Queen Victoria's private beach on Isle of Wight opens to the public

Visitors will be able to visit the beach at the former monarch's seaside estate, Osborne House, for the first time


All 4ft 11 of her would have worn a billowing black cotton bathing dress together with cap and she would have been deposited in the generally freezing water by a trundling wooden bathing machine. Doing anything other than bob would have been a struggle.

The person in question is Queen Victoria and a new insight into her bathing habits will be given from next week when her private beach at Osborne House, her seaside retreat on the Isle of Wight, is opened to the public for the first time.

The estate is managed by English Heritage. Its chief executive, Simon Thurley, said Victoria was sometimes seen as a queen who spent most of her reign in mourning. "Opening her beach at Osborne lets us show another side of her – this was a Queen who collected sea shells with her children, who sketched the changing sea and who swam sometimes twice a day."

The 300-metre (984ft) long sand and shingle beach is certainly idyllic – a spirit-lifting strip of calm that looks across the Solent to Portsmouth – but like most parts of the UK it has been missing the summer sunshine this year.

Osborne's curator, Michael Turner, hopes visitors will be tempted in for a paddle, although he admits, even on nice days, it makes for a bracing experience. "It's too cold for me," he said.

Victoria adored her beach. "The first year the family was here they'd be down here every day and the children would be collecting seashells and seaweed.

"Prince Albert designed and had made a pontoon so the children could be taught to swim within a sheltered, safe environment."

Victoria's bathing arrangements were more elaborate and English Heritage has restored the original wooden bathing machine which ran down to the water.

It was relatively high-tech compared with most, normally horse-drawn machines. The queen would enter at the back and change into her "costume" and the machine would roll forward on a runway in to the water. She would then emerge on to the curtained verandah, from which she went down the steps into the water.

"She wouldn't appear from the curtains until she was already in the water so nobody would get to see her in her bathing costume at all," said English Heritage historian Andrew Hann.

"You would just see her head bobbing. She was worried that people on boats with binoculars might be peering in because although it was a private beach, the Solent was a busy waterway and you would get sightseers."

When the queen had finished her bobbing she would climb back in and the machine would be winched back up to land.

It was at Osborne that Victoria first swam, writing in her journal. "I thought it was delightful till I put my head under water, when I thought I should be stifled."

The beach shows her more fun-loving side. There was a royal Punch & Judy; beach games like skittles and quoits and a stone shelter built in the 1860s, known as the Queen's Alcove, where she would sit and survey the view.

The alcove has been restored, and a pavilion that was built when Osborne was a convalescent home for officers will become a cafe and changing area.

Turner said: "We wanted to do something new and this might attract more visitors, more families perhaps. The kids can enjoy the beach, build sandcastles, paddle and other members of the family can perhaps look round the house.

"The house does sometimes get very busy so this is a way of spreading the load across the wider estate."

Victoria and Albert bought the Osborne estate in 1845 as an escape from court life at London and Windsor. The house is jam-packed with personal items as well as furniture and art that accorded with their personal tastes.

After her death in 1901, Edward VII, not needing Osborne, effectively gave it to the nation and it became a convalescent home and training college for naval cadets.

Victoria often rode to the beach on her highland pony or walked. That latter option will be available to visitors, as will a minibus. The beach is open from 27 July until 4 November.

Readers' travel tips: Normandy, France

A beautiful bridge, Christian Dior's home and a great creperie … Been There readers share their favourite places in Normandy

WINNING TIP: Les Iles Chausey

This fabulous archipelago is barely populated, car-free, breezy and sunny – a timeless place of great beauty. There are a couple of gîtes and little shops, and a fair few yachting visitors. Weathered rocks, deserted shorelines, beaches and pools teeming with life are all great for kids. Daily ferries in summer from Granville: adults €24.50, three-14 years €15.35, under-threes €7.60.
ville-granville.fr/en/iles_chausey.asp
sometimestory

Cabourg

Le Grand Hotel
Immortalised by Proust in A La Recherche du Temps Perdu, this elegant 19th-century hotel was also home to the writer for several months in 1907. It was originally a casino, and today guests can luxuriate in splendour in rooms offering sweeping views across the Channel.
+33 2 31 91 01 79, accorhotels.com
missmarple0512

Bayeux area

D-Day cycle tour
Listed in Lonely Planet's Cycling in France, this circular route starts and ends in historic Bayeux. From here, pedal down lonely roads to Omaha beach and the moving American Cemetery. Stop for lunch in pretty Port-en-Bessin-Huppain before heading along the coast to Arromanche, where the cinéma circulaire offers 360-degree images of the local area, interspersed with clips of the same spots during the war, giving a very different picture of this idyllic and peaceful area.
memorial-caen.fr
rhiannonabike

Honfleur



Le Pont de Normandie
At 2,143m, the Pont de Normandie was the longest cable-stayed bridge in the world when it was completed in 1995. The Japanese built a longer one in 1999, but that doesn't diminish the impact of this spectacular example of the French ability to meld engineering with art. For one of the best views in Normandy, take a ferry to Le Havre, and bring your bike: the toll bridge has its own cycle lane. The steep hump in the middle will keep you on your toes, but the panorama is worth it. At the other end, enjoy a calvados or cidre by Honfleur's pretty harbour.
lizcleere

