exploring

We rented Il Nido because we thought other people wouldn’t like it. Small and basic, without internet, the property was supposedly beside a beautiful national park famous for its coastline and migratory birds. The online picture suggested it was pressed up against one of those concrete pillars (common around Sicily) supporting a deserted and rotting motorway flyover. I was writing a thriller with mafia connections. My partner wanted to scrape off six months of fumes from her new job in London. Our daughter needed fun.

“This is a bomb,” said the hostess, opening a cupboard under the sink. “You turn it anticlockwise to go off.”

“Not bomb, bombola,” whispered my partner. “It’s the gas canister, for the stove.”

From outside in the driving rain came the sounds of traffic and sodden animals – frogs and a goose, always in that order: frog croak, goose quack; frog croak, goose quack.

We woke up on the Saturday to the first sunshine in six months. The roar we had thought was traffic was the crash of waves. The sound of a goose eating a lot of frogs in quick succession turned out, in fact, to be the call of wild flamingos. We were, just as our hostess had promised, in a tumbledown farmstead – what Sicilians call a baglio – among the shimmering lemon groves, on the edge of the Vendicari nature reserve; and it was glorious.

A baglio is more specifically a fortified group of buildings around a central courtyard, the stone barn equivalent of “circling the wagons” in America. In the 19th century, armed gangs roamed the fields of south-east Sicily. Isolated farms were attractive targets because they stored a whole year’s crop – grain, olives, wine, tools, animals. The two barns opposite our building were caved in, the stone courtyard was more a sunken boulder. In one corner, a vast cluster of poppies and marigolds billowed in merry defiance. On top of a collapsed roof was a starling with 17 voices, including one that sounded like a falling bombola, tossed over the wall by a bandit, and another that suggested a laughing computer.

Vendicari is small, but it is one of the most important wetland nature reserves in Sicily. In the 1970s, the owners of an asphalt and petroleum company wanted to build an oil refinery here. The local officials, looking across the valley from their glorious baroque buildings in Noto, approved the plan. They hadn’t reckoned on the force of Bruno Ragonese, a local eccentric who kept 20 abandoned dogs as pets, and wasn’t even Sicilian: he was an immigrant from Libya. He strode out to the site, gathered evidence on migratory birds, built local environmental groups into a powerful alliance and, brilliantly, argued that since these birds were migrating (as he had done) from Africa to Europe, this was a much bigger issue than a wallet-stuffer for the Noto politicians – it was an international scandal.

Next came the property developers. Again, the Noto councillors patted their pockets. And again the extraordinary young man swung into action. No, replacing the drained wetlands with fake ponds did not constitute “sympathetic, environmental building”. No, migratory birds wouldn’t be perfectly happy on a smaller patch of land in a cheaper sector – they weren’t social housing tenants. Yes, this is the head of Ramsar (the organisation upholding an international environmental treaty protecting wetlands) on the phone wanting to know why you plan to destroy one of Europe’s essential marshlands.

The nature reserve was established in 1984.

For a piffling €7 a day for a whole family or €3.50 for adults, the entire park is yours. After a breakfast of fresh ricotta, honey and local oranges (all from a Coop: these shops look just as plain as the UK Co-ops, but equal the best London delicatessens for good things), we started our visit on Calamosche beach. With juniper bushes, wild irises, tumbling cacti and the lilting flight of hoopoes, it is a blissful stretch of sand sloping into gentle waves. On the left, the rocks lead up to the Grotta di Calamosche, a cave with a tree growing inside. From there, the exquisite view looks almost solid, as if sealed by light.

It is easy to walk the length of Vendicari in two hours, from the ruins of Eloro, a seventh-century BC Greek colony, past the flamingos, to the eerie modern remains of a tuna-canning factory, where the oil refinery was going to be. For hundreds of years, until 1944, tuna were caught here by a brutal method of netting and trapping called mattazana, literally “the slaughter”. Now roofless, with staring windows and only a crowd of thin pillars remaining, this Colosseum for fish feels as ancient as Rome.

