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.

I compared travel websites from three countries – France, Spain, and Italy – to see what others considered were the main British foods to try. Among all three, the suggestions for British dishes to try were virtually identical – fish & chips, roast dinner, full English breakfast, black pudding, Scotch eggs, pies, shepherd’s pie, Cornish pasties, Yorkshire pudding, toad in the hole, chicken tikka masala, and jacket potatoes. There were a few other honourable mentions, things that turned up occasionally, like haggis (described as a popular Christmas dish by a Spanish website) and bubble and squeak.

The first thing that was interesting was how many confused English and British. There was a tendency to write about English food when they clearly meant British. One writer talked about haggis coming from the region of Scotland, then went on to say that made it a typically English dish. Plus, it was disappointing to note that too many travel writers/bloggers never venture further than London. When it came to British cuisine itself, generally there were low expectations. An Italian writer claimed, ‘most Italians are convinced English food is bad.’ Others described it as being ‘simple,’ ‘bland,’ and ‘mundane.’ One article was even called How to Survive English Cuisine. Despite this, most writers ended up thoroughly enjoying most of the dishes they tried.

The reactions to some individual dishes give an insight into gastronomic differences between countries, as well as throwing up a few comedic classics.

What foreigners think about British food

Fish & chips

Most liked fish & chips, which isn’t surprising as many countries have their own take on it. We’ve eaten versions in Portugal (peixe frito), and Spain (churros de pescado). Some claim British fish and chips came from Italy in the first place. One Spanish writer was under the impression it was a summer staple, while an Italian blogger described the fish used as being cod, hake, plaice, or shark (presumably they’d seen reports from a few years ago about some chippies using spiny dogfish as the white fish in their fish & chips.

Full English Breakfast

An object of wonder for many because eating something so heavy at breakfast time is just not done. ‘You may feel nauseous just reading the ingredients’ wrote one Italian blogger. ‘Eating something salty in the morning is strange,’ commented another, while a Spanish writer was shocked at the very idea of eating eggs for breakfast. Quite a few southern European countries prefer light sweet things such as pastries to get them started in the morning. Nearly all admitted loving a good fry up though, which is why whenever you’re in a multinational hotel in Europe that serves eggs, bacon, sausages for breakfast, first in line are often guests from the countries who don’t put a lot of effort into their breakfasts.

Toad in the hole

Unsurprisingly when you think about it, the idea of toad in the hole caused concern for some nationalities. ‘Don’t worry, there is no toad in it,’ reassured one French blogger.

Yorkshire pudding

Yorkshire pudding also bemused French travel writers. One was surprised to find it wasn’t a dessert, describing it as a bread roll made with sage, rosemary, and beef fat. Another was amazed by something they’d seen in York. ‘They sell it like it’s a wrap – this is not a hoax!’ they told their readers.

Welsh rarebit

Things can sometimes get a bit lost in translation. One French travel blogger was shocked to find Welsh rarebit didn’t actually contain any rabbit. ‘It doesn’t contain any meat at all,’ they complained.

Scotch eggs

Despite being our closest neighbours, the French seemed to be most perplexed by British food. ‘A little too weird for me,’ was the conclusion of one writer from the country whose residents nibble at frogs’ legs.

Chicken tikka masala

Of all the curries that could have made it onto culinary lists of British food, the one which crossed borders to appear on French, Spanish, and Italian websites was chicken tikka masala. At first this baffled me, and then I remembered that in Britain, we tend to like food a lot spicier than some of our European neighbours. Spain is particularly notorious for having a national allergy to spicy food. The last curry I had in Spain was in an Asian fusion restaurant in Santiago de Compostela. It was described as being very hot and was about as spicy as a slice of white bread. Tikka masala is simply a safe and mild option.

The dish which had all three nationalities cooing their approval came as a complete surprise.

The jacket potato

The humble baked spud seems to have all nationalities in raptures.

‘The most British of side dishes, with a crisp outside and a soft inside it is very, very tasty.’ – Spain.

