Trail

PORTLAND, Ore. — Luka Doncic and Austin Reaves will miss the Lakers’ game in Portland on Monday as the team ruled both out with injuries.

One night after recording a 29-point, 11-rebound, 10-assist triple-double, Doncic is out to manage a lower leg contusion. Reaves, who scored 26 points and 11 assists in the Lakers’ 130-120 win over the Miami Heat, is out with right groin soreness.

This will be the fourth game Doncic has missed this season as he was also sidelined with a minor finger injury and a left leg contusion.

Playing in their second back-to-back of the season, the Lakers will again be short-handed. They had seven standard contract players when they hosted the Trail Blazers on the second night of a back-to-back last week. Portland won 122-108 as Reaves attempted to carry the team with 41 points.

The Lakers could also be without Deandre Ayton, who is questionable with back spasms. He missed Sunday’s game after experiencing pain last Friday in Memphis.

Forward Maxi Kleber was upgraded to questionable with an abdominal strain that has kept him sidelined all season.

Injuries nearly swallowed the Lakers whole Monday night, leaving them short on ballhandlers, key role players and star power.

They were down seven players and they were playing on back-to-back nights to top it off, leaving the task daunting for the Lakers.

Still, the Lakers had to press on against the odds, which they were unable to overcome in falling 122-108 to the Portland Trail Blazers on Monday night at Crypto.com Arena.

Austin Reaves did his best to keep the Lakers in the game, scoring 41 points one night after scoring a career-high 51 at Sacramento. Reaves now has scored 143 points in the first four games this season, tying him with Hall of Famer Elgin Baylor (1962) for the most points in Lakers’ history over that span to start the season.

Rui Hachimura (16 points) and Deandre Ayton (16 points, eight rebounds) tried to help out.

But with guard Luka Doncic (left finger sprain, lower left leg contusion) and LeBron James (right sciatica) out, it was going to be tough for the Lakers. Then with guards Marcus Smart (right quad contusion) and Gabe Vincent (left ankle sprain) down, it meant the Lakers were in deeper trouble without much of their backcourt. Add Maxi Kleber (abdominal muscle strain), Jaxson Hayes (right patellar tendinopathy) and Adou Thiero (left knee surgery recovery) sitting the bench in street clothes, and it was too much for the Lakers to deal with.

The Lakers have two more games this week, at Minnesota on Wednesday night and at Memphis on Friday, meaning L.A. will have played four games this week while not being whole.

Along with Reaves and Ayton, the Lakers started Jarred Vanderbilt, Rui Hachimura and Jake LaRavia.

The Lakers’ bench consisted of Dalton Knecht, Bronny James, Chris Manon and Christian Koloko, the last two of whom are on two-way contracts — leaving them with nine available players.

“I don’t expect anybody to do more than they’re doing,” Lakers coach JJ Redick said. “What we challenged the guys on before the game was playing with an edge. And that’s a habit that I think takes time to form. We saw glimpses of it throughout the preseason. You’re just kind of waiting on it. You hope you get it opening night. And then you finally start seeing it when we’re in Game 2 against Minnesota. And I thought the guys throughout the game yesterday [in Sacramento] just had a terrific competitive edge. That’s what we need. And that’s regardless if we have a full roster or … how many guys are out? Six? Seven? Seven. Seven guys out. Yeah, we gotta do it.”

Taking care of the basketball was one of the problems the Lakers had. Then again that wasn’t a total surprise, considering the Lakers really had just one ballhander in Reaves and he was harassed all night by Portland.

The Lakers turned the ball over 25 times, leading to 28 points for the Trail Blazers.

The Lakers didn’t do it from the three-point line in the first half, missing 11 of their 12 attempts. They finished the game going seven for 27 from the three-point line.

The Pride of Cumbria train carried me out of Piccadilly station and, eventually, beyond built-up Manchester. After Marple, everything turned green as the valleys narrowed. It was a classic northern autumn day: the clouds were low, the mizzle and mist were closing in and the world was grey-filtered but for the glow of dead leaves all around.

South-east of Manchester is a bit of an unknown for me. Between the city and the Derbyshire borough of High Peak, you don’t quite enter national park territory, but it’s nonetheless a charming and eye-calming landscape. The Mancunian Kinder Scout trespassers of 1932 probably came this way, as do Pennine Way-farers bound for Edale. But the region is also post-industrial and close to conurbations. The Steel Cotton Rail Trail, which officially launched earlier this month after several years of planning, hopes to bring together elements of the land and the heritage while also drawing walkers and cyclists to areas of the Peak District perhaps ignored by those who rush for the main spine of the Pennines.

The 62-mile (100km) trail has been split into 14 day-friendly sections between the rail termini at Manchester and Sheffield, with stops along the Hope Valley Line marking the start and end points. There’s something for everyone. Urban explorers will enjoy the metropolitan mooches at either end, summit fiends will love the middle hill and moor sections, while those with young families or old dogs can opt for canal and riverside walks.

I was the only passenger to alight at Chinley, a small, smartish-looking village in the Blackbrook valley. I soon found a sticker to show that I was on the right track; way marking is now complete along the route. I also had printouts of the handy pdf maps posted on the website. GPX files are available, but I didn’t want to spend the day looking phone-ward.

The route, sloping downward, took me past a cafe and on to the Peak Forest Tramway Trail. As anyone who has been out on a recent country walk will know, 2025 has been a mast year, with an abundance of fruit and nuts falling from trees. I could hear the loud crunch of dry acorns and beech nuts as I began my walk towards the west.

The tramway – serviced by horse and gravity-powered vehicles – opened in 1796 and carried on operating right up till the 1920s. Limestone, quarried all around the area, was taken out along these tracks. While much of the primary and heavy industrial plant has gone, I passed a polymer factory close to Chinley and I was rarely far from traffic (the mighty A6, England’s longest road once upon a time, was just beyond the curtain of trees) or light industrial units. Some people probably prefer the illusion of “real nature” but I like ambling through parts of the countryside where work and wilderness rub along. Anyway, I was always able to look down and let the golds, reds and ochres of leaf litter blur my ruminations.

Soon I came to Bugsworth Basin on the Peak Forest canal – once the largest and busiest inland port on the canal system and the only one to survive intact. An information sign alluded to “canal mania”, the period between 1790 and the 1810s when dozens of cuts were made across England and Wales by speculators banking on “faster” logistics. In 1808, workers shifted sufficient limestone to fill 2,000 canal boats. A vital raw material, it was used in buildings, chemical manufacturing and agriculture. Limestone historians will probably challenge the steel and cotton of the trail’s name – cities edging out town and country, as ever – but you could also make a case for calling it the Millstone Grit Trail or the Coal Trail; this part of the world produced so much for Victorian Britain.

I swerved right, joining the River Goyt. Despite its guttural name, the Goyt is a lovely river. It threads a pastoral squiggle from soggy moorland just west of Macclesfield all the way to Stockport, where it runs into the Mersey. As well as the new trail, I was also walking on sections of the Goyt Way and a long-distance path called the Midshires Way. The path passed close to Furness Vale station on the Manchester-Buxton line – an alternative railway option to get to this section of the trail.

It was a mellow, easy walk all the way to New Mills, a town I only knew hitherto as the home town of punk/Oi! band Blitz, but which is a very dramatic constellation of magnificent bridges and stone viaducts, vertiginous gorges, fast-flowing water, the oldest community-owned hydro scheme in the land, some lovely llamas in a bosky paddock, and the sweeping steel Millennium Walkway. I’d passed a couple of rural pubs already, but New Mills has plenty of food and drink for those stopping or pausing here.

I continued along the canyon – past Torr Vale Mill, the UK’s longest-running textile mill till its closure in 2000 – and used the Goyt Way to enter Mousley Bottom nature reserve, a pretty patch of woodland occupying an area previously used as a landfill site, gasworks and sewage works.

I left the river behind at Hague Bar, and headed for Strines, to complete my two-stage, 6.5-mile walk, where I knew the train was hourly (it’s half-hourly from the larger stations). As fate would have it, just when I needed to speed up, the path went up too – quite sharply, in fact, as it ascended a green lane. After all the level walking, the views were suddenly much bigger, and the mist had burned off too. I was half-tempted by the Fox Inn, a Robinsons’ pub in the tiny hamlet of Brookbottom, but given my now terrible thirst, bursting lungs and the one-hour wait, I knew the rest stop could easily morph into a three-pint siesta-inducer. So, I struggled on and actually jogged down to Strines to make the train for Piccadilly with three minutes to spare.

This new rail-pegged walking (and, along many sections, cycling) trail will be welcome in Manchester, where it links up nicely with the also quite new 200-mile orbital GM Ringway. It may also tempt Sheffielders to look beyond the obvious Edale-Kinder Scout hikes – though Edale is a start/finish point for a nice 7.5-mile leg of the Steel Cotton Rail Trail. More frequent, reliable trains would make these walking trails really attractive. But for an autumn amble, the 14 new walks are almost perfect. Choose your challenge and altitude, decide whether you want trees or moors, towns or fields, and you will catch several of the moods of this magical season.

Read more about and download guides at the Steel Cotton Rail Trail

A National Basketball Association player and coach are among dozens of people charged in two investigations centred on illegal sports betting and mafia-linked poker games, the FBI has announced.

Miami Heat player Terry Rozier was among six people arrested over alleged betting irregularities, including other players who may have faked injuries.

Portland Trail Blazers coach Chauncey Billups is one of 31 people charged in a separate illegal poker game case involving former players and organised crime figures.

Rozier’s lawyer denied the allegations to CBS News, the BBC’s US news partner, saying: “Terry is not a gambler, but he is not afraid of a fight, and he looks forward to winning this fight.”

In a statement, the NBA said that Rozier and Billups are being placed on immediate leave, as the association is reviewing the federal indictments.

“We take these allegations with the utmost seriousness, and the integrity of our game remains our top priority,” the statement read.

US Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, Joseph Nocella Jr, said all defendants are innocent until proven guilty, but warned: “Your winning streak has ended. Your luck has run out.”

FBI Director Kash Patel called the arrests “extraordinary” and said there was a “coordinated takedown across 11 states”.

Prosecutors said the first case involved players and associates who allegedly used insider information to manipulate bets on major platforms.

Nocella called it “one of the most brazen sports corruption schemes since online sports betting became widely legalised”.

Seven NBA games between February 2023 and March 2024 have been identified as part of the case. Rozier is said to have been involved in one between the Charlotte Hornets and New Orleans Pelicans, when he was playing for the Hornets.

New York City Police Commissioner Jessica Tisch said that on 23 March 2023, Rozier allegedly let others close to him know that he planned to leave a game early with a supposed injury.

Using that information, conspirators allegedly placed bets that paid out tens of thousands of dollars in profits, she said.

During the game, Rozier played roughly nine minutes and scored just five points because of a sore right foot, according to the official NBA match report.

Before that game, he averaged 35 minutes of playing time and about 21 points per game.

“As the NBA season tips off, his career is already benched, not for injury but for integrity,” Tisch said.

Rozier’s lawyer James Trusty said in a statement that prosecutors “appear to be taking the word of spectacularly in-credible sources rather than relying on actual evidence of wrongdoing. Terry was cleared by the NBA and these prosecutors revived that non-case.”

Trusty said he had been representing Rozier for more than a year and said prosecutors characterised Rozier as a subject, not a target, until they informed him FBI agents were arresting the player on Thursday morning.

Former NBA player Damon Jones was also arrested.

Jones is said to have been involved in two of the identified games – when the Los Angeles Lakers met the Milwaukee Bucks in February 2023, and a January 2024 game between the Lakers and Oklahoma City Thunder.

The second case involves 31 defendants alleged to have participated in a scheme to rig illegal poker games and steal millions of dollars, backed by crime families.

The case involved 13 members and associates of the Bonanno, Genovese and Gambino crime families.

Nocella said the targeted victims were lured to play in games with former professional athletes, including Billups and Jones, in Las Vegas, Miami, Manhattan and the Hamptons.

Victims were “fleeced” out of tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars per game, he said.

He said defendants used “very sophisticated technology” like altered off-the-shelf shuffling machines that could read the cards. Some of the defendants used special contact lenses and eye glasses to read pre-marked cards, and an X-ray table that could read cards when they were face-down, he added.

Tisch said when people refused to pay, the organised crime families used threats and intimidation to get people to hand over the money.

The charges include robbery, extortion, wire fraud, bank fraud and illegal gambling.

The conspiracy cheated victims out of $7m (£5.2m), with one losing $1.8 million, officials said.

