A smart place to stay has opened in the heart of Cape Town's Khayelitsha, the first upmarket hotel in the sprawling township near the city's international airport. The Spade Boutique Hotel has 13 rooms and boasts "incredible African cuisine", a bar, a heated pool a gym and a spa. The property is the brainchild of two locals – Annette Skaap, a former airline cabin crew member, and her businessman husband Bulelani "Ace", who also owns the Kwa-Ace Lounge, Kwa-Ace Kitchen and Kwa-Ace Eparkin. Khayelitsha, on the Cape Flats, is one of the first sights visitors see when heading into the city. Its name is Xhosa for "New Home". May migrant workers settled there. It is reckoned to be the biggest and fastest growing township in South Africa, diverse and with various entertainment spots. The hotel is 24kms from the airport, 34kms from Table Mountain, 25kms from the Cape winelands and 36kms from the city's V&A Waterfront. Places to eat outside the hotel can be found here.

Antwerp may not leap instantly to mind as a short break destination - but there are few more rewarding choices. Go for the lovely old city centre and the paintings of its favourite son, Peter Paul Rubens. Go for the excellent museums, the huge choice of restaurants and pubs and – of course – the frites and the beer. And it's easy to reach by train. With the Royal Museum of Fine Arts closed until later this year for renovation, some of the Rubens, works normally on show there have been transferred elsewhere. For example, several may be seen at the former home of his wealthy patron Nicolaas Rockox, with its delightful courtyard, though the bright star of that exquisite collection, to my mind, is Lucas Cranach the Elder’s sensual Eve. You can get a Rubens trail leaflet from the tourist office. Even if after taking in all the relevant sites - including the artist's house - that you’ve seen enough of his works to last a lifetime, do not miss his intimate portraits of Christian Plantin, his wife and members of their family in the Plantin-Moretus Museum. Though born in France, Plantin came to Antwerp in the mid 16th century where he established a print shop and commissioned work from Peter Paul. Make plenty of time for this breathtaking museum, which is home to perhaps the world’s oldest surviving printing presses. On one of them, set in original type, is a sonnet by Plantin. It also contains a fascinating collection of rare books from the period, among them early works on the anatomy and the Romans. Antwerp is more than wall to wall culture, however. Besides its famous chippies there are the inevitable waffle vendors. There are chocolate shops and cafes. And of course there is beer. There are countless atmospheric bars, among them Quinten Matsijs on Moriaanstraat, claimed to be the oldest in town. You may tae a tour of the local De Koninck brewery, established soon after the birth of Belgium in 1830. Its best known brew is synonymous with the bowl shaped glass in which it arrives – a bolleke. Few cities can have such a density of places to eat. One which stands out from our visit is the Docks Café - on the waterfront, as the name implies. And one dish in particularly lodges in the memory: herb crusted road cod in gleaming fresh flakes, with leek and mashed potato topped with a perfect poached egg. On a hot and humid evening we took the tram to Zurenborg, a suburb to the south east of the city centre. While the narrow streets of the old centre are thronged with tourists in high summer, few venture this far from the honeypots. I had wanted to see the posh mansions on Cogels Osylei, an avenue named after two people who once owned the land. Elegant art nouveau houses rub shoulders with overblown properties whose design was clearly influenced by French chateaux. We returned to Draakplaats for a beer and an organic burger at a cafe where all the other tables appeared to be occupied by locals. Even if you can’t fit Zurenborg into your schedule, do not neglect to walk north of the centre, along the Scheldt, to Antwerp’s up and coming dockland area. Take the lift and stairs to the top of the MAS building for a magnificent view of the city, the docks and the broad, shining river, stretching away towards the North Sea. Make you way down through the museum floors (best get an audio guide with English translation as, unless things have changed since I visited, much of the information is only in Flemish). But make time for a little more history, this time more recent. The Red Star Line museum is one of the most compelling you will find anywhere, with a particular resonance in light of ongoing migrant problems. It is housed in the clearing house used by the former shipping company to process tens of thousands of emigrants between 1873 and 1934, refugees from anti-Semitic pogroms in eastern Europe, poverty and the Nazis, who sailed on its ships in the hope of better lives in North America. Many travelled on hard train seats for several days, with no washing facilities. From Antwerp’s ornately impressive central station they headed for the brick chimney at the line’s riverside facility, a landmark now rebuilt as part of museum complex, where they and their luggage were disinfected. Some, children at the time, have provided their family stories, told through letters, interviews, film and photographs and items they carried with them. It is a rich history of humanity uprooted, beautifully realized – and very moving. I travelled by Eurostar and switchsmoothly to Belgian Railways at Brussels Midi/Zuid (note that Eurostar does not run to Brussels Central). It took maybe 6hrs from home to the hotel lobby but much of that time was spent relaxing, reading, watching the countryside flash past and – as we were travelling in Standard Premier – enjoying continental breakfast at our seats in both directions. You could take a tram from Antwerp's breathtaking central station but a taxi to our hotel, the Rubens-Grote Market - a short step from the cathedral - will cost around €12.

