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Ludlow is a beautiful market town in Shropshire, which has everything you could want, from regular food festivals to historic sites and stunning countryside walks

Those seeking a peaceful escape from Britain’s bustling cities should consider Ludlow, a picturesque market town in Shropshire that offers everything from regular food festivals to historic landmarks and breathtaking countryside walks. Whilst sometimes overshadowed by neighbouring Shrewsbury and Hereford, Ludlow remains an essential destination for anyone visiting the region.

From its medieval castle and museums to restaurants housed in ancient halls and pubs within 16th-century buildings, Ludlow’s rich heritage is proudly showcased throughout. The castle dates back to the Norman Conquest and ranks among the “finest medieval ruins” in Britain, according to the Ludlow Castle website.

Given its location near Wales, Ludlow Castle served a crucial function during the English-Welsh conflicts. In 1223, King Henry III and Welsh prince Llywelyn ap Iorwerth held peace negotiations at the fortress.

Throughout history, Ludlow Castle has housed many prominent personalities, including Roger Mortimer, who joined forces with Queen Isabella to depose her husband, Edward II, in 1327.

During the 15th century, Edward IV frequently visited Ludlow and established a governing council there to oversee his Welsh territories.

Edward IV also dispatched his sons, the future King Edward V and his brother Prince Richard, to reside at the castle. The brothers would subsequently become infamous as the Princes in the Tower, after they vanished from the Tower of London in 1483, reports the Express.

Ludlow Castle also holds profound historical significance as the place where Prince Arthur died in 1502, a tragedy that ultimately paved the way for his younger brother to ascend the throne as King Henry VIII.

Since the Civil War, Ludlow Castle has gradually crumbled into ruins, though much of its impressive exterior remains intact, making it well worth exploring.

Another must-see attraction is St Laurence’s Church, which, like the castle, traces its origins back to the Norman invasion. As Shropshire’s largest parish church, St Laurence’s has earned the nickname “Cathedral of the Marches”.

Those seeking outdoor relaxation can visit Ludlow Millennium Green or enjoy a walk along the Mortimer Trail, a long-distance footpath stretching from Ludlow to Kington on the Herefordshire-Wales border.

No trip to Ludlow would be complete without stopping at the renowned Ludlow Farm Shop, which promises a “one-of-a-kind” shopping experience, according to the town’s official website.

The town regularly plays host to Antique, Local Produce and Craft Markets. It’s worth checking the Ludlow Market website before your visit if you fancy attending any of these events.

As the festive season approaches, families will be delighted to learn that Santa will be taking up residence at Ludlow Castle from 6 to 23 December, giving children the chance to enjoy a magical encounter with Father Christmas in the castle’s stunning grotto.

With next week’s publication of his ninth novel, “Shadow Ticket,” Thomas Pynchon’s secret 20th century is at last complete.

For many of us, Pynchon is the best American writer since F. Scott Fitzgerald. Since the arrival in 1963 of his first novel, “V.,” he has loomed as the presiding colossus of our literature — revered as a Nobel-caliber genius, reviled as impenetrable and reviewed with increasing condescension since his turn toward detective fiction with “Inherent Vice” in 2009.

Now comes “Shadow Ticket,” and it’s late Pynchon at his finest. Dark as a vampire’s pocket, light-fingered as a jewel thief, “Shadow Ticket” capers across the page with breezy, baggy-pants assurance — and then pauses on its way down the fire escape just long enough to crack your heart open.

Only now can we finally see that Pynchon has been quietly assembling — one novel at a time, in no particular order — an almost decade-by-decade chronicle no less ambitious than Balzac’s “La Comédie Humaine,” August Wilson’s Century Cycle or the 55 years of Garry Trudeau’s “Doonesbury.” This is his Pynchoniad, a zigzagging epic of America and the world through our bloodiest, most shameful hundred years. Perhaps suffering from what Pynchon called in “V.” our “great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in,” he has now filled in the only remaining blank spot on his 20th century map: the 1930s.

A photograph of Thomas Pynchon in 1955. The elusive novelist has avoided nearly all media for more than 50 years.

(Bettmann Archive)

It all begins in Depression-era Milwaukee as a righteously funny gangster novel. In a scenario straight out of Dashiell Hammett’s early stories, a detective agency operative named Hicks McTaggart gets an assignment to chase down the runaway heiress to a major cheese fortune. Roughly midway through, Pynchon’s characters hightail it all the way to proto-fascist Budapest, where shadows more lethal than any Tommy gun begin to encroach. By the end, this novel has become at once a requiem, a farewell, an old soft-shoe number — and a warning.

When Pynchon’s jacket summary of this tale of two cities first surfaced six months ago, cynics could be forgiven for wondering whether an 88-year-old man, hearing time’s winged chariot idling at the curb, hadn’t just taken two half-completed works in progress and spot-welded them together. Younger people are forever wondering — in whispers, and never for general consumption — whether some person older than they might have, you know, lost a step.

