Rural hotels are cold at night.

This is something we regularly heard in the Canary Islands, but it applies to many winter sun destinations in Europe. Because holidaymakers might be sunbathing at coastal level, some walkers expect similar temperatures in the hills. When the sun is out in January during the day, the weather might be perfect for walking. But at night, it plummets at higher altitudes. It’s obvious that temperatures drop the higher you are, but some walkers overlook this. Rural hotels in destinations like the Canaries and southern Portugal don’t tend to have central heating, so it’s sensible to pack for cool nights.

There’s a lack of places for lunch along the route.

This one baffles me. The best walking is invariably through rural/remote countryside; of course it’s likely there’s going to be a lack of places to buy lunch. Good walking companies advise walkers about this and often arrange packed lunches.

The route was more challenging than we’d been led to expect.

I believe walking companies can be guilty of understating difficulty levels on occasion in a bid to make their holidays more appealing to a wider range of people. I was on a podcast some years ago with representatives from various walking holiday companies. One really played down walking in the Canaries, referring to it as being ‘not serious walking’ which is nonsense, as anyone who’s walked on Gran Canaria or the western islands will testify. My advice would be to research the difficulty levels of walking in a specific destination using resources not in the business of selling holidays.

There was more pavement and tarmac than we would have liked.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read this in relation to the Camino de Santiago, and I want to tear my hair out every time. It’s a pilgrimage, it’s not a scenic jaunt in the countryside, even if there are plenty of scenic aspects to the Camino. People walk the Camino for the experience of walking the Camino de Santiago. It is unique. What it isn’t is just another hike through lovely countryside with the same sort of ingredients people expect from walking holidays. It does have those as well, but that isn’t what defines it.

The directions promised great scenery, but the cloud rolled in every day. We didn’t see a decent view for the entire holiday.

The weather is the weather. Even locations known for being sunshine traps have cloudy days. It’s disappointing, but it’s just bad luck.

Restaurants did not take payment by card.

Much of Europe hasn’t gone as far down the road to being a cashless society as Britain and some other countries have. There are destinations where cash still rules, especially in rural locations. We’ve struggled to pay by card in decent-sized towns in Germany, in Greece, and in parts of Portugal where foreign cards simply weren’t accepted. The moral of this is always to carry or have access to cash.

English wasn’t widely spoken.

Anyone who wants to visit off the beaten track places should be prepared to find English isn’t widely spoken; that’s part of the adventure. We’ve created walking holidays in numerous countries where we couldn’t speak the language, and have successfully managed to communicate, one way or another, in every one of them. I’ve some magical memories of being shown around by someone whose words I couldn’t understand but whose enthusiasm conveyed the message they wanted to get across. The most authentic travel experiences involve leaving our comfort zones.

Described route timings were over optimistic.

I don’t know how other companies do it, but I know the brief we receive involves using Naismith’s Rule, a long-established formula which standardises calculated walking times. The fact is some people walk quicker than others, and some people walk slower. There is no ‘one ring to fit them all,’ so walking route estimations can only ever be guidelines. There must be some self-awareness applied here. We are aware we’re not slow, but neither do we behave as though we’re on a route march.

Restaurants were closed on a Monday.

Most good walking notes should advise people when restaurants are closed. But there are a couple of things regarding eating out which travellers should consider whether on a walking holiday or not. In most small places, many restaurants close on Mondays, and often Tuesdays as well. Sunday evening can also be dodgy as there are plenty of destinations where some restaurants close after popular Sunday lunch times. We always research which restaurants are open Sunday-Tuesday, and we also book them in advance where possible because we know that in places with foreign visitors, everyone will converge on the same restaurants.

Paths were scary, dangerous, we should have been warned.

Again, most good walking notes will advise of paths which some people might find vertiginous. But what is and isn’t considered vertiginous is difficult to pin down as it is such a personal thing. One person’s dangerous path is another’s walker’s highway. We hesitated at a sloping scree path in the Dachstein mountains, and while we were deciding if it was safe enough, a family with young children came skipping across, completely unconcerned.

We’re used to looking at feedback from the POV of people who write walking directions. Soon we’ll be customers ourselves, for the first time going on an itinerant walking holiday we haven’t put together and with a company we have no experience of. It’ll be interesting to evaluate how someone else does it.