A range of women only holidays has been launched by Trafalgar Tours in a move likely to appeal to single mature travellers. Destinations are France, Egypt, Turkey, Italy, "Great Iberian Cities", Devon and Cornwall, Ireland and the Scottish Highlands. The trips are led by all female teams, and customers can meet "inspiring" business women – including artisans – along the way. The nine day Egypt tour, for example starts with an exploration of Cairo, followed by a flight to Luxor and a visit to the Valley of the Kings. Then its upstream on a Nile cruise to Kom-Ombo and Aswan, with its Temple of Isis. Day six sees a return to the capital and the unparalleled Egyptian Museum, whose astonishing collection of Pharaonic exhibits include the sold gold death mask of Tutankhamun, who reigned from 1334-1325BC, the mummy mask of Wendjebauendjed and the sarcophagus of Queen Kawit, the wife of King Nebhepetre Mentuhotep, the founder of the Middle Kingdom, whose outer faces are decorated with scenes of daily life, one showing her drinking in front of a table laden with food. On day eight it's the Pyramids and the Great Sphinx. The eight day Great Cities of Spain holiday starts in Barcelona, continues to Madrid and a visit to the Prado Museum with its great collection, notably of works by Velazquez, Goya and El Greco. Then it's on to Toledo, with its fascinating Alcazar, scene oif a dramatic siege during the Civil War, and Seville whose Giralda contains a sloping, winding pavement that horses could climb. Finally it's into Portugal and across the wine producing Alentejo, to finish in Lisbon. Both these tours have optional extra experiences. Those on offer with the latter include a flamenco evening – with or without dinner, and an evening of Portuguese fado singing – with a meal.

