“Everyone calls this Piazza Grande,” says Catia, our guide. “But its proper name is Piazza Camillo Prampolini, named after the Socialist reformer who was born here in Reggio Emilia.”

We follow her across the cobbles and past the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta topped by its gold Madonna and Child, heading towards the ornate façade of the Town Hall where two Tricolour flags flutter in the breeze above the colonnaded entrance. Catia stops short of the steps and turns back to talk to us.

“Prampolini was the man who brought socialist principles back to Reggio from Rochdale.”
“Rochdale?!” We chorus. “Rochdale in the UK?” The incredulity in our voices is near-hysteria pitch.
“Yes, Rochdale. Prampolini greatly admired the work of the Rochdale Pioneers, the men who introduced the first Co-operative Society. It was their work that inspired him to advocate the establishment of cooperatives to sell affordable food to those who needed it, and he persuaded the local government to give free medicine to the poor. He brought Socialism from Rochdale to Reggio and then to the rest of Italy.”

I glance at Jack. No words are necessary.

The Rochdale Pioneers

In 1844, 28 working-class men raised funds and set up a small shop on Toad Lane in Rochdale where they sold good quality flour, oatmeal, sugar, and butter at a fair price to the exploited and poverty-stricken workers of the town. They called themselves The Rochdale Equitable Pioneers Society; they became known simply as The Rochdale Pioneers.

In the nineteenth century, poverty was rife in Northern industrial towns like Rochdale. Working in terrible conditions and poorly paid, the working class were further exploited by shop keepers who watered down the milk and added sawdust to the flour. For most workers the cost of sugar and butter were prohibitively high.

Wanting to free the working class from the shackles of charity handouts and give them the means to stand on their own feet economically, The Rochdale Pioneers reasoned that, by acting as a cooperative body, they could afford to buy good quality produce at wholesale prices and could pass that saving on to consumers. Not only would they be providing affordable food for the poor, but they would also be weakening the power of ruthless shop owners to exploit. Every customer became a member and shared in the profits of the shop through dividends.

Initially only open two nights a week, in less than three months the Toad Lane shop was opening five days a week. Today, there are over a billion members in 1,4 million Cooperative Societies worldwide, including in Emilia Romagna.

Reggio Emilia

Sitting at the crossroads of Italy’s main communications arteries of Via Emilia which runs east to west, and Via Roma which runs north to south, Reggio Emilia remains stubbornly below the tourist radar, despite its proximity to, and easy access from neighbours, Modena and Parma.

The lack of summer crowds means it’s easy to stroll Reggio’s streets and piazzas where architectural treasures sit cheek by jowl with pasticcerias selling the delicious erbazzione (chard and parmesan in buttery pastry) which is characteristic of the town, and salumerias brimming with the superb hams, pastas and cheeses of the region.

As well as its erbazzione, Reggio Emilia is home to what many (me included) consider to be the best Parmigiano Reggiano. Produced from the rich, creamy milk of Reggio’s Vache Rosse, or ‘red’ cows, the cheese retains its soft texture and creamy taste longer than that produced from the Freesian, Modenese and brown cows of the rest of the region. The perfect accompaniment to chunks of Parmagiano drizzled in Reggio’s own balsamic vinegar, is a glass of its sparkling spergola, a light fresh wine that gives prosecco a run for its money.

Monumental splendours

In amongst Reggio’s architectural gems is one which, up until recently, even the residents themselves didn’t know anything about – Chiostri di San Pietro. A 16th century monastery which, following the unification of Italy, was transformed into a military barracks with its arches filled in and its gardens and courtyards destroyed. There it remained effectively hidden and forgotten until 2006 when a project to convert it into public use revealed the architectural splendour that lay beneath the bricks.

Two superb cloisters are now restored to a semblance of their original selves; the small one has red and white Verona marble columns which form a porticoed circumference, and frescoed walls which are currently in restoration. The large one is vast, with gabled windows and niches decorated with 17th century statues of Saints from the Benedictine Order. It’s the sort of place that, if it was in Parma or Bologna, would be rammed but here in Reggio Emilia, we have the place to ourselves.

Birthplace of the Italian Tricolour

In the Town Hall is the Sala de Tricolore, the room in which on 7 January 1797, as Napoleon’s troops marched towards them, 110 men from Reggio Emilia, Modena, Ferrara and Bologna met to design a new flag for the impending independence. Adapting the French flag, they replaced the blue with the green of the Italian Legion and created the flag which is still in use today. The Museo del Tricolore outlines the political events that led up to birth of the Tricolour, along with flags of the various forms it has taken from its initial design to the current day.

