writers

Paddleboarding the Esk in North Yorkshire

It’s early afternoon on an unusually hot and sunny Yorkshire day. I’m standing on my paddleboard on the tidal section of the River Esk, near Whitby’s New Bridge, as cars stream across. The 28-mile-long Esk is special, as it is the only major river in Yorkshire that flows directly into the North Sea.

Ahead of me is a bustling marina, the famous abbey and the West and East piers. The town is full to the brim with visitors in search of the best fish and chips, amusement arcades and tales of Dracula and Captain Cook. Later, in the autumn, goths in their finery will parade the cobbled streets.

Here on the river, however, it is tranquil. A salmon leaps from the water to my right, bubbles rise from the seaweed beneath my board, and to my left, the riverbank absorbs abandoned boats into its grassy knolls. On an evening paddle, you might spot the crews from one of the town’s three main rowing clubs (Whitby Coastal, Friendship or Fisherlads).

You can launch from the slipway at the far end of the marina back car park near Coates Marine. Arriving by train or bus, it’s a few minutes’ walk from the station. Launch about one and a half hours before high tide and head right towards the New Bridge and Ruswarp. Be mindful, this section of the river is tidal and water levels do drop.

After taking in the magnificent view, I turn and paddle towards Ruswarp, a couple of miles inland, passing under the Larpool Viaduct, which carries the 22-mile Cinder Track. Branches of willow trees droop elegantly into the water offering welcome shade. Swans glide past and Highland cattle graze nonchalantly in the fields. A couple hike the path that runs alongside the river.

I first paddled on the Esk with my young sons in 2006. Twenty years later, it still remains a peaceful, hidden gem. We hired kayaks from Ruswarp Pleasure Boats (established 1874) just above the weir, which also rents rowing boats and now paddleboards. For a £5 fee, it offers a private jetty to launch your own craft, which is ideal as access to the river is very limited along this stretch. There is free parking on the roadside here, and with the number 95 bus stop (Arriva) nearby, public transport is an option. Paddle up to Perry’s Plants garden centre at Briggswath just before Sleights and then turn back.

You’ll pass the Waterside restaurant and Whitby Wellbeing’s wild sauna along the way, so family and friends can eat, sweat or dip while you float along, letting the river carry your worries away. Afterwards, nip to Botham’s in Sleights for some Resolution tea and lovely iced lemon buns. I promise, it’ll be a grand paddleboarding day out in Yorkshire.
Jo Moseley is the author of Stand-Up Paddleboarding in Great Britain

Wild camping on the Dart in Devon

On the uplands of Dartmoor, two tributaries – the East Dart and West Dart – join beneath ancient woodland at the well-named hamlet of Dartmeet. They entwine as the River Dart, which flows for 47 miles from open moor into steep wooded valleys and passes peat bogs and tors, oak forest, market towns and rolling pasture before it runs into the sheltered waters of the south Devon coast.

Its upper reaches retain a pristine wildness that feels increasingly rare in southern England. The Dartmoor national park is criss-crossed by some of the cleanest bodies of water in the country, home to salmon, sea trout and otters, while the wooded valleys below are rich remnants of ancient temperate rainforest.

The Dart’s name is thought to derive from an old Celtic word meaning “river where oak trees grow”, and the lower banks are indeed lined with native oak trees, thick with mosses and ferns. It may be one of Britain’s smaller protected landscapes, but Dartmoor feels remarkably untamed. You can cross it on foot in a few days, yet it’s surprisingly easy to lose yourself in the rolling mists, twisting woodlands and miles of open moorland of this ethereal landscape.

It’s that sense of freedom that keeps drawing me back. I love nothing more than stuffing a tent into my rucksack and heading out on foot for a riverside camp, following the Dart and its web of streams and creeks until I find a quiet bend or grassy bank for the night. I fall asleep to the steady rush and rumble of the water and wake up early for a swim in one of its deep, crystal-clear pools before packing up and walking on.

I can roam about like this because Dartmoor is the only place in England where wild camping is legally permitted. In the national park, “backpack”, or wild camping, is allowed for one or two nights in some areas, provided you stay away from roads and settlements and leave no trace of your visit.

