exploring

The “forgotten” Dolomites lie to the east, far from the crowds of the Tre Cime di Lavaredo and Val Gardena. Belluno is the main gateway, two hours north of Venice by train or a drive up the A27. From here, the upper Piave valley leads into the quieter Friulian mountains. The land rises gently, opening into pasture, then stone lifting into spires above the meadows.

Deep in Kielder Forest, on the northern side of the vast Kielder Water stands Silvas Capitalis, a giant, two-storey timber head, one of the most striking of the 20 sculptures tucked between the pines. It’s an eerie sight, almost shocking; its mouth ajar, as if astounded by all it sees. It’s my first visit to Kielder, and my face has been wearing a similar expression since I stepped out of the car at the lakeside trying to take in the scale of the landscapes unfolding around me.

Kielder doesn’t look like England – at least, not the England I know. For a start, it’s vast; 250 sq miles (648 sq km), with 158m trees, mostly sitka spruce conifers planted by hand. And even though it’s a plantation, there’s a wilderness feel that reminds me of Finland or Canada; a great swathe of nature at its most intense. It’s a working forest, involving 500 full-time jobs (not including tourism) and 2026 marks the centenary of the very first plantings, when the UK was in need of timber reserves after the demands of the first world war.

The desolate moorland around Kielder Castle had been identified as a suitable site for a new forest by Roy Robinson, who was instrumental in the creation of the Forestry Commission in 1919. “He was a visionary,” says Alex MacLennan, part of the Kielder team for more than 20 years. “It was hard farming country, but perfect for forestry. Originally, there were eight villages planned, to house the timber workers. But three decades later, when the first trees were ready to be felled, mechanisation and new tools such as chainsaws meant they only needed three.”

All of which means development in the forest is minimal; the main tourist area is at the Kielder Waterside, where 50 unobtrusive lodges are tucked between the trees, some of which were damaged when Storm Arwen roared in five years ago and tore down a million trees across the forest and the wider Northumberland national park. “It’s given a very different feel to the place,” says Gary Storey, general manager of Waterside, “and a chance to replant with different species, native to the UK – silver birch, oak, aspen, wild cherry – something other than the sitka spruce.”

The careful management of Kielder has made it a benchmark for forestry in the UK, not least for the low-impact tourism that has been carefully folded in. Aside from Kielder Waterside, there are a handful of places to stay, including Calvert Kielder, which in addition to offering self-catering lodges, specialises in respite care breaks packed with forest-based, accessible activities. There are also remote spots with facilities where camper vans can park up for £15 a night and a campsite (two-person pitch £20). “We’re not Center Parcs, and we’re never going to be,” says Liz Blair, director of the Kielder Partnership, when we chat over coffee. “But we’re working to make sure it’s accessible and welcoming for everyone, however you want to enjoy it.”

Many people who visit, including me, set off along the Lakeside Way; a 26-mile (42km) route that encircles Kielder Water, linking the sculptural works and immersing walkers and cyclists in the dense forest. When I visit, the silence that hangs between the trees feels almost thick enough to touch; only broken by the occasional rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, calling out for a mate.

But if Kielder is quiet by day, at night it becomes almost unworldly; a pitch-black void, bereft of almost all signs of life, save for the bright stars of England’s first dark sky park (the Northumberland international dark sky park). Driving up to the observatory, I’m glad to have my sister Caroline beside me in the car, keeping up a flow of chatter as the 2-mile off-road route winds further and further into the silent forest.

It’s the Northumberland dark skies festival when we visit, and we settle in for a fascinating (if slightly science-heavy) talk on exoplanets (planets outside our solar system) before braving the bitter cold to walk across to the telescope room. Sadly, it’s cloudy, but it’s still an extraordinary place, staffed with a mix of professional astronomers and passionate volunteers.

Kielder is a place of superlatives; England’s biggest forest, the UK’s largest human-made lake by capacity, the darkest skies – along with quite possibly the most terrifying mountain bike trails in the country. The Deadwater Double Black Downhill opens officially on 1 May, a rock-strewn, ledge-filled, vertiginous route that I wouldn’t want to walk, let alone cycle. It’s one of several new initiatives planned to celebrate the centenary, including a new Room on the Broom trail for kids, based on the book by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler; the Kielder celebration weekend (4-6 Sept); and the reopening of Kielder Castle in the summer after extensive renovations.

The forest may be vast, but it’s just one part of the Northumberland national park; the least populated and least visited of the UK’s 15 national parks. Coming from the built-up south-east, there’s an extraordinary beauty in the stark, untouched landscapes – a stillness, a peace, unmatched by anywhere closer to home. The history is pretty impressive too; we dip into the ruined Roman fortress at Vindolanda, take a windswept walk along Hadrian’s Wall and warm up with a fabulously hearty lunch of Cumberland sausage, mustard-mash and thick onion gravy at the centuries’ old Twice Brewed Inn.

But nothing quite matches my late afternoon judder up to the top of Deadwater Fell in Alex’s Forestry Commission van. Standing at the very peak, 571 metres (1,900ft) above sea level, it feels as if I can see for ever; a 360-degree widescreen vista, from the Cheviot Hills in the north-east to the peaks of the western Lake District, the snow-capped Pentland Hills rising up towards Edinburgh, like great white meringues. It’s genuinely awe-inspiring. I’m just glad I don’t have to mountain-bike back down.