Arts & parks

Like its neighbours of Parma, Modena and Bologna, Reggio Emilia is home to many priceless works of art, but unlike its neighbours, there are no crowds, queues or large groups led by guides making it difficult to truly appreciate their beauty.

On the façade of the tower of the Cathedral in Piazza Grande (above) is a statue of the Madonna and Child made of gold embossed onto copper plate, a gleaming masterpiece. In the Basilica de San Prospero in the piazza of the same name, is a magnificent Procaccini fresco of The Last Judgement, along with exquisite marquetry on the wooden choir stalls. It was in Reggio Emilia in the mid-1400s that the art of marquetry was born. But the cherry on the art cake is the Basilica della Beata Vergine della Ghiara, the site of a miracle which, during the 17th-century, was decorated by the elite of Emilian artists. The subsequent frescoes, all dedicated to women, represent some of the greatest paintings of the era.

When all that art and architecture has sunk in, head to the green calm of Popolo Park whose monumental fountain was built in 1885 to commemorate the completion of the city’s aqueduct. Here too you’ll find the Monumento dei Concordia – an ornate Roman burial vault discovered in 1929 and placed in a green space so it would be ‘never perishable’ and the surroundings would bring out the best of the monument regardless of season.

It’s the ideal place to sit and enjoy a slice of erbazzione while trying to figure out why Reggio Emilia is as yet, undiscovered.

Getting there:

Trains run frequently between Bologna Central Station and Parma, stopping at Modena and Reggio Emilia along the way. It’s just a 15-minute train journey from Modena to Reggio. If flying into Milan, trains run frequently between Milano Centrale and Parma.
The easiest way to find timetables, book and pay for trains is with the Trenitalia app. Prices vary depending on whether you use the Frecciarossa, high-speed trains, the Intercity, or the RV trains which are slowest and cheapest.

At the moment, the only trousers I feel comfortable wearing for summer hiking, is a pair of Karrimor, light men’s hiking pants (photo above) which, after one wash, literally came apart at the seams and the zips. My abysmal attempts at mending have resulted in pockets that don’t open properly, a split side seam that reveals part of my hip, and at least one zip that hangs on my leg like an odd appendage but at least they’re long enough. I have been trying to replace these pants for the past two years.

What’s wrong with women’s hiking pants

These are the biggest issues that plague my hiking pants wardrobe: firstly, length.

At 5’ 10” (1.7m), I do not consider myself to be exceptionally tall but apparently, manufacturers of women’s hiking pants would beg to differ. Having tried on multiple brands at numerous outlets, I simply cannot get a pair of women’s trousers that are long enough for me. The longest pair of women’s hiking pants I own are my Peter Storms which, as you can see, are what I would call half-mast.

At the start of this summer, I popped into a branch of Mountain Warehouse in Ambleside where they were having a sale. As we didn’t have a lot of time to spare, I asked the assistant if she could point me to a pair of light women’s hiking trousers, 28” inside leg.
“Oh, I’m afraid we don’t have women’s in a 28-inch leg”, she responded.

Incredulous, I asked her why that was, and she explained that the manufacturers didn’t produce a woman’s hiking pant longer than a 26-inch inside leg. How can that be possible? Do only women 5’ 8” and under, go hiking? Or do the manufacturers of hiking gear simply not bother finding out what their market looks like? Perusing the racks of men’s hiking pants which is what I always end up having to do, there’s no shortage of leg lengths in there, from short arses to giants, they’ve got you covered.

I consider this imbalance to be in contravention of the Sex Discrimination Act of 1975; I may just bring a case against outdoor clothing manufacturers in the UK.

And while we’re on the subject of discrimination, the second biggest gripe I have is pockets.

Why do manufacturers of women’s hiking pants think that women do not require such essentials as maps, GPS devices, mobile phones, and compasses? Do they consider our multi-tasking skills rise us above the need for such rudimentary aids to navigation, or do they simply assume we’ll have a man with us to do all that tiresome route-finding business while we get on with the much more important task of looking good on the trail? Or perhaps they think we’ll just pop those things into our handbags along with our lipstick and a spare tampon?

Back pockets are semi-useful but no substitute for sturdy side and leg pockets, preferably deep enough to take a mobile, and zipped. You have only to look as far as the racks of men’s hiking trousers to see what I mean. Again, I reference my Peter Storms which have good, deep side pockets and , joy of joys, a leg pocket but alas, no back pockets.