Sometimes, I have company on the riverbanks. I’ve huddled in bivouac bags with friends and woken totally covered in sparkling droplets of dew. I’ve camped on the water’s edge and woken in the middle of the night to what sounded like an invading army around my tent. It turned out to be a troop of scouts, arriving spectacularly late at their campsite and gamely pitching flimsy-looking tents by the light of their headlamps. And once, at dusk, I think I glimpsed the sleek head of an otter slipping into the current. But more often than not, once evening falls and I sit by the door of my tent watching the water darken, I have the Dart all to myself.
Sian Lewis

Fishing on the Dove in the Peak District

There’s a trout rising upstream from where I am standing on the bank of the River Dove in Beresford Dale, on the border of Staffordshire and Derbyshire. I mark the spot – just beyond that overhanging tree branch – and rue the fact that it will make casting a fly without getting snagged tricky. I need to get into the river and wade over to the other bank for a clear shot. But it’s a steep drop to the water and the pools look deep in this stretch; deep enough to go over my chest waders. I walk back downstream to a spot where I can safely enter the fast-flowing river, but realise it’s going to be a long wade upstream. Too long and splashy, which will disturb any fish and scatter them. So, I get out again and walk back to where I first spotted the feeding trout. I am caught in indecision, and repeat this pattern several times before giving up on this particular quarry.

The meander at this section of the river has formed a little peninsula, and standing in the middle of it is a fishing hut, where I go to drink a coffee and consider my tactics. This isn’t any old fishing hut, however. This one is a substantial structure, built from stone, with pillars framing the door and with an inscription in Latin, “Piscatoribus Sacrum” (Sacred to all Fishermen).

In the lintel stone is a cypher of intertwined letters: CC and IW, for Charles Cotton, the poet who built this “little fishing house” on his estate in 1674, and Izaak Walton, who wrote The Compleat Angler in 1653. Cotton added “Instructions how to angle for a trout or grayling in a clear stream” to accompany the fifth edition of Walton’s book, considered to be the first technical manual of fly-fishing and one of the most reprinted books in the English language.

The River Dove is the spiritual home of fly-fishing because of Walton and Cotton, and it still holds a mythical place in fishers’ minds. As someone who grew up on the Staffordshire-Derbyshire border, and fished the Dove where it joins the River Trent at Newton Solney in my youth, I was well aware of the river’s special status. But, at that age, I wasn’t about to give myself the extra homework of reading a 17th-century treatise on fishing and nature. Instead, an English teacher who fished furnished me with the only line I needed to know: “you will find it one of the purest crystalline streams you have seen.”

The stretch of the Dove I’m fishing – called the Temple beat after Cotton’s fishing house – races and tumbles through a narrow tree-lined dale hemmed in by limestone crags. Near the bridge above a section known as the Pike Pool, a family is splashing and paddling in the early summer sunshine. There’s a popular 4-mile loop that starts at Hartington village, and the path is too busy with walkers to fish, so I enter the river at the bridge and wade and fish “the vale it winds through like a snake” until I spot the rising trout and stop for my coffee break.

Later that day, I lose all sense of time in the hypnotic flow of catching and releasing a series of small wild brown trout. Just beyond the fishing house, someone has carved a large hole into the base of a dead oak tree, the perfect place to sit and watch dippers skit along the banks and damselflies dance upon the surface. A little further on, a large Hereford cow is drinking from the river, framed by overhanging trees and with a verdant conical hill in the background. The scene strikes me as being a pastoral masterpiece, much like The Compleat Angler.
Andy Pietrasik

A day ticket on the Temple beat can be booked through Fishing Breaks from £65

Sourcing the Severn and Wye in mid-Wales

It will prove to be the best of hikes, and in some ways the worst. I start out early from Eisteddfa Gurig on the A44, hoping to get going while the day is cool. My plan is to visit the sources of two of Britain’s greatest rivers – the Severn and the Wye which, by a fluke of geography, lie a couple of miles apart on a mountain ridge in mid-Wales.

The path leads me up Pumlumon Fawr, a 752-metre (2,467ft) massif with magnificent views to the Irish Sea. The day is scorching hot and the bald sheep-nipped hills look only an inch of topsoil away from becoming a desert. Of the two rivers, the Severn gets the finer start in life. There is a marker post next to a deep, dark pool of water that is being squeezed from the bog. In ancient times, humans worshipped springs, but there are no garlands here, only a few sea shells carried upstream by hikers from the Bristol Channel on the 224-mile (360km) Severn Way.

A short walk downstream brings me into a deep valley where the Severn, already gathering force, bounces through ferny glades. It feels as if someone is caring for this river, determined to give it a good start in life. There is a useful car park further down the valley, but I cut away through the forest to find the origin of its twin, the Wye.