Sometimes you only appreciate your luck with hindsight. Viewed from the rim of the North Crater, Lake Taupo stretched away until its cobalt blue became hazy with distance. It was, you imagined, like looking at earth from space. But it was not until several days later, when our hosts at dinner regaled us with their account of hunkering down in a howling gale, to avoid being blown off the mountain, that we realised how fortunate we had been to enjoy it. Maybe only one in three of their guests had been able to make the Tongariro Crossing, they said, let alone in such perfect conditions. They may have exaggerated, of course, but there is no doubt that completing the Crossing is, as our travel guide notes warned, “weather dependent”, and that most people with limited holiday time in New Zealand do not have enough flexibility to hang around waiting for clear skies. That does not mean you should not take the chance, for if you do strike lucky, it will be a day you will never forget. From the Bay of Islands in the north to Milford Sound in the south, New Zealand is a country of great spectacles, but they do not come any more spectacular than this. It was not as though we had been starved of visual treats since arriving in Auckland. West of that city we had strolled barefoot in black sand by the Tasman Sea, watching grey breakers thunder in on Karekare beach, just as in Jane Campion's film, The Piano, some of whose opening scenes were shot there. On the Coromandel Peninsula we had walked for five unbroken kilometres by the Pacific, along an equally stunning beach of paler colour, paddling back to our parked car through a flooding tide, up an estuary where the blue wings of kingfishers flashed. Near Rotorua, with its geysers, geothermal springs and whiffs of sulphur, we put up at a“homestay” - essentially b&bs though they usually offer the option of pre-booked dinner - it was immaculately luxurious. From its windows you could see Mount Tarawera, which last erupted 120 years ago, sending a plume of ash at least seven miles into the sky. We walked through volcanic Waimangu Valley, where Japanese tourists exclaimed in amazement at the sudden sight of the steaming, turquoise Inferno Lake. And an hour or so away among the giant native trees of Whirinaki Rainforest a Maori guide showed us a beautiful river canyon of sheer sided rock, where a young woman devastated by a love triangle is said to have killed herself, returning as a heron. There was plenty to intrigue the eye after Tongariro, too. Our guide on Whanganui River told us how, at night, he playeds tapes of kiwi calls, prompting answers from those rare, threatened, symbolic birds. But you are unlikely to see one. On the way he pointed out the site of a former Maori pa, a fortified settlement hidden in the bush, where warriors hauled their canoes high up the cliffs, beyond the reach of saboteurs - and iron rings in the rock, through which river steamer crews ran ropes to help them across the rapids. We should have walked to the nearby Bridge to Nowhere, built too late to rescue a doomed project to help soldiers who had fought in the Great War establish farms. Appropriately, given that the instability of the land was the main reason the project failed, we were prevented from getting there by a landslip. Our itinerary was designed to provide an overview of the country, while enabling us to sample some of its celebrated long distance hiking routes. Thus we spent a day on each of two tracks at the north end of South Island: the Queen Charlotte and the gentler Abel Tasman, climbing on both for glorious views of inlets and green promontories and descending to stunning beaches. On the road we tried not to eat too many of the splendid pies, which are sometimes with unusual fillings such as smoked fish rather than meat and are available cheaply in bakeries everywhere. We made no such effort when it came to the equally ubiquitous seafood, including scallops and the unappetisingly named but delicious green lipped mussels, which invariably tasted as fresh as could be. Nor were we able to resist New Zealand's wines, from fine sauvignon and pinot noir to a fine Gewurztraminer, drunk as an an aperitif before yet another fish dinner. The west coast, we were advised, was at its characteristic best when a strong westerly blustered. The wind refused to cooperate but the driftwood strewn sands and wave pounded cliffs – most notably those eroded to form the limestone layered Pancake Rocks at Punekaiki – nevertheless generated a wild excitement. Our finale was at at Milford Sound, where palm trees and Alpine snow can be photographed in the same frame, on a section of the country's most famous hike – the Milford Track. Here we walked on the sunny banks of a benign Clinton River, imagining how it would be in heavy rain when it can rise above your boots in no time, and considering how much history had happened in the life of an 800 year old beech tree, which must have reached maturity before New Zealand was settled by humans. But nothing topped the Tongariro Crossing. Linger often to absorb that other wordly landscape and it could take 7 – 8 hours. You will not be alone. From spring to autumn – even on weekdays - there can be over 200 other hikers strung out across it. It is hardly surprising, for I doubt here is a much better day hike anywhere. After a pleasant preamble by a stream a strenuous uphill section over rough lava flows brings you to the South Crater. A huge glacial basin rather than an actual crater, its black and tan, rubble scattered floor could double as the landing spot for a spaceship. From there a second, shorter climb leads to a windy ridge on the edge of the Red Crater, this time the genuine article, which gets its astonishing colour from oxidised iron in the rock. We skidded on our heels down a steep slope of debris called scoria to picnic by the gem like Emerald Lakes and continued to the Blue Lake, where eating and drinking would trample Maori sensitivities, for they regard it as tapu (sacred). On such a cloudless afternoon Lake Taupo, itself formed after a massive eruption, was in view for much of the long, tiring descent to the Ketetahi car park. Flopping in the sunshine, waiting for a shuttle bus, I regretted that an exhausted camera battery had prevented me taking more than a single shot. It was generous of an English hiker, encountered en route, to take the trouble of e-mailing some of his. But if he hadn't bothered, we would not have been too distraught. Computer memories can be wiped, after all. Ours are indelible. This itinerary was organised by Discover the World