This trip was supported by Visit Northumberland, Visit Kielder and Crabtree & Crabtree cottages. Birks Stable Cottage sleeps six, from £472 for a three-night break

‘It’s not France, it’s not Italy, it’s Menton.” The seaside town on the French-Italian border has changed identities many times in its history. It was the only town in France completely annexed by the Italians during the second world war, but has also belonged to the Grimaldis of Monaco, was part of the kingdom of Sardinia, and only became French after a public vote in 1860. Today, ignoring the colours of Il Tricolore and Le Tricolore, almost everything is painted in various shades of yellow, a celebration of the town’s reliance on its beloved lemon.

Mauro Colagreco, the chef at the spectacular Mirazur restaurant, a few steps from the border, takes me up into the hills to visit one of his lemon and citrus fruit suppliers. “You can eat the peel of a Menton lemon; it has a thick, sweet rind. You can eat the whole thing; it’s totally organic and very juicy.” Menton’s microclimate, its warm winters, terraced hills and sandy soil make it perfect for growing citrus fruit. “What’s particular to the Menton lemon is that it has a smile, a small curvy fold at one end,” says Colagreco, who uses them in his restaurant alongside exploring the possibilities of Star Ruby grapefruits, yuzu confit and kumquats.

This time of the year, late February and March, is called “yellow time”, owing to the lemons, daffodils and the mimosa on the hillside. It’s also the time of the Fête du Citron, a two-week festival with parades, giant floats and, this year, huge models of a whale, 12-metre-high parrots and entwined storks – all covered in citrus fruit. It was the 92nd iteration of the festival, but the Menton lemon is too expensive and rare to use, so all 123 tonnes of oranges and lemons now come from Spain (mostly) and Portugal.

In a perfect location to appreciate Menton’s two personalities is Luciano Fondrieschi, who runs R Bike Menton, a cycling shop on the promenade between the old town and the Italian border. He believes there’s a lot of lively competition between Italy and France in the town. Fondrieschi was a successful runner and triathlete in Italy and his shop is always full of French and Italians, looking over the racks of shoes, pedals and bikes and asking for advice.

“Menton is a French town with an Italian regard,” he tells me. “All the boats in the harbour are Italian.” However, looking around, most of the cars are French. Fondrieschi switches languages seamlessly in his repair shop. While we are chatting, a British couple come in, breathless but exuberant in their Lycra, having just completed a 36-mile (58km) round trip to Sanremo. They are followed by an Italian pensioner who had cycled up to Dolceacqua, 13 miles away, for a pizza lunch, and a couple from Luxembourg who want a puncture repaired before they set off for Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. “French people really just like speaking in French, but we [Italians] speak with our hands, so can talk to anyone!” says Fondrieschi. His in-store cafe offers a mix of brioches, rústico caprese, Italian aromatic cordials and café au lait.

Like every town in France, Menton’s streets are named after the country’s authors, politicians and war heroes. But in Menton, for every avenue Pasteur, Victor Hugo and Général de Gaulle, there’s an avenue Cernuschi and Laurenti, a rue Pietra Scritta, Isola, Urbana, Pieta and Mattoni. There’s also a Square Victoria (the British queen stayed in Menton in 1882), avenue Blasco Ibáñez (the Spanish writer lived in a huge villa here in the 1920s) and avenue Katherine Mansfield (who stayed in the villa Isola Bella) – the last two linked by the rue Webb-Ellis.

William Webb Ellis, the schoolboy who supposedly invented the game of rugby when he picked up the ball in a school football match in 1823, became an Anglican vicar and moved to Menton in the 1860s, spending the last years of his life there. He is buried in the hilltop Vieux Château cemetery, a steep walk up from the old town, where his grave overlooks the sea, forever covered in rugby balls and club ties.

The grave of the English illustrator Aubrey Beardsley is even higher up the hill, in Trabuquet cemetery. He died aged 25 and is buried alongside many other young artists, writers and aristocrats who flocked to Menton at the end of the 19th century to cure their respiratory disorders and lose themselves in the town’s many botanical gardens.

Half a century later, France’s own master of pen and ink, Jean Cocteau, also turned up in Menton. In 1955, the mayor asked him to decorate the interior of the Salle des Mariages – a depiction of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice with centaurs and a Menton marriage. A key is available at the town hall for visitors.

A hundred metres away is Allo Robert, a warehouse-emporium of French and Italian bric-a-brac, the kind of things couples had on their wedding lists 100 years ago. I found a light-up Tabac sign, cabinets packed with 1930s soda siphons, candlesticks and champagne buckets, Italian crockery and blue chairs from Nice’s promenade. It’s a dusty snapshot of Menton from the early 20th century – as it says on the sign outside: “de curiosités … et tutti quanti” (“curiosities … and so on”).

Stay at the seafront Hôtel Napoléon, which has a solar-heated pool; doubles from €106, napoleon-menton.com. Eat pizzas, vitello tonnato and flavoured burrata at Mauro Colagreco’s La Pecoranegra, pecoranegra.fr