We’d been keeping an eye on the watery blockade for over an hour, ever since we discovered the path to the island was tide dependent and we, like the man and his companion, had arrived when the tide was high. While we waited, we chatted, both of us learning the reason for the other’s visit. His was leisure and curiosity, ours was work, compiling information for a walking holiday and guide in South Devon. This last revelation was the prompt for his question.

Why does anyone need walking directions? It is a fair question. The obvious and simplistic answer is, so you don’t get lost. But there’s more to it than that.

‘There are plenty of other walkers following the route so it is extremely unlikely that you will take a wrong turn…’

This was a comment I saw recently about walking the Camino Portugués, the spoke of the Camino de Santiago which heads to Santiago de Compostela via Portugal. We helped create a walking holiday there in 2020. The Camino de Santiago is well signposted and thousands of pilgrims, religious and otherwise, walk its various routes every year. It would be difficult to get lost. So, why the need for walking directions on a route as popular as this?

A couple of days ago, we set out on a circuit from our village. We’ve walked all the paths directly around where we live in Somerset, but fancied extending one of the loops, so I carried an OS map with me. If you can read a map, you can find your way anywhere … within reason. Even the best have flaws. Having used maps in various European countries I consider OS to be the cream, but they aren’t perfect. Paths don’t always exist where they should. However, proficiency with a map can usually get orienteers out of most navigational conundrums.

As we climbed through a farm on the ‘new’ section of the route, the farmer warned us the path ahead was overgrown and almost impassable. He advised us to follow an alternative track through a field, assuring us it would meet the original path further up the hill. On the OS map, the farmer’s track didn’t exist, only the public right of way. The track was easy to follow and it would have been good advice except for one thing, it ended in a cul-de-sac of a field. Thanks to the map, I knew where we were and, more importantly, where the path should be. A leap of faith through a nettle-ridden, overgrown bush revealed a gate, and the elusive path. Without the map, I’d have had to retrace my steps. If I didn’t know how to map read, I’d have had to retrace my steps. It is unlikely any visitors to the area, exploring on foot without map or directions, would have found their way to our objective, the summit of a hill with expansive views across Somerset.

Anyone who finds pleasure in yomping across the countryside but who can’t read maps will have a more satisfying and enjoyable experience if they have directions to help them discover the best places.

What about those who can read maps, or are following popular walking routes like the Camino de Santiago?

There’s a training term called unconscious incompetence which is applied to people learning something new. It means they don’t know what they don’t know. Following the Camino de Santiago is relatively easy, but what many people aren’t aware of is there are stretches called complimentarios – deviations through the most scenic aspects of the way which aren’t on the main route. Simply follow the crowds and it’s highly unlikely these would be discovered.

Additionally, walking route directions are more than ‘turn right here, turn left there.’ They also include information about the route – where to eat, where to take little detours, the name of that pretty little chapel and why it’s so unusual, what that strange looking flower is, and so on. They’re guides like any guides. They add depth.

Back to the man waiting at the water crossing in Devon. Before we congregated at the channel, we’d met him previously. In fact, we’d told him what time the tide drifted away, and also when the island’s people-carrying sea tractor made its irregular crossing. We’d already found those things out after discovering the route to the island was impassable – online advice wasn’t fully accurate – so we could include them in the walking directions we were compiling, making it easier for people who used those directions to plan their day more effectively. Also included in those route directions was how to summon a ferryman to transport walkers across the River Avon, when food trucks at Bantham beach were open and what they sold, and how people could make the return trip to the ferryman without scaling a steep hill. All snippets of information our new friend at the water’s edge didn’t know.

People don’t need walking directions, but there’s a good chance they’ll miss out on a hell of a lot without them, that’s if they don’t get lost.

Of course there’s evidence of volcanic activity, the southern tip is a volcanologist’s theme park. We used to describe walking there as standing on land that was younger than we were. But, just like us, the rugged, burnt terrain around Las Salinas no longer feels quite so youthful. Especially as there is a new kid on the cinder block.

