After an hour\u2019s briefing at a slipway by Donnington Bridge, we were off, piloting the boat 80 or so miles downstream to London. That June was blustery and wet. The first day was deceptively fine, but on the second, we\u00a0got soaked on the stretch of water between Abingdon and Day\u2019s Lock, and came close to packing it in.<\/p>\n
Even with the current helping us, the miles ahead seemed like folly. It\u2019s not generally remembered that Jerome K Jerome\u2019s Three Men in a Boat ends in disappointment and recrimination as the companions abandon their sodden skiff at The Swan<\/a> in Pangbourne.<\/p>\n But we kept going. And, over the\u00a0subsequent days, the weather improved, we got better at rowing and it turned into an extraordinary and memorable adventure.<\/p>\n double quotation markIt always felt as if we were very far from the daily grind. There were stretches of extraordinary tranquillity<\/p>\n Looking back, the trip appears to have been packed with incident. We visited lovely riverside pubs, brewed tea on uninhabited midstream islands, and popped into a meditation centre run by an ascetic Hindu sect. We passed Medmenham Abbey, the headquarters of Francis Dashwood\u2019s Hellfire Club<\/a>; Monkey Island, where the doomed romance in Rebecca West\u2019s The Return of the Soldier<\/a> unfolds; and we moored for lunch one day at the luxurious faux-gothic hotel Oakley Court<\/a>, immortalised as Frank-N-Furter\u2019s castle in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.<\/p>\n Logistically, the trip was never entirely straightforward. Although the Thames skiff was designed to be slept in, it was not big enough for three and the rules around wild camping made things more complicated. I\u00a0also remember feeling a certain anxiety when mooring the boat to go to the pub. We had been instructed to hammer iron spikes into the riverbank and fasten the skiff to them. But it always seemed weird to walk away from this precious antique and assume it would be there when we got back.<\/p>\n The trio hired a 130-year-old mahogany skiff. Photograph: James Bedford\/jamesbedford.com<\/p>\n Negotiating the locks that regulate the water level of the river was also tricky. Someone had to remain in the skiff with a boat hook and keep it from bumping against the sides as the water poured out of the sluices. And, of course, rowing that distance, even with the current, requires a certain stick-to-it-ness.<\/p>\n Paradoxically, the minor hardships of the trip probably made it more relaxing than a holiday whose explicit goal is relaxation. The overall pace was slow and reflective. And even within commuting distance of our own beds, it always felt as if we were very far from the daily grind. There were stretches of extraordinary tranquillity, deep silences, wonderful birdlife; I still remember the flash of a kingfisher in the willows outside Abingdon.<\/p>\n Other river-users took kindly to us and our venerable skiff. One evening, we were invited for drinks onboard a\u00a0beautiful narrowboat whose owner we met as we were queueing at a lock.<\/p>\n Our final destination was Walton-on-Thames, but by the time we reached it, we were enjoying ourselves so much we pushed on to Hampton Court before turning the boat round and heading back upriver to return the skiff.<\/p>\n It\u2019s a trip I\u2019ve always meant to repeat. I\u2019ve travelled much further, at much greater expense and had nothing like as much fun. A birthday break in\u00a0the\u00a0TrossachsGravel biking in the Trossachs<\/p>\n \u201cGravelfoyle,<\/a>\u201d my cycle-mad partner, Gary, replied instantly when asked where he\u2019d like to go for his birthday. Gravelfoyle is the nickname of the village of Aberfoyle \u2013 gateway to the Trossachs, about 50 miles north-west of Edinburgh, and even closer to Glasgow \u2013 which claims to have \u201cthe UK\u2019s finest gravel riding\u201d and the waymarked trails to prove it.