The first time we walked to it, we started at the village of Peneda, nestled in the depths of a ravine close to the border with Spain. It was a sunny afternoon in February and the receptionist in the village’s small hotel suggested we tackle the short route, under 1.5km, to see the lake. It sounded like a pleasant stroll, but it turned out to be 1.5km straight up a mountain. Well, not quite straight up as the old, cobbled trading path zigged and zagged its way up the side of a ravine which rose like a wall above the Santuario de Nossa Senhora da Peneda, an eye-catching piece of religious architecture which resembles a mini version of Braga’s Bom Jesus do Monte.

The small lake, an intense blue oasis in a sea of gigantic grey boulders and ruddy brown bracken, was a surprising jewel in the rugged landscape. Of course, we knew it was there, it was the reason for torturing our thigh muscles after all, but the sight of the splash of blue crowning the mountain still came as a surprise. We plonked ourselves down at the water’s edge and replenished expended energy with the hikers’ staple, a cheese and ham baguette, while a long-horned Cachena cow lapped languidly at the water a few yards away.

It felt like stumbling across a secret.

Stumbling across ‘secrets’ is a travel writing cliché, designed to make a visit to relatively well-known places sound more like a discovery. And yet, on some occasions it can feel as if that is exactly what it is. Peneda-Gerês is not an area that is particularly well known outside of Portugal. Not only that, walking it without a guide or directions isn’t easy, which keeps the number of visitors low. The path from Peneda is straightforward-ish but tackling the route from other directions isn’t.

An alternative route to the mountain lake in Peneda-Gerês

The second time we walked to the mountain lake we started at Rouças, a village at the mouth of a ravine to the west of Peneda. The first section was easy to follow. However, at Gaveira markings went AWOL, and the assistance of a local woman with a mountain of straw balanced on her back was required. Even she wasn’t too sure about the correct onward route. Now that a proper road connects Gaveira with Peneda, there’s no need for villagers to hoof it across the mountains.

From Gaveira, the path took us through forest glades and across granite slabs over gurgling brooks, climbing out of pastoral lands where granite villages tumbled down the hillside to meet emerald terraces carved into the slopes. It felt like a part of Portugal which was frozen in time, a feeling aided and abetted by the encounter with the woman carrying bedding for cattle.

As we ascended, a more gradual incline than from Peneda but still decent enough, pines and greenery became scarcer, replaced by ferns and hardy shrubs until we traversed the massif’s bald head, a smooth-ish curve mainly made up of huge boulders. Panoramic views across Peneda-Gerês unravelled with every step. It is on this stretch especially that finding waymarks can be difficult. Spotting the evidence of others who have passed this way isn’t so easy when the ground is made from granite rock. It’s at these times a map and compass prove their worth.

And then the pântano appeared, the small artificial lake as deep blue and welcoming as the last time we visited it. It is a gloriously wild part of Portugal, a rugged land roamed by Cachena cattle, wild Garrano horses, and a few Iberian wolves.

Approaching the route from the west rewards doubly. First, the descent into Peneda isn’t as taxing as the ascent out of Peneda, and looking down on the village squeezed into the ravine below is a spectacular climax. The second is the overwhelming sense of achievement at crossing the mountains to arrive virtually at the door of the Santuario de Nossa Senhora da Peneda.

It was more than reaching the end of a walking route, it felt like we’d completed a pilgrimage.

Staying in Santo da Serra, we arrived at the parking area for the walk relatively early, yet it was already rammed. So much so, a human caterpillar stretched along the peninsula’s ridge, looking like a line of ants trundling off into the sunrise. It was also hot, 30C hot, and without shade. We set off along the earthy path with a grumble – it was too hot and there were far too many people dressed for that essential Instagram shot overlooking an ocean that was as shimmery as some of the make-up on show. We managed a kilometre or so before I declared ‘this isn’t working for me.’ Andy agreed. With more and more cars lining up desperately seeking somewhere to park, we fled to the tranquillity of hills at Santo da Serra to regroup and come up with another plan.

Walking on Madeira, unplanned Levada de Serra

Having lost most of the morning, we stayed local. A five-minute drive from the Hotel PortoBay Serra Golf and we were parked on a dirt track leading to the Levada de Serra. It was bliss. There were no other people, the dappled shade was cooling, the air filled with the tube-clearing scent of eucalyptus, and we’d gone the wrong way. My fault. I could say I misread a map which didn’t quite accurately reflect the lay of the land. But the truth was I was rushing, so didn’t take the time to check my surroundings carefully enough. We were following a levada, how can you go wrong? This rookie error resulted in us following the levada south instead of northwest. The result was a walk which was pleasant – with montbretia and hydrangea lining a path which gave occasional glimpses of fertile valleys (that reminded me of parts of the western Canary Islands), the south coast, and the crowded peninsula we left in our wake – without being outstanding.

