JRNY Travel Magazine - Issue Four by jrnymag.com

JRNY ISSUE FOUR

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ISSUE FOUR Visit Tucson and the Arizona Office of Tourism are honoured to support the fourth issue of JRNY Travel Magazine.

The JRNY Team Founding Editors: Kav Dadfar & Jordan Banks Editor-in-Chief: Emma Gibbs Sub-Editor / Head of Digital: Simon Willmore Art Direction & Design: Jo Dovey Contact Us

The beauty of the photography and the eloquence of the words in this magazine truly match the essence that is Tucson and Southern Arizona. The warm sun and lush desert of the Sonoran Desert provide inspiration to locals and artists who live and work in the region. We hope this issue of JRNY inspires you to travel to Arizona and experience it for yourself.

For general enquiries, partnerships or sales, email us at info@jrnymag.com

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Contributors If you would like to contribute to JRNY Travel Magazine, email us at submissions@jrnymag.com Follow us Website: jrnymag.com Twitter: @jrnymag Instagram: @jrnymag Cover Image By Jordan Banks | Cowboy Russell True herding at the White Stallion Ranch, Tucson, Arizona. Issue Four First published March 2023. ISSN 2752-7077 (Online)

The articles published reflect the opinions of the respective authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the publisher and editorial team. All rights reserved. ©JRNY Magazine Limited. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the cases of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. JRNY Magazine Limited reserves the right to accept or reject any article or material to edit this material prior to publication. Published in the UK by JRNY Magazine Limited This magazine was printed in the UK by The Manson Group Ltd, a subscriber to the Forest Stewardship Council and Programme for the Endorsement of Forest Certification Schemes, promoting responsible management of the world’s woodland resources. In addition to forest management and certification, The Manson Group Ltd is working in compliance with ISO14001:2015 (Certification pending approval), has reduced landfill waste by over 80% through waste segregation policies, with all paper, cardboard, plastics and used printing plates recycled in a responsible manner and employs new technology and processes within its printing facility, such as LED lighting and the use of electric delivery vehicles, to reduce its carbon footprint. For more information, visit tmgp.uk/enviro and www.mansongroup.co.uk/environment

CONTENTS

ISSUE FOUR

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IN THIS ISSUE

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PIONEERS

C R E AT I V E

AND

COVER STORY

USA

GHOST TOWNS

G A S T R O N O M Y,

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

Z O E Y

G O T O

M E E T S

T H E

M A K E R S

A R I Z O N A

A M O N G

O F

S O U T H E R N

I T S

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A N D

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Harvest from the Land and Sea ICELAND

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The Road to the Moon SALTA, ARGENTINA

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The Sweetness of Idleness PUGLIA, ITALY

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The Echoes of Industry CORNWALL, ENGLAND

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The Jaw-Dropping and the Sublime VIA BERNA, SWITZERLAND

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Rewilding the Wilderness HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

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The Spirit of Stone Town ZANZIBAR, TANZANIA

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Heavenly Mountains KYRGYZSTAN

134

Essence of Kentucky KENTUCKY, USA

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After the Gold Rush YUKON NATIONAL PARK, CANADA

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Come Find Your Virginia VIRGINIA, USA

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Wild Places Rising GUYANA

C O M M U N I T I E S

C A C T U S - S T U D D E D

L A N D S C A P E S . PHOTOS BY JORDAN BANKS

Gastronomy, Ghost Towns and Creative Pioneers SOUTHERN ARIZONA, USA

THE JRNY GOE S ON... Welcome to our first issue of 2023! With three issues of JRNY planned, this year is going to be our biggest (and busiest) since we launched almost two years ago. As usual, you’ll be able to expect inspirational travel stories and imagery by some of the best writers and photographers in the business – subscribe at jrnymag.com/subscribe to ensure you don’t miss out. We kick off Issue Four with Zoey Goto as she travels around Southern Arizona, meeting the people breathing new creativity into its desert communities. Revitalisation is also the theme of Emma Gibbs’ article, where she visits a number of projects working to rewild the dramatic landscapes of the Scottish Highlands. A sense of the past is never far away, wherever you go, as Gail Muller finds when she crosses from coast to coast in Cornwall, tracing the legacy of its mining industry. In the Yukon, James Draven uncovers another region where history has been etched into the landscape. By contrast, there’s a sense of an enchanted land that never changes in Kate Wickers’ exploration of Puglia, while Sue Watt ventures beyond Zanzibar's beaches to explore the maze-like streets of historic Stone Town. Phenomenal landscapes, as always, sit at the heart of JRNY, from Jamie Lafferty's trip into the Guyanese wilderness to Sarah Siese's horseback exploration of little-known Kyrgyzstan. Hiking the new Via Berna trail, Rudolf Abraham witnesses an abundance of gobsmacking panoramas in the Swiss Alps. I take a road trip through the vast, otherworldly landscapes of Argentina's Salta region, while Ian Cumming’s photo essay explores how Iceland’s natural abundance is now being reflected in its cuisine. If you fancy meeting the people behind the stories, and gaining a further insight into these destinations, tune into our podcast at jrnymag.com/podcast where host Si Willmore will be speaking with some of our contributors, as well as other trailblazers and experts in the travel industry. As an independent magazine, we are only able to produce each issue with the support of a few selected sponsors. So a big thank you to our issue sponsors Arizona and Tucson. We are also delighted to bring you two additional photo essays from two other sponsors, Virginia and Kentucky. But, above all, none of this would be possible without you, our wonderful supporters, subscribers and readers. We hope you enjoy Issue Four of JRNY. Regards

Kav Dadfar Founding Editor

PIONEERS

C R E AT I V E

AND

USA

GHOST TOWNS

G A S T R O N O M Y,

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

Z O E Y

G O T O

M E E T S

T H E

M A K E R S

A R I Z O N A

A M O N G

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S O U T H E R N

I T S

R E V I TA L I S E D

A N D

C O M M U N I T I E S

C A C T U S - S T U D D E D

L A N D S C A P E S . PHOTOS BY JORDAN BANKS

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

USA

PREVIOUS SPREAD:

The sun setting over giant saguaro cactus at Gates Pass, Tucson. THIS PAGE:

A stagecoach passing through Allen Street, Tombstone.

gun barrel is still smoking as I roll into the wild-west frontier town of Tombstone. Having just wrapped up their daily re-enactment show, a posse of thespian outlaws swagger past with all the bravado of John Wayne striding off into the sunset just before the credits start rolling. They’re clearly beat, having just finished a vigorous resurrection of that most famous of western showdowns; the shoot-em-up at the O.K. Corral, which actually occurred in this very spot back in 1881. The gunslingers pass me by on Tombstone’s gnarly boardwalk, lined with stores crammed with tantalising racks of tengallon hats and kitschy western memorabilia. Handlebar-moustachioed tour guides rattle past on stagecoaches, blaring into microphones. Neon-lit saloon bars are propped up by drinkers in fringed waistcoats and craggy cowboy boots. Wandering along the dusty main drag, it becomes increasingly hard to decipher exactly what’s an authentic leftover from the Old West days and what’s a Disneyfied replica – which somehow only adds to the offbeat charm of Tombstone.

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Originally founded in 1877, and following a stint as an abandoned ghost town, Tombstone has in recent years stepped forward for a second act, this time as a spirited tourist destination attracting half a million visitors annually. The surrounding community has wholeheartedly jumped on the stampeding bandwagon, with rancher-themed motels dotting the landscape, alongside a nondenominational cowboy church and a selfassured road sign declaring ‘Tombstone: The Town Too Tough to Die!’. My pit-stop at this bullet-riddled hub is part of a broader road-trip adventure through Southern Arizona; a region where an emerging and increasingly diverse arts, crafts and culinary scene is starting to get an equal billing with time-honoured western curiosities such as Tombstone. Just 40 miles from Tombstone, an unexpected wine-growing region has sprouted from the desert in Sonoita, becoming the first federally recognised wine-growing region in the state. Temperatures mercifully dip and the landscape becomes increasingly lush as

I journey through farming communities, past honky-tonks and empty rodeo stadiums, to reach the Dos Cabezas WineWorks, tucked by the roadside in a strip of low-rise, red-brick buildings. In this little pocket of Arizona’s high desert, husband-and-wife team Todd and Kelly Bostock have been growing resilient grapes and producing game-changing wines, adding a tasting room and a restaurant that uses ingredients so rooted in the community, the local fireman doubles as the mushroom harvester. ‘When I was growing up in this area, I had no idea you could actually grow wine here,’ Todd confesses as we sit before a woodburning stove on the front porch conservatory, overlooking flat plains that roll up to meet the grass-covered mountains. Small-scale, underthe-radar wine producing has been quietly happening in Sonoita since the 1980s, but in the past couple of years it’s gained recognition as a destination for wine aficionados, boasting a network of around 20 wineries, many also offering restaurants, bars and accommodation opening out onto sweeping vineyards.

BELOW:

The classic façade of Long Horn Restaurant in Tombstone. RIGHT:

Cruising through the cactus-lined backtracks of Saguaro National Park.

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

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THE MINERS M O S T LY D O W N E D THEIR PICKAXES AND MOVED ON ABOUT 50 YEARS AGO, AFTER W H I C H C R E AT I V ES SWOOPED IN TO FILL THE EMPTY BUILDINGS. 12

‘Let’s be honest, you’re unlikely to walk into a fancy New York restaurant and find pages of wines from Arizona,’ Todd says with a wry smile, above the sound of classic country music playing in the background. ‘But what you might find nowadays is a couple of choice bottles, because they’re bringing something new to the conversation. We’re not trying to be the new Napa Valley, but that’s a good thing. Things develop slowly here. Sonoita is the kind of place where you have to work a little bit harder for your adventure.’ Our conversation is frequently interrupted by an intriguing cast of local characters, including an elderly Hispanic woman selling food from the boot of her car and a radical young builder who lives in a neighbouring mud-house commune, his barefoot lifestyle recently featured in a documentary made by the switched-on clothing brand Patagonia. Hungry for a hit of pure Americana, I surge onwards towards Bisbee, nestled into the Mule Mountains in southeast Arizona. Stickers in shop windows in this former copper-mining town declare ‘I got weird in Bisbee’ as rainbow flags flutter in the wind. The miners mostly downed their pickaxes and moved on about 50 years ago, after which creatives swooped in to fill the empty buildings – an eclectic mix of Gothic revival, adobe and Old-West architectural gems – with art galleries, studios and a goldmine of vintage stores. The once flourishing mining industry is still visible today in the gaping crater at the foothills of the town, where visitors don hard hats to plunge deep beneath the earth’s surface while touring the historic Queen Mine or pull over their cars to stand at fences and silently gaze down into the void. But the real treasure of Bisbee is actually tucked just around the corner in Erie Street; a road frozen in time, in all its mid-century glory. Rusting Texaco gas pumps, abandoned Pepsi vending machines, swirling hand-painted vintage signs and an impressive collection of Chevy wagons and pickup trucks still line the street, offering a living snapshot of a bygone era. This nostalgic strip is all that’s now left of Lowell, a district that was mostly demolished in the 1950s to pave way for the nearby yawning open-pit mine. In recent years the street’s been preserved by a passionate cluster of local volunteers, who tape scrawled notes onto the classic cars asking visitors not to damage them. One might expect this outrageously Instagrammable location to be in the midst

USA

So deserted is Erie Street that you half expect tumbleweed to roll past.

PREVIOUS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Colourful shopfronts on Bisbee’s Main Street; Thrift store on Main Street, Bisbee; Bartender at St Elmo Bar in Bisbee. CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Cinema and classic cars along Erie Street, Bisbee; Classic storefronts and cars on Erie Street, Bisbee; Tucson-based street artist Jessica Gonzalez at work; Local artwork on the streets of Bisbee.

of an online renaissance, but apparently the influencers have yet to receive the memo. So deserted is Erie Street that you half expect tumbleweed to roll past its boarded-up movie theatre. Nowadays, the shopfronts are mostly facades, save for an art gallery, junk shop and the Bisbee Breakfast Club; an atmospheric diner serving up heavenly stacks of toppling buttermilk pancakes oozing with syrup, Elvis serenading over the crackling speakers, as longstanding staff give strong pours on the weak coffee. Refuelled, the bright lights of Southern Arizona’s largest city, Tucson, are calling. Heading southwest through the Sonoran Desert, the landscape is punctuated with volcanic mountains and saguaro cactus shaped like candelabras. I pull the car over for a rest stop at Tubac, a border-town arts community where a provocative store emblazoned with ‘Build the wall’ signs stands cheek by jowl with galleries showcasing local creatives, many of Mexican heritage. Within a stone’s throw of verdant golf courses where the Rat Pack once teed up, the nearby mom-and-pop restaurant serves up a satisfying dish of fiery huevos rancheros. Arriving into the outspoken university town of Tucson, I’m now 70 miles from the Mexican border. But it’s never far from the conversation, as I discover with a visit to craftbeer company Borderlands Brewing Company. Surrounded by vast churning silver vats, the air thick with the hoppy aroma of fermenting beer, I’m greeted at the entrance of the small-scale corrugated barn by female head brewer and director of production Ayla Kapahi. On a mission to prove that good beer

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

ABOVE:

Artist Santos Barbosa at his Big Horn Gallery exhibition.

RIGHT:

Mission San Xavier del Bac, Tucson.

G A S T RO N O M Y, G H O S T TO W N S A N D C R E AT I V E P I O N E E R S

THIS PAGE:

Don Guerra, founder of Barrio Bread in Tucson. OPPOSITE:

Ayla Kapahi, founder and owner of Borderlands Brewing Company.