Labour Day weekend in the US and Crane Beach, an hour or so north of Boston, is crowded with families and teenage groups enjoying the warm sunshine of the public holiday that officially marks the end of America's summer. It's part of a regular ritual when we come to stay with relatives here. First we cross a boardwalk from the car park, over the fragile dunes. This time something new: little nesting boxes, shaped like amphorae, have been perched on a pole for the purple martins, whose numbers here have diminished. It prompts the thought that while we have flown from Heathrow in less than seven hours, these gorgeously plumaged members of the swallow family travel annually from Brazil to join the dainty piping plovers that skitter here by the Atlantic's dying ripples. We walk or just chill on the vast shining sands, where shameless herring gulls will snafffle your pinic if you turn your back for an instant (Beware: we once watched two young women deposit their backpacks close to where we sat. No sooner had they left for a stroll than a gang of those voracious gulls pulled out their sandwiches and gulped them down. No matter how hard we tried, we were unable to keep them at bay). In late afternoon we head for a fish fest at one of our favourite restaurants, Woodman's Eat in the Rough in nearby Essex, just one of many Massachusetts place names originating from England. The restaurant, which has been serving mountains of seafood since 1914, is an institution. Forbes Magazine opined that it served the best seafood in America. Its founder, Lawrence "Chubby Woodman", is reputed to have invented the fried clam. The restaurant is much the same as ever, even if the prices appear to have climbed a little (and a recent customer complained no draught beer was on offer – only bottles). We queue for maybe a half hour to get in. It's usually like this on busy weekends. People come straight from the beach in T-shirts and flip flops, though with bikinis and swimming shorts usually covered. Still with sand between their toes they are entertained as they wait with tinny 1950s hits, played over speakers. We order sweet clams, dug from the mud flats outside, share combination dishes incorporating them with fat scallops, haddock and shrimp, all fried in a light coating of corn meal, and slake our salt air thirsts with Sam Adams beers in plastic cups. The food comes in lidless cardboard boxes. It's a wonderfully democratic institution. The young, old, wealthy and those of modest means all mess down and dip their "steamers" (steamed clams served in their shells) first in water to rinse off any sand, then in melted butter. Some order lobster from the counter outside by the road. Unable to eat another mouthful, we drive home as the twilight sky catches fire, full of seafood and contentment.

Nightjars come to Hurtwood in spring. They should be there between April and mid-May. You can hear their strange churring call at dusk – and maybe spot them in ghostly flight. We were almost late enough to lie quietly in wait for them – not by design – for we had miscalculated the time it would take to complete a walk and made our way back to the car park much later than expected. We had, however, heard our first cuckoo. Hurtwood is an area of forest and heath in Surrey so criss-crossed with paths that you’re more likely than not to get lost. It lies south of the A25 between Guildford and Dorking. Reginald Bray, (no relative of mine) lord of the manor of Shere granted the public the right to roam there more than 90 ago. Hurt is a name for the bilberry that grow in profusion there. Red deer also browse among the trees. Spring is a delightful time to go hiking in the English countryside. Beech trees were in vivid light green leaf, in the woods were great armies of English bluebells, arrayed as if to repel the Spanish invader, crab apple was in pink and white blossom. Primroses covered a grassy bank. Dark violets were in bloom. We left the car a short drive from the village Shere and struck out to the north. St, Martha’s Church, on the North Downs Way, came into distant view. Martha was believed to be a corruption of Martyr, said one of my walking companions. The martyr concerned was said to be Thomas Becket. We ate a picnic lunch by the Victorian parish church in Albury, a village mostly built in the early 19th century to house locals evicted from the Albury Park Estate. Henry Drummond, who had bought the estate, employed the architect August Pugin, who assisted with the design of the Houses of Parliament, and who was obsessed with decorative chimneys. We could see some of them, brick zig zag patterned, from where we sat. There were riots here against he Corn Laws in 1830, the mill was burned down and a 19 year old man was hanged for arson. We drank Adnams and Doom Bar bitter at the Drummond Arms, in the garden by the swift running Tillingbourne and set out on what turned out to be a long and weary trek back to the car.

