Three men in a boat on the Thames

One of the most cherished UK holidays was a memorable week in June 2013, spent navigating the historic River Thames from Oxford to London alongside two close friends, James and Tom. This expedition wasn’t just a casual row; it was a deliberate echo of a bygone era, a living homage to Jerome K. Jerome’s classic novel, Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog).

The vessel for this grand adventure was hired from Thames Skiff Hire, a company that specializes in providing authentic experiences for those wishing to recreate the literary journey. Our chosen skiff, named ‘Ewen,’ was a magnificent 26-foot, 130-year-old mahogany marvel, embodying the craftsmanship and elegance of late Victorian recreational boating. It came fully equipped for a multi-day voyage, featuring two pairs of sturdy oars, a responsive rudder, a compact cooking stove for riverside meals, a practical boat hook for mooring and navigating locks, and a series of iron hoops supporting a verdant green canvas roof over the hull – essential for shelter against the unpredictable British weather.

After an hour-long, comprehensive briefing at a bustling slipway near Donnington Bridge in Oxford, we embarked on our 80-mile downstream journey towards London. June 2013 proved to be a characteristically British summer month: blustery and wet. The initial day offered a deceptively pleasant start, but the second day brought a relentless soaking on the stretch of water between Abingdon and Day’s Lock. The elements were so challenging that the thought of abandoning the trip, much like Jerome K. Jerome’s fictional companions who gave up their sodden skiff at The Swan in Pangbourne, became a serious consideration. The miles ahead felt like an act of folly, and the early struggles cast a shadow over our enthusiasm.

However, drawing on a resilience often forged in shared hardship, we pressed on. As the subsequent days unfolded, the weather mercifully improved, and our collective rowing technique became more synchronized and efficient. What began as a test of endurance gradually transformed into an extraordinary and deeply memorable adventure. Looking back, the trip was a tapestry woven with rich incidents and diverse encounters. We savored meals and drinks at charming riverside pubs, brewed comforting cups of tea on uninhabited midstream islands, and even ventured into a meditation centre run by an ascetic Hindu sect, offering an unexpected cultural detour.

Our journey traced a path through centuries of English history and literature. We glided past Medmenham Abbey, once the notorious headquarters of Sir Francis Dashwood’s infamous Hellfire Club, a secretive society known for its aristocratic hedonism and mock rituals. Further downstream, we passed Monkey Island, a picturesque retreat that served as the setting for the doomed romance in Rebecca West’s poignant novel, The Return of the Soldier. One day, we moored for lunch at the luxurious faux-gothic Oakley Court, a stately home immortalized on screen as Frank-N-Furter’s eccentric castle in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Logistically, the expedition presented its own set of challenges. While Thames skiffs were historically designed for sleeping, fitting three adults comfortably into ‘Ewen’ proved a squeeze. Furthermore, the regulations surrounding wild camping in the UK added a layer of complexity to finding suitable overnight spots. A constant, underlying anxiety stemmed from mooring our precious, antique skiff to venture ashore, particularly for a pub visit. Despite being instructed to hammer robust iron spikes into the riverbank and securely fasten the boat, the act of walking away from such a venerable craft, trusting it would remain untouched, always felt strangely precarious.

Navigating the numerous locks that regulate the Thames’s water level was another intricate dance. Between Oxford and London, the river descends approximately 80 metres through 30-40 locks, each requiring careful coordination. One person had to remain in the skiff, skillfully using the boat hook to fend it off the lock walls as the water either rushed in or poured out of the sluices. The sheer distance, even with the river’s current offering some assistance, demanded a significant degree of “stick-to-it-ness” and physical exertion.

Paradoxically, these minor hardships and the constant engagement with the river’s demands made the trip far more relaxing than a holiday explicitly designed for leisure. The overall pace was unhurried and reflective, fostering a profound sense of disconnection from the daily grind. Even within commuting distance of our own beds, we felt transported to a distant, wilder realm. There were prolonged stretches of extraordinary tranquillity, punctuated by deep silences and the vibrant presence of birdlife. A particular memory that endures is the fleeting flash of a kingfisher’s iridescent blue darting through the willows just outside Abingdon.

Other users of the river, from serious rowers to leisure cruisers, often regarded us and our traditional skiff with warmth and curiosity. One memorable evening, we were invited for drinks aboard a beautifully maintained narrowboat, having struck up a conversation with its owner while queuing at a lock. Our initial destination was Walton-on-Thames, but so thoroughly were we enjoying the rhythm of river life that we pushed on to Hampton Court, soaking in the grandeur of the royal palace, before reluctantly turning the boat around to return ‘Ewen’ upriver. It remains a trip I’ve always intended to repeat. I have since traveled much further, incurred significantly greater expense, and yet found nothing that compares to the sheer joy and unforgettable character of that Thames adventure.