“Did you know flamingos are pink because they eat shrimp?” said my daughter, interrupting my pleasantly gloomy mood thinking about time, loss and tins of fish.

I did not, and I don’t believe it. There’s only so much silliness from nature that I’m prepared to accept. “And what colour are flamingos that don’t eat shrimp?” I said, in a superior tone.

“No colour. The world is full of invisible flamingos.”

The two lakes at the heart of the reserve were thick with these fantastical birds, gabbling and scooping at the water, and coming in to land like badly piloted pink planes.

I retorted with science. “Those tiny buildings?” I pointed towards ancient Syracuse, glimmering in the distance. “Birthplace of Archimedes, one of the greatest mathematicians of all time, inventor of … No, don’t look it up on your phone – phones are banned!”

But it was too late. She had captured another flash of internet. “Hey! There’s an H&M in Syracuse. Let’s go!”

The path around the reserve does not entirely encircle it. You set off left, walk for 5 miles (8km), then half a mile before you get to your ruined farmhouse home, your way is blocked by a private lemon grove. You must not go through it. You are not allowed through it.

We went through it. It was lovely.

In this part of Sicily, lemons are so plentiful and the trees so giving, that you feel the fruit is being forced on you by nature, Breughel fashion; it would be rude not to accept. Of course, you must not add theft to trespass. But I thoroughly recommend you buy some from the farmer: they are delicious. Organic, bloated, dazzling growths of oily yellow, I think they are the famous Femminello Siracusano lemons. Because local regulations forbid the use of wax or pesticides, every part is edible.

After the lemon grove came a path of marigolds, as tall as my shoulder, and wild fennel, above my head. We arrived home at sunset, where we cooked tagliatelle al limone rubato on the bits of the stove that did work, and ate it overlooking Syracuse and its H&M, with three invisible flamingos for company. Here’s the recipe:

Pasta al limone rubato

Lardo or bacon, as much as you want
1 lemon, zest and juice
Scrubland herbs thyme, oregano or whatever you can find. Fennel is good
Pasta, perhaps tagliatelle
Parmesan cheese, lots

Fry the lardo, add the lemon zest, herbs, a little pasta cooking water, and stir. Add pasta. Mix in grated cheese and lemon juice until it tastes nice. Serve under cover of darkness.

From the graveyard of St Michael’s in Ynys, Wales, the view was ravishing: the Italianate oddity of Portmeirion sparkled on the opposite shore; the peaks of Eryri (Snowdonia) rippled in the distance; and, within the River Dwyryd’s broad swirl, sat the tidal island of Ynys Gifftan. “No one’s lived there for years,” said a passerby pointing to the isle, “but it’s just been put up for sale – £350,000, if you fancy it.”

I rather did, but sadly my modest savings don’t stretch that far. Wales’s “armpit”, geographically speaking – which is how some people refer to that chunk of Gwynedd where estuaries perspire into Cardigan Bay before it curves round the outstretched Llŷn peninsula – looked like a spectacular place to be marooned.

I’d come here because I thought it might be a particularly good place for coastal exploring by rail and on foot. The Cambrian Line, which starts in Shrewsbury, runs west to the bay, before turning north along Gwynedd’s shore. Here, it’s accompanied by the Wales Coast Path and, launched in 2024, the Cadfan Way, a 128-mile (206km) pilgrimage following sixth-century St Cadfan from his church in the seaside town of Tywyn to the ruins of the monastery he founded on Ynys Enlli (Bardsey Island), off the Llŷn’s tip.

I began in Machynlleth. This handsome market town by the River Dyfi is where the Cambrian Line begins to feel connected to the sea. It also has a disproportionate number of excellent indie shops, and one of the country’s best restaurants – though I skipped Gwen’s 20-course, £295 feast and grabbed supplies from the Royal House deli instead (very tasty, very good value). Then I boarded the train.