La Cidrerie bar and creperie
It would be a crime against gastronomy to visit Normandy without sampling the famous cider and galettes (savoury crepes). Nestled between Honfleur's scenic Vieux Bassin harbour and wooden Sainte-Catherine cathedral, La Cidrerie has friendly service, affordable prices and fantastic crepes. If you have a sweet tooth the crêpe caramel au beurre salé is a surprisingly tasty regional delicacy.
creperie-lacidrerie-honfleur.com
jimmywalker390

Granville

Christian Dior museum
The home of the creator of the New Look, now a museum, is perched on cliffs in this Cotentin town. It has an ever-changing, stunning exhibition of Dior's work, but the real gem is the perfume garden, in which iconic fragrances in leafy, hidden corners can be guessed and enjoyed before a vertiginous descent down crumbling steps to the wide promenade and the vast beach.
musee-dior-granville.com
gouldini

Mont-Saint-Michel



Mont-Saint-Michel abbey and museums
For all the hype and crowds, Mont-Saint-Michel is beautiful and well worth a visit. If you are under 25 you can get into the abbey for free, and get half-price entry to the four museums. But be warned – you will need to prove your age with your passport. If you leave it in the car (like I did) you'll have to decide if walking back down and then back up again is worth the €18 saving!
Porte de l'avancée, +33 2 3360 1430, ot-montsaintmichel.com/en/accueil.htm
Jimwocko

Château de Monfréville
Located in the national park at the base of the Cotentin peninsula near Isigny-sur-Mer, Château de Monfréville is home to Paul, Zoe and family, who look after visitors with kindness and good humour. There are ducks, geese, hens and chickens, and the family grows organic vegetables. You can stay in the chateau, a gîte or roulotte (Gypsy caravan), or camp. It's handy for Bayeux, Mont St Michel and the coast.
+33 2 3121 3542, chateaumonfreville.com
grahamjgreen

Lisieux

Cerza Safari Lodge
At this safari park you can stay in a lodge, yurt or "zoobservatory". From the balcony you can watch the exotic animals and sunset over the lake (with a glass of wine) while the children interact with free-roaming deer and wallabies. The gibbons, rhinos and antelope enclosures are just a few metres away, and for €69 for six people you can get closer to the animals with a behind-the-scenes tour.
+33 2 3131 8230, cerzasafarilodge.com
beckywoo

Rouen

The Saint Maclou ossuary
A beautiful ancient courtyard with timber-frame houses, but on closer inspection you will spot human skulls carved into the wood. It was a plague graveyard in the middle ages and recalls how two-thirds of the town's people succumbed to this fate.
188 rue Martainville
pharrop01

Paradise found: Cumbria's Eden Valley

Eastern Cumbria's Eden Valley has all the green valleys and cute cottages of the much busier Lake District, and now it has chic places to stay too



We were peering through the glass-panelled front door of Whitbysteads farmhouse in the village of Askham, wondering if anyone was home, when Victoria Lowther appeared from a barn in the yard, with her daughter, two horses, two lurchers almost as big as the horses and a pug called George. Tall and elegant (the Lowthers, not the horses, which are sturdy cobs) they looked for a moment like a modern-day version of the sort of classic English painting you might see in the National Gallery: landed gentry surrounded by their faithful animals.

But then everything in this corner of northern England looks like a painting: the view from the front yard of Whitbysteads of Lowther Castle and the Eden Valley with the Pennines in the distance; the epic panorama of Ullswater from the top of the hill behind the farmhouse. Even the fields that surround it were, at the time of our visit, brilliant green and full of newborn lambs bouncing about like battery-operated cuddly toys. This part of the world is so picturesque it's a wonder it's not rammed with coach-loads of tourists. And yet Askham, like the rest of the Eden Valley, is a rarity in Britain: an easily accessible but crowd-free stretch of rural gorgeousness.

This is partly due to geography. With the Lake District national park to the west and Yorkshire Dales to the east, the Eden Valley's pretty villages, fells and wild heathland tend to get overlooked as visitors make a beeline for the honeypot destinations of Grasmere, Windermere and Coniston.

It's also in part because Eden has been slow to shout about its charms. But that is about to change. A major initiative – Green Eden (nurturelakeland.org/a-green-eden) – is aiming to position the area as a sustainable tourism destination. It is still in its infancy but promises a range of low-impact holidays and new cycling and walking itineraries. This summer the area's first food festival - Foodival (26 August, edenfoodival.co.uk) will showcase local produce with a farmers' market and pop-up versions of local restaurants.

At the farm the horses were soon tethered and Victoria gave us a quick tour. Whitbysteads is an early 1700s longhouse on a 200-acre working hill farm. A new wing was added in the 1970s, creating a 15m living room whose walls and every possible surface are adorned with paintings, portraits and family photos.

"Please call me Totty," said Victoria as she placed a tray of tea and biscuits on a table that seats 10. It was an apt introduction to our stay. Totty and her husband Tom are one branch of the Lowther family, whose roots can be traced back to the 12th century and who at one point owned most of Cumbria. They are still the owners of 75,000 acres of fells and farmland.