An 11km out and back route got us back to Santo da Serra in time for a Super Bock Preto on the terrace of a friendly bar/café in the village. It wasn’t either of the walks we planned but it was good enough to save a day that had been in danger of being a bust.

Walking on Madeira, Levada Nova & the coast

After walking for 360m, we were both bent over gasping for breath. The ascent was meaty, 150m over a kilometre, and the sun pounded down mercilessly, but it was four months of not walking that was really responsible. A tip saved us some of the ascent – park at Pedregal instead of Ponta do Pargo – and we were grateful for it. The thing about levada walking is that following the levada itself isn’t challenging but getting to the levada often requires effort. But boy does that make you pleased when you level out. Following a circuit from Pedregal meant all the hard walking was mostly done at the start. This was a route of two halves. The first involved the climb and sticking with Levada Nova as it travelled north. Another thing about levada walking is, because you’re following the winding route of a water channel, there’s little need for navigation. You can relax and enjoy the surroundings – on this case, views across the west coast and explosions of agapanthus along the path.

The second half of the route involved a steep descent where we met a British couple in their 70s on the way up. They usually visited in winter months when the weather was friendlier (i.e. not so hot for challenging ascents). From the Capela de Nossa Senhora de Boa Morte (not a name you want to see at the start of a challenging climb), the path undulated along the coast, passing through tiny agricultural hamlets before, 10.5km after setting off, we closed the anarchic circle back at Pedregal.

Walking on Madeira, Levada Nova heading east

The weather broke for our last two days on Madeira, with wind and rain replacing sunshine. A drive across the interior involved avoiding rockfall and navigating through fog so thick I felt as if I could have pulled tufts off as if they were cotton wool. Despite appalling weather, the car park at Fanal was packed. Subsequently, instead of trying one of the more popular routes, we spent our penultimate day walking a section of the Levada Nova from west to east.

There’s a convenient car park right beside the levada at the Paul do Mar exit from the VE3. As it was a misery of a day, I didn’t expect much, yet it turned out to be my favourite walk. For a start, the lack of September sunshine kept it cooler – you can always dress for cool, rainy weather but you can’t escape the heat. Plus, the rain mostly kept away, apart from some smirr now and again. The mist which had made driving so perilous added atmosphere to jungle-like surroundings. There was also a fascinating contrast between the old and the new. The levada hugged ravines and folds in the landscape while spanking new bridges stepped smartly across them, cutting out kilometres. In terms of variety, dense eucalyptus forest, swathes of sugar cane, white agapanthus, and Japanese chestnuts contrasted with the levada weaving its way through agricultural lands and traditional villages. It was a joy and, without any ascents or descents, we notched up 18km without even thinking about it.

Although this was a taster of walking on Madeira, we expected that by visiting at the end of the Portuguese summer holidays and before the winter walking season kicked in, the showcase paths would be quieter. Maybe they were, but compared to routes we’ve walked in the Canary Islands, they were still too busy for us, making us wonder if Madeira had become a victim of its own success and popularity. However, It’s a big enough island with a lot of potential walking routes. By avoiding the most popular ones, we ended up sharing trails with only a handful of other walkers.

However, to be prepared is half the battle when discovering new locations on foot. Here are some tips and information from our experiences of walking in Peneda-Gerês in spring, summer, autumn, and winter.

Where is Peneda-Gerês National Park?

Peneda-Gerês National Park, Portugal’s only national park, sits tucked into the undulating curves of the Spanish/Portuguese border in the far north of the country. Protected landscapes straddle the border in parts – Peneda-Gerês National Park on the Portuguese side, Baixa Limia, Serra do Xurés on the Spanish side.

Getting to the fringes of Peneda-Gerês National Park from Porto is relatively easy. After that, things become more complicated. Roads are decent enough, and enjoyable to drive – if you like country roads that wind through epic scenery and don’t mind giving way to the many animals which get priority – but getting from A to B can be a convoluted business. It’s a bit like negotiating the Highlands part of the West of Scotland. In some instances it can be quicker to drive through Spain to get to some areas of the park than it is to stay on roads in Portugal.

What sort of terrain will hikers encounter walking in Peneda-Gerês?

When it comes to hiking, the appeal of the terrain is vital as far as we are concerned, and walking in Peneda-Gerês doesn’t disappoint. There are rivers and waterfalls, dense forests, trails through pastoral lands, and across exposed mountain tops. This is an attractive, verdant, and diverse part of Portugal, which is partly why it’s our favourite area of the country for hiking.