Alsace, it seems reasonable to assume, is not as familiar to UK tourists as the likes of Normandy, Brittany, Provence or the Dordogne. Maybe this is the result of the region's personality, apparently part German, with German style wines and recipes. At first acquaintance this seems hardly surprising. The dark outlines of Black Forest are visible across the Rhine to the east. On further reflection you sense a certain contradiction, for this is territory fought over and twice annexed by Germany in under 80 years and on the second occasion, when the Nazis were responsible, its resolutely French inhabitant were forced to speak German, an obligation clearly destined to produce a reaction. So perhaps the surprise is that its personality remains seemingly unchanged - and it's all the more fascinating as a result:. The Villages Andlau With their half timbered buildings, renaissance bay windows, window boxes spilling over with vivid flowers and chimneys topped with storks’ nests they’re unfeasibly, almost cloyingly, beautiful. If you visit in summer, don’t expect to be alone. Villages such as Riquewihr and Kaysersberg, with its ancient, fortified bridge can be very crowded. But those lesser known can be much quieter – such as Andlau, seat of a great abbey founded by Charlemagne’s wife in the 9th century and even lovely Eguisiheim, in whose narrow, cobbled streets after dark, you may imagine yourself transported to an earlier age. The wine All right, I know we’ve been warned against drinking all but a few thimblefuls per night but you’ve got to make an exception in a region where vines stretch almost as far as the eye can see. In the village of Itterwiller, for example, where they were strung across the main street, I could find no boulangerie or shop to buy other standard provisions – but I lost count of the number of wine “caves”. Excellent Gewürztraminers and dry Rieslings can be had for very reasonable prices. And Cremant d’Alsace makes a very pleasant sparkling alternative to Champagne. The eating The cooking is perfect for those with big appetites. With Germany so close, German influences are prevalent. There's what you might call the Alsatian national dish, choucroute garni, which is Sauerkraut, usually with sausage, ham and pork. White asparagus is often served with ham. One night for pudding I ate portion of wonderful Kougelhopf, a cake with a hole in the centre, soaked in rum and topped with crème fraiche. Colmar Take a guided ride in a put through the narrow waterways of Petite Venise (Little Venice); stroll through streets and squares full of handsome old buildings. The star attraction in the regional capital is the 16thC Isenheim altarpiece, one of the greatest examples of religious art. Now back in the expanded Unterlinden Museum it was painted by Matthias Grünewald, with sculpture by Niclaus of Hagenau. The work was commissioned for the hospital chapel of St Antony’s monastery at Isenheim, not far away. The monks there specialised in treating St Anthony’s Fire, a sickness caused by eating bread made infected grain, which explains The harrowing appearance of Christ’s flesh. Grünewald’s masterpiece illustrates the power with extraordinary clarity of such art to warn and educate the receptive viewer. Walking and cycling Lovely, gentle routes meandering from village to village through vineyards. For something more energetic, hikers should arm themselves with an IGN map and head up the steep scarp to the west, into the Parc Naturel des Ballons des Vosges. Park on the Col de la Schlucht perhaps, where you may head out through woodland, emerging on open ridges that run on the rims of great natural amphitheatres, hollowed out by the movement of ice age glaciers. The weather It depends when you go, of course, but don’t imagine that summers are dull and rainy. During my last visit June temperatures rocketed to over 36C.