“This is only the tip of the iceberg,” Christopher Raia, the FBI assistant director of the New York field office, said, adding the FBI is working day and night to ensure members of mafia families “cannot continue to wreak havoc in our communities”.

We could hear the band before we saw it: a group of retirement home residents with trumpets and drums waiting to greet us as we approached. Others using wheelchairs waved homemade flags. As we swarmed into the building and up the staircase, a bottleneck formed. I slowed down as a nurse put a stamp on my sweaty arm, then I jogged off down the corridor.

Running through a retirement home is just one of the many surreal moments that participants signing up for the Nîmes Urban Trail (NUT) get to experience on this 24km race around the city, which takes place each February. Not only does the route give you a whistlestop sightseeing tour, taking you past the town’s impressive Roman monuments and landmarks, it also grants you access to places that would normally be off limits to outsiders.

Earlier in the day, I’d cantered through the lobby and bar of a five-star hotel, a Michelin-starred restaurant, the hôtel de ville (city hall), a barracks, a chapel and an olive grove. I even ran through a nightclub – easily the most wholesome sweat I’d ever worked up there. The school classrooms were particularly fascinating: I moved to France aged 28 so I’d never seen the inside of a French primary school. The retro maps pasted to the walls were the same pink as French toilet paper.

Crowds had gathered to cheer us on at various points along the route, but nowhere was the welcome more enthusiastic than at the retirement homes where the residents and carers had spent weeks preparing for our arrival. As I left the building, I realised my cheeks were damp – but not from sweat. This was the first time a running race had moved me to tears.

Running tourism has been gaining momentum for years. A third of participants in the Paris Marathon aren’t French, and in the Berlin Marathon, roughly two-thirds are from outside Germany. A recent survey found that 18% of Britons were planning to travel abroad for sports this year, many to take part in marathons, half-marathons and triathlons. Urban trail running, however, has really taken off in France, and 98% of NUT runners in 2025 were French.

Europe’s first organised urban trail run was in my home city, Lyon, in 2008. I’ve participated in the Lyon Urban Trail for the last three years, pounding up and down stairs, helter-skeltering down the muddy slope of the city’s former ski piste, la Sarra, and jogging through the grounds of old forts. It’s enormous fun, and now there are more than 100 urban trail runs in France, but none quite like Nîmes.

At the starting line I checked out my fellow competitors. I was sandwiched between Queen Elizabeth II and a couple of gladiators. Many of the fancy dress outfits had a Nîmois theme. Nîmes became part of the Roman empire around the first-century BCE, when it was known as Colonia Nemausus, and alongside the emperors and gladiators, I saw crocodiles and palm trees. Crocodiles may be about as native to Nîmes as lions and unicorns are to Great Britain, but they’ve become the symbol of the city. In the 16th century, a Roman coin showing a crocodile and a palm frond, to depict Roman victory over Egypt, was unearthed here. Now the Nîmois crocodile appears on paving stones and fountains, and there are even four stuffed ones hanging from the ceiling of the hôtel de ville.

Although my running attire was relatively dull, the race promised to be anything but. The people running the full marathon had been released into the (urban) wild half an hour earlier; I, surrounded by gladiators and crocodiles, was about to tackle the shorter, but still hilly, 24km race. After us would come runners participating in the 16km and 10km races, and finally the 10km hikers (breaking into a trot was strictly forbidden), so there’s something for all fitness levels and abilities.

When he co-founded the NUT 10 years ago, Benoît Goiset was clear he wanted to create something more than just a calf-buster. He envisioned a run that broke down social barriers and got the whole city involved.

The route changes each year, with new and unusual sites being added. “After the pandemic we were seeing an epidemic of loneliness, so I added in the EHPADs [retirement homes],” said Goiset. “The five-star hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants were [included] because so few people get to experience them, particularly people who live in Nîmes. I didn’t want anywhere to be off limits.”

At the end of the race, we burst into the Roman arena with a rush of pride, feeling like warriors, to be greeted by trestle tables loaded with snacks and beer and lemonade. This had been my first full day in Nîmes, and I’ve never had such a complete introduction to a city. Not only had I seen all the Roman sites – the arena, Tour Magne (watchtower), the Temple of Diana and even the Musée de la Romanité (we ran across the roof terrace) – I’d also had a glimpse of “the real Nîmes”, behind closed doors. I’d seen where children go to school, where soldiers train, and where some of the city’s older residents spend their later years. The tiered Jardins de la Fontaine, an 18th-century park full of stone fountains set over canals, was so beautiful that as soon as my legs had recovered that afternoon, I went back again.

At the risk of sounding like so many obnoxious yogis, who told me the reason I don’t like yoga is that I haven’t found the right class, if you don’t like running, perhaps you haven’t found the right race.

Registration is open for the next Nîmes Urban Trail, which takes place on 15 February 2026. Prices vary depending on distance, but the 24km trail run is €38pp. Appart’City is opposite the race start line, with double rooms from €105 (room only).

Across the nation’s beloved national parks this summer, skeleton crews — whittled down by the Trump administration’s reduction of the federal workforce — have struggled to keep trash from piling up, latrines from spilling over and injured hikers from perishing in the backcountry.

They’ve mostly succeeded, but it has been a struggle.

Now, as bickering politicians in Washington, D.C., threaten to shut the government down and furlough federal employees as soon as next week if a budget deal isn’t reached, 40 former stewards of the nation’s most remote and romantic landscapes have sent an “urgent appeal” to the White House.

If the government shuts down, close the national parks to prevent a free-for-all inside the gates.

Pointing to the strain the parks are already enduring since the new administration fired or bought out roughly 24% of the workforce, the retired superintendents — including those from Yosemite, Joshua Tree, and Sequoia and Kings Canyon — warned of chaos.

If the parks stay open with no employees to manage them, “these nascent issues from the summer season are sure to erupt,” the former superintendents wrote to Doug Burgum, secretary of the Department of the Interior, on Thursday. “Leaving parks even partially open to the public during a shutdown with minimal — or no — park staffing is reckless and puts both visitors and park resources at risk.”

Unlike many federal agencies such as the Centers for Disease Control and the National Institutes of Health, whose once obscure and mundane day-to-day operations have become flash points in the nation’s toxic and polarizing culture war, the national parks remain a beloved refuge: a place where Americans of all stripes can unplug, exhale and escape.

In 2024 the parks set an attendance record with over 331 million visitors; that’s nearly two and a half times the number of people (136 million) who attended professional football, baseball, basketball and hockey games combined.

It’s not hard to understand the appeal. Exhausted by the bickering on cable news and social media feeds? Go climb Half Dome in Yosemite, or stroll among the giant trees in Sequoia, or camp beneath the stars in Joshua Tree.

But if the parks stay open with nobody around to maintain them, that cleansing experience will turn nasty the moment a bathroom door opens, according to the retired superintendents.

In previous shutdowns stemming from budget disputes or the COVID-19 pandemic, facilities inside the parks deteriorated at an alarming rate.

Unauthorized visitors left human feces in rivers, painted graffiti on once pristine cliffs, harassed wild animals and left the toilets looking like “crime scenes,” according to a ranger who asked not to be identified for fear of retribution.

“It’s just scary how bad things can get when places are abandoned with nobody watching,” she said.

In an interview Thursday, Senate Majority Leader John Thune said a government shutdown was still “avoidable” despite sharp divisions ahead of Wednesday’s deadline to pass a funding bill.

“I’m a big believer that there’s always a way out,” the South Dakota Republican said. “And I think there are off-ramps here, but I don’t think that the negotiating position, at least at the moment, that the Democrats are trying to exert here is going to get you there.”

Thune said Democrats are going to have to “dial back” their demands, which include immediately extending health insurance subsidies and reversing the healthcare policies in the massive tax bill that Republicans passed over the summer. Absent that, Thune said, “we’re probably plunging forward toward the shutdown.”

After a shutdown in late 2018 and early 2019, park rangers in Death Valley returned to find mounds of feces and what they jokingly called “toilet paper flowers” scattered across the desert floor.

At Joshua Tree, officials found about 24 miles of unauthorized new trails carved across the desert by off-road vehicles, along with some of the park’s namesake trees toppled.

In the absence of park staff, local climbers volunteered to keep the bathrooms clean and stocked with toilet paper, and gently tried to persuade rowdy visitors to put out illegal fires and pick up their trash.

Some complied right away, climber Rand Abbott told The Times in 2019, but “70% of the people I’m running into are extremely rude,” he said. “I had my life threatened two times. It’s crazy in there right now.”

People weren’t the only unruly guests moving in and making themselves at home.

At Point Reyes National Seashore, along the Marin County coast, officials had to close the road to popular Drakes Beach during the shutdown. The absence of humans created an ideal opportunity for about 100 elephant seals to set up a colony, taking over the beach, a parking lot and a visitor center.

The seals didn’t just poop everywhere, they threw a full-scale bacchanal. As far as the eye could see, enormous, blubbery beasts — males can reach 16 feet long and weigh up to 7,000 pounds — were rolling in the sand and mating in broad daylight.

Females, which can weigh up to a ton themselves, wound up giving birth to something like 40 new pups. When the park reopened, flustered officials had little recourse but to open a public viewing area at a safe distance and send employees — primly referred to as “docents” — to explain what was happening on the once serene seashore.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

The Hafren Forest in Mid Wales has been named as the UK’s most popular autumn walk. t’s a stunning forest with a rich history and a variety of walking trails

As you step onto the woodland path, the first thing you’ll notice is the fresh air tinged with the earthy aroma of damp pine and moss, a sensory nod to nature in its wildest form.

Welcome to the lesser-known Hafren Forest in Mid Wales, home to tumbling waters, marked trails and the birthplace of a formidable river. The forest’s name, Hafren, derives from the Welsh term for the River Severn (Afon Hafren), which embarks on its impressive journey to the sea from this very spot.

This meticulously managed woodland boasts a rich history and numerous trails to discover. According to TikTok data, it has just been crowned the most popular autumn walk in the UK, showcasing its beauty best during the autumn and winter months. Other walking spots across the Peak District, Scotland, and the Lake District have also secured spots in the top 10.

READ MORE: Brits ditch Spain for other holiday destinations after locals dub tourists ‘cancerous’READ MORE: Top town centres for shopping revealed – see how your high street ranked

To encourage folks to soak up the great outdoors and enjoy quality time together without breaking the bank, caravan holiday providers Parkdean Resorts have revealed the UK’s favourite autumn walks and are offering a 20% discount on four-night staycations this autumn.

Overseen by Natural Resources Wales, the forest strikes a balance between commercial forestry, conservation, and public enjoyment, making it an essential habitat for wildlife and a sanctuary for outdoor enthusiasts and walkers, reports Wales Online.

Originally established as a timber production forest, Hafren Forest has evolved into a beloved and accessible spot for walkers. Its blend of natural splendour, historical features, and well-kept trails draw visitors throughout the year.

The trails are clearly marked and welcoming, meandering through clusters of pines and firs, their natural symmetry creating overhead archways that frame the path ahead.

The winding river is the star attraction here. The Afon Hafren, more commonly known as the River Severn, commences its journey on the slopes of Pumlumon, with its concealed source lying just beyond the forest’s edge.

Initially, it’s merely a tranquil stream threading its way through the trees with quiet resolve. However, it soon gains momentum, cascading over rocky ledges and morphing into thunderous waterfalls that carve their way through the landscape with unyielding vigour.

“Autumn is my favourite time to visit this serene forest, when the foliage changes colour and the air becomes crisper,” says writer Portia Jones.

There’s an abundance of trails to amble along here, all clearly marked from beginning to end. Starting at the Rhyd-y-benwch car park, the paths guide you through towering trees, past gushing waterfalls, and even to the hidden source of the River Severn.

She adds: “My favourite trail is the 13 km-long Source of the Severn Trail, which leads to the source of the River Severn through a varied landscape.”

It’s quite astounding to consider that the mighty River Severn, stretching over 220 miles, originates here in Hafren Forest. The river’s modest beginnings on the slopes of Pumlumon rapidly gather pace as the water etches its path through the forest, creating a series of vibrant cascades and waterfalls.

As you traverse the trails, the river’s sound evolves, becoming more powerful and persistent. Each stride brings you nearer to the water’s rhythm, escalating like an overture before unveiling its concealed source beyond the forest’s boundary.

READ MORE: Jet2 adds new Christmas market destination – full list

Reaching the source is no ordinary stroll. A steep ascent leads you onto the moorland, where a simple, carved wooden post signifies the start of the UK’s longest river.