What is the weather like?

People often consider the north of Spain and Portugal to be on the cooler side, but it’s all relative. I don’t think of either that way. Although Peneda-Gerês is in the north of Portugal, it’s still just further south than the likes of Corsica and Rome, place people don’t generally associate with being cold. Having walked in the area in all four seasons, we found winter and spring most comfortable for walking, with summer being far too hot, and even autumn having occasional uncomfortably hot days. Generally speaking, even in winter months you get warm days in Portugal, but it can be bitterly cold at night. Outside of summer, there is more possibility of rain. But we’ve never experienced much.

Is walking in Peneda-Gerês National Park difficult?

Is the walking difficult? I’d say it was relatively difficult, but not excessively so. The best walking in the park involves decent ascents (reaching over 1000m in some parts) and descents, and there are some seriously steep trails, so it’s not going to suit anybody seeking easy-ish paths with little climbing involved. I’d say it was comparable with some of the walking in the western Canary Islands; the Anaga region of Tenerife, for example.

Are hiking routes easy to follow for independent travellers?

Basically, this question means ‘can I just roll up in Peneda-Gerês and take to the trails without a guide or any directions?’ Personally, I think it would be risky unless you are a very good map reader and have experience of plotting routes. We did it and found routes to suit what we wanted. But a lot of planning had gone into this beforehand as we were putting together a holiday for hiking specialist Inntravel. Plus, for one reason or another, there were a few ‘amendments’ and ‘discarded’ routes during the actual walking of the routes. When we’re doing this as a job, we have time factored in for encountering unexpected problems, and there usually are some ‘problems’ irrespective of where the location is. When someone is on holiday, they don’t have the same luxury.

In our opinion, the infrastructure for walking in Portugal isn’t quite at the level of some other European countries. Subsequently, signposting can be a hit and miss affair. There were plans to improve this on some routes in the park, but it was still lacking the last time we walked there during the pandemic.

My advice to most people would be, to experience the best of Peneda-Gerês, hire a guide or book through a reputable self-guided walking holiday specialist.

Are walking routes varied and interesting?

For us, varied and interesting features are a prerequisite of any good walking route. Peneda-Gerês boasts interesting ingredients by the rucksack-load. A Roman road near Gerês , merchant trails linking villages, pilgrim routes through Peneda and above São Bento, hidden sanctuaries in the middle of the forest, wolf pits around Mezio, tiny granite villages and hamlets such as Soajo and Campo de Gerês, grain stores that look like tombs, bridges over streams and rivers, a spa town, mountain lakes, boulders the size of a titanosaur, free-roaming long-horn cattle, wild horses, and maybe, if you’re as lucky as we were, a wolf.

Are there plenty of accommodation options in Peneda-Gerês?

Quirky, individualistic accommodation is part of the appeal of staying and walking in Peneda-Gerês. There are all sorts, from traditional cottages and rural hotels to pilgrims’ hotels and a converted monastery. But they are all dotted about the place. When we go walking in Peneda-Gerês, we stay in a variety of locations to get the best coverage of the park. Because of the nature and shape of the park, it’s not practical to stay in the one location if you want to experience most of the best walking. It can take a long time to travel from one part of Peneda-Gerês to another, even if on the map it looks a relatively short distance as the crow flies.

If I were to recommend one place to use as a base, it would be the town of Gerês. In my view, the northern part of the park offers the most spectacular walking, but accommodation is limited. Gerês in the south of the park is a nice small town surrounded by forested hills. There’s a good choice of hotels and restaurants. It’s one of the more accessible areas and, as a result, can get busy with Portuguese visitors during some weekends. But that gives it a lively buzz which can make a nice contrast to the sleepy vibes of smaller settlements.

What’s the food like?

It’s surprisingly varied, but maybe not if you’re vegetarian. Meat from Cachena cattle is the big thing in Peneda-Gerês, and there are traditional restaurants serving it in every town. But there’s also good freshwater fish options, and octopus is as popular in these parts as it is in Galicia across the border. Mostly, the food is hearty traditional fare but there’s also quite sophisticated contemporary versions of Portuguese specialities to be found in restaurants in towns like Gerês and Arcos de Valdevez, and the Pousada at Amares. Whatever the dish, moreish batatas a murro (basically smashed potatoes) regularly turns up as the accompaniment. No complains from me for that.

Summary

Walking in Peneda-Gerês is hugely rewarding and reveals yet another fascinating face of Portugal. This is an area that remains still undiscovered by many British visitors. There are some routes which are becoming more popular but, to use a word I’ve applied a lot to Peneda-Gerês, that’s relative. When we’ve walked there, we’ve encountered mostly pilgrims, a few other hikers, and hardly heard another British voice.

