The first book I read willingly was Bridget Jones’s Diary. I was 19. Up to that point, I hadn’t been much of a reader. I’d been more into football, or Baywatch, or Robin Budd in the year above – anything really. Given the choice between reading a book and staring at a wall, I would have plumped for the latter.
After finishing my A-levels, I worked in a barbecue restaurant in Portsmouth – which is where I found Bridget Jones. The book was lying around in the staffroom. I picked it up and read a few pages, and then a few more, and then a few more. It felt exciting. Like I’d met someone. Like I was suddenly in a relationship. Over the next few days, I remember cancelling nights out so I could go to bed and read. My mum thought I was depressed.
It hardly matters what book gets you going. For Jeanette Winterson, it was the Book of Deuteronomy. For David Nicholls, it was Tales from Moominvalley. What matters is that a book gets you going. Throughout my 20s, I worked as a carer, but I was always reading and scribbling on the side. I became a published author seven years ago. It’s not an overstatement to say that Bridget Jones changed my life. That books did.
So when I learned that 2026 was National Year of Reading (a UK-wide campaign intended to promote the importance and joy of reading) and that Rabat was to be this year’s Unesco World Book Capital (a rotating designation intended to promote the importance and joy of reading), I packed a few volumes and set off for Morocco’s capital. I was hoping for a cultural adventure, and perhaps a tagine, in this ancient seaside city perched scenically between Casablanca and Tangier.
Rabat was made the capital of Morocco in 1912, at the beginning of the turbulent 44-year period when the country found itself under the thumb of the French. The first thing I saw of the city was the New Town, or Ville Nouvelle, which was laid out in the 1920s à la française, meaning it looks nothing like the huge medieval medina that’s just up the road.
From the central train station, I proceeded to the solar-powered Mohammed VI Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, where the permanent exhibition – Shifting Horizon(s) – does exactly what it says on the tin. Highlights include the abstract paintings of Mohamed Melehi and a provocative photograph by Lalla Essaydi. Part of a series called Bullet Revisited, the latter shows a woman covered head to toe in gold bullets, and is a powerful indictment of the violence women suffer.
I walked north to the medina, an irregular network of narrow streets lined with small shops flogging mint, slippers, strawberries and sabon beldi, a black soap made from the flesh and oil of olives. The medina was busy but calm. Not once was I asked to consider a carpet or sample a sardine. Indeed, I felt rather invisible. In this respect, the customer service was uncannily French.
I followed my nose to the Kasbah of the Oudayas, an enchanting district of low whitewashed houses. Built on high ground in view of the ocean, this former royal citadel was ideally placed to spot visitors on the horizon, and greet them appropriately.
After checking into a riad on Rue Bazou, I descended a flight of stone steps to the beach, a modest curve of sand where scores of people were playing football and volleyball. I crossed the cooling sand and climbed on to the breakwater to better observe a neon sun sink slowly seaward, as a lone surfer, way out in the offing, sought inch-perfect swell.
I took a pew at the beachside Relais Marin restaurant. I didn’t deliberate over the menu. Like casserole and paella, tagine is a dish in two senses; both the cooking vessel and the meal, on this occasion a confusion of lamb, almonds and prunes in a delicious gravy that, with time, had reduced to a bold, flavourful pesto, which I mopped up with chunks of khobz (Moroccan flatbread). I could have eaten another.
The next morning I went to the Cafe des Oudayas. Situated next to the Andalusian Gardens – a wonderful place full of orange and pomegranate trees – this alfresco cafe offers three things: mint tea, biscuits and an excellent vantage point.
As I eked out the tea, I watched a boy poised on the edge of a towering rock, 30 metres above the Bou Regreg river. Goaded by his friends, he meant to jump, but he hesitated for minutes in the intensifying sun. His dive, when it finally came, was a thing of beauty – a wide and graceful arc, shapely, immaculate, somewhat divine, almost unreal. The gallery held its breath until he re-emerged – to be met with disingenuous disdain. “La poule a attendu une éternité!” (The chicken waited for ever!) Lads, eh?
On a whim, I boarded an electric tuk-tuk, one of 60 in the city. I asked the driver to take me directly to the Chellah, a medieval necropolis that also houses what’s left of the Roman city of Sala Colonia, but, knowing best, the driver instead went out of his way to show off his home town, swinging by St Peter’s cathedral and a nightclub called Amnesia, where Morocco’s king is said to have boogied back when merely a prince.
The Chellah – when I finally got there – did not disappoint. After doing a round of the picturesque ruins, I climbed to a gorgeous onsite cafe and ordered the couscous. Befitting tradition, the dish comprised a pyramid of seven vegetables, a moat of couscous, a jug of broth and some meaty treasure hidden within the veg. It was unmistakably bon.
