At lunch the other day, the man sitting next to me mentioned Austria and how beautiful a country it was. Meeting Brits who appreciate just how stunning Austria is seems to be a rarity. I can remember a woman I worked with a couple of decades ago who gushed about Austria, and that’s about it. Whenever I mention it to anyone when we’re talking about destinations we’ve particularly enjoyed, I can see most losing interest before the second A of Austria leaves my mouth. It’s just not considered sexy. And yet, when I think of views that have embedded themselves deeply in my mind, Zweiselalm above Gosausee is one which automatically bustles its way into one of the top places.

Many of my favourite viewpoints involve relatively serious hiking to reach them. It’s partly that exclusivity which makes them so appealing. In this case, anyone who doesn’t have a fear of heights can enjoy the dramatic vistas from Zweiselalm as a cable car zips people from lakeside to mountaintop in minutes. The scenery around Vorderer Gosausee itself is such that it can be difficult to drag yourself away from gazing across the jade, mirror-glass surface of the lake to the hard limestone crags of the Dachstein Mountains towering above its southern shore. But the views from above are even more impressive, with high pastures thrown into the mix of lakes and mountain peaks to add even more contrast.

Adding comfort and bookending the cable car are mountain hüttes serving hearty Austrian specialities. Lakeside, we enjoyed apple strudel and custard, while at one the mountain hüttes on high, we replenished expended energy by tucking into post-hike jausenbrettl (cheese, meat, and pickles – a bit like an Austrian ploughman’s lunch) serenaded by the musical clanging of cowbells.
It is gasp-inducing beautiful. Breath-taking is overused when describing scenery, casually thrown about even for the ‘well, it’s okay’ variety. But sometimes it is truly justified, as is the case with Zweiselalm above Gosausee.

However, Zweiselalm and Vorderer Gosausee do attract crowds at certain times of the year. But here’s another good thing. Like many natural tourist hotspots, the majority of people stick to the most accessible areas. Once you’re high in the mountains, there are many tracks leading away from the masses and to spots where you can have that glorious Austrian countryside all to yourself, and maybe a few bell-ringing bovines.

Recently, Andy and I contributed text and images for an article about the Canary Islands. The images the magazine initially chose showed only the arid, volcanic side to islands even though I’d provided a mix of scenery, designed to show how green some parts were. Unfortunately, this portrayal of the Canaries as being arid rocks isn’t uncommon, and yet the reality couldn’t be more different, as illustrated by one of my favourite views in the archipelago, this vista from above Tejeda on Gran Canaria.

I must admit to being selfish when it comes to spots where there are outstanding views. I especially like those which require some effort to get to, where there are no nearby lay-bys or car parks where coaches can disgorge hundreds of people who reap the same rewards for the paltry investment of a handful of steps. It’s important that there are accessible viewpoints where the beauty of nature can be shared by everyone, but I also want places which remain unspoilt, where to enjoy them involves an immersion in and an appreciation of the surrounding countryside. This spot between Cruz de Tejeda and the cave village of Artenara is one such place.

Whenever we’ve walked the route, we started at Cruz de Tejeda, meaning there’s a meaty ascent before we reach the ridge which traverses Gran Canaria’s mountainous central region. It’s a world of pine and almond trees, of ancient caves with fertility symbols painted on their rough walls, and of epic views of the island’s interior canyons, valleys, and peaks, including the iconic Roque Nublo on the other side of the great valley.

Whilst crowds gather at the base of that sacred rock, those who walk this cumbre get to enjoy Gran Canaria’s remarkable panoramas all to themselves.

It’s powerful marketing, and it works. It doesn’t even matter if you know it’s marketing because it’s not a trick, it’s a promise. We booked a trip to Chile largely thanks to seeing a photo of a man standing on a plateau with his arms wide, mimicking a condor directly in front of him. We stood in the same spot (image above). We even met the man who was in the photo, but I never got the shot. It was a hell of an experience though.

Whenever we head to any destination, I make a tick list of images I want. Sometimes I have a good idea of what the ‘I want to stand on that spot image’ is, at others it presents itself, and sometimes local advice proves invaluable.

The crater rim, Teide National Park, Tenerife

I used a similar image in my Big Finish article for Inntravel, because it is one of the greatest WOW travel moments I’ve experienced. It doesn’t take much effort to enjoy spectacular views of Mount Teide, but it does to get this shot. It’s an other-worldly panorama which doesn’t reveal itself until the very last moment.