No, I do not want saggy, baggy pants that look like they’ve escaped from a 1970s Army Surplus store, nor do I want skin-tight trousers whose back pockets would be hard-pressed to take anything fatter than a credit card. Certainly, I want my hiking pants to look good on me, but I also need them to be functional, every bit as functional as men’s.

Is that really too much to ask?

“I’m going to get a menu,” I said, spotting one on a table just vacated by a couple on the other side of the dining room.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Came Jack’s surprisingly curt response. “It’s a restaurant, someone will bring us a menu.”
“But we’ve been sitting here for ten minutes already, it’s dead time. If I get a menu we can at least be deciding what we want to eat.”
“Let’s just wait until someone brings us a menu.”

So we waited… and waited. After another ten minutes, watching Jack’s expression grow more annoyed, I went and got a menu. A further fifteen minutes elapsed and still no-one came to our table. I could see waiters bringing food out of the kitchen but none of them made the slightest attempt to catch anyone’s eye, their attention focussed solely on delivering orders.
“We should leave, I’ve had enough of this.” Jack pushed the menu aside and looked at me.
“It’s now twenty to nine. How likely do you think it is that we’ll get a table somewhere else at this point? I don’t want to spend the next hour wandering from restaurant to restaurant before having to return here to find this table gone.”
So we continued to wait.

Poor customer service
We had booked a few days away in Padstow to celebrate Jack’s birthday by indulging our passion for good food. In a town that appears to be perpetually popular with foodies, we managed to book Paul Ainsworth’s Number Six for lunch on the 29th, and dinner at Rick Stein’s St Petroc’s Bistro for the evening of the 30th, Jack’s birthday.

This was the evening of the day we arrived, the 28th, and we were dining at our hotel, The Old Custom House on the harbour. We had made a reservation as the hotel restaurant was closed due to staff shortages and its large bar area was extremely popular and apt to fill quickly.

I finally managed to attract the attention of a woman who seemed to be wandering between the kitchen and the reception, and asked her why no-one had come to our table. She explained that, due to staff shortages, diners were required to order at the bar. She said she wished it were not so, but needs must and all that. I remarked with a fixed smile that it would perhaps be helpful to have been told that when we were shown to our table, or even to have a little sign to that effect on the tables. She made no response to my suggestion.

In the long run, the food was good enough to stave off our bad mood but we headed back to our rooms feeling like the holiday had not exactly got off to the start we had been hoping for. We felt as if we’d just dined in a motorway service station, albeit one with good food. We would not be dining here again and would probably give them a mediocre rating on TripAdvisor.

Excellent Customer Service
The following day we dined at Paul Ainsworth’s Number Six and the difference could not have been more marked. From the moment we stepped through the front door we felt as if we were expected and valued as customers. Yes it was expensive but we felt as if we had received value for money and that, to a business, is priceless. We would not hesitate to return and to recommend the place to friends, indeed, we already have.

Mediocre customer service
The evening of Jack’s birthday we dined at Risk Stein’s St Petroc’s Bistro. Having been Rick Stein fans for many years and having two of his cookbooks which we regularly use, we were really looking forward to the experience. Unfortunately, it did not live up to expectation.
Overall, the food was good, but only good, not great and not particularly memorable but the customer service experience was very disappointing, and we would not return, nor would we recommend it to friends.

Read Jack’s blog about our dining experiences at Paul Ainsworth’s and Rick Stein’s.

Why does good customer service still matter?
Far from being just another thing that we will all have to get used to not being as good as it used to be, like being kept on hold for an eternity as you try to speak to a doctor; like empty shelves in the supermarket, and long queues at the petrol station, it seems to me that customer service is more important than ever. With the hospitality industry still reeling from lockdowns and enforced closures; the alarming rate of new infections due to the Omicron variant, and the continued fear campaign being waged by the media, it’s vital, not just to entice people to still venture out to eat and to ensure they’re safe when they do so, but to encourage them to want to return and recommend others to do the same.

Staff may be in short supply – not that you’d know that at Paul Ainsworth’s Number Six – but if you have to compromise on your service level, ensure your customers are fully aware of the situation. Had our waiter at The Old Custom House explained, when he showed us to our table, that we needed to go to the bar to order and to collect our own cutlery, we would have had a far better dining experience, not least by avoiding a wasted hour in which tempers became frayed. At Rick Stein’s, they should not have tried to squeeze a second cover onto a table, it simply did not work. We would have been disappointed not to be able to dine there but we would have returned at a less busy time and would have had a better experience. Now we won’t. More damage than good has been done.

