Where tourists seldom tread, part 20: three UK towns that feel like home

Harrow: Unearthing the Ancient Heart of Suburbia

The lexicon of suburbia — commuting, dormitory, cul-de-sac, privet hedge — often resonates with a sense of not truly seeing, of a landscape designed for transit rather than deep engagement. Yet, in densely peopled north-west London, one must dig — with eyes, books, and boots — to find the occluded past that lies beneath the seemingly uniform sprawl. Harrow, an archetype of this phenomenon, is far more than its 20th-century suburban incarnation suggests.

Its origins stretch back to the Anglo-Saxon era. In a 767 charter, Harrow is recorded as Gumeninga hergae, which translates evocatively to the "heathen temple of the Gumeningas [tribe]." This small but pronounced hill, evident even on old sketches, was a natural and powerful spot for ancient worship, a common feature of the landscape with similar harrows found all over England. Such sites often transitioned from pagan spiritual centres to Christian ones, reflecting the evolving religious landscape of early Britain. By the time of the Domesday Book in 1086, Harrow had become a significant holding within the archbishop of Canterbury’s estate. The meticulous survey reveals a thriving community: 70 ploughlands, 117 households, 102 villagers, two cottagers, three knights, two slaves, and a priest. This was a sizeable and economically productive place for its time, indicative of its fertile land and strategic importance.

Beyond its early settlement, Harrow was once a landscape dominated by nature. Trees, not houses, outnumbered people. The medieval manor boasted an expansive 100-hectare (250-acre) deer park in nearby Pinner, a testament to the area’s wild character. The very name Harrow Weald derives from the Old English for woodland, a direct reference to the ancient Forest of Middlesex. This vast forest once stretched from Houndsditch in the City of London, through Highgate and Mill Hill, reaching these outer extremities. It was not merely a picturesque landscape but an economic powerhouse, providing vital resources like timber and, notably, pannage – the autumn feeding ground for an astonishing 20,000 pigs, underscoring its immense ecological and agricultural significance.

The 16th and 17th centuries saw Harrow attract a different kind of resident: gentry seeking a rural retreat within easy reach of court and parliament, accessible by coach and four. This influx of wealth and influence led to the establishment of one of England’s most prestigious public schools. The wealthy landowner John Lyon founded Harrow School by royal charter in 1572, imbuing the area with an enduring legacy of elite education and a distinctive architectural character that still defines Harrow on the Hill.

An 1868 map reveals Harrow on the Hill as a mere scattering of houses, gracefully enveloped by parks, groves, and the sprawling fields of the school. The only significant nearby railway line was the London and North Western, arrowing away to distant Birmingham and Crewe, connecting Harrow to the industrial heartland rather than drawing it into the metropolitan orbit. The area’s natural beauty and rich wildlife were still so prominent in 1930 that Harrovian Tom Harrisson, later a pioneering figure in the Mass-Observation project, published "Birds of the Harrow District," a detailed ornithological survey that seems almost unimaginable in today’s urban context.

However, the inexorable march of "Metro-land" would, by the 1950s, irrevocably transform the hill and its environs. This ambitious suburbanisation project, driven by the expansion of the Metropolitan Railway, submerged the landscape in housing, effectively lassoing Harrow to London. It spawned numerous subdistricts like North, West, and South Harrows, providing suburban living for more than 200,000 people. This rapid, often less planned, version of growth greeted me when I moved there in the summer of 1987, preparing to travel, as John Betjeman famously put it, "Smoothly from Harrow" on the Metropolitan line "fasts" to a dreary office job in Blackfriars.

Knowing, now, a little about this lost town’s historical layers helps explain the still tangible, almost sacrificial feel of the place – the amorphous sensation of inhabiting a populous nowhere. It is a place where ancient pagan sites, medieval estates, and verdant woodlands have been overwritten by commuter convenience and residential density. Yet, traces remain for those who seek them.
Things to see and do: Walk section 9 of the Capital Ring for green spaces and views; explore Harrow’s past at Headstone Manor Museum; visit the impressive Zoroastrian Centre, housed in the former art deco Ace Cinema, a reminder of the area’s cultural diversity and architectural heritage.