USA

knows no boundaries, Kapahi co-founded the Las Hermanas project in 2019, which translates as ‘the sisters’ in Spanish, as a way for Hispanic female brewers to collaborate, share knowledge and blur boundaries. The exchange includes a special edition IPA brewed collaboratively by 40 women living on either side of the border. Kapahi, whose mother is Mexican, explains: ‘We’re identified as a border region here and source a lot of inspiration from the Sonoran Desert, shared by both the US and Mexico. Nowadays, we can’t ignore what’s happening at the border and its impact on craft and trade on either side.’ With eight years of professional brewing now under her belt, Kapahi fondly recalls the

early days when she’d watch YouTube tutorials to learn the mechanics of home-brewing. Since then, she’s seen a small but significant shift in the male-dominated world of craft brewing in Southern Arizona, proudly adding that, for the past four years, Borderlands Brewing Company has been brewed exclusively by females. ‘I’m part of a rising number of women in the industry,’ Kapahi tells me, black rubber boots squeaking on the sticky floor as we pad through the micro-brewery. ‘When I started out, there was only one other woman commercially producing in Southern Arizona. Today, there’s around seven of us in Tucson alone.’ Tucson may have been put on the foodie map in 2005, when it was crowned

USA

THIS PAGE:

Climbers on Mount Lemmon, Tucson.

the Unesco City of Gastronomy, but it’s an accolade that’s actually been 4,000 years in the making, through its unique blend of Native American, colonial Spanish and border Mexican influenced cuisine. Hyper-local ingredients from the city and the land along the Santa Cruz River have long been a part of the region’s culinary story, with cactus, prickly pear, desert honey and hardy tepary beans, scattered from the sky according to local folklore, livening up local pantries. Today, the city’s mural-clad streets are home to some of the most exciting restaurants in the state, from upscale bistros such as Tito and Pep and the seafood-focused Coronet, housed around an elegant courtyard strung with lights, to street carts serving Sonoran hot dogs; a supersized version of pigs in blankets, topped with spicy pinto beans and dripping in punchy jalapeño salsa. Tucson’s recent gastronomic renaissance is partly thanks to Don Guerra, a baker whose name has been repeated with reverence for years. Guerra has now gained local celebrity status, having won the 2022 James Beard Outstanding Baker award, swiftly putting his low-key neighbourhood bakery, housed in a 1960s shopping mall, on the global stage. For my final stop, I make an early morning call at Guerra’s Barrio Bread, where the compact bakery is already a hive of bustling activity, the first bleary-eyed baker having arrived three hours before me. Cutting a calming figure against a frenetic backdrop of workers methodically sifting, kneading and stacking rustic loaves, Guerra describes how he’s spearheaded the local heritage grain movement. ‘White Sonora wheat had actually been growing here since the 1690s, brought over by Spanish missionaries such as Father Kino. But by the 1950s it had pretty much disappeared,’ he says. Following successful seed-saver experiments, the heirloom variety grains are now grown, harvested and milled, all within a short distance of Guerra’s toasty ovens. Warm loaves of Barrio Bread are served at the best culinary spots across town, from the starched tablecloths of fine-dining establishments to family-run tamale joints and community food-share programmes. ‘The scene in Tucson is very much about the preservation of food culture, agricultural stimulation and the sharing of knowledge,’ Guerra says as the heady scent of freshly baked bread wafts out to the sidewalk, where, in an hour or so, locals will start to form an orderly queue for their daily loaf, stamped with a distinctive flour stencil of a saguaro. ‘I feel that I’m part of a bigger story that’s currently happening in the city,’ Guerra says, looking out of the window as the sun rises over the cactus-lined street in front of his small but mighty bakery. ‘It’s the revitalisation of what’s always been here in Tucson, but is now finally getting its moment in the spotlight.’

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights arrive into Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport; it’s a 90-minute drive from Phoenix to Tucson. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Spring and autumn are the perfect times to visit, with blue skies and light jacket temperatures. In winter, thermometers hover in the early twenties, attracting snowbirds hoping to thaw. The summer season can be blisteringly warm, although smoking hot hotel deals reward the brave. C U R R E N C Y US dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT -7 FO O D

Tucson’s food scene is buzzing, offering endless new takes on border-town-fusion favourites. Start the day right with a health-conscious brunch at Five Points Market. The Monica offers relaxed, lunchtime patio dining, while Maynards serves boundarypushing dishes. W H E R E TO S TAY

In Tuscon, try the Downtown Clifton Hotel, or Loews Ventana Canyon Resort in the hills. A good option in Tubac is Tubac Golf Resort. H OW TO D O I T

A road trip is easy to arrange independently and gives you the freedom to really explore. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

An embroidered western shirt and cowboy boots. Boot Barn in Tucson has an impressive range, should your existing wardrobe be lacking. WHY GO

Southern Arizona is currently having a moment as its creative and culinary scenes gain recognition. A road trip offers a satisfying mix of Old West attractions and Mexican culture, blended with forward-looking artists and chefs revitalising this characterful region.

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ICELAND

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Iceland’s wild, natural beauty is also home to some of the finest produce around. Though it’s still proving hard to entirely shake off the old reputation for fermented shark, which is as hardy as the sharks themselves – Greenland sharks can live for up to 400 years – the country’s chefs and food producers are working with more inspiring and appealing ingredients, such as fresh Atlantic cod, foraged berries and geothermally grown produce, to create wonders on the plate. The best food here shows off these fine ingredients with an elegance that surprises many visitors, and which complements the superlative landscapes that surround. PHOTO ESSAY BY IAN CUMMING

H A RV E S T F RO M T H E L A N D A N D S E A

Locally harvested scallops with langoustines and pickled celeriac at Viðvík restaurant, Hellissandur. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Beef carpaccio at Hotel Budir, Budir; Raspberry and liquorice swirl from Braud & Co bakery in Reykjavik. OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Fishing boat leaving Reykjavik harbour; Englendingavík Restaurant in Borgarnes.

H A RV E S T F RO M T H E L A N D A N D S E A

THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Smoked salmon on ‘thunder’ rye bread at Laugarvatn Fontana spa – the bread is baked for 24 hours in a hot spring; Salted cod fillets, packed and ready for export. Most of Iceland’s salted cod ends up in Portugal.

OPPOSITE:

Chefs busy in the kitchen at Bjargarsteinn in Grundarfjörður.

H A RV E S T F RO M T H E L A N D A N D S E A

ICELAND

ABOVE:

A rhubarb dessert at Sjavarpakkhusid Restaurant in Stykkisholmur. The rhubarb is harvested from a farm belonging to the restaurant owner’s father. ABOVE:

Englendingavík Restaurant, Borgarnes.

ABOVE:

FOLLOWING SPREAD:

Halibut tartare in Sjavarpakkhusid Restaurant, Stykkisholmur.

Fishing boat leaving Stykkisholmur harbour.

H A RV E S T F RO M T H E L A N D A N D S E A

ICELAND

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Iceland’s capital, Reykjavik, is well served by international flights. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Summer for the long days; winter for the Northern Lights. C U R R E N C Y Icelandic

króna T I M E Z O N E GMT FO O D

Skip the fermented shark: fresh seafood, particularly cod, is a real highlight, often served up simply and elegantly. W H E R E TO S TAY

Hotel Búðir on the Snaefellsnes Peninsula is a wonderful, wild base only a few hours from Reykjavik. H OW TO D O I T

Crammed full of sights, it’s easy to underestimate just how much there is to see in Iceland. For a great taster, spend a few days exploring Reykjavik before hiring a car to get out to the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, which has such a diverse range of landscapes that it’s offered referred to as Iceland in miniature. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Without doubt, a raincoat! Anything can happen with the weather in Iceland, and those brilliant blue skies can give way to a downpour. WHY GO

For fabulous food in the wildness of Europe’s least densely populated country. Any troubles you might bring with you can be soaked away in any one of the many geothermal pools.

T H E E C H O E S O F I N D U S T RY

ENGLAND

THE ECHOES OF INDUSTRY WA L K I N G

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ENGLAND

he sea is close by; I can smell salt on the air. But the Cornwall I am gazing at isn’t the one you might think of. Here, I’m away from stunning coastline, beaches and secret swimming spots. I’m shouldering a pack and going back through time, into a multi-hued interior landscape steeped in history and lore. The paths I’m exploring are set along the veins and arteries that lead down into the very heart of this land: the Mining Trails. Walking routes that help visitors and locals alike make more sense of how and why this humble corner of the UK had a world-renowned name long before the Victorians tumbled en masse out of steam trains and its harbours.

Cornwall sits atop the Cornubian Orefield – deep, ancient and rich with the deposits of tin and copper that have been mined here since the Bronze Age. Mining brought the noise and ingenuity – not to mention wealth – of industry to Cornish shores, and by the 18th century the county was the very epicentre of global mining. Cornish mining expertise was exported globally, providing the know-how to grow international economies from Mexico and Canada to South Africa and South Australia, taking Cornish families, and their vernacular, traditions and skills, along with it. But in the late 1800s the market looked away from its Cornish origins to cheaper suppliers, leaving the mining industry here in collapse. Four thousand years of mining trade was decimated in one generation and the landscape left scarred and silent.

PREVIOUS SPREAD:

The pumping engine house and winding engine house at Wheal Peevor. OPPOSITE PAGE:

The harbour wall at Portreath. LEFT:

View over Portreath from Western Hill.

T H E E C H O E S O F I N D U S T RY

I’M MOVING IN THE ECHOES OF THE HEAVING, HEWING AND H O O F B E AT S O F I N D U S T RY. Walking through old industrial landscapes might sound dull, but it’s far from it. My route today, the Coast-to-Coast, is part of the Unesco World Heritage Site of mining landscapes and links the north and south Cornish coasts. The 11-mile route is a great way to ease inland if you’re not quite ready to let go of the ocean, traversing across the back of Cornwall along a mix of wide moorland paths, quiet winding lanes and ancient bridleways. It can be walked or biked in either direction, but I start in the north, heading across to my home coast from the fishing village of Portreath. It’s a few Range Rovers and renovations removed from the Chelsea-on-Sea influx that has beset much of its sister harbours ‘up the way’; locals still abound here, fishing boats pull headstrong at their lines behind the harbour wall at high tide, and surfers dodge sea swimmers through all shades of weather. The Portreath of the 1800s was a different

beast: bustling, loud and wildly important for mining. Horses, carts and trams arrived along the footpaths I’m walking today, delivering their payloads of tin and copper to ships in a cacophony of whistles, shouts and steam. Cornish ores were shipped from here to south Wales, passing vessels bringing in Welsh coal and timber in return. Leaving the harbour behind me, the trail (known by us locals as the ‘Bissoe Trail’) leads through some of the world’s best-conserved concentration of mine workings, with plaques and wall signs to spot amid the verdant greens of nature that’s busily reclaiming the landscape. You’ll need to keep a lookout for the granite route markers that lead you through the maze of local back lanes and roads, as it’s easy to wander onto the side trails that crisscross the way. Not that you shouldn’t choose to divert, as there are several short detours well worth your while. One is about four miles along from where

OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

The pepperpot lighthouse on cliffs above Portreath harbour; Fishing boats in Portreath harbour.

ENGLAND

I walk past the grounds of fine Scorrier House, a magnificent testament to the wealth that Cornish mining generated.

OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Aerial view of Scorrier House; Gwennap Pit, used by the Wesleys and early Methodists for preaching to the Cornish mining community. BELOW:

Mining remains at Poldice Valley, near St Day.

I start and just over half a mile off trail: Wheal Peevor, home to three of the best-preserved mining houses in Cornwall. The main route, the Mineral Tramways Route, follows two vital historic trails. The first is the Portreath tramroad I started on, originally a horse-worked route used by miners to move their metal ore from the nearby villages of Scorrier and St Day to the sea. It’s one of the earliest tramroads in Cornwall, and while today I walk it to birdsong and the whirr of occasional bicycle tires, I’m also moving in the echoes of the heaving, hewing and hoofbeats of industry. Just over halfway through my hike, I walk past the grounds of fine Scorrier House,

a magnificent testament to the wealth that Cornish mining generated. Built in 1778 by mining tycoon and entrepreneur John Williams, it boasts of a time of plenty. Williams managed scores of mines and was himself an ‘adventurer’, a man of uniquely adaptable spirit. Indeed, during a national shortage of currency in the early 1800s, he created his own Cornish currency using metals from his own mines to pay workers. The first monkey puzzle tree in Britain was planted here – it was also the country’s tallest, before a gale felled it in 2015. Many of Cornwall’s famous gardens, such as the ones at Scorrier House, brim with exotic flora, a legacy of the ships of old that travelled

T H E E C H O E S O F I N D U S T RY

ENGLAND

OPPOSITE PAGE:

Mining remains at Poldice Valley. THIS SPREAD:

The last standing building of the old Point Mills arsenic refinery near Bissoe.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Trains run from London to Redruth, and from there it’s a short bus ride to Portreath. Public transport can be lighter out of peak season, so it’s often easiest to explore with a car. B E S T T I M E TO G O

far and wide for trade and exploration, returning with seeds and well-tended plants that were used as gifts for and to trade with the wellheeled captains of Cornish industry. Further along I hike near Gwennap and along to Poldice Valley, once known as the ‘richest square mile on earth’. It’s here that an estimated £550 million worth of ore was pulled from the ground during the mines’ lifetimes. You can see clear evidence of this work as you walk, and the area is known locally as ‘Mars’. Red-hued hollows and scarred peaks made from centuries of mining waste sculpt the views on either side, dotted between with lagoons of wastewater that dip and fill with the sun and seasons, staining red-ore rings as they fluctuate. I spot the bobbing and dipping of mountain bikers, using the landscape for their own industrial efforts: jumps, tricks and the occasional stack. As I close in on the last few miles of the trail, the long-defunct Redruth and Chasewater Railway is underfoot. Built in 1825 and all but invisible now – bar its dusty, straight traverses through gorseland – it linked some of the most intensively mined areas of the world to the tiny village of Devoran, today’s bookend. Here, mining heritage is lost to the eye, with the exception of the final ruin of the Point Mills arsenic refinery. Tin and copper weren’t the only metals mined in this region; tungsten, arsenic, silver and zinc were also hauled from the Cornish depths. To close this particular heritage route, I walk under the giant arches of the Carnon Viaduct, which lifts the Truro to Falmouth train line safely above me, and past the remains of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s original 1863 viaduct. My 11-mile, thousand-year journey across the county arrives at a pretty and picturesque south coast creek. Quiet and bucolic, but once one of the busiest mining ports in Cornwall, Devoran greets me with a fine pub, the call of herons and splashing oars. I sit and enjoy a well-earned drink, happy to know that this is just one of the myriad trail and trackways that keep Cornish history alive, inside the rugged, seaward edges of my beloved county.

Springtime, as the gorse pushes forth its bright yellow flowers with their coconut scent and the birds are bright and chatty, is arguably the loveliest time to do this walk. C U R R E N C Y Pound sterling T I M E Z O N E GMT FO O D

Don’t miss a Cornish pasty – a delicious, hot pastry parcel traditionally filled with steak, potato and swede (though veggie options are also available). The best pasties are from Ann’s Pasties, with shops dotted around the county (annspasties.co.uk). W H E R E TO S TAY

There are plenty of boutique B&Bs near Portreath and Devoran, or drive west to The Gurnard’s Head, on the wild Atlantic coast. H OW TO D O I T

The Mining World Heritage site and trails are Unesco protected. You can find more information at cornishmining.org.uk and heartlandscornwall.com. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

A notepad for the many things you’ll spot that you might want to learn more about later, and a raincoat and layers, no matter the season. WHY GO

To experience the joy of walking from one coast of the UK to another in a single day, and to learn more about the history and landscape of this region. For more anecdotal information about hiking and walks in Cornwall, visit gailmuller.com Photo Credits: Dreamstime; Paul Keppel Photography; Alamy.

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Z A N ZPI BE R AU R

OF STONE TOWN

D O N ’ T

O V E R L O O K

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I S L A N D ’ S

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B E A C H E S ,

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– W O R T H

O V E R .

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his old part of the city is a Unesco World Heritage Site so we couldn’t change it even if we wanted to,’ our guide Khamis Juma tells me with a wry smile as we meander around Stone Town’s alluring labyrinth of narrow alleyways, their crumbling coral-stone houses heaving with stories of the past. Change certainly isn’t something you associate with the historic centre of Zanzibar: in many ways, it looks exactly as it did when I first set foot on the so-called Spice Island 20 years ago. Back then, like most visitors, I spent my time wallowing on its Indian Ocean beaches with shimmering turquoise seas and sand as soft as white pepper, only venturing into Stone Town for one day. But it’s a day I’ve never forgotten. I remember vivid colours everywhere, on kangas and kikois (both kinds of sarongs), and garish, cartoon-like oil paintings of Maasai warriors, elephants and lions in Tingatinga style, all hung up for sale on weathered walls of mildewed houses. The heady scent of spices – cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves –drifted from market stalls as we wandered past in the stifling heat and humidity. And the persistent hawkers, aptly known as papaasi (Swahili for ticks), pestered us wherever we went.