Well, buzz off, kids. Thomas Pynchon’s voice on the page still sings, clarion strong. Unlike most novelists, his voice has two distinct but overlapping registers. The first is Olympian, polymathic, erudite, antically funny, often beautiful, at times gross, at others incredibly romantic, never afraid to challenge or even confound, and unmistakably worked at. The second, audible less frequently until 1990’s “Vineland,” sounds looser, freer, warmer, more improvisational, more curious about love and family, increasingly wistful, all but twilit with rue. He still brakes for bad puns and double-negative understatements, but he avoids the kind of under-metabolized research that sometimes alienated his early readers.

“Shadow Ticket’s” structure turns the current film adaptation of “Vineland” inside out — that would be “One Battle After Another,” whose thrilling middle more than redeems an only slightly off-key beginning and end. By contrast, “Shadow Ticket” offers a wildly seductive overture, a companionable but occasionally slack midsection, and a haunting sucker punch of an ending.

Mercifully, having already set “The Crying of Lot 49” and “Inherent Vice” largely in L.A., Pynchon still hasn’t lost his nostalgia for Los Angeles, a place where he lived and wrote for a while in the ’60s and ’70s. “Shadow Ticket” marks Pynchon’s third book to take place mostly on the other side of the world, but then — like so many New Yorkers — the novel finds its denouement in what Pynchon here calls “that old L.A. vacuum cleaner.”

Pynchon may not have lost a step in “Shadow Ticket,” but sometimes he seems to be conserving his energy. His signature long, comma-rich sentences reach their periods a little sooner now. His chapters end with a wink as often as a thunderclap. Sometimes he sounds almost rushed, peppering his narration with “so forths,” and making his readers play odds-or-evens to attribute long stretches of dialogue.

Maybe only on second reading do we realize that we’ve been reading a kind of Dear John letter to America. Nobody else writing today can begin a final chapter as elegiacally as Pynchon does here: “Somewhere out beyond the western edge of the Old World is said to stand a wonder of our time, a statue hundreds of meters high, of a masked woman. … Like somebody we knew once a long time ago.”

Is this the Statue of Liberty, turning her back at last on the huddled masses she once welcomed? One character immediately suggests yes, another denies it. Either way, it’s a sobering way to introduce an ending as compassionately doom-laden as any Pynchon has ever given us.

Bear in mind, this is the same Pynchon who, a hundred pages earlier, has raffishly referred to sex as “doing the horizontal Peabody.” (Don’t bother Googling. This one’s his.) One early reviewer has compared “Shadow Ticket’s” shaggy charm to cold pizza, and readers will know what he means. Who’s ever sorry to see a flat box in the fridge the next morning?

For most of the way, though, “Shadow Ticket” may remind you of an exceptionally tight tribute band, playing the oldies so lovingly that you might as well be listening to your old, long-since-unloaded vinyl. The catch is, for an encore — just when you could swear the band might actually be improving on the original — the musicians turn around and blow you away with a lost song that nobody’s ever heard before.

Thus, with a flourish, Pynchon types fin to his secret 20th century. But what does he do now? The man’s only 88. (Anybody who finds the phrase “only 88” amusing is welcome to laugh, but plenty of people thought Pynchon was hanging it up at 76 with “Bleeding Edge.” Plenty of people were mistaken.)

So, will Pynchon stand pat with his 20th century now secure, and take his winnings to the cashier’s window? Or will he, as anyone who roots for American literature might devoutly wish, hold out for blackjack?

Hit him.

Kipen is a contributor to Cambridge Pynchon in Context, a former NEA Director of Literature, a full-time member UCLA’s writing faculty and founder of the Libros Schmibros Lending Library and the just-birthed 21st Century Federal Writers’ Project.

Where is the finest mountain panorama in the UK? As a nine-year-old I was taken up Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) and told it was the best. Even in those days, it was a struggle to see much except the backs of other people. The following summer Scafell Pike got the same treatment and the next year we climbed Ben Nevis. I disagreed on all counts. For me, Thorpe Cloud in Dovedale was unbeatable, despite it being under a thousand feet tall. What convinced me was the diminutive Derbyshire peak’s shape: a proper pointy summit with clear space all around, plus grassy slopes that you could roll down. The champion trio could not compare.

This panorama question is in my mind as I begin hiking up Slieve Donard, Northern Ireland’s highest peak (at 850 metres), but a mountain often forgotten by those listing their UK hiking achievements. And a proper peak it is too, with a great sweeping drop to the sea and loads of space all around, guaranteeing, I reckon, a view to beat its more famous rivals.

Slieve Donard’s relative obscurity outside of Northern Ireland is not difficult to understand. During the Troubles, visitor numbers plummeted and many locals gave up country walks. “We never went to the mountains,” one tells me, from Belfast, which is only an hour away to the north. “A road sign replaced with a sniper image is not very welcoming.”

Since that tragic period, the Mourne Mountains have made a terrific comeback, appearing in several episodes as parts of Westeros (along with other locations in Northern Ireland) in the Game of Thrones TV series.

I set off from the eastern side, at a spot called Bloody Bridge – named after a massacre in the 1641 rebellion – where there are crystal clear pools in the river before it tumbles into the sea. The path steadily racks up, passing through a quarry then reaching a saddle at over 500m, where a massive stone wall heads directly up the mountain. This is the Mourne Wall, a 22-mile miracle of human labour, crossing a total of 15 peaks in the range. It was constructed between 1904 and 1922 to keep sheep out of the central Mournes, where several important reservoirs supplying Belfast were located. Now it’s the site of an annual race and a handy landmark on misty days. It’s also a stiff climb. I deliberately avoid checking the view: it’s going to be magnificent.

The maximum distance you can see from any peak can be roughly calculated by multiplying the square root of the height in metres by 3.57. That, however, is not necessarily the final answer. Distant peaks beyond the horizon will poke their tops up and variability in light refraction around the Earth means the maximum distance can sometimes be extended significantly. The official record for a ground-to-ground distance view is 300 miles, between two Argentinian mountains in 2023. My own record was a glimpse of Monte Cinto in Corsica from the Alpes-Maritimes, around 155 miles away.

I pause on the climb, puffing a bit, and bang the numbers into my phone’s calculator. At 850m, Slieve Donard’s potential view distance is around 65 miles, which should mean that most elements of the British Isles are visible on a blue-sky day like this one.

I reach the summit and climb over the Mourne Wall to stand next to the bronze age cairn. I look east. Nothing. No Scafell Pike or Yr Wyddfa, not one bit of Scotland, or the Isle of Man either. Sea haze, the curse of the hiker who didn’t get up early, is the problem, particularly frustrating on an otherwise clear day. Having said that, it is a fabulous summit, perched high above the rest of the Mournes, with superb views south and west over the whole of County Down and on into the Republic of Ireland.

I come down via the Glen River, another sparkling stream that leads me right back into the town of Newcastle, where I go directly to the beach and dive in. The view might have failed, but where else can you start by the sea, climb the highest peak, and finish four or five hours later with a sea dip?

A quick change and I head for the Percy French Restaurant in the Slieve Donard Hotel. The front door, I’m told, has a Game of Thrones connection, but it’s really Percy French that intrigues me. An Irish songwriter and wit, French was one of those characters that light up their age. A contemporary of Oscar Wilde and WB Yeats, he regularly performed in Newcastle in the late 19th century and wrote the song The Mountains o’ Mourne, but never achieved much fame outside Ireland. There’s a bronze bust of the man on a side table, and I resolve to take one of his comic couplets as my motto in the quest for the finest panorama. “I’m not as bold as lions but I’m braver than a hen/And he that fights and runs away will live to fight again.”

Next day my goal is Slieve Binnian, at 747m the third highest peak in the range, and arguably the most beautiful. It’s another blue sky, so I am hopeful for fine views.

The track to the summit follows the Mourne Wall the entire distance (about two miles) and at the top I see why locals favour this peak: the summit and ridge are lined with stunning towers of granite, the Back Castles. I scramble up to the highest point. Sea haze. Loads of the stuff, a thick purple porridge all across the eastern horizon. Slieve Donard to the north-east is impressive and the panorama of the Mourne Mountains could not be bettered, but I’ve missed that 360 once again.

I head down the coast to the town of Rostrevor, a place whose dramatic setting inspired the writer CS Lewis to dream up the world of Narnia. “I have seen landscapes,” he wrote, “notably in the Mourne Mountains and southwards which under a particular light made me feel that at any moment a giant might raise his head over the next ridge.” In the Kilbroney Park, next to the town, there’s a good cafe, Synge and Byrne, and a Narnia trail. The town itself boasts a fine high street and some stalwart traditional pubs, one of which I choose for a post-panoramic failure pint.

I ask the barman if the undertaker’s business next door is part of the pub. “It used to make the wakes easy to organise,” he laughs. “But it’s closed down now. Mind you, we kept plenty of ghosts. There’s one who throws things, but is rarely seen.” Like England, Scotland and Wales, I reflect.

Next day is my last chance. The neighbour to my cottage advises on trying Knockchree, a hill of Thorpe Cloud dimensions at 306m. “It stands a bit separate and that makes for a lovely view.” Exactly what my nine-year-old self understood. But my calculator says capable of only a 37-mile range.

Cuckoos and stonechats are calling as I make the climb through pine plantation then up heathland. At the summit I sit down. A magnificent panorama of fields and Mourne Mountains is spread all before me in vivid colour and the sea horizon is perfectly clear. I think I can make out the summit of Snaefell on the Isle of Man, a full 60 miles away, which is a triumph, but England, Scotland and Wales have certainly ceased to exist. There are, however, two ancient kingdoms within my grasp: Westeros and Narnia, and they will do.

Accommodation was provided by Sykes Holiday Cottages, which has various properties in the Mournes area, including Carol Cottage, which sleeps up to eight, from £727 for three nights. Stena Line ferries sail to Belfast twice daily from Liverpool and six times daily from Cairnryan (near Stranraer). Return fare with car from £149