Tallinn’s historic centre: The upper town (Toompea) and the narrow streets at its feet incorporate some of the best preserved medieval buildings in Europe. They make up a delicious cocktail with a generous glug of baroque with dashes of Russian revival and art nouveau. Tallin's oldedst cafe The Estonian History Museum has been created beautifully in a building dating from 1410, originally the Gothic style HQ of the Great Guild of Hanseatic merchants. It’s many fascinations include a boot supposedly worn by Peter the Great, who long desired and eventually acquired Tallinn as it was ice free for longer periods than other Baltic ports – plus exhibits from the Second World War and the Soviet era. Don’t miss theKGB Museum in the Hotel Viru with its collection of paranoid spy equipment – including a purse that exploded red powder when opened, to catch out members of staff tempted to steal. And spare time for the stunning modern KUMUart gallery, where Soviet realism sits alongside work by artists who subtly thumbed their noses at Moscow’s apparatchiks. Kumu Hotels: There’s no shortage of comfortable places to stay, such as the Savoy Boutique Hotel in Tallinn. I can also recommend another excellent boutique hotel, the Frost, in the seaside resort of Pärnu – lovely rooms with coffee machines – mine had a pine writing table and a tree cross section as sculpture – good reading lights, huge breakfast. Also the Hedon, on the seafront, with an extensive spa based in the old mud baths and a highly recommended restaurant – see next reason. Hotel Frost The food A real surprise if you fear the often poor quality of pre-perestroika east Europe. The Hedon’s young chef, for example, has worked at Noma in Copenhagen and produces the likes of wild boar with celery and juniper sauce (for a modest £14 or so) bass in cider sauce and hare roulade with smoked black plums. At the Café Mahednik, also in Pärnu, I ate delicious smoked salmon marinated in lime juice and beech vodka. At NOP, an informal eaterie serving organic food in Tallinn’s Kadriorg district, I ate a one of the finest risottos I had tasted. Besides the usual parmesan its ingredients included rufous milk caps (wild fungus) and spicy cladonia, lichen loved by reindeer. As you might expect on the Baltic there’s very good fresh fish to be had. Drink: Plenty of decent beers with small independent breweries increasingly challenging the big boys such as Viru Õlu (see this useful website). Sea buckthorn liqueur (astelpajunaps) has a distinctive flavor for those in search of something different. Wines are very reasonably priced in some restaurants, among them the Café Pegasus in Tallinn. The people: Independence has created an enthusiasm which is palpable everywhere. You hope it won’t become jaded with time but for now it’s infectious . Tradition: The Beaches: Great stretches of white sand that shelves gently into the Baltic. That keeps water temperatures at an average 18 – 20 degrees C. in summer. Pärnu waters are particularly shallow and warm – and it even preserves a women only beach, harking back to the 19th century when men and women bathed from piers a mile apart. See my full Silver Travel Advisor article on Pärnu article here. Wildlife and nature: OK – I didn’t see any wild beasts but I’m assured that in Soomaa National Park there are elk, wild boar, lynx, wolves and even bears. I walked a wooden trail across one of the park’s immense bogs, where beavers build dams. A huge variety of plants, trees and fungus grows there, including blueberries, cloudberries and lingonberries. Shopping: Interesting handicrafts such as juniper wood kitchen utensils, woolen goods – such as the hand woven scatter cushions sold in the Kihnu museum – any of countless types of black bread, cloudberry (maruka) or sea buckthorn jam (moos) or liqueur. Hää EESTI ASI on Viru street sells a wonderful range including Estonian style adult and kids’ clothes. Head for the supermarket in the basement of the Viru Keskus shopping centre, which sells all manner of vacuum packed, smoked or marinated fish. Don’t be misled into thinking amber is Estonian. You’ll see it in shops but it mostly comes from Lithuania. Top guidebook: get Neil Taylor's superb Estonia guide, published by Bradt