<\/p>\n Growing up in Edinburgh, I spent many happy summers camping in the Cairngorms and roving around Perthshire. This instilled a\u00a0habit of going north rather than west,\u00a0so I\u00a0didn\u2019t know Scotland\u2019s first national park, Loch Lomond and the Trossachs<\/a>, as well.<\/p>\n Off we set, bikes strapped to the car, passing Falkirk\u2019s Kelpies, whose steel heads reared up alongside the M9, imposing Stirling Castle and the Mordor-esque Wallace Monument<\/a> in the distance. The drive was only 75 minutes, but we stopped en route at\u00a0The Smiddy farm shop<\/a> in Blair Drummond (close to the safari park <\/a>my brother and I went to as kids) to pick up cheese and chorizo scotch eggs, \u201cthe best thing we sell\u201d, according to the butcher.<\/p>\n double quotation markThe glamping pod felt like the most decadent way to enjoy the outdoors, especially once the fire pit was roaring and fizz was in hand.<\/p>\n I\u2019d booked a snug-looking glamping pod on the Cardross Estate<\/a> near Port of\u00a0Menteith, not far from Aberfoyle. Tucked away down a single-track road flanked by farmland, where kites soar overhead, it\u2019s a slick operation, from the easy self-check-in to the trolleys for wheeling stuff from the car park. Inside the curved, wooden pod was a\u00a0sofa, pull-down double bed, shower and fridge, with picture windows framing fields speckled with cattle and crops rolling towards Ben Lomond. We could have chosen one of the estate\u2019s self-catering cottages or a B&B stay in Cardross House, but the pod felt like the most decadent way to enjoy the outdoors, especially once the fire pit was roaring and fizz was in hand.<\/p>\n Kirsten Henton and her partner Gary try to avoid the midges. Photograph: Kirsten Henton<\/p>\n Later that day, we embarked on our\u00a0first ride, the 18.2-mile (29.2km) Lomond View, one of three Gravelfoyle routes plotted for gravel biking, and a\u00a0wet and muddy affair after recent rain. Afterwards, at Aberfoyle Bike Co<\/a> (where you can hire bikes if you don\u2019t bring your own), the owner, Liam, was ready with a hose and hot drinks.<\/p>\n The next day, we hiked out of the nearby town of Callander on the 3.5-mile (5.3km) circular Bracklinn Falls hiking route. Crossing the bridge over the thundering waterfall, we pressed on through thick forest before returning to baguettes oozing generous fillings at Mhor Bread<\/a>. The afternoon\u2019s downpour gave\u00a0us a great excuse to nest in our cosy pod, read and, in my case, nap \u2013 the indulgence!<\/p>\n That evening, the sun sprang loose, and we chinked glasses in the flower-strewn garden of Scottish chef Nick Nairn\u2019s namesake restaurant, Nick\u2019s at\u00a0Port of Menteith<\/a>. Swallows and housemartins swooped as we ate fish and chips and seafood linguine.<\/p>\n Over three days, we biked and hiked various routes alongside lochs and through yawning, forest-clad valleys, ate fabulous, locally produced food, and soaked up the nurturing goodness of being immersed in the wilderness of\u00a0the national park. At the edge of north WalesBwa Gwyn arch at Rhoscolyn on Holy Island, Ynys M\u00f4n (Anglesey). Photograph: Andy Pietrasik<\/p>\n I\u2019ve lost count of the number of times\u00a0I\u2019ve passed through Ynys M\u00f4n (Anglesey) over the years, but until recently I\u2019d never actually been there. Ghosting through the darkness to catch the night ferry from Holyhead to Dublin, I had no idea what the island looked like until our daughter suggested an outing while we were visiting her at her student digs in Bangor, across the Menai Strait.<\/p>\n That first time, she took us to Newborough Forest, a nature reserve on the south-west coast of\u00a0the\u00a0island made up of Corsican pines, sand dunes and a sweep of\u00a0beach that offers panoramic views\u00a0of\u00a0the peaks of Eryri\u00a0(Snowdonia) across the bay. We\u00a0spent the afternoon walking over\u00a0to\u00a0the small tidal island of Ynys\u00a0Llanddwyn, with its lighthouse and\u00a0the ruined remains of Saint Dwynwen\u2019s church. Saint Dwynwen is\u00a0the Welsh patron saint of lovers, the\u00a0equivalent of Saint Valentine. It\u00a0was love at first sight for us, and we\u00a0hatched a plan to come back for a\u00a0longer visit.<\/p>\n double quotation markI rued the fact that I had rattled through this glorious little island on the boat train on so many occasions, without ever having spent any time here<\/p>\n On that next visit, we rented a\u00a0cottage with floor-to-ceiling windows\u00a0that framed the mountains on the road\u00a0out of Llanfair \u2013 or Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch to give it its proper\u00a0majestic name \u2013 well, how could we not? What we discovered on\u00a0that stay\u00a0pretty much chimed with\u00a0what\u00a0I\u00a0had read in HV Morton\u2019s book In\u00a0Search of Wales, published in\u00a01932: \u201cThe long roads\u00a0run through flat,\u00a0green country, linking quiet, stone-built little market towns together.\u201d<\/p>\n But it\u2019s at the edges that Ynys M\u00f4n comes into its own. On the first day, we walked the Wales Coast Path<\/a> along the cliffs at Rhoscolyn on Ynys Gybi (Holy Island) in the north \u2013 an island off an island with dramatic sea arches \u2013 and enjoyed a feeling of apartness, of almost floating out to sea.<\/p>\n Heading through the sand dunes to Newborough beach in the south-west of the island. Photograph: Andy Pietrasik<\/p>\n On another day, we parked up at the\u00a0beach at Rhosneigr and again followed the signs for the coast path, walking through the marram grass and gorse on the dunes until we found a\u00a0sheltered cove to go swimming. Then\u00a0we drove across the island that at\u00a0one time was called M\u00f4n, Mam Cymru (Anglesey, the Mother of Wales) because it was said to grow all the corn needed to feed the country, to Red Wharf Bay and another sweeping beach at the bottom of a single-track lane. There was no corn on the menu at the Boathouse cafe, but we made do with crab meat crumpets and mussels.<\/p>\n skip past newsletter promotion<\/a><\/p>\n Sign up to Inside Saturday<\/p>\n The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend.<\/p>\n after newsletter promotion<\/p>\n Leafing through HV Morton\u2019s book back at the cottage that night, I came across a line that made me rue the fact that I had rattled through this glorious little island on the boat train on so many occasions, simply seeing it as an\u00a0embarkation point without ever having had the imagination to jump off and spend a bit of time here: \u201cHolyhead is an excellent place for a\u00a0holiday \u2026 you have bathing, fine cliff scenery, and all round you is excellent flat walking country with a supreme view of the whole Snowdon range.\u201d North Yorkshire with 42 palsNorth Yorkshire Moors Railway steam engine on its way to Whitby. Photograph: David Lyons\/Alamy<\/p>\n Twelve years ago, I was sitting in my son Ned\u2019s primary school playground when I said to my friend Vicky, \u201cI\u2019m thinking of taking a few friends up to Yorkshire.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m in,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n Word got out, and before I knew it 42 of us were heading to lovely Cote Ghyll Mill<\/a>, on the edge of the pretty village of Osmotherley. It was a youth hostel in those days, before its recent transformation into a B&B. Ned and I made a giant Welcome to Yorkshire banner and Blu-Tacked handwritten names on to the bedroom doors.<\/p>\n None of us realised that week would become our June tradition, until Covid brought it to a halt.<\/p>\n Brilliantly, my mum and dad took charge one day, leading us on a six-mile circular walk from Grosmont through the fairytale hamlet of Beck Hole, a centre for the traditional game of quoits, and back across the North York Moors.<\/p>\n I remember Mum, ever the feeder in our family, opening the boot of their car to reveal her homemade fruit cake alongside a stack of enormous sandwiches they had collected from Danby Bakery<\/a>. Dad brought a few short thumbsticks (traditional walking sticks) he\u2019d made for the kids from hazel branches. Florence, now 19, still has hers, and Julie, her mum, now uses it to reach an awkward light switch.<\/p>\n double quotation markThe Birch Hall Inn doubles as a sweet shop and we came away clutching paper bags of lemon sherbets, cola cubes and pear drops<\/p>\n Halfway round was Dad\u2019s favourite pub, the Birch Hall Inn<\/a>, where his drink of choice was always the same: a bitter shandy. The pub doubles as a sweet shop and we came away clutching paper bags of lemon sherbets, cola cubes and pear drops, all bought by the ounce, while Ned carefully chose Barratt\u2019s liquorice sticks for his grandad, as is tradition.<\/p>\n Part of our walk crossed the North Yorkshire Moors Railway<\/a> line to Whitby, and, after watching a train steaming past us, we all wanted to take a ride. It is a magical way to see the moors. Every carriage told its own story. Couples were more romantic, kids chatted around the tables, and happy heads hung out of the windows to catch the smell of coal and steam. Eleven-year-old Eleanor caught far too much coal dust in her eye and ended up in A&E in Northallerton. Thankfully, she was fine.<\/p>\n In Whitby, Ned\u2019s pals buried him in the sand on Tate Hill beach. Although we brushed him down and emptied his shoes, he still left a little trail of Whitby all the way back to the station and on to the train.<\/p>\n Jill Mead with her son Ned and her parents outside the Birch Hall Inn in Beck Hole, near Goathland. Photograph: Jill Mead\/The Guardian<\/p>\n Our trip wouldn\u2019t have been complete without a visit to my own boozer of choice, the Sun Inn<\/a>, or Spout House, in Bilsdale. Its infamous cricket field, with a dramatic slope where fielders on the boundary can disappear from view, is where my dad and brother played. Spike W, AKA Prince Harry, is also recorded in the score book.<\/p>\n My old primary school friend Audrey is the landlady now. I used to ride her ponies, her dad was the village milkman, and she somehow makes everyone who walks through the door feel as if they\u2019ve come home.<\/p>\n Audrey laid on a domino tournament and the most amazing Yorkshire platter, with cakes worthy of victory at any country show. Competition was fierce, with some local diehard domino players, mainly farmers, joining in. Harriet, aged just six, beat the lot of them. She burst into tears, while her mum, Steph, cried with laughter.<\/p>\n This year, I casually asked Ned, now 21, \u201cDo you think anyone might fancy going back to Yorkshire?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely, Mum,\u201d he replied.<\/p>\n So we\u2019re going back to Cote Ghyll Mill this month.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve dug out the original Welcome to Yorkshire banner and Harriet, now 18, is fiercely ready to defend her domino title. A quick dip into BristolGuests at the Lido Townhouse in Bristol have access to the restored Victorian pool<\/p>\n Travelling by train from Kent to Bristol on one of the hottest days of the year might have been pretty close to madness. In sweltering heat and amid cancellations and delays, I arrived in the city hot, broken and miserable. Less than an hour later, I was gliding through the water at the city\u2019s lido, smugly thanking myself for booking what may be one of the best summer city hotels in the country.<\/p>\n I was in Bristol for the opening of an exhibition \u2013 Polly Braden: Against the Tide<\/a> \u2013 at the brilliant Arnolfini arts centre<\/a>, which seemed the perfect excuse to visit a city that had somehow eluded me. The Arnolfini is a leading hub for the contemporary arts, housed in a 19th-century warehouse on Narrow Quay beside the harbour, a\u00a0vibrant area packed with restaurants, cafes and bars, as well as some of the city\u2019s leading tourist attractions, including the aquarium and Brunel\u2019s SS Great Britain.<\/p>\n double quotation markAfter my 9.30pm swim I sat in my robe at the bar nursing a glass of amaro<\/p>\n
Marcel Theroux<\/p>\n
Kirsten Henton<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/06\/1782376450_973_500.jpg\")
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Andy Pietrasik<\/p>\n
Jill Mead<\/p>\n