I have hopes of a dip in a mountain pool, but there are misgivings. Arguably the loveliest river in Britain, the Wye has been hitting headlines for a severe decline in water quality. Dead salmon have been found, algal blooms reported. Campaigners, however, have scored a major victory in creating a charter of rights, including the right to flow and be free of pollution. Significant authorities, including Powys and Herefordshire, have adopted it. There is hope.

The first omen is the defunct Nant Iago lead mine, a reminder that human impact on the environment is nothing new. Government statistics show that about 900 miles (1,500km) of our rivers and estuaries are still contaminated by 19th-century mines. I skirt around the old workings and walk up the valley. In the wrinkles of this hillside, the Wye has a moorland birth, a harsh ordeal. No sooner has the clean, bright water started out than it’s being crapped in by sheep and messed about by humans. Any thought of a dip in a pool, or even a sip from the source, is brutally quashed.

The moorland/forested contrast with the Severn is not unplanned: scientists have been controlling and assessing these non-identical twins since a time when flood risks and algal blooms were not issues. Whatever their conclusions, however, our expectations of rivers remain pitifully low. In 17th-century Britain, by contrast, salmon were so plentifully available for people to fish for themselves that there was little market for them.

I carry on down the Wye Valley Walk, a 136-mile route whose leaping salmon logo is looking sadly inappropriate. After a few miles, I turn west up a side stream that has a toxic reddish tint. Only a Martian would take a dip. This has become a grim trudge, but finally, up a side valley, I stumble on deep pools alive with tiny frogs. Spruce and pine have been planted. There are orchids and bog asphodels. Then, a magnificent golden-ringed dragonfly settles next to me. My spirits are restored. Maybe the Wye can bounce back. I set off for nearby Llangurig where there’s a pub, the Bluebell Inn, and a tearoom.
Kevin Rushby

Canoeing the Tay in Perthshire

The Tay is Scotland’s longest river (117 miles) and Britain’s mightiest, discharging more water than the longer Thames and Severn combined. Rising on the slopes of Ben Lui in Argyll, gathering strength from Highland burns before widening through Perthshire and eventually reaching the North Sea at Dundee.

It’s the middle stretch, from Killin to Dunkeld through Highland Perthshire, that I love best. At Killin, we’ve happily lost whole afternoons to picking wild raspberries, skimming stones and climbing trees. My boys climbed their first Munro here, Ben Lawers, when their legs were much shorter. We should have had beautiful loch views from the top, but reached the summit in cloud instead. They loved it.

Further along the banks at Lawers and Kenmore is where my sisters and I head for restorative escapes: alternating freezing loch swims with a hot tub has become our preferred form of therapy.

I’ve often walked by the river, but was curious to see it from a different angle: by canoe. Aberfeldy is a two-hour drive north from Edinburgh, so it’s an early start for me and my son Louis, 15. We’re welcomed at Beyond Adventure with coffee and a briefing, then transferred upriver with two long orange canoes and our instructor, Kevin Meldrum.

Our route begins on the River Lyon just before its confluence with the Tay. In this calm eddy, we get a quick lesson in paddling and turning the boat. Louis is 6ft-plus and I am not, which seemed a recipe for paddling in circles. Kevin keeps us right, and Louis soon learns to calmly counteract any erratic paddling on my side. We meet the Tay over a gentle rapid and begin paddling downstream. We settle into the river’s rhythm, learning to read the current and steer around camouflaged anglers patiently waiting for salmon, and spotting herons standing guard in the shadows.

The banks of the Tay are changing, thanks to the returning beaver population. We don’t spot any (they emerge at dusk), but we do see evidence of stripped bark and felled trees by the river. Paddling into a tree-lined eddy, we admire a carefully constructed beaver lodge.

We pull the canoes ashore on a little island for a picnic lunch, and as we eat our sandwiches, there’s a flash of iridescent turquoise. My first ever sighting of a kingfisher.

It’s great to be on the water with a guide who knows the river so well. At each stretch of rapids, we’re set a route, and navigate each one facing downstream, still smiling. As we return to Aberfeldy, we paddle under General Wade’s Bridge, unchanged since it was built in 1733. We’ve been on the water for three hours, but it feels all too soon when we approach the Beyond Adventure base. Reluctant to leave, we find a deep, peaty pool for a swim.

Heading home, we stop for a pizza (a teenage second lunch) and cold drinks at The Taybank in Dunkeld. Watching the Tay flow past the beer garden, I realise the river looks different to me now. Once you’ve travelled with it, it’s hard not to wonder what’s waiting around the next bend.
Ailsa Sheldon
Beyond Adventure offers half-day discovery canoeing tours from £63 adults, £47.25 children, £199.50 for a family (two adults, two children)

The American democratic experiment stands on shaky ground. Not since the Civil War have these proverbially United States been so disunited. As the nation throws itself a grand old 250th birthday bash in Washington, the mood in much of the country is more funereal than festive.