But it doesn’t give up all its charms easily, Peneda-Gerês makes you work to experience the best it has to offer.

Nearly two years later, and with British Airways vouchers from the original planned trip about to expire, we finally made it to a British island that wasn’t part of Britain.

The base – St Aubin

St Aubin curves around the protective bay of the same name. A former fishing village, it instantly charmed, helped by the fact that within half an hour or so of landing, we were parked up and in our hotel room at the Somerville Hotel, an imposing and grand building on the hill overlooking the small town and St Aubin Bay. An easy transfer is always a good mood enhancer.

Although refurbished in 2022, the Somerville retains an elegant old school ambience about it, many of its guests falling into what could be described as the genteel category. I’ve never been in a hotel where 8am was such a popular time for breakfast, early-rising guests motivated by the desire to grab one of the front-line tables with views across the bay. It’s comfy and attractive with friendly staff, mostly (I did get a bit of a slap down one morning after asking where our toast was), and a very good restaurant. But at times it took itself a wee bit too seriously and could be on the quiet side … library quiet … care home quiet. One night, in the hotel’s bar, I found myself fantasising that a Randle P. McMurphy type character would appear to spice things up. To be fair, it did liven up when non-guest diners turned up to eat in the hotel’s excellent restaurant.

Overall, I did really like the hotel; it was an amenable and comfortable base, and our room had a hypnotic view over the bay.

St Aubin itself was perfect for us. Although small, it punches above its weight when it comes to its choice of restaurants. And it has a couple of nice bars (the Old Courthouse and the Boat House) which are convivial venues for chilling out at the end of a day’s exploration
It’s also in a great position for discovering Jersey on foot. We completed three walking routes just from the door of the hotel.

Highlights of Walking on Jersey

The Lothringen Battery

What a cracker of an intro to walking on Jersey – coastal paths, huge views, green lanes (roads where walkers, cyclists, and horse riders take precedence over cars), sweeping bays with golden sand beaches, potato fields, seafood shacks on the beach, unexpected bugloss spires (a plant I associate with Tenerife), Martello towers (reminiscent of ones we saw on Corsica) and the Noirmont headland with its well-preserved Coastal Artillery Battery from WWII. Where there are big guns, there are panoramic views. It’s a beautiful and fascinating spot.

The Devil’s Hole and La Mare

Walking from Grève de Lecq to the Devil’s Hole reminded us just how small Jersey is; we passed the Somerville’s receptionist on a country lane. Jersey is smaller than my home island of Bute, which blew my mind as Bute has 6,000 inhabitants whereas Jersey has 103,000 (but doesn’t feel in the slightest bit crowded). The undulating path across the clifftops was exhilarating, revealing a wilder northern coast. The Devil’s Hole itself was underwhelming, but that was probably because our journey to it was so scenic. Marking the halfway point of our route was a visit to La Mare Wine Estate where Canadian guide Caroline did a hilarious stand-up routine as she showed us around the estate (£14.95) and plied us with cider, cream liqueur, red wine, white wine, rosé, and a gin & tonic.

St Helier and Elizabeth Castle

I wouldn’t say St Helier is a pretty town, but Jersey’s capital does exude charm. It’s the place which felt most French to me, thanks to its pavement café society vibe and names like Le Petit Baguette. Highlights were Liberty Wharf with its restaurants, the colourful Central Market and its decorative fountain, and elegant department store de Gruchy. At the quay, the Steam Clock which looks like a ship’s funnels is an interesting curio, but these days there’s no steam action.

Our plan was to spend the morning in St Helier and the afternoon at nearby Samarés Botanic Gardens but, as we munched on pastries outside the upside-down-boat shaped La Frégate café, we spotted the ferry to Elizabeth Castle (£16.25) was an amphibian bus and changed plans immediately. What a blast. Even the ‘bus’s’ safety video is a hoot. The 16th century castle occupies 24 acres so exploring it constitutes a walking route in itself. A climb to the highest point rewards with views across the bay. Coincide a visit with the firing of the cannon as we did (unplanned) for an ear-ringing experience.

Inland to the Jersey War Tunnels

An inland route through Waterworks Valley revealed a different face to Jersey – serene bluebell woods with ponds, streams, and an enchanting chorus of birdsong. The biggest disappointment of our week was Hamptonne Country Life Museum (£10.30), allegedly a living museum. Apart from a wandering storyteller, there was no ‘living’ element to the place. Even the hens were hidden away because of bird flu. It’s an attractive farm, but the entrance fee is way overpriced.