In other words, they are super posh, but down to earth, too. When I met Tom he was knee-deep in straw, bottle-feeding a newborn lamb. And their family home is not a rarefied stately pile but this farmhouse-cum-B&B, where the three guest rooms are homely with just a dash of eccentricity. The en suite bathroom has fabulously over-the-top wallpaper depicting rural scenes of old (think shepherds with crooks); a free standing bath in the middle of the room means you can soak while looking out across real-life rural scenes.

Tempting though it was to sink into the giant squishy sofas by the fire we decided to go out and explore. A short walk through the farmyard past yellow gorse bushes took us straight into a classic English idyll of ice-cream-coloured cottages sandwiched between two pubs. Apart from a local ceramicist selling pottery from his front garden, there was no one about. But sleepy Askham is about to get its moment in the limelight, playing its part in raising the Eden Valley's profile.

Just outside Askham, the gardens and courtyard of Lowther Castle, built in 1811, have just reopened after an £11m, three-year restoration project. There's already a cafe, and later this year an art gallery and the ruins themselves will also open. Less than a mile away another Lowther, Tom's 34-year-old cousin Charles, is transforming the family seat, Askham Hall, into the Eden Valley's first boutique hotel. The garden and a cafe with outdoor wood-fired pizza oven are already open. The next phase will include 13 guest rooms (of a planned total of 26), a spa and a restaurant, all opening next spring. Charles has form here: he also owns the much-lauded George and Dragon pub-with-rooms a couple of miles away in Clifton (01768 865381, georgeanddragonclifton.co.uk).

The Lake District already has several grand country house hotels with innovative restaurants, but when it comes to décor they tend towards four-posters, heavy florals and reams of velvet. Askham Hall hopes its "unpretentious style with a contemporary twist" will set it apart. It has been dubbed the Babington House of the north, and if the George and Dragon is anything to go by, the hotel will be well-received. This time next year, the Eden Valley will be hot.

At Easter this year the valley was decidedly cool, weatherwise. We spent most of our week hopping from B&B to posh pub, but started off camping – OK, glamping. Scales Plantation is a small family farm near Berrier, north-west of Penrith, which last summer created a "glampsite" of shepherd's huts and safari tents in 13 acres of woodland. Our encampment, Herdwick, comprised not one but three bell tents: a main bedroom with proper bed and woodburner; a kitchen with wooden table, sink and hob; and a spare room with a futon. There was also a separate shower and compost loo. We were hardly roughing it, but the chilly weather made us feel intrepid. We went to bed wearing jumpers and hats, and rolled out into the cold misty morning to cook sausages and bacon on the outdoor fire, the woodsmoke infusing our clothes and hair



We were enjoying our first outdoor breakfast when Tabatha Wilson, who runs the farm with her husband Rob, turned up on a quad bike, a day-old orphaned lamb tucked into her jacket. Set down on the ground it followed us around like a puppy, nuzzling at our legs, until our cooking-obsessed two-year-old started chasing it with a giant saucepan.

It was too cold to potter about the camp so we headed over to Keswick and boarded a wooden launch for a cruise around Derwentwater. Grey skies and rain cannot detract from the beauty of the Lakes. The colours were muted but still striking, a patchwork of purple, yellow, grey and rust.

That evening we wimped out of cooking on the fire in the rain and plumped for dinner at the Old Crown in Hesket Newmarket, a brilliant inn decorated with tankards and climbing paraphernalia. Said to be Britain's first cooperative pub, it is co-owned by over 100 local people. An onsite brewery supplies beers including Great Cockup Porter, Skiddaw Special Bitter and, my favourite, Doris' 90th Birthday Ale, named for the founder's mother-in-law.

To soak up pints of Doris, we tucked into giant helpings of braised lamb shank and sticky toffee pudding, and sat back to enjoy the 2012 Egg Dumping Championship, an annual event that sees competitors knock hard-boiled eggs together until one cracks. The tension rose as someone's grandma was knocked out by a young lad, but it was all good-natured fun and made for an entertaining night out.

If I'm starting to sound like a wimp – glamping not camping, escaping to a pub on our first night – my next admission will have proper walkers rolling their eyes in despair. Our longest walk was six miles. We took a steamer from Pooley Bridge, at the northern tip of Ullswater, to Howtown and walked back to Pooley, looking out across the steel-grey lake to russet-coloured snow-dusted mountains. I know having a two-year-old is not a valid excuse. Hardier parents tramp for miles with their child in a backpack, but our son rarely lasted 30 minutes before shouting "Get out! Get out!", after which the walk became a marathon of coaxing and shoulder rides and stops to splash in puddles.

For some, time not spent tramping up fell and down valley is time wasted, but seeing a more edited version of the landscape rarely felt like a sacrifice. Even a quick scramble up a hillside from the road rewarded us with stupendous views.



And anyhow spending less time hiking meant more time for that other great attraction of the Lakes: the tearoom. My favourite was in the old medieval hall at Dalemain (dalemain.com), a historic house and gardens near Ullswater that s also runs the World's Original Marmalade Awards (marmaladeawards.com). Far from being a quaint local festival, this competition attracts entries from 1,700 marmalade makers around the world. Perhaps founder Jane Hasell-McCosh is on to something: in this age of austerity, homemade marmalade is having a moment.

From Ullswater, we drove to Kelleth, a hamlet of about 13 houses, including Kelleth Old Hall, a creaking, wonky-floored 300-year-old manor house overlooking the wild and empty Howgill Fells and stuffed with owner Charlotte Fairbairn's family heirlooms.