All-out partisan warfare has sown chaos. Republican legislators, taking their lead from a president who sees half the nation as his personal enemy, have put their own party’s interests over the republic’s. Staying in office has become the only thing that matters. The values imparted to me throughout my public school education — equal opportunity, impartial justice, respect for expertise, basic honesty — have been abandoned by a new breed of politician that has turned governance itself into a blood sport.

Where can one turn for reassurance that America’s best years are still ahead? Would you believe me if I said the theater? I’m not toeing the line for my field. I’m merely calling attention to a development that’s been gaining strength since I first reported on it in 2015. A cohort of playwrights, breathtakingly diverse demographically as well as aesthetically, has been rejuvenating American theater.

These writers aren’t on a sociological mission. They’re not trafficking in grievance or appealing to a particular political base. They let their plays do the talking. And they’ve been trying to have a conversation that isn’t hijacked by the most doctrinaire voices in the room.

From an institutional perspective, the American theater is in bad shape. The triple whammy of the COVID-19 closures, inflation and technological disruption has left everyone hurting. The Mark Taper Forum had to suspend programming for more than a year, smaller companies still in operation are producing fewer shows, and producers everywhere are gravitating toward the bankably familiar.

But despite this difficult terrain, it has been a boom time for American playwriting. For more than a decade, I’ve been teaching a course at the California Institute of the Arts called American Drama Now, and each year the selection of plays has become harder to whittle down. I designed the seminar partly around theater offerings in Los Angeles to connect students to recent developments in the field and to consolidate awareness that something special is happening in the American theater.

The current generation of playwrights has revealed itself to be remarkably resilient and independent. It has had no other choice. By the time many of these rising talents were accruing debt in graduate writing programs, the dream of a sustainable career in the nonprofit theater had already gasped its last breath.

When Wendy Wasserstein, Tony Kushner, Craig Lucas and Jon Robin Baitz emerged in the late 1970s and ’80s, it was still imaginable that a chosen few playwrights could make a living via the regional theater circuit, that constellation of companies founded as an alternative to the Broadway model.

That prospect was growing dimmer a few years later when playwrights such as Suzan-Lori Parks and Lynn Nottage came into prominence. But hope was still alive in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Regional theaters such as Seattle Rep, the Guthrie, the Goodman and Baltimore Center Stage remained committed to their missions while New York nonprofit companies continued to hold the line off-Broadway.

When did the picture change? In 2009, “Outrageous Fortune: The Life and Times of the New American Play” was published by the Theatre Development Fund, and one of the key findings in this study written by Todd London with Ben Pesner and Zannie Giraud Voss is that “there is no way to view playwriting as anything but a profession without an economic base.” A chasm had opened between the network of increasingly corporate-minded nonprofit theaters and the artists this system was built to serve.

The situation has grown bleaker in the last decade and a half as commercial pressures have ramped up and media consolidation and digital shortsightedness have obliterated arts coverage. Yet there’s been an unexpected upside. Theater artists who have come of age in this period have been released from the burden of having to conform to notions of regional theater respectability.

Instead of worrying about the timid taste of subscription audiences, these dramatists have been writing for themselves and their communities, dreaming up plays that don’t have to fit into institutional slots or stay within the staid bounds of traditional proscenium house decorum. The irony is that in not trying to pass muster with more conservative theatergoers (and their fastidious institutional guardians), playwrights have been winning over not just critics but also formerly squeamish artistic directors and perennially nervous Broadway producers.

The playwrights who appear regularly on the syllabus in American Drama Now — Young Jean Lee, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Annie Baker, Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, Samuel D. Hunter, Martyna Majok, Jeremy O. Harris, Will Arbery, Jackie Sibblies Drury, Quiara Alegría Hudes, Ayad Akhtar, among them — are of different ages, sensibilities and backgrounds. What they share is an appreciation of the complexities and contradictions in being an American.

The politics of identity for them is a lived experience. And as dramatists, they’re uniquely positioned to appreciate the conflicted loyalties and communal tensions of American life in dramatic rather than dogmatic terms. Whatever agendas they may personally espouse, these writers are too alert to the messiness of history and human nature to be rigidly ideological in their work.

The ongoing war between woke and anti-woke factions is a fatuous melodrama best left to the satirists. The goal of playwrights grappling seriously with what it means to be an American today isn’t to score social media points but to shed light on the fractured reality of our collective experience.