The Jersey War Tunnels (£16) more than compensated. Exploring over 1,000m of tunnels 50m below ground was a poignant and extremely moving experience; tears were shed. It’s an informative and personal insight into life on Jersey during the Nazi occupation, and a must for anyone who wants to understand the island.

Railway line to La Corbiére Lighthouse

The old St Helier railway line makes for a pleasant path that connects St Aubin with La Corbiére, another Jersey landmark set out to sea and reached by a causeway. It’s a dramatic sight, even on the one dreary day we experienced during our trip. Maybe it was dramatic because it was moody weather, the sort of conditions that might have lured ships onto the treacherous rocks in the past. The return route followed the more challenging undulations of the coast. With the greater effort came bigger rewards, views over lovely Beauport Beach with its turquoise waters before the path descended into St Brelade’s Bay. St Brelade’s may be one of the most popular beaches on Jersey, but the resort itself felt quite soulless and left me cold.

Samarés Botanic Gardens & Mont Orgueil Castle

Initially Andy was underwhelmed by the gardens, but by the time we’d crossed the herb garden and the walled garden to enter the water gardens, she was a convert. Samarés (£9.75) is like a Russian doll version of gardens, peel away one layer and there’s another to find. Floral treasures and exquisitely landscaped gardens revealed themselves the more we explored. Even what we thought was a rather creatively titled ‘jungle path’ did turn out to be an overgrown jungle to negotiate. The Samarés Gardens are a delightful place to lose half a day or more.

Whereas a coastal route north from Gorey involved more of the same scenery we’d come to expect from walking on Jersey, entering Mont Orgueil Castle (£13.95) was an unexpected trip down the rabbit hole. On the face of it, the 13th century castle towering above the picturesque fishing village looks like a sombre fortress. But inside is a surreal and confusing maze of rooms and spiral stairways leading to dark corners and dungeons where you have no idea what awaits – sometimes its whimsical, at others positively disturbing. It is unlike any castle we’ve ever visited before, apart from maybe in Tarascon where Andy was chased by a giant silver squid.

Jersey in summary

As we breezed through Jersey Airport security to catch our fight home, a sight in the departure lounge summed up perfectly what Jersey is like. It was a stall selling bags of Jersey potatoes. There was nobody tending the stall, instead there was an honesty box.

An honesty box in an airport. It says it all.

I was taught how negotiate the countryside using a map when I was 14 and in the Army Cadets. For over a decade, I’ve helped design and put together walking holidays in off-the-beaten-track locations across Europe. And just about every time I work on one of these holidays, I learn something. It may be to do with a country and its terrain/climate. It could be to do with the ever-evolving world of navigational tools available to walkers. Or it could be something quite simple about the act of walking in the countryside which has somehow eluded me.

To commemorate National Walking Month in the UK, Slow Travel specialist Inntravel asked Andy and I to put together a comprehensive selection of top tips for people choosing their first walking holiday. It got us thinking seriously about the sort of advice walkers would benefit from knowing about. There was a seemingly endless amount of material, so the resulting article written by Andy is a meaty one.

Although its target is new walkers choosing their first walking holiday, the advice within it applies to walking anywhere and to walkers/hikers of varying levels. For example, you could be experienced at walking in Britain but have no experience of hiking in warmer climates or where the terrain is different. We’ve heard plenty of stories over the years about, and from, experienced walkers who encountered problems because they approached walking in another country in the same way as they would at home.

What the tips and advice for hikers article includes

Some of the tips in the article are common sense, but easily overlooked. Like making sure you know what time darkness falls. Others involve more technical considerations. What does ascending 200m in a kilometre actually mean? Do you check what the grade of a walking route is before setting off? One section is dedicated to how to choose the appropriate hiking gear. And there are also useful little personal tips which have worked well for us – as well as being soothing on dry lips Vaseline can help prevent blistered feet.

I’m a great believer in the phrase ‘failing to prepare is preparing to fail.’ It could have been invented specially for hiking, where the more work that goes into the planning, the smoother and more enjoyable the walking experience will be. So, whether you’re a new hiker who doesn’t know good hiking socks have L and R on them or are an experienced one who can breeze their way through unfamiliar terrain with map in hand, you should find something interesting and useful in the article.

And if there’s an essential hiking tip you know about that isn’t mentioned in the piece, please let me know.

I am always hungry to learn something new.

She has a point. Long, flat stretches beside a canal won’t pose much of a challenge to legs that have recently walked 200km of the Camino de Santiago. Once the thrill of seeing a couple of narrow boats chug by has evaporated, what then?

But there’s something about canals that evokes romanticised notions of olde world travel. They might have drifted away from mainstream life as quicker, more efficient modes of transport were developed, but they are still alluring; they are a connection to the past.

