With the annual round of negotiations between hotels and corporates coming up fast, Grant Appleton, director accommodation services for Zibrant, questions whether, in a volatile market, either side knows the best way forward
If your kids are missing their fix of outlawdom since the BBC axed its Robin Hood series earlier this summer, why not take them to see where it all began, the historic 165 square miles of woods and heathland that is Sherwood Forest? The county’s most famous resident is celebrated at venues throughout the forest, but the main attraction is the gently rolling woodland itself, at its most atmospheric in late summer, when the lush greens take on a few golden tints.
The Clumber Park Hotel (clumberparkhotel.com; 01623 835333; doubles from £140) is splendidly located for all Sherwood Forest attractions. The rooms are bright and spacious, if a little bland, and the welcome is friendly. Best of all, the hotel is opposite one of the forest’s most beautiful stretches, the 3,800-acre Clumber Park, now owned by the National Trust. Borrow bikes from the hotel, cross the road, and in a couple of minutes you can be freewheeling through woods and pretty farmland. If you prefer self-catering, Sherwood Castle Holiday Forest (01623 824400; sherwoodcastle.co.uk; short breaks from £314 in summer) has pine lodges sleeping two to eight on a 400-acre wooded site with indoor pool and tennis and badminton courts.
The Major Oak, in Sherwood Forest Country Park near Edwinstowe, is 1,000 years old, its trunk is 10m in circumference and, depending on how much of the folklore you believe, Robin and his men hid from their enemies inside its hollow trunk, and Robin and Marian plighted their troth beneath its branches. Once you’ve ticked that off, pick any of several waymarked trails and immerse yourself in peaceful woods and glades.
Creswell Crags (creswell-crags.org.uk) on the forest’s western edge is a dramatic limestone gorge formed in the last Ice Age. Everything gets outlaw-themed around here, so inevitably there is a Robin Hood Cave, but there is more to this site than merry men. Some of our earliest ancestors used to shelter and hunt here, and cave engravings 13,000 years old were recently discovered. A £4.2m museum and visitor centre was opened in June by David Attenborough.
The Caunton Beck (01636 636793; wigandmitre.com), a fine-dining pub in the village of Caunton, near Newark, serves excellent modern European food. Its starter of seared pigeon breast with risotto of sage and haslet would shock an Italian but is particularly delicious. A footpath along the beck behind the pub leads to a footbridge into a spooky churchyard. The Clumber Park Cafe (nationaltrust.org.uk) uses organic ingredients from the park’s huge 18th-century walled garden. After a day cycling or walking you will have earned one of its cream teas, with home-made scones, local jam and thick organic cream from the Lubcloud dairy, over the border in Leicestershire.
The pretty, beamed Olde Red Lion (01623 861000) has sat on the green in the village of Wellow for 400 years, opposite the maypole, one of only three permanent maypoles in Britain. It serves a range of real ales and good value food. The Maypole Brewery just down the road in Eakring produces Red Lion beer specially for the pub.
The Victorian courtyard in the Thoresby Hall estate (thoresby.com) has been given over to artists’ studios and retail space. Admire contemporary paintings, ceramics, stained glass and jewellery. The Welbeck Estate farm shop near Worksop sells meat and game from the estate, plus cheeses such as Lincolnshire Poacher and Stichelton, produced in the estate dairy. The latter is a sort of Stilton with knobs on, made lovingly by hand with unpasteurised milk (as no Stilton has been for 20 years).
An 11.5-mile circular walk (or shorter six-mile version) starts from Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre in Sherwood Forest Country Park, following well-drained paths and bridleways through ancient forest down to Rufford Abbey. Keep younger walkers interested by kitting them out with little green outlaw hats and bows and arrows from the gift shop. Many more hikes start at the village of Kings Clipstone: see heartofancientsherwood.co.uk for a choice of routes from five to nine miles.
Go Ape! (goape.co.uk), a high-wire adventure course at Sherwood Pines Park, is more Return of the Jedi than Robin Hood: over-10s can play Ewoks over a three-hour route of zip-wires, nets and Tarzan swings. But this is the spiritual home of the bow and arrow, so an archery course (minimum age six; £20) at The Adrenalin Jungle (adrenalinjungle.com) just off the A614 is perhaps more appropriate. Younger children may be happier among rare farm animals at Sherwood Forest Farm Park near Edwinstowe (sherwoodforestfarmpark.co.uk; family ticket £20). The farm’s massive shire horse is, of course, called Little John.
Week 14: Mike Carter’s ride round Britain takes him to Mull – and the abrupt realisation that one long-distance cyclist can be very different from another
I could imagine the meeting, with ad agency creatives pitching their ideas to the Scottish tourist board.
“OK, so there’s a guy cycling on his own, through an empty but jaw-droppingly gorgeous landscape, with high mountains and heather-coated moorland one side of him and a crystalline loch on the other – say Loch na Keal in Mull, cos that’s beautiful.”
“Like it. Like it.”
“And let’s say he stops and pitches his tent by the loch, miles from anywhere, no people around, and after drinking a couple of beers, goes for a swim as the sky catches fire from the setting sun, like a Florentine painting.”
“Saluting that. Great stuff.”
“And then a lone bagpiper appears on top of a nearby hill, in silhouette, and the notes of ‘Scotland the Brave’ drift through the still, languid air.”
“Now you’re taking the piss.”
But I was in that commercial. And sadly, apart from the piper, it’s unlikely anybody will ever believe me.
I cycled along the Ross of Mull and on to the ferry at Fionnphort. The flat-bottomed vessel rolled violently, slapping the swells, as it crossed the Sound of Iona. I rode up the hill, leant my bike against the wall, and walked around Iona’s burial ground, Reilig Odhráin, said to contain the remains of 60 kings of Norway, Ireland, France and Scotland. I scanned the inscriptions: “Here lies all that could die of Bruce Kenrick”; “Penry Jones. A man of parts”. And then a rough-hewn, weathered slab inlaid with, in golden script, a quote from Alexander Pope – “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”. The name across the top, John Smith.
This was the main reason I’d wanted to come to Iona, and I stood there in the, by now, driving rain, remembering May 1994 and the scenes in that graveyard, thinking how, even then, before all that followed and all that has become, the loss felt cataclysmic.
Back on Mull, a man – blond, blue-eyed, early fifties, with a bike – was sitting outside a coffee shop.
“Where have you cycled from?” he asked, with a heavy Dutch accent.
“London, via John O’Groats,” I said, and waited for the “wow!”.
“That’s not far,” he said.
“Have you been to Iona?” I asked.
“What’s the point of going to Fiona?” he said. “The scenery’s boring.”
I stared into my coffee. He pointed at my water bottles. “Why have you got three? That’s stupid.”
“Well, some of the places I’ve been, it’s a long way from …”
“And look at all the stuff you have. Stupid! I just have a backpack.”
“My camping gear, and a laptop …”
“A laptop? Stupid!”
“I’m writing about the trip.”
“Then why not go by car? That would be more sensible.”
I set off, Sancho Panza alongside. The road started to climb through Glen More, waterfalls cascading down on either side. An eagle flashed past.
“Can’t you go faster?” asked Sancho.
“Why would I want to?”
“I like to go fast. I will go ahead.”
“Great,” I said.
I took the ferry from Craignure to Oban and cycled south into a sharp headwind. At Lochgilphead I stopped for a coffee. At an outdoor table was a man – blond, blue-eyed, early fifties – with a heavily loaded touring bike.
“Come far?” he asked, with a Scandinavian accent.
“London,” I said.
“That’s far,” he replied.
“And you?”
“Sweden.”
“Wow!”
He told me his name was Anders Robertsson and that he had just lost his job and was getting divorced. He showed me a wristband a friend had given him inscribed “Carpe Diem”. “Overused,” he said, “but very true.”
Anders told me he was combining his love of golf and cycling, riding all over Britain and Ireland playing the links courses. “I prefer to be in pure nature playing golf,” he said. “Where land and sea combine.” After Britain, he planned to cycle across the US and then, if the money held out, around Australia, playing golf as he went.
“You must be borrowing clubs,” I said. He pointed at his bike. As well as the usual luggage and camping gear, strapped to the top tube were six golf clubs. Attached by bungee cord to the rear panniers was a folded-up golf bag and a pair of golf shoes.
“That’s just crazy,” I said.
“I know, I know,” he said, laughing.
Miles this week 260. Total miles 2,705
• Contacts: visitscotland.com/perfect day; calmac.com; turchefen.se
Kayaking on France’s loveliest river is a delight in early autumn, says Amelia Hill. Best of all, there’s still plenty of availability in September
Serious kayakers would probably think it a poor show to place the paddle on one’s lap and lean backwards with eyes closed, letting the current take you where it will. They might also be moved to a sharp intake of breath on observing a kayaker gently twisting downriver – often backwards and occasionally bumping into the riverbank – so slowly as to be overtaken by leaves bobbing in the gentle swell.
But having spent a week drifting down the Dordogne with such a complete lack of intent that dragonflies mistook my boat for an inanimate object and used it as a mid-river resting point, I can state that such fecklessness is one of the best ways to approach the sport.
I don’t use the word idyllic lightly, but floating down the Dordogne in the absolute solitude that descends on the river in mid-September, comes close. And that’s before adding the silence in which we spent our days – a peace broken only by birdsong, the occasional hunting horn and the lowing of cattle as they splashed their muddy fetlocks by the riverbank – or the exhilaration of clambering out of the kayaks to swim in water so icy that it set every nerve in our bodies tingling.
Then there was the joy of an unexpected, golden Indian summer, the iridescent flicker of kingfishers and the bobbing flight of goldfinches as they crossed the river, or the lunchtimes spent in ramshackle riverbank cafes which served food of a quality any London restaurant would be rightly proud of.
My friend summed it up perfectly one day, when I halfheartedly suggested that perhaps we might try actually paddling. “No,” he replied. “I don’t want to take a stroke because I don’t want to shorten this experience or lose a single second of it.” He was right.
The holiday looked so simple on paper: an eight-day journey down the Dordogne, from Souillac to Sarlat. Holidaymakers spend every other day on the water, kayaking – or canoeing – for between four and five hours. The “rest day” is spent walking, cycling, swimming or simply lazing around.
I’m more comfortable with independent travel, and the concept of an organised holiday initially raised my hackles. But this was organisation with the lightest of touches. We flew into Toulouse and found our own way to Souillac by train, where we were picked up at the station and taken to our first hotel. There we were given a skilful but simple introduction to the single-seat kayak and double-seat canoe, plus a map of the river and a list of hotels in which we would sleep and eat, and bidden a friendly farewell.
Every other day, our bags and bikes would magically disappear from one hotel and reappear at the next. Eight days later, we were picked up and returned to the train station. Other than that, it was left entirely up to us how we chose to get from one base to the next. There were two other couples following the same itinerary, one of which took a similarly relaxed approach to us. Each morning they would hoick a fresh crate of beer into their double-seater canoe; each evening they rolled up to dinner, looking extremely content.
Choosing to travel at the tipping point of autumn was a gamble. Fortunately, it paid off: every morning had a chilly autumnal bite to it, with lashings of Keatsian beauty – all mists and maturing sun. By mid-morning, however – about the time we began thinking of heading down to the river – the weather reliably morphed into a perfect summer’s day. Had we hit a more uncharitable weather vein, however, the charm of messing around in boats and soaking ourselves with icy river water would have been considerably less.
But travelling earlier in the year carries risks of its own. We spent days awed by the sheer solitude and silence of the river. Apart from the shrieks of the occasional small child living out the last moments of a Swallows and Amazons summer or an old woman contentedly knitting on a stool on the riverbank, we often didn’t see another soul.
In comparison, over two million tourists descend on the area at the height of summer. At these times, the river traffic is so heavy that canoes and kayaks have to stagger their journeys to avoid watery gridlock. The two other couples on our tour could be as many as 15 in high season.
Over one of many wonderful dinners, I tried to conjure up the profile of someone for whom this holiday wouldn’t be the acme of relaxation. As we’ve established, it’s perfect for the less energetic holidaymaker. It is, however, also suitable for the more high-powered: one couple, apparently, recently used the kayaking as a warm-up to their day’s activity, completing the four-hour river journey in two hours flat, before striking out for long hikes.
In addition, young children would be ecstatic at the sense of risk the holiday offers, while parents would enjoy the lack of any real danger. Groups of friends and couples would love the freedom and loose structure to the week. It is only single travellers who might find the holiday less than perfect. Even in busy mid-season, it is not a trip that yields many opportunities for the sort of unstructured socialising that leads to new friendships.
Those wanting a luxurious experience might also be discontented: the hotels are chosen more for their location and the quality of their menus than for five-star comfort or the beauty of the rooms. Shower heads sometimes failed to work. Some rooms lacked hairdryers and one was “en suite” only by virtue of the Portakabin-like bathroom jammed into the corner of each bedroom. But this is nit-picking. Such minor discomforts are a small price to pay for those halcyon days spent drifting through the Perigord Noir (the easterly part of the Dordogne region) passing high gorges, tall poplar trees rising from the river, and medieval chateaux and clifftop hamlets set in lush, rolling countryside.
And they are an almost negligible price to pay for the days spent walking and cycling in Sarlat, Carennac, Fénelon, Saint-Sozy and Souillac, with its fantastical and fascinating Musée de L’Automate, a collection of automatons and mechanical toys from the 19th-century workshop of Roullet-Decamps.
These were days spent striding and cycling across mountaintops and heavily wooded valleys, lunching on blackberries, figs and apples picked straight from the trees.
They were days spent strolling in warm, honeystone labyrinths of medieval streets – passages and stairways leading to unexpected squares, each one lovelier than the last, and restored and maintained as if put up the day before yesterday. They were, in short, extremely happy days.
Headwater (01606 720199; headwater.com) still has availability on its Canoeing on the Dordogne trips next month. The eight-night trip costs from £899 half-board, including equipment hire and transfers, including baggage transfer between hotels, or from £949 including flights to Toulouse. Departures run every two days until 24 September.
The Scottish island of St Kilda is host to almost a million seabirds each summer. This glorious journey captures the birds in their remote habitat
Explore the UK on foot this bank holiday with our brilliant walking guides
Join archaeologists in Spain, and you’ll find the vests tighter, the tans deeper, and beers more plentiful than on any Time Team excavation
I felt more like Gil Grissom from CSI than Indiana Jones when I finally managed to cup my hands round Curly’s smashed-in skull and lift it out of his hastily dug grave in one piece. It had taken four hours and a lot of patience, bent over in the 30C Spanish heat, to finally free the skull from the concrete-like grasp of the 1,700-year-old dirt. One slip and his bones would have crumbled to dust.
Curly – named after the third Marx brother by the volunteer who discovered him – was the last of 30 skeletons discovered unexpectedly in shallow graves back stage of the largest theatre in Roman Spain at Clunia. Three hours drive north-west of Madrid and an hour from the nearest supermarket, the theatre is now the gateway from the medieval village of Peñalba de Castro to the beautiful mosaics and massive foundations of the ruined Roman city.
Thirty people had been buried in a rush, and the only clue so far as to who they were, or why they died, was a single arrow head found in one of the graves.
Working on an archaeological dig is not many people’s dream holiday, but I had decided to spend a week at Clunia to find out why it is growing in popularity. Clunia’s sun, location and all inclusive package of accommodation, food and excursions, seemed more appealing than the bring-your-own-tent-and-food approach of a soggy dig in Britain.
According to Lisa Westcott, editor of Current Archaeology, this will have been the biggest summer yet for archaeological volunteering, with more than 300 digs in the UK alone. “Volunteering is really taking off because it is a great alternative for recession-hit Britain,” she says. “Volunteers who don’t have to have any previous experience of archaeology can spend two weeks away for almost nothing.”
Go further afield, as I did, and it may not be so cheap but the limited numbers of archaeologists on many excavations gives volunteers the chance to be involved in every aspect of the dig.
Mysteries swirl around the largely unexcavated ruins of Clunia, one of the most important cities in Roman Spain. Built by the Romans on the massive 3,360ft Alto de Castro plateau soon after they had conquered the area in 55BC, the city was given a monumental makeover in the first century AD, which included the construction of a huge, 9,000-seat theatre. By the end of the second century AD the theatre’s stage and one third of the seats had been torn out to make way for a circus arena. Barely 100 years later, both the city and theatre had largely been abandoned.
I arrived at the site to find Mike Elkin, the American archaeologist in charge of the volunteers, already having lunch at a long table with 30 archaeologists, Spanish students and volunteers. The vest tops at the table were distinctly tighter and the tans deeper than on Channel 4’s Time Team, and the rapid fire Spanish of the archaeologists a challenge for my Spanglish.
Mike gave up a high-flying financial career at Bloombergs in Madrid to pursue his first love of archaeology, which he had studied at university. He explained that each summer he brings seven volunteers to the dig, which is run by the universities of Barcelona, Valladolid and Burgos. Many – like me – have no previous experience of archaeology. I would be staying in one of two shared and rather basic flats in the local village of Peñalba de Castro.
The working day began at 7am and finished at 3pm. After that there was a big sit down lunch, followed by dinner at 9.30pm. In between the hours were our own; sometimes there were excursions to explore the region.
The first day I felt a tingle of excitement when we crossed the “PROHIBIDO EL PASO” cordon at the entrance to the site and turned from visitors to archaeologists. And there was something magical when professor Francesc Tuest started spraying the patch of dirt we were digging with water to reveal the edges of a pit that had been filled with rubble almost 2,000 years ago. Francesc explained that archaeology was like removing the flesh of an orange while leaving the skin intact, his way of reminding us that rather than just the brute force of “pico, pico, pico” – the Spanish for pick axe – we had to find the edge of the pit, identify layers and watch out for artefacts.
Then, a eureka moment – I saw something pale and grooved in the dirt. Bending down I realised I had found a fragment of Roman pottery. While the professionals just shrugged and threw it into the finds tray, to me it was special and deeply satisfying that I had only previously seen in a museum display case.
Although there was rarely a chance to shower before lunch, there was always time for a Mahon – the regional beer. At 3pm we headed to Restaurant Los Cuatro Bolos in nearby Huerta de Rey for a three-course lunch: rustic dishes such as oreja de cardo (fried pig’s ear) and never-ending glasses of tinto de verano (rough local red wine mixed with sweet tonic water), which helped both to break down barriers and turn the meals into Spanish lessons.
In the afternoon it was too hot to work so we would explore the countryside by taking one of the shepherd trails lined with sunflowers that spread out from the village, or better still, by jumping into Mike’s Land Rover to kick up dust along the back roads and through villages where dogs chased the wheels of passing cars.
One such trip took us to the ruins of the Roman city of Tiermes. Hidden among pine forests and limestone cliffs, it looked more like the wild west than modern Spain, with houses, gateways and aqueducts that had been carved into a large limestone outcrop. One of Tiermes’ aqueducts plunged us into the total darkness of an 80m underground tunnel; we stumbled along it before being thrown out into the blinking daylight and thyme-scented air of a ruined hilltop mansion.
Another trip took us to a mass grave from the Spanish civil war of the 1930s. It had been discovered only three days before. The Republican flag still flew proudly over a black canopy that hid the skeletons of the 46 victims of the Nationalist death squads buried in two trenches. The local mayor was sitting on his knees as he helped to scrape the dirt from the bones, as if in an act of penance. The gold filings still shone from the bullet-holed skulls.
Back at Clunia I was told, at last, that I could take my turn excavating Curly.
I was even more surprised when that night I was asked by one of the archaeologists in Spanish whether I would like to come back next year, and I answered “Si!”.
ArchaeoSpain (+1 866 932 0003) is a US-based non-profit organisation that provides opportunities for volunteers to take part in archaeological excavations in Spain and Italy. The Clunia dig costs €1,850 for four weeks, including three meals a day and wine, accommodation (at most two sharing), excursions, transfers and insurance. The dates for 2010 are July 1-July 30. Ryanair flies Stansted-Valladolid. Car hire from Valladolid airport with Avis (0844 581 8181) from around £264 for one week in September.
Mark Piesing
Lanzarote is increasingly known for its surf and boutique hotels, but few people are aware of the tiny islands waiting to be discovered off its shores
It is not often I feel like a pop star – unless you count Girls Aloud’s Sarah Harding after an especially heavy night – but, sitting at the bow of a 45ft yacht, gliding through turquoise-blue water as we headed toward a distant island, I could finally empathise with Duran Duran frontman Simon Le Bon, as he sang: “Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand.” Relaxing on a top-notch yacht – the mainsail raised, billowing and illuminated in glorious sunlight, the deck gleaming white – has an incontrovertible cachet, even if the yacht isn’t actually yours and you’re sailing, not through the Seychelles or on course for Monte Carlo, but off the coast of an island long known pejoratively as Lanzegrotty.
The yacht belonged to Paul and Sally Cook, who left Peterborough last year to run Atlantic Island Sailing, offering bare boat charters to experienced sailors, as well as skippered day and overnight trips to less able seamen and women. We had opted for the latter, sailing from Lanzarote’s Puerto Calero marina – the island’s prettiest – towards the island of Lobos, though their bespoke boat trips also include the tiny island of La Graciosa and Papagaya, a wonderful mainland area renowned for its beautiful beaches and coves that is more easily accessed from the sea than by land.
While Lanzarote’s tacky side is perhaps its most famous facet, it is increasingly known too for its surf and watersports, a smattering of boutique hotels, as well as its staggering volcanic landscapes. But few people realise it also makes a great base for exploratory boat trips to the smattering of islands that lie off its shores. The similarly large and developed Canary island of Fuerteventura is within reach by ferry, of course, but so too are smaller, more intriguing isles – to the north, La Graciosa, a speck of an island that is home to some 600 people, the majority of them fishermen and their families and, to the east, Lobos, a tiny nature reserve and ornithologists’ paradise.
We went by ferry to stay on La Graciosa, travelling 40 minutes from Orzola port in the north of Lanzarote. Pretty much all human life huddled around the harbour of Caleta del Sebo. Used in the 17th and 18th centuries by pirates as a base for raids on the other Canary Islands, La Graciosa was largely deserted until the 19th century and has barely been touched by the 21st. There are no proper roads and only a few cars, and it’s not unusual to see residents pushing wheelbarrows to carry their belongings and shopping.
We arrived mid-morning and, after a couple of restorative beers at a beachfront cafe and a trip to one of the island’s sparsely stocked supermarkets for water and provisions, we headed for Playa de las Conchas. It may be La Graciosa’s most popular stretch of sand, but it was by no means busy, with only the occasional sunbather and sightseer soaking up rays and views. With our picnic of bread, cheese and ham, we settled in a dune and marvelled at the stunning vista across the bay to the majestic, uninhabited island of Montaña Clara. Never mind the tranquillity, that view made the hour-long, and occasionally arduous trek from Caleta del Sebo worthwhile.
La Graciosa is, by my reckoning, a couple of years off becoming somewhere to stay longer than a day or so. If you do want to stay overnight, the accommodation can be organised through the ferry company, Líneas Marítimas Romero, but it is rather basic – simple apartments that don’t come close to mainland Lanzarote’s beach accommodation. We, and several cockroaches, spent a night in one after a dinner of tapas at another of the island’s few cafe-bar-restaurants which, like the island as a whole, had an unadorned charm.
While mod cons may be in short supply on the island, numerous activities – from diving to cycling – are available, also organised through the ferry company. With the trade winds blowing in from the Atlantic, La Graciosa, like Lanzarote, is also a haven for windsurfers and kitesurfers.
Back on Lanzarote, we holed up for a few days in Yaiza, a quiet inland town which is an ideal base for exploring the south of the island. Casa de Hilario had a handful of spacious and stylish rooms – ours was the old library with shelves stretching to the ceiling at the head of the bed and a door leading on to the expansive poolside area. The villa had a church-like peacefulness and it would have been a wrench to leave were we not so excited by day trips and nights out to places such as Lagomar, a restaurant run by Luis Leon, one of Spain’s foremost chefs, with a genuinely hip bar built in a volcanic cave where the party gets started around 1am. Once owned by Omar Sharif, it was designed by artist César Manrique, whose sculptures dot Lanzarote and whose influence fended off the worst excesses of the holiday accommodation construction that blights the likes of Gran Canaria.
Further north, near San Bartolomé, we stayed in the more rustic and isolated Casa Tomaren, where a secluded cluster of villas is set around a pool and well-tended gardens. This is not to say that the best of Lanzarote is all high spec, bespoke and boutique. We spent a couple of nights in Famara, a surfers’ mecca on the island’s north-west coast, where Pedro Almodóvar filmed some of his latest film, Broken Embraces. There we enjoyed the best meal of the holiday at Restaurant Sol, which was so simple that there were no menus; instead we were presented with a stupendous platter of five whole fish, caught and landed nearby, plus prawns, with salty Canarian potatoes and mojo verde, a local sauce of green pepper and creamy garlic. The platter would, we reckoned, cost in excess of £80 in London. Here, it was €36. On an after-dinner constitutional through the sandy streets and on to the starlit beach – tinny music playing through cheap speakers somewhere in the distance and a whiff of weed wafting through the air – we reflected that Lanzarote held many surprises.
The best though, were at sea. Lobos has been uninhabited since the early 1980s and is also a nature reserve. We dropped anchor off shore and Paul prepared the dinghy to take us to the quay. As with much of the rest of Lanzarote, Lobos is a startling mix of volcanic landscape and swathes of golden sand. The main beach is the crescent-shaped Playa de la Concha, 15 minutes walk across the island from the quay. As Lobos is a nature reserve, we had to stick to the paths, although these meandered pretty much all over the island, including up to its highest point, the Caldera de la Montana.
Towards the centre of Lobos, there was a collection of what were essentially beach huts. Weatherworn fishermen reclined in chairs made from driftwood while their washing flapped furiously on the lines between the ramshackle buildings. Gaggles of children prodded and squealed in rock pools and scampered through the shallow waves as their parents lazed in the shadow of brightly-coloured umbrellas.
Though ferries run regularly to Lobos from Corralejo on Lanzarote, transporting day-tripping tourists, there is a surprising peacefulness about the island. Exploring its furthermost tips – which, since the island is less than five square kilometres, really aren’t that far – there were times when we couldn’t see another living soul and the only sound was the gentle howl of the wind and the wash of the Atlantic on the rocks. And at no point did we hear anyone else speaking English.
Returning to the yacht for lunch, Sally and Paul had laid out bread, cheese, meat and some of the juiciest tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. Sitting on deck and watching a flock of seabirds rise, we too felt lifted. This was the sort of glamorous experience we just hadn’t expected to find in the Canaries.
• Monarch (0871 940 5040, flymonarch.com) flies Gatwick-Lanzarote from £212 return including tax. Atlantic Islands Sailing (0034 928 836803, saillanzarote.com) offers a day’s private yacht charter to Lobos for €75pp including food, drink and equipment. Líneas Marítimas Romera sails daily from Orzola to La Graciosa (+902 401666, lineas-romero.com). Rooms at Casa de Hilario, Yaiza, from €80pp pn B&B (+928 836262, casadehilario.com). Rooms at Casa Tomaren, San Bartolomé, from €90pp pn B&B (+34 928 522618, tomaren.com). Luis Leon’s Lagomar restaurant is open Tuesday to Sunday (+928 845665, lag-o-mar.com).
By day it’s jumble sales and children’s parties, but at night the tiny Yorkshire village hall that is the Band Room turns into an unlikely music venue
On stage, a group thrashed their instruments while the singer hunched over effects pedals to loop his voice into an eerie chorus.
It was the end of an epic, two-hour set that would have been a hit at any sweaty city-centre venue or music festival side stage. Yet we were in a tiny village hall, hemmed in by the brooding, heather-covered heights of the North York Moors.
Built for a local brass band, the Farndale Silver Band, in the 1920s, the hall now serves as a hub for community activities, hosting everything from jumble sales to a women’s beading group. But it also doubles as The Band Room, an intimate 100-seat live music venue that puts on alt country, folk and roots gigs. The Band Room was the brainchild of local muso Nigel Burnham, who, 15 years ago, went to see a Cajun group from Louisiana in a village hall in the Yorkshire Dales and decided the North York Moors needed its own gig venue. He hired the same Cajun band for a show, and the rest, as they say …
The Band Room has stuck to its roots, specialising in contemporary Americana, attracting bands – and even, on occasion, fans – from the US and Canada. Every now and then, a big-name star drops in, such as Cerys Matthews, who played a secret gig before her 2007 tour.
We caught Canadian indie outfit Woodpigeon, led by the singular Mark Hamilton, who looks like a harassed IT manager, but sings like a choirboy. Previous guests to The Band Room, US southern gothic duo The Handsome Family, called it “the greatest small venue on Earth”.
Our route to The Band Room took us down a narrow lane that swooped down to the valley floor, past a collection of grey stone cottages to a corrugated metal shed with a bright green door. Inside, white-painted wooden panels gave it a homely appeal. The Band Room attracts a mixed crowd. Earnest, bearded indie kids grabbed seats next to middle-aged folkies with their fidgety children.
We readied our bottles of local Black Sheep Ale (there’s no drinks licence, but you can bring your own), as Woodpigeon’s Mark Hamilton geared up for an opening solo set. (Burnham eschews support slots to give his acts a chance to stretch themselves.) “Here’s something from a Swedish folk band you may have heard of,” said Hamilton. A baffled silence gave way to appreciative chuckles as he launched a plaintive reading of Abba’s Lay All Your Love On Me.
Otherwise, the audience sat in rapt silence, rather than chatting through the set like a blasé urban crowd, giving heartfelt applause and whoops for every number. The warm dusk glowing through the window had faded to inky black, and the only illumination was the odd spotlight or candle on a table.
After a short interval, the full six-piece outfit crammed on to the tiny stage and took us on a journey through alternative country and folk before finishing with a mesmerising psychedelic freak out.
After the gig, we emerged into the dark silence of Low Mill, rather than an urban high street: no late bars or kebab shops here. Hamilton asked plaintively where the party was, but we had to negotiate that twisting lane rather than the last bus home. There was just time to compare notes in hushed whispers with fellow gig goers. “The band are laidback guys – they only needed one van,” said one of Burnham’s mates approvingly. “Cerys Matthews’ tour bus took up the whole car park.”
How could a coach negotiate that route? In our car, we just managed to dodge a slow-witted hedgehog and a flustered badger.
Our base was 12 miles away in the pretty market town of Helmsley, on the edge of the North York Moors national park. The Black Swan was a classy joint, with informal service that reflected its eccentric appearance. The hotel occupies a Tudor vicarage, Georgian doctor’s surgery and the ageless inn. Inside, the mix of epochs continues: chunky door posts nicked from Helmsley Castle nestled beside an elegant staircase.
The hotel takes up much of the north side of the cobbled market square of a town whose chief draw is upscale retail therapy: foodie stores, galleries and bookshops had taken over many of the sandy-coloured cottages.
Watching over it, the remains of its former castle beckoned us towards views of rolling hinterland. We learned how the fortifications were pulverised in the English civil war and, when its owners moved into their stately home Dunscombe Park, they knocked off more walls to give them dramatic views. Beyond the castle, Helmsley Walled Garden was a tranquil retreat and sun trap amid lawns, flower beds and vegetable patches. A gardener explained how kids with learning difficulties came for horticultural therapy. We finished with rich ice creams from Hunter’s deli, by the babbling stream that runs through the town.
Next day, with sun blazing, the square thronged with bikers chomping on pasties, pies and chips. We fancied more rugged vistas, but not before sourcing provisions from Hunter’s. Their sarnies come in a substantial bap – no thin ready-sliced here.
We plumped for a five-mile circuit of nearby Rosedale, where a broad track follows contours round the top of the gently curving valley, the remnant of a Victorian railway that transported iron ore from its quarries. It was a popular route, with dog walkers and a fell runner in nowt but shorts, trainers and long hair flowing behind him. Like The Band Room’s Nigel Burnham, another free spirit doing things his own way.
• The Band Room’s next gigs are Richmond Fontaine, on 11 September, and Eilen Jewell, on 16 October (01751 433201, thebandroom.co.uk). Gig tickets usually cost around £12. Double rooms at the Black Swan, Helmsley (01439 770466, blackswan-helmsley.co.uk), from £100 per night, B&B. More places to stay are listed on the Band Room website. London to York non-stop via Grand Central Trains (grandcentralrail.co.uk). Pick up a hire car at York station from Europcar (europcar.co.uk).
Ports of call
Cumbria has a fascinating coastline, which is relatively under-explored compared to the Lakes, and the two main harbours are steeped in history. Whitehaven was the last place in England to be invaded (by the Americans in 1778 during the War of Independence), and has two excellent restaurants, Zest and Zest Harbourside, which make great use of local produce. Up the coast, Maryport was a base for the coastal defences of Hadrian’s Wall. The Senhouse Roman Museum has an important collection of Roman altar stones, and there’s an aquarium in the harbour which is great fun.
• western-lakedistrict.co.uk, zestwhitehaven.com.
Creative gateway
The Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal has a size and breadth of programme that would be the envy of many a city, hosting touring theatre and dance companies as well as big name comedians. Being located at the gateway to the Lakes it also holds talks by world-famous adventurers.
Enchanted citadels
If you’re seeking a visitor attraction which offers a memorable experience beyond the ordinary fare then the privately-owned Muncaster Castle is it. Unrivalled perspectives of the great Lakes’ massifs are married with enchanting gardens (illuminated during the winter months), a haunted house, and animation events in spring and summer. Just up the road is the little-known Egremont Castle. Built in the 12th century, it guards a town which boasts an eclectic mix of attractions, including a sculpture by Turner prize-winner Jeremy Deller. It’s most famous though for the annual Crab Apple Fair, which dates back to the 13th century and takes place on the third Saturday of September and includes the World Gurning Championships.
• muncaster.co.uk, visitegremont.co.uk.
Sweet treats
Lucy’s, in Ambleside and Bowness, serves delicious tapas, and chocolate fondue – the ultimate post-walk treat.
Julie Tait is director of Kendal Arts International, organisers of the Lakes Alive season of outdoor arts events across Cumbria (lakesalive.org).