the dust motes, but here, in Weobley, Herefordshire, I am looking for someone specific.

Visiting the city hosting the Cop30 conference brings with it questions about farming, tourism and sustainability

In an open-air market in the Brazilian city of Belém, I had a problem. It was breakfast time and I wanted a drink, but the long menu of fruit juices was baffling. Apart from pineapple (abacaxi) and mango (manga), I’d never heard of any of the drinks. What are bacuri, buriti and muruci? And what about mangaba, tucumã and uxi? Even my phone was confused. Uxi, it informed me, is a Zulu word meaning “you are”.

But then I started to recognise names that I’d heard on my six-week voyage from the Andes to the mouth of the Amazon. There was cupuaçu. I’d picked one of those cacao-like pods in a Colombian village about 1,900 miles (3,000km) back upriver. And even further away, in Peru, there was açaí: a purple berry growing high up on a wild palm. The Amazon, it seems, is vast and varied, but also remarkably similar along its astonishing length.

An epic rail trip to Sweden’s Arctic north ends with a surreal skiing experience – and waffles for breakfast while sitting out a snowstorm

The light coming through the sleeper train window wakes me. It’s nearly time. Climbing down the ladder past the other snoozing occupants, I head into the corridor. A few hours ago there were only trees, an endless unfurling ribbon of spruce and birch. Now there is snow, vast banks of it. And sometimes, when the train roars through a big drift, great spumes of white blast out on either side, blocking any view.

In the restaurant car, I watch the map on my phone as a blue dot approaches a straight dashed line. A frozen lake and distant pale mountains appear. Then at 6.09am we cross the Arctic Circle. Forty-eight hours previously, I had been in London St Pancras station, queueing for the Eurostar. Now, five trains later, never having left terra firma, I am in the Arctic. Most of my fellow travellers are Swedes with hefty bags of skis and well-stocked sledges that look expedition-ready. With their weathered faces and lean muscle, they look intimidatingly capable.

Powered by fruit cake and fresh fish, our writer takes in the spectacular cliffs, coves and villages along a new seafood trail

In all human endeavours undertaken within Britiain’s isles, the provision of tea and cake is the most vital consideration. When a walker or cyclist delivers the damning judgment “there’s no decent caff” to a group of friends, the ghastly silence is followed by everyone crossing the accursed region off their map. The sheer importance of this staple dietary ingredient is obvious from our island geography: Dundee, Eccles, Bakewell, Chelsea …

So it was with some trepidation that I set out to walk around the Llŷn peninsula in Gwynedd, Wales, on part of what is called the Seafood Trail. I mean, I love a lobster, but what about the fruit scones? Bangor University’s school of ocean sciences has produced a map of seafood producers and outlets to encourage hikers as they stride along the coastal path. Fine, but it’s the late afternoon sugar lull that I worry about.

The Rame peninsula, just west of Plymouth, is often bypassed by tourists these days, which makes its hidden coves and fine walking even more appealing

At the end of Downderry’s shingle and sand, there’s a tumble of rocks and then a long beach stretching eastwards into the distance at the foot of the cliffs. Sitting on the rocks is a man with five raffish dogs that immediately start prowling around me and my partner, Sophie. A wet nose touches my bare calf.

Every long-distance trek has these decisive moments. The South West Coast Path has plenty. Should we stay on the beach, or take to the cliff? What’s the tide doing? And, more immediately, are these dogs going to bite my bum? It has happened to me once before.

A handful of returning locals and adventurous tourists are breathing new life into Nyksund, a remote coastal outpost in Norway’s wild northwest

We land on a white sand beach under jagged black mountains. A sea eagle, surprised to see humans, flaps away over the only house with a roof on it – the rest are in ruins. “Hundreds of people used to live here,” says Vidar. “In the days when you had to sail or row, it was important to be near the fishing grounds. Now there’s just one summer cabin.”

Jumping out of the boat, we walk along the beach. My daughter, Maddy, points out some animal tracks. “The fresh marks are wild reindeer,” says Vidar. “The older ones could be moose – they come along here too.”

With unique views, fascinating history and opportunities for wildlife-spotting, taking a small boat across a river or to an island can be a holiday highlight

The hills of the Scottish Highlands were still in sight when the cry went up: “Whale!” And there it was, a humpback on the port side of the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry, blasting a great cloud of mist from its blowhole, then with a farewell flick of its tail, disappearing into the Atlantic. On other voyages you may see glorious sunsets, rare migratory birds, ruined castles and historic lighthouses. Unlike the classic road trip or the great railway journey, however, the humble ferry rarely makes it to anyone’s bucket list. They are a means to an end, only chosen by necessity. And yet, the UK has some of the best and most exhilarating voyages within its borders. From exciting river crossings to island odysseys that test the mettle of the best sea captains, these boat journeys can be the high point of any trip.

Whales and dolphins may have proved elusive, but the islands off Cornwall cannot fail to impress with their subtropical plants and Caribbean-like beaches

At Penzance South Pier, I stand in line for the Scillonian ferry with a few hundred others as the disembarking passengers come past. They look tanned and exhilarated. People are yelling greetings and goodbyes across the barrier. “It’s you again!” “See you next year!” A lot of people seem to be repeat visitors, and have brought their dogs along.

I’m with my daughter Maddy and we haven’t got our dog. Sadly, Wilf the fell terrier died shortly before our excursion. I’m hoping a wildlife-watching trip to the Isles of Scilly might distract us from his absence.

Exploring the magical landscape that inspired Narnia and stars as a location in Game of Thrones – just an hour outside of Belfast

Where is the finest mountain panorama in the UK? As a nine-year-old I was taken up Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) and told it was the best. Even in those days, it was a struggle to see much except the backs of other people. The following summer Scafell Pike got the same treatment and the next year we climbed Ben Nevis. I disagreed on all counts. For me, Thorpe Cloud in Dovedale was unbeatable, despite it being under a thousand feet tall. What convinced me was the diminutive Derbyshire peak’s shape: a proper pointy summit with clear space all around, plus grassy slopes that you could roll down. The champion trio could not compare.

This panorama question is in my mind as I begin hiking up Slieve Donard, Northern Ireland’s highest peak (at 850 metres), but a mountain often forgotten by those listing their UK hiking achievements. And a proper peak it is too, with a great sweeping drop to the sea and loads of space all around, guaranteeing, I reckon, a view to beat its more famous rivals.

Our writer recalls his favourite mountain experiences, from hard-won views to splendid isolation and the comforts of simple refuges

After a tough scramble to the summit of Rhinog Fach, we look down into the deep valley holding the chilly waters of Llyn Hywel, then west across several miles of heather, bilberry and bare rock to the Welsh coast. Turning my gaze north, there is the entire Llyn peninsula leading east to the peak of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon), no doubt weighed down by thousands of visitors. Up here there are just two of us in an utterly peaceful landscape. No clouds on the horizon. No surprises.

I lie down for a few minutes and feel myself drift off. There are no human voices to be heard, only birds. Summer has come early to these mountains and I wouldn’t be anywhere else, drinking in that particular kind of tranquillity to be found on a peak under a blue sky.