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ZANZIBAR

WE SPEND OUR DAYS A M B L I N G AROUND, NO RUSH, NO PRESSURE. Just before dusk, we watched young boys diving and bellyflopping off the quayside and guys on the beach running, playing football, or performing random handstands in the waves. We sipped sundowner G&Ts at the Blues Bar on a pier jutting into the sea to the soundtrack of Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy on repeat. Wandering around Forodhani Gardens’ frenetic food market, we saw cooks sweating over hot coals under torchlight, grilling sizzling fresh fish and glistening chunks of meat. Our night ended at the simple Seaview Indian restaurant, devouring a curry on its rickety balcony overlooking the harbour. Since then, my partner Will and I have often dashed through Stone Town in our rush to reach Zanzibar’s beaches. But this time, we’re slowing things down, spending four days here soaking up the city vibe rather than the sun. Stone Town is just one small part of Zanzibar City, which is home to around 600,000 people. The island is staunchly Muslim, cherishing a traditional Swahili culture imbued with Arabian and Indian influences and undiminished by the impact of today’s tourism. Zanzibar’s first visitors were drawn here centuries ago by its strategic position on the monsoon trade routes between Asia and Africa. Not all were welcome. Portuguese explorers first set up a trading post here in the 15th century, only to be overthrown by the Omani Arabs nearly 200 years later. Under their watch, Zanzibar thrived as a centre for ivory, spices – and, sadly, slaves:

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Aerial view of Stone Town. OPPOSITE PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Wandering Stone Town’s streets; A coffee seller; A man jumps off the sea wall; The House of Wonders. THIS PAGE:

Local men playing Mancala, a traditional board game.

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thousands of men, women and children were callously sold to the highest bidders, with Arabs, Europeans, Indians and even Africans all involved in this heartless trade. Such was Stone Town’s prosperity that from 1840 to 1856 it even became the capital of the Sultanate of Muscat and Oman. On our walking tour, Khamis shows us the legacy of Oman’s colonial opulence that is now inextricably part of Stone Town’s soul. When the past mingles with the present, old places find new purpose and change does happen. Take the turreted Old Fort built 300 years ago: still dominating the seafront, today it’s a craft centre and home to Zanzibar’s renowned Sauti za Busara festival, showcasing Swahili music, from traditional taarab to hip-hop. Along the seafront, the Sultan’s former home has morphed into the Palace Museum, offering insights into royal life through furnishings and fashions over the years, Murano glass and 1950s Formica included. Nearby, a cultural centre and offices are housed within the beautiful Old Dispensary, a former Indian merchant’s home with brightly coloured stained-glass windows, elaborate balconies and spectacular views of the harbour, although cruise ships now dwarf the traditional dhows and fishing boats. Opposite the port, the Big Tree, a huge banyan, stands proudly, providing shelter from the blazing sun to men wearing kanzus (long white tunics) and drinking coffee. Our tour ends at the forbidding Anglican

ZANZIBAR

Cathedral, built on the site of the former slave market. It’s easy to imagine ghosts here. ‘The altar is where the “whipping tree” stood, where slaves were tied and whipped to test their strength,’ Khamis tells us. Outside, a striking sculpture of five slaves chained together in a sunken pit epitomises the despair of all those caught up in this tragic trade. We spend our remaining days ambling around, no rush, no pressure, just soaking up the spirit of Stone Town. Our hotel, Jafferji House, adds to its mystique. Deep in the maze of the ancient streets, it’s over 150 years old, full of narrow corridors, creaky stairs and sumptuous jewel-coloured décor, with antiques in every nook and cranny. We frequently get lost, distracted by old houses with latticed balconies and ornately carved wooden doors. Some are polished and shiny, others dry and dusty. Several buildings patiently await restoration, among them the ceremonial palace Beit al Ajaib. Known as the House of Wonders, it partially collapsed on Christmas Day 2020, leaving its intricate verandas and iron columns surrounded by rubble. One morning, we wander around Darajani Market, once an Arab souk, with its fish and butchers’ stalls, its sweet aromas of fruit carts and spices, and the nauseating stench of live chickens. Aside from the car spares, plastic kitchenware and flip-flops for sale outside, this place probably hasn’t changed in years.

LEFT TO RIGHT:

Old Fort (Ngome Kongwe); The Slave Market Memorial outside the Anglican Cathedral; Closeup of one of the statues of the slaves.

Yet some things have changed. On the seafront, I discover with a tinge of sadness that the Blues Bar and Seaview Indian Restaurant have both closed, but others have opened, along with the colourful Mizingani Seafront Hotel in yet another former royal palace, international flags fluttering in the breeze. At Forodhani Gardens, the boys still dive from the quay into the sea, but the food market has had a facelift, with better lighting, vast menus and chefs in full whites. In the name of research, we try the smart rooftop bar at 6 Degrees South and the top-

notch Beach House Restaurant, both very cool with gorgeous ocean views. But our favourite place, our ‘local’, is the simple Traveller’s Café overlooking the beach, hidden incongruously among the luxury hotels of Kelele Square. Every evening, we drink our G&Ts watching traditional dhows going out to sea for fishing or for sunset cruises, and enjoy a grandstand view of the guys who still play football on the sand until the sun goes down. Stone Town, it seems, is ever-changing, yet strangely never-changing, always moving on, yet also holding on to its stories of the past.

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ZANZIBAR

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Kenya Airways is your best bet for international flights to Zanzibar, with connections from Nairobi; alternatively, fly to Dar es Salaam on the mainland then take a local scheduled flight or a ferry, Choose your ferry company carefully as there have been some tragic accidents. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Zanzibar is good to visit throughout the year, with temperatures consistently between 26°C and 33°C, although rainy season (March– May) can be sticky and humid. C U R R E N C Y Tanzanian

shillings. T I M E Z O N E GMT +3 FO O D

Don’t miss the buzz of Forodhani’s food market – just make sure your food is properly cooked and keep an eye on your tab. W H E R E TO S TAY

Jafferji House, Serena Hotel, or Mizingani Seafront Hotel. There are also plenty of cheaper B&Bs available. H OW TO D O I T

It’s fairly straightforward to travel independently here. Tour operators such as Expert Africa and Cox & Kings can book everything for you or combine a Zanzibar stay with a safari on the Tanzanian mainland. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Cool clothes that won’t offend the Muslim culture, especially during Ramadan: swimsuits, strappy T-shirts and shorts are acceptable on the beach, but more modest dress is appreciated in town. WHY GO

To get lost in the maze of Stone Town’s ancient streets, immerse yourself in its rich but heart-rending history, watch footie on the beach and drift off on a sunset dhow cruise. THIS SPREAD:

View of the blue waters surrounding Stone Town.

Photo Credits: Dreamstime.

Sue travelled to Zanzibar with Cox & Kings.

AFTER THE GOLD RUSH

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y phone doesn’t recognise me. Startled by our approach, a grizzly bear is lumbering out of the river and into the trees, and my phone won’t unlock. With my DSLR camera stowed inside a case, a dry bag and plastic barrel inside my canoe, I’m struggling to access my smartphone’s camera. ‘Dammit,’ I mutter, and a nearby beaver takes heed, slapping its flat tail against the water’s surface as it speeds off to set about its defining task. My raison d’être is capturing these golden moments, but this one has passed: the bear has gone. The problem isn’t a software glitch nor a hardware malfunction: it’s a hard-wear problem. My fingerprints have been worn smooth and crazed with a weathered patina from beating my wooden water blade against the mighty Yukon River for ten hours each day. My hands — once soft, aside from keyboard callouses — have been battered by 12 days of collecting firewood and grasping guy ropes and rigging in torrential rain, blazing sunshine and subarctic cold. My phone’s fingerprint sensor no longer registers my blistered digits. The river runs fast and, as silt audibly fizzes against the hull of my canoe, I hiss self-admonishment under my breath. The rest of my group clatters with the sound of camera shutters. Just then, a lone boat drifts by. With both hands upon his paddle, its shrouded inhabitant

Emerald Lake in southern Yukon. The colour comes from light reflecting off deposits of marl on the shallow lake bed. THIS PAGE:

Canoes on the banks of the Yukon River. OPPOSITE, CLOCKWISE FROM THE TOP:

Five Finger Rapids; The SS Keno in Dawson City; Old bottles in Dawson City.

lazily stirs up the murky river, creating little eddies that seem to suck our clamour from the air. In the vacuum, we gawp at him: alone, so far from civilisation. ‘Guten tag,’ he says, his low voice loud and clear in the quietude of the wilderness, and then he glides away in silence. The Yukon is a land untamed. Eighty per cent of it remains wild and — outside of the capital of Whitehorse, where 79 per cent of this massive Canadian territory’s 40,000 inhabitants live — the locals have got to be made of tough stuff. They always have. On 16 August 1896, Keish (AKA Skookum Jim Mason), Káa Goox (AKA Dawson Charlie), and Shaaw Tláa (AKA Kate Carmack) of the Tagish First Nation — along with Shaaw Tláa’s American prospector husband, George Carmack — discovered gold in what is now known as Bonanza Creek, in the Klondike region near Dawson City. The find sparked the legendary Klondike Gold Rush of 1896–1899: a stampede of more than 100,000 prospectors that would forever after define the Yukon. Inked onto the collective consciousness in sepia tone, this place was — and remains — the wild west. Gold fever lured men and women from around the world to the traditional lands of the Ta’an Kwäch’än Council and the Carcross/Tagish First Nation, though the path here was perilous. While the wealthy boarded paddle steamers in a bid to swell their fortunes, the majority faced the hardship of hiking the mountainous Chilkoot Pass to get to the Yukon. With many of the first wave unprepared and perishing en route, Canadian authorities made

AFTER THE GOLD RUSH

THE DIAPHANOUS DRAPES OF THE it mandatory for stampeders to pack one ton of supplies for their journeys north, meaning many had to make the arduous climb — 3,759ft up and down a route known as the Golden Staircase — scores of times, with as much as they could carry on their backs. Upon arriving at Bennett Lake, prospectors faced the task of building their own boats and rafts and paddling or sailing down the Yukon River. This was the route travelled by Jack London on his way to seek his fortune as a 21-year-old in 1897. The Klondike’s endless winters and immortal beauty reshaped him, transforming the young prospector into a writer, inspiring both The Call of the Wild and White Fang. Today there are a number of ways you can travel from Bennett Lake to Whitehorse and on to the diminutive town of Dawson. You can drive on one of the territory’s sinuous highways that weave warily between improbable inland sand dunes and everlasting emerald lakes. You can board a floatplane and fly like a swatdizzied bluebottle over indomitable, gunmetal mountains and ancient, glacier-etched valleys clad with pine and willow. Back in 1896, there was just one way there, so in honour of the 125th anniversary of the gold rush, my companions and I rent canoes and set them down in the waters of the Yukon River to follow in the after-tow of stampeders like Jack London; to paddle 444 miles from Whitehorse to Dawson City. Woodsmoke from our campfire hangs nebulous hammocks between tree trunks, and makes a primitive laser show of the shafts of midnight sun that permeate the leaf canopy. I have slept on the ground, however, on a self-made mattress of memory-foam-moss and bracken bedding, thanks to a punctured sleeping mat. It’s been a frigid, overcast night, so when the sun burns bright come dawn, steam rises in ethereal clouds from the river as eagles soar above. Filled with silty river water the night before, a gravity filter bag dangles empty from a branch, indicating we’ll have drinking water for the day ahead. I fill my water bottles, distractedly picking little spiders, pine needles, and moss spines out of my clothes with my free hand, which is wrapped in duct-tape bandages. On the periphery of my vision floats a

AURORA BOREALIS RIPPLE ACROSS THE ETHER, A DANSE SALUBRE IN GREEN AND PINK. shadow, hovering beyond the cumulous mist, its airbrushed edges becoming crisp as a silhouette emerges. ‘Guten morgen,’ says the impassive traveller as he coasts past our rag-tag collection of tents before the downriver fog swallows him again. To call this a campground would be rather too ostentatious a title for a woodland patch on the banks of the Yukon River, chosen purely because the bear scat here is older, drier than in the other places we scouted. We paddled around 60 miles yesterday, and by midnight we were all too exhausted to continue searching for safe harbour. Should the bears return, we decided, this spot would provide shelter within

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Floatplanes take visitors on sightseeing tours from Whitehorse to the mountainous Chilkoot Pass; The Klondike Highway; The Yukon River at Miles Canyon. OPPOSITE PAGE:

The aurora borealis lighting up the sky near Dawson City.

AFTER THE GOLD RUSH

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dashing distance of our roped-up canoes. In the cold and the constant daylight, slumber comes in fits and catnaps, and when finally I slept, I was soon startled awake by a strangulated, mournful cry. Just one lucky member of our group of ten spotted its source. The lynx had swum across the river, skipped across the shingle beach in front of our camp and slipped into the nearby forest. A somnambulant search party was formed and we spent the night tracking the evanescent cat, which had evaporated into the woods like foggy breath. We forgot to exhale, however, when we stumbled across a ramshackle cabin standing alone with its door ajar. Just a few days earlier, we found the picked-clean remains of a beaver on a sandbank and, on another occasion, we discovered a symbolic spiral formed from eight disembodied caribou legs in a clearing, though no other traces of the animals could be found. For horror movie aficionados, the abandoned cabin in the woods was a trope too far, so only

a handful of us investigated further. Inside, the trapper’s cabin is a time capsule. We found furniture, a telephone and radio from the 1970s, stacks of magazines, newspaper clippings about early ’90s prom queens, and a furnace full of ashes. A calendar hanging on the wall dates the last time this place was occupied: April 1997. A pair of boots sits beside the armchair, but the man that filled them is long gone. Nature is slowly reclaiming this place. These endless forests bristle with the decaying evidence of human intrusion. At each end of this journey, in Whitehorse and in Dawson, immaculately restored 19th-century paddle steamers sit proudly in dry dock beside the river as whitewashed symbols of human ingenuity. The SS Keno, spared from Dawson’s Sternwheeler Graveyard, and the SS Klondike II, completely rebuilt after falling foul of the treacherous river. Out in the wilds though, on Hootalinqua Island, the 360-ton hulk of the river-damaged SS Evelyn slowly

disintegrates as a rotting reminder of these ephemeral endeavours. Rusted relics, run-down 1940s pickup trucks, emaciated muscle cars and the decaying teeth of bear traps provide us with an outdoor museum when we pull our canoes ashore each evening. Downriver, Fort Selkirk has been an important site to the Northern Tutchone people for thousands of years. The Hudson’s Bay Company established a trading post here in 1852, and the community grew quickly during the Klondike Gold Rush. Once base to the Yukon Field Force and the North-West Mounted Police, it’s considered the first capital of the Yukon. The site was abandoned in the 1950s, due to the construction of modern roads and the end of sternwheeler traffic, but today the place remains well preserved, with its Anglican church, log-cabin general store, and schoolhouse maintained by Yukon’s government and the Selkirk First Nation. When I find that the Victorian cookhouse

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The road heading west from Whitehorse to Haines Junction; Swallowtail butterflies can be seen huddling together on the ground, unperturbed by visitors. THIS PAGE:

Small cabin at Fort Selkirk Historic Site.