I don’t even think of the jacket potato as being a British dish, I’ve seen jacket potato carts at carnival on Tenerife.

‘So good, I dream of it at night.’ – France.

Best of all was the Italian contribution whose ‘beautiful to look at and eat,’ was followed by the advice ‘don’t send it back when it arrives because it is still covered with skin.’

Overall, it was just another example that, underneath it all, we’re all the same. Other nationalities’ knowledge of British cuisine is just as limited as our knowledge of theirs.

For a couple of days, we stared at St Aubin Fort, watching the water create a barrier between us and the medieval fortification. After being out and about exploring Jersey all day, our timing for getting back to St Aubin, our base, was just out. There was no quick fix. We had to wait until our arrival back in the town coincided with the waters parting like the Red Sea before we could make the short trek to the old fort. It’s a 500m walk from the harbour; not excessive, but far enough to warrant keeping an eye on the tides lest the waves devour the narrow concrete walkway that connects fort with town, cutting us off.

Despite St Aubin being a popular town with visitors, even when the sea did let up its guard, few others made the trip, leaving us as lord and lady of our island fortress.

In St Helier, the Elizabeth Castle is even more impressive and in better shape. So much so, it remains occupied by a faux military garrison who re-enact processions and the (eardrum-bursting loud) firing of cannon. The kilometre-plus walk to get there is a stroll into the past, albeit a contemporary version of it. But, again, our timing was out during a visit to the island’s capital as a pale turquoise film shimmered just above the long, submerged causeway. And then we saw the Duck (DUKW). I’m not sure it was a proper DUKW, but it had a similar shape and did the same job – a car/boat that could tackle the journey from dry land to islet irrespective of whether the tide was out or not. As soon as we saw it, we jettisoned other plans, and purchased a ticket for a unique method of slow travelling to get to somewhere we really wanted to visit. Elizabeth Castle is worth the effort, especially when getting there involves an amphibious vehicle.

There was no need to wait for tides at Mont Orgueil Castle. For once on Jersey, this is a medieval citadel which stands guard directly over its town, the fishing port of Gorey. No, you can just walk through its arched portal whenever you fancy (during opening hours, obviously). But Mont Orgueil still demands substantial effort if you want to experience it in all its lofty glory. The castle towers over the fishing port, rising in stepped sections like a fortified wedding cake. A labyrinth of halls, rooms, and narrow spiralling stairways lead to an uppermost level where the seagulls glide, a giddy height that many of those who enter the castle never reach.

Ease of accessibility for all apart, I particularly like places which require us putting in effort to enjoy. It makes the experience taste all the sweeter; a sense of achievement has an addictive, intoxicating flavour. Plus, from a purely selfish point of view, when there’s a lot of effort involved, fewer people are willing to invest their time. As a result, you often get the best bits mostly to yourself.

Yesterday, 19 July 2022, records were broken across Britain, with over 40C being attained in places. And yet, instead of treating this as a portent of a nightmare scenario heading our way, there were many who trivialised the warnings broadcast by the media. Admittedly, headlines screaming ‘thousands could die’ did border on the hysterical. But let’s get something straight, heat is a killer.

As people who write hiking directions and give advice about walking in different climates, we find it vitally important to monitor the weather and take into account the effects of extreme weather conditions and warnings issued by meteorological centres around Europe.

Tenerife and the Canary Islands are considered to have almost a perfect climate, and they do. To sunseekers that means buckets of sunshine. But that’s not the reason for the perfect climate tag.

Tenerife is also known as the Island of Eternal Spring, a name claimed by some other islands in Macaronesia. Notice it’s not the Island of Eternal Summer. It doesn’t get too hot in summer, and it doesn’t get too cold in winter.

But it is a lot hotter than the UK. By the middle of summer, whilst it rarely reaches the sweltering heights of the European mainland, the island is tinder dry.

Year after year, on TripAdvisor, I’d read from some sun-starved holidaymakers when they heard of a heatwave engulfing the islands, ‘I hope it lasts for my visit.’ Meanwhile reservoirs were at dangerously low levels, crops were failing, and the risk of wildfires were increasing. But who cares when a good suntan is at stake?

That sounds judgemental, and it is. But, to be fair,  how could people who live in a climate where prolonged spells of extreme heat are rare know any better?

And therein lies the problem with those who trivialise warnings about extreme heat. They speak from a position of ignorance,  like the holiday company who still took their customers on a hike on Gran Canaria even though the Spanish Met Office had issued a warning for extreme heat. The result? Two deaths from severe heat exhaustion.

Because heat kills.

Each year in Tenerife, we spent the second half of summer with fingers crossed, hoping somebody wouldn’t be careless enough to do something that resulted in a wildfire. Every year those crossed fingers were in vain. If you were lucky, the fires would be small and extinguished before they caused too much damage. If luck wasn’t on the side of the islands, fires would rage, destroying hectares of land, wrecking lives and livelihoods.

We watched a ridge burn from our back terrace, witnessed firefighters battle fires on the hills behind the house, and saw a forest explode in front of our eyes. We visited areas on various Canary Islands within days of fires being extinguished to check the damage to the environment and walking routes. It is shocking and sobering.

You don’t trivialise heat once you’ve witnessed the devastation it causes.

But what we experienced on Tenerife and other Canary Islands was nothing compared to what summer in Portugal was like. During our first summer, 2017, it felt as if the whole country was on fire. I dedicated a chapter to it in my book Camel Spit & Cork Trees. Here’s a passage:

‘… a series of wildfires devastated Pedrógão Grande, between the centre and the north of Portugal, leaving 66 people dead, hundreds injured, tens of thousands of hectares of forest destroyed and hundreds of homes burnt to the ground. Of those killed by the wildfires, two thirds were trapped in their cars, trying to escape.’

And those figures alone should explain why trivialising the potential impact of extreme heat is insensitive and offensive.

There’s a great app in Portugal, which pings when a fire breaks out near you. Just take that in for a moment. The threat of fire is so great, you need an app to, hopefully, give you enough warning to escape. Melodramatic as it may sound, there were nights we went to bed worrying whether we’d be woken by the sounds of fire raging around our house.

Up to 90% of wildfires could be avoided as humans cause them – either deliberately or through carelessness, like the eco-conscious camper on La Palma who chose to burn his used toilet paper rather than bury it on a hot, windy day. One stupid, well-meaning mistake caused deaths and destruction.

As for everyday living, you learn quickly how to combat the heat – close windows and curtains, drink lots of fluids, do as little as possible until it abates. In the height of summer, we’d treat having to go anywhere as essential missions – get in, do what we had to do, get out, and go home as quickly as possible. Our house, and those of our neighbours, didn’t have air-conditioning. Traditional homes in rural areas often don’t. It’s a misconception, usually based on experiences of staying in holiday accommodation, that southern Europeans cool down in air-conditioned houses and in their pools. Maybe the rich ones do, everyone else doesn’t have those luxuries. But it doesn’t mean you don’t have a fun time during sweltering summer months, just that you respect the weather, treat it accordingly, and apply common sense.

Are we making a fuss about heatwaves in Britain? It might seem like it, but British people don’t have the same mindset when it comes to dealing with extreme heat as their southern European neighbours … not yet. So, there needs to be a stating of the obvious until people fully understand the potential danger.

As for trivialising the warnings, you won’t find that happening by anyone who has lived in a hot climate.

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

The base – St Aubin

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

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

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

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

Highlights of Walking on Jersey

The Lothringen Battery

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

The Devil’s Hole and La Mare

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

St Helier and Elizabeth Castle

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

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

Inland to the Jersey War Tunnels

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

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

Railway line to La Corbiére Lighthouse

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

Samarés Botanic Gardens & Mont Orgueil Castle

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

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

Jersey in summary

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

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

“I’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.

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?

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.