As we venture further north, there are further glimpses of the earth’s violent regurgitation. Black fans spread out like a bride of Satan’s train across the green slopes of the ‘beautiful island.’ But whether they are from the most recent eruption or from previous ones, it is difficult to tell. We’ve crossed lava fields on La Palma’s western slopes many times, using volcanic tubes to manoeuvre through Las Coladas de San Juan. These existed long before the 2021 eruption, even lending their existence to the name of the village we’re heading for, Las Manchas (the stains).

It is all so normal, not what we expected, and it’s a relief to see that most of the island has escaped the volcanic apocalypse shown in news footage. And then, after 18 kilometres, we round a hillside to arrive in Las Manchas to find a moody, russet mountain looming over the centre of the village.

“That wasn’t there before,” I say to Andy.

2021 Volcanic eruption on La Palma

At around 14:10 on 19 September 2021, La Palma erupted, or the area of Cabeza de Vaca below Cumbre Vieja did. For the following 85 days, volcanic devastation ensued. Lava spewed over 1000 hectares, destroying 1345 homes, and displacing around 7,000 people (local sources claim it is far higher). Nine percent of La Palma’s population had to flee their homes, some losing everything. A year and a half later, many are still living in temporary accommodation … still waiting for the appropriate financial support from their government.

Jonas, a guide we’ve known for over a decade, explains why this eruption was so different from when Teneguía exploded above the southern tip in 1971. “People treated that one like a spectacle. Families took picnics and sat on the hills to watch it.”

There were no houses or people in Teneguía’s path.

It’s a shock to discover the immediate impact spread beyond the destructive reach of molten lava. From a distance, the resort of Puerto Naos looks like it was lucky; the lava didn’t quite reach it. Yet it is a ghost town, a potential death trap; its houses shielding an invisible killer, toxic gas. A year and a half after the eruption and its residents are unable to return home.

The road across the lava

La Palma’s world changes at Las Manchas. As well as the new ‘mountain’, the Volcán de Tajogaite (a name voted for by the islanders), there are smaller hills of ash, glistening in the sunshine as JCBs attempt to shovel them into some sense of order. The road we used to travel to reach Los Llanos de Aridane is gone. From our position outside Bar El Americano we can see its replacement below, a narrow charcoal strip dissecting the three-and-a-half-kilometre wide band of volcanic badlands.

From a distance it looks much like any new road, but as we drive onto it, it’s clear it is anything but. Despite newly planted palm trees bringing a touch of subtropical normality to the scene, the sense of entering a disaster area hangs heavy in the sulphuric air. Triangular yellow signs warn drivers they’re in a ‘zona caliente’ – hot zone. Other signs instruct us not to stop, to keep driving, which we do … silently, except for the occasional, hushed ‘my god’ when we pass houses with lava spewing from doors and windows. Imposing its presence, Tajogaite does a passable impression of Tolkien’s Mordor in the background, reminding everyone who is responsible for this devastation.

The most profound sight comes just as we reach the end of the ‘hot zone’ at the barrio of La Laguna, where buildings with collapsed roofs and gabled ends ripped away, leaving interiors exposed, look like they are in a war zone. At one end of a two-storey block, where the makeshift road ends, lava has spewed through the lower floors, filling rooms with a basaltic deposit. A few meters away is a café where locals sit on the pavement drinking café con leche as if they might be enjoying their morning coffee in a town’s tranquil plaza.

It is an incongruous scene. And set against such a violently destructive background, it feels like it’s a symbol of the determination to prevail in the face of adversity.

After the sobering impact of the terrain we’ve driven through, this snapshot of normality in such an unusual setting is surprisingly uplifting.

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.

The author of a Guardian article about winter walking in Britain fell into the latter. As a relatively recent returner to yomping across Britain’s countryside, I found it interesting to compare his experiences with mine.

The weather

The weather was one area where hiking in Blighty left him cold. Cold, wet, and miserable.

At this time of year, the lure of warmer climes can be irresistible, whether that’s for lying in or walking in doesn’t really matter. Having lived in places where winter days were rarely what anyone in Britain would call cold, and where rain was an infrequent visitor, I can confirm that warm winter walking is very pleasant.

However, over the last couple of years, I’ve enjoyed winter walking in the UK as much as I did in Portugal, and far more than I did walking in summer in hot climates. In both Tenerife and Portugal, walking was off the agenda during summer months.

The thing about the weather is, you can dress for cold and rainy days. There’s not a lot you can do to keep out the heat. I subscribe to Alfred Wainwright’s assertation “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.”

Clothing

I relish being able to wear trousers, fleeces, and jackets we bought for hiking in Chile and Switzerland. They all get regular outings after languishing in cupboards for years. Hiking in the Canaries and Portugal only required light waterproofs at best. Even in snow in Teide National Park, we hiked in T-shirts (although we would start off wearing light fleeces and a jacket – you don’t go hiking at over 2000m without having warm clothing to hand). Various walking forays around Europe tend to be in spring or autumn, again usually only requiring light walking gear, apart from one time in the Black Forest when the weather turned, temperatures plummeted, and we were caught wearing completely inappropriate clothing (see Alfred Wainwright).

Since returning to Britain, we’ve added gaiters and Wellington boots to our outdoor gear collection. I’ve worn wellies on the last two walks we’ve completed. Both were short (under 10km) and didn’t involve any serious ascents or descents, so wellies were fine. Splashing through marshy fields, along muddy farm tracks, and through lake-sized puddles unlocked the inner child, while my feet and legs remained cosy and dry. I’ve also switched from hiking boots with lightweight uppers to leather ones, far better for traipsing through Britain’s squidgy fields. Although we’ve walked across a cold and rainy Exmoor a couple of times, we’ve yet to resort to the tent-sized ponchos we bought to walk the Camino de Santiago.

Walking speed

I couldn’t tell you whether we are fast or slow walkers, it’s not something I dwell on. I walk at the pace I walk at. I would guess it’s neither fast nor slow. The Guardian’s writer was a confirmed fast walker, speeding along, head down. I’ve never understood that way of walking. Maybe that’s because of a brief stint in the Marines where walking in that manner was called a route march and involved lugging a 56lb pack on my back. It’s not what I think of as a fun activity. Plus, you aren’t going to see much when you’re motoring along head down. Walking for us is all about learning about our surroundings, registering the contributions and impact of both nature and humans. For me, there is no better way to get under the skin of any destination than to walk it, but that wouldn’t happen if we were racing along.

Daylight Hours

One area we had to learn to adjust to was the limitation presented by reduced daylight hours. Thanks to longer days, winter didn’t really affect the length of the walks we did in the Canary Islands or Portugal. We were almost caught out on our first long winter walk in Britain, arriving back at our car just as the daylight was snuffed out. Now we simply stick to shorter routes during the darker months.

Experiences

In a way, scenery in warmer climes doesn’t always change that much. In both Spain and Portugal, the greatest difference in terrain was that by the end of summer, the land looked tinder dry and not particularly attractive in some areas. Generally speaking, that’s not a problem in Britain. Maybe it’s still the honeymoon period, but I’m enchanted by how the countryside transforms with the change of seasons, each one artistically reinventing the landscape. After a lengthy period away, it has been like looking at Britain’s beauty through fresh eyes.

To summarise why winter walking in Britain appeals to me so much, I’ll finish with a selection of snippets from recent walks that had me appreciating my cool surroundings.

The sun’s rays pierced the forest’s skeletal canopy, its warmth causing misty spirals to dance across the Grand Western Canal’s glassy surface. It was magical. If the Lady of the Lake’s slender wrist emerged from the water, I would not have been in the slightest bit surprised.

Something caught my eye, the slightest hint of movement prompting me to look up from the crisp, frosty ground where I was hoping to see more examples of the rare phenomenon called hair ice. On the slope above the path, a young roe buck stood stock still, observing me with curiosity. In spring and summer, when the foliage was lush and lovely, I’d never have spotted him.

An icy wind pinched at my nose, cheeks, and earlobes, the only exposed parts of my flesh. A low, bright sun silhouetted two hikers enjoying a picnic on a grassy mound overlooking a golden sea of grasses and shrubs where Exmoor ponies with shaggy chestnut coats roamed freely. In one direction lay an endless panorama consisting of Somerset and Devon’s gently rolling hills. A spin on my heels, and this green and pleasant land was swapped for a view of the Bristol Channel’s slate grey water, looking cold and uninviting as it sloshed across the divide between England and Wales.

It is partly these contrasts that make winter walking in Britain such an enjoyable activity.

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.

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?