Characters in plays by Young Jean Lee, such as “Straight White Men,” are often “trying on masks to see what might prove effective in a given situation.”

(Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times)

Identity is not a fixed fact but a raucous collision of parts. No single category can contain the Whitmanesque multitudes jockeying for position inside us. Race, religion, ethnicity, gender, age, sexuality, class, disability and geography don’t line up in perfect political harmony, and each social marker tells only a fraction of the whole story. (Money, the great unequalizer, may be the most taboo subject of all.) “We are not only but also,” the sociologist and cultural historian Todd Gitlin wrote in his 1995 book “The Twilight of Common Dreams: Why America Is Wracked by Culture Wars.” We also overlap and often even clash with ourselves.

Discussion around identity can be dangerous. How can anyone be expected to navigate the minefield? Tribalists and traditionalists have controlled the terms of the battle, one by simplifying, the other by denying, the way privilege has shaped our compound selves.

Playwrights know better. They understand the way oppression, which falls disproportionately on the marginalized, has warped all of us. History, whether acknowledged or not, is etched in our souls.

It is a long-held tenet of the theater that the most interesting characters, like the most interesting people, are defined by their schisms and paradoxes. (How else could Hamlet have maintained his centuries-long hold?) Dramatists are more cognizant than ever of the sociopolitical import of these contradictions and they’ve been chronicling the way this historically freighted baggage emerges in the drama of everyday life.

All the world is indeed a stage and all its inhabitants merely stock players, as Jaques lays out in “As You Like It.” Hegel described Shakespeare’s characters as “free artists of their own selves.” The truth where we and our contemporary stage surrogates are concerned is somewhat more constrained. Culture and representation largely determine the range of our performance possibilities.

Plays such as Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’ “Appropriate” reexamine “the canon of great American family dramas … to uncover the stories that have been suppressed.”

(Craig Schwartz)

Jacobs-Jenkins has recognized perhaps more acutely than any of his peers the way dramatic forms have locked us into set scripts about our lives. He tackles genres — adapting a Dion Boucicault melodrama in “An Octoroon,” reexamining the canon of great American family dramas in “Appropriate” — to uncover the stories that have been suppressed in the dominant white middle-class narratives that would prefer not to think of themselves as political.

Lee’s standout identity plays — “Straight White Men,” “The Shipment” and “Songs of the Dragons Flying to Heaven” — reject the illusion of stable, coherent characters propagated by psychological realism. The figures in her uncategorizable works are in experimental flux, trying on masks to see what might prove effective in a given situation. Even “Straight White Men,” which uses the old home-for-the-holidays genre as a springboard, can’t help spinning away from the drama’s droll hyper-naturalism toward something resembling performance art. (Not even straight, white men want to be confined to a box, even a relatively plush one.)

“Fairview,” by Jackie Sibblies Drury, “theatricalizes the experience of the white gaze.”

(Jeff Lorch)

In “Fairview,” Jackie Sibblies Drury theatricalizes the experience of the white gaze, ultimately reversing the comfortable position white theater audiences have traditionally held. Bess Wohl’s “Liberation,” this year’s most decorated play, reanimates the history of the 1970s feminist movement by questioning what it could be leaving out of the picture. “The Balusters,” by David Lindsay-Abaire, brings the current culture wars to the stage with unique sensitivity through the squabbles of a neighborhood association torn between protecting its town’s heritage status and coming to terms with the more pluralistic demands of the 21st century.

“Fairview,” “Liberation,” and “The Balusters” are extremely funny plays that also happen to be deadly serious. If philosophy begins in wonder, trenchant social drama seems to start in laughter.

What do theatergoers want? They don’t just want to look; they also want to be seen. Isn’t that what any of us wants when gazing into the mirror held up to nature, as Hamlet describes the theater? To be granted a more expansive view of ourselves and others?

E pluribus unum, the motto of the United States, is so fundamental that it’s printed on our currency. There’s perhaps no place where the truth of this phrase — out of many, one — is more regularly realized than at the theater, where strangers transform over the course of a show into that mysterious organism we call an audience.

Gitlin ends “The Twilight of Common Dreams” with a plea: “For too long, Americans have busied themselves digging trenches to fortify their cultural borders, lining their trenches with insulation. Enough bunkers! Enough of the perfection of differences! We ought to be building bridges.”