Let’s hope 2022 sees a return to some form of normality and I for one, hope that improved customer service is at the forefront.

It’s been a sedentary month since Jack and I returned from our brilliant Brecon Beacons trip on behalf of Inntravel and more than 18 years since we last went walking in Britain with nothing more than an OS map and an idea of a route. The day promised no rain and a good chance of sunny spells as the afternoon wore on; the best forecast in two weeks or more and all the excuse we needed to stretch our legs. We had already used the public footpath that begins at the entrance to the farm, walking south west over three fields to the local village for its fête but we had not, as yet, followed it eastwards where we knew it reached the River Tone and hooked up with the West Dean Way which would take us north towards the local pub for lunch.

Setting out was very strange, as we crossed tree large fields belonging to the farm we lived on. More often than not, there was no waymark, no clear path through the long grasses and quagmire, and we were walking directly alongside farm buildings and through fields grazed by sheep and horses. We reached the final gate on our landlord’s farm which would take us briefly into trees to cross a small stream, to find that the gate was knotted with string – the sort of string that it’s really difficult to undo. As Jack grappled with the unruly knot, it started to rain.
“Hurry up! We can shelter under the trees!”
Jack stepped aside with a sharp look and a muttered expletive. I managed to undo the knot just as the rain stopped. Sigh.

While crossing through the yard of the neighbouring farm, we were stopped in our tracks by a flock of sheep being herded into a pen right beside us, with not enough space to accommodate the sheep and ourselves. We pressed tight against a barn door and squeezed past the last sheep to where the farmer was holding the gate open for us.
“Sorry,” we muttered.
“No problem at all,” he beamed, pointing us in the right direction for the next gate.
In all the years we have been walking all over Europe, paths have never felt more like trespassing; yet they’re not, they’re public footpaths.

One of the things that will be very familiar to every UK walker except me, is the astonishing variety and fiendish complexity of gate fastenings to be found in the countryside. Enjoying his superiority, having spent his childhood summers on the farm of his auntie’s farm in Dumfries & Galloway, Jack stands back at every gate and challenges me to open it. I push, lift, click, pull and grunt, sometimes successfully, many times not so much. Occasionally I just stand and stare, baffled, until Jack (rather smugly I feel) easily opens the gate. Navigating our way through thick, cloying mud; soaking wet long grass and multiple gate fastenings worthy of inclusion in The Crystal Maze, we find ourselves standing in front of the offending electric wire which runs right around the field we’re supposed to be crossing. I manage to get under it without mishap, only to discover it’s not the right way and we have to retrace steps. That’s when I fail to get low enough.

Multiple nettle stings and bramble scratches later, with feet sodden, we arrive at our destination only to realise I haven’t brought a face covering. Although it’s no longer a legal requirement, the landlady prefers her customers to wear one so, rather than risk being refused entry, we decide not to bother with the last quarter mile to the pub and to do a circuit instead, heading home across the Combe Downs. Walking along a level track, I suddenly find my feet tied together as the eye of one boot hooks itself into the fabric of the other, and over I go, a severe cramp sending pain shooting through my calf as I hit the ground.

I’ve hiked up and down mountains and sheer cliffs in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Italy, Portugal, Slovenia and Spain with no problems at all. I do a 12km circuit around the Devon and Somerset countryside and manage to get myself scratched, stung and shocked while limping home with a swollen and scraped knee and nursing a battered shoulder and sore calf. I can see I’m going to have to go into serious training to go walking in Britain.

And those boots have gone into the bin.

Jack and I can’t remember a year when we had lambs in November, eight so far and at least one more ewe heavily pregnant. Last spring we had a surfeit of male lambs who, when they got to around six months of age, had to be given to a neighbouring farmer as they had begun to noisily head-butt each other in the sheep shed every evening. I guess the threat of competition must have spurred the big old ram into action as a result of which, we now have this baby bonanza. Thankfully, most of the newborn this year are females so they’ll be able to stay, augmenting the small flock.

Like a living barometer, you don’t need a calendar here on the farm to tell you when the seasons are changing, the animals do that for you. Almost overnight it seems, the cats have doubled their body size, their skinny summer frames now clad in luxurious fur. The adult sheep, sheared to within half a centimetre of their skin at the end of spring, are now wearing thick, shaggy coats while the spring lambs, now six months old, are sporting tightly-coiled woollen onesies.