Hafren Forest also serves as the launch point for two epic long-distance walks. The Wye Valley Walk traces the River Wye for 136 miles, whilst the Severn Way follows the Severn’s route to Bristol. For a shorter and more manageable walk, the 2.3 km Severn-Break-its-Neck Trail provides a picturesque romp through woodland.

This trail lives up to its dramatic name. Starting at the car park, you’ll follow a gently meandering path along the river until it expands into a meadow, where a boardwalk brings you closer to the sound of rushing water.

After a brief climb, the Severn-Break-Its-Neck waterfall comes into sight. Cycling enthusiasts can take advantage of the Sustrans National Cycle Network, a scenic route that meanders through the forest and beyond, offering a quicker way to soak up the region’s stunning landscapes.

Consider booking a stay at Cedar Cottage in Llanidloes for a snug autumn getaway. This charming semi-detached barn conversion, once an old grinding mill, is perfectly suited for a small family or a group of mates.

The cottage boasts a host of amenities including double and twin rooms, a fully equipped kitchen, a cosy sitting room with an electric stove, and a shared garden at the back complete with patio furniture. You can secure your booking here.

READ MORE: The buzzing UK market town with independent shops and quaint cobbled streets

The UK’s top 10 autumn walks

1. Hafren Forest, Powys, Mid Wales

2. Aberglaslyn Pass, North Wales

3. Flash and Three Shires Head, Peak District, Staffordshire

4. Butterley Reservoir, Peak District, West Yorkshire

5. Hermitage Bridge, Perthshire, Scotland

6. Conic Hill, Stirling, Scotland

7. Blea Tarn, Lake District, Cumbria

8. Lochgoilhead, Argyll and Bute, West Scotland

9. Glencoe Lochan, Glencoe, Scottish Highlands

10. Bottoms Reservoir, Peak District, Derbyshire

Even in picturesque California, few landscapes are as stunning – or as fragile – as Big Sur. The constant storms and seismic activity that forged its dramatic cliffs and canyons also make its infrastructure a nightmare to maintain.

The primary road through the region, world-famous Highway 1, which clings to cliffs high above the Pacific Ocean in postcard worthy fashion, is almost constantly closed by landslides, isolating communities and stranding weary travelers.

Local hiking trails don’t fare much better.

The Pfeiffer Falls Trail intersects with the Valley View Trail, a lovely loop that provides gorgeous views of the state park clear out to the Pacific.

(Lisa Winner / Save the Redwoods League)

So, as if they had just taken a deep breath and crossed their fingers, California State Parks officials announced this week that one of the region’s most beloved hikes, the Pfeiffer Falls Trail, will finally reopen after a towering redwood collapsed in a 2023 storm taking out its signature pedestrian bridge.

The trail, a .75 mile stroll that cuts through Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park and ends with a stunning view of a 60-foot waterfall, is one of the prime draws for a park that attracts roughly 750,000 people each year.

For such a short walk, the trail has a long history.

In 2008, the 162,818-acre Basin Complex Fire devastated much of the route and surrounding forest. It took $2 million and nearly 13 years to complete a renovation project — removing aged and damaged concrete, rerouting the trail and constructing the bridge — to finally reopen the hike in June 2021.

About 18-months later, that storm arrived and a towering redwood crashed the party.

The Pfeiffer Falls Bridge in 2023 after a giant redwood fell on part of the structure, closing the trail.

(California State Parks)

The tree splintered a 15-foot section of the bridge. Crews salvaged much of the original structure but replaced the damaged section with fiber-reinforced polymer in the hope of making the span stronger and more resilient to its unforgiving environment.

“It’s unfortunate that the trail had to close so soon after our original renovations,” said Matthew Gomez, senior parks program manager for Save the Redwoods League, a non-profit that helped with the repairs. “But our close partnership with California State Parks allowed us to rebuild the bridge better than ever.”

It is a truly spectacular hike. Enjoy it while it lasts.

There are many ways to make an entrance, but lurching into a pub full of smartly dressed diners while windswept, muddy and more than a little frayed wouldn’t be my first choice. At 7.30pm on a sunny Sunday evening, the Welldiggers Arms – a country pub just outside Petworth in West Sussex – is full of people tucking into hearty roasts, the glass-walled restaurant overlooking glorious downland scenery, the sun all but disappeared behind the hills. For my husband, Mark, and I, it’s more than a stop for supper; the pub marks the halfway point on our two-day walking adventure along a brand new trail, the 25-mile Petworth Way.

Twenty-five miles may not sound like much (I have keen walker friends who would do it in a day) but, for us, it’s the perfect length, with plenty of pubs along the way. The first leg, from Haslemere to Petworth, covers countryside we’re both entirely unfamiliar with; the second, Petworth to Arundel runs through landscapes I’ve known since childhood. Happily, the start and finish points can be reached by rail – meaning we can leave the car at home and set off with nothing but small rucksacks, water bottles and detailed printed instructions.

Things start easily enough; a brief weave through Haslemere’s residential streets before the first serious ascent, through fields and shady, fern-rippled woodland that opens out on to Black Down, the highest point in the South Downs national park. After the dim light of the wood, the heathland blazes with colours; bursts of butter-yellow gorse, purple heather and bottle-green pine trees, all set beneath an intensely blue sky.

It reminds me of Ashdown Forest, which inspired Winnie-the-Pooh, and Mark and I bicker happily about who would be Christopher Robin and who Pooh, before arriving at the Temple of the Winds viewpoint, where we sink gratefully on to the seat and soak up the view. It is spectacular; green velvet hills and blueish-tinged valleys, church spires and the odd country estate dotted between the trees, all of Sussex laid out before us, half drenched in sunlight, half darkened by ominous clouds throwing down grey mists of rain on the horizon.

Keen not to miss lunch at the Noah’s Ark pub in Lurgashall, we set off again, at which point the bickering becomes slightly less good-humoured as we realise we’re going the wrong way. Ten minutes’ later, we’re properly lost, with an OS app on a phone that has unhelpfully lost all signal and directions that make no sense. Thankfully, a pair of local walkers point us in the right direction, and we make it down the hill, past vineyards and on to the pub, where we settle in with a couple of cold halves, some local salami and warm bread, eaten while watching a cricket match on the village green.

Fortunately, the next few miles are more straightforward, until a final ascent that leads into Petworth House’s great park; a glorious end to the day that makes us feel as if we’ve got this walking thing licked. That is, until we realise there are very few taxis in Petworth and we’ll have to walk the extra mile and a half to the Welldiggers, which, fortunately, proves to be a cocoon of loveliness; all soft clean linens, piping-hot showers, and staff who politely pretend not to notice our slightly catatonic state over dinner.

Next morning, fuelled by delicious shakshuka (poached eggs in a hot tomato sauce) and several buckets of tea, we hop in a taxi back to Petworth park to continue the walk across the Sussex Weald. The route drops in on a short section of the Serpent Trail – a 65-mile route from Haslemere to Petersfield that we pencil in for next year – before veering away past Burton Park, a grandiose, privately owned Greek revival mansion, all Doric columns and vanilla-hued walls. From here, the path heads downhill, which, we agree, is not a good thing, as it means going uphill is not far off.

Uphill is something of an understatement, and the pull up through the villages of Barlavington and Sutton was made even more challenging as the White Horse Inn, earmarked for a restorative half, turns out to be closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Fuelled instead by lukewarm water and half a Twix each, we carry on towards Bignor, the gradient steepening with every step. By the time we’re walking east along the South Downs Way, the 360-degree views – across a patchwork of faded cornfields and khaki grassland – are quite some reward. Even so, it’s a welcome change to begin the descent into Houghton village, where I know (because I’ve checked) lunch awaits.

It’s this leg that really reaffirms the joy of walking for me. As the Arun valley unfolds beside the wooded hills of the Arundel estate, I think of how many decades I’ve driven the road that runs alongside and how different the countryside looks when taken at a slow pace, with the chance to stop and look, rather than snatched glances through the windscreen. Thirty years ago, I’d sit over lunch with my mum and dad in the George & Dragon’s garden, watching hikers amble down the very hillside we’re walking on. I’ve not been back to the pub for many years and it’s lovely – if slightly lump in throat – to return and have my parents suddenly conjured up so vividly.

It’s tempting to stay all afternoon, but after a classic ploughman’s (what else?), we lace up our boots for the final stretch, past Houghton’s thatched, flint-walled cottages and along the River Arun, before one final ascent into the Arundel estate. Clouds glower, but we’re lucky; the rain holds off as we skirt the edge of Swanbourne Lake and pass the Hiorne Tower, built by architect Francis Hiorne in 1797, as part of his (failed) bid to rebuild Arundel Castle. When we pop out on to London Road and amble towards the familiar outline of the castle, we’re almost too focused on finding large slabs of cake to properly celebrate the fact we’ve arrived at our destination.

Later, once the train has taken us back to our corner of the East Sussex countryside, I think about how little I know, really, of the landscapes I’ve visited since childhood. We’ll probably never be long-distance walkers, but weekend trails like this prove you don’t have to be; a couple of days is enough to see a familiar landscape in a whole new light.

Accommodation was provided by the Welldiggers Arms, which has double rooms from £115 B&B

When you live in a town where the ocean is just around the corner, it feels almost wrong to spend a sunny day anywhere but the beach. As a lifelong Santa Barbara resident, my favorite way to savor those golden afternoons is by doing exactly that: toes in the sand, waves crashing at my feet, a turkey sandwich in one hand and an Agatha Christie novel in the other. Honestly, does it get much better?

I’m here to tell you it does. Santa Barbara is a place of dual delights. And while the coastline tends to steal the spotlight, I’d be remiss if I didn’t also shine some light on the other side of town that visitors often overlook. Because here, we’re not just flanked by sea; we’re also cradled by mountains, which means that in under 20 minutes, you can go from your beach towel to hitting the trail.

That unique geography is what makes our mountains stand out. Unlike most of California’s coastline, where mountain ranges tend to stretch north to south, the Santa Ynez Mountains run east to west. This rare alignment creates dramatic, side-by-side views of both the Pacific Ocean and the mountains — especially breathtaking from higher elevations during sunrise or sunset.

And if that doesn’t convince you to trade your beach nap for an uphill trek — and you happen to be a nature enthusiast — know that Santa Barbara is one of the most biodiverse regions in the state, boasting a variety of breathtaking flora and fauna. Take the Matilija poppy, for example: visually striking and curiously reminiscent of a cracked egg. Or consider the California scrub jay, whose vibrant cobalt feathers never fail to turn heads.

While it’s hardly a novel take, I’ve always believed that the best way to explore a place is by immersing yourself in its terrain. Sure, the beach is tempting, and I don’t blame anyone for choosing the comfort of the sand over a sweaty excursion. But as someone who’s hiked every trail on this list, I urge you to give the mountains a chance — if not for the stunning views, then for the adventure.

WIMBERLY, TEXAS — Matthew Dowd knows sorrow and loss. He has been divorced twice. A daughter died two months after she was born. And then there is the added heartbreak — a word he uses — of his split with President Bush.

Dowd, 46, is one of the nation’s leading political strategists, a onetime Democrat who switched sides to help put Bush in the White House, then win a second term. He spent years shaping and promoting Bush’s policies — policies that Dowd now views with a mixture of anguish and contempt.

He began expressing his disillusionment, tentatively at first, at a UC Berkeley conference in January. Since then, he has grown more forceful.

On the administration’s response to the Sept. 11 attacks: “I asked, ‘Why aren’t we doing bonds, war bonds? Why aren’t we asking the country to do something instead of just . . . go shopping and get back on airplanes?’”

On the White House stand against same-sex marriage: “Why are we having the federal government get involved? . . . Does a thing limiting someone’s rights and aimed at a particular constituency belong in the U.S. Constitution?”

On the war in Iraq: “I guess somebody would make the argument, well, the Iraq war was about defending ourselves. But it seems an awfully huge stretch these days to say that.”

With a rueful laugh and, at one point, a catch in his throat, Dowd offered a lengthy account of his break with Bush during hours of conversation at his 18-acre ranch in the green Hill Country outside Austin. He puffed a cigar, and then another, as the fading sun glinted off the Blanco River. A CD player cycled through sacred music and country songs.

Dowd is not the first Bush ally to part with the administration. Former Treasury Secretary Paul H. O’Neill contributed to a book that likened the president at cabinet meetings to a “blind man in a roomful of deaf people.” John J. Dilulio Jr., who led the White House office of faith-based initiatives, left with a shot at “Mayberry Machiavellis.” Retired Army Lt. Gen. Ricardo S. Sanchez, who once led U.S. forces in Iraq, accused the administration of going to war with a “catastrophically flawed” plan.