A birthday break in the Trossachs

"Gravelfoyle," my cycle-mad partner Gary declared instantly when asked for his birthday destination. Gravelfoyle is the affectionate, fitting nickname for the picturesque village of Aberfoyle, nestled at the gateway to the Trossachs, approximately 50 miles north-west of Edinburgh and even closer to Glasgow. Aberfoyle proudly stakes its claim as having "the UK’s finest gravel riding," a boast substantiated by an extensive network of well-maintained, waymarked trails carved through breathtaking landscapes. Gravel biking, a rapidly growing discipline blending elements of road and mountain biking, finds its ideal terrain here, offering adventurers a unique way to explore the rugged beauty of Scotland.

Growing up in Edinburgh, my summers were often spent camping in the majestic Cairngorms or exploring the rolling hills of Perthshire. This ingrained habit of heading north meant that Scotland’s first national park, Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park, remained less explored for me. Established in 2002, this vast park encompasses dramatic lochs, ancient woodlands, and towering mountains, serving as a critical habitat for diverse wildlife and a haven for outdoor enthusiasts. It’s a landscape steeped in history and natural grandeur, often referred to as the "Highlands in Miniature."

With bikes securely strapped to the car, we set off from Edinburgh. The journey, a mere 75 minutes, was a visual feast. We passed the colossal Kelpies near Falkirk, two magnificent 100-foot-high steel horse-head sculptures that stand as a powerful tribute to Scotland’s equine industrial heritage. In the distance, the imposing silhouette of Stirling Castle, a pivotal site in Scottish history, and the dramatic, Mordor-esque Wallace Monument, commemorating the legendary William Wallace, added layers of historical grandeur to the drive. En route, we made a crucial stop at The Smiddy farm shop in Blair Drummond, conveniently close to the safari park my brother and I frequented as children. Here, we picked up cheese and chorizo scotch eggs, hailed by the butcher as "the best thing we sell," a testament to the region’s commitment to quality local produce.

For our accommodation, I had booked a snug-looking glamping pod on the sprawling Cardross Estate near Port of Menteith, not far from Aberfoyle. Tucked away down a quiet, single-track road flanked by rich farmland, where majestic kites soared overhead, the estate operates with impressive efficiency. From the seamless self-check-in process to the handy trolleys provided for transporting luggage from the car park, every detail was meticulously planned. Inside the beautifully curved, wooden pod, a cleverly designed space awaited: a comfortable sofa, a pull-down double bed, a modern shower room, and a compact fridge. Picture windows framed idyllic views of fields speckled with grazing cattle and golden crops, rolling gently towards the distant, iconic peak of Ben Lomond. While the estate also offered charming self-catering cottages or a more traditional B&B experience in Cardross House, the glamping pod felt like the most decadent way to immerse ourselves in the outdoors, especially as the fire pit roared to life and we clinked glasses of fizz under the Scottish sky.

Later that day, we embarked on our first cycling adventure: the 18.2-mile (29.2km) Lomond View, one of the three expertly plotted Gravelfoyle routes. Recent rains had rendered the trail wet and delightfully muddy, adding an authentic challenge to the ride. Afterwards, at Aberfoyle Bike Co, a hub for local cyclists where bikes can also be hired, the owner, Liam, greeted us with a ready hose for our muddy machines and steaming hot drinks to warm us through.

The following day, we opted for a hike, setting out from the nearby town of Callander on the 3.5-mile (5.3km) circular Bracklinn Falls route. The trail led us across a sturdy wooden bridge spanning the thundering waterfall, a spectacular display of nature’s power. We pressed on through thick, ancient forest, the air crisp with the scent of pine, before returning to Callander for generously filled baguettes at Mhor Bread, a local bakery renowned for its artisanal goods. The afternoon’s inevitable Scottish downpour provided the perfect excuse to retreat to our cosy pod, indulge in some reading, and, in my case, enjoy a luxurious nap – a true holiday indulgence.

That evening, the sun dramatically broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over the landscape. We clinked glasses in the vibrant, flower-strewn garden of Scottish celebrity chef Nick Nairn’s namesake restaurant, Nick’s at Port of Menteith. As swallows and housemartins swooped gracefully overhead, we savored delicious fish and chips and a rich seafood linguine, the perfect end to an active day. Over the course of our three-day birthday break, we immersed ourselves in the Trossachs, biking and hiking various routes that skirted the edges of shimmering lochs and wound through yawning, forest-clad valleys. We indulged in fabulous, locally produced food, and soaked up the nurturing goodness of being truly immersed in the raw, untamed wilderness of this magnificent national park. It was a rejuvenating escape, a perfect blend of active exploration and tranquil relaxation.

At the edge of north Wales

For years, Ynys Môn, or Anglesey, had been a transient landscape, a blur glimpsed through the darkness as I passed through to catch the night ferry from Holyhead to Dublin. The island’s true character remained a mystery, a mere embarkation point. That changed, however, when our daughter, a student in Bangor, across the Menai Strait, suggested an outing during a family visit.

Our first proper introduction to Anglesey took us to Newborough Forest, a magnificent nature reserve sprawling across the island’s south-west coast. This unique ecosystem comprises vast Corsican pine plantations, dynamic sand dunes, and a sweeping arc of beach that offers breathtaking panoramic views of the majestic peaks of Eryri (Snowdonia) across the bay. We spent a blissful afternoon walking over to the small, enchanting tidal island of Ynys Llanddwyn, home to a picturesque lighthouse and the evocative ruined remains of Saint Dwynwen’s church. Saint Dwynwen, revered as the Welsh patron saint of lovers, is the spiritual equivalent of Saint Valentine. For us, it was truly love at first sight with Anglesey, and a plan quickly hatched to return for a more extended visit.