Clitheroe: A Northern Gem Forging a New Identity

I recommend a slow approach to Clitheroe, allowing ample time to truly take in its spectacular setting. A deliberate walk into town permits admiration of the striking hill, the steep-sided lump on which sit the evocative ruins of the Norman castle, proudly housing the "second smallest surviving stone keep in England." From the top of this historic perch, the views are nothing short of uplifting: the dramatic weather systems rolling in from the west, the majestic Bowland Fells stretching into the distance, slivers of Yorkshire’s iconic Three Peaks, and the brooding presence of Pendle Hill, famous for its witch trials and panoramic vistas. This geographical embrace provides Clitheroe with a unique character, rooted in the dramatic landscape of Pennine Lancashire.

The A59 Lancs-Yorks trunk road, a vital artery of northern commerce, became a bypass at the end of the 1960s. Before then, a steady stream of cars and vans chugged laboriously up Moor Lane and along Castle Street, sections that, despite the bypass, still remain the traffic-cluttered heart of the high street. The narrowness and the charming, low-slung 17th- and 18th-century shopfronts remind me, in a peculiar way, of Totnes in Devon, which largely retains its Tudor character. This architectural continuity speaks to an era when towns evolved organically, later warped by the redbrick Victorian pomp of industrial expansion and finally, and often brutally, shattered by the 20th-century’s wave of "raze-and-redevelop" shopping precincts – many of which have since been condemned as architectural and social failures.

In some respects, Clitheroe is archetypal Lancashire, but with a crucial distinction. To the south of Pendle Hill lie the struggling one-time textile boomtowns, stark reminders of what industry built and what offshoring took away. These towns often grapple with post-industrial decline, seeking new purposes. Clitheroe, relatively speaking, is remarkably intact. It seems that old places, with their deep-rooted history and diverse economic foundations, weather booms and busts better than those built solely on a single industry. And, of course, new money, often from tourism or affluent commuters seeking a rural lifestyle, helps considerably.

Indeed, factories once thrived here. But unlike many of its neighbours, Clitheroe has embraced adaptive reuse. Two former spinning blocks, a weaving shed, and associated offices have undergone a creditable and ambitious makeover to create Holmes Mill. This impressive complex now combines a sophisticated deli-cum-bar, a "luxury" cinema, a craft brewery and alehouse, a boutique hotel, and a wedding venue. It expertly ticks aspirational boxes for affluent Lancastrians and visitors alike, transforming industrial heritage into a vibrant hub of leisure and hospitality. Alongside this new development, the town retains its traditional character, with lively local boozers dotted all around. CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) groups are probably Clitheroe’s main excursionists, testament to its excellent pub scene. The New Inn, for instance, offers a riotously cosy atmosphere, while Georgeonzola caters to cheese and wine connoisseurs. The presence of at least three cocktail bars further underscores the town’s evolving, more cosmopolitan appeal – a far cry from any outdated stereotype of "clogs or caps."

I live a couple of miles outside Clitheroe, and it’s sometimes strange to think it belongs to the same county as St Helens and Warrington, where I was born and raised. Locals often specify "Pennine Lancashire" to differentiate it from the industrial "Plains." The rain is undoubtedly worse here, and the wind can be evil, sweeping down from the fells, but this north-facing town is a truly likable knot of streets and stonework. There is still plenty to discover, a testament to its enduring charm and evolving identity.
Things to see and do: Enjoy a summer dip at Edisford Bridge on the River Ribble; embark on invigorating walks up Pendle Hill or along the scenic Ribble Way, ideal for winter rambles; explore the historic ruins of Whalley Abbey, easily accessible by bus or train; take the No 11 bus to delve deeper into the Forest of Bowland or to reach the starting point for Pen-y-ghent.

Princetown: The Granite Heart of Dartmoor’s Grim Beauty

Devon is widely known as the least bleak county I know, famed for its balmy summers, rolling pastures of rich red earth and vibrant green grass, its cove-serrated coasts, picturesque hamlets, high hedgerows, and winding long lanes. It boasts an ancient ecclesiastical city (Exeter), a bustling maritime city (Plymouth), and enjoys mild winters. Princetown, however, is its sole, stark flirtation with grimness. Tourists do come, and perhaps not as seldom as other spots in this series, but they often look visibly shocked when they step out of their cars or dismount their bikes, confronted by the raw, exposed landscape and the imposing granite structure that dominates the horizon.

