The Guardian

Wandering hand-in-hand through the medieval streets of Bologna, my boyfriend and I were in awe of the sweeping porticoes and distinctive rust-red brickwork of the city. It was our first holiday together. We’d wanted to find somewhere beyond the obvious that would marry our respective interests in architecture and history. Bologna was the perfect fit.

The pool was empty – perhaps because at about 22C, the water was too cold for Italians. It was also about to close. Whatever the reason, we had the glorious Biolago di Pinzolo, a spring-fed, plant-filtered swimming lake, to ourselves. As my son and I swam, we could just make out the tiny red-roofed hermitage of San Martino on the forested slope above, where, according to legend, a hermit survived on bread provided by a tame bear.

Lyme Regis’s charms have always been resolutely genteel and old-fashioned, from its sedate regency seafront to its fondness for fossil shops and all things antique and literary.

There is a wild and wonderful water world in the north-eastern corner of Spain. The Aigüestortes i Estany de Sant Maurici national park, in the central Pyrenees north of Lleida, is characterised by more than 200 lakes fed by melting snow and ice, plus rivers and streams, gorges, waterfalls and marshes. (Aigüestortes means “winding waters” in Catalan, and Sant Maurici is the biggest lake.)

Bergen is often referred to as “the city between seven mountains” – which encapsulates its blend of culture and nature. Lose yourself in its charming old town, fish markets, galleries and museums, then hike or take a funicular up Mount Fløyen for views and pine forest trekking. Bergen is a great base from which to day trip. Using direct buses/trains, you can go to Gudvangen to kayak across the fjord to your own secluded beach for a picnic lunch, or pop to Voss for its water sports, hiking and farm-to-fork food (Store Ringheim is my top pick).Seb

One of the most incredible bird scenes in Europe took place as I hiked through the Bielawa nature reserve in northern Poland, about 40 miles north of Gdansk. I had left the village of Sławoszyno via a dirt track and was heading towards Kłanino, the open countryside and fields disappearing from my sight as the hedgerows grew taller either side of me. As I stepped forward, a gap appeared in the hedge and in front of my eyes a flock of nearly 100 cranes, which had been silent, took off across the field, honking with their red-tinged heads and faces, and feathery wing feathers flapping. I could almost touch them. The 19,000-hectare (47,000-acre) park is a mix of forest, wetland and coast. Rita

I’m lying on my back. Directly above me is “a vault of heaven” with great wooden beams. I’ve never woken before under such a high ceiling – but then I’ve never gone to sleep in a church before.

The first thing that struck me about Luka was the silence. My wife, Caroline, and I had driven our rental car from Split north along the Croatian coast to Zadar and taken an hour-and-a-half ferry ride to the island of Dugi Otok. Then we had driven the island’s length southwards, through pine forest and scrub, to arrive at this tiny fishing village, where we would spend the next week. Both of us were slightly wired from driving on foreign roads. But the strange spell of Luka put an end to that.

What’s your idea of beach heaven? A rocky path down to a secluded Mediterranean cove which is home to a simple beach shack and not much else? A wild expanse of Atlantic beach fringed by dunes and pounded by breakers? Or an elegantly faded old seaside town with a crescent of white sand and a handful of family-run hotels and restaurants, perhaps? From the Baltic coast to the Black Sea, the Atlantic to the Adriatic, we’d love to hear about the European beaches or seaside towns that have won your heart.

It’s a relief to lay my rucksack down, plunge hot feet into the cool stream and pause to revel in the fairytale surrounds. Foxgloves stand tall against a cornflower-blue sky, ferns look almost luminous, the water glints in the early summer sunshine. A patch of moss-covered ancient forest provides shade, a cuckoo calls in the distance, mountains layer on the horizon.

A transport company is offering £2 tickets for coach trips across the UK to be taken up to May 12. With a £1 service fee, that means travellers planning journeys can book long-distance tickets from £3 on the FlixBus website or app.

When Andrew Scott’s eponymous character in the hit new Netflix series Ripley travels from Naples to the village of Atrani, the rickety bus has the road almost to itself; a solitary Vespa passes going the other way. When he tracks down Dickie Greenleaf at the beach, the rich American and his girlfriend are the only people sunbathing on the pristine sands.

The neglect I had shown to my native Wales over the years, while writing about the streets of Delhi, or small town life in Kansas, shamefully hit home recently while listening to music in my apartment in Hong Kong, where I have been living for much of the past 20 years. The voice of the great British singer-songwriter Ian McNabb rang out loudly: “I never saw my hometown ’til I went around the world.”

No one appreciated the rural English landscape more than a certain corn merchant’s son from Suffolk. John Constable made it his business to paint bucolic splendour, and perhaps no one has ever done it better. And when he went on holiday, on his honeymoon no less, he chose one particular village.

With swimmable harbours in Stockholm, Oslo, Helsinki and across Denmark’s cities, not to mention plenty of ways to enjoy the sea, from kayaking to urban fishing, there’s often a seaside air to Nordic cities in summer, and especially in Oslo.

There aren’t many people who can claim to have seen a snowman fly over their house. It may sound fantastical, but every Christmas I settle down to watch The Snowman, Raymond Briggs’s best-loved work, and watch as the red-haired boy and the plump, tangerine-nosed snowman swoop over the downs that surround the village where I live before gliding above the Royal Pavilion and Brighton Pier and on out to sea.

I’m on the easiest bit of one of the easiest legs of the GR20 – the self-styled hardest trek in Europe – so naturally here I am alone, lost in a cloud, with hands so cold I am seriously considering peeing on them.

Sometimes, when you travel, you arrive somewhere so ridiculously picturesque, so dictionary-definition of how you expect the country to look, that you half suspect it was built as a film set, or has been “Disneyfied” specifically for tourists.

As I slip off the jetty into the chilly water of Lagmanshagasjön, the world loses all distinction. Low mist blurs everything; I can’t see where the lake ends and the sky begins. It is like breaststroking into a silvery infinity. I haven’t bothered with swimwear. Between the tannin-dark water and early morning brume, I can barely see myself, let alone be seen. And dissolving into nature feels delicious: wearing nothing and seeing nothing, I am feeling everything.

With the tide out, it is a magical moment, rivulets of water swirl and eddy through the sand, the white cliffs of Cap Blanc-Nez loom behind me. There’s not a soul in sight. This jagged headland marks the start of the Côte d’Opale, which runs south-west from Calais for about 75 miles, and is part of the Pas-de-Calais region.

Few things beat the sense of freedom of the open road. Whether it’s an epic motorcycle ride along Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way or a leisurely pootle around the Italian lakes by car, a road trip is a brilliant way to explore a country at your own pace, enjoying varied scenery and discovering less-known spots en route. We’d love to hear about your favourite journeys in Europe – where did you go and what made it so special? The best tip will win a holiday voucher.