But Dowd was a part of Bush’s political inner circle, enjoying a degree of power and intimacy that made his criticism all the more unexpected — and hurtful to those still close to the president, many of whom are Dowd’s friends.

“I care about him as a human being,” said Mark McKinnon, a former Dowd business partner who produced Bush’s campaign ads and sometimes bicycles with the president. “The problem was not just what he said, but that he never voiced any of those concerns directly to people he was supposed to be advising.”

Dowd responded that he shared his feelings with McKinnon and others close to Bush more than once before going public.

In speaking out, Dowd has not only strained personal relationships but raised larger questions about loyalty in the political realm. Is he obliged to stand by his old boss, whose success made Dowd one of the most sought-after consultants in the campaign business? Or does he owe it to the country to openly dissent, even if he didn’t do so from the start?

The answer, for Dowd, is simple, even if his life these days is less so. “When you’re a public advocate of something in the high-profile way that I was, and all of a sudden it doesn’t turn out the way you thought, the counterweight is not to just sit quietly and let it go,” Dowd said. “I had to say something in a high-profile way.”

His disenchantment with the president built over several years. Dowd went public at a Berkeley seminar on the 2006 California governor’s race; Dowd was both a senior advisor to the Republican National Committee, where he landed after Bush took office, and a top strategist for Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s reelection effort. It was a question about the president that set Dowd off and, looking back, liberated him.

“Do you lose sleep at night knowing that you gave this country probably the worst administration we’ve ever had?” asked a young man. “I mean, have you thought about maybe trying to save your soul by calling for impeachment?”

Dowd tensed and leaned forward. Rather than defend Bush, he spoke of the oldest of his three sons, an Army language specialist then facing deployment to Iraq. “Now, am I a person who stays up at night thinking about that? Yeah. . . . Do we have hopes and dreams and disappointments? . . . Yes,” Dowd said.

But when things don’t turn out as hoped “it does not mean that you somehow have to walk down the street in a hair shirt with a sign that says, ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,’ ” he said. “We move on.”

Dowd now sees the confrontation as “a gift [that] gave me the opportunity to start expressing things more and more publicly.”

In March, he wrote a piece for Texas Monthly magazine suggesting Bush had undercut his “gut-level bond with the American public.” Finally, applying torch to bridge in spectacular fashion, Dowd detailed his break with Bush in a front-page interview with the New York Times. No one in the White House was alerted.

“I was definitely disappointed I had to learn from a reporter, and not him, that he was going public,” said Dan Bartlett, a former White House counselor and a friend of Dowd.

In the seven months since, Dowd has spurned book offers and the talk-show circuit, as well as the antiwar movement. He is not comfortable in the role of Bush basher. “I don’t hate the guy,” he said of the president, who has not spoken with Dowd since he aired his views. “I don’t think he’s evil or bad. I think he’s a good person that didn’t accomplish what he set out to do.”

Dowd grew up the third of 11 children in an Irish Catholic family in Detroit. His father was an auto executive; his mother taught elementary school before becoming a full-time mom. If not for all those kids, Dowd said, his family might have been upper-middle-class. Instead, there were hand-me-downs and lots of meatless suppers.

His conservative parents shaped his political views. But that changed at Cardinal Newman College, a small liberal arts school in St. Louis. Dowd became a Democrat, albeit one who opposed abortion and heavy taxation. It made for a good fit with conservative Democrats in Texas, where he moved in 1984 to work for Austin’s congressman.

Over the next 10 years, Dowd helped elect Democrats throughout Texas and elsewhere, growing close to one in particular, the state’s crusty Lt. Gov. Bob Bullock. Bullock, in turn, hit it off with Bush after the Republican became governor in 1994. Bullock even crossed party lines to endorse Bush’s 1998 reelection.

Soon after that landslide, Dowd was approached by Karl Rove, Bush’s top campaign advisor. The two were friendly, having lectured together on politics at the University of Texas. Bush was preparing a presidential run, and Rove wanted help. Dowd was impressed with the way Bush worked with Bullock and other statehouse Democrats. “I thought Washington was so screwed up, so polarized, maybe he’d be the guy who could fix that,” Dowd said.

His hopes rose during the 2000 campaign. “We were going to change Washington,” Dowd said. “There was kind of a mutual agreement that [Bush] was going to be a different kind of Republican.”

At first Bush governed that way, Dowd said, working with Democrats to cut taxes and overhaul education policy. But he believes something changed after Sept. 11, 2001. “There was an imperial feel to it,” Dowd said. “The things he did in Texas, he didn’t do any of that. . . . We didn’t build relationships with Democrats in Congress, and we didn’t build them overseas.”

When Dowd voiced concerns — about the failure to ask more of Americans after Sept. 11, about further tax cuts — he felt ignored. “Karl wanted me to worry about other things,” Dowd said. “I’d get a nice pat on the head.” Rove had no comment for this article.

The GOP congressional gains in 2002 didn’t help, Dowd said. “Increasing Republican majorities in both houses,” he said, “became a disincentive for consensus building.”

Still, Dowd stuck by the president and managed his reelection campaign because he assumed things would change once Bush was in a second term. It was, he said, like ignoring doubts in hopes of saving a marriage. “You say, ‘Well, they got drunk last night but it’ll be better next week.’ Or, ‘They had an affair but they’re not really that way.’ You talk yourself out of it because you believed, and you want to believe.”

His disaffection grew, however, when Bush started his second term with an acrimonious fight over Social Security. Dowd felt the president had the chance — but not the desire — to reach out to Democrats.

The years between the 2000 campaign and Bush’s reelection had been a whirlwind for Dowd, a time of great professional success and personal upheaval. In September 2002, he and his second wife had twin daughters born prematurely; one died after two months in the hospital. Their marriage began unraveling.

He spent much of 2005 co-writing a book on leadership, “Applebee’s America,” and thinking. His work advising Schwarzenegger pushed him further from Bush. The governor’s bipartisanship, Dowd thought, was a favorable contrast to the president’s “my-way-or-the-highway” approach.

The White House, however, was not pleased when Schwarzenegger distanced himself from Bush. After some “fairly heated discussions,” Dowd said, he and Rove stopped talking before the midterm election. They have not spoken since. Dowd left his job with the Republican National Committee at the end of last year.

He expresses no regrets for repudiating the president he served, even if the experience seems to have deepened his disappointment in Bush and the ways of Washington. Dowd has taken comfort from strangers who called and sent e-mails “basically saying that it took a lot of courage to say the truth.” It is friends who have let him down: “People who called up and said, ‘We agree with you, but you should not have said anything until January ’09.’ ”

Dowd had hoped his harsh words would break through to the president and White House. “But it doesn’t seem to me less bunkered than it was,” Dowd said, with a mirthless chuckle.

Tony Fratto, a White House spokesman, rejected that notion. “I think there’s a lot of exchange and interaction,” Fratto said. “No one here fails to hear criticisms or concerns, whether it’s coming from the media or experts or the public or Capitol Hill. In fact, I would say it’s impossible not to.”

Dowd said he heard secondhand that Bush was hurt by his criticism. Asked if he would like to resume their relationship, Dowd paused. “Sure, I’d like to visit with him,” he said. “It would be a nice thing to do at some point. But I don’t feel a necessity to do it to settle something in myself.”

Dowd lives alone on his ranch, amid the tall grass, cedar and live oaks that run to the edge of the Blanco River. It is an exile of his choosing, six miles outside Wimberly, population 4,000. He is, he happily noted, just another local tooling around in a silver Dodge pickup.

His 3,300-square-foot home has a country feel, with antique fixtures, a wraparound porch and knotty wood floors. A frilly bedroom guarded by a life-size stuffed tiger awaits frequent visits from his 5-year-old daughter, Josephine. The house is filled with books, inspirational sayings — “Happiness often sneaks in a door you did not open” — and, by a quick count, more than 100 crosses. The Prayer of St. Francis — “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love” — is inscribed on a big painting above the fireplace.

Notably absent are pictures of Bush, or any other politician. “I don’t define myself by my professional career. How much money I made, who I elected,” Dowd said. He may be through with campaigns; but there is plenty of work doing brand consulting for corporate clients, which takes him two to three times a week to Austin, a 50-minute drive.

Faith has always been important to Dowd, a former altar boy who once considered becoming a priest (except for the fact he liked girls too much). But it has become even more important after the discouragement of the last few years. He attends Mass each Sunday, and sometimes during the week. Recently, Dowd took a spiritual journey, including stops in India, Nepal and Israel, to walk in the footsteps of Gandhi, Buddha and Jesus, among others.

“If you really want to know where I’m at, it’s understanding now that the people that have had the most profound effect on the world are not elected officials, not people who have held vast kingdoms, but are basically people who walked out their front door and acted right,” Dowd said.

Happiness, he believes, requires three things: people, a place and work that feed the soul. He has his children and ranch. Dowd is now trying to figure out the last piece.

[email protected]

Glacier National Park, Mont. — JOHAN looked up. Jenna was running toward him. She had yelled something, he wasn’t sure what. Then he saw it. The open mouth, the tongue, the teeth, the flattened ears. Jenna ran right past him, and it struck him — a flash of fur, two jumps, 400 pounds of lightning.

It was a grizzly, and it had him by his left thigh. His mind started racing — to Jenna, to the trip, to fighting, to escaping. The bear jerked him back and forth like a rag doll, but he remembered no pain, just disbelief. It bit into him again and again, its jaw like a sharp vise stopping at nothing until teeth hit bone. Then came the claws, rising like shiny knife blades, long and stark.

Classic stories from the Los Angeles Times’ 143-year archive

Johan and Jenna had been on the trail little more than an hour. They had just followed a series of switchbacks above Grinnell Lake and were on a narrow ledge cut into a cliff. It was an easy ascent, rocky and just slightly muddy from yesterday’s rain.

Johan took some pictures. Jenna pushed ahead. It was one of the most spectacular hikes they’d taken on this trip, a father-daughter getaway to celebrate her graduation from high school. There were some steps, a small outcropping, a blind turn, and there it was, the worst possibility: a surprised bear with two yearling cubs.

The bear kept pounding into him. He had to break away. To his right was the wall of the mountain, to his left a sheer drop. Slightly behind him, however, and 20 feet below the trail, a thimbleberry and alder patch grew on a small slope jutting from the cliff. As a boy growing up in Holland, Johan had roughhoused with his brother and had fallen into bushes. He knew it would hurt, but at least it wouldn’t kill him.

So like a linebacker hurtling for a tackle, he dived for that thimbleberry patch. The landing rattled him, but he was OK. His right eye was bleeding, but he didn’t have time to think about that. Jenna was now alone with the bear.

She had reached down to pick up the bear spray. The small red canister had fallen out of the side pocket of his day pack, and there it was, on the ground. But she couldn’t remove the safety clip, and the bear was coming at her again. She screamed.

“Jenna, come down here,” he yelled.

She never heard him. She was falling, arms and legs striking the rocky cliff, then nothing for seconds before she landed hard.

The bear did hear him, however. It looked over the cliff and pounced. Johan had never seen anything move so fast in his life. He tucked into a fetal position. The bear fell upon him, clawing and biting at his back. His day pack protected him, and his mind started racing again.

His daughter didn’t have a pack. He always carried the water and snacks. If the bear got to her, it’d tear her apart.

He turned, swung to his right and let himself go. Only this time there wasn’t a thimbleberry patch to break his fall. It was a straight drop to where Jenna had landed, and instead of taking the bear away from her, as he had hoped, he was taking the bear to her.

JOHAN Otter lived with his wife, Marilyn, and their two teenage daughters in a two-story home in a semirural neighborhood of Escondido, Calif. He worked as an administrator at Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. He ran in marathons and bred exotic birds. He knew the love of his family, success at his job, good health. At 43, he had dreams of a long and happy life. But dreams are often upended. Johan knew this, and whenever possible, he tried to distance himself and his family from risk.

It was Aug. 25, 2005. Seven days earlier, Johan and Jenna had packed up the family pickup truck and driven north through Nevada and Utah. In September, she would begin her freshman year at UC Irvine. Hiking was their special bond. He was a runner, she was a dancer; they both were in good shape for the trail, and it wasn’t unusual for Marilyn and Stephanie, their younger daughter, to stay home.

Johan Otter, top photo at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park on Aug. 24, 2005. A day hike that he and his daugther Jenna took. “My last day with hair,” Otter said. Bottom photo shows Jenna Otter in of the last photos taken by Johan Otter before being attacked by a Grizzly bear on the Grinnell Glacier Trail in Glacier National Park, Montana.

(Jenna Otter)

Johan and Jenna checked into a motor lodge on the east side of Glacier. Johan was eager to experience the wildness of the park, and the first night he did. A black bear, just outside the lodge.

For millenniums, bears have lurked on the periphery of everyday life, dark shadows just beyond the firelight. On this continent, they have been our respected competition and greatest threat. Even though close encounters with bears, especially grizzlies, are rare, they trigger a conditioned response, a reflex of fear and flight that is seldom called upon in modern life. Sometimes we get away. Sometimes we can’t.

But most of all, bears inspire a deep fascination. Johan remembered how, as a boy, he would go with his family on vacations to Norway and how his parents, his brother and he had always wanted to see a bear. The curiosity never left him. Three years ago, during a trip to Canada with the family, he and Stephanie saw a cub. Marilyn and Jenna stayed back.

On this trip to Glacier, they had an ambitious hiking schedule, and they were disappointed when it rained their first full day. They contented themselves with driving to various sights. The next day was beautiful. The sun cut through scattered, misting clouds. Johan was eager to get out on the trail before anyone else. It was 7:30 a.m.

The path wound through a lush carpet of thimbleberry, beargrass and lilies growing beneath a mix of Engelmann spruce and Scotch pine. They skirted Lake Josephine, and in less than an hour, Johan and Jenna were above the tree line. Surrounding peaks were lightly dusted with snow. At one point Johan spotted a golden eagle trying to catch a thermal. They talked loudly, just as you’re supposed to do in bear country. Jenna was trying to figure out how she could be both a dancer and a doctor. He wondered if he’d be able to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

As they made their way along the southern flank of Mt. Grinnell, a glacier-carved cliff that rises nearly 3,500 vertical feet from the valley floor, they fell silent, lost in the sounds of the wind and the water, the beauty of the moment. Ahead of them were the Gem and Salamander glaciers. A ribbon of water cascaded into the forest below. A river flowed into the turquoise stillness of Grinnell Lake.

Penstemon, columbines and fireweed bloomed amid the low-lying alder scrub. They passed through Thunderbird Falls, a landmark on the trail where a stream often pours from the cliff above onto a platform of flat stones. Today it was only wet and slippery, but the drop-off was unforgiving.

(Doug Stevens / Los Angeles Times)

TEN minutes past the falls, they ran into the bear. In a matter of minutes, they had all tumbled 30 feet down a rocky V-shaped chute, landing on a ledge beneath the trail. Jenna had scrambled away, and the grizzly was on top of Johan.

The attack had just started, and it had been going on too long. He grabbed the bear by the fur on its throat. The feeling of the coarse hair, as on a dirty dog, was unforgettable, and for a moment the animal just stared at him, two amber-brown eyes, its snout straight in his face. It showed no emotion, no fear, no anger. There were just those eyes looking down at him.

Johan considered fighting. He reached to his left for a rock. A piece of shale, it crumbled in his fist. He tucked his knees to his chest and tried to cover his head.

The bear bit again and again on his right arm. So this is what it feels like to have your flesh torn, he thought, still trying to comprehend the attack. He tussled about, trying to avoid greater injury.

“Aaagh,” he screamed.

Now the bear was tugging on his back. It felt as if someone were jumping up and down on him, and he found himself growing angry. Throw it off the mountain. If only he could throw it off the mountain.

He felt a sharp pressure on the top of his neck and his head. The bear was biting into his skull, chewing into the bone. This could be it, he thought. This could be his death, and his right hand was useless. He could not push the bear away.

If only this were a movie or one of those old episodes of “Bonanza” he used to watch on TV. He’d be a stuntman, and they’d stop shooting any time.

But this was real. He’d die if he didn’t make another move, so he rolled and fell again, sliding 20 feet down the slope to a small ledge and then over that and onto a narrow shelf. Right foot, left foot. He landed on his feet. He was lucky he stopped. He wouldn’t have survived the next long straight drop.

He was silent. The bear stood above him, unable to reach him. It felt good to be left alone. Water flowed down his back. Cold water. He’d fallen into a small stream, runoff from yesterday’s rain.

Jenna heard the bear panting as it came closer to where she lay beneath the branches of a low-lying alder. She felt woozy from her fall. She had a knot on her head. Her back ached, and her ankle was bleeding.

She tried to stay tucked in, but when the bear got close to her face, she had to push it away. It nipped at the right corner of her mouth, at her hair, her right shoulder. Each bite was quick, followed by a slight jostle.

Her screams split the morning silence like an ax.

Source: National Park Service. Graphics reporting by Thomas Curwen

(Thomas Suh Lauder/Los Angeles Times; Photo by Allen J. Schaben/Los Angeles Times)

JOHAN pressed himself against the mountain. There was no room to sit or lie down. He heard Jenna, but he couldn’t do anything. He would remember the sound as the worst he had ever heard, and then there was nothing. All was still.

He was wet and dirty, soaked with blood and starting to shiver. The attack had lasted at most 15 minutes. He looked at his right arm and saw exposed tendons. His medical training as a physical therapist told him no major nerves or arteries had been cut. They can sew that together, he thought, and that, and that.

Then he touched the top of his head and felt only bone. He stopped exploring. It was enough to know that his scalp had been torn off. His neck hurt. He wondered if something was broken.

He couldn’t see out of his right eye. He reached up. It was full of blood and caked over. Was his eyeball hanging out? No, it was still in place. He carefully parted his eyelids. The sweet turquoise stillness of Grinnell Lake shimmered nearly 1,500 feet below him. He could see. He was relieved.

“Jenna,” he eventually called out.

“Dad.”

She had played dead, and the bear had moved on. She assessed her injuries. A bite on her shoulder as deep as a knuckle. Lower lip torn down to her chin. Hair caked with blood.

Her father’s voice was the best sound she’d ever heard.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m OK. How are you?”

“I’m bleeding a lot.” He thought of his own injuries and of his daughter’s appearance. “How’s your face? Did it get you?”

“Just my mouth.”

“And your eyes?”

“They’re fine.”

He could tell by the sound of her voice that she was OK. Thank you, God.

He gazed up into the sky above Mt. Gould on the far side of the valley. He thought of the people he knew who were dead. His mother and father. Thank you, Mom, and thank you, Dad, for being an energy that he could draw on. Somehow it made him less afraid.

And thank you, Sophie. She was a patient of his, an 80-year-old woman who had died last year. They had grown close as Johan worked with her. She would complain — I’m going to die, she’d say — and he’d tell her to be quiet. You’re not going to die, Sophie. And to think he nearly had.

And thank you, Steve, his father-in-law, Marilyn’s dad, who had become his own dad in a way.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Then he called back to Jenna. “It got me kind of bad.”

It was the only time he told her how he felt. After that, he turned stoic. No complaining. No despairing. He knew his dad would have reacted the same way. He chalked it up to being Dutch: You take care of yourself and your children. Jenna would do the same.

Together, unprompted, they began to call out.

“Helllp.”

“Helllp.”

GLACIER National Park straddles the Continental Divide. Popularly thought of as North America’s Switzerland, famous for its snowy peaks, alpine meadows, rivers and lakes, the park attracts nearly 2 million visitors each year. On the east side of the park, the Grinnell Glacier Trail is one of the most popular day hikes.

“Helllp.”

Johan knew he couldn’t stand here much longer. He took off his day pack and camcorder. His digital camera was gone, lost in the chaos. He pulled a jacket out of his pack and put the hood over his head. The night before, he’d read a book about bear attacks: how a woman in Alaska had stopped the bleeding of her scalp by covering her head. He also thought it might be easier on Jenna or anyone else who might happen to see him.

He wanted to climb to the ledge above. He didn’t know how he’d carry his pack and camcorder. Then it came to him, what they say on airplanes. Leave your luggage and take care of yourself. It made sense. He clambered and crawled off the narrow shelf and up to the ledge. He felt dizzy, so he sat down.

Johan and Jenna alternated their calls. Jenna had decided to stay where she was. She too was dizzy and uncertain of her injuries. Perched on the side of the mountain, about 75 feet apart, they looked down into the valley. Their cries disappeared in the vast open space. It was windy and cold, and the quiet seemed unreal after the intensity of the attack.

“Helllp.”

Then Jenna called out. “Dad, the boat just got to the dock. I see people getting off.” It was a water taxi that ran a regular service across Lake Josephine.

Johan knew that with the arrival of the boat, hikers would soon be streaming along the trail and their shouts would be heard. He was tired. He stopped yelling and tried not to think about how badly injured he was. Nothing a little surgery can’t fix, he told himself. Besides, he was alive, and his daughter was fine.

Amid the isolation and the cold, he grew sore and stiff and numb. Lying down, sitting up, nothing helped. Forty-five minutes later, he heard Jenna talking with someone. She called to him. “Dad, there are people here now. They’re getting help.”

Still it seemed like forever. Then Johan saw a man cutting through the bushes and sliding down toward him. The man’s eyes were wide open. The expression said everything.

“Are you OK?” the man asked.

“Do you see a camera?” Johan replied.

Jim Knapp was surprised by the question, but very little was making sense.

Knapp and his wife had started their hike that morning a little past 8, well ahead of the water taxi. After an hour on the trail, they heard what sounded like a coyote or a hawk or some animal being attacked. Then there was more, and it sounded human. They started running. Someone must have fallen or sprained an ankle.

Knapp told Johan he would look for the camera, but his attention was focused on the injured man before him. It was the most gruesome sight he had ever seen.

Blood covered Johan’s face. His arms and legs oozed blood. His voice and sentences were jerky and repetitive. He reminded Knapp of Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman,” and with his sweat shirt pulled up over his head, he looked like Beavis in an episode of “Beavis and Butthead.”

“Jenna’s OK,” Knapp said, as he began to get a sense of Johan’s injuries. He noticed the day pack — but no camera — on the shelf beneath them, and he climbed down to retrieve it. Inside were a sweat shirt and four water bottles. He covered Johan and tried to make him drink. He took off his T-shirt and wrapped it around a deep gash on Johan’s leg. He laid out some nuts and a granola bar and took some water up to Jenna.

Then Johan saw a girl. She was sliding down to him. Her name was Kari.

Kari Schweigert and Heidi Reindl had been car-camping in Glacier. They were just starting on an 11-mile hike when they ran into Jim Knapp’s wife, running down the trail, screaming for help.

Then there were two teenage boys. Johan couldn’t keep track of everyone, but one of the boys — the one who wore a beanie — did get his camera. It was the camcorder, and Johan was glad to see it. He was also glad that people were finally getting there, but he felt bad for them. He knew stumbling upon a bear attack — and finding him as bloody as he was — couldn’t be easy for them. A fall or a sprain, sure, but a bear attack? He tried to tell himself that it would be OK. He tried to console himself. If he and Jenna had not been attacked, then these other hikers would have.

What can we do, everyone asked. How can we help?

The rock at the back of his head felt like it was digging into his skull. He squirmed about. He wanted them to help him sit up, but they didn’t want to. They were worried about his neck.

Then he’d have to do it himself. He simply wanted to sit up, have a drink of water and then maybe lie down again.

But he was fading.

Grinnell Glacier at Glacier National Park

(Ryan Herron/Getty Images/iStockphoto)

VOICES told him that help was on the way, only he was losing interest. He didn’t want to deal with any of this anymore. It was all too much: wondering how they’d get him and Jenna off the mountain; wanting to be cleaned up from the dirt and sticky blood; saddened that their trip was ending this way.

Kari Schweigert sat beside him, talking. Her curly hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was in a tank top; Johan was wearing her jacket. He was shaking and numb with cold.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“The pain is OK,” he said. “I’d just like to take a nap.”

Then she started to move in closer to him. She knew he was cold. She said she wanted to warm him up. She angled around him and covered his abdomen and chest with her body, her legs off to a side.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. He didn’t want her to get covered with blood; it would be impossible to wash out.

She couldn’t cover him completely, but she did shield him from the wind. It was a moment he would never forget. How strange, he thought, to be hiking along on this trail one moment, thinking about running in a marathon, and then suddenly not being able to walk, being so dependent upon strangers, and now this girl so close to him, so tender and different from the savagery of the attack.

His mind kept going back to Jenna. Everyone told him that she was not as badly injured as he was. He felt guilty. Why had he wanted to go hiking here? Why wasn’t he a better parent?

Schweigert kept talking to him. She told him not to fall asleep. It made sense. He knew he’d lost a lot of blood, and he knew he was in shock. The wash of voices and movement of people around him, once reassuring, began to blur.