Abergavenny to Crickhowell

With the gentle curve of Blorenge Hill ahead, we cross Castle Meadows, home to sandmartins, Welsh Black Cattle, and tufted grasses used to make bonnets. A stone bridge over the River Usk leads to a path through the forest which was formerly a tramway where carts filled with coal or lime trundled between Monmouthshire and Hereford. Halfway along the tramway, we see a magpie riding a horse. Is it a good or bad portent? Who knows? The magpie nursery rhyme doesn’t mention a horse.

There’s a child-like thrill when we drop from the tramway to reach the canal. Despite having walked 3.5km, it feels like the proper start of our journey. Almost immediately, we arrive at Gavilon. Once a busy junction where the canal crossed beneath two tramroads, it’s now a biscuit-box scene of pretty cottages with small craft moored outside them. A parade of gaily coloured narrow boats decorate the towpath until we break free from urbanisation, albeit a rural version of it that still retains an air of the 1850s.

The towpath becomes less manicured where nature has snatched back land lost to relatively small-scale industrialisation. Ferns crowd the chocolate-coloured water; there are more ducks and moorhen than boats; many of the old bridges spanning the canal are overgrown to the point of being impossible to cross; and the leafy forest canopy closes in above, keeping us dry from gentle rainfall that adds a soporific pitter-patter soundtrack to our progress.

The rain becomes more persistent, and the tree cover less protective, as we draw closer to picturesque Crickhowell. Marking the point close to where we leave the canal are old lime kilns, still impressive even though they no longer belch out fire. A drenched information board depicts how they would have looked in their heyday – like the booming forges in Peaky Blinders. I hear Nick Cave singing Red Right Hand in my head. The heavy rain slapping us around the cheeks means we view the kilns through scrunched up eyes for only the briefest of periods. I’m gutted it’s far too wet to attempt a photograph.

Crickhowell to Brecon

After a day exploring the hills around Crickhowell, and two nights enjoying the irresistible hospitality of the Bear Hotel (Welsh faggots and Butty Bach beer), we return to the canal, re-joining it on a sunny summer morning at Llangynidr where five locks raise boats 48 feet. A man with a silver ponytail opens a lock as casually as if he’s resting against a wall – leaning back against a long, wooden beam, the paddle, to ease open sluggish gates. Meanwhile, nervous-looking rookie barge pilots manoeuvre their craft through the enterprising series of water lifts, whilst dogs on the bank bark excited hellos at their skittery counterparts on narrow boats. It’s a lively wee spot … well, as lively as it gets on the canal.

The towpath becomes wilder again beyond the locks. We part company with it to follow a route up to the Talybont Reservoir, giving leg muscles a shock awakening in the process. It feels odd to be leaving the canal. In fact, despite the beauty of the Brecon Beacons around us, I miss it. It feels like meeting up with an old friend when we re-join it at Talybont-on-Usk where the sun-swathed beer gardens of a brace of pubs call us like seductive sirens. If we didn’t have 12km to walk we’d give in to temptation, instead we continue onwards, reluctantly leaving the cheery glass-clinking behind.

After passing another ingenious contraption, a drawbridge designed so a single person can operate it, we reach a small community of houseboats in the forest; the bright designs on the slender boats made even more vibrant by the dappled sunlight which shimmers across their surfaces. Some have wooden terraces beside them. On one, a woman with a mane of unruly black hair lounges against a bleached wooden railing, smiling as she talks to a man nursing a glass of white wine on a canvas chair on the next boat – neighbours enjoying a chat on a warm summer afternoon. Both ooze an air of relaxed contentment. It’s an idyllic scene, painting a rose-tinted picture of a life on the canal which, at this moment, looks particularly appealing. We’ve lived in a cowshed and a wine press, why not on a canal barge?

Daydreaming of a simple life on the Welsh waterways, we move on, pausing to watch a pair of elegant adult swans and their signets sun their feathers on the opposite bank as a couple in a kayak glide past with a “they’re getting bigger every day.” People chat easily on these towpaths, there’s a friendliness that warms our hearts, dissolving fears of the ugly, intolerant nation we’d find on our return to Britain – the Britain portrayed by some on social and mainstream media.

As we draw closer to Brecon, we see a red and black narrow boat way ahead. Even though we’re sauntering, each step shortens the distance between us and the barge. It doesn’t take long before we draw level and then overtake it, smiling a “hello” to its pilot. There is Slow Travel, and then there’s slow travel. What a lovely way to explore the countryside though; the sights to be seen along the way must be quite different from the water.

With Brecon Basin coming into view, we ponder whether the amount of time we’ve spent canal-side has been boring. It’s proved a fascinating historical insight into the area, but what’s been more interesting is just how alive the canal is – human activity, wildlife, and flora all contributing to a gentle yet compelling rhythm that is quite different from anything else. It’s a constantly-changing world where the next person’s experience will be completely different from ours.

How could that ever be boring?

A very brief stint in the Marines took my map-reading skills to another level. And then that was it. OS and I parted company for a long, long time.

When we started writing hiking route directions on Tenerife, we didn’t use maps to find our way around. For a start, there weren’t any maps of OS standard; the best were more of use as ‘guidelines’ than accurately detailed depictions of the terrain. So, there was a lot of hit and miss as we explored ravines which petered out at dead ends and sheer cliff faces, or forest paths which disappeared into impenetrable walls of sub-tropical foliage. One of the taglines for our Tenerife hiking routes was ‘we get lost so you don’t have to.’

When we expanded our route-finding skills and started working with UK specialists Inntravel to create walking holidays on the other Canary Islands and then further afield in various European countries, the maps we used were of varying quality. Some, like Portuguese Military Maps, were more detailed than others, but not of the standard of OS. When creating hiking routes, we have plenty of other tools to assist us – online mapping systems, Google Earth which we use to create GPX routes we can follow using our Garmin, and so on. But for all the advances in modern technology, none are as reliable as the good old OS Map.

Shortly after we returned to the UK in June 2021, we were tasked with recording a series of walking routes along and around the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal. Clearly the canal-walking part of the routes was not difficult to plot out, but when we veered from it along public footpaths into the hills it was a completely different story, especially after a couple of years of paths not being maintained had resulted in Mother Nature doing her damnedest to reclaim them as her own.

On our very first route, a circuit from Abergavenny, we hadn’t received our OS Maps for the area, but we did have a GPX track for the route, and phone apps to assist us. All went well until we found ourselves in a farmyard with no onward route to follow. We backtracked, and checked if we’d missed a turning, but there was nowhere else to go, and we were still on the GPX track. It was a mystery. With no obvious solution, we phoned our friend, James, at Inntravel, and he sent us a photo of the relevant section of his OS Map. Within minutes, the mystery was solved. A couple of hundred metres before the farm, the footpath veered off the track we’d been following to then run parallel through a field. It was as clear as day on the OS Map. On the ground it was impossible to spot as ferns had sprouted to obscure the point where the paths parted company, and a dense hedge separated the track we’d been on from the true path. They were so close, the GPX track looked correct (anyone who knows GPX knows its not as exact as many people might think). Back on track, we completed the route. When we returned to our hotel, we found our OS Maps had been delivered. Boy, was I glad to see them.

Within a couple of hours of heading across fields with no markers, encountering impassable paths, crossing moors where every track looked the same, and confidently wandering into farmyards, I was gushing to Andy about how brilliant OS Maps were, and how people simply couldn’t follow these routes without one (unless they had directions). Even though it was summer, and newspapers were reporting how congested Britain’s walking paths were, we met very few other walkers. Despite all the pre-planning and having GPX tracks, mobile phone apps etc. we would not have been able to complete the routes for the walking holiday without our OS Maps.

My love of them was well and truly rekindled.

Another memory was evoked on a hillside in the Brecon Beacons. OS Maps are still unwieldy buggers to try to manoeuvre when the wind is howling and the rain machine-gunning you.

Stage 1: From the border to O Porriño

A TV news crew awaits us as we cross the iron bridge connecting the sleepy Portuguese town of Valença with its wide-awake Spanish neighbour Tui on the opposite side of the river. Tui is wide-awake because it’s an hour ahead. This is a bridge on which you can travel back and forward in time.

The beam on the face of the newsman slips into the River Minho when he hears our English-speaking voices. It’s the first day for months the border between the two countries has been open, and he expected a Spanish or Portuguese local to come ambling into camera shot, not two British hikers. We’re waved away, our opportunity to be stars of Portuguese TV snatched from us because we are the wrong nationality.

Not only is there an absence of locals, there’s also a noticeable lack of fellow pilgrims as we pass our first milestone featuring a yellow scallop shell.

Stage 2: From O Porriño to Saramagoso

In some ways, the Camino is an elongated ghost town. Locals go about their business with relative normality, but a lack of pilgrims has devastated the industry which has grown up around their passing. Many restaurants, bars, cafés, albergues, pensions etc. are closed. Finding places to add stamps to our credencial (the Camino passport) proves problematic.

We pass a tiny chapel barely bigger than a garden shed where a DIY pilgrim stamp had been left on a wooden pew. It seems appropriate that, on a pilgrim’s way, a religious edifice is our saviour.

Stage 3: From Saramagoso to Pontevedra

The mask is a nuisance. It’s not quite as bad as having iron shackles around the legs, but it’s still an impediment when walking long distances. Spain’s rules about it being compulsory outdoors in urban areas, even hamlets, means there’s more mask-wearing than we’d like. On an optimistically sunny morning, the old bridge at the oyster-loving town of Alcalde would make for a great shot to feature in a brochure, especially with a pilgrim on the ‘pilgrim bench’ in the foreground … but not one wearing a face mask.

A combination of lockdown restrictions and walking on tarmac over long distances (it’s the Camino, this is unavoidable) has left our feet sore and mutinous. Andy’s trusty boots, which have safely helped her over far more difficult terrain, are now peevishly pinching at her toes to the extent she’s hobbling.

Luckily, and essentially, we have a rest day in the heart of the historic quarter of Pontevedra, an instantly loveable city we’d never heard of previously. Andy buys new boots and holds a virtual launch for  her book The Banana Road from the luxurious comfort of the Parador de Pontevedra.

Stage 4: From Pontevedra to Armenteira

With feet rested and raring to take to the Portuguese Way again, we cross the river and are on the outskirts of the city when a woman in a car draws level and rolls down her window.
“Que alegre a ver peregrinos,” she smiles, eyes welling.
How happy I am to see pilgrims. It hits like a punch to the solar plexus. Why there have been so many smiles. Why there have been people hanging out windows to shout “hola”. Two pilgrims on the path represent the beginning of a return to normality.

We leave the main Camino to follow the less well-known Variante Espiritual through the Rias Baixas, and the scenery moves up a gear. Pausing for lunch on a bench below a stone cross in the fishing village of Combarro on the banks of the Pontevedra River, we agree it’s the best stage of the Camino we’ve walked so far.

Stage 5: From Armenteira to Vilanova de Arousa

After descending from a monastery in the forest, keeping pace with a roving stream which dances past waterfalls and ancient mills, we follow the gentle curves of the River Umia, declaring THIS stage to be the best so far.

The day ends with us crossing a pedestrian bridge to arrive in Vilanova de Arousa, our base for the night. Or it would be if the town hadn’t just been put back into full lockdown due to a Covid outbreak. Vilanova really is a ghost town.

A taxi backtracks us to our previous night’s accommodation, which is no hardship as it’s a gorgeous looking quinta with a great restaurant.

Stage 4: From Vilanova de Arousa to Lestrove

Arriving back in a seemingly deserted Vilanova ships us right back to the surreal and scary days of lockdown part 1 in early 2020. We hover nervously at the harbour, waiting for a pilgrims’ boat to take us on a quite unique fourth stage. We’re the only passengers as we chug upriver, passing mussel platforms, stone crosses on islets on the Ulla River, and a Viking longship, to re-join the main Camino de Santiago at Pontecesures. It’s an invigorating two-and-a-half-hour voyage, which we decide is definitely the best section of the Camino we’ve (not) walked.

We overnight in Lestrove. Its neighbour is the small town of Padrón, as in pimientos de Padron. This excites me, until a waiter at the Pulpería Rial informs us the savoury peppers are not in season. I wasn’t even aware they had seasons. The excellent octopus combined with zingy wine served in a cunca (traditional Galician wine cup) compensate.

Stage 4: From Lestrove to Santiago de Compostela

The anticipation of reaching Santiago Compostela washes away the kilometres on our lengthy final stage, as does the rain when we draw closer to Spain’s equivalent of Manchester. After a week of warm sunshine, which was predicted to be a week of unsettled weather, we finally get to don ponchos, which keep us so cosy and dry it feels and looks like we’re walking in mobile tents.

The Camino we follow magically bypasses most of Santiago’s sprawling outskirts, keeping our surroundings green and tranquil until we emerge into urbanity not too far from the historic centre.

The last time we entered Santiago de Compostela, we did so on the crest of a wave of pilgrims, homing in on the joyous sounds of emotional emancipation coming from Praza do Obradoiro. This time there is no weary but exuberant army besieging the square, only us.
Ironically, for a city whose heart is normally fuelled by a constant flow of pilgrims, we feel out of place among the smartly dressed domingueros. We enter the square and cross to its centre.
“That’s it, we’re done,” I remark matter-of-factly to Andy, with all the emotion of an android.
There’s no hugging, weeping, or big cheesy smiles to chase away the gloomy clouds. Despite having notched up nearly 200km, there’s not even a great sense of achievement.

There have been many memorable highlights, and we’ve enjoyed walking day after day through the Galician countryside. Being the only pilgrims has also been an interesting experience. But the quiet Camino has taught us one thing. It is all about the people who travel it.

Without fellow pilgrims the Camino is just another long-distance walking route.