On our subsequent trip, we rented a charming cottage with expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly framed the distant mountains. It was located on the road leading out of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch – a name we simply had to experience, if only for the sheer joy of its majestic length and quirky history as a Victorian marketing ploy. What we discovered during that stay largely echoed the observations of H.V. Morton in his classic 1932 travelogue, In Search of Wales: "The long roads run through flat, green country, linking quiet, stone-built little market towns together." Morton, a celebrated travel writer of his era, captured the pastoral heartland of the island, a description that still held true.

However, it is truly at the edges that Ynys Môn reveals its most dramatic and captivating self. On our first day, we embarked on a walk along a section of the acclaimed Wales Coast Path, tracing the rugged cliffs at Rhoscolyn on Ynys Gybi (Holy Island). Holy Island, itself an island off an island, boasts dramatic sea arches sculpted by millennia of crashing waves, and offers an extraordinary feeling of apartness, as if one is almost floating out to sea, gazing across the vast expanse of the Irish Sea. This segment of the 870-mile Wales Coast Path showcases some of the most spectacular coastal scenery in Britain, a testament to the island’s raw beauty.

Another day, we parked at the popular beach at Rhosneigr, a hub for watersports, and again followed the clear signs for the coast path. We ambled through the undulating marram grass and thorny gorse on the dunes until we discovered a perfectly sheltered cove, irresistible for a refreshing swim in the cool, clear waters. Afterwards, we drove across the island, historically known as Môn, Mam Cymru (Anglesey, the Mother of Wales) due to its legendary fertility, once said to grow enough corn to feed the entire country. Our destination was Red Wharf Bay, another sweeping beach reached via a narrow, single-track lane, where expansive tidal flats reveal themselves at low tide. While there was no corn on the menu at the charming Boathouse cafe, we were more than content with delicious crab meat crumpets and fresh mussels, celebrating the island’s rich seafood bounty.

Leafing through H.V. Morton’s book back at the cottage that night, I stumbled upon a line that filled me with a poignant sense of regret. I had rattled through this glorious little island on the boat train on so many occasions, simply seeing it as an embarkation point for Ireland, without ever having had the imagination to disembark and truly spend time here. Morton wrote: “Holyhead is an excellent place for a holiday… you have bathing, fine cliff scenery, and all round you is excellent flat walking country with a supreme view of the whole Snowdon range.” His words served as a powerful reminder of the hidden treasures I had overlooked, underscoring that Anglesey is far more than just a transit point; it is a destination in itself, offering a unique blend of natural beauty, ancient history, and vibrant coastal life. A return trip to delve deeper into its wonders is undoubtedly on the cards.

North Yorkshire with 42 pals

Twelve years ago, a casual conversation in my son Ned’s primary school playground sparked an extraordinary tradition. I mentioned to my friend Vicky, "I’m thinking of taking a few friends up to Yorkshire," to which she instantly replied, "I’m in." Word quickly spread through our friendship circles, and before I knew it, a staggering 42 of us were planning a trip to the lovely Cote Ghyll Mill, nestled on the edge of the picturesque village of Osmotherley. In those days, the Mill was a bustling youth hostel, a popular choice for groups and outdoor enthusiasts, before its recent transformation into a more upscale B&B. Ned and I meticulously crafted a giant "Welcome to Yorkshire" banner, Blu-Tacking handwritten names onto each bedroom door, a symbolic gesture of the communal adventure that lay ahead. None of us, at that initial moment, realized that this week would become an annual June tradition, a cherished highlight in our calendars, until the unforeseen arrival of Covid-19 temporarily brought it to a halt.

One of the most memorable days of that first trip saw my mum and dad, ever the enthusiastic participants, take charge. They led us on a delightful six-mile circular walk from Grosmont, a historic railway village, winding through the fairytale hamlet of Beck Hole. This tiny, secluded settlement is a fascinating relic, known as a traditional centre for the ancient game of quoits, a historic sport akin to horseshoes. The path then took us back across the rugged, expansive North York Moors, a landscape of heather and dramatic vistas. Mum, ever the feeder in our family, sprang a wonderful surprise halfway through: she opened the boot of their car to reveal her homemade fruit cake, alongside a stack of enormous, freshly made sandwiches collected from the highly-regarded Danby Bakery. Dad, meanwhile, had crafted a few short thumbsticks – traditional walking sticks made from hazel branches – specifically for the kids. Florence, now 19, still treasures hers, and her mum, Julie, even uses it to reach an awkward light switch, a testament to its enduring utility and sentimental value.

Halfway round our walk, we reached Dad’s favourite pub, the charming and utterly unique Birch Hall Inn. This historic establishment, famed for its tiny, interconnected rooms and old-world charm, doubles as a sweet shop – a truly delightful combination. Dad’s drink of choice was, as always, a classic bitter shandy. We