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is still in use, and equipped with a working antique stove, I hasten to stake my claim and set up bed in the cabin. Having made the error of packing a summer-weight sleeping bag, it’s my first warm, dark night since Whitehorse. In the neverwhere realms on the edge of sleep, I hear the deep booms of a canoe hull against pebbles, and a slow scraping sound. When, anxiously, I rise and step outside to check our vessels remain secure, I find only the lone German boatman. ‘Guten abend,’ he says, absently, as he drags his canoe ashore. After 12 days of paddling — enduring the back-breaking, two-day crossing of the current-free Lake Laberge, and tackling the perilous whitewater channels created by four basalt columns that rise from the river at the notorious Five-Finger Rapids — I find myself braving the amputated digit of a mysterious four-toed stranger. ‘You can drink it fast,’ says the whitebearded man sitting before me as he uses a

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pair of kitchen tongs to lift a blackened, twisted digit from a silver serving platter. ‘You can drink it slow,’ he adds, flourishing the amputated extremity from the brim of his naval cap to an inch before my eyes. ‘But your lips must touch this gnarly toe,’ he concludes as he puts a finger to his mouth, like a fish-finger magnate sharing a saucy secret. With that, he drops a dehydrated human toe into a glass of whisky liqueur. I go for the first option. I lift the tumbler, shake the toe free from the where it is wedged at the bottom of the glass, and knock the shot of Yukon Jack back in one, feeling the disembodied toe slosh against my mouth as I do so. I don’t usually drink; I’m far too sober for this. ‘That’s how it’s done,’ cheers the Sourtoe Captain, in reference to my friend Andy’s failed attempt to ‘drink it slow,’ which resulted in an agonisingly protracted interaction between him and the severed little piggy. He offers me a fist bump as he presents me with my Sourtoe Certificate, which confers upon me

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Bonanza Creek and Gold Dredge. OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Downtown Hotel in Dawson City; Captain Dick with a sourtoe; Klondike Kate and dancers at Diamond Tooth Girties Gambling Hall.

membership to a very exclusive club. The Sourtoe Cocktail Club, based in the Downtown Hotel, is emblematic of Dawson City, and has been inducting locals and visitors to its very singular society since 1973. The tale of its inception loosely relates to the discovery of a frostbitten rum-runner’s toe from the 1920s, preserved in a jar of rum in an abandoned cabin, although your lips won’t touch that historic digit. Over 25 amputated toes have since been donated to the club for this arbitrary ceremony, and the continued existence of the club gives you some idea of the reputation Dawson maintains. With a population of just 1,500, Dawson is the Yukon’s second-largest town. Carefully preserved in some areas, and artfully dilapidated in others, Dawson City functions as an offbeat community and a living museum of the Klondike Gold Rush, although miners continue to work claims to this day. On our last night in town, we sit through the first two performances of the nightly cancan show at Diamond Tooth Gerties Gambling Hall. When my companions head to another bar for a nightcap, I decide instead to imbibe a final draught of the Yukon River. Autumn has snuck up like a case of jaundice, the leaves turning yellow overnight. Darkness falls like a guillotine, and soon winter will cut off roads and sever essential lifelines. I stand on a curve on the banks of the Yukon and watch its thunderous flow past town; soon it will freeze. Even the river bends to the will of this land. In the silence I hear a crunching approach. The lone German canoeist strolls into view. We exchange smiles and nods of recognition, then both look to the heavens in hushed reverence. The diaphanous drapes of the aurora borealis ripple across the ether, a danse salubre in green and pink. Bearded, tanned, ruddy around the cheeks, and shrouded in a scarf and hood — despite having turned on facial recognition mode, my phone still doesn’t unlock when I present it with my grizzled features. I shrug and look to the sky, unwilling to spoil this moment by scrabbling to document it. I’m not surprised my phone doesn’t recognise me; I no longer recognise myself.

AFTER THE GOLD RUSH

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Flights to Whitehorse are usually via Vancouver. Direct flights connect Dawson City with Whitehorse. B E S T T I M E TO G O

If you’re coming for hiking, biking, horseriding, camping and canoeing, visit in summer when temperatures are mild and the midnight sun allows for long, long days. Come in winter for skiing, snow shoeing and dog sledding. C U R R E N C Y Canadian dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT -7 FO O D

Sourdough is integral to the story of the gold rush, and the Railwork Lounge in Whitehorse makes pancakes and beignets with a starter that originated during the stampede. The Greek food at Dawson’s Drunken Goat Taverna is surprisingly good. W H E R E TO S TAY

Raven Inn (Whitehorse); Midnight Sun (Dawson City). H OW TO D O I T

My Canada Trips (mycanadatrips.co.uk) offers a ten-night Klondike Gold Rush Self Drive tour, including a McCrae to Schuwatka canoe tour. Canoe Trail (canoetrail. co.uk) runs a guided expedition along the Yukon from Whitehorse to Dawson. Visit travelyukon.com. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

You won’t want to be without your binoculars, should moose, bears, lynxes or eagles make an appearance. If the Northern Lights come out to play (September to mid-April), a tripod for your camera or smartphone will be worth its weight in gold. CLOCKWISE FROM FROM TOP LEFT:

Photo Credits: James Draven; Dreamstime; Yukon Tourism Authority; Government of Yukon; Klondike Visitors Association; Derek Crowe.

A bison blocking the highway in Yukon; White Pass and Yukon Route Railway depot, Lake Bennett; Dawson City General Store is indicative of the whole town’s Wild West vibe; Nares Mountain, which sits south of Whitehorse.

WHY GO

There may well be gold in them-thar hills, but the real riches of the Yukon are its golden silences, precious wildlife, and diamond-in-therough locals, all encased in a stunning setting.

T H E RO A D TO T H E M O O N

ARGENTINA

Moon The road to the

Away from the tango dancers of the capital, the glaciers of Perito Moreno and striking granite peaks of El Chaltén, sits Argentina’s least visited area – Salta. This vast northwestern region might lack the fame of its southern neighbours but it packs in some of the country’s most spectacular and varied landscapes. A Salta road trip will take you through some of the oldest towns in the country, as well as past colourful mountains, the surreal lunar landscapes of the appropriately named ‘Moon Valley’, cactus-dotted deserts and Mars-like red rock formations. PHOTO ESSAY BY KAV DADFAR

T H E RO A D TO T H E M O O N

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The multicoloured mountains behind the town of Purmamarca.

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The road to Salinas Grandes winds through the mountains.

The lunar landscape of Quebrada de Las Flechas, locally referred to as ‘Moon Valley’.

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Salinas Grandes is the third largest salt flat in the world and sits at a lung-busting altitude of 11,318ft above sea level.

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Driving through Los Colorados near Purmamarca in Jujuy province; The road through Los Cardones National Park is susceptible to flash flooding during the rainy season. OPPOSITE PAGE:

My guide, Mauricio Rios, surveying the Mars-like landscape of Los Cardones National Park.

ARGENTINA

CLOCKWISE FROM THE TOP:

Los Cardones National Park, near the town of Cachi; San Jose de Cachi church in Cachi’s main square; The historic town of San Carlos is one of the oldest in this region; The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Rosary in Cafayate.

Paid partnership with V I R G I N I A TO U R I S M

T H E RO A D TO T H E M O O N

ARGENTINA

The otherworldly landscape near Cafayate. LEFT TO RIGHT:

Facunda Mamani, a 25-yearold gaucho from Lerma Valley; The viewpoint of Tres Cruces on the road to Cafayate.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Martín Miguel de Güemes International Airport is around 20 minutes’ drive from Salta city centre and is well served by internal flights from Buenos Aries and other cities in Argentina. B E S T T I M E TO G O

March to May, for warm days and mostly cloudless skies. Avoid December to February when heavy rainfall can make roads impassable. C U R R E N C Y Argentinian

peso T I M E Z O N E GMT-3 FO O D

This region is famous for its empanadas, which are often regarded as the best in Argentina. Try an asado (barbecue) which can consist of beef, pork, sausages and chicken cooked on a parrilla (open fire or grill). W H E R E TO S TAY

There is a variety of different accommodation available to visitors, from five-star international chain hotels to self-catering apartments. Choices are more limited in smaller towns like Cachi. H OW TO D O I T

The only way to explore this region is with a car, either as self-drive or as part of a tour. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Early mornings and nights can be bitterly cold, so be sure to pack some warm clothes. Sunscreen is also a must throughout the day. If you’re planning to visit Salinas Grandes, it’s vital to wear sunglasses due to the glare. WHY GO

For the epic and jaw-dropping landscape, which can often be enjoyed in solitude: this is a part of Argentina that sees very few foreign visitors. If that’s not enough, the historic villages and towns, delicious food and friendly hospitality will make a trip to Salta a memorable one.

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he trail to the Sätteli Pass climbs steadily from Engstlensee, across a hillside burnished with autumn reds and golds. Low bushes and flagstones glisten in the light rain, and a wooden cottage stands below me on my right, pinned to the green rectangle of a meadow by a long shaft of sunlight. Higher up, the flagstones peter out, my boots crunching through rocks as the trail arcs across long tongues of scree, reaching down into the shadow of the valley. Somewhere above me is the massive, weathered tooth of the Tällistock, which I’d enjoyed jaw-droppingly clear views of from the opposite side of the valley the previous afternoon, now hidden by a trick of perspective, and the frost-shattered cliffs rising from the scree. I’m hiking the Via Berna, a new 186-mile trail which snakes its way across the Canton of Bern, starting in the town of Bellelay and coming to a full stop on the 7,414ft Susten Pass, on the boundary between the Bernese Oberland and the Canton of Uri. Along its way, the Via Berna takes in a whole slew of landscapes, from the fragile high moorland and peat bogs of La Sagne and the sculpted walls of the Taubenloch Gorge, to the jagged, glacier-spewing peaks of the Jungfrau-Aletsch

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area – the most heavily glaciated part of the Alps, and a Unesco World Heritage Site – and lush meadows woven with a tapestry of wildflowers. It passes some of the most iconic landmarks in Switzerland – a country with absolutely no shortage of the jaw-dropping and the sublime – including the stupendous mountain walls of the Eiger, Schreckhorn and Wetterhorn, and the thundering Reichenbach Falls. And it comes with seemingly limitless scope for spotting alpine plants and wildlife, from marmots and ibex to mountain avens and vanilla orchids, bearded vultures and golden eagles – along with stacks of culture, and a public transport network which frankly should be the envy of the entire world. Not to mention plenty of opportunities to sample delicious Swiss food and wine, including chomping your way through a never-ending succession of local cheeses. Oh, the terrible hardships of a hiking trip in the magnificent Swiss Alps. I’ve picked off the final third of the trail, which roughly corresponds with its highest and most spectacular scenery. Travelling from Zurich by train, I break my journey in Bern, spending an afternoon wandering the cobbled and arcaded streets and squares of its Unesco-listed old town centre, enclosed within a great looping bend in the River Aare, before continuing to Interlaken. From there, I take a local bus up to the village of Wilderswil, wedged between the elongated turquoise smudges of the Thunersee and Brienzersee. Early the following morning, I jump onboard the Schynige PlatteBahn, a narrow-gauge railway running from Wilderswil up to an altitude of around 6,500ft. Switzerland has over 50 mountain railways, and enjoying a ride on at least one of them is an essential part of any visit to the Swiss Alps. Opened in 1893, the Schynige PlatteBahn reaches a gradient of 25%, using a ladderlike rack between its rails to stop it slipping. The train crawls slowly, determinedly uphill, contouring the side of the Lütschine Valley as passengers crane their necks in unison to follow fragments of mountain grandeur gliding past the carriage windows, framed by the vertical green bars of conifers. From the station platform at Schynige Platte – the name means ‘shiny slab’, a reference to all the slate hereabouts – I shoulder my pack and hike up a short path towards the Alpine Botanical

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Evening light on the north face of the Eiger. LEFT:

Cottage near Engstlenalp, on the trail up to the Sätteli Pass. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Low cloud above the Steingletscher and Steinsee, near the Susten Pass.

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Garden, then over steep tussock grass to a raised knoll, from where I have an unobstructed panorama across the trough-shaped valleys of the Lütschental and the Lauterbrunnental. The view from here is enormous, taking in the Eiger, Mönch, Jungfrau and Breithorn in one great glacier-caked sweep of mountain walls, and, slightly closer, the crumpled, snow-streaked greys and greens and spidery ridges around the summit of the Schilthorn. Looking down, I watch as the tiny red-and-beige form of the train retreats downhill, moving across a steep slope before being swallowed by the mouth of a tunnel. On my right, a trail traces an arc below the sugarloaf rock tower of the Gumihorn to join a ridge, and beyond this billowing white cottonwool clouds cling to snow-streaked tops above the Brienzersee. So begins the stage of the Via Berna from Schynige Platte to First – a stage which is, quite simply, one of the most unbelievably beautiful hikes I’ve ever done, anywhere. After following the cliff edge above Brienzersee, the trail shuffles beneath the bristling rock towers of the Oberberghorn, then swings below the Lucherhorn to begin a long, deliberate

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climb above the Sägistalsee, a jewel-like blue lake, the surrounding green of its meadows dappled with cloud shadows and grazed by the diminutive brown-and-white dots of cattle. I pass the small Männdlenen hut, with its tempting offer of warm soup, at one end of an elongated, twisting sprawl of folded and faulted rock that looks like a geology textbook sprung to life. Then it’s up towards the lopsided fin of the Faulhorn – the highest point on the Via Berna – for part of the way following a tapering ridge, as paragliders cruise overhead, looping back and forth against the stupendous backdrop of the Wetterhorn, Schreckhorn and Eiger. I pause below the Faulhorn, munching on a sandwich and taking in the view while cattle watch wide-eyed from the trail ahead, tossing their heads occasionally as they lie in the lazy afternoon sun. Then descending from the Faulhorn towards Berggasthaus First, the trail loops above the Bachsee, a small lake split by a narrow isthmus – an almost unbelievably photogenic spot, the water’s surface perfectly mirroring the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn. I reach Berggasthaus First in the late afternoon,

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The iconic view across the Bachsee to the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn.