I was soon rattling through an increasingly saturated land. The mouth of the Dyfi began to yawn into bird-beloved mudflats, salt marsh and sandbanks; the train passes right between the Dyfi Osprey Project’s 360-observatory and the osprey nests it observes. Wider and wider the waterway became until, eventually, at white-washed Aberdyfi, the line hit the coast, sometimes running so close to the sea’s edge that you couldn’t see the join.

We pootled north, via towns like Tywyn – starting point for St Cadfan pilgrimages – and teeny halts like Tonfanau, site of an army base during the second world war, now sheep-grazed ruins. Like many Cambrian Line stops, Tonfanau is request only; those on the platform should stick out an arm.

At Harlech, no requests are necessary – the train itself couldn’t help but be halted by the vision of Harlech Castle. Edward I’s crag-top stronghold was started in 1282, took seven years to build and still looks fearsome. I disembarked here, hiked up to the fortress and entered with ease via the modern floating bridge; back in the day, would-be intruders faced concentric walls, portcullises and a “killing zone” where arrows were fired from the sides, missiles dropped from above. The weather was gloomy, curtailing the views but piling on atmosphere. I spiralled up the dark stone staircases and circled the battlements, alone but for the hooded jackdaws. It gave me the shivers.

I spent the night at Y Branwen hotel, in the castle’s shadow, and left Harlech the next day on foot, murk replaced by blazing sunshine. I was headed north along the coast, although the rocky Rhinogs rising behind the village looked tempting … “There’s no one in those hills,” Branwen’s owner David Penny told me. However, I stuck to Plan A, and wasn’t disappointed. Rounding Harlech Point, I was slapped by that view down the Dwyryd, soon passing isolated St Michael’s and my fantasy island.

Following the Cadfan Way for a while, I hiked from Ynys to St Tecwyn’s, an even lonelier church, seemingly ministering to no one from its eyrie above the estuary. It was here that poet and priest Jim Cotter was inspired to found the Small Pilgrim Places network; he wrote of St Tecwyn’s: “I’m at what must be one of the most extraordinary places in the whole of Wales.”

I had to agree, though Portmeirion, across the Dwyryd estuary, gives it a run for its money. This fantastical resort village, the trippy creation of Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, celebrates its centenary this year and remains wonderfully weird, with its candy palette, tricks of perspective and salvaged architectural paraphernalia. I popped into the Prisoner Shop, which sells memorabilia related to the cult TV show of the same name, filmed here in the 1960s. I wondered if it was still popular? “Oh yes,” the cashier confirmed. “Even with young people, they watch it on YouTube. Its themes – surveillance, freedom – feel relevant today.”

I stayed at Portmeirion’s Castell Deudraeth, a Gothic pile with big rooms, a good restaurant and The Prisoner looping on channel 801. But best was strolling into the village at sunrise, no one around, watching the sun crack the opposite hills, hit the top of the campanile and flood into the hot-pink camellia groves.

Porthmadog station wasn’t far, a short walk through the woods and across the mile-long cob that fords the Glaslyn estuary, Eyri summits keeping watch. From here on, I used a mix of train and boot to reach Pwllheli, the end of the Cambrian Line.

That wasn’t always the case. A horse-drawn tramway, built in the 1890s by businessman Solomon Andrews, used to run farther west to his estate in Llanbedrog. Andrews turned the site’s Victorian mansion, Plas Glyn-y-Weddw, into an art gallery and charged a shilling for a combined tram and gallery ticket. Now, 130 years later, I paid nothing at all. The old tramway track is part of the Wales Coast Path – an easy, breezy four-mile stroll along the bay – and Plas Glyn-y-Weddw is free entry. Saved from ruin in the 1980s, it’s one of the oldest galleries in Wales, showcasing work by Welsh artists, and serving great cake inside its modern cafe, which squats beside the house like a giant silver sea urchin.