If one requires beer in Rabat, one heads to Le Dhow, a bar and restaurant on a boat moored in the shadow of the kasbah. Sitting on the upper deck, I savoured an ice-cold pint while chatting with a British undergraduate studying at the Université Internationale de Rabat. I asked if she felt comfortable in the city. “It’s been fine,” she said. “Some men have said hello. One asked for a photo. To be honest, I’ve experienced a lot worse in Worcester.”
I’m just going to come out and say this – don’t go to Rabat because it’s this year’s World Book Capital. Despite my best efforts, the exact nature of the 300-plus events the city is purportedly going to run during its year as WBC remain a mystery to me. Instead, go to Rabat because it’s an excellent city. C’est simple.
On my final evening, I chanced on a humble bookshop in the medina – Bouquiniste El Azizi. Of the hundreds of preloved books assembled in the diminutive space, a dozen or so were in English. Among them was Bridget Jones’s Diary. I picked it up and read a few pages – and then left it for someone else to stumble on, and perhaps break their duck with.
On leaving the shop, I noticed a sign: Les livres prennent soin de nous. Books take care of us. The sentiment strikes me as the right note to finish on.
Ben Aitken is the author of Shitty Breaks: A Celebration of Unsung Cities, £9.99. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
‘Can you hear that?” my guide Andrea Wellmeyer asks as I sink a little deeper into the wet ground, cold mud seeping between my toes. When the wind drops, I detect a faint but distinct crackling, similar to the rustle of a sweet wrapper or the bubbling of sparkling water. “That’s the Wattknistern,” she says, “a natural phenomenon caused by the tens of thousands of mud shrimp that live here.”
We’re standing in the Wadden Sea mudflats on Norderney, an island just off Germany’s North Sea coast. It’s Friday evening at low tide. In the town centre, bars are pumping with music, but here, just 15 minutes along the southern edge of the island, it’s a completely different story.
“A lot of the flora and fauna is found under the surface,” Andrea says, showing me the tree-like tops of sand mason worm casings and the tips of marsh samphire growing upwards like tiny asparagus. Flipping over a cluster of wild oysters, she startles a crab that raises its pincers in the air before wriggling out of sight once more. Orange-beaked oystercatchers scurry back and forth on the exposed seabed and a pair of spoonbills wade gracefully through the shallow water beyond.
Norderney is one of the seven inhabited islands that make up the East Frisian islands (Ostfriesische Inseln) in Germany. The others are Borkum, Juist, Baltrum, Langeoog, Spiekeroog and Wangerooge. Stretching more than 50 miles from west to east, they are a popular holiday destination, known for their unique coastal landscapes and diverse wildlife, from grey seals and migrating birds to the creatures found in the mud.
Each island has its own identity, from upmarket Juist with its horse-drawn transport to the historic red brick houses of sleepy Spiekeroog; but all have vast sandy beaches, grassy dunes and tidal mudflats. The islands belong to the larger Wadden Sea Unesco world heritage site and have been part of the Lower Saxon Wadden Sea national park since its formation in 1986.
Norderney was one of the first German seaside resorts in the North Sea. Today, historic seaside villas and retreats founded on the health benefits of briny sea air sit next to modern hotels and restaurants, such as Inselloft Norderney and Michelin-recommended Oktopussy, where summer scallops come with a caramelised miso-cauliflower purée. My favourite spot quickly becomes Marienhöhe, a dune-top pavilion built more than 100 years ago, where I eat delicately battered fish with warm potato salad.
Despite being one of only two East Frisian islands where cars are permitted, the best way to explore Norderney is by bike. Leaving the town in the west, I zoom along the bike lanes that run through the dunes, stopping at a popular stretch of beach called Weiße Düne, before heading south towards the island’s tallest building, a lighthouse constructed between 1872 and 1874.
Soon after, roughly halfway across the island, I reach a sign that says I can’t go any further on my bike. This is a Ruhezone (quiet/restricted zone), a highly protected area where you can only walk on a couple of marked footpaths. A rusty shipwreck lies on the sand and seals bask in the sun at the far end.
There are strict rules governing access in several sections of the island, part of a quest to let nature be nature. Heading out with an official guide helps you see and learn more. Alongside Wattwanderungen (mudflat hikes), you can also book salt marsh walks, birding excursions and boat trips to see the seals. The newly renovated visitor centre at Norderney harbour also has extensive information about the local ecosystems.
My next stops are Spiekeroog and Langeoog, two calmer, car-free islands to the east. On Langeoog, I join a tour to learn more about the birds I have spotted over the last few days. “Many species need the Wadden Sea as the focal point of their migration, as a place to rest,” national park guide Fiona Wettstein says. “When they first arrive, they have completely burned through their fat reserves and practically drop down here.”
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Setting off with bikes and binoculars, we spot red knots, redshanks, avocets and sandpipers, as well as squeaking lapwings with long crests and a short-eared owl swooping through the grasses. Geese with fluffy chicks in tow strut around the island, hissing loudly if you get too close. More than 10 million birds make a pit stop in the Wadden Sea every year, with spring and autumn the best time to see them. The shoulder season is also a good time to visit to avoid the summer holiday crowds.
I stay at Silt & Sand, a bright and airy design hotel just behind the dunes that opened last year. The expansive (almost 9-mile-long) beach on the other side is dotted with Strandkörbe, traditional hooded wicker armchairs found on beaches along the German coast.
Despite the chain layout of the islands and their close proximity to one another, it isn’t possible to “hop” between them. Instead, you have to return to the mainland and make your way along the coast to a different ferry terminal each time, the exception being Juist and Norderney, which have a shared departure point in Norddeich. It is possible to walk from the mainland to some of the islands at low tide, but only with a certified guide.
After my first few hours on Norderney, I give up on the weather forecast and start operating on a cloud by cloud basis instead, dark moody skies moving on as quickly as they appear. More reliable is the wind, churning the sea, bending the trees and blowing a fine mist of sand over the compact layer below. Having biked eastwards with ease, I’m met by a roaring resistance on my return, a fierce gust wrapping around my hat and prising it off.
“This connection to the elements is part of the experience,” says Andrea. “Your entire system is challenged and pushed out of its comfort zone, something that doesn’t happen so often these days,” she adds as we make our way back to the familiarity and ease of the town.
The trip was provided by Tourismus Marketing Niedersachsen and the German National Tourist Office. Doubles at Inselloft Norderney from €160 and at Silt & Sand from €141 room-only. Book ferries through individual websites: Norderney and Juist; Spiekeroog.
Wachiwit
A luxury hotel chain has chosen a county known for its “chocolate box” villages(Image: Getty Images)
A plush hotel group has passed over the picturesque Cotswolds for its newest venture, instead setting its sights on a county renowned for its “chocolate box” villages. Nobu Hotels, co-founded by celebrity chef Nobu Matsuhisa and actor Robert De Niro, boasts properties in some of the world’s most chic destinations, including Malibu, Ibiza, Las Vegas and Dubai.
Casting its eye across the UK for a potential location, there is no shortage of contenders — perhaps the Lake District or the Scottish Highlands — though many would argue the Cotswolds would be the most obvious fit.
A haven for the rich and famous, including Simon Cowell, Michael McIntyre and Jeremy Clarkson (whose Diddly Squat Farm sits near Chipping Norton), the Cotswolds reportedly attracts more than 35 million visitors each year.
Yet it appears Nobu has opted for somewhere even more exclusive: Britain’s smallest county, Rutland in the East Midlands. Indeed, one writer suggests the Cotswolds are experiencing something of a “downturn”.
The Mail’s Claudia Connell writes: “The East Midlands may seem an unlikely venue for such a venture, but for those watching the quiet rise of Rutland it makes perfect sense.”
“While other places — most notably the Cotswolds — are experiencing a downturn, Rutland and surrounding areas are riding high thanks to a combination of beautiful countryside, historic towns, chocolate box villages and excellent schools.”
Nobu Woolfox will be situated near the town of Stamford on 185 acres and will include a hotel, restaurants, gym, spa and private residences, combining what its website describes as luxury hospitality, dining and “refined living with a slower, more restorative pace”.
Nobu Hospitality CEO Trevor Horwell said: “This is a truly special location in the heart of England. For the first time within our portfolio, we have the opportunity to create a countryside retreat experience in a setting defined by nature, tranquillity and a sense of escape.”
To understand why the Cotswolds was off the menu for the plush hotel group, Claudia pointed to Rutland’s comparative lack of celebrities.
It was also noted that the county offers all the joys of the English countryside while remaining within reach of the capital (around 2 hours and 32 minutes by car).
House prices in the Cotswolds are said to have fallen by 12 per cent, with reported complaints of overcrowding, escalating prices and claims of being “Disney-fied”. Locals have also reportedly pointed to an influx of “trendy” coffee shops.
Adding to the apparent dissatisfaction is the rise of so-called “TikTok tourists” — influencers who visit the area largely to film content and take selfies for social media.
Meanwhile, Rutland is viewed as a quieter alternative, with the county’s schools proving to be a key pull factor.
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:
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