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Cattle on the Via Berna; Hikers on the trail from the Faulhorn down towards the Bachsee; Viewing platform on the Cliff Walk at First. OPPOSITE PAGE FROM THE TOP:

The trail from Schynige Platte; Pickaxe used for trail maintenance.

then after dropping my pack in my room I watch from the broad terrace as the Wetterhorn turns gold, and the last of the evening light falls across the huge north face of the Eiger. The Eiger. A true mountain of the mind, its infamous (and frankly, terrifying) Nordwand (north face) one of the most notoriously difficult climbs in the Alps, a 5,900ft-high wall (it’s the highest north face in the Alps) of lethally falling rock and ice, for which it has been dubbed the Mordwand or ‘murder wall’. But viewed from the terrace at Berggasthaus First it is a thing of sublime beauty, backed by the vast ice fields of Konkordiaplatz and the Aletsch Glacier, its face slowly turning blood red in the late evening light, above the slash of green that is the head of the Lütschine Valley, and the scattered mountain town of Grindelwald, etched by long shadows. Continuing in the morning from First, I follow a trail that contours the grassy slopes above the valley floor, before dropping towards Grosse Scheidegg, a broad pass where the road crosses from Grindelwald. Here the Via Berna drops into the valley of the Rychenbachtal, following the fast-running Rychenbach stream towards the old Hotel Rosenlaui, a historic guesthouse below the serrated spires of the Klein Wellhorn. Before reaching Rosenlaui, I make a short but hugely worthwhile detour up the Rosenlaui Glacier Gorge, created by the Weissenbach stream as it descends from the huge glaciers above. The stream has carved a deep canyon, its polished limestone walls pressing together below a ribbon of blue sky, as glacial water rushes between them and shoots down waterfalls into milky green pools pierced by sunlight. A trail squeezes its way through the gorge by way of a succession of galleries and dripping tunnels, blasted through the vertical walls between 1901 and 1902 with the help of 180 packs of dynamite. In making this detour I also prove that it’s not, in fact, the best one to undertake with a full pack – by managing, very cleverly, to get myself wedged in the slender, full-body-height turnstile at the far end of the gorge. I was stuck there for several minutes, an interesting experience that seemed rather less amusing at the time than it does now, managing to wriggle my way free (and avoid indescribable shame) just before the next

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The Schynige Platte-Bahn mountain railway; The bristling rock towers of the Oberberghorn. RIGHT, FROM THE TOP:

Ridge path leading towards the Tannensee; Shafts of sunlight pierce the Rosenlaui Glacier Gorge.

group of people appeared around the corner. I’m walking two stages today (the distance from First to Rosenlaui is really quite short), so I steam on down the valley – and by mid-afternoon I’m standing above the stupendously impressive Reichenbach Falls. A narrow path cuts across the cliffs to a lone plaque, commemorating the final showdown in Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1893 short story, The Final Problem: ‘At this fearful place, Sherlock Holmes vanquished Professor Moriarty, on 4 May 1891’. The setting of their fictitious duel would actually have been further along the ledge, closer to the falls, but – 130 years after Conan Doyle wrote the scene in which he’d intended to kill off his most famous character – this is as far as you can go. The best view of the falls however is a little way further down the Via Berna, which emerges into a patch of open ground directly facing the base of the falls as they tumble 360ft in one mesmerising, stomach-churning leap, unleashing great plumes of spray. I’m more than a bit knackered by the time I reach the lovely Hotel Reuti in Hasliberg, where I spend the night, awaking the following morning to a view of the Wetterhorn catching the first, rose-gold light of dawn from my balcony. The trail from Hasliberg follows a road initially, so I skip this part by taking the cable car to its middle station, then rejoin the trail from there as it climbs upwards to Planplatten. This is a 7,312ft high point at one end of a ridge, separating the verdant slopes of Mägisalp from the steep-sided valley running up towards Engstlensee. The top station of the cable car is only a couple of minutes further along the ridge, and there’s a small crowd gathered, taking selfies against a backdrop of the peaks and glaciers of the Schreckhorn and Dammastock. As I head northeast from the cable-car station, the trail becomes quieter again, and I cross an improbably steep series of slopes and buttresses, following a narrow, airy path high above the valley floor. It’s a beautiful walk, and the views far too breathtaking to not to stop and linger, so I unshoulder my pack, spike my poles into the soft ground and sit in a patch of grass at the top of a cliff, with a view across the valley to the distinctive form of the Tällistock, its sheer face home to Switzerland’s oldest via ferrata route, as a buzzard swirls overhead. Picnic spots don’t come much better than this.

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View of the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn from the Via Berna.

Photo Credits: All images by Rudolf Abraham.

Further along the trail, I pass a pair of hikers who cup their hands and shout across to the cliffs nearby, their voices echoing back with perfect clarity across a huge glaciated cirque. Then there’s a wonderfully narrow ridge path above the Melchsee, passing marmots scurrying beside their burrows, before the trail heads down to the bleak, lonely shore of the Tannensee, and descends across a final sweep of cliffs to the scattered cottages at Engstlenalp. The old hotel at Engstlenalp looks like it might have been frozen in time since the end of the 19th century, with creaking floorboards, heavy ceramic washbowls in the rooms, and token-operated communal showers, all offset by a fantastic restaurant and a genuinely warm welcome. Built in the 1890s, it has been run by the same family for four generations. It’s a ten-minute walk over to the lake, Engstlensee, wreathed in low cloud on my visit, and sitting below the snow-streaked col of the Jochpass. The next day, following the long climb up to the Sätteli Pass – and a very steep descent on the other side – I double back below the southern cliffs of the Tällistock and make my way down to the boutique sanctuary of the Gadmer Lodge in Gadmen. The valley here remains mysteriously sunny, while over in Grindelwald it’s pouring. The trail beyond Gadmen becomes increasingly wild and remote, crossing some extraordinarily beautiful moorland as low cloud gathers on the slopes of the Susten Pass ahead, while a family of goats follows me along the trail, stopping whenever I do to have another go at chewing the straps on the side of my pack. A lone marker indicates the end of the Via Berna, beside the road on the Susten Pass. I scramble up to the top of some rocks, where the flags of Bern, Uri and Switzerland flap in the increasingly strong wind – before it’s time to retreat down towards the shelter of Berghotel Steingletscher, with the promise of a warm dinner and a celebratory beer (or two) after this hugely rewarding trek across the Canton of Bern. Here’s the thing: the experience of hiking a long-distance trail like the Via Berna goes beyond doing a walk through some ridiculously beautiful scenery. It has the power to be transformative, to peel back the layers of the everyday and, increasingly as the days and miles mount up, it forces you to switch gears, to reframe, allowing you the time and space to breathe. Not to mention, serving up enough gob-smacking views to last a lifetime. And right on cue, as I re-cross the slopes below the pass, brushing through waist-high purple flowers, the mist and low clouds part briefly to reveal the vast, fractured blue sprawl of the Steingletscher, clinging to the mountains above the windswept surface of the Steinsee.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

SWISS (swiss.com) flies to Zurich and Geneva. There are direct trains from Zurich airport to Bern and other places on the trail (timetables at sbb.ch/ en; for a Swiss Travel Pass see mystsnet.com/en). To return from the Susten Pass, take bus 162 (timetables at postauto. ch/en) from Berghotel Steingletscher to Göschenen, then a train via Arth-Goldau to Zurich airport. B E S T T I M E TO G O

The Via Berna’s hiking season is mid-June to mid-October. C U R R E N C Y Euro T I M E Z O N E GMT +1 FO O D

There’s no shortage of delicious Swiss food to try along the Via Berna – keep an eye out for Tête de Moine cheese in Bellelay, zibelechueche (onion tart) in Bern, and, of course, rösti. W H E R E TO S TAY

Hotel Alpenblick (Wilderswil); Berggasthaus First (First); Hotel Reuti (Hasliberg); Hotel Engstlenalp (Engstlenalp); Gadmer Lodge (Gadmen); Berghotel Steingletscher (just below the Susten Pass). H OW TO D O I T

You can hike the route as a rewarding three-week trip, or just pick off highlights along it. For more information see myswitzerland.com and viaberna.ch. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Folding hiking poles (Leki’s FX Carbon series are best). Good hiking boots are a must, and an insulated gilet will come in handy on cool evenings and blustery mountain passes. WHY GO

An easily accessible longdistance hiking route through some of Switzerland’s finest and most iconic mountain scenery, with stacks of history and culture, delicious food, and great lungfuls of fresh air – what’s not to like?

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Sary-Chelek nature reserve. ABOVE:

Kyrgyz horses are adept at crossing waist-high waters in Sary-Chelek nature reserve. LEFT:

Camping by beautiful Lake Iri-Kel.

n spite of his laboured breath and sweatshimmered haunches, my sturdy grey stallion has an implacable urge to reach the summit. Up, up and up we climb. The view from halfway up the Kotorma Pass is precipitous and the ground is slippery after a night of rain but I’m trying not to think about that. I’m trying to match his efforts – or at least make it a little easier. He’s reassuringly foot sure – far more so than my uncertain steps during a dismount on a particularly vertiginous section of the ascent. Hungry for assurance, my eyes select the easiest course, picking out a path to avoid loose scree and giant boulders. All the

while a growing bond and visceral sense of trust and gratitude are building between me, a slightly timorous horsewoman, and this great, striving pony. As I plot the course, every tread is felt in earnest – the subtle tension across my three middle fingers, holding the malleable reins that have frayed with age, communicating right or left. There is little room for error. I had met Alexandra Tolstoy, who leads these trips, at a fundraising event; hearing her talk about Kyrgyzstan piqued my curiosity and sense of adventure. A country I couldn’t place on the map, let alone spell, which was beloved by Alexandra for its extraordinary geographic diversity, cultural richness and gentle people. She spoke of a hidden Switzerland she’d discovered while riding the Silk Route after university – cerulean lakes and virgin landscapes that had never been ploughed, strewn with wild iris and legions of giant purple

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AS I PLOT THE COURSE, EVERY T R E A D I S F E LT I N E A R N EST. BELOW FROM THE TOP:

Ala-Too Square in Bishkek; The mayor’s office in Bishkek. OPPOSITE, CLOCKWISE FROM THE TOP:

Traditional yurts in the Susamir Valley; Livestock on the move to the jailoo (summer pastures); Friendly locals near Kara-Suu Lake.

alliums marching as far as the eye could see. As soon as we touch down in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital and largest city, I smell the earth in the air. Enticing views of the foothills of the Tien Shan mountains and surrounding glaciers are visible from street level – at odds with the imposingly authoritarian statues that bestride the public squares, which make me want to run for the hills. It was in the 1920s that Stalin, rounding up the remnants of the tsarist empire, created five Central Asian territories to add to those of the recently formed USSR. When the Soviet tide finally ebbed away again in 1991, each territory – Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Kyrgyzstan – emerged as a newly independent nation. Of these five ’Stans, the last, Kyrgyzstan, is considered the friendliest and the most beautiful. Locked away among alpine peaks – the majority of its borders run along scenic mountain crests – the country has a nostalgic storybook quality, a landscape of woozinessinducing passes and plunging valleys. Its traditions are nomadic – the word Kyrgyz actually means ‘40 tribes’ – and before the arrival of the Russians in the 1870s most settlements, including Bishkek, consisted of round white yurts. Sandwiched between the Karakum and Gobi deserts of Uzbekistan and China, they are a semi-nomadic people; when warm weather arrives, they disperse from the villages in which they shelter during

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winter and head to the summer jailoo – isolated pastures in distant peaks. By far the best way to traverse this land is on horseback. The Kyrgyz live for horses and their culture turns on an equine almanac, with games and traditions that have been deeply embedded over thousands of years. As we clipclop through the Sary-Chelek nature reserve, translated as ‘golden hollow’, our horses frequently pause to quench their thirst in the crystal-clear waters of trickling brooks or wade knee-deep into the stony banks of one of its seven mountain lakes. The largest walnut forest in the world provides shade for a while and we encounter some friendly Kyrgyz shepherds, walking with their families to the next village where their summer yurt sits surrounded by a jailoo teeming with butterflies. It has all the biblical essence of Moses’s Promised Land. Kyrgyz horses are a joy. They’re tough, slim-backed and strong. Our string of steeds are sturdy stallions that are predominantly good-natured and reassuringly sure-footed; necessary to scale this mountain terrain without losing a step and with just enough oomph to enjoy a decent canter through the alpine meadows. Trained by the mountain guides accompanying us, they are uniformly fit from their shepherding lives. One night, camped in front of Kara-Suu Lake, we watch our horses and guides compete with a local group of villagers in a wild game of ulak, a variation of mountain polo with ferocious rugby-style tackles. It’s an exhilarating spectator sport

displaying expert horsemanship and dexterous manoeuvres to gain possession of the prize: a well tenderised goat carcass. Our team wins and we celebrate with them under the stars, dining on barbecued skewers of tasty goat. Each morning, the backup truck – a reliably sturdy decommissioned six-wheel Afghan army vehicle – and staff drive ahead to set up ready for our arrival. It’s a well-oiled schedule that’s been refined over the years with safari-style camping in British three-man tents and a large mess tent for communal relaxation and meals. Hot water is available on request for bucket-style washing but most riders just jump in the inviting waters of the lake or river at the end of the day. And, of course, there’s a loo tent – with probably the best views in Kyrgyzstan. Some mornings, no amount of muttered hyperbole captures the sheer and utter magnificence of what lies before us. Each turn in the valley brings a different vista and new emotional crescendo; from the dizzying ascents across Kotorma Pass to Iri-Kul’s waist-high pastures of flowering fennel that release a wafting perfume that mixes with the aromatic mountain thyme crushed underhoof as we pass. There’s a pleasing potency, too, of being this far away. Far from tarmac roads, far from electricity and far from cellphone reception. These heavenly mountains, wedged somewhere – I couldn’t point exactly – between the steppe of Mongolia and the Hindu Kush, are filling my head.

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Our team’s champion ulak player. ABOVE:

Riders crossing waterfalls on the way back from Sary-Chelek.

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Played with a goat carcass, the traditional game of ulak is as exhilarating to watch as it is to play.

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

International flights to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital and the tour starting point, are often via Istanbul. From here it’s a daylong private coach transfer to Sary-Chelek national park. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Trips are hosted in June and September, when the flora and fauna are at their most spectacular and the weather is most clement. C U R R E N C Y Som T I M E Z O N E GMT +6 FO O D

While riding, expect a hot breakfast with a different egg dish each day, a nutritious lunch packed in saddlebags to maximise riding time, and a three-course supper including delicious warming soups, freshly prepared with local ingredients. W H E R E TO S TAY

In Bishkek, guests normally book into the locally run Asia Mountains Hotel. The rest of the trip is spent camping, safari-style, in a variety of riverand lakeside locations. H OW TO D O I T

Alexandra runs scheduled riding trips in May and September, but bespoke trips can also be commissioned (alexandratolstoy.co.uk). M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Pack clothes for hot weather during the day and chilly evenings in camp. Each rider also needs to take their own pillow, sleeping bag and liner, inflatable sleeping mat, riding hat, jodhpurs, riding boots and short chaps, waterproofs, headtorch, towel and water bottle. WHY GO

Photo Credits: Dreamstime; Sarah Siese.

Alexandra offers unrivalled access to this historically, culturally and geographically fascinating region. It’s a rewarding safari-type adventure, staying in remote locations in one of the most unspoilt places on the planet.

Paid partnership with V I R G I N I A TO U R I S M C O R P O R AT I O N

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COME F I N D YOU R

VIRGINIA Home to the majestic mountains of Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Parkway, along with miles of warm sunny beaches, Virginia’s diverse landscape serves up every outdoor experience imaginable. The state’s celebrated culinary scene, which features fresh, local produce, heritage meats and sublime Virginia oysters, is enhanced by award-winning distilleries and more than 330 boutique wineries. There’s rich history here too, which, combined with acclaimed art museums, promises hours of discovery. Connecting all of this are scenic byways, passing through rolling green hills and historic small towns and leading to tucked-away resorts, spas and golf courses that offer a true respite from daily life.

McAfee Knob, on the Appalachian Trail near Roanoke, Virginia.

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Cycling the Blue Ridge Parkway near Roanoke, Virginia.

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Boar’s Head Resort, Charlottesville; Kayaking off Virginia’s Eastern Shore.

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Hiking Little Stoney Man Trail in Shenandoah National Park.

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A treehouse at Primland Resort, Auberge Resorts Collection, Blue Ridge Mountains. ABOVE FROM THE TOP:

Golf at Kingsmill Resort, Williamsburg; Salamander Resort & Spa, Middleburg; The Historic Cavalier Resort & Beach Club, Virginia Beach.

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Pleasure House Oysters, Chef’s Table Tour, Virginia Beach.

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Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, Charlottesville; Colonial Williamsburg. RIGHT FROM THE TOP:

Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond; Equestrian Center at Salamander Resort & Spa, Middleburg. FOLLOWING PAGE:

Barboursville Vineyards.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Located in Chantilly, VA, Washington Dulles International Airport is served by flights from around the globe. Virginia’s ten other airports and Amtrak rail service connect to cities throughout the state and beyond. B E S T T I M E TO G O

With mountains in the west and the coast to the east, Virginia enjoys relatively temperate year-round weather to ensure a wealth of outdoor time, including leaf-peeping in the fall, snow sports in the winter, blossom in the spring and warm beaches in summer. C U R R E N C Y US dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT-5 FO O D

Farm-raised grains, vegetables, meats, savoury cheeses and signature oysters all provide endless fresh ingredients for chefs to create tastes for every palate and price point. The delectable dishes pair perfectly with craft beverages from the more than 330 wineries, over 300 breweries and cideries, and in excess of 70 distilleries spread throughout the state. W H E R E TO S TAY

Virginia offers ideal accommodation options for every budget and preference – from luxury resorts to unique glamping sites and everything between. H OW TO D O I T

The regional Metrorail takes visitors from Washington Dulles International Airport to numerous destinations throughout northern Virginia, connecting with the Amtrak train service, which offers routes into the Blue Ridge Mountains and east to Virginia’s shores. With thousands of miles of scenic byways, a road trip always turns up something new. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Comfortable shoes and plenty of layers. WHY GO

From stunning scenery and a welcoming culture to an extraordinary history, these are only a part of what makes Virginia a mustvisit destination. Come find your Virginia.

BROUGHT TO YOU IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

Photo Credits: All images courtesy of Virginia Tourism Corporation.

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n the very edge of night, when the air is of a misty purplish hue and cool enough to provoke shivers, I pedal past meadow after field filled with monstrous, twisted forms. Above me, stars falter as birds muster, their early morning song a reassuring melody at this moody hour. Red rust dirt flies up to fleck my legs, connecting me to the land below my wheels. It’s now just a matter of minutes before the sun tiptoes over the horizon to warm Puglia’s Val d’Itria and its ancient olive groves. I half expect to see the age-old trees rise to stretch and yawn. It’s easy to embrace anthropomorphism and let your imagination soar – many of these gnarled olive trees are 2,000 years old, planted by Roman hands. I’m reminded of the forests that fuelled my childhood imagination, of those found in the land of Oz and in books by Enid Blyton. I see hunched wizards with cracked grey faces, and the contorted arms of witches reaching out to me. ‘It’s not the trees’ age that has made them crooked. It was the Chelidonium winds that bent them when they were first planted,’ Niko, my cycling guide explains, as we sit on a dry limestone wall to snack on Tarallucci, salty ring-shaped crackers made with olive oil. In the tiny notebook I carry everywhere, I scribble the word Chelidonium down, hungry for any poetic morsel Niko gives me. Oh, and what a gem it is: this beautiful adjective comes from the Greek word for the swallow, khelidon, because the winds, like the birds, return in spring. The olive groves are now protected for their cultural heritage by UNESCO and Italian law – not very long ago, single trees were sold for up to €50,000. Between the trees, now glowing in the velvety tones of daybreak, are fields planted with fennel, radicchio, artichoke, asparagus, broccoli and cauliflower. The last two, warmed by the risen sun, send up rich aromas to stoke dormant memories of my grandpa’s allotment and being told to ‘eat up’ during childhood teatimes. Farm dogs bark a warning to their masters as we cycle past, who, although busy hoeing, watering, and tending to their plots, never fail to offer a polite ‘Buongiorno’. With little mechanical intervention, this is labourintensive work, and we cease our pedalling to watch the rough shaking of an olive tree by three men poised on ladders, the fruit from

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I HALF EXPECT TO SEE THE AGE-OLD PREVIOUS PAGE:

Trulli of Alberobello. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

Trulli with olive grove in Val d`Itria; Olive trees in Savelletri Di Fasanoe.

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which lands with a small bounce on the net spread wide at the foot of the 4ft-thick tree. It’s not so very long ago (fifteen years or thereabouts) that Puglia was considered down at heel, which is rather apt given where it sits: at the very bottom of Italy’s shapely boot. Although it may have shrugged off its poor southern cousin image, travel here remains low key, and is less about ticking off tourist sights (with the exception of Alberobello), and more about soaking up the culture in a gentle way. The Val d’Itria stretches from Putignano in the north to Ostuni in the south and the valley bit of it isn’t deep, more of a slight karstic depression, running between the towns of Locorotondo, Cisternino and Martina Franca. Awash with vineyards, wheat fields, vegetable plots, cherry orchards, almond and olive groves (which produce around 40% of Italy’s olive oil), it’s like cruising through a pantry, dotted with trulli, the small, white, limestone, conicalroofed dwellings that many would argue have put Puglia on the map. I’ve heard these iconic Pugliese houses described as many things – cupcakes, upside-down ice-cream cones, hobbit houses, and, worst of all, Smurf domes – all far too twee and disrespectful for their ancient history, but I too fall into the trap of judging them on their fairy-tale qualities when I arrive in UNESCO-protected Alberobello (its name meaning beautiful tree), which, with over 1,400 trulli, has the highest concentration of all the valley’s towns. ‘Oh, this is the cutest place I’ve ever seen,’

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I gush. Mimmo, my guide, whose family has lived here for several generations stops in his tracks and frowns. ‘But more importantly,’ he says to me, ‘is that you understand the history and why the town was built this way and how ingenious is the design.’ From then on, I’m teacher’s pet, lapping up every detail of the town’s chequered history, that stretches from the Middle Ages. The conical roof, which has

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Trulli of Aberobello; Traditional white plaster Trulli houses with cone-shaped roofs in Aberobello; Basilica of saint Medici Cosma and Damiano in Alberobello. OPPOSITE PAGE:

Traditional Apulian dry stone hut with conical roof.

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a small opening at its pinnacle (each topped with the mark of the stonemason), was cleverly constructed as no taxes could be levied on a dwelling that was not considered finished (hence the hole) and the houses were built a secco (without mortar) so that they could be demolished quickly in case of royal inspection. Constructed below the oak treeline, the folk here didn’t wish to be bothered as they felled trees to secretly supply Italy’s growing ship-building industry, and rough brutes were stationed in the woods to deal with any of the king’s men who came sniffing around. Medieval murder aside, what Mimmo describes of his own childhood sounds idyllic. ‘I used to sleep in the cone,’ he tells me. ‘Most trulli have a child’s room up there that can be reached by a ladder. Our cat used to stare at me through the tiny window, and behind the cat were the stars. These were the best years of my life.’ Once the tour buses have left, I stick around to enjoy the town in relative quiet, watching the swallows swoop over tapering roofs painted with Christian symbols such as the sun, cross and Mary’s heart, which give thanks to a church that arrived in the early 1900s to support to an impoverished community. An almond is the backdrop in the painting of Christ on the cross in Alberobello’s Church of Saint Anthony of Padua because the church provided schooling for the children while their parents made a fresh start in clearing the land and planting almond groves. Mimo tells me it was the saving of the place. A rosy glow of contentment falls over me as I sit on a bench in an area of the town where UNESCO has forbidden any commercial use of trulli, save for a handful of bed and breakfast accommodation. The light fades, the day disappears, and in the few flaps of a wing, the swallows swoop is gone, as if they are charged only by the sun. Although Alberobello is the pin-up for tourism in the area, there are other lesser known citta biancha (white towns) to explore. I spy Cisternino from a distance, often referred to as the kasbah of Puglia because of its warren of narrow streets with buildings that tumble from the hilltop like a spill of sugar cubes. The outside staircases on the white-washed houses remind me more of homes I’ve seen in Greece and Turkey (no small wonder as Puglia’s past is one of serial occupations, first becoming a Greek colony in the seventh century BC). I poke my nose into inner courtyard gardens filled with blue pots sprouting cacti, where bougainvilleadripping trellises give scant shade to basking cats and washing hung from windows flaps idly in the breeze. I’m happily losing hours to what the Italians term as la dolce far niente (‘the

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Washing hung from windows f laps idly in the breeze.

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Narrow street in Cisternino; The church of Our Lady of Ibernia in Cisternino. THIS PAGE:

Traditional white houses of Monopoli.

sweetness of idleness’), on my way to buy my lunch from a fornella (a kind of butcher’s shop come trattoria, unique to Cisternino) where bombette (parcels of meat, usually pork mince, stuffed with local caciocavallo cheese and spices) is their forte. ‘Da portare via [to carry away]?’ the butcher chef asks me, and I nod as he flips my bombette onto his grill. My plan is to

ferry it to the gardens near the 13th-century Chiesa Matrice, for views over rolling olive groves, where counting the tips of trulli houses peeping out from the green will be my fun. Hot through its wrapper, I swap my lunch from hand to hand, bringing the parcel to my nose again and again, to smell the meaty, herby aroma. First bite, and the penny drops over the name bombette, due to the explosion of flavour. Puglia has a skinny waif-like geography, so you’re never far from the coast. Travel east and you arrive at the Adriatic; go west and the Ionian laps the shore. In Monopoli, on the Adriatic coast, I sit a while on the quay to watch a fisherman, recently returned from an olivegreen sea, wash his haul of small white octopi (it is the Latin spelling I favour, as we are in Italy). Over and over, he swills the slippery polpi in a bucket, then lays each gently on the deck. I have no doubt that there’s devotion in the quiet

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repetition of the act. ‘Bellissima,’ I shout when one is held up with pride for me to see. From here, I wander down to Monopoli’s 16th-century Carlo V Castle – a brick bastion, licked by the waves; past small coves where red halter-neck swimsuit- and speedoclad Italian sunworshippers provide a 1950s cinematic scene. Slender, white-washed streets, festooned with straw hats strung on bunting, lead me to the town’s grandiose cathedral Maria Santissima della Madia, built in 1772 (although a church has been on this site since the 11th century), which soars up to diminish all around it, but has a soft centre of candy pink and white marble. Just a little further along the coast, Polignano a Mare is ever-popular with Italian

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holidaymakers, who, in summer months, pack like sardines on Lama Monachile, a white pebble beach hugged by the steep cliffs that divers throw themselves from during the annual Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series. In autumn, it’s a less hectic scene, with room to spread my towel, before I take a gentle leap into the crystal-clear aquamarine waters (still averaging 25 degrees) from the lower rock ledges, swimming out to view a coastline riddled with caves and rock formations sculpted by the ceaseless crashing of water. Back on the beach, melodic, expressive banter from multi-generational Italian families mixes with the lap of the sea to lull me to sleep, and I wake up ravenous, ready to seek out a dinner of linguine ai di mare (sea urchin

linguine), which I find on the terrace of Fly just above the beach. In keeping with the time I have on my hands, I want to eat slow food, of which there is plenty. Not only sea urchins, but the carote di Polignano, a much-extolled local carrot with hues of yellow to dark purple. The waiter humours my strange order, while grinning and shaking his head. Back in the valley, I pick my way through the sparse Greco-Roman ruins at the Parco Archeologico di Egnazia, close to the fishing village of Savelletri di Fasano. Dusty roads, bordered by prickly pear, have led me to this spot, where a vivid imagination is required to conjure images of a once commercial fourthcentury settlement, with origins that go back as far as the Bronze Age. Lizards dart over

foundations of Roman houses and ruins of Messapian tombs, and I’m back in a land of make believe, feeling that it’s the least I can do to conjure up scenes of grandeur for this graveyard of a town: a child drawing water from a well, an artist rendering a pomegranate (a symbol of afterlife that is found in chambers here), and a soldier kneeling to pray at the altar of a temple dedicated to Venus, built in the second-century AD under Emporer Trajan. Now is the hour, caught between day and night, when anything is possible. As the sun drops into the ocean I leave the ghosts behind, the wheels of my bike serving as a reminder of life’s full circles as I head back towards Puglia’s enchanted olive trees, where nothing ever changes.

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Medieval Defense Cannon and Turret In Front Of Castle Carlo V in Monopoli. THIS PAGE:

Excavations of Egnazia. FOLLOWING SPREAD:

Lama Monachile Cala Porto beach in Polignano a Mare.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

Direct international flights arrive from Europe into both Bari and Brindisi airports. B E S T T I M E TO G O

March to June and September to October for warm temperatures and fewer crowds – perfect for cycling and walking. C U R R E N C Y Euro T I M E Z O N E GMT +1 FO O D

In Puglia, it’s all about cucina povera, so-called ‘poor cuisine’, although all the best restaurants dish it up and it’s delicious. Fresh, seasonal and inexpensive are the rules. Specialities include orecchiette pasta served with tomatoes and ricotta; broad bean and chicory puree; and an abundance of fish and seafood including ricci di mare (sea urchins). Don’t miss pancotto – fish soup thickened with bread. W H E R E TO S TAY

Luxury splurge: Borgo Egnazia in Savelletri. Boutique Trullo stay: Trulli e Puglia in Alberobello. H OW TO D O I T

The best way to explore the region is by bike and car, both of which can be easily hired locally. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Insect repellent and comfortable trainers. WHY GO

Interesting culture, lovely countryside and incredible food. This is the perfect region in which to practise slow travel and to connect with the people and culture in an unhurried way. Kate Wickers’ family travel memoir Shape of a Boy: My family & Other Adventures is available through Amazon and all good bookshops. For more details go to jrnymag.com/ kate. Photo Credits: Dreamstime.

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Beinn Eighe and Loch Maree Islands National Nature Reserve. THIS PAGE:

Alladale Wilderness Reserve.

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ollaborate with nature and she’ll repay you with abundance,’ Lynn Cassells says as we look out across the 150-acre croft she farms with her partner Sandra Baer. It’s not hard to believe: even at the end of October, when the fields beyond Lynbreck are a patchwork of earthy tones, parts of the kitchen garden are almost jungle-like in their greenery. In the distance, the Cairngorm mountains are so neatly arranged that it feels as though they have been lined up solely for the pleasure of viewing them from here. As we meander around the hillside beyond the kitchen garden, a small fold of Highland cows emerge, lifting their heads above the bracken that provides the perfect camouflage for four of them (the fifth, a black coo, is actually the colour Highland cattle originally were, before Queen Victoria decided she preferred them in their more vibrant russet shade) to impassively survey us while they eat. ‘We see ourselves as stewards rather than land managers,’ Lynn says. ‘We’re thinking about how the land should look with us as part of it rather than dominating it.’ Since Lynn and Sandra bought Lynbreck in March 2016, they’ve sought to use farming to regenerate and connect better with the land they own, whether it’s through using their animals to fertilise and help diversify the soil, or by planting thousands of trees to replenish the once-forested hillsides.

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The idea of regeneration in a region that seems so wild can initially come as something of a surprise. On my first visit to the Highlands, it was its wildness – the mountains that look like they’ve been pinched up from the earth below, the loch-littered valleys that glitter as the clouds part – that made me fall for it, but the more I visited the more I became aware that in many ways this is a landscape that is anything but wild. Look closely and you’ll notice it, too: the depleted tree line; the colour-coded sheep; the barren hillsides. Sure, the mountains, the lochs, the coast were all here long before humans were, but the shape of them has been defined by us – by sheep farming, deer stalking, land ownership and the hunting of predators to extinction. The following afternoon, we set off on e-bikes for a 15-mile cycle to Corrour youth hostel – the UK’s highest and one of its most isolated. The last time I attempted a hill on a bike, I had to get off and push it for the last stretch, putting up with the ignominy of passing drivers stopping to check I was okay, so e-biking is a revelation. I’d expected it to feel like cheating, when in fact it’s more like a helping hand at my back when I need it. Every slight turn of the path reveals yet another change of scenery that demands a photo: brooding mountains rising above a thick, story-book green line of pines; a gushing burn cutting through barren moorland; a river meandering back and forth so many times it looks like something out of a geography

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textbook. After visiting Lynbreck, I can’t help but appraise the landscape differently, and find myself wondering whether it has always looked like this, or whether 500 years ago things would have been starkly different; the fact that we are following a rough track through largely treeless estate land is enough to tell me the answer. Still, there’s no denying the thrill of this landscape, even under rain so heavy that it drips off my eyelashes. The track ahead has been rendered sepia in the fading light, the presence of Loch Ossian betrayed only by flashes of gunmetal grey through the towering trees we are now riding through. ‘Turn turbo on,’ our guide says, and we do so, zooming the final few miles in a race against the setting sun. But when the light from the youth hostel appears, blinking out of the mist like a beacon, all I know is that I don’t want to stop – I want to keep going, not just across Rannoch Moor but beyond, to the coast, or around the whole of Scotland. I’m travelling with adventure-holiday company Wilderness Scotland, on a trip that began with my favourite UK train journey – the Caledonian Sleeper to Inverness. With Wilderness Scotland’s commitment to

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sustainability – which has so far included building a net-zero office, calculating the carbon impact of their trips and introducing an opt-out conservation contribution for their trips – they are, as head of marketing Ben Thorburn says, ‘leading the industry in creating change’. At a time when it feels like anyone can stick a ‘sustainable travel’ logo on their offerings, it feels like a big claim, but over the course of the three days I spend with Wilderness in the Highlands, it becomes clear that they’re actually taking practical action to ensure they live up to this. Part of this is achieved through their partnership with Trees for Life, a charity that is working to rewild the Highlands, and one of the beneficiaries of Wilderness’ conservation scheme. Today, less than 2% of Scotland’s temperate Caledonian forests still remain, including a fragment at Dundreggan Estate, seven miles west of Loch Ness. Here, Trees for Life are currently finalising construction of their rewilding centre, which will enable visitors to experience the ancient woodland and to find out more about the important work the charity is doing to restore native forest both here and elsewhere in the Highlands.

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Highland cattle at Lynbreck Croft. OPPOSITE PAGE:

A burn cuts through the barren landscape near Loch Ossian.

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View over Glen Alladale, in Alladale Wilderness Reserve; Off-grid Deanich Lodge in Alladale Wilderness Reserve. OPPOSITE PAGE:

View of Beinn a Mhuinidh from Beinn Eighe National Nature Reserve.

We walk through the nursery, where a thousand trees are starting out life in seed trays, and into the polytunnel, where aspen – once a common feature of the Highland landscape – is being grown for seed. ‘They’re native to Scotland,’ operations manager Doug Gilbert explains, ‘and hugely important to diversity. The more aspen we have, the happier other parts of the woodland will be.’ Later, we climb the hillside behind the new visitors’ centre, following the footpaths that wind through the estate, drizzle on our faces. The hills opposite are banded by a dark green timber line, which, Doug points out, is commercial forest. By contrast, our side is a blanket of copper-coloured bracken, broken by long-limbed birch trees, resplendent in their autumn wardrobe. ‘Change is coming,’ Doug says. A month later, mauve-tipped downy birch lend a pale ghostliness to the landscape of Alladale Wilderness Reserve, 50 miles northwest of Inverness. ‘You’ll have the solitude of the whole glen to yourself,’ hospitality manager Stuart McLean tells me when he takes me to my cottage in the heart of Glen Alladale. This is no exaggeration: after he leaves, I follow the track along the hillside for an hour, the only sound the crunch of my footsteps on the gravel and the rushing of the river below me, so loud that I initially mistake it for a nearby road. Here, with the wide expanse of the glen at my feet, the trees have all but disappeared, save a few old pines that have been so battered by the wind that they remind me of the acacia trees of the African savanna. The next day, I discover that there were more trees around me than I’d realised – what I’d mistaken for low bushes were in fact young pines; once my mind has adjusted to see them I notice them dotted everywhere in Alladale. Ranger Ryan Munro tells me that just under a million trees have been planted here since 2010; like those at Dundreggan and Lynbreck, they are fenced off from the deer, with the hope that in 30 years they’ll be self-seeding and reforesting the hills themselves. That’s not to say that there isn’t already a benefit being seen with even these early stages of tree planting: red squirrels, translocated from Speyside, are thriving to the extent that they’ve

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I WAKE TO A BLACK-ANDWHITE WORLD, THE SKINNY CONIFERS LENDING A SENSE OF NARNIA TO MY SURROUNDINGS.

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Conifers in Leckmelm Wood, where Ecotone Cabins are situated. THIS PAGE:

Red Squirrel Cabin, overlooking Loch Broom, at Ecotone Cabins.

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moved down into the local village, while black grouse, willow warblers and golden plovers are also on the increase. Paul Lister, Alladale’s owner, ‘sees himself as the custodian of the land,’ Ryan tells me as we drive around the 23,000-acre estate, reminding me of Lynn’s ethos at Lynbreck. Here, where estates have for centuries been the domain of the deer-stalking wealthy, the sentiment seems particularly remarkable – deer culling is only done by the rangers now, to keep the population low enough for the habitat to thrive. Of course, in an ideal world deer wouldn’t need culling, because they’d have predators – which is one reason why Lister would, rather famously, like to reintroduce wolves. ‘A wolf can operate 24/7,’ Ryan tells me, ‘whereas we’re just nine to five. It would make a huge difference to deer management.’ The only predators at Alladale now are wildcats, though they haven’t been released here yet – the estate is part of a captive breeding programme for these native animals. At first glance they look remarkably like slightly larger, bushier versions of the tabby cats I grew up with, but the steely look in their eyes is enough to convince me otherwise. In order for wildcats to be successfully reintroduced to the

wild, local communities have to commit to spaying their domestic cats to prevent them breeding together and diluting the line. ‘It’s much easier to make wildcats a community project than wolves,’ Ryan says as he flings a pheasant into one of the cat’s enclosures. ‘That’s going to take much longer. But it will happen.’ This idea of community sticks with me as I travel west to Ecotone Cabins – less than 20 miles as the crow flies but just over 60 by road – in the hills above Loch Broom near Ullapool. Sam Planterose and his family have lived here since his parents bought the 80-acre site from the Forestry Commission 30 years ago. ‘A community evolved out of a family need,’ Sam says as we walk around their woods that, in addition to the two cabins, is home to the family construction business, which makes ecological and sustainable wooden buildings (including the cabins here) out of local timber. Also on-site are an off-grid smallholding, a woodland croft and a forest nursery, where we see the children huddled by torchlight under the trees. This area had, before World War II, been home to ancient native oak trees, which were cleared and replaced with non-native species – predominantly conifers, used for pulp and

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building. It’s easy, if you know little about trees, to assume that, in this age of climate crisis, all trees are created equal – but of course, they’re not. ‘The conifers were used like a field of wheat,’ Sam says, ‘so they were chopped down and then grown again, and there was low biodiversity here as a result.’ Sam’s family use these conifers now to build things under their North Woods construction company, but rather than replant them, they’re slowly being replaced by native trees like deciduous birch and alder, which allow nature to thrive. The next morning, I wake to a blackand-white world, the skinny conifers lending a sense of Narnia to my surroundings. The wide windows of my cabin are the ideal frame from which to watch as the pale sun reluctantly rises above the silver-streak of Loch Broom that’s visible through the snow-dusted alders. The woodland has already shifted and changed under three decades of guidance by the Planterose family; like everywhere else I’ve visited, though, I can’t help but think about what it might look like in another handful of decades. For a glimpse of that, I head to Britain’s oldest National Nature Reserve, Beinn Eighe, on the southwestern banks of Loch Maree. Looking out at the reserve from the NatureScot office, reserve manager Doug Bartholomew points out a vast swathe of forest on the lower slopes of the Beinn Eighe mountain range – the dark evergreen of Scots pines and juniper in the background, and the wispy, brown-leaved birch and aspen in front. In the 70 years since Beinn Eighe became an NNR, some 800,0000 trees have been planted here, linking up strands of ancient forest: the wide forest we’re looking at is the result. After visiting so many places where the planted trees are still in their infancy, I have to check I’ve got my facts right. ‘That’s not all old forest?’ I ask, perhaps a little more incredulously than I should. ‘No,’ Doug says with a smile. ‘And we’ve planted the last of the links now, so we’re going to stop and just let natural regeneration take over.’ Afterwards, I head further along the loch, mirror-still beneath a cornflower-blue sky, and follow the one-mile Woodland Trail up the mountainside. I’d walked this path earlier in the year and had marvelled at the views of the brooding hulk of Slioch across the water, only paying attention to the trees when the trail booklet brought my attention to them. Now, though, the walk is different. Here are the birch trees, dazzling in their autumnal finery; the towering, weather-beaten ‘granny pines’, so-named for their age; and the bright, bushy younger pines, just beginning to take their place on these ancient slopes. The Highland landscape will continue to be shaped by us, but this time it might just end up looking like it was supposed to.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

There’s no better way to arrive in the Highlands than by Caledonian Sleeper (sleeper.scot), which runs six times weekly from London Euston, arriving in Inverness the following morning. Club cabins have en suites and include breakfast B E S T T I M E TO G O

The Highlands is beautiful throughout the year – just be prepared for unpredictable weather whenever you go. C U R R E N C Y Pound sterling. T I M E Z O N E GMT FO O D

One of the most sustainable things you can eat up here is venison, which will have been culled on local estates. You can often try Beinn Eighe venison at The Torridon hotel, where the fine-dining restaurant makes use of the best local produce. W H E R E TO S TAY

For wild luxury and superlative views, Alladale Wilderness Reserve and The Torridon, near Beinn Eighe, are hard to beat. Ecotone Cabins, in the hills near Ullapool, are lowimpact but incredibly stylish. H OW TO D O I T

Wilderness Scotland (wildernesscotland.com) offers a range of guided and self-guided naturebased trips throughout the Highlands and islands, including to Lynbreck Croft, Loch Ossian and Dundreggan. For more information on visiting the Highlands, visit discoverhighlandsandislands. scot. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Walking boots, layers and waterproofs; you really can experience four seasons in one day here. THIS PAGE:

The rewilded landscape at Trees for Life’s Dundreggan Estate.

Photo Credits: Kav Dadfar; James Shooter; Emma Gibbs; Pete Helme, Sam Planterose.

WHY GO

In addition to phenomenal scenery, the Highlands is leading the way in exciting, low-impact, sustainable travel.

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Paid partnership with K E N T U C K Y TO U R I S M

USA

Essence of Kentucky is the ‘front porch’ of the southern states, not just in terms of its geography – it straddles the Mason-Dixon line between north and south – but also for its political, musical and sporting culture, and as a standard bearer for that famous southern hospitality. Synonymous for many with bourbon, the state is also famed for its talented chefs and artists, and hosts a number of popular food and music festivals throughout the year. As the birthplace of a number of legendary Americans, including Abraham Lincoln, Muhammad Ali and the father of bluegrass, Bill Monroe, Kentucky is steeped in history. It’s also known as the Horse Capital of the World, best encapsulated in the prestigious annual Kentucky Derby. Whatever brings you here, you’ll find plenty to surprise and delight you. 134

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Cumberland Falls in Cumberland Falls State Resort Park.

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Manchester Farm in Lexington during spring.

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Wild horses in Southeastern Kentucky.

Kentucky is known as the Horse Capital of the World.

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Claiborne Farm is one of many farms that offer private or group guided tours.

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Get up close and personal with thoroughbred racehorses and broodmares at Our Mims Retirement Haven, a nonprofit organisation dedicated to the rescue, revitalisation and care of retired horses.

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Slugger Museum and Factory in Louisville; The Kentucky State Capitol is located in Frankfort; Downtown Louisville’s skyline; Catholic church in Bardstown.

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An Old Fashioned – the Pendennis Club in Louisville claims the popular cocktail was invented there. THIS PAGE CLOCKWISE FROM THE TOP LEFT:

A mint julep; Bourbon such as Buffalo Trace features in many local cocktails and recipes; Burger at Broken Throne Brewery.

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Kentucky produces 95% of the world’s supply of bourbon; The state is the birthplace of bluegrass music and holds many events, such as the Great American Brass Band Festival (Danville in June); Renfro Valley Entertainment Center is known as “Kentucky’s Country Music Capital”. FOLLOWING PAGE:

Whether it’s music or food, Kentucky is famed for its festivals, held at places such as The Amp at Dant Crossing, a 2,000-seat outdoor music venue in the heart of Kentucky’s bourbon country.