Charlotte offers one B&B room, more often used by walkers and cyclists than families, but if she was worried about our son knocking things over or falling into the giant fireplace, she didn't show it; on the contrary she welcomed him with open arms – literally – lifting him into the kitchen to point out a hare in her garden.

In the morning, after a full English breakfast of Cumberland sausage, bacon, eggs and black pudding, I lay in the claw-footed bath, looking out across the Howgills, or "Cumbria's secret open space" as they are often called, thinking that the secret might not be kept for much longer.

• Accommodation was provided by Whitbysteads Hill Farm (01931 712284, whitbysteads.org, doubles from £90); Scales Plantation (bookable through Canopy & Stars: canopyandstars.co.uk, safari tent from £98 a night); and Kelleth Old Hall (015396 23344, kelletholdhall.co.uk, £90 B&B). Hire car was provided by Enterprise Car Rental in Penrith (enterprise.co.uk). Further information on the area from golakes.co.uk

Sounds delicious: the food of Nashville

Nashville maybe be best known as 'Music City', but its food and drink scene is starting to have just as much soul and rock'n'roll swagger

"Why would you go to Nash Vegas?" asks the woman next to me at Charlotte airport's sushi counter, where I'm waiting for a connecting flight to Tennessee. Charleston and New Orleans would be much more fruitful for my purposes, she says.

This isn't the first baffled response I've had since planning my food tour of "Music City", which, with its country music heritage, baloney-touting honky-tonk bars and landlocked location, has never been known as one of the US's culinary meccas.

Until now, that is. Because there's a new energy to Nashville's food and drink scene that has been getting it noticed lately. It's being driven by a crew of home-grown entrepreneurs and creatives drawn to the city's reinvigorated music scene (thank you Jack White) and laid-back lifestyle. It is also driven by a newfound interest in southern barbecue and soul food – currently starring on menus from New York to London – with food scenesters raving about collard greens, pulled pork, chicken and grits.

Two days later I'm sitting at the wide wooden counter at The Catbird Seat (1711 Division Street, +1 615 810 8200, thecatbirdseatrestaurant.com), Nashville's hottest culinary destination, watching two chefs assemble vivid, artful dishes with a mixture of balletic synchronicity and rock'n'roll swagger. The Catbird Seat is an open-kitchen restaurant, where Erik Anderson and Josh Habiger cook in front of their 36 guests, personally delivering their creative, seasonal seven-course set menus ($100).

The two chefs have CVs spanning some of the world's best restaurants: Alinea in Chicago, London's St John, Noma in Copenhagen and California's French Laundry. That's some form, and it's palpable – with both Anderson and Habiger just named Best New Chefs 2012 by US-based Food & Wine magazine.

"To start, these are your snacks," says Anderson, stretching out a tattooed arm and placing a long plate in front of me. "Hot chicken skin with dill, spice and Wonder Bread puree; corn bread cooked in duck fat with bacon cream, and a Northern Cross oyster with yuzu and cucumber."

What follows is a procession of inventive, exciting modern American dishes that meld traditional and cutting-edge techniques and incorporate southern flourishes. Among them is steak tartare with Arctic char roe, caper "butts" and chive flowers; grilled, braised pork belly doused in a "ramp vichyssoise" made from the intense wild garlic that grows so ubiquitously here; and, my favourite, a dish of wood pigeon with white asparagus tips and hay-infused caramelised yoghurt.

When I meet the chefs the next day at their favourite coffee shop – Fido (1812 21st Avenue South, +1 615 777 3436, bongojava.com/fido.php) in the trendy Hillsboro Village neighbourhood, with burgers from $9 – they look more like members of the bands Anderson managed in a former life than exponents of high gastronomy, with their checked shirts, messy hair and breakfast tacos. It's exactly this laid-back approach that defines the Nashville food scene.

"I think that being here allows us to have a lot more fun and keep it unpretentious," says Habiger. "You can go to Prince's [Hot Chicken Shack], or Monell's and sit at a family-style restaurant with a bunch of people you don't know and eat some amazing country food. It's not like New York City, where it's a race to get stars."

Prince's Hot Chicken Shack (123 Ewing Dr # 3, +1 615 226 9442) is a local institution that's been serving its scorchingly spicy southern fried chicken (from $4) in the same location on the rundown outskirts of the city for 27 years. The chicken skin snack from the night before was inspired by this classic.

"It's a Nashville staple, so we do a riff on that so it's kind of familiar to people. They sit down for a meal and they're getting something that's just a tiny bit recognisable but really different as well," says Anderson, whose favourite haunt is another restaurant that enjoys updating southern traditions. City House in Germantown (1222 4th Avenue North, +1 615 736 5838, cityhousenashville.com) is a buzzing, warehouse-style eatery where chef Tandy Wilson serves Italian-meets-southern sharing plates such as crispy pizza topped with "belly ham" ($13), and catfish (another Nashville stalwart, $22) with a mustard, onion, horseradish and lemon marmalade "Jezebel" sauce.