I scoffed a scone, then ambled through the Winllan woods on trails first developed by Andrews for his paying visitors. Andrews also placed the figurehead of an old ship on Mynydd Tir y Cwmwd, the heathery headland above. It was eventually destroyed and now the twisted metal Tin Man, or Iron Man, stands in its place, enjoying quite the spot. I could retrace my route from here, Cardigan Bay arcing away into a mountain-backed haze. It made a pleasing journey’s end, with the knowledge that getting home meant riding that charming train line back again.

The trip was supported by the Wales Coast Path. Cambrian Line tickets are cheaper bought in advance; a day rover ticket costs £21. Y Branwen in Harlech has doubles from £110 B&B. Castell Deudraeth has doubles from £208 B&B, including Portmeirion entry

Why go now

In the south-west of Munich, Schlachthofviertel is an area in flux; a jarring district that is home to a theatre, a techno club and a controversial active slaughterhouse.

In the 1870s, after the final cholera epidemic in Munich, a municipal slaughterhouse (Schlachthof) was built on what was then the outskirts of the city as part of a wider effort to improve hygiene standards. Although it is still in use today, the site has dramatically decreased in capacity, and creative entrepreneurs have been quick to see the potential of unused spaces.

In 2021, the Münchner Volkstheater (People’s Theatre) moved to the area, bringing a new cultural status and sparking fears of accelerated gentrification. For me, it’s a part of town I go to for a change of scene or just a loaf of double-baked rye bread. In summer, the open-air spaces come out of hibernation and show a much edgier side to Munich.

Where to eat and drink

Today, butcher’s shops and cult dive bars sit side by side. There has been a flurry of openings; my favourite recent addition is the female-run Mari on Adlzreiterstraße, the street Albert Einstein lived on for much of his childhood. The airy cafe serves a late breakfast, including a Korean option of marinated tofu and miso mayonnaise.

The Brotatelier bakery operates from a shipping container, and bakers use equipment on wheels to maximise the limited space. From the cinnamon buns to the French fougasse bread, all products are prepared with sourdough. “Everybody has time here; we haven’t had a single customer who was stressed or anything like that,” says co-founder Christof Teriete, whose bigger concern is the impact of the fluctuating container temperatures on the sourdough starters.

For drinks, start at Frisches Bier, run by craft brewer Tilman Ludwig. He has his own beers on tap, along with a small selection of other independent labels, such as Bierol from Tirol and Hoppebräu from southern Bavaria.

Cultural experiences

On one side of Zenettistraße is the decommissioned cattle market (Viehhof). The red brick walls are now home to the Volkstheater. Launched with a production of Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II, the diverse programme includes the Radikal jung festival, focused on emerging directors, and the U20 Poetry Slam, which invites young writers to present their work.

Next door is Bahnwärter Thiel, the heart of Munich’s underground scene, were graffitied shipping containers and the occasional caravan provide studios for DJs, artists, potters, goldsmiths, bakers (see above) and non-profits. “There’s no central heating or running water in the containers,” says Kati Legge from female creative office High Five, “but it’s not about comfort, it’s about maximum inspiration and the fascinating people around you.”

Raised garden beds add touches of green and upcycled materials are used for sculptures and makeshift walkways. There’s also a bar in an old tram, a restaurant in a train carriage and a techno club open till 6am weekends.

Where to shop

Rindchen’s Weinkontor has a huge selection of wine stored in a roomy, listed building. At Moss Concept Store on Thalkirchner Straße you’ll find ceramics, glassware and other home accessories.

Don’t miss

Actually quite hard to miss is Alte Utting, a former passenger ship that’s now a bar and event space that fills the length of a bridge over Lagerhausstraße. Destined for the scrapyard after years of service on Ammersee, it was rescued and relocated in 2017 by Wannda, the people behind Bahnwärter Thiel.

Where to stay

There’s little tourist accommodation in Schlachthofviertel, but there are hotels close to the nearby Oktoberfest site. Cocoon Theresienwiese has doubles from around €80 room-only.

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.