The Marais Audomarois, said a friend who explored it with us, was a landscape he didn’t know existed. Tourists tend to drive straight past it en route for more dramatic French scenery. Their loss. This flat wetland near St Omer, a hop and a skip from Calais, is a fascinating place to take a boat trip – or go walking. A flat expanse of fields, canals and lagoons, its was drained and made habitable as log ago as the 10th century, mainly by monks. Its early inhabitants, known as Brouckaillers, dug peat. Over 50 different vegetables are now grown there, including cauliflowers and winter endive. Produce from the marshes form the basis of the menu at Bacôve, a new restaurant gasttronomique in Saint Omer whose chef Camille Delcroix is the winner of a rough French equivalent of professional Masterchef and whose name is that of the long boats that ply the 700kms of waterways. Already designated an area of importance under the international RAMSAR convention, it was recognized as a Biosphere Reserve by UNESCO in 2013. We didn't have time for the exhibition at the impressive looking visitor centre in St Martin au Laert, which, we were told demanded a good hour. is a good starting point for guided boat trips but staff couldn’t provide details of hiking routes. There was an exhibition, but you had to pay to get in and they told us it would take an hour. In compensation it was a gorgeous spring morning, so we drive a little further and parked at La Grange Nature, near the village of Clairmarais. There’s a café where you can get something to eat – and a beer at the end of the walk. But if you’re looking to buy a picnic, best stop at a boulangerie on the road from St Omer, a few kilometres away. There’s also a small shop. Walking routes are well marked but we took IGN map 2302 O for reassurance, starting on the Sentier de la Cuvette, a 16 kilometre route in the Romelare natural reserve, but eventually playing it by ear. Mostly we walked on canal side paths or along gravel tracks under vast skies of East Anglian proportions, between pastures which might have been painted by Dutch landscape artists. Of some 230 species of birds we spotted only a few – grey heron, lapwings, moorhens with chicks, a stonechat and a chiff chaff on telephone wires. Skylarks and reed warblers were heard but not seen. Hawthorn was in spectacular blossom. Verges were splashed with buttercups, thick with comfrey. The water was blotted with lily pads, their flowers yet to emerge, noisy with frogs. This was easy walking, punctuated by a lunch of thick cut ham and a baguette in the shade of an oak tree. The countryside was so flat that even the slightest rise was a topic of conversation. The only minor difficulty was managing a small ferry boat – secured to both banks by a chain – across a small canal. Apart from a few fishermen, a lonely tractor driver harrowing, and a group of schoolchildren sketching, we saw hardly anyone. A few minutes away, at the end of the afternoon, we were plunged into the crawling traffic of the St Omer rush hour. It seemed an abrupt change of worlds.

It was one of those moments on a hike that lives long in the memory. The morning had dawned grey and wet. The mountains across the valley from our hotel in Austria's Salzburgerland were obscured by a low fringe of thick cloud. We donned waterproofs - jackets and over trousers - in anticipation of a losing battle to keep out the rain. But after perhaps an hour slogging uphill there came a sense, barely perceptible, that the weather was changing. Beads of water on the ferns and overhanging pines began to glisten. We could hear the cattle long before we could see them, the melodic bells, the champing of grass. Then, suddenly, the cloud evaporated. The Alpine landscape was bathed in a soft, diffused light, brightening to sharp sunlight. Ahead of us stretched the imposing grey rampart of the Mandelwand and its highest summit, the Hochkonig. We walked on for lunch at the Arthurhaus, a restaurant where German officers had sought refuge as the Seconnd World War drew to its conclusion and where, while skiing some decades earlier, I had heard the resident dog hold its daily conversation with an echo from the mountains above. The Arthurhaus is one of the largest of a string of Almen, usually small eateries along the trail, mostly run by farmers whose cows, for example, provide milk for the cheese. There you may sit at an outside table and recharge the batteries with Gulaschsuppe or perhaps a Brettlejause - cold cuts, cheese and gherkin,served on a wooden board - and a beer. There are so many of these huts that is easy to plan a walk around them. Star hike that week was from the Dientner Sattel (saddle) back to our hotel above the resort of Muhlbach in Austria's Salzburg province. We caught the bus to the start of the route, climbing first to an Alm, the Erichhutte, lingering over coffee on a sunny terrace overlooking the valley. A little later than anticipated after that indulgence we struck out on a path which followed the contour at the foot of the mountain wall, crossing an occasional chaos of scree and always with superb views to our right, until it was time to troop down over grassy meadows for lunch at yet another Alm. There was more of the same terrain in the afternoon - until it was time to turn off and head down a narrow and traffic free road towards our hotel, the lovely, family run Bregheimat, a short drive or bus ride up the mountain from the ski resort of Mühlbach am Hochkönig.