Up until last weekend, the stork nests at the abandoned herdade which we walk to on our customary circuit through the cork forest, had lain empty since  early October when, during a short cold snap, their residents had flown south in pursuit of the sun. With this month’s heat, they’re back. Three days ago, we watched a plough churning the open fields beyond the forest, in its wake twenty or more egrets feasted from the newly-turned earth while beyond them, we counted sixteen storks, patiently standing, socially-distanced from one another in the neighbouring field, waiting for the egrets to move on with the plough so they could high-step amongst the fresh furrows.

Autumn on the farm means oranges and the lower orchard is heavy with fruit. Having picked the low branches bare, Dona Catarina can’t reach the upper foliage where the majority of fruit nestles, hidden inside its leafy camouflage so it only becomes visible once you’re standing directly beneath the tree, craning your neck. On Friday I headed down to the orchard to collect enough oranges to squeeze for breakfasts over the weekend and few extras for Dona Catarina.

Picking the oranges is a hit and miss business thanks to the sheep who, the minute they spot anyone coming into the orchard, crowd around your feet, jostling for prime position and threatening to knock you off your delicate, tiptoed balance. Orange-lovers, the prospect of fresh fruit sends them into a frenzy, not helped by the fact that Dona Catarina operates a ‘one for me, one for you’ system with them when she’s picking. I operate no such system, sticking rigidly to the ‘they’re all for me’ method. Consequently, I have to carry an open rucksack into which I can drop the fruit. Although I’m almost twice as tall as Dona Catarina – she is exceedingly petite – the upper branches are beyond tiptoed reach even for me so I have to jump, grab a branch and pull it down towards me, specks of dust and fragments of bark threatening to blind me. Then, with my only free hand and usually one eye shut because there’s dust in it, I have to pick the fruit and drop it into the rucksack while maintaining my balance against the tide of woolly bodies. Inevitably, there are casualties and an orange tumbles to the ground where it’s instantly snaffled amidst a noisy kerfuffle.

When I get back from the washing line, I grab the wood basket, and head back out to replenish it from the pile that Jack chain-sawed at the weekend. We’ll be lighting the wood burner soon. Once the sun drops towards the horizon, the temperature rapidly follows suit and inside the house, it’s already shiver-inducing cold.

Outside, the last cries of ewes and lambs fade as Dona Catarina feeds the flock and closes the gate for the night. Silence falls across the farm. Within the hour we light the fire, the aromatic smell of wood smoke mingling with the heady scent of freshly-picked oranges crowding the fruit basket. This week is set to turn colder and we have rain forecast from Wednesday. I might have to get the hot water bottles out, our final defence against the bedtime chill. Winter is not far away.

Turning back to the river, something catches my eye, movement by the water line about 200 metres to my right, on the far bank of the river. Squinting into the sun, I see what at first looks like the torso of a large man hauling himself out of the river, his withered legs dragging behind him, leaving a scar in the sandbank. Slowly, as he drags himself clear of the water, his torso upright from the waist only, I try to focus my eyes better, shielding them from the sun’s glare with my hand and realise it’s not a man at all. I have no idea what it is.

A footfall startles me as the tractor driver walks slowly past and steps onto the boardwalk that hems the river. His face is turned back towards the ‘thing’ on the far bank but I can’t tell whether or not he’s watching it. Suddenly, he steps off the boardwalk and disappears down the bank towards the water’s edge. Looking back towards ‘the thing’, I’ve lost sight of it. My eyes scan the far bank either side of where it emerged but I can’t see anything, the scar in the sand seems to stop at a clump of reeds. Then I spot it, beyond the reeds, heading towards the tree line, still moving awkwardly, dragging its lower torso behind it. Now completely distracted by what the hell I’m looking at, and wondering what on earth the tractor driver is doing, completely hidden from view down at the water’s edge, I wish Jack was here to provide a witness statement and second opinion to the mysterious goings-on by the river. But he’s on a desperate mission of his own and, as bizarre as my sighting is, I fear it may pale into comparison if he returns empty-handed.