The granite-grey Dartmoor Prison is not merely a prominent feature; it is the very reason for Princetown’s existence. In 1805, Thomas Tyrwhitt MP, secretary to the Prince of Wales, secured a substantial tract of land from the Duchy estate. His vision was to establish a "depot" for the burgeoning numbers of prisoners taken during the Napoleonic Wars. The site was chosen for its extreme remoteness and sufficiently inhospitable conditions, believed to be ideal deterrents to escape.

The first prisoners arrived in 1809, and the fledgling Princetown prison quickly became overcrowded. Conditions deteriorated further when American prisoners from the War of 1812 began arriving. Diseases such as pneumonia, typhoid, and smallpox became "natural" death sentences, claiming countless lives in the harsh, damp environment of the moor. The Depot closed with the cessation of conflicts, but its grim utility was not forgotten. It reopened in 1850 as a penal establishment for "common criminals," a role it has largely maintained ever since. Over its long history, its inmates have included figures of significant historical and cultural note: Éamon de Valera, who would later become a pivotal leader, Taoiseach, and President of Ireland; Fred Longden, a conscientious objector and Member of Parliament; and Reginald Horace Blyth, the English Zen poet and scholar. These individuals, incarcerated in such a desolate place, underscore the prison’s role in the broader social and political narratives of Britain.

Tyrwhitt, by then Sir Thomas, was not just a visionary of incarceration. He also played a crucial role in developing the moor. He initiated the construction of a railway to transport quarried granite stone down to the port, and to bring up essential farm produce, coal, timber, and lime for fertiliser, attempting to foster a nascent economy around the prison. Prisoners and passengers both used the line at various times until its eventual closure in 1956. In a startlingly contemporary twist, the prison itself was temporarily closed in 2024, not due to inmate unrest, but due to "higher than normal" levels of radon, a cancer-causing gas naturally formed by decaying uranium in the granite rocks and soils of Dartmoor. This closure highlights the deep, sometimes dangerous, connection between Princetown and its unique geology.

Today, the old railway line has been repurposed into a popular track, along which runners and cyclists hurtle, seeking escape not from incarceration, but from Princetown itself – a town that feels defiantly anti-twee, anti-wild camping, anti-tourism, and now, perhaps, even radioactive. Despite its small population, Princetown’s imposing architecture and historical weight give it the feel of a village rather than a mere hamlet. Its starkness has long captivated imaginations. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle famously stayed at the Duchy Hotel, which later became the main Dartmoor National Park visitor centre (though it too closed in October 2025). The chilling landscape and the prison’s dark reputation heavily influenced his masterpiece, The Hound of the Baskervilles, where an escaped convict, Selden, plays a pivotal role. As Doyle wrote, describing the landscape between two farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire, and the great prison: "extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then is the stage upon which tragedy has played, and upon which we may help to play it again." For the modern, leisure-age gaze, the moor is often seen as a wild camping backdrop, full of vitality and airy solitudes. Yet, HMP Dartmoor in Princetown, now emptied for a time, stands as the enduring, tragic set, a monument to human confinement against an untamed wilderness.
Things to see and do: Cycle the Princetown to Burrator Reservoir mountain bike tracks, tracing the path of the old railway; delve into the prison’s dark history at the Dartmoor Prison Museum; explore the dramatic Foggintor Quarry, a stark landscape sculpted by man and nature.

Chris Moss’s latest book, Lancashire: Exploring the Historic County That Made The Modern World, is published by Old Street Publishing at £25. His book based on this series, Where Tourists Seldom Tread, will be published by Faber in 2026.

This article was amended on 24 February 2026 to clarify that the Dartmoor national park visitor centre in Princetown closed in October 2025. Also, an earlier version incorrectly referred to Fred Longden as "Frank."

Lancashire by Chris Moss (Old Street Publishing, £25). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.