A park ranger and a dozen hikers were on the trail above them. The ranger radioed a report on Johan and Jenna’s status to the ranger station at Many Glacier, where an incident commander was assembling a rescue team.

A few of the hikers peered over the edge.

“Do you need anything?” they yelled.

“More jackets.”

Someone tucked one under Johan’s head.

His neck felt broken.

“WHAT’S your name?”

“Johan Otter.”

“Where are you?”

“Glacier National Park.”

“What time of day is it?”

“Late morning.”

“What happened?”

“Bear attack….”

The name badge said Katie. She wore the green and gray uniform of the park service. She had slid down the slope, balancing a medical kit and a shotgun in her hands, and once she determined that he was alert and oriented, she started dressing his wounds.

Katie Fullerton had pulled into the Many Glacier parking lot expecting just another summer day. Then she heard about the attack. She and another ranger were ordered to get to Johan and Jenna as soon as possible. Since opening in 1910, Glacier National Park has had only 10 bear fatalities, and they were enough.

The incident commander at Many Glacier had put a call out for additional rangers, some stationed on the west side of the park, 70 miles — a two-hour drive — away. A helicopter, chartered from Minuteman Aviation, would ferry those rangers to the site of the attack and would be used to shuttle equipment and personnel up to the mountain.

Whup, whup, whup.

Katie Fullerton looked up. At 9,000 feet, the white chopper had negotiated a U-shaped notch in the Garden Wall, a narrow filigree of stone crowning the Continental Divide. As it drew close, it circled, looking for a place to land. Johan and Jenna Otter could not have fallen in a less accessible place.

Three hours had passed since the attack, and Johan’s metabolism was slowing down. The blast of adrenaline triggered by the attack was long gone; the 15-minute torrent of thought and reaction had dissipated in a miasma of pain, discomfort and boredom. Why was the rescue taking so long?

Crashing mentally and emotionally, he knew he needed to stay warm and awake. Gusts of wind ghosted along the cliff; temperatures shot from warm to freezing as clouds drifted beneath the sun. Hikers on the trail were tossing down energy bars, water and more outerwear. A ranger was talking on the radio.

A second ranger crouched beside Johan. He had arrived with nearly 50 pounds of gear, including a life-support pack with IV fluids, medications and an oxygen tank, and he began cutting away Johan’s jackets and clothing. He introduced himself as Gary, Gary Moses. Johan appreciated his calm and confident manner.

Moses explained that the plan was to place Johan and Jenna on litters, have them lifted up to the trail and then carried down to a landing zone, where the chopper would take them to the Kalispell Regional Medical Center in Kalispell, Mont., in the Flathead Valley on the west side of the park.

Rangers on the trail set up a belaying system. They knew they had to move fast. Moses took Johan’s vitals. His blood pressure was 80 over 30, his pulse 44, his temperature dropping.

Moses prepared an IV line. Johan tried to lie still, but he was shivering uncontrollably. Then he heard something. It was Katie Fullerton; she was crying. The sound startled him at first.

“Do you want to stand down?” Moses asked his fellow ranger.

She shook her head.

Johan was glad. She had worked hard to make him comfortable and safe.

This was her first season as a patrol ranger, her first major trauma. Just last year, she’d been collecting user fees, and she had grown up near the park. She and her family had hiked these trails. This could just as easily have been her father.

Her tears reminded Johan how grave his situation was.

THE helicopter was making a second landing, and all Johan could think was: Hurry up. A second medic had joined Moses and Fullerton.

“How’s Jenna?” It was his steady refrain.

“There’re people with her.”

Moses and the other medic put a C-collar around Johan’s neck and got ready to insert a urinary catheter. Johan reminded them about a scene in “Seinfeld” in which an embarrassed George Costanza is caught naked and complains about “shrinkage.” They burst out laughing, and Johan relaxed a little. This is who he was: not just a bloodied man but someone always there with an easy line, ready to lighten the mood, to give to others.

Moses reassessed the rescue plan. It had taken nearly an hour to find a vein and get the IV started. Carrying Johan out, lifting him to the trail and then down to the helicopter landing zone was going to be too traumatic, and the afternoon was getting on.

He thought a helicopter could lift Johan directly off this ledge, in a rescue known as a short haul. It would be quicker but riskier. Still, he didn’t see any way around it. He radioed in his recommendation. The incident commander agreed. They called in the rescue helicopter operated by the hospital in Kalispell.

As they waited, Johan remembered an Air Force chopper that had crashed during a rescue on Mt. Hood little more than three years earlier. Everything — the foundering, the dipping, the rolling down the slope in a cascade of snow — had been televised on the evening news.

It made him nervous.

“Am I going to die?” Johan asked.

“You’re not going to die up here,” the second medic said.

RED against the blue sky and white clouds, the short-haul helicopter was easier to spot than the Minuteman.

“Hear that?” Gary Moses looked out over the valley. “That’s the sound of your rescue.”

Pilot Ken Justus adjusted the foot pedals and hand controls to bring the Bell 407 closer to the cliff. Travis Willcut, the flight nurse, sat next to him, calling out positions, monitoring radio traffic. Jerry Anderson, a medic, dangled 150 feet beneath them on a rope with a red Bauman Bag and a body board at his waist.

Piloting a helicopter at moments like this is like pedaling an exercise bike on the roof of a two-story building while trying to dangle a hot dog into the mouth of a jar on the ground. Lying on his back, Johan watched.

The IV had kicked in. Though stiff and still cold, he was wide awake and in no pain. Anticipation was everything, and he remembered feeling a little afraid. He hated roller coasters and worried about his stomach.

“You’ll have the best view of your life,” Moses said, hiding his worry. He knew getting Anderson in would be tricky. Because helicopters can’t cast sharply defined shadows on steep terrain, pilots flying short-haul missions have trouble judging closing speeds and distances.

Johan Otter is airlifted from the Grinnell Glacier Trail with medic Jerry Anderson, after being attacked by a grizzly bear and her two cubs in Glacier National Park, Montana on August 25, 2005. Johan tumbled down a steep chute about 75 feet where he almost died.

(Heidi Reindl)

Anderson, dangling at the end of the rope, had a radio in his helmet. He was using it to direct Justus lower and closer to Johan. Abruptly, the radio died.

“I’m at your 11 o’clock position, a mile out,” Moses broke in with his radio, once he understood the problem. “Half mile, 12 o’clock.”

“Do I need to come up or down?”

“Up about 10 feet.”

Then just as Justus got closer, he caught Anderson’s shadow on the ledge and set him down about 20 feet to the right of Johan. The other rangers shielded Johan from the rotor wash and dust.

Anderson unhooked himself. Justus moved the helicopter away. With the rangers’ help, Anderson slid the body board beneath Johan and strapped the Bauman Bag around him. He waved Justus back in.

“We’re ready to lift.”

“Roger, ready to lift.”

Johan couldn’t tell when he was off the ground. Dangling with Anderson beside him, 150 feet beneath the helicopter, all Johan would see was Anderson’s face, the blue sky and the belly of the chopper. The wind whistled around him.

“Woo hoo!” The hikers and rangers on the mountain started cheering and clapping.

With Johan and Anderson still beneath him, Justus accelerated down the valley to the helipad at Many Glacier. A waiting crowd was asked not to take pictures. Johan was transferred into an ambulance while Justus went back to pick up Jenna. Finally Johan was out of the wind and in a warm place.

Then he heard the news.

“Jenna is here,” someone said.

“Hi, sweetie,” he called out as they prepared to fly him to the medical center in Kalispell. With his head wrapped in bandages, mummy slits for his eyes and the C-collar on his neck, Johan couldn’t see her. “Make sure when they call Mom that you talk to her.”

He knew he wouldn’t be the one making that call.

“Otherwise she’ll totally freak out,” he said.

About this article

The accounts in this article are drawn from interviews over a span of 18 months with Johan, Marilyn and Jenna Otter. Additional interviews were conducted with the following individuals:

National Park Service: Jan Cauthorn-Page, Katie Fullerton, Rachel Jenkins, Kathy Krisko, Gary Moses, Rick Mulligan, Melissa Wilson, Amy Vanderbilt and Andrew Winslow.

Hikers on the Grinnell Trail: Julie Aitchison, Colin Aitchison, Kathleen MacDonald, Jim Knapp, Marla Moore, Robin Malone and Heidi Reindl.

Minuteman Aviation: Jerry Mamuzich.

Kalispell Regional Medical Center’s Advanced Life Support and Emergency Rescue Team (ALERT helicopter): Jerry Anderson, Addison Clark, Ken Justus, Travis Willcut, Patricia Harmon and Keith Hannon.

Additional reporting came from the National Park Service’s investigation report concerning the attack.

About ten times each day, giant freight trains pass along a narrow section of track along the Sacramento River in far northern California where engineers on the locomotives regularly tense up with stress.

“Every single time, it’s a near miss” of a train hitting a person, said Ryan Snow, the California State Chairman of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and Trainmen. “Multiple near misses, every single run. My nightmare is that a family that isn’t paying attention gets hit.”

This particular stretch of track, which wends north from the town of Dunsmuir, is a renegade route for hikers to one of northern California’s most enchanting natural sights, Mossbrae Falls. Fed from glaciers on Mount Shasta, the water pours out of lava tubes and down mossy cliffs, forming a verdant and ethereal cascade into a calm, shaded swimming hole.

It appears magical. It is also inaccessible —unless visitors trespass more than a mile on on the tracks or wade across the river. Accidents have happened. Two people have been struck by trains in the last few years (although both survived.) In May a Southern California woman drowned after trying to reach the falls via the river. But the tourists keep coming. Drawn by Instagram and Tiktok, increasing numbers of people have taken to visiting the falls — nearly 30,000 according to a city study, the majority of them by trespassing up the train tracks.

For years, outdoor enthusiasts in and around Dunsmuir have pushed Union Pacific Railroad, which owns the tracks, to work with the city to create a safe, accessible, legal path. But the effort has been dogged by delays.

This week, the train workers union decided to enter the fray, issuing a press release decrying the slow progress and calling on Union Pacific to do more to make the long-held dream of a trail a reality.

“Each month that goes by without a real construction timeline, lives are put at risk,” Snow said in a statement. The statement also accused Union Pacific of “slow-walking” the project, saying railroad officials have called for meeting after meeting, but has never produced a right-of-way commitment or a clear construction timeline.

Many engineers, Snow said, are frustrated and feel the delay “unfairly endangers both railroad personnel and the public.”

In a statement, Union Pacific said that the railroad had “approved the concept of a trail into Mossbrae Falls years ago, and we have been working with the City of Dunsmuir and the Mount Shasta Trail Association to find solutions that address everyone’s safety concerns.”

Earlier this summer, Dunsmuir city officials held a “summit” with Union Pacific officials to tour the falls and talk about the proposed trail connection.

City officials said the summit, which included representatives from local elected officials offices as well as railroad officials from Omaha and Denver, marked “a new milestone in the slow but steady process.” A city press release noted that “key Union Pacific officials had the opportunity to see the falls for the first time, recognizing the importance of building public access to this beautiful natural resource.”

But some longtime trail advocates said they were not convinced that the dream is any closer. John Harch, a retired surgeon with the Mount Shasta Trail Assn. and has been working with others for years on public access, said he still didn’t see evidence of concrete progress.

“Here we sit, as before, while people risk their lives to see the falls,” he wrote in an email.

Snow said he hopes the public can put pressure on the parties to make concrete progress.

“We’ve been lucky that we haven’t had any fatalities caused by a trespasser strike,” he said. “The worst thing an engineer can do is hit somebody. It’s stressful.”

Meanwhile, he said, the route is only becoming more popular. “It’s in hiking magazines, and on the internet everywhere. It’s attracting more and more people.”

He added: “I can’t blame them. It’s beautiful.”

The UK is home to some of the most beautiful walks in the world, and one in particular is a must-visit this summer – especially if you love to snap photos

If you’re looking for a sign to get outside and discover the UK’s amazing landscapes, consider this your cue. A picturesque harbour town in the UK, boasting stunning coastal views and even a castle to explore, should be on your travel list, as there is so much to see and do there.

Stonehaven, located in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, is an ideal destination for a summer getaway. According to a recent study by CEWE experts, this charming location boasts one of the most scenic walks in the UK.

If you’ve visited before, you’ll understand why – the incredible landscape could easily have come straight from a postcard.

Each spot on the list was evaluated based on star ratings, review count, and descriptive terms such as ‘beautiful’, ‘stunning’, ‘amazing’, and ‘lovely’ – words typically linked with photogenic locations that leave lasting impressions.

