Northumberland has two speeds. It’s just that neither rises much above walking pace, which suits it fine. As a child growing up here, that could be frustrating; as an adult returning after years away, it’s everything I wanted.
Inland, you’ll find heather-clad fells, Roman relics and sweeping valleys. To the east, a craggy AONB coastline crumbles to soft, pillowy dunes and pretty fishing villages, as Holy Island looms out of the mist, straight from a JMW Turner painting and still one of the most elegantly desolate places on Earth.
History this far north is writ in thick chunks of stone. It wasn’t just the Romans who were busy – Hadrian’s Wall spans 117km of Northumberland hills, cols, forts and, now, microbreweries – there are some 70 castles here, too, in what was once the largest medieval kingdom in England.
It hints at a fraught past. Border-dwelling Berwick-upon-Tweed has changed hands 14 times between Scotland and England (once as a ransom for King William I). And while Rome had to build one of the greatest feats of the ancient world to keep out Caledonia’s tribes, border reivers, vikings and pirates plagued the land long after they left.
That legacy is now a tangible, walkable history, and it was on the trails that I finally fell for Northumberland. Epic paths trek windswept castle ruins above long, quiet sands or thread gusty valleys and old Roman fort towns inland along Hadrian’s Wall. There is such a cold, sparse beauty to it all.
For an English county it is unthinkably wild and empty here. Just 320,000 people live in an area capable of squeezing in the largest Dark Sky Park in Europe. Nearly as many seabirds pack the Farne Islands offshore, which bustle with breeding puffins and resident grey seal colonies.
Wall country or coast, I get the same feeling. The two are just an hour’s drive apart, and while Northumberland doesn’t give up its secrets easily – even the Romans called it a day here – that’s what I like about it. Stood under the clifftop ruins of Dunstanburgh castle or atop Steel Rigg, the wind burning my cheeks, it’s a love that feels earned.
How to spend 48 hours in Northumberland
Pretty Alnwick makes a fine base for exploring the coast. Home to the second-largest inhabited castle in England, its grounds are matched only by Alnwick Garden, a Kew-like wonder with cherry blossom walks, a poisonous plants display and ‘treehouse’ restaurant.
This is castle country, though. Warkworth and Bamburgh have fine specimens but it’s the ruins of Dunstanburgh that scratch the itch for drama. The 40-minute stroll there from Craster also lets you grab a lauded ‘Kipper N Bun’ from Piper’s Pitch before ploughing on to Embleton’s restful sands.
Alternatively, Beadnell Bay, Bamburgh and Seahouses are
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It’s a country pub in a city. That’s my thinking as bartender Michael O’Donovan lets my pint of Murphy’s settle on the counter, pausing for an intuitive amount of time before topping off the stout’s creamy crown. There are licks of flame in a tiled fireplace nearby. The wood spits and crackles as the conversation eases into gear.
Tom Houghton picks up a pair of binoculars from the sand-covered desk and slowly scans the beach in front of him. It’s June and things are starting to get busy at one of Cornwall’s biggest beaches. Stretching for more than two miles up the county’s north coast, and backed by craggy cliffs and rolling dunes that reach nearly a mile inland, Perranporth attracts crowds of sunbathers, swimmers, bodyboarders, surfers and dog walkers.
Landscapes as green and lovely as everyone says. Literary giants in Dublin; Titanic history in Belfast. A pint and good craic in a traditional pub. The lure of Celtic legends.
No one forgets their first safari: the sunsets, the open plains, that heart-stopping thrill of seeing wild animals in their natural habitat. When it comes to Tanzania, there are countless reasons why so many travellers choose to return to the country time and time again. One region that's especially well-suited to second-time visitors, a destination that keeps people coming back for more, is southern Tanzania.
Smaller than Wales, Belgium’s southern, mainly French-speaking region may be compact but packs a diverse punch. Wallonia is a jewel of a destination that sparkles with centuries of history, architectural splendour, glorious nature, fascinating culture, wonderful gastronomy and beautiful cities, towns and villages.
It’s easy to pigeonhole England’s south-west as overrun with visitors, yet there is a national park here that is one of the UK’s least visited. The reason perhaps lies with its location, in the shadow of its Devon neighbour. Indeed, when I told one person I was heading to Exmoor for a break, they queried: “Do you mean Dartmoor?”
Nestled in the north-west corner of Ireland, the city of Derry-Londonderry (Northern Ireland) and the county of Donegal (Republic of Ireland) sit snugly side by side. Taken together, this pair have every ingredient you could want from a short break: a dollop of history, a splash of culture and immeasurable quantities of nature and adventure. Better yet, it’s a combination that few have yet to put together.
The 2,000 year old Roman walls that encircle the city are the longest, most complete, and oldest, still standing in Britain today. A walk around the walls will take 45 minutes to an hour depending on how fast you walk and how often you stop. You can see the entire city from the walls, including the UK's oldest racecourse and the Eastgate Clock - one of the most photographed clocks in England. There’s a lovely place to stop by the river, where you can watch the boats float by while tucking into an ice cream. Take centre stage at the Roman Amphitheatre The Roma
As I bowled along the roads linking Herefordshire’s ‘Black and White Villages’ (named in honour of their two-tone buildings), I believed, for a second, in time travel. Here, in one of England’s least populated counties, little appeared to have changed for decades, centuries even.
For somewhere as fabled as the ‘birthplace of British tourism’, the narrow, steep lane leading to Symonds Yat’s waterfront was remarkably quiet. In fact, it almost felt like a dead end until I turned a tight corner and there was the River Wye, spread out before me in all its glory.
Early morning on Dartmoor, and as I lie in bed all I can hear is the trill of birdsong, punctuated by a distant cuckoo’s call. I open the campervan door to take in the scene. There’s no one around, no buildings in sight, just fields glittering with dew in the sunlight and sheep grazing nonchalantly on the hillside.