A coalition mindset doesn’t mean denying history or pretending that America has been a level playing field. It’s been anything but in this “melting pot where nothing melted,” to quote the rabbi whose eulogy sets Kushner’s “Angels in America” in motion. But history happens to all of us, not just a select few. And to be an American is to be embroiled in the great democratic experiment that has been defined by division from the beginning. Empathy, the nuclear fusion of playwriting, is expanded when we’re allowed to take in more of our patchwork selves. Today’s dramatists have been extending a generous invitation to their compatriots: We’ll show you our complexity, if you’ll show us yours.

‘Exploring Finland with our baby was a delight’

Finland has been named the world’s happiest country for nine years running, but arriving in Helsinki, dishevelled from one of my first flights with my nine-month-old baby, I was less interested in national rankings and more in having a nice nap. My husband, Jake, and I had emerged from the fog of newborn life and the idea of a holiday felt possible again. My ambitions were small: a sunset beer, a walk in the woods, reading a few pages of my book uninterrupted.

But Finland, with its famously family-friendly culture, made exploring with my tiny new travel companion a delight. Finnish parents are supported with generous, gender-equal parental leave, affordable childcare, and free healthcare and education. No one bats an eyelid at a pram parked beside a restaurant table or a baby snoozing outdoors in the cool air, and the terrifyingly efficient public transport system is a dream with children.

In Helsinki, we found ourselves in the cool neighbourhood of Kallio, where locals spilled out on to terraces in the late evening sunshine. We stayed at Hobo Hotel, which, despite attracting a hip crowd, was kitted out with travel cots and highchairs. At a bar aptly named Holiday, my daughter, Sylvie, sat happily chewing a spoon while we drank paloma cocktails in the long golden evening light of July, when the sun barely seems to set at all.

Part of Finland’s appeal for me lies in jokaisenoikeudet, or “Everyman’s Right” – the law that gives everyone freedom to roam the country’s forests and lakes. On the southern coast, we hiked through pine forest and over moss-clad rocks towards Lake Kukuljärvi, with Sylvie snoozing, strapped to my front. At a traditional laavu – a simple wooden shelter with a communal fire pit – Jake and I cooked sausages and boiled coffee over open flames. Sylvie eventually deigned to wake from her nap and gnawed on flakes of pink salmon like a tiny woodland creature. Then I handed her to Jake and jumped from the rickety jetty into the lake for a swim.

In summer, Finns are all about escaping to remote cabins. At Santalahti in Kotka, simple self-catering wooden cottages were just steps from the sea, but my favourite tiny houses were Majamaja, four minute off-grid cabins perched on rocks on the Baltic Sea. A stay here felt truly wild, yet we were a 10-minute drive from Helsinki if we ran out of nappies.

On our last day, we boarded a little ferry which chugged the 15 minutes from Helsinki to Lonna island, a tiny military outpost turned summer escape. Now uninhabited and carpeted in wildflowers, it has a wood-fired sauna overlooking the sea. Inside, women of all ages sat side by side as steam curled from the stove. Finnish children grow up going to saunas from infancy, and two locals showed me how to plonk Sylvie into a bucket of cool water, where she spent the entire time grinning with her four newly minted teeth at the sauna-goers smiling back at her. “She’s Finnish now!” one woman laughed.
Sian Lewis

‘I struck gold with the Vespa tour’: Naples with my teenage son

On a wing and a prayer, I took my 13-year-old son, Ned, to Naples. Just the two of us. He was old enough to carry his bags, young enough to bunk in the same bed and keep the cost down. I’d booked a small apartment in the centro storico with decent wifi in case single parenting got the better of me and we simply needed to play Fifa.

My worry didn’t last long. I struck gold by booking a Vespa tour with Michele and Luigi at NeaTour, who took our brief – “Show us where you wouldn’t normally go” – as a personal challenge. We wove through the city under balconies dripping with washing, past giant graffiti and smelly fish stalls, and shared fruit with elderly women sitting outside on old chairs. We stopped at Bar Nilo to pay homage to Maradona and check out a lock of his hair, then scootered on to a towering mural of the icon himself.

Michele handed Ned a cornicello, a small red charm to ward off bad luck. Legend has it they only work when given as gifts, and we bought into it immediately, wandering off into the Quartieri Spagnoli (Spanish quarter) despite all the warnings of theft and danger. Doors were open everywhere. It was tempting to peep in. One family were inside finishing lunch. Without ceremony, they invited us in. Wine appeared. A Pepsi for Ned. Three generations shifting to make space for strangers who weren’t strangers any more.

Naples worked like that. You needed to give in quickly. We took the smallest alleyways, watched football with the locals, stayed out until the early hours. Not because of the place itself, but because of the interruptions: conversations, offers, eye contact that turned into something wonderful.

Of course, it wasn’t all a success story, despite the cornicello. It was a terrible idea to climb Vesuvius in the midday heat. Blisters, lack of water, wishing we wore hats. Then, on the same day, Pompeii. Crowds, dust, exhaustion and the surreal shock of carved penises everywhere.

Capri proved the antithesis. Beautiful and polished. Botox clashing with bougainvillea. We neither wanted nor could afford the restaurants or designer shops, but lovely assistants indulged us as we tried on sunglasses and handbags costing more than my monthly salary.

Sixteen years earlier, I’d photographed boats arranged like petals outside the Blue Grotto, and wanted to see if we could make it happen again. What I never expected was the same boatmen agreeing to recreate it, carefully positioning themselves into a floating flower.

Trusting local knowledge, we left everything on the old iron stairs leading into the water and swam through the tiny cave entrance. The azure blue was so dense, like liquid moonlight lit from within. After diving and GoPro posing, we swam to the back and sat watching the regulars in their cave cathedral.

As we climbed back up the cliff, salt-dried and tired, Ned turned to me and said, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“Me too,” I replied.
Jill Mead

‘One for the family album’: glamping with granny in Norfolk

Sitting on the veranda with a glass of rosé, my mum and I watched rabbits hop through ferns while birds of prey soared overhead. We decided the view from our “safari” tent was pleasingly wholesome – the only howls were coming from the teenagers inside …

Last summer, I took my twin daughters, my mum and my dog, Miss Babs, on holiday to north Norfolk. Aged 19, the girls are fully embroiled in their own lives – Lola has the travelling bug, Nancy’s away at university – so it was a rare opportunity for us all to get together.

We stayed on the edge of the Sandringham estate, the royal family’s Norfolk retreat, where Experience Freedom, the glamping arm of the Caravan and Motorhome Club, has smart safari tents for us commoners to enjoy (from £69 a night).

While a week in Norfolk is not quite “Ibiza with the girls”, the twins adore their granny and jumped at the chance to come along. A child of the 70s, I grew up holidaying with multiple generations. Every year, my very extended family would head en masse for a week at St Margaret’s Bay holiday camp near Dover. We went the full hokey cokey, joining glamorous granny contests, donkey derbies and a highly competitive fancy dress competition. I adored those holidays with my beloved grandparents, aunts, uncles and numerous cousins, plus aunty Joan and uncle Dick, my nana’s neighbours, who always came, too.

This trip didn’t involve such a large crew, but we had a lovely time in Norfolk. I enjoyed early morning dog walks through the Sandringham estate while the twins slept in. My mum cooked us a full English breakfast every morning, drawing the girls out of their beds with the smell of sizzling bacon. Afternoons were spent on the beach at Old Hunstanton or bobbing around the twee villages that dot the north Norfolk coast. We’d head back to camp in the late afternoon for a glass of rosé on the veranda, when the girls would entertain their grandmother with some inappropriate TikTok reels. One night after dinner, Nancy and Lola challenged us to a game of Cards Against Humanity, only to be utterly horrified when their grandmother won.

Sating the different wants and needs of teenagers and a septuagenarian was not always easy. Tensions did rise, particularly when the sisters snipped at each other or bickered over doing the washing up. More than once, I had to throw the girls a stern look when they dropped the F-bomb in front of their grandmother. And as the unelected leader of the pack, by day three I had decision-making fatigue over what to do, where to go and what to eat.

On our last afternoon, we popped to the main house to see our royal neighbours. Sandringham House is not dog-friendly (unless you’re a corgi or an assistance dog), so Lola stayed back with Miss Babs. Wandering through the hallways of the royal family home, I watched Nancy and her nana, arm in arm and nattering happily, and thought: “This holiday is definitely one for the family album.”
Tracey Davies

‘We would have happily carried on going to who knows where’: Interrailing to Turkey with our boys

I was due a sabbatical, my wife, Vicky, is a teacher and so gets long school holidays, and our boys Tom and Jack were nine and 11, which created an opportunity for an adventure beyond the usual Cornwall. So, in the summer of 2023, we took the train – to Asia.

I never did the Interrail thing in my youth, so why not in middle age? And kids up to 11 go free. (You still have to pay for reservations, and sleepers; it’s really not a cheap holiday). We got passes that give you 10 days travel within two months, and on an August morning we set off with backpacks to the tube, the boys mortified at the prospect of being spotted by their school friends.