It’s rarely difficult to find a suitable walk in France. Visit a tourist information office in any French town or village, ask them to suggest a randonée or ballade and they’ll invariably provide you with a mapped route. Tell them how far you want to go and how many hours you’d like to spend and they’ll dig out a leaflet or occasionally a laminated version. Sometimes it’s free. Sometimes there’s a small charge. It’s a great service. At the lovely b&b Chambre d’Hôte where we were spending a couple of nights we had been given a photocopied map of an itinerary starting in nearby Nerac - but we couldn’t find anywhere to park. Barbaste, a small town around two hours northwest of Toulouse turned out to be an attractive and interesting alterative. We strolled down to the River Gelise and crossed the 12th century stone bridge to the fortified medieval Moulin des Tours. A pretty legend claims it owes the different heights of its four towers to the original owner, whose daughters differed in stature. More like a castle than a mill, it was inherited by the Bourbon King Henry IV. Built at the crossing of two trade routes it was used as a toll booth before reverting to flour milling and then the manufacture of cork products. The nearby weir and grassy riverbanks make it a lovely picnic spot. Behind it is the tourist office. In defiance of the opening times shown on the door it was closed Continuing a short way upstream we came across a dash of yellow paint on a tree trunk indicating we were on a PR (petit randonnée). Small, that is, as opposed a GR (grand randonnéee), which is a long distance route. Taking care not to miss these signs – or the cross that warns you’ve gone wrong - you can usually follow these without a map. But how long would this walk take us? And assuming it was circular, how many kilometres would we have to walk? We retraced our steps to the tourist office seemingly vain hope of finding someone there. Our luck was in. The manager had popped back after showing a group around the mill. He quickly found a map of the route. It was a modest 10.2km long, with hardly any ups and downs but, the day having been disrupted by indecision, we had limited amounts of water, there was no time to seek out a shop selling it - and the afternoon was heavy with the threat of a storm. A wrong turning didn’t help, adding an extra kilometre or two as we climbed through a corn field, past a tree laden with those fat, knobbly quinces that seem so often to fall unwanted, until the path disappeared in a tangle of undergrowth. Back on course we climbed again, to a track running parallel with the quiet valley road, shaded by oaks. Before turning back towards Barbaste the route emerged from the shadows and crossed a flat valley floor burned yellow by summer heat. In the village of Cauderoue it skirted a fortified mansion a red tiled, cone capped tower and grey stone walls that must conceal a treasury of stories. The path became sandy, just as the water in my bottle dwindled to a few millilitres. Now those ten kilometres began to feel like twenty. It was a sharp reminder never to set out without at least a litre. Back in town, the first bar we found was at a busy junction, blighted by heavy lorries, but did we care? Rarely has a cold pression been more welcome. I should add that the instructions with the map were only in French. They often are. But even if you hardly understand a word of it this shouldn’t be a problem as the directions are usually very clear. As for me, I learned that a chene-liege is a cork oak. Not something A level French taught me but another example of the titbits of information you pick up when you go exploring the countryside on foot.