We’re currently cycling from Ponte de Lima to Viana do Castelo in the Minho region of northern Portugal, following the ecovia walking and cycling path that flanks the River Lima all the way to its source on the Atlantic coast. The last time we stopped was at the tiny hamlet of Passagem where some picnic tables overlook the river. While I strolled and rested my saddle-sore backside, Jack went down to the river and into the hamlet to take some photos. Reaching this small picnic area some 4km or so later, we decided to stop for an energy bar and to take some photos of the gorgeous countryside that accompanies the ride along this stretch of river. That’s when Jack realised he’d left his camera on the picnic table at Passagem. Leaving his rucksack with me, he climbed straight back onto his bike and sped off, back down the ecovia in the hopes it might still be where he left it. As this is Portugal where, outside of the large conurbations, crime rates are delightfully low, the chances are pretty good that the camera will still be sitting on that table but it doesn’t stop a cold sweat from spreading across my back and I know Jack will be beyond frantic and peddling like crazy to get back there.

As I watch ‘the thing’ slowly crossing a large field towards the tree line, now some 300m or more in the distance, I find myself intoning the words: “Please let it be there. Please let it be there,” over and over again in my head. Anxiously watching the bend in the path where Jack will reappear, the tractor driver emerges some six or seven minutes later and strolls back to his cab in the shade. When I look back at the river, the ‘thing’ has disappeared.

Another hot, 20 minutes passes before I see Jack rounding the corner and cycling towards me. The lack of a camera around his neck and the disappointment on his face tells me all I need to know. The camera has gone. Amidst his self-recriminations and recounting his attempts to track the camera down by interrogating everyone he saw, my curious sighting slips quietly into the shadows and it isn’t until we’re about to press on that I tell Jack about it.

That was back in late July and to this day, I have no idea what ‘the thing’ was. I know it wasn’t a sealion because it wasn’t sleek and shiny, nor did it have those distinctive flippers that extend at right angles to the body. The closest thing I can think of that resembles what I saw and the way it moved on land, is an elephant seal. But in the River Lima? Of course, with no camera I have no evidence of what I saw to help me analyse it, so it will remain a mystery, one that unfolded in the midst of a drama.

.

Outside, in the glaring sunlight, thousands of people are gathered in the centre of a vast arena as horses and riders are lined up behind a rope. Crammed into the centre of the arena beneath a relentless sun, tension in the crowd mounts. Hands are raised above heads, swirling coloured scarves, and there are shouts of encouragement to jockeys as the rope is pulled high and the horses set off at break-neck speed, thundering around the bends, their hooves sending small clouds of dust and sand flying into the hot air. Back in the basement, shots ring out, the man tied to the chair and the woman both fall to the ground and a high speed pursuit begins as two men hurl themselves through narrow tunnels and down steep stone steps, mirroring the thrilling action outside.

We’re standing in Siena’s famous Piazza del Campo, watching the opening scene from Quantum of Solace which was shot here. I’m holding the phone at eye level with arms extended so we can match small screen to living canvas, trying to place the horses and riders in relation to the action being played out in front of us.
“There,” says Jack, pointing to a small side street alongside the arches of the Palazzo Pubblico.
“Okay, so if you stand just about there,” I tell him, “I’ll take the shot.”

Jack has been a James Bond aficionado ever since he was a boy. I don’t just mean he’s watched the movies, I mean he’s read every Ian Fleming novel and studied James Bond in depth. Coincidentally (or is it?) wearing the shirt that resembles the one worn by Daniel Craig in the Madagascar scene in Casino Royale, Jack stands, hands thrust into trouser pockets, lips slightly pursed. In his mind, he’s James Bond, I can see it on his face.
Click.

Strolling Siena
The receptionist at our hotel, the sublime Palazetto Rosso, gave us a map and showed us how to get to Piazza del Campo and Piazza del Duomo, no more than a ten minute stroll away, she assured us. She was right, everything seems to be in easy stroll and all streets lead to the Piazza del Campo but it’s taken us an hour or more to get here, stopping every few metres to photograph an endless runway of visually compelling models – a narrow, cobbled alleyway lined with crumbling buildings; a stone archway framing a Mediaeval church; gaudy coloured street lamps; a series of wooden dining tables stepped along the side of a street so steep it’s a gravity-defying miracle the buildings haven’t all slid down it and ended in a crumpled heap on the piazza. And now here we are, in this magnificent, horseshoe-shaped arena surrounded by perfectly preserved, grand Mediaeval buildings, everything from tiled piazza to the highest brick in the Torre del Mangia that singular colour of soft dark earth from which the name ‘burnt sienna’ derives.

When it comes to quintessential Tuscan charm, Siena delivers by the bucket load. Winding our way through the predominantly traffic-free streets, our attention is constantly sidetracked by the rich array of food offerings that sit cheek by jowl with Gothic architectural gems. We pass gelateria after gelateria, lines of people waiting to be served at each, while around them those who’ve made it to the counter tease with looks of ecstasy as they dip and lick their way through tubs and cornets. Tiny shop windows looking they haven’t changed in centuries, display salamis, hams, cheeses and dried mushrooms, an aroma of truffle infusing the air outside their front doors. Tables, chairs and parasols line narrow streets and fill small piazzas, their occupants enjoying fat-crusted pizzas whose slices reluctantly pull apart in a cat’s cradle of melted cheese, and plates of pasta topped with rich sauce and drizzled in aromatic olive oil.

Drawn inexorably to the Piazza del Duomo where a treasury of architectural jewels jostle for attention, we buy a €20 ticket which gets us into five of the six monuments and museums in the piazza, including the so-called Gate of Heaven. Restricted to just 15 people at a time, the Gate of Heaven takes us up a spiral stairway into the dome from where we peer down on the crowds who ebb and flow across the marble mosaics below. Walking amongst the tools and work space of carpenters, we thread our way along the upper reaches of the Cathedral, briefly stepping outside into the white glare of roof space and mesmerising views beyond.

Highlight of our Duomo visit is the Facciatone, or unfinished extension known as the Duomo Novo. We have to wait 35mins for the people ahead of us to return before we’re allowed to climb the never-ending stairs that lead to the top of this enormous Gothic façade that was supposed to be the portal to a cathedral extension. Once at the top, the 360º panorama over the city of Siena and the sumptuous Tuscan countryside beyond, is compelling but the merciless heat of the midday sun drives us back down from our vantage before our allotted time is called.

Having notched up several hours of awe-inspiring art and architecture, it’s time to do what Siena does best, wander along alleyways and piazzas, past ancient stone fountains and atop Mediaeval city walls, stopping frequently to enjoy a cappuccino in some small, shady piazza; a gelato sitting on steps alongside the queue of gelato-craving customers; a glass of sparkling Aperol spritz as the afternoon morphs into early evening. Like a creamy asparagus risotto topped with shavings of fresh truffle, Siena is a city to savour; to slowly consume, allowing every morsel to linger on the memory; a city in which to stroll, to sit, to dream, and to be James Bond.

Having spent many happy days walking in Provence, our memories are of gentle paths meandering though meadows and green valleys alongside endless fields of lavender and vines, the kilometres passing by almost imperceptibly. Arriving into Drôme Provençale, we had no reason to expect it would be any different. Occupying the fertile land between the Rhône and the Alps, driving through Drôme Provençale you could easily be forgiven for thinking you were still in Provence, its sun-baked landscape displaying all those quintessential elements of its southern neighbour. But delve below the surface of this slice of the Enclaves des Papes and the subtle differences of its singular nature begin to reveal themselves.

Last September our work took us to this less-visited region of southern France to tread its paths and explore its towns.

Grignan
Our first walk began in Grignan, standing proud on its hilltop vantage, looking for all the world like any perched village in Provence yet all the time we’ve been exploring the town, I haven’t heard a single English voice, only French, and despite it being a glorious day, many of the tables in the village square are free, and the narrow streets are un-congested. I’ve only noticed a handful of restaurants and cafés, despite this being the main town in the area, and the only hotel I remember seeing is the chic, boutique and (given that the town holds an Annual Writing Festival) ingeniously named, Le Claire de la Plume. If this was St-Rémy-de-Provence, Tarascon or Avignon, we would be elbowing our way through crowds.

Leaving the village, our route winds its way south towards the river where it appears to come to a dead end at the entrance to a riding school. Confused and not a little anxious that our research has gone seriously awry, we ask a woman riding a horse around the practice paddock if she knows where the path is and she assures us it’s right through the middle of the equestrian centre. Despite her assurances, we’re a tad intrepid as we begin to wander along the track flanked by paddocks where curious horses lift their heads from grazing to watch us stroll by. When we emerge from the woods, it’s to a world of olive trees, sunflowers, courgettes, vines and sweetcorn – a cornucopia of late summer produce carpeting the meadows alongside the dense oak forests and beneath the landmark finger of Chamaret’s mediaeval dungeon, pointing to the heavens like a directional portent.