Our route in brief: Eurostar from St Pancras; a couple of nights in Paris; Stuttgart; the first sleeper to Budapest (paprika chicken and a thermal bath); another overnight to Brasov, where we got off the train and spent a week travelling round Romania (Carpathian hiking, Ceaușescu opulence-ogling, birding in the Danube delta). Then on through Bulgaria to Istanbul, Ankara, İzmir, Selçuk. Ancient ruins (boo!), waterparks (yay!), the best breakfasts and bazaars, then cooling off in the Aegean. Back via Vienna and Amsterdam.

The trains were more than just a way of getting from A(ustria) to B(ulgaria), they were a big part of the whole thing. They started off lightning-quick, smooth, pointed at the front, with western Europe flashing past on fast-forward out of the window. As we got farther east, they got older, slower and clankier, but more romantic. We liked the ones with steps up to the carriages, and a window at the back to watch the track disappearing behind, literally a window to the past.

And we liked the overnighters – apart from a rude and rather retro awakening on the border between Romania and Turkey. There was a sharp knock on the door, then uniformed men were shining torches in our blinking eyes. “Your papers, please!” Is this a summer holiday, or a thwarted escape from cold war repression? Still, holidays are about memories, right? And now it’s one of them, and a story to tell.

That aside, there is something special about boarding a train at dusk, finding the right compartment, unpacking dinner – simit bread perhaps, interesting stringy cheese, tomatoes, a glass (plastic cup) or two of rough red, with the sun going down outside the window. Then a game of cards before pulling down our bunks and drifting off to the clickety-clack of steel wheels passing over the joints in the rails. That was the heartbeat soundtrack of our month away – that, and Kraftwerk’s Trans-Europe Express, which I definitely overplayed.

Yes, of course there were strops and disagreements, times we longed for a washing machine, a pool, wifi. But had there not been tedious things like jobs and school to get back for, we would have happily carried on – clickety-clack, clickety clack – to who knows where. And, possibly because we were often literally on top of each other, I don’t think we’ve ever felt closer as a family.
Sam Wollaston

‘Reclaiming the spirit of adventure for all of us’: a healing family trip to Norway

“Miss Butler says there’s a real live Viking ship in Norway and you can go and see it!” Challenge accepted. I’d been looking for inspiration and found it in my eight-year-old, buzzing with enthusiasm at the school gate. There was more to it: I’d been widowed three months previously and felt as though I had something to prove. When someone you love is ill, your world gets very small: it was our flat, the hospital, and then the hospice. My husband, Jay, and I loved to travel, living in China when our two boys were toddlers; they were now six and eight. I wanted to reclaim that adventurous spirit for all of us.

Walking across Oslo in the early hours of the morning, I wondered what on earth I was doing. Bus tickets could only be bought in convenience stores, which were all closed, so we walked for miles over dark bridges between islands of white light. Our Airbnb host left directions to find a key, hidden behind a rock in a park near his flat: funny looking back, but stressful that night in the dark after too many Scandi noir dramas.

Norway is expensive, so I packed plenty of snacks and tried to keep costs as low as I could. In Oslo, a 24-hour travel pass could last two days: an afternoon hopping on boats and buses, then ensuring we were within walking distance of the flat when it ran out the following morning. We explored brilliant galleries and played games on the roof of the opera house. We took a ferry to Hovedøya island and found 12th-century ruins in the woods, before sprinting to catch the last boat back. We walked round Sognsvann lake picking wild blueberries. The Viking Ship Museum did not disappoint, the dark carved wood so beautifully intricate, gleaming in the pale light (the museum is now being refurbished, due to reopen in 2027). With time left on our bus tickets, we visited Huk on a whim, which, it turns out, is one of Oslo’s nudist beaches. All part of a European education.

From Oslo, we took a train to Myrdal, then the steep Flåmsbana line to Flåm for a night in the youth hostel, before continuing by boat along the Nærøyfjord, then two trains to Bergen. It was thrilling. The boat trip was our favourite, passing remote villages and watching thundering waterfalls tumble down the sides of the fjord.

In Bergen, the cheapest place to stay was a berthed yacht in the harbour. When our host had to change mooring, we went along for the ride. A planned quick transfer became a longer trip when he saw how excited the boys were to be out on the water. He produced fishing rods and gave them their first fishing lesson.

The kindness of this young man felt like a gentle squeeze of encouragement from the universe. It was a trip that reminded me of my capabilities as a parent, my boys’ resilience, the inherent goodness of people, and the power of big skies and new horizons to help start to heal a broken heart.
Ailsa Sheldon