The walk around Dunnottar Castle tied for second place overall with Powis Castle in Wales, surpassed only by Mount Stewart in Northern Ireland, reports the Express.

Dunnottar Castle in Stonehaven, Aberdeenshire stands as one of Scotland’s most precious landmarks, having shaped the nation’s story across 1,000 years of history.

Boasting dramatic clifftop panoramas, this remarkable fortress has welcomed legendary figures including Mary Queen of Scots throughout the centuries.

The castle has also served as the backdrop for numerous Hollywood productions, including Disney’s Brave and Mel Gibson’s Hamlet, with its official website noting that the ‘haunting’ castle has featured on the big screen many times.

They said: “Perched on a cliff-top amidst striking scenery with stunning seascape views, it’s not hard to understand why the beauty of this outstanding location has been captured on the silver screen on numerous occasions.”

Positioned dramatically on a towering 160-foot precipice and encircled by sparkling waters, this magnificent structure truly must be seen to be believed.

Visitors can venture to the Aberdeenshire coast to secure tickets for exploring the castle itself, or alternatively wander the surrounding grounds whilst admiring the view.

Things to do in Stonehaven

Dunnottar Castle is about 1.6 miles south of Stonehaven, so it’s the perfect place to visit if you’re in the area. But aside from the castle, there are so many brilliant things to do in this town.

No trip to Stonehaven would be complete without dedicating time to the charming harbour area.

There are so many places offering the perfect spots to dine, sip drinks and unwind, whilst there’s nothing quite like observing the boats gently swaying in the water.

During your stay, make sure to explore the Tolbooth Museum, which is the town’s most ancient building and previously served as a jail many years ago.

Many original elements remain intact, including the traditional prison cell entrance. And if you’re in the mood for a bit of adventure, you could also give paddleboarding lessons a go out on the water.

However, if you’re not quite up for braving the sea, there’s an outdoor swimming pool situated along the seafront that remains open until September.

On Friday, I visited an old friend I hadn’t seen in months: the Mt. Baden Powell trail near Wrightwood. I was nervous about what I’d find, given the trail’s proximity to a recent wildfire.

The Bridge fire started near the Bridge to Nowhere trailhead in Angeles National Forest in early September. It charged northward, burning 56,030 acres and destroying 81 structures, including homes in Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. It also incinerated campgrounds and scorched dozens of miles of trails.

Given the region’s fire-related closures, I hadn’t been back in 9½ months. I drove toward Wrightwood wondering how devastated the landscape would be. Would the trail be well maintained? Would this place where I’ve spent so many hours bounding up the mountainside still be as beautiful as I remembered?

The San Gabriel Mountains as seen from the Mt. Baden Powell trail.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

After my eight-mile trek to the summit of Mt. Baden Powell and back, I am relieved to report that it was an awesome day on the mountain — with some caveats.

The Mt. Baden Powell hike is one of several trails that reopened in late June after Angeles National Forest officials, for reasons that remain unclear, terminated the Bridge fire order.

Just over two weeks after the closure order was canceled, the California Department of Transportation announced that the section of State Route 2 (Angeles Crest Highway) from Big Pines Highway to the gate near Vincent Gulch in Angeles National Forest had reopened to the public.

From the Mt. Baden Powell trail, hikers can see a portion of the Bridge fire burn scar.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

This meant hikers could actually park near the trailhead rather than parking five miles away and hoofing it down the highway to reach the Baden Powell starting point. (Note: The section of Angeles Crest Highway between Vincent Gulch and Islip Saddle remains closed but could reopen this fall.)

As I drove west out of Wrightwood on Angeles Crest Highway, it was impossible to miss the burned landscape. I stopped at the Inspiration Point vista lookout and the destroyed Grassy Hollow Visitor Center, where blackened trees jut out of the ground like dark skeletal remains.

But pulling into the Vincent Gap parking lot, I was relieved to see green conifers thriving on the mountainsides. I chatted in the parking lot with another hiker who said she’s been coming to Wrightwood since the early 1970s when her grandparents had a home there. She was eager to return after the closure order was lifted but, like me, was nervous to see the fire’s effects.

It was hard to see so many burned and dead trees killed by fire and by drought, she said. She was surprised by how the area around Vincent Gap still looked healthy.

Several burned trees remain in the Bridge fire burn scar near Bear and Vincent gulches around Wrightwood.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

As I started the trail, infamous for its 40(ish) switchbacks, I spotted California sister butterflies as well as chipmunks performing parkour exercises across the trail, trying to remain unseen and looking extremely cute in the process. I listened to the tweets of dark-eyed juncos and the teensy blue-gray gnatcatcher.

About two-thirds of a mile in, I started to take in the views, looking northeast where the fire’s burn scar is easy to track by simply observing the large swaths of brown and dead trees. A begrudgingly optimistic person, I smiled when I saw green cedars and pines still alive among their dying brethren.

I was relieved to see the small wooden bench, just under a mile in, still perched on the mountainside. I yelled at a particular boulder just before Lamel Spring: “I remember you!” Although so much had changed around the trail, so much remained the same.

Chipmunks are easy to spot on the Mt. Baden Powell hike through the San Gabriel Mountains.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

At Lamel Spring, I refilled my water bottle and felt grateful at the burst of colors around me — bright orange lichen and wildflowers including small pink roses, scarlet monkey flowers and the rare lemon lily. A mountain chickadee buzzed past my head before landing on a branch nearby, where it kept watching me as I savored the cool spring water. It’s easy to forget that some of these animals are as curious, if not more, of us than we are of them. They people watch too.

I continued my hike and smiled when I saw the large old log on the trail that someone long ago carved “half way” into. It is, indeed, the halfway point.

The higher I climbed, the cooler and quieter it got, outside of the ravens squawking to each other from across the mountain. After some light grumbling, as I was ready for lunch, I arrived at the Wally Waldron Tree, a limber pine that might be the oldest living thing in the San Gabriel Mountains. Believed to be 1,500 years old, this tree is thankfully yet another thing that remains unchanged on this trail.

The Wally Waldron Tree remains alive and well, perched on a ledge parallel to the Mt. Baden Powell trail. The tree might be the oldest living thing in the San Gabriel Mountains.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

I was the only human on the summit, and I took the opportunity to, for the first time, lie down and enjoy my surroundings. (I did set a timer because I have this nightmare of accidentally falling asleep on the trail!)

Mt. Baden Powell is one of my favorite hikes, in part, because it’s a suffer fest. I have almost given up several times on this hike because it is a challenging slog up the mountain. Outside the trickling spring, there isn’t any water, and it can get hot as you charge up its more exposed switchbacks. But I keep coming back because every single time I reach the top, I am awestruck by the panoramic views of the San Gabriel Mountains, the Antelope Valley and more. It is important to be reminded of the specks of stardust we are sometimes.

Several burned trees near Inspiration Point near Wrightwood.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

This was the first time I’ve hiked Mt. Baden Powell and not seen a single cut-through on the trail, a bad habit of hikers who ignore the switchbacks and charge straight down. The trail was easy to follow and in pristine condition. A forest service worker told me that several volunteers are to thank for that. (Thank you!)

After the hike, I headed west down Big Pines Highway to see how the rest of the region fared in the Bridge fire. The first three-quarters of a mile of the highway are in the burn scar, but as I drove farther west, it became harder to discern where the burn scar was. There was so much green and life around me.

The hike to Mt. Baden Powell was thankfully spared in the Bridge fire and has hundreds of lush green shade trees.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Multiple campgrounds were damaged or destroyed in the fire and remain closed, including Blue Ridge, Guffy and Lupine. But several are open and offer beautiful escapes in the outdoors.

Those sites, which are managed by Mountain High, include:

• Appletree: Eight first come, first served walk-in campsites, including three that are ADA accessible; piped water available; vault toilets.
• Peavine: Eight first come, first served walk-in tent sites; no potable water; vault toilets.
• Lake: Eight sites, including six requiring reservations, next to Jackson Lake; drinking water available; vault toilets.
• Mountain Oak: Seventeen sites near Jackson Lake featuring flush toilets and water faucets.
• Table Mountain: A large campground featuring more than 100 of both first come, first served and reservation-only sites; drinking water available; vault toilets.

The last place on my list was Jackson Lake, where you can rent kayaks and paddle boats from Mountain High every Thursday through Monday.

Jackson Lake is a popular place near Wrightwood where families enjoy fishing, picnicking and staying at the nearby campground.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Families were picnicking and fishing, including some teenagers standing in the water in waders.

One child, hearing the croak of a local amphibian, shouted to his grandfather about how he was going to catch a frog and have frog legs for dinner that night. Nearby, another youngster had just caught a rainbow trout. She held the fish in her hands, showing an older kid her score.

May they, too, get to visit this area for many years to come.

3 things to do

A cluster of mushrooms in Canyon View Park in Aliso Viejo.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

1. Forage for information in Los Feliz 🍄
In collaboration with Friends of Griffith Park, Foraging & Mushroom Hunting Women of SoCal will host a beginner-friendly talk at 6:30 p.m. tonight at the Los Feliz Branch Library (1874 Hillhurst Ave.) on how to find mushrooms in the summer. Bat Vardeh, the foraging group’s founder, will explain how fungi is always growing in the region. Learn more at the group’s Instagram page.

2. Have a fin-tastic time in Long Beach
Cal State Long Beach’s Shark Lab will host its free family-friendly Sharks @ the Beach event from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturday at the CSU Long Beach Hall of Science. Guests can take lab tours, talk with scientists and observe live marine animals. No registration is required. Learn more at the lab’s Instagram page.

3. Help trees recover from wildfire near Malibu
The Resource Conservation District of the Santa Monica Mountains needs volunteers from 9 a.m. to noon Saturday to tend to more than 400 oak trees at Trippet Ranch in Topanga State Park. This is the first tree care event in the park since the Palisades fire. Participants will water trees, yank weeds and apply mulch as well as possibly plant new acorns to replace trees that did not thrive. Volunteers will also collect data for a reforestation project, which started in 2018. Participants should bring sun protection and water and wear clothes they don’t mind getting dirty and durable shoes. Register at eventbrite.com.

The must-read

Deepwater bubblegum coral, a host for California king crab, observed during a 2020 exploration of the Santa Lucia Bank off the central coast of California.

(Associated Press)

Despite continued challenges from the federal government, California is moving close to its goal of conserving 30% of lands and coastal waters by 2030. Times staff writer Lila Seidman reports that almost five years after the state launched its 30×30 initiative, California has conserved 26.1% of its lands and 21.9% of its coastal waters — or roughly 41,000 square miles and 1,150 square miles respectively. It’s great news — though it comes with an asterisk. “Federal attacks on public lands and environmental protections … could impact our progress,” California’s Natural Resources Secretary Wade Crowfoot said, “and we could actually see — if these federal attacks are successful — our acreage moving backwards.”

The Times will keep following these stories in The Wild and in stories from our climate team.

Happy adventuring,

P.S.

The REI store in Burbank will host its first community day from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. Sunday. Guests can snag free milkweed for monarchs from Arroyo Foothills Conservancy, which will teach visitors how to raise the milkweed to support pollinators. Shift Our Ways Collective will hand out pumpkin starters and teach folks how to take care of the seasonal plant. Also, other local groups, including Friends of Griffith Park, CicLAvia, We Explore Earth and Northeast Trees will host additional programming, including screening short films.

For more insider tips on Southern California’s beaches, trails and parks, check out past editions of The Wild. And to view this newsletter in your browser, click here.

You could argue that Nevada City peaked 170 years ago, along with Charles Darwin, Herman Melville and Queen Victoria.

But we’re still talking about them all. And Nevada City, 60 miles northeast of Sacramento in the Sierra foothills, is reachable without a séance.

In the 1850s, it grew from a miners’ outpost into a Gold Rush boomtown of 10,000 (heavy on the bars and brothels) before anyone got around to naming that other Nevada as a territory or a state. Today it lives on as a tiny town with a lively arts scene and a liberal bent, home to about 3,200 souls.

Perhaps because there’s so much to escape from these days, Nevada City and its larger, more middle-of-the-road neighbor Grass Valley have been drawing more visitors than ever lately. Nevada County’s hotel and vacation rental tax revenues have doubled in the last five years to a record high.

“A lot of people are coming up from the Bay Area and settling up here because Nevada City is in a lot of ways like the Bay Area,” said Ross Woodbury, owner of Nevada City’s Mystic Theater. “It’s a very blue town in a very red region.”

If you’re from elsewhere, it’s easy at first to overlook the differences among these Gold Rush towns. Once your feet are on the ground, however, the distinctions and fascinating details shine through — as do historic rivalries.