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USA

NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

The key hubs of Louisville and Lexington are well served by connecting flights and the airport of Northern Kentucky will have direct BA flights from London Heathrow from summer 2023. B E S T T I M E TO G O

With four distinctive seasons, Kentucky has plenty to offer throughout the year. Spring and autumn enjoy particularly pleasant temperatures, with the fall colours not to be missed. Summer is hotter, particularly in the south of the state, making this a good time to visit Kentucky’s many lakes and waterways – surprisingly, although the state is landlocked, it has more navigable water than any state other than Alaska, and even has more shoreline than Florida. C U R R E N C Y US dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT -5 or -6 (location

dependent). FO O D

Bourbon features strongly in many local recipes, and fried chicken – made world famous by Kentucky Fried Chicken – is a staple of the state’s cuisine. Try local dishes such as hot brown, burgoo and derby pie. W H E R E TO S TAY

There are plenty of options for all budgets, from bijou designer hotels to treehouses and anything in between. Touring in an RV (motorhome) is a great way to see the state. H OW TO D O I T

Like so much of the States, you’ll need a vehicle to get the most out of a visit, whether on an escorted tour or by hiring a car or an RV. A number of specialist tour operators, including America As You Like It and Trailfinders, can put together a trip to Kentucky. M U S T- PAC K I T E M

Cool clothes for summer and layers for winter. But most of all, a spirit for adventure and fun. WHY GO

To surprise yourself with the variety of things to do and experience in Kentucky, while enjoying a large apple-pie-sized slice of southern hospitality. BROUGHT TO YOU IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

Photo Credits: Kentucky Tourism; Dreamstime; AWL

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ooking out in the darkness, soft tungsten light pouring from the guesthouse behind us, two travel influencers and I were sitting on a porch in Paruima, a village in the far west of Guyana. One of the elders approached us, a representative of his Arecuna community. We were among the first guests to go on a new four-day hiking itinerary that started and ended at this very spot. He wanted to know what we did – why were we there, in his homeland. I explained that my trade is old fashioned, that I took notes with pen and paper, shot images on a heavy camera, then handed an essay – this essay – over to editors and designers to make it sing. The TikToker went next. He explained that his work was much more instant, there would be quick results and immediate reaction. He made videos with ‘super enthusiasm’ for his followers. This seemed a little ironic to me as we were to spend the time in the wilderness – without electricity, phone signal or Wi-Fi. Our only followers would be a few heroic porters from the village. The light from the lodge was being provided by a diesel generator that had only been turned on so we could charge our batteries for a final time. The influencers had a lot of batteries. The TikToker was at least sincere in his answer, even giving a quick, neat summary of social media as a concept. The YouTuber was next. He was on his phone. He was very often on his phone, neck craned at 45 degrees, refreshing pages with the need of a degenerate. The elder asked him the same question. Guyana is the only Englishspeaking country in South America and rudeness translates as well as any sentence.

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A precarious view of Kamarang Falls. THIS PAGE FROM THE LEFT:

Kaieteur Falls, the world’s highest single-drop falls by volume; Rainbows are near ever-present at Guyana’s great falls.

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The influencer looked up. ‘Me? I make videos for YouTube. Next.’ He went back to his phone. Inside, I was screaming. The next day the hike began, with a total of four porters carrying our hammocks and rudimentary camping supplies. Improbably, other Arecuna people would meet us along the way to provide food, some travelling from over the highly porous border with Venezuela. The water we got from streams, which never looked particularly clear, but never made us sick, either. On that first day we hugged the Kamarang River for around an hour, then turned inland. Ahead lay another irritation. It had been a long journey to get to the monkey bridge but, standing in front of it, I felt I could go no further. A log had been set across a muddy creek, which was bracketed with muddy banks, at the end of an equally muddy trail. So much of these mires had accumulated on the bottoms of my boots that I had no grip at all. Meanwhile, the log had no handrail or guard of any kind – it was just a log. To step out on it felt as appealing as trying to cross an ice rink wearing bowling balls for skates, except with an added 10ft drop. As I stood looking at the doom lying before me, a boy came racing down to the creek, not to save me, but to haul out a piranha that he’d stunned further upriver. He looked at me and I looked at him and I wondered which of us was more astonished in the moment. Eventually, the porters saw the raw fear in my eyes and led me to a less impossible monkey bridge further upstream, allowing me to go back to chasing the influencers. Both were younger and fitter than me and the only

I wondered which one of us was more astonished in that moment.

real chance I had of keeping up with them was when they stopped to record pieces to camera (which was often) or to launch a drone (which was mercifully rare). Thankfully I was not short of distractions along the route. Guyana is as close to an unspoiled tourist destination as it’s possible to get these days and this new itinerary felt even

OPPOSITE PAGE:

A villager greets new arrivals in Paruima. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

A distant tepui, one of the defining characteristics of the interior; A colourful stilted home in Paruima, raised to avoid flooding.

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more so. Skinks and geckos hung from the innumerable trees, and I was always checking the canopy for an elusive Guyanese cockof-the-rock, an outrageously prissy bird with flamboyant orange feathers and an excellent mohawk. Parakeets would periodically fly overhead and once in a while their prettier and more raucous cousin, the macaw, would bisect the sky, too. But there was no avoiding the hiking, no ignoring the fact this was a physical challenge – as much as it was of my patience every time one of the influencers broke off to film themselves while in the middle of a conversation. Perhaps my shame gland is overactive, but theirs seemed to have been surgically removed. One of the biggest pities was just how incurious they seemed about their host country, especially as Guyana is almost defined by what people don’t know about it. Bring it up in conversation and you can expect to be met with a vacant look before your audience nervously ventures that they too wish they’d been to west Africa. No, you’ll then reply, not Ghana – Guyana. Here are some facts about Guyana: it was once part of a quintet of Guianas that were variously the colonial possessions of Spain (now part of Venezuela), the Netherlands (now Suriname), Portugal (now part of Brazil), France (incredibly still part of France) and Britain. As such it is the only English-speaking country in South America. On three separate visits I have never met a Guyanese person who identifies

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as South American, nor a South American who regards Guyana as a true part of the continent. Another fact: in 1978 the Jonestown Massacre took place in northern Guyana, committed by a death cult led by an American murderer named Jim Jones. Many of the 908 who died were forced to consume a drink laced with cyanide. In the intervening decades this has been mislabelled as Kool-Aid (it was

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT:

Sun dappling the top of the Kamarang Gorge; The plica plica or collared tree lizard; A cliff flycatcher perched in front of Kaieteur Falls; Head guide Caleo Elliman looks across the jungle, back to Paruima.

actually Flavor Aid, though many more victims were simply shot) and gave rise to what must be a hugely insulting phrase for relatives of the victims: ‘They really drank the Kool-Aid.’ One more fact: the interior of the country is exceedingly beautiful, a rare and pristine wilderness home to tabletop mountains, immense jungle, and some of the world’s largest and most sensational waterfalls. The country’s three largest were the main prizes on our trip. The first was Kaieteur, which we visited before we’d even got to Paruima. If Guyana was New York and waterfalls were buildings, this would be the Empire State. The country’s national emblem has its own airstrip and makes for a popular flying day trip from the capital city, Georgetown. It is the world’s largest single-drop waterfall by volume, absurdly photogenic and dramatic. We stopped there for just a couple of hours before flying on to Paruima for the multiday hike to Kamarang and Uchi falls. Back on the trail, by the end of the muddy first day we’d summited our first real plateau, then slept uneasily in our hammocks. We awoke to morning dew, endless views across the jungle, and the sounds of the wild places rising. As I looked out across the vast green carpet, head guide Caleo Elliman approached and stood at my side. ‘Do they have forests like this in your country?’ he asked. I let out a laugh that was a little sadder than I meant it to be. I couldn’t remember ever seeing greenery like this, much less in denuded Scotland. As the toucan flies, Venezuela is only a few miles from this spot and as we began our second day – which had few ascents but lasted for 12 sweaty miles – the border grew closer by the step. When the hammocks were hung that night, we watched a lightning storm form then explode just over the border. As dawn broke on the third day, we hiked down to the precipice of the mighty Kamarang Falls. Kaieteur is hardly a major tourist destination itself, but it is growing in international popularity. Here, Kamarang was at least as impressive and yet we were the only foreigners around for hundreds of miles. As the influencers dangled their legs over the edge and exaggerated the 520ft height of the falls for their videos, I speculated what this experience might be like in other countries. Busier, certainly, and more regulated. Safer too, perhaps, but ultimately inferior. For a moment I worried that our exposure of it would contribute to its sanitisation. The trip continued and by now the bitterness I felt towards my fellow travellers was waning. The fact they were younger and earned several times what I do of course still rankled, but once in a while we were able to have conversations about travel and the

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world. I may have found their delivery methods as shallow as day-old puddles, but when my camera died, the YouTuber lent me his. When the TikToker found out I’m diabetic, he frequently enquired if my blood sugar was in range and offered me snacks. The hike was proving a great equaliser, too. None of us found it too easy and none of us lacked sincerity when we tried to sum up how the falls electrified our minds when we encountered them. We dined with the porters, who told us stories and listened to ours while the stars shone overhead. During the days, we came up with running jokes that followed us all the way back to Paruima. The last day had us descend the mountains back into the jungle. When we finally rejoined the river, we turned at a confluence to make a 45-minute hike to Uchi Falls, a journey that was partially interrupted by a tapir, a potentially deadly coral snake, and chaotic butterflies flitting through the undergrowth. Kaieteur had been the most picturesque of Guyana’s great falls, and Kamarang its most exciting, but Uchi was perhaps the most satisfying. From the valley floor we admired it

as a tumbled 702ft into a misty plunge pool. The falls draped from a curved cliff like silk over the arm of an expert tailor, greenery holding onto the sheer face thanks to water droplets spinning up from the crescendo below. Uchi gave life to the valley and the valley gave Uchi its perfect setting in return. ‘Awesome,’ said the influencers, to their cameras and to each other. They were more correct than they knew.

OPPOSITE PAGE:

A close up view of Kaieteur’s 741ft drop. THIS PAGE FROM THE TOP:

The serene water right before Kaieteur’s precipice; Caleo Elliman surveys the Kamarang River before a crossing. FOLLOWING PAGE:

Uchi Falls, the third and final waterfall of the trek.

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NEED TO KNOW GETTING THERE

British Airways fly to Georgetown via Saint Lucia. B E S T T I M E TO G O

Guyana has two dry seasons, running approximately from February to April and September to November. Expect heavy rainfall outside these months. C U R R E N C Y Guyanese dollar T I M E Z O N E GMT -4 FO O D

Guyanese food is an interesting mix of AfroCaribbean and Indian. Roti wraps are popular, as are dishes like salt fish. The national dish is a thick stew based on indigenous recipes called pepper pot.

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W H E R E TO S TAY

Tourism is a nascent business in Guyana and accommodation options are limited. On remote treks in the interior, tour operators will organise make-shift camps. In Georgetown, the longrunning Cara Lodge offers a chance to stay in a former British colonial building in the city centre.

DRAPED FROM A CURVED CLIFF

H OW TO D O I T

Wilderness Explorers’ (wilderness-explorers.com) Guyana Highlands Trekking Adventure is a six-day itinerary that starts and ends in Georgetown and includes Kamarang and Uchi falls.

LIKE SILK OVER

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Insect repellent.

THE ARM OF AN

WHY GO

Despite being the only English-speaking country in South America, more tourists visit Antarctica in an average year than visit Guyana. This lack of exposure means it offers a rare chance to feel like you’re genuinely discovering something and this is never truer than at its sensational waterfalls, deep in the country’s interior.

E X P E RT TA I LO R . Photo Credits: All images by Jamie Lafferty.

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O U R CO N T R I B U TO R S

Discover miles of trails, thousands of stars, and cactus like no other in the Sonoran Desert of southern Arizona.

ZO E Y G OTO Zoey is a journalist writing about all things Americana, travel, style, music and mid-century pop culture. She’s the author of two books: Elvis Style: From Zoot Suits to Jumpsuits and Vintage Style: Inside the Dapper World of Retro Enthusiasts. Favourite assignments have included sleeping in Elvis Presley’s teenage bedroom and an overnighter on Dolly Parton’s famous tour bus.

WIDE-OPEN SPACES

zoeygoto.com zoeygotowriter

Find your space at VisitTucson.org/Open

I A N CU M M I N G Ian began his travel photography back in 1994 and has never looked back. He ended up specialising in the Caribbean and Tibet, writing several books with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Having always loved the variety of foods the world has to offer, his love of cake took him on a very unexpected journey in 2015 when he baked his way to the final of the Great British Bake Off. He fell in love with Iceland in 2016, while doing a story on geothermal baking.

icimages.com icimages

GAIL MULLER Gail is a Cornish adventurer, educator, speaker and bestselling author. Told she’d be in a wheelchair by the age of 40, she defied the odds and now spends her time exploring the world through epic human-powered journeys. She inspires people to harness their own obstacles as fuel for flourishment through her writing, speaking, retreats and courses. Gail’s first book, Unlost, reached Number 7 in the US Amazon chart, and her next book is due in October ’23.

gailmuller.com thegailmuller

S U E WAT T Sue is a freelance writer based in London who specialises in African travel and conservation. Her addiction to Africa began nearly 20 years ago after spending eight months travelling across the continent on a belated gap year. She’s been returning ever since, now as an award-winning travel writer published in leading UK newspapers and magazines, including The Times, The Telegraph, The Independent, BBC Wildlife magazine, Travel Africa magazine, and Wanderlust.

suewatt.co.uk suewattuk

JA M E S D R AV E N James is a multi-award-winning travel journalist, specialising in adventure, wildlife and responsible travel. His words and photographs appear in National Geographic, The Times, The Guardian, The Independent and many more. His writing has been published in several English revision books, alongside works by Charles Dickens, Sir John Betjeman, Dame Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, and also in The Best British Travel Writing of the 21st Century.

jamesdraven jamesdraven

RUDOLF ABRAHAM Rudolf is an award-winning travel writer and photographer specialising in Central and Eastern Europe. The author of over a dozen books, his work is published widely by the likes of Bradt, Cicerone, DK Eyewitness, Geographical, The Guardian, Lonely Planet, Korean Airlines, National Geographic Traveller UK, TGO and Wanderlust. When not at his desk in London, he can usually be found up a mountain or hiding away on an island on the Adriatic.

rudolfabraham.com rudolfphoto

SARAH SIESE Since creating the Heaven on an Earth series of luxury experiential travel books in 2001, Sarah has travelled from Antarctica to Zanzibar in search of experiences that best depict their country. From the frozen depths of the poles to the exotic climes of the Maldives, she defines luxury simply as: being where you want with people you love. She lives in Hampshire, England and loves to garden in her spare time.

heavenonearth.co.uk heavenonearth

K AT E W I C K E R S Kate has been a journalist and travel writer for over 20 years, writing features on travel, culture, and food, and has travelled to over 70 countries. Her family travel memoir, Shape of a Boy, My Family & Other Adventures, was published in 2022, and was listed by National Geographic Traveller and Wanderlust in ‘The best travel books for 2022’, and by The Independent in ‘The best books to inspire your next adventure’.

wickers.kate KateWickers

JA M I E L A FFE RT Y Jamie is a writer and photographer based in Glasgow, Scotland. Despite endless attempts to look good in a bikini, and having given a horrible amount of money to a shady company promising him 50,000 new followers, his attempts at being a travel influencer continue to fail.

jamielafferty.com MegaHeid

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JRNY Travel Magazine - Issue Four

Articles inside

OUR CONTRIBUTORS

Paid partnership with KENTUCKY TOURISM

Essence of

‘C

partnership with VIRGINIA TOURISM CORPORATION

AS I PLOT THE COURSE, EVERY TREAD IS FELT IN EARNEST.

E N L Y KYRGYZSTAN

THE JAWDROPPING and the THE JAW - DROPPING AND THE SUBLIME

Moon The road to the

AFTER THE GOLD RUSH

WE SPEND OUR DAYS AMBLING AROUND, NO RUSH, NO PRESSURE.

TOWN

I’M MOVING IN THE ECHOES OF THE HEAVING, HEWING AND HOOFBEATS OF INDUSTRY.

THE ECHOES OF INDUSTRY

PIONEERS CREATIVE

THE JRNY GOES ON ...