The next day we walk from the door of the chambre d’hôte to Val des Nymphes, our route taking us along unkempt paths and climbing through woods along a Poet’s Path to reach the 70m vertical cliffs of Les Crevasses, formed in 1774 when the Rouverge plateau fractured and shifted. For little effort, we’re rewarded with grandstand views over the plateau as we follow a narrow path along the tops of the cliffs. Far below, a trail winds its way through the base of the Crevasses but with unruly rockfalls to negotiate and long stretches no wider than a rucksack to squeeze through, all beneath the constant threat of further rockfall, it’s not for the faint-hearted, and a long way from the gentle strolling of Provence.

Into the fascinating, former Knights Templar stronghold of Clansayes, and then through the grounds of an extensive vineyard, walking between rows of vines heavy with purple fruit, our multifarious route finally arrives into the woodland world of Val Des Nymphes, at the foot of the perched village of La-Garde-Adhémar, one of the designated plus beaux villages de France.

La-Garde-Adhémar
Strolling into its shady village square on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it’s easy to see why La-Garde-Adhémar is celebrated. Honey-coloured stone cottages with powder blue wooden shutters line the narrow cobbled streets and the shady village square where the tables and chairs of L’Absinthe and L’Epicerie restaurants spill onto the cobbles, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers over discarded coffee cups. In Le Jardin des Herbes, that lies below the old walls, we wander the paths between medicinal plants and herbs, their colourful, chaotic plantings breaking ranks and escaping over borders in a bid to colonise neighbouring beds. Once again we’re on our own as we descend to the lower garden and through a small gate onto a dappled path that will lead us back through dense oak forests, to the Val des Nymphes.

Tales of magic, mystery and sacrifice surround Val des Nymphes where labyrinthine paths thread their way over the gnarled roots of Holm oak trees where hidden treasure lies in the form of black truffles. Tell tale impromptu holes surrounded by mounds of displaced earth betray the presence of wild boar and their midnight treasure hunts. As paths twist and turn through low branches, we follow a trail of symbols which is supposed to lead to ancient sacrificial sites. Briefly emerging from the dense tangled woods into sunlight, we see a large, flat boulder jutting out over the valley alongside one of the symbols we’ve been following and conclude that this must indeed be the site of primordial carnage. As I stand astride the rock, I imagine throats being cut and blood spilling into the undergrowth below. Unfortunately (or fortunately) my imagination is far more powerful than the truth and our stone turns out just to be, well, a stone, while the actual sacrificial stones are simple stone troughs and look like they would be used for nothing more sinister than treading grapes.

St-Paul-Trois-Chateaux
Walking from Val des Nymphes to St-Paul-Trois-Chateaux, we are once again transported back to Provence, our gentle paths wending through meadows grazed by thoroughbred horses, fields being ploughed by tractors, and lavender fields whose harvested stems still exert a faint perfume in the heat, their silver lines spreading like mercury trails across the scorched, late summer earth.

On our final day we follow a truffle trail through the forest above the town to reach the village of St Restitut, famous for its white stone quarries. Wandering through its streets with their white stone houses, is like being on a film set before shooting begins. Nothing stirs. Apart from an elderly woman sweeping the white stone step of her white stone home, there’s not a soul around. At the end of the village lies a memorial to those whose job it was to quarry the stone, a white Stonehenge standing above the plateau. A narrow trail leads from the stones, along a magnificent path cut like a balcony above the Tricastín plateau, to the Chapel St Juste and a 360º panorama of this small corner of south east France, this unhurried, uncluttered Provence with attitude.

Getting there:
We flew into Marseilles, hired a car and drove to La Garde-Adhémar, a journey of 130km, which took us an hour and a half.

Staying there:
You’ll find few large hotels or tourist complexes in the Drôme, instead the region has plentiful chambre d’hôtes, charming and characterful, privately-owned guest houses, usually set within extensive grounds with a swimming pool, where you can base yourself on a bed & breakfast basis. Many will commonly also provide dinner on a pre-arranged basis. We were based in Les Esplanes, just outside La-Garde-Adhémar, where we rented a small gîte within the grounds which gave us the freedom of self catering while still enjoying all the charm of the chambre d’hôte.
Chambres-Hotes.fr is choc-full of places in and around the region.

Walking in Drôme Provençale:
There are lots of walks and paths in the region and you should pop into the tourist office in Grignan to pick up information and a map.
We were there working as consultants for Inntravel who provide an itinerant walking holiday (walking from hotel to hotel while your luggage is transported for you) in the region – Secret Provence.