“Nevada City thinks it’s a little better than Grass Valley and Grass Valley think it’s a little better than Nevada City. I don’t think that’s ever going to change,” said restaurateur John Gemignani, standing by the grill of the Willo steakhouse in Nevada City.

“That’s never going to change,” confirmed his wife, Chris Gemignani.

Nevada City’s intimate size, upscale shops and throwback 19th century architecture alone are enough to win over many people. Its downtown is a 16-acre collection of more than 90 historic buildings, cheek by Victorian jowl. Say you have breakfast at Communal Cafe, lunch at Three Forks Bakery, dinner at Friar Tuck’s, a drink after at the Golden Era. You haven’t even hit 1,000 steps for the day yet, unless you’ve been dancing to the live music that often fills the area. (One night, I stepped from Spring Street into Miners Foundry — an 1856 landmark now used as a cultural center — and found about 200 locals gathered for a community sing, a chorus of Beatles-belting Boomers.)

For those who seek higher step counts, forested foothills and miles of trails wait outside town, along with often-perilous springtime whitewater and summer swimming holes along the South Yuba River. And in surrounding hill country, the Empire Mine and Malakoff Diggins, once the major employers (and polluters) of the region, now serve as state historic parks. The Beat Generation poet Gary Snyder (95 years old and well represented on the shelves at Harmony Books on Main Street) still lives on a ridge outside town.

Meanwhile, four miles down the road from Nevada City in Grass Valley, changes are afoot. The Holbrooke Hotel (statelier sibling to Nevada’s City’s National Exchange Hotel) reopened after a dramatic renovation in 2020. Soon after, spurred by the pandemic, the city closed busy Mill Street to cars, making it a permanent two-block pedestrian promenade full of restaurants, bars and shops.

Still, if Los Angeles moves at 100 miles per hour, Foggy Mountain Music store clerk Pete Tavera told me, “Grass Valley is like 60.”

Both towns preserve their mining heritage, and when you stroll through them, you can just about hear echoes of those raucous Gold Rush days. Here’s a little more of what I learned during a three-day visit:

• In the early days of the Gold Rush, most of the area’s mine workers lived in Grass Valley while the owners, bosses and other white-collar people built their upscale Victorian homes in Nevada City, the county seat.
• The Great Depression of the 1930s never really reached this corner of Gold Country, because the big hard-rock mines kept on producing gold.
• In 2024, when a company tried to restart gold mining at the nearby old Idaho-Maryland Mine, residents of Nevada County, which includes Nevada City and Grass Valley, rose up and the county board of supervisors shut down the idea, citing environmental risks. These days, it seems, Nevada County wants to remember gold mining, not live with it.

Because everybody needs a break now and then, here is a closer look at 15 essential spots, starting in Nevada City, continuing with Grass Valley.

Jrue Holiday’s acquisition from Portland helped spark the Boston Celtics to their NBA-record 18th championship last season.

Holiday is being sent back to the Trail Blazers by a Boston team that could now be in transition, a person with knowledge of the details said early Tuesday.

The Celtics will get Anfernee Simons and two second-round draft picks from the Trail Blazers.

The departure of Holiday, who made his sixth career All-Defensive team selection in his first season in Boston, was confirmed to the Associated Press on condition of anonymity because the deal is not yet official.

Holiday was traded by the Milwaukee Bucks to Portland in September 2023 when the Bucks acquired perennial All-Star Damian Lillard. Holiday was then dealt days later to the Celtics, eventually earning his second career title last June.

But the Celtics now have lost a second member of that starting lineup for at least part of next season, with All-NBA forward Jayson Tatum having surgery after an Achilles tendon injury in the loss to the New York Knicks in the Eastern Conference semifinals.

Simons could provide some of the scoring punch the Celtics have lost, having averaged 19.3 points last season after going for a career-best 22.6 per game in 2023-24.

But the Celtics will miss the defense and leadership that Holiday provided. The two-time Olympic gold medalist’s scoring was down, though, with the 11.1 points he averaged last season his lowest since his rookie season in 2009-10, and more than eight points lower than the 19.3 he put up in 2022-23 with the Bucks, when he was an All-Star.

More than that, the Celtics were likely motivated to trade Holiday because of the $104.4 million owed to him over the remaining three seasons of the contract extension they gave him last year, on top of the huge deals for Tatum and Jaylen Brown.

Holiday, who helped the Bucks win the 2021 NBA title, has averaged 15.8 points in a 16-year career that also includes stints with Philadelphia and New Orleans.

Before trading Holiday, the Celtics’ payroll next year was slated to be around $225 million, creating a tax bill of almost $280 million. The combined potential $500 million total price tag would have been a league record.

The larger concern was that figure would have exceeded not only the projected luxury tax threshold of $155 million, but also the first penalty apron projected of around $196 million and the second penalty apron of around $208 million. Both barriers carry restrictive penalties including limits on trades and what teams are allowed to do via free agency.

And that was all on top of the lack of clarity on if the team’s incoming ownership would want to keep paying such hefty penalties to maintain the current roster after agreeing to a purchase in March that is expected to have a final price of a minimum of $6.1 billion.

Trading Holiday suggests that new ownership wants at least some reduced spending before the start of next season. That’s especially true with Tatum out for at least a huge portion of next season and Brown coming off knee surgery.

Tatum signed an NBA-record five-year, $314-million contract last July that will begin next season and pay him $54 million. Brown is playing under a five-year, $304-million deal that kicked in this past season. He will make $53 million next season. That is followed by Kristaps Porzingis ($30 million), Derrick White ($28 million) and Sam Hauser ($10 million).

Porzingis seemingly would be the next potential player the Celtics would consider moving, with $60 million total left in his deal before he is eligible for free agency again in the summer of 2026. But there are questions about his health after he missed a significant number of games in the second half of the regular season and was limited in the playoffs because of a nagging respiratory illness.

No matter which direction the Celtics decide to go, Boston president of basketball operations Brad Stevens acknowledged last month after his team was eliminated from the playoffs that it’s unclear whether so-called championship windows are becoming smaller because of the current rules governing the salary cap.

“That’s a good question. I don’t know,” Stevens said. “I think certainly it is more challenging in certain circumstances for sure.”

Pelicans-Wizards trade

New Orleans has agreed to trade veteran guard CJ McCollum, center Kelly Olynyk and a future second-round pick to Washington for guard Jordan Poole, wing Saddiq Bey and the 40th overall pick in Thursday’s second round of the NBA draft, a person with knowledge of the agreement said.

Turkey’s beautiful coast, ancient sites and diverse landscapes attract millions of visitors each year. But beyond the much-loved tourist haunts like Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia mosque and picture perfect Ölüdeniz beach, there’s so much more to explore. We want to hear about your favourite under-the-radar discoveries, from coastal villages or special restaurants to mountain hideaways or hiking trails.

The best tip of the week, chosen by Tom Hall of Lonely Planet wins a £200 voucher to stay at a Coolstays property – the company has more than 3,000 worldwide. The best tips will appear in the Guardian Travel section and website.

Keep your tip to about 100 words

If you have a relevant photo, do send it in – but it’s your words we will be judging for the competition.

We’re sorry, but for legal reasons you must be a UK resident to enter this competition.

Hafren Forest is a haven of peace and beauty, with its cascading waterfalls, wildlife, and trails that take you through ancient woodland and to the source of the River Severn

Stepping onto the woodland trail, you’ll immediately be struck by the crisp air, tinged with the earthy aroma of damp pine and moss – a sensory reminder that this is nature in its rawest form. This is the lesser-known Hafren Forest in Mid Wales, home to cascading waters, trails and a quaint café just a short drive away.

Hafren is a meticulously managed woodland with an intriguing history and an abundance of trails to discover. Originally planted by the Forestry Commission in the 1930s for timber production, it now offers much more than just rows of trees.

READ MORE: Shoppers say ‘beautiful’ statement jewellery is a ‘compliment getter’

Now under the stewardship of Natural Resources Wales, the forest strikes a balance between commercial forestry, conservation, and public enjoyment, making it a crucial habitat for wildlife and a sanctuary for outdoor enthusiasts.

The name ‘Hafren’ derives from the Welsh term for the River Severn (Afon Hafren), which embarks on its impressive journey to the sea right here. Over the years, Hafren Forest has transformed into a popular and accessible walking destination, with its blend of natural beauty, heritage features and well-maintained trails drawing visitors all year round

The trails here are clearly marked and welcoming, meandering through groves of pines and firs. Their natural symmetry forms archways overhead, framing the path ahead.

When sunlight pierces the clouded sky, it floods in golden beams, lighting up leaves and bark, reports Wales Online. The River Severn, or Afon Hafren as it’s locally known, takes the spotlight here. It originates from the slopes of Pumlumon, with its concealed source nestled just beyond the forest.

Initially, it’s merely a tranquil stream meandering through the trees with quiet resolve. However, it soon gains momentum, cascading over rocky ledges and morphing into thunderous waterfalls that carve their way through the landscape with unyielding vigour.

Forest trails

There’s an abundance of trails to explore here, all clearly marked from beginning to end. Starting at the Rhyd-y-benwch car park, the paths guide you through towering trees, alongside rushing waterfalls, and even to the hidden source of the River Severn.

Cascades Walk (0.9 km, 30 minutes, Accessible)

The Cascades Walk is a gentle amble suitable for all visitors. It commences with a sloping path from the car park and leads to a scenic boardwalk that skirts the riverbank. Along the route, water cascades over rocks, providing a calming backdrop to your woodland walk.

At the boardwalk’s end, a raised viewing platform offers a splendid spot to pause and soak in the surroundings before looping back along a broad, well-maintained path through the forest.

Severn-Break-its-Neck Trail (2.3 km, 1 hour, Moderate)

The Severn-Break-Its-Neck trail is as thrilling as its name implies. Starting from the car park, you’ll meander along a gentle path by the river until it opens up into a meadow.

Here, a boardwalk brings you closer to the sound of gushing water. After a short climb, the Severn-Break-Its-Neck waterfall comes into sight.

At this point, the River Severn roars down a rocky ravine, its raw power tangible as you cross the footbridge above.

The return journey follows a forest road, offering panoramic views through the trees and a chance to recover after the steeper sections.

Blaen Hafren Falls Trail (6 km, 1.5 hours, Moderate)

For a more extended hike, the Blaen Hafren Falls Trail provides a longer, more immersive stroll through the forest canopy. The route follows a well-maintained gravel path alongside the River Severn, leading you through peaceful woodland.

As the trail climbs, glimpses of the surrounding forest appear before unveiling the cascading Blaen Hafren Falls hidden amongst the trees.

Benches scattered along the way offer spots to rest and soak in the scenery. The trail loops back via a forest road, making it a rewarding choice if you’re up for a hiking challenge.

Source of the Severn Trail (13 km, 5 hours, Strenuous)

This is my preferred route in the Hafren Forest as it leads to the source of the River Severn. It’s astounding to think that the mighty River Severn, which spans over 200 miles, begins its journey here in Hafren Forest.

Its humble beginnings on the slopes of Pumlumon quickly gather pace as the water carves its path through the forest, forming a series of lively cascades and waterfalls.

As you traverse the trails, the river’s sound alters, becoming more potent and persistent. Each stride brings you nearer to the water’s rhythm, building like an overture before unveiling its concealed source beyond the edge of the forest.

Reaching the source is no ordinary stroll. A steep ascent takes you onto the moorland, where a simple, carved wooden post marks the precise spot.

Beyond Hafren – long-distance adventures

Hafren Forest also serves as the starting point for two epic long-distance walks. The Wye Valley Walk traces the River Wye for 136 miles, while the Severn Way follows the Severn’s journey to Bristol.

For a shorter challenge, the Sarn Sabrina circular walk offers 25 miles of myths and landscapes named after a Celtic river goddess. Cyclists can also explore the area via the Sustrans National Cycle Network, which meanders through the forest and beyond. It’s a fantastic way to experience the region’s beauty at a faster pace.

Afternoon tea at Cobblers Tea Room

If all that walking has left you famished, jump in the car and head to the charming market town of Llaindloes.

Here, you will discover the vintage Cobblers Tea Room on the High Street, a cosy spot for coffee and cakes. Step inside, and you’re greeted with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods still warm from the oven.

This quaint, traditional tea room has been a hit with locals since it changed hands in December 2018. Their reasonably priced menu boasts homemade treats. Cakes are baked on the premises, and depending on the season, you can enjoy mince pies in winter or gelato in summer.

Sandwiches are freshly prepared to order, and the daily homemade soup is just the ticket for warming up after a long forest walk.