Dubrovnik old town

We were guinea pigs for the first Game of Thrones city tour of Dubrovnik. We hadn’t even seen the show at that point so had to busk a little. To our surprise, our guide didn’t initially take us into the old town. Instead, she led us to Lovrijenic, a fortress outside the main gates. It was a perfect vantage point for shots of the city … and there were no crowds.

The Matterhorn, Zermatt

I occasionally like to include food and/drink in a shot with a standout landmark. Where a shot like the Teide one involves hard work, a restaurant with a view is accessible to just about anyone. In this case, there are a number of hooks in the image; a restaurant with views of the Matterhorn; blue skies and outside dining in a stunner of a setting; and a signature dish, the famous Vrony burger.

The Eagle’s Nest, Berchtesgaden

Historic sites add gravitas to already impressive scenic high points. To stand in a spot, above the eagles and, easier to spot, paragliders which was a 50th birthday present to one the most reviled world leaders in history, Adolf Hitler, sends a shiver down the spine. The Eagle’s Nest (the nickname given to it by US soldiers) is appropriately named.

Church of the Saintes Maries de la Mer, Camargue

Stumbling across the quirky and unexpected, ‘I want to be there’ shots can be the most satisfying as you feel like you’ve got something not so many people know about. Churches are often good for views across historic towns, but this was the first I’ve seen where visitors were allowed to scamper across the roof.

The Douro Valley, Portugal

Watching an old black and white film in a Port cellar in Porto had me yearning to travel up the Douro Valley. It showed workers toiling in sculpted vineyards on steep slopes above a serpent-shaped river. The reality matched the images, with the river looking as alluring today as when the film was made.

The Greeting to the Sun, Zadar

This was a ‘tick list’ shot; one I knew I wanted before we set foot in Zadar. Most times, I have to shoot on the hoof, hoping the weather gods are feeling benevolent toward me. On this occasion, the weather was beautiful, and the sunset lasted for an eternity. It oozes a sense of a warm night by the sea.

The Black Forest in Autumn

Taking pictures to be used for a summer holiday when it was late autumn was highly frustrating. It was dreich and dreary most days, turning to sleet and ice at one point. It was one of the few times my tick list went out of the window. There was no charming woodman’s cottage, with smoked billowing out of its chimney, huddled in the embrace of the dark forest. There were some eye-catching autumnal colours, but even then, the weather was so poor the images don’t hold up to closer inspection. They did end up looking enticing on the website though.

Valle Gran Rey, La Gomera

When we moved to Tenerife in 2003, a friend gave us the Tenerife & La Gomera Insight Guide. One of the pictures in it showed vibrantly green, terraced slopes at Valle Gran Rey on La Gomera. It was an image which made me realise just how exotic the Canary Islands could be; the scene could have been somewhere in South America. I wanted that shot. Despite visiting the island loads of times, it took me until 2016 to actually get it.

A Beach – It doesn’t matter where

Finally, there’s the perennial crowd-pleaser – turquoise seas lapping a golden sand beach on a sunny day. It doesn’t really matter where, it’ll have people ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ and daydreaming of wiggling their toes in the sand. I’ve seen plenty of beach scene images on social media where there are ugly, rectangular, characterless buildings in the background and yet there are still reams of comments saying ‘beautiful, I wish I was there.’

There’s no real satisfaction in ones like that though, they’re the Maccie D’s of travel photography.

I’ve had a desire to ski down glistening white slopes ever since seeing On Her Majesty’s Secret Service at the Regal Cinema in Rothesay on the Isle of Bute. However, I’ve still to attach a pair of long sticks to my feet, so I can confirm from first-hand experience you don’t need to know how to ski to enjoy snow resorts.

1: Sensational scenery

Even unappealing urban landscapes are transformed by a generous dusting of white powder, so views which already slot into the feast-for-the-eyes category are elevated into something quite, and I don’t apologise for using this word as it’s the one which always springs to mind, magical.

2: Walking in the snow

I thought it would be difficult. I thought I’d be slip-sliding my way from point A to point B. If anything, I found walking in the snow easier than walking in some snow-less environments (I’m talking about you, tree-root ridden and leaf strewn forest paths). Either paths are flattened, or the snow is so deep that it’s like walking on a crisp cushion. As most people are in snowy destinations to ski, it’s often just you alone with nature on these paths. After all, the song is about ‘walking in a winter wonderland’ not skiing.’

3: It’s exciting

You don’t need any skills to be able to scream down a slope on a toboggan, apart from knowing how to stay on when there’s a corner. For anyone after some hi-octane activities, there’s usually something on offer. In Zermatt, we were ‘accidentally’ given speed toboggans. When I wrote ‘scream down a slope’ I meant it literally. But it was a blast. There’s no photos of us tobogganing, so here’s another exciting way of getting around.

4: Bond villain lairs

Snow breaks generally involve mountain scenery, and where there are mountains there is usually at least one construction high on a hillside somewhere which resembles a Bond Villain lair, probably because it has been used as a setting for one. As well as firing up the imagination, there are other reasons for visiting these lofty places – views, bars, restaurants, shopping, hotel, cheesy ice sculptures in ice tunnels etc.

5: Lodges

If there’s one thing winter snow destinations do exceptionally well it’s having lots of places for a bit of R&R, especially halfway up mountains or in clearings in the forest. Baby, when it’s cold outside there are few things as welcoming as a roaring log fire, and the Christmas-card-cover lodges you find in snowy location are experts at creating cosy environments to get to know the local booze.

6: But it’s not always cold outside

The weirdest thing is that it’s not always cold, even when temps are well into minus figures. When there’s not a cloud in the intense blue sky, the sun does its best to give a warm(ish) hug, making outdoor terraces as popular as indoor. It messed with my mind a bit to sit on a terrace when it was -7C and have to take my jacket off because I was too warm.

7: Snow is fun

It’s something we’ve all known since we were children. That sense of wonder snow brings when it falls never goes away, nor does the fun of a snowball fight, bumping a tree as friends walk under it so they are bathed in a frosty downfall, stepping into a snowdrift that comes up to your chest, or making silly butterfly shapes in the deep snow with your body.

8: Quirks

We love the peculiar oddities you find in different destinations when you travel, the little things that glue themselves to the memory. In Zermatt, it was a walk to an igloo village. Sitting sipping a hot coffee outside an igloo with views of the Matterhorn reflected in the sunglasses was quite the coolest thing. I now have drink in an ice bar, go on a torchlit stroll, and captain a team of huskies on my snow quirk list.

9: Getting about in style

Due to the nature of wintery landscapes, getting around snowy worlds is an interesting and fun activity in itself. We’ve notched up panoramic rail journeys, trundling up hillsides on funiculars and, my personal favourite, silently gliding across a silent white world in a cable car cabin. One lasting memory is of noting just how many animal tracks patterned the white carpet below during one early morning ‘glide.’ Forests must be busy places after dark.

10: Après ski

It’s called après ski, but there’s no rule to say you have to have actually done any skiing to enter a bar to relax and socialise after a cool day on the slopes. Clinking glasses in a convivial bar is a satisfying way to toast the end of a day enjoying the white stuff, whatever you’ve been doing. And there are great bars to indulge in some après snow. One of the hotels I’ve been writing about had an aquavit bar in what was the former goat barn. Another was also home to the village inn, a bar which, according to their website, was frequented by “…unconventional thinkers and fruitcakes…” among others. That description alone would have me booking in.

And there was no mention of skiers.

But there are glorious days which anarchically whip through Vivaldi’s violin concerti at pace, showing no respect to sequence; winter follows spring, autumn shoulder barges winter out of the way, and summer… well, summer’s the runt of the litter, only managing to get a look in for brief periods before her bullying siblings dominate again. It makes for dramatic weather, and the most exquisite light, even when half the sky is gloomy.

A trip from Scotland’s lowlands into an increasingly wild north matches the drama of constantly changing seasons; the metamorphosing landscape adding its own crescendos and diminuendos.

Rolling along in the borders
In southern Europe September is still summer; the sun hot, the land dry and gasping for water. On a gentle hillside near Thornhill in Dumfries and Galloway there’s a late autumnal feel. The sun is shining, but the soft curves of hills that are really just bumps with aspirations are a mix of emerald green and olive. There are even scarlet berries on threadbare bushes. This is sleepy, non-challenging walking country; a land of farmers and fields. Scotland’s right to roam laws mean we can traipse across this beguiling land without fear of incurring the wrath of any irate, tweed-wearing farmer.

Roaming and Roman
A handful of miles further north at Durisdeer and the terrain shows signs of hardening, the southern softness holding hands with shaven hills which might be considered bleak if it weren’t for their curvaceousness and shortbread tin-worthy rustic hues. An ancient Roman road snakes through bare hills populated by sheep who perch on slopes as well as panicky partridges who forget they have wings. Underfoot becomes boggy marsh, slowing progress to a squelching snail’s pace. The terrain may look benign, but it’s a sheep in wolves clothing of a trail. We set off wearing jackets bought to keep us warm on Chilean glaciers and end in tee-shirts.

Sunshine and showers
Heading north and west we rest overnight in Rabbie Burns’ territory, a land where the countryside flows along as pleasingly as one of the Bard of Ayrshire’s poems. The sun dances on a rushing river of the sort you’d expect to find leaping salmon and men in deerstalker caps and fishing waders. In Scotland it pays to keep one eye on the sky. The pale gold orb might be smiling on us but there’s a bruised stain spreading from the east. We quicken our pace and reach the shelter of our hotel just as the first drops pitter-patter on moss-coloured pavements. Five minutes later and the river is obscured by a deluge.

Islets and inlets
Ah, the West of Scotland. My homeland and, the industrialised Clydeside section aside, one of the most beautiful places on the planet; a wild and carefree labyrinthine coastline decorated by sea lochs, islands and royal purple mountains. Some islands snuggle so closely to the mainland you wouldn’t recognise them as being detached. Tiny, humpbacked Clachan Bridge separates one of these, Seil, from the mainland. It’s ironically known as the Bridge over the Atlantic.

Bleak house
With each mile travelled north the land becomes that little bit more raw and rugged, views revealing a ravishing, but remote and weather-ravaged region. It is hard to imagine life in such an environment – harsh yet enchanting. Many years ago, as a fresh-faced civil servant, I had to interview people who moved to places like this, attracted by the lure of unspoiled beauty. A significant amount suffered from depression. Charmed by looks, many were simply unprepared for the reality of life in this untamed paradise.

Land of lochs
Sunrise on the banks of Loch Feochan; the loch’s water is still enough to tempt Jesus wannabes to try to walk on the surface as it appears solid. I’m not an early morning person, but I can appreciate those who are; there’s a magical quality to this time of day, as though the world has been put on pause for a short period, allowing us to enjoy it all to ourselves. Soon fish will rouse themselves and kiss the surface, mallards will create V formations, and then a log-laden ship will completely shatter the liquid glass as it heads for the open sea.

This IS Scotland
Could this scene be anywhere else other than Scotland? It has all the requisite ingredients – the loch, white cottages, heathery hills, pine thickets, and a history as dark as the deepest parts of Loch Leven. Close to here is the site of the Massacre of Glencoe when government soldiers (members of clan Campbell) acting on official orders murdered 38 members of the MacDonald clan; the very Highlanders who had shown them hospitality by sheltering and feeding them for the previous 12 days.

Castles on lochs
In the West of Scotland Castles there are so many castles on, or beside, lochs you can get a tad blasé about them. King of these is Eilean Donan, located where Loch Alsh, Loch Long, and Loch Duich converge. The current look only dates from the early 20th century. 200 years previously three English frigates attacked Eilean Donan during the Jacobite rebellion of 1719. The castle, manned by Jacobites and Spanish soldiers, withstood heavy bombardment for three days until a shore assault overthrew its protectors and the castle was blown to smithereens from within, using the 343 barrels of gunpowder which had been stored there. As we eat fruit slices at the cafe beside the castle, the weather changes from moody autumnal to sunny and spring-like. I prefer the autumnal look as it seems to fit Eilean Donan’s ruddy complexion better.

Over the sea to
Over three days on Skye we’re buffeted by bracing winds on a coral beach; seek refuge from sleety rain in a cosy café where we warm our hands on steaming bowls of pumpkin soup; skip between shelters in Portree whilst hardier souls than us queue in the rain for fish and chips; and enjoy the warmth of the sun on our faces as we walk across bracken-covered moors beneath mountains whose peaks are shrouded by ashen clouds. And it is all invigorating. I grew up on a Scottish island in the West of Scotland and therefore am not prey to romanticised imaginings of what life here would be like. And yet, and yet…

In summer-y
We turn south again, returning to Glencoe where we head east into the depths of Scotland’s most famous, and some say most scenic, glen. It’s an apocalyptic day, even as far as Scottish weather is concerned. Driving rain and dense cloud swirling and birling through the glen obscure any views. All we can see are hordes of walkers hunched against the weather’s onslaught. Even on such a dreich day Glencoe draws its admirers. The strange thing is that in many places this weather would ruin a visit, here it enhances it, adding an extra layer of mystery and drama to the unforgiving terrain. And then, the curtains open, the clouds evaporate, the sky turns blue, a rainbow arcs across the glen, and the seasons change yet again.

It’s so far north it can be difficult to know when you’ve stepped out of Portugal and wandered into Galicia. Portugal’s only National Park spreads south from the Castro Laboreiro to the Mourelo Plateau. It is a wonderfully wild expanse of glacial valleys, boulder-strewn plateaus, lakes and rivers, high mountains (in Portuguese terms), cork and oak forests, and tiny settlements – some with over-sized churches that draw pilgrims from far and wide.

It feels ancient and unspoilt. In 2019 we visited Peneda-Gerês National Park three times, walking from virtually one end of the park to the other. These are some of the many memorable experiences we squeezed into our rucksacks along the way.

Walking in Peneda-Gerês National Park – the lake

By my reckoning the landscape had already morphed twice, starting with stepped agricultural terraces hemmed into the valley floor by a dense pine forest. As we climbed dappled paths lined by stone walls draped with thick moss, the trees retreated and we ascended a bare hillside of elephantine-sized, and coloured, boulders to arrive at a rocky plateau. In the mountain’s table-top centre lay an azure jewel – a mountain lake. The surrounding border of smooth, slate grey rocks and ruddy tundra-type grasses intensified the colour of the water. Breaking the surface at one end was a giant hippo of a boulder. All in all it was an exquisite scene. From here, our path dropped like a skydiver to Peneda-Gerês, but we parked ourselves on the scratchy grass and just gawped. Peneda-Gerês had reeled us in with the first hike.

The dog

The ascent from the confluence of gurgling streams on the valley floor to a grassy hillside required some effort. As the hillside was a natural viewpoint we took time to catch our breath. From our vantage point we could see the villages of stone cottages with orange tiled roofs we’d passed through; ravines we’d negotiated; and the mountain we’d ascended and descended. Moving on, our path emerged at a road beside a farmhouse where a collie stood waving its tail. My first reaction was to say “hiya, you’re a beaut aren’t you” but I remembered what the consequences would be. Instead, I turned my back on the dog who took up a position in the middle of the road (a suicide attempt at being rejected no doubt), and warned Andy about the canine looking for walkers to hook up with. As we stood at the side of the road, recording directions, I could see every time we looked as though we might so much as glance in its direction, its tail started wagging furiously. Exercising extreme caution, so there were no mixed messages, we gave the collie a wide berth and carried on our way. It looked crestfallen. Then, when it was clear we weren’t going to acknowledge it at all, it raised its head to the heavens and started howling in anguish. I felt like a heel.

The cow

Soajo was a ghost village by the time we’d finished our meal (a typically hearty and generous Peneda-Gerês affair which included slices of duck breast in gravy, a whole sea bass, grilled vegetables and batatas a murro – punched potatoes). It was borderline eerie (due to the absence of people combined with the occasional presence of espigueiros – grain stores which look more like mini mausoleums) as we tried to remember our way back to our village house abode via Soajo’s maze of narrow alleys. Just ahead, out of sight but clearly coming toward us, came the haunting sound of a bell ringing. We stopped in our tracks, logic sprinting in the opposite direction as we wondered if a lost soul was about to appear before us. Instead of a phantom, a cachena cow and her calf came trotting around the corner. She flashed her long eyelashes at us and they continued on their way. Cachenas roam freely in Peneda-Gerês National Park. Like the area’s wild Garrano horses, the cows have priority on roads and village streets, even during the hours of darkness.

The stream

We’d walked ten kilometres and had seven more ahead of us before we reached Geres, it was time for a lunch break. An old stone slab bridge across a bubbling brook provided a smooth seat for us to park our derrières whilst we tucked into the ubiquitous hiker’s picnic sandwich (ham and cheese). The brook wasn’t as impressive as the fast-flowing rivers we’d crossed, or the turquoise plunge pools below mini waterfalls we’d admired from the wooden bridges which made the old Roman road passable. But it was a delightfully serene spot, the little bridge perfect for a game of Pooh sticks and, like most of the route, we had it all to ourselves. Dancing around our heads were electrifying, midnight blue creatures which looked like a cross between a butterfly and a dragonfly. A quick bit of Googling identified them – damselflies. Other walkers may pass this spot without a second glance, but for us it felt as though we’d briefly stepped into an illustration in an A.A. Milne book.

Walking in Peneda-Gerês National Park – the wolf

We thought coming across a huge religious sanctuary and compound completely hidden in the depths of the forest might be a spectacular way to end a journey which had taken us from one end of
Peneda-Gerês to the other, via a wee detour into Spain. But no, a couple of kilometres further on was an even bigger WOW moment that put a most satisfying full stop on our little adventure. As we approached our destination, a large and very handsome dog sauntered onto a grassy mound atop a wall beside the path and assessed us with casual interest.
“That’s a wolf,” Andy whispered.
“He does have a wolf-like appearance,” I laughed, not taking her seriously.
“No, that really is a wolf,” Andy insisted again.
We stood stock still as the noble creature looked at us straight in the eyes, yawned, and then looked away. We were of no importance to him at all.
Among its many magnetic features, Peneda-Gerês is the last refuge of the Iberian wolf. We didn’t think for a second we’d actually see one.

Walking in Peneda-Gerês National Park is the best hiking we’ve enjoyed in Portugal. I’d go as far as to say it is the best area for hiking in Portugal, but I’m wary of hearing that disembodied voice whispering in my ear “aha, but you’ve not seen this” at some point in the near future.

Piazza with a view, Florence
The standard blurb for Piazalle Michelangelo on a hill on the River Arno’s south bank is that it’s filled with tourists, vendors and a bronze replica of Michelangelo’s David. Yet on a sizzling Sunday in summer we found it to be relatively crowd-free, especially compared to the piazzas in the old centre across the river. I’m of the belief that when you have to make the effort to reach a viewpoint, the appreciation of the scene which is the reward is far greater than just having to step from a coach or a car. And so it was with Piazalle Michelangelo. Florence’s historic centre hadn’t seduced us as much as we’d expected, the classically romantic A Room with a View skyline from the piazza righted that wrong.

Alentejo’s inland beach
Alentejo is a sprawling region in Portugal which provided a perfect example of how patience in travel can lead to delightful and occasionally surreal surprises. The way parts of Alentejo work seems to be drive through miles and miles of unchanging countryside – golden plains, cork trees, olive groves… more golden plains, cork trees, olive groves. And then WHAM, out of this gold and green world appears something quite special and unexpected. On a driving route from Beja I could have listed two or three such moments, but I’m opting for the most surreal – a praia fluvial (river beach) at the former mining settlement of Sao Domingos. It’s as if a chunk of coastline had been transported inland to the border with Spain.

Brave new world, La Palma
La Palma is rightly known as la Isla Bonita, the most water rich and flowery of all the Canary Islands. Yet the scene which had me in awe, not for the first time, involved a section of the island whose beauty had been ravaged by monsters; destructive, volcanic outbursts in 1677/78 and 1971 on La Palma’s southern tip which scarred la Isla Bonita. The result was a desolate landscape which humankind has adapted to in the most creative fashion, adding colour and quirks to a violent world – from salt pans to fishermen’s shanty towns. A demanding walking route around the San Antonio and Teneguia Volcanoes shows first hand how uncompromising this terrain is, making us appreciate even more the effort that has gone into turning black ash slopes into green-speckled vineyards.

The old mountain road, Peneda-Geres
Portugal’s Peneda-Geres is currently my favourite walking destination. I’m fickle so that’ll change after the next area we go walking in for the first time. Even so, it is an exceptional place. Wild and untamed, it makes you work for your rewards. An experience there put this into perspective. We said our goodbyes to our friend James over breakfast at our hotel. By the time we’d reached the point in the photo, he’d jumped on the bus to Braga; visited a hotel and had a quick look around the city; taken the bus to Porto; flew back to England; caught a train to York; and was on the last leg of his trip home. Meanwhile, we’d only reached the point on a marvellous old Medieval road where we caught the first sight of our destination, the mountain village of Soajo.

Enchanted by the valley, Logarska Dolina
The Logar Valley (Logarska Dolina) is beautiful, a stunner. That much was obvious from the moment we set eyes on this enclosed valley. My first reaction was ‘yes, it’s a looker for sure, but what makes it stand out from the crowd?’ We’ve seen numerous drop-dead gorgeous valleys in neighbouring Austria. It didn’t take long for us to discover the answer. Logarska Dolina is completely surrounded by granite mountains or steep, forested slopes; a valley which feels as though it is hidden away in a natural cul de sac at the end of Slovenia. Apart from the sheer beauty, there’s an air to Logarska Dolina and surrounding area, a mystique if you will which, combined with the scenery and the people who live there, makes it a very special and enchanting location.

Rickety Carrasqueira
Ramshackle huts and rickety wooden walkways; messy mudflats and broken boats; dusty dogs and haughty herons – that’s Carrasqueira, tucked into an inlet on the more remote part of the Sado Estuary. It’s raw, unkempt and honest and I adore the place.

Nearly the top of Spain
We’d underestimated how difficult to navigate some walkers would find the final itinerant section of Inntravel’s To the Top of Spain walking holiday on Tenerife. Basically, you get to the crater rim above Teide National Park and turn right (obviously the actual directions were more detailed than that, but ostensibly that’s what happens). But there was one part where there’s such an off-putting illusion ahead that some walkers couldn’t believe it was the way forward. In one case, from a garden in Portugal, we had to talk a walking couple through the section by phone. We’d immediately beefed up the directions and this year returned to walk it again ourselves to ensure there was no longer any ambiguity. It’s a hard route; however, the mind-blowing pay-off on reaching the crater rim remains the one to beat as far as we’re concerned.

Gold and green Douro
Admittedly, lapping up the picturesque panorama which unravelled continuously over the course of a few hours from the deck of a ship cruising the Douro River didn’t require much effort at all on our parts – basically, heading below deck whenever the heat became too much to bear. The Douro on a sunny day is exquisitely beautiful – vineyards which could have been designed by Escher, adegas lounging elegantly on the hillside, whitewashed riverside villages, silver olive groves, cruising rabelos, and kaleidoscopic waters whose colours reflect the landscape. Dream scenes.

Velika Planina
I’ve written about this in detail recently and don’t care that I’m ramming another image of the place down anyone’s throat. Seeing this herdsmen’s village in Slovenia for the first time was simply one of the most memorable travel experiences I’ve ever had.

White gold, Switzerland
Pure air in our lungs and crisp snow underfoot, making satisfying crunches with every step; the perfect snow of childhood fantasies. Not the damp, dirty slush which invariably greeted me in the morning after a night of promising soft flurries against my bedroom window on a Scottish island where the Gulf Stream allegedly kept us too warm (a relative term) for heavy snow. Zermatt in February was my first real encounter with ‘proper snow’ and I was entranced by just how blindingly beautiful the world is when draped in a snow queen’s cloak. Looking out across the white-scape from mountain tops and the cosiness of cable car cabins, I finally understood what attracts so many people to snowy slopes.

Alentejo is the least populated region in Portugal, its residents averaging the oldest of any in the country. It is an intriguing region in many ways, but after four months of staying in deepest Alentejo, right on the border with neighbouring Spain, it felt like a place which took an awful long time to get anywhere else from.

Jump forward and there now isn’t one vision, but many; all of them pushing and shoving each other out of the way to claim “I am Alentejo,” “No, I am Alentejo.”

These are ten scenes from the land beyond the Tagus to illustrate why.

Marvao
The town which was our architectural eye candy for four months. We couldn’t step outside the house we were renting without being treated to views of Marvao, the lord of the Serra de São Mamede Natural Park. Once a Moorish stronghold, now simply a joy of a place to a) look at b) have a wander around. Two years ago we described it as being one of the most beautiful small towns we’d visited. It still is, but now it’s been joined by a handful of Alentejano mates.

Évora
One of two towns in Alentejo which are UNESCO World Heritage Sites, Évora seemed like a cultural metropolis to us during our time in the wild plains. It was an hour and a half drive from the Portuguese border to Évora where we could catch a train to Lisbon, and the world beyond. The town is historically picturesque with some wonderful quirks – Capelo dos Ossos (Bone Chapel) – and it has a handful of excellent restaurants, some of which have menus which are tad more sophisticated than the generous, hearty and usually meaty traditional Alentejo gastronomy.

Castelo de Vide
Castelo de Vide is another pretty Portuguese hilltown with a relatively lively cultural scene. As well as having an attractive old centre with a maze of strollable streets, it’s home to what was our favourite restaurant within driving distance – A Confrario, mainly because they serve a sensational Portuguese gazpacho. It was also home to the nearest decent-sized supermarket and the source of free spring water gushing from lions’ mouths on a rather elegant fountain which is right next to the factory which bottles the same water, for sale in the area’s shops and supermarkets.

Costa Vicentina
South West Alentejo merges into the Algarve along the Costa Vicentina. But where the coast to the south is home to numerous resorts that have sprung up to meet the demands of sun-seeking tourists, the Costa Vicentina, like much of Alentejo, is wilder and lacks purpose-built tourist developments. Subsequently, the coastline has become highly popular with hikers, whilst its travel-magazine-cover-worthy beaches tend to feel more bohemian than those of the southern Algarve; being either virtually empty or populated by surfers and neo-hippies.

Elvas
The second Alentejo town which is also an historic UNESCO World Heritage Site, Elvas isn’t as well known as Évora, and it doesn’t feel quite as sophisticated. But it does have the capacity to surprise more; from the seven kilometre Amoreira Aqueduct which forces jaws open on arrival to the views from the largest star-shaped fort in the world across those golden plains to neighbour Badajoz. Elvas’ tiny British Cemetery is a poignant spot to contemplate what life must once have been like in this garrison border town.

Alcácer do Sal
On the opposite side of the country, near the western coast, the scene and scenery is quite different. I don’t think of Alcácer do Sal as being Alentejo purely because it feels like such a contrast to the land we experienced to the east. Sitting on one side of the Sado, more river than estuary at this point, Alcácer has many of the ingredients of your typically pretty Alentejo towns – hilltop castle, cobbled streets, whitewashed buildings etc. – but its riverside setting and the robust iron bridge which connects the centre with the opposite bank, combined with the surrounding paddy fields, give it a wildly differing vibe. It’s also a good place for choco frito butties.

Mértola
We’d never heard of Mértola before we drove into it whilst following a driving route given to us by the Pousada de São Francisco in Beja. Although an attractive old town, Mértola itself isn’t quite as pretty as Marvao. However, its location in the Vale do Guadiana, on a hill above the confluence of two waterways, elevates it to stunner status. The former trading post is located in what is described as Portugal’s hunting capital, and subsequently a good location for anyone who enjoys eating game such as rabbit and partridge.

Monsaraz
The day after we visited Mértola, we rolled into Monsaraz. Monsaraz and Marvao could be twins as there are many similarities between the two. Both boast an old castle perched at one end the town; pretty white houses with roofs of orange tiles huddled snuggly within the protective confines of ancient fortified walls; a lofty position looking out across endless flatlands – a wheat coloured patchwork quilt with green and silver flashes courtesy of cork and olive trees. But what Monsaraz has that Marvao doesn’t is the Alqueva Dam Reservoir. Covering 250 square kilometres, it’s Europe’s largest artificial lake. It is so immense it doesn’t look artificial at all, the aqua blue water amidst the golden plains adding extra razzle dazzle to the Alentejo countryside.

Comparta
By now a lot of people will have heard of Comporta because Madonna rides her horse along the beach there. To be honest, knowing this put us off. Not because we don’t like Madonna, but because we imagined a blingy resort. It’s an image that isn’t helped by those travel articles which describe it as the ‘Hamptons of Portugal’. Even a Tripadvisor Destination Expert for Portugal didn’t dispel this notion by advising it was “just a long strech of sand with expensive beach restaurants and bars…” It’s neither of those things. There is an endless beach where there are a couple of chic restaurants, but the main village is unmistakably traditional, albeit with a more bohemian side than most. It isn’t even on the coast. Anyone turning up in their Jimmy Choos expecting an upmarket coastal holiday resort is in for one hell of a surprise.

Carrasqueira
And then there’s Carrasqueira, a humble ramshackle fishing settlement on the southern banks of the Sado Estuary. With its dusty streets patrolled by packs of mongrels and the rickety network of fishing jetties which stagger into the estuary’s waters, it feels remote, really remote. It’s close to Setúbal and not far from Lisbon, and yet it could be on the other side of the planet. In some ways it reminds me of some places we visited in Chile; it’s a backwater which feels as though it belongs in a different time.

But then, that could apply to much of Alentejo where there are many places that feel as though they remain rooted in a previous age. That’s part of its multi-faceted and spread out charm.