Local lad Wilson, who opened City House five years ago, is often cited as having sparked the city's food revolution with his new take on local flavours. "Lots of people had married French food and southern, and I found those similarities with Italian food, which, like the food here, is about letting the ingredients speak for themselves," he says. "A lot of our nation's food comes from European and African influences but you see more things that are uniquely American in the south than anywhere else. Catfish is extremely southern, and corn bread we don't mess with – it's done in a very specific manner, in a large skillet, with lard and quality buttermilk. That's as southern as it gets."

It's this notion of indigenous foods that inspires the progressive southern cooking of chef Tyler Brown at the city's Capitol Grille in the Hermitage Hotel (231 6th Avenue North, +1 615 244 3121, capitolgrillenashville.com, daily specials $14). I meet Brown at a 65-acre farm four miles from his downtown kitchen, where the produce obsessive grows heritage vegetables, keeps bees and raises cattle.

"We wanted to grow in the old style," he says from under a glorious handlebar moustache. "Different field peas that people have been growing in their families for years, heirloom corn, old varieties with a story to them …"

At the restaurant he uses these ingredients to reimagine traditional recipes such as "dirty farro", a take on Louisiana "dirty rice" made with farro (spelt grains) spices, carrots, country ham and sweet, juicy clams.

Looking back while moving forward seems to be rather a theme here. Proper old-fashioned sodas with house-made syrups, evil malted shakes and ridiculously tasty draught root beer are the thing at The Pharmacy (731 Mcferrin Ave, +1 615 712 9517, thepharmacynashville.com, burgers from $7) in the up-and-coming East Nashville neighbourhood.

Over the road at Holland House (935 West Eastland Avenue, +1 615 262 4190, hollandhousebarandrefuge.com, mains from around $20) a prohibition-style "refuge", the barmen sport tweed waistcoats and shake creative cocktails amid vintage chandeliers and reclaimed furniture. This is where 30-year-old head chef Kristin Beringson crafts what she calls "simple farm-to-table food with a southern twist". Her beautifully presented dishes include pulled pork flatbread with local apple and red cabbage-cranberry slaw, and sea bass with chorizo-saffron broth and skillet cornbread. "Nashville is catching up with places such as Portland and New York. It's exciting, and it's really fun to be in the middle of all this."

My thoughts exactly – and that's just one of many reasons why you should visit "Nash Vegas".

• Travelbag (0871 703 4240, travelbag.co.uk) provided the trip. It has a seven-day Nashville package, including six nights' B&B and seven days' car hire from £989pp including flights with US Airways from Gatwick to Nashville

Villas fit for conquistadors in Trujillo, Spain

Six beautiful old buildings in Trujillo, Extremadura, have been restored as grand holiday villas




"Santa María purísima," I murmur into the revolving hatch, somewhat self-consciously.

A surprisingly young-sounding voice intones, "Sin pecado concebida." I tell the mysterious hatch I want pastas de almendras – almond macaroons – and put a note on the turntable. It disappears and when the hatch revolves again there are my biscuits and some change. "Gracias," I call, but there's no reply. This is cake buying at Convento de Santa Clara in the Spanish town of Trujillo, where an enclosed order of Franciscan nuns make and sell a variety of pastries to customers they never set eyes on.

To be honest, the macaroons are not great, especially at €8 for a 250g packet, but I don't care. The slightly spooky experience sums up Trujillo for me – a place that time passed by for decades, where old buildings and older ways of life survive, and I hope my €8 might help that continue.

They survive because Extremadura, 250km south-west of Madrid, has long been Spain's poorest region: there was no money to be made from knocking down old palaces to build shops or offices. But it was not always this way. Nine of the great conquistadors, including Franciscos Pizarro and de Orellana (the first European to travel the length of the Amazon) came from this area – and when these adventurers came back from South America, they built opulent homes here to show off their wealth.

Though Trujillo languished for several centuries, a few visitors have more recently started to appreciate what it has to offer: architecture from Roman to Renaissance, wonderful traditional foods, and great walking and birdwatching in the countryside, especially Monfragüe national park, 40km away.

These visitors tended to stay at a handful of hotels in town, including a parador, and until recently there was not much in the way of self-catering accommodation. This has now changed: British-run Trujillo Villas has restored six properties in the town for use as holiday lets.

The word "restored" is actually a huge understatement, for some of these houses were roofless shells when the company took them over. But with the help of local artisans, and a great eye for antique shop finds from here to Madrid to Paris, they have created the sort of holiday accommodation that, whether it is a grand house or a cute studio for two, makes you drop your bags and wander around slack-jawed making inarticulate "aaah!" and "wowww!" noises.

Most of the properties are at the top of the granite hill on which the town is built – the sparkly bedrock protrudes through streets and buildings in several places – so the views over plains towards distant mountains are stupendous. You can see at least 200km in all directions. On this hilltop are to be found Villa Moritos, which sleeps eight and has, as well as an opulent drawing room, a variety of inviting sitting areas around unexpected corners, both indoors and in the gardens, where there's a pretty pool.

Up the road is Villa Martires, sleeping four in elegant country mansion style, which can be rented with the adjacent Garden Cottage. Another massive understatement, this "cottage" sleeps six more in spacious splendour, but its USP is a big Moroccan-style loggia in an adjacent building with deep cushioned seating areas plus dining table and chairs, all overlooking the pool.

So far, so splendid, but I am relieved when shown to my quarters, the simpler Artist's Studio round the corner. Somehow light and airy yet cosy, it's an open-plan space with mezzanine bedroom and en suite shower up a glass staircase, a sofabed should you want to bring the kids, well-equipped kitchen and second shower room.

Art books, canvases and half-finished paintings, and a variety of portable easels add to the studio feel, but as I haven't an artistic bone in my body, I settle for gazing at the view from the split-level terrace, and watching birds of prey glide by on huge wings.

Down in town are the slightly more basic but still very comfortable Townhouse, sleeping nine, and, perfectly situated right on Plaza Mayor, Villa Piedras Albas, one of the most important buildings in Trujillo. This palacio, built in 1530, feels like a royal residence, sleeping 14 in seven bedrooms, with formal drawing and dining rooms, three other sitting rooms, extensive courtyards, gardens and an 8m x 5m pool. And in case that's not palatial enough, its pièce de résistance is a large arched loggia at the front overlooking the main square. Any group renting it would feel like royalty during Trujillo's several festivals (May's national cheese festival, September's independence celebrations and the big Easter shindigs) as they enjoy a monarch's-eye view of hundreds of thousands of revellers enjoying fiesta time.

You can eat like a king in Trujillo, too. At La Cadena (+34 927 321 463) on Plaza Mayor I feast on wafer-thin slices of gorgeously sweet jamón ibérico de bellota. (The ham gets its flavour from the acorns, bellotas, that the little pata negra pigs feed on, and their natural stamping – and rootling – ground is the dehesa or wild oak forest that has formed a large part of the Extremadura landscape since ancient times.) This comes with creamy eggs scrambled with asparagus, then lamb chops served with roasted peppers that sing of Spanish sunshine rather than climate-controlled glasshouse. Across the square at La Corral del Rey (+34 927 323 071, corraldelreytrujillo.com) on a different evening, medallions of top-class beef fillet need virtually no accompaniment.

But it's probably even more rewarding to eat as the region's peasants have done for centuries – and that means migas, fried breadcrumbs. I'm lucky enough to be introduced to the man who made migas for Rick Stein when he was filming here last year. Victor grows all his own vegetables on his allotment under the castle walls, and he has a large pan heating over a wood fire when we arrive. To the oil in it he adds chunks of very fat bacon. When they come out, having added their savoury sweetness to the oil, in goes roughly cut chorizo (made by Victor's brother, who killed a pig recently). Sliced peppers and the cloves from four or five heads of garlic (yikes!) take their turn in the oil next, and then it is ready for the day-old bread – not really crumbs, more large flakes. The pork and sausage go back in and the whole lot is turned in the oil to make an intensely savoury, moreish mass.

It tastes great to this pampered and well-fed tourist; to generations of hungry shepherds on cold hillsides it must have been ambrosial. (Victor does not serve his migas commercially, but the dish is on the menu of many restaurants in the area: try Meson La Troya – +34 927 321 364 – also on the main square.)

As well as worrying about my arteries under the onslaught of all that pig fat, I am slightly concerned about the ethics of a British firm buying up a town's notable buildings for tourist use. But I soon realise that there's room for everyone. Trujillo's Unesco-protected centre is extensive – it takes us a couple of hours to look round it all – and many ancient buildings lie empty. Even the house built by Hernando Pizarro in 1552 languishes unused, apart from a small section of the basement which is police offices. And though Extremadura is now on the tourist map, it is not immune to Spain's economic misery: there are Se vende (for sale) signs in every street; the owners of a family-run shoe shop look glumly on as shoppers rummage through its closing-down sale.

The villas should bring much-needed income into Trujillo, as visitors eat in its restaurants, shop for local produce in its market and splurge on hams, wines and award-winning cheeses. Go. Do your bit for a region with so much to offer. Oh, and if any of the nuns' biccies turn out to be nicer than their almond macaroons, do let me know.

Way to go

Accommodation was provided by Trujillo Villas Espana (trujillovillasespana.com). The Artist's Studio, which sleeps two to four, costs from £495 for a week. Villa Moritos, which sleeps eight, costs from £1,950 for a week. Trujillo stages its International Music Festival (fimtrujillo.com) from 26-29 July, and tickets cost from €20-€25. Artists include the string ensemble Soloists of London and the soprano Pilar Jurado. The Villa Moritos is available for rent from 21-28 July, for £2,951. EasyJet (easyjet.com) flies from Luton to Madrid from £50 return

True Olympic spirit - at the Nemean Games

At an ancient Greek stadium, anyone can compete in games run without any of the commercialism of the modern-day Olympics




The air is cool in the darkness of the tunnel. We stand together, a little nervous, no one talking. One man ties and reties the rope that cinches his unfamiliar white tunic at the waist. A judge in black robes stands ready with a switch to beat anyone who steps out of line. The distant noise of the crowd and the blast of a herald's trumpet announces that our time is close. Down the vaulted stone walls a faint amber light comes raking and I can make out some graffiti: TELESTAS. Why hadn't the cudgel-bearers stopped him? They must have had plenty of time. Telestas won his event back in the days well before spray paint – 340BC to be precise. He had to carve his name into the limestone blocks, a long-winded business.

Now here we are, treading barefoot out into the sunlight of the stadium, walking the same route that Telestas had taken, blinking in the same bright Hellenic light and hearing the cheering crowds as the herald calls our names from a scroll.

At the end of the 12-lane dirt track a second judge stops me and holds out an upturned bronze helmet. I reach inside and take a small cube of marble marked with a Greek letter. I've drawn a place in a central lane. I place my toes in two grooves cut in stone. The hysplex or starting line, two taut ropes at waist height, is positioned in front of the runners. I suddenly feel rather stiff, and painfully aware that I have not sprinted down a track for many years. The finish looks a long way away and the track very gritty and hard.

I take a deep breath and look up, over the finish, to hills that are thick with emerald green vineyards, just as Homer himself once observed: these are the very hills where Hercules (Heracles to the Greeks) performed his first task – killing the Nemean lion. And further, out of sight over the ridge, is the city of Mycenae, where Agamemnon gathered his men to set out for Troy, men including Achilles and Odysseus.

A voice behind me breaks my reverie: "Poda para poda, ettime." This is the equivalent of, "On your marks, get set." I lean forward, arms outstretched, ready for the mad pursuit, the posture one sees on Grecian urns. Then the starting ropes snap to the ground and there is the shout of "Apite!" GO!

As a boy I always found the Olympics completely irresistible. I'd watch every possible event, check the medal tables every night and lie awake fantasising about my own future Olympic glory, usually in the 1,500m – leaving poor Seb Coe for dead over and over again. It never occurred to me to learn anything of the Games' origins or history. They just sprang into existence for my summer entertainment, although much less frequently than I would have liked. Why not, I complained bitterly, hold them every year?

Given this youthful question, I was rather pleased to learn that the original panhellenic games of ancient times had indeed been held every year, but at four locations around Greece: Olympia, Delphi, Corinth and Nemea. The former location was apparently the most prestigious of the four, probably because Olympia had one of the world's seven wonders, a 12m gold-and-ivory statue of Zeus, the deity honoured by the games. Perhaps as a result of this pre-eminence, British and French classicists in the 19th century initiated several Olympic revivals but ignored the other games.

Most successful of these revivals was that organised by Baron Pierre de Coubertin, who had been particularly inspired by Dr William Penny Brookes' Olympic Games, held in Much Wenlock, Shropshire, since the 1850s. Not that the Frenchman adopted everything that Brookes had started: he recklessly dropped such events as the blindfold wheelbarrow race – fatally reducing British medal chances – in favour of classical disciplines such as the discus and the marathon.




And what has become of those modern Olympics now? On the very day that we flew to Greece to take part in the Nemean Games, the Olympic torch was passing near the end of our street in England. There were trucks filled with corporate merchandise, and loudhailers exhorting the crowds to "go crazy when the television camera vehicle comes", presumably for the enjoyment of those at home who couldn't be bothered to turn up in person. It seems like a debased brand: its bureaucracy stained with allegations of corruption and malpractice, its competitors – or at least a few of them – addled with drugs and greed.

The first big corporate debauch of the Olympian ideal was at Los Angeles in 1984, but just six years before that a highly significant archaeological discovery was made at Nemea, a sleepy agricultural village in the hills south-west of Corinth. Digging under the vineyards of one of Greece's best wine regions, Professor Stephen Miller from the University of California in Berkeley found an arched tunnel, 36m long, that led into an ancient stadium.

He also found graffiti and the bones of a man who had hidden away in the tunnel, with his bag of coins, during the Slavic invasions of the late sixth century AD. The dig made headlines in the archaeological world, but what Miller did next was rather unexpected: he began planning a revival of Nemea's games in the true spirit of ancient times.

So, after much fundraising and negotiation, the first modern Nemean Games took place in 1996, and have happened every four years since then. Not that this area is worth visiting only on those infrequent occasions: we spend the days before the event exploring some of the other notable sites. Mycenae, in particular, catches the imagination of nine-year-old Maddy, with its secret tunnel that we explore with headtorches.

Then, in the museum, there is the story of the discovery of Agamemnon's golden death mask in 1876 by Heinrich Schliemann, the man who did more than any other to alert the world to the possibility of concrete facts behind the Greek myths and legends. I'd say Maddy learned more about the ancient world in that one afternoon than she will ever get from school. Further east is Epidavros, probably the country's best-preserved ancient theatre.

Not that this region is only about piles of old stones. On the coast south of Nemea, Nafplio is a gorgeous port town, and the seaside village of Tolon has a real Greek family holiday atmosphere. We drive on south, through the original Arcadia, stopping off for fresh apricots and dried walnuts, to Mystras, a late Byzantine city with an imposing citadel on an eagle's crag overlooking the city of Sparti (the Sparta of ancient times). And here, arriving a little later than planned, we are brought up short by the political situation. Mystras closed at 3pm. Watch out these days: Greek government workers are taking direct action over non-payment of salaries.

Our main objective, however, is to compete at Nemea. For this fifth revival I have signed up to run, as anyone can, online, and arrive hopefully, wondering how this experience will match that of a modern Olympic corporate bonanza.

The evening before the races an opening ceremony is held in the temple of Zeus near the stadium. Families seat themselves on the fallen columns and under the pine trees. The local mayor gives a rather long speech. Then, as the light takes on that golden Mediterranean glow, a band of Spartan warriors in full battle regalia appear from among the vineyards. They trot forwards to be met by a woman in white, Ekecheiria (Peace), and a woman in black, Nemea, carrying the sacred flame. As the women pass by with an entourage of choirs in robes, the warriors lay down their weapons and a sacred truce is declared. We all walk to the stadium through the vineyards and the gathering darkness. Then a pyre is lit, an ode sung, and the games declared open.

Next day I am back at the stadium with a couple of thousand others, watching the races begin. People from all over the world are moving around in the shade of the pine trees on the dirt slopes around the running track. Everyone chats. I meet a former Olympic gold medallist (Australian cyclist Sara Carrigan), a historian from Puerto Rico, a Greek surgeon, some local singers, and Christopher Pfaff, a classics professor at Florida State University who lets slip that he teaches ancient athletics – from an academic perspective.

"They would have done it naked, of course," he tells me. "It was all about youth and beauty."

Were they competitive? "Very."

I head down for my race, wondering if the easy democracy of the crowd will continue into the competition area. It does. There are amphoras of olive oil for those who want to rub themselves down, then everyone goes barefoot, but not bare-bodied. In a change to ancient tradition we all don simple white tunics. There are no nations or teams, no advantages of equipment, sponsorship or age. We are fellow competitors racing for the glory of a crown of wild celery.

The actual race is over in a flash, though my flash is not quite as short as some. I reach the finishing line in third position and watch one of our number receive the crown and a palm branch. I watch further races: there are more than 90 throughout the day, grouped by age and sex and run on the 90m track (only about half of the stadium's original 190m has been uncovered).

Daughter Maddy competes with the nine-year-olds, partner Sophie with the 40-something ladies. Everyone does their best: the young men strain and grimace with effort, the elderly smile and wave, and one 60-year-old woman sprints like a teenager to roars of approval from the crowd.

Then I go to prepare for the final event, something rather more demanding: the Footsteps of Heracles, a 7.5km race to the stadium from the Temple of Heracles at Kleonai. Several hundred competitors are bussed over there, change into tunics and walk to the temple, which is amid the vineyards. It was here, according to ancient authors, that Hercules came with the dead lion that he had strangled to complete his first labour. Later it was Hercules who measured out the length of a stadium: 600 foot-lengths or 192m (making Hercules's foot about a US size 15 – one size larger than Michael Phelps).

Standing in the ruins of the temple we all take a vow to uphold the spirit of the Nemean Games and to do nothing that will bring shame. Then, with a wave of the judge's arm, we are off.

The first 4km are uphill. Hercules, I suppose, would have enjoyed the challenge. I manage to keep going and start to enjoy the race on the downhill section. Reaching the locker room once again, we have to remove our shoes (a few hardy souls have done the whole thing barefoot) then run through the cool tunnel and out into the stadium.

This, for me, is the great moment: in that dark tunnel there are no cameras, no phones, nothing of the modern world, there are only my feet slapping the same rough hard earth that ancient athletes like Telestas experienced. The tunnel exit is crowded with hands that want to slap me on the back, and smiling, cheering faces.

I do my lap of honour. I'm not first, but somewhere in the middle. I'm just happy to be there – and I think that might be what is called the true original Olympic spirit.

Way to go

Staying there
Kevin's trip was provided by Sunvil (020‑8758 4758, sunvil.co.uk), which plans to offer a Nemean Games trip for 2016. It also offers tailor-made trips to the Peloponnese visiting ancient sites. A one-week fly-drive itinerary costs from £842pp (two sharing), including flights from Gatwick, B&B accommodation and car hire

Getting there
Travel from York to London was provided by East Coast (08457 225333, eastcoast.co.uk, returns from £20.50). Holiday Extras (0800 093 5478,holidayextras.co.uk) provided a hotel at Gatwick. A night at the Marriott Courtyard hotel with seven days' parking starts at £133

A bicycle gourmet in France

Following the longest main road in France, the route to the sun from Paris to Provence, cyclist Adam Ruck makes the most of the vineyards and foodie pit stops that have been refuelling travellers for centuries





The Tour de France reminds us that there are two kinds of cyclist. Racy ones, who measure satisfaction in rivers of sweat and breathless panoramas savoured from hard-won mountain passes; and the rest of us, whose reward at the end of a long morning in the saddle is a good lunch, later to be followed by a slap-up supper. The bicycle is our carte blanche for greed without guilt.

For the gourmet cyclist, the road that leads south from Paris to the sun has irresistible appeal. The defining French migration route of the modern era is the road more travelled – by Grand Tourists, impressionist artists and Parisians on their way to and from holiday. It is also a foodie pilgrimage that comes with an invitation to taste the fruits of the earth in Burgundy and raise a glass of red at Hermitage and Châteauneuf-du-Pape, sacred hills beside the Rhône. There are other hills, and many rivers, to cross, but no mountain range, and with luck a mistral will blow you down the Rhône to Avignon.

The heavily beaten path got its hymn in 1955 when Charles Trenet's song "Route Nationale Sept" celebrated the longest main road in France – the Nationale Sept (N7) stretches 1,000km from Paris to Menton via Lyon, Avignon and Aix-en-Provence. Despite the arrival of the autoroutes, the N7 and the other main artery south, the N6, are too busy for enjoyable cycling these days. Instead we shadow them (and the motorway) