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

Walking on Madeira, unplanned Levada de Serra

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

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

Walking on Madeira, Levada Nova & the coast

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

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

Walking on Madeira, Levada Nova heading east

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

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

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

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

Where is Peneda-Gerês National Park?

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

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

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

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

What is the weather like?

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

Is walking in Peneda-Gerês National Park difficult?

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

Are hiking routes easy to follow for independent travellers?

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

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

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

Are walking routes varied and interesting?

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

Are there plenty of accommodation options in Peneda-Gerês?

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

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

What’s the food like?

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

Summary

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

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

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

The base – St Aubin

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

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

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

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

Highlights of Walking on Jersey

The Lothringen Battery

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

The Devil’s Hole and La Mare

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

St Helier and Elizabeth Castle

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

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

Inland to the Jersey War Tunnels

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

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

Railway line to La Corbiére Lighthouse

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

Samarés Botanic Gardens & Mont Orgueil Castle

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

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

Jersey in summary

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

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

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

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

Abergavenny to Crickhowell

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

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

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

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

Crickhowell to Brecon

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could that ever be boring?

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.

For a start, we underestimated the British weather. Foolhardy I know, but it was a sunny June day when we set off on the long slog to the peak. We had light waterproof jackets, just in case, and lightweight walking trousers. Neither were robust enough to repel the driving, icy raindrops which felt like death by a thousand slashes when they pierced our ineffectual clothing as we battled our way to the summit. By the time we descended from the mountain into non-Arctic conditions, we were sodden, and every extremity was numb to point of being frostbitten.

Jump to another June day two decades later. The upper reaches of Pen y Fan no longer hold any fear, apart from the fact that after months of walking on terrain that would make the Netherlands seem hilly, we aren’t sure our muscles are fully up to the job. But we have thicker jackets, more appropriate trousers, and better boots. This time we’re prepared for the ‘Top Spot’.

Being one of the best-known walking routes in the Brecon Beacons, combined with many Brits newly discovered love of their own countryside, we expect hordes to join us on the route to the top. The bus from Brecon is surprising empty. The only other passengers are a doddery-looking man with big shorts and skinny legs, and a quartet of young girls with backpacks; most people drive to the start of the route.
When we arrive at Storey Arms, the girls stay on the bus, the doddery man dodders off, looking very fragile … until he strides confidently in the opposite direction from the route to the summit. Although there are a few people around, the early bus gets us there ahead of the crowds. We lose more walkers when we head along the road to the alternative start at Pont ar Daf. A family take to the path ahead of us, as do four girls who are decently kitted out for the task. The family aren’t. About 200m behind us are a couple dressed, like us, in full hiking gear.

To the summit

Despite occasionally used for Special Forces training, Pen y Fan isn’t as big a beast as some we’ve tackled. But a 500m ascent and 800m descent isn’t to be sniffed at. We set off at a slow and steady pace, letting our hibernating muscles adjust to being drafted back into service. The four girls pull further ahead, the other middle-aged hiking couple quickly overtake us and, in front of us, the family’s two teenage children disappear into a swirling mist which blankets the landscape as we ascend. Jackets are zipped up, hats are pulled down over ears, and hands are slipped into gloves. Pen y Fan’s cool embrace won’t chill us to the bone this time.

The teenagers’ parents are the first casualties. It was clear from the start the mother wasn’t prepared for the gradient. Their offspring continue ahead, abandoning them to the fates. One of the four girls looks as though she has experienced this sort of terrain previously. She drives her friends onwards and upwards, allowing regular rests. We almost pass them a few times, but whenever we draw level, she eggs them on again. The pace set by the male half of the middle-aged couple is too much for the woman; she looks flustered and red-faced as we draw level. The man, presumably her husband, is nowhere to be seen. He’s left her behind … the prick.

A couple of hundred metres before we arrive at the ridge, we catch up with the pair of weary-looking teenagers, and then the four girls, three of whom have mutinied and lie flat out on the grass beside the path. When it comes to hiking, knowing the pace which suits you is massively important. We often find ourselves in tortoise/hare scenarios.

The views from the ridge should be divine, but the cloud has robbed us of the experience. We even struggle to see the route to Corn Du. Given the evenness of the path so far, the final few metres to Corn Du is surprisingly scrabbly. From there it’s an easy stroll to the peak of Pen y Fan where we find only two other walkers literally hugging the cairn at the summit. Even though we’re in a shroud, we take the obligatory photos before starting our descent.

Descending from Pen y Fan

Initially, the path seems steep, disappearing unnervingly into fog below our feet. It’s just an illusion. After 50m, it calms down and evens out onto a wide ridge. Almost immediately, the cloud dissipates and we’re treated to sun-kissed views of ancient slopes which curve like a verdant punch bowl below Pen y Fan; views we have all to ourselves as nobody else has followed us.

Having conquered the mountain, we take our time strolling back to Brecon, pausing regularly to bask in the glorious Brecon Beacons’ scenery. The weather gods had tested us again, but this time we’d passed, and now they’re not only smiling on us, they’re beaming. If anything, it’s too hot.

We meet only a handful of sweaty hikers heading upwards; the experienced ones in the initial stages, the absolute beginners later in the afternoon. These are the hatless ones with inappropriate clothing and no water supplies; the ones who have attempted to begin to climb the highest mountain in southern Britain during early afternoon on an unseasonably hot day.

After a 600m descent over 4km, and as we draw close to the car park where the northern ascent begins, we encounter a couple who look as though they’re dressed for a Saturday night out in Costa Adeje on Tenerife.

“Are we near the top yet?” the beetroot-faced man asks, as his wife treats clumps of grass as though they’re challenging obstacles.

Some people really shouldn’t be allowed out in the countryside on their own.

Stage 1: From the border to O Porriño

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

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

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

Stage 2: From O Porriño to Saramagoso

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

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

Stage 3: From Saramagoso to Pontevedra

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

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

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

Stage 4: From Pontevedra to Armenteira

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

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

Stage 5: From Armenteira to Vilanova de Arousa

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

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

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

Stage 4: From Vilanova de Arousa to Lestrove

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

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

Stage 4: From Lestrove to Santiago de Compostela

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

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

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

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

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

“Lying between Alentejo and the Algarve” is a description that turns up a few times. It’s one which doesn’t make any sense, and has probably come about as a result of a translation from the Portuguese. There is nothing between Alentejo and the Algarve – definitely not a no man’s land where there’s a wildly beautiful stretch of Atlantic coastline.

Other descriptions have it as being Portugal’s largest protected natural park, or that it straddles two regions (Alentejo and the Algarve).

So why the differences?

There are three factors which combine to confuse the issue of where the Costa Vicentina is actually situated.

Costa Vicentina

The location of the stretch of Portuguese coastline called the Costa Vicentina is, ultimately, straightforward. It runs from Odeceixe on Portugal’s west coast, to Burgau on the south coast. Both are in the Algarve, meaning the Costa Vicentina is entirely within the Algrave region. But there’s a complication. Costa Vicentina is also part of a natural park called …

Parque Natural do Sudoeste Alentejano e Costa Vicentina

This protected stretch of coastline is over 100km long, stretching from just below Alentejo’s Sines (where we had the best leitão butty we ate in Portugal – from Pingo Doce of all places), to Burgau in the Algarve. This is where much of the confusion comes in. Some people think that because Costa Vicentina makes up part of the natural park’s name, it runs for the length of the park itself. It doesn’t. South west Alentejo and Costa Vicentina are two distinct parts of the park. But there’s another factor which can add to the confusion, and that’s the …

Rota Vicentina

The Rota Vicentina is a long-distance hiking trail consisting of a choice of routes. The main ones are the Historic Way and the popular Fishermen’s Trail. The more rural Historic Way begins at Santiago do Cacém and winds south, partly inland, whereas the Fishermen’s Trail begins at the northern boundary of the Parque Natural do Sudoeste Alentejano e Costa Vicentina and follows the coast all the way to Lagos, therefore taking in both the Parque Natural do Sudoeste Alentejano e Costa Vicentina and Costa Vicentina, plus a little bit more.

But, just in case you thought that more or less cleared it up, until relatively recently the Rota Vicentina ended at Cabo de São Vicente. An extra stretch has been added on.

In the end, these are all labels. What people who visit this part of Portugal are really interested in is being able to walk a stretch of untamed coastline which boasts desert-sized beaches, cliff-top paths, white-washed fishing villages, and storks on stacks, with the exuberant Atlantic as an ever-present companion. And that’s exactly what you get just about anywhere along Portugal’s south west coast, irrespective of what its official name is.