Sussex

‘Uh oh, look at these!” I call to my friends, Annie and Mike. “Ominous,” remarks Annie. Mike raises an eyebrow. We’re hiking the Pevensey Levels, marshland first drained in 772, home now to sheep and cattle, but also water spiders, living underwater in air-filled webs. The ground is pocked with endless impressions of horseshoes.

“It’s almost as if an army came this way,” I say.

And we laugh, but only because we missed that army by 959 years. Annie, Mike, Fflos the dog, and I are on our first day of following the 1066 Country Walk across East Sussex, beginning at Pevensey, ending in Rye. At the midpoint is the town of Battle, where we have rented an outbuilding conversion for three nights. Battle is known as the probable site of the Battle of Hastings: the brutal killing field where about 2,000 Normans, 4,000 Anglo-Saxons and 700 horses died one day in October 1066, according to various sources, leading to William the Conqueror defeating King Harold for the crown of England.

History commands an immediacy outdoors that it doesn’t in books. You ask different questions on foot. We were on the Levels at the same time of year, September, as the Normans: did they note the blackthorn heavy with sloes? Spot blackbirds feasting on blood-red hawthorn berries? Hear the wind in the rushes alongside the River Pevensey? Did they remark how faded yet abundant this land was on the cusp of autumn? Doubtful, but the contradictions of war-making in such a gentle place – gentle light, gentle breeze, birdsong and river currents – make an impression on us. We notice how the landscape offers the same russet, sage and ochre hues as the Bayeux tapestry.

The 1066 Walk covers 31 miles, and we’ve given it four days: Pevensey to Herstmonceux, 6 miles; Herstmonceux to Battle, 11; Battle to Icklesham, 9; and Icklesham to Rye, 5. Our second day is the longest and steepest, and yet my favourite, as it establishes a pattern that continues throughout. We pick up the well-signposted route in the green secrecy of Wartling Wood, carpeted in acorns, lined by blackberries, and follow it around sunny fields. We emerge into the neat village of Boreham Street, plunge down a holloway guarded by beeches, and roll out into more fields with windswept, distant horizons. The impression is of a settled, well-inhabited landscape – a feeling augmented by morning tea at the Ash Tree Inn in the hamlet of Brownbread Street – but another deeper, more enduring impression underlies it.

Perhaps because the route is designed to call the distant past to mind, with every shift of scene we experience a slippage of time. One moment we’re walking down a contemporary street being passed by speeding cars, then we slip through a small opening in a hedge and plunge not only into fields or woods, but out of the present into time immemorial. There’s a constant weaving in and out of darkness and light, wildness and cultivation, close-grown tunnels of greenery and wide-open, windy spaces, and with each shift comes a hurtling from present to past and back again. The effect is of a temporal quilt sewn with our own footsteps. We encounter few other walkers to break the spell.

Elasticity of time is most apparent on Tent Hill, where, as Mike puts it, “the reward to effort ratio is quite good”. Sources suggest one army or the other – no one knows which – camped here, hence the name. Instead of troops, we discover an ancient horse chestnut with branches so immense they have touched the ground and put down roots of their own, creating a family of trees around a living, central ancestor. Joining their company is occupying past and present at once.

Because Mike has had the good sense to rent accommodation at Abbey View Cottages – there is indeed a view of Battle Abbey’s towers – we set forth on day three from our own digs. Another plunge off a country lane lands us on a bridle path in Battle’s Great Wood, where Mike announces: “My fungi sense is twitching.” Soon he is giving a mushroom tutorial: fly agarics; edible boletes and parasols; great penny buns (“the Rolls-Royce of mushrooms,” Mike pronounces).

And then the temporal hopscotch continues. One minute we’re crossing a golf course, the next we’re in deep countryside with venerable oasthouses tucked into hill folds. Shortly before arriving at the welcoming Three Oaks pub, we come upon one of artist Keith Pettit’s 10 Bayeux tapestry-inspired sculptures on the route: six hollow, Celtic-carved oak pillars planted inside with hawthorn. Together they form a circle of growing, living wonder on a hillcrest.

Our final hike brings us to medieval Winchelsea, rebuilt by Edward I in the 1280s after the original town was washed away. We have traversed apple orchards and spent the morning in mellowness reminiscent of Dutch landscape paintings. To our joy, the modern stained glass windows of Winchlesea’s St Thomas church, created by Douglas Strachan as memorials following the first world war, bloom on the route like colour-saturated rainbows.

From Winchelsea, we head to Rye across the silted-in, coastal lowland that would have been underwater in Edward’s day. With Rye in eyeshot, we depart from the official 1066 Country Walk to detour past the ruin of Camber Castle, pressed into the flatland by a big, heavy sky. Begun in 1512, finished in 1544 and demolished in the 1640s by parliamentary forces in the English civil war, it’s a reminder of vulnerability – the waves and threats of invasions this coast has seen – and hubris, simultaneously.

With a final shift of perspective – pastureland to townscape – we fetch up in pretty, comfortable Rye, town of Henry James, antique shops and good food. We are more energised than exhausted, and grateful we didn’t have to conquer this place with anything more than our imaginations.

The Bayeux tapestry is on display at the British Museum from 10 September to 11 July 2027’ tickets now on sale. Abbey View Cottages sleeps four, from £200 a night; rooms as the Ship Inn in Rye from £75.

Pamela Petro is the author of The Long Field, published by Little Toller (£14). To support the Guardian buy a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.

One of my favourite recent photographs is of me (unusually), perched on the bonnet of our car, about to set off on a solo, two-week road trip from our Sussex home to the wilds of Scotland, taking in Eryri (Snowdonia), Lancashire, the Lake District and Yorkshire. I had no idea that the research trip I was about to embark on – for my book, which traces the story of British holidays over 400 years – was going to reveal my homeland as somewhere I barely knew.

As a southerner, it was the northern half of Britain that I needed to discover. I’d stitched together my route with visits to museums, archives and classic seaside resorts that had once blazed so brightly. I’d visited Cumbria before, but the Conwy coast, the Lancashire countryside, Blackpool, Morecambe, Scarborough? All these were unknowns.

My first stop was Eryri, where it turned out my hotel, the Royal Oak in Betws-y-Coed, had been welcoming artists such as JMW Turner since the late 18th century. Fifty years later, it became the hub of the country’s first artists’ colony, drawn here by the dramatic beauty of the dense, bottle-green swathes of the Gwydir Forest and the spectacular peaks of the Glyderau range and Moel Siabod.

Over coffee, hotel manager Katie Valentine told me about the artists who called the area home – David Cox, Henry Clarence Whaite and Thomas Collier among others – at least until Betws railway station opened in 1868. “At that point,” she said, “many moved to houses further up the valley, grumbling that the place was becoming flooded with tourists.” As I would discover on this journey, it seems overtourism is far from a contemporary travel trend.

From Eryri, it was a short hop to Llandudno, a beach town so pristine it felt a little like a Victorian theme park resort. “In some ways it is,” Judith Phillips, trustee of the Llandudno Museum, told me. “The family who built Llandudno in the mid-19th century – the Mostyns – still own much of it now, and control everything from what colours people can paint their hotels to what businesses are allowed on the promenade.”

The Llandudno Museum made plain that much of our history is not in the great city museums, but in libraries, archives and small museums on quiet high streets, often run by passionate volunteers with an encyclopaedic knowledge of their local heritage.

Driving from Llandudno up to Lancashire along the North Wales Expressway, I whipped in and out of tunnels, emerging to see great swathes of the cobalt-blue Irish Sea stretching to the horizon.

Further into my journey, I was pointed towards early editions of the very first guidebooks to the Lake District, written by Thomas West and William Wordsworth, at the Armitt Library in Ambleside; shown handwritten letters by Queen Victoria at Blair Castle (including her personal recipe for potato salad); and told wonderful stories of Wakes Week holidays in Blackpool by the dapper Richard Croisdale at Blackburn Museum – their longest-serving volunteer, at a sprightly 90 years old.

Blackburn’s grandiose Victorian museum and Bolton’s neoclassical town hall stand as legacies of the era when Lancashire towns were affluent manufacturing bases home to tens of thousands of factory workers. The Georgian streets of Richmond are like a mini Bath, but steeped in Yorkshire heritage. But perhaps nowhere confounded my expectations more than Blackpool.

Arriving on a Friday night, the promenade buzzed with lights and life; the illuminations blazing all the way to the tower, kids skipping along the seafront entirely unaware they had been brought to one of the most deprived towns in the country. “We are a town of extremes,” said Claire Smith, co-owner of the chic Number One South Beach B&B. “We have pockets of absolute joy next to complete caverns of woe. There’s no blending. It’s either amazing or awful.”

Claire and husband Mark shared stories of Blackpool in the 1970s, not least his coming back from the pub as a teenager to find his parents had let his bedroom – along with their own – to guests, leaving them to sleep in the lounge. This was the era when guests queued in their dressing gowns to use the bathrooms, landladies locked the doors between mealtimes, and peach Melba was the height of culinary flair.

“They were simpler times, people expected much less,” Claire told me, a little wistfully. “But I do think people were happier.” There’s still plenty of joy to be found, though. When I visit the Pleasure Beach as it opens on a Sunday morning, families are streaming in; the first coasters rattling skywards; a general air of giddy excitement that is a stark counterpoint to the rundown streets elsewhere in the town.

So many of my preconceptions were corrected or reversed: the elegant St George’s Hotel in Llandudno showed me that not all grand dame seaside hotels are faded or old-fashioned. And while we do love to run down our own seaside resorts, I saw beaches to rival anything the Med has to offer, from Scarborough’s South Bay to Morecambe’s vast, empty sandscapes.

Beyond the seaside, it was Scotland that really blew my mind. Following in the footsteps of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, who toured the Highlands and Lowlands for six weeks in 1803, I headed up the western flank of Loch Lomond, entirely unprepared for what I was about to discover. Dusk was falling as I drove across Rannoch Moor – a silent, pockmarked moonscape that seemed entirely bereft of life, save for a lone pair of car headlights, somewhere up ahead. And then, in the distance, great, hulking mountains began to rise up, guarding the entrance to Glen Coe. It is a landscape so forbidding that when I pulled up at the Three Sisters viewpoint, I was genuinely relieved to see another couple, so I didn’t have to stand alone among the ominous peaks.

Scotland had stories, too: from the spruce and redwood trees planted in Glen Coe by Lord Strathcona in the 1890s to make his Canadian wife feel at home, to Queen Victoria taking the first ever fly-and-flop (train-and-flop, perhaps more accurately) at Blair Castle in 1844. Her visit was hosted by the 6th Duke of Atholl, who promised the security of his own private army (and who had to move out of his own castle during the royal stay). It was the beginning of a royal love affair with Scotland that led to the purchase of Balmoral in 1852.

When I got home from the long road trip – 13 days and 1,600 miles later – my husband took the same photograph of me perched on the car. It had been more of an adventure than I could have ever imagined – to lands unknown on the island I call home.

The Great Escape: Britain’s 400-Year Love Affair with Holidays by Annabelle Thorpe (£18.99, DK Red) is available now. To support the Guardian, buy a copy from guardianbookshop.com for £17.09

Wisteria and clematis hang from weathered cottage walls. Tulips and pink apple blossom spill out of several gardens. Thatched animals decorate the rooftops. There’s a Norman church, a medieval castle and an 80-hectare (200-acre) nature reserve. Amberley is the kind of place people assume you can only reach by car, but the village has its own railway station with regular direct trains, along the scenic Arun Valley line, from Bognor, Horsham and London Victoria.

This spring, the Black Horse pub reopened in Amberley. The new owners are the gourmet Gladwin brothers, Oliver and Richard, returning to their Sussex roots near Nutbourne Vineyards. Having founded five Local & Wild restaurants in London, the Black Horse is their first country pub and first place with rooms.

I’ve walked through Amberley numerous times, but never stopped to explore. It’s the midpoint of the South Downs Way, a 100-mile route from Winchester to Eastbourne, with views for much of its length in both directions: north across the Weald and south towards the sea.

Trains leave London every half an hour and take about 1hr 20mins to get to Amberley. The scenery outside gets steadily lovelier, passing blackthorn-bordered fields and bluebell woods. Beyond Pulborough, the railway enters the South Downs national park. There are herds of deer, chalk-hill views and the winding River Arun.

My first stop is Amberley Museum (two for the price of one with a voucher if you travel by train). Sprawling across more than 14 hectares (36 acres) of former chalk pits, it has impressive disused lime kilns and demonstrations of everything from broom-making to printing.

It’s right opposite the railway station and I’m planning a 45-minute whiz round before strolling into the village. Three hours later, I’m still there, riding the narrow-gauge railway and chatting to volunteers with encyclopedic enthusiasms for various traditional crafts. Visitors can hear the rattle of old machines and smell the printers’ ink, pine shavings, brick dust and engine oil. There’s a whole building about communications through time, from horse-drawn post carts to fibre-optic cables. The Tools & Trades History Society has intricate displays involving bee-smokers, hoop drivers, moulding planes, straw splitters and spindle grinders.

Above the museum’s main site, a nature trail leads up, through banks of bluebells and primroses, to a hilltop bench. Across the chalk cliffs of the old quarry and tall sycamores with their nesting rooks are views of the fortified walls of Amberley Castle, a bishops’ residence dating mainly from the 14th century.

I pass the castle on my 20-minute amble into the village and stop off at neighbouring St Michael’s church to admire the zigzagged Norman arch, oak leaf-carved doorway and graveyard cowslips. I check into the Black Horse, then head out again to explore Amberley Wildbrooks nature reserve, an area of boggy woods and tussock-sedged wetland, which starts two minutes’ walk away from the pub.

A pair of birders with a proper scope show me their photo of the resident white-tailed eagle, then I stroll through golden evening shadows serenaded by linnets and skylarks. No sign of the eagle, but I’m happy to hear warblers in the reedbeds and a woodpecker drumming for bugs. (Next day, I learn one of the area’s best eagle-spotting sites is The Sportsman, Amberley’s community pub, with binoculars on its terrace). I walk for miles along the single boggy track, following the Wey-South Path, a 34-mile (55km) route to Guildford mostly along canal towpaths, before finally heading back.

With bedrooms offering real milk and coffee, Amberley pottery and homemade biscuits, the Black Horse is hospitable. There are wooden beams, hilly views and fresh flowers. Plenty of pubs claim to be haunted by a “grey lady”; the Black Horse reports sightings of a spectral “woman in lavender … fleeting as the mist that settles over the Downs”.

The renovated pub’s wood-panelled restaurant has an emphasis on local, foraged and sustainable food. Wild garlic season is ending and local asparagus has arrived. Grilled green spears in lemon with purple onion flowers look beautiful and taste better. Salad is dressed with gingery magnolia. There’s squid from Worthing, free-range lamb from the third Gladwin brother and farmer, Gregory, and wines from the family vineyards five miles north.

Many of the diners live locally (some on their second or third visit), while the early breakfasters next morning are mostly hiking the South Downs Way. The chalky hills look tempting in the spring sunshine, but I have other plans. In Arundel, four minutes’ journey south by rail, the nearly 1,000-year-old fortress (£17, gardens only) is hosting its huge annual tulip festival when I visit, having planted more than 1.4m bulbs over the past decade and won Historic Houses’ garden of the year in 2025, among other awards.

From pretty Arundel station, a bee-friendly path leads cyclists and walkers under the railway and beside a field to a safer stretch of pavement. Local community group Greening Arundel has won awards for this path, which is lined with celandines, murals and bug hotels.

There’s a queue to get into the castle gardens, but it’s easy to see why people come here. With fountains, thatched gazebos and historic walls as a backdrop, there are sweeping beds of multicoloured blooms, banks of scarlet by the moat, lush tubs of peony-style doubles, elegant lily-flowered cultivars and striped Rembrandts among a soft haze of forget-me-nots and the last of the narcissi.

Included in garden entry is the monument-filled 14th-century Fitzalan chapel, where pairs of marble knights and ladies lie side by side. On one of my teenage South Downs’ hikes, I spent hours with a friend searching every church in town for the stone effigies featured in Philip Larkin’s 1956 poem An Arundel Tomb, only to find them later in Chichester Cathedral.

After walking around the gardens, I climb the narrow-stepped Norman keep for views that stretch to the sea. There’s plenty to look at inside the castle, too: paintings by Van Dyck and Canaletto, rooms full of crossbows and rapiers, lion pelts in the Great Hall, antlers in the corridors.

From Arundel station, I can see the hilltop church and castle, framed by woods and marshes. The scene is up there with England’s other great views from railway stations, such as Durham Cathedral or St Michael’s Mount. Rich in history and wildlife, the trip feels longer and more rewarding than a simple overnight break. Outside the train windows, herons guard the waterways and swans are nesting in the reeds.

Accommodation was provided by the Black Horse pub, doubles from £110 room-only. Train travel was provided by Southern

Deep in a medieval hunting forest, amid 6,500 acres of heathland, a wooden bridge spans a tributary of the River Medway. Every single day, no matter the weather, people flock to stand on its slats and cheer on sticks as they float downstream.

I know this because on a frosty but sunny morning, (“a very long time ago now, about last Friday”, as children’s author AA Milne might have said), I stood with two such adults jumping up and down with delight as my little piece of oak stormed ahead and won the race.

The game is Pooh Sticks, originally described by Milne in Winnie-the-Pooh, which was published in 1926. It was inspired by the game he and his son, Christopher (Robin), would play on Posingford Bridge in Ashdown Forest (AKA the Hundred Acre Wood) in East Sussex. Just 30 miles south of London, this sprawling open heathland lies within the High Weald Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

To mark the 100th anniversary of the book, a programme of free cultural events is planned for this summer in the forest and throughout the county. Highlights include a series of interactive performances by “the Curious Adventurer”, a puppet brought to life by 10 puppeteers. Five new walks themed around different species are launching too, encouraging people to visit more of the forest.

I joined ranger Beth Morgan to explore the real places inextricably linked to the make-believe world where Christopher Robin once played. The bridge is a short walk from the 16th-century farmhouse known as Cotchford Farm where Milne once lived (now an Airbnb), and easily accessed from the public car park off Chuck Hatch Road. “That,” Beth said as we passed a small red wooden door, tucked into the lower roots of a tall, moss-covered birch tree, “is Piglet’s house; Pooh-lovers have added them along the path.” I felt as if I was walking into a storybook.

For fans of the book – and later Disney cartoons – the easy-to-follow 2.5-mile (4km) stroll to Pooh Sticks Bridge is the most popular. Just beside the bridge is Pooh’s postbox, which usually contains offerings of honey that visitors leave for the sweet-toothed bear.

The way Milne captured the magic of this place has been key to helping preserve it. “The low heath habitat we have here is rarer than tropical rainforest,” said Beth. “And people’s interest in it – thanks to the Pooh connection – is what has brought in funding to help conserve it.”

Until Brexit, the forest received about £500,000 a year from EU grants; now it is constantly short of funds. But the hope is that the anniversary plans and new walking trails will help bring more people and donations to the area.

One surprising thing about the forest is that back in Milne’s day just 10% of this open heathland would have been woodland. Now it’s 40%, meaning that trees and gorse are actually encroaching on the ancient landscape, which presents the biggest challenge and cost.

A 20-strong herd of free-roaming ponies, along with Galloway cattle and Hebridean sheep, help manage it. As I watched them meandering slowly through the bracken munching on gorse and saplings, I couldn’t help but picture Eeyore, the grumpy donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh.

Suitably, my next stop, Pooh Corner, a former post office in the village of Hartfield to the north of the forest, was actually visited by the real Eeyore (Christopher’s real-life donkey Jessica). It’s now a cafe, gift shop and museum. “So many people have either grown up watching the movies or reading the books,” said owner Neil Reed as I tucked into a pile of honey-laden treats, “but really the fascinating story is the one where we learn what happened beyond the pages – who the father and son really were.”

His small museum tells that story, through school photos of Milne, newspaper cuttings (including the first Pooh story, which was published in London’s Evening News on Christmas Eve 1925) and even a note from Milne’s former science teacher HG Wells. Also on display are the understated illustrations of EH Shepard and the more gaudy souvenirs made by Disney, who acquired the rights to Pooh back in 1961.

After my deep dive into Pooh history, I checked into Helix, a new cabin from Unplugged and Healf, on the Buckhurst Estate close to the forest. With its own wood-fired sauna and ice bath, and huge picture windows making the surrounding trees part of the bedroom walls, the emphasis is on bringing the outdoors indoors.

The following day I discovered perhaps the most enchanting thing about Ashdown Forest – that the place hasn’t been Disneyfied. The only real mention of Pooh is on the official Long Pooh Walk from Gills Lap, a 2-mile circular (a route map is available from the Ashdown Forest Centre or online for 50p). And even on that route there are no cutesy bear faces, just a sweeping sandy plateau, punctuated by clumps of trees, AKA the Enchanted Place, and clusters of heather.

Over the next couple of hours I took my time, wandering with map in hand, visiting the Gloomy Place – where Eeyore lost his house (and Christopher Milne’s donkey was put out to pasture), the Heffalump Trap (a striking lone pine with views over the Weald), Roo’s Sandy Pit (a white sand quarry) and ending with a pause at the Milne and Shepard Memorial.

Later that afternoon, I walked from my doorstep to Birchden Vineyards a few miles away. I sampled some of the white and sparkling wine varieties the family-run winery is known for, as well as apple juice and raw, unfiltered honey made by bees who feed on the flora of Ashdown Forest. Pooh would have approved.

On my final day, I decided to take a lesson from the bear I’d been following and do nothing at all. I spent the day at my cabin – where you are encouraged to lock up your mobile phone to be properly off-grid. I sat outside and listened to the call of a warbler, the tap-tap-tapping of a woodpecker and, as night fell, the hoot of an owl. I lay in the sauna and watched a family of fallow deer wander by as though I was invisible, and later I shrieked like Tigger as I plunged into an ice bath under a sky filled with stars.

Winnie-the-Pooh once said: “We didn’t realise we were making memories. We just knew we were having fun.” Perhaps, I mused, as the last of the light faded, he wasn’t such a silly bear after all.

The trip was provided by Visit England and Explore Wealden, with accommodation in Helix: The Wellbeing Cabin with Healf provided by Unplugged. Three nights from £660. For more information about Ashdown Forest and the Winnie-the-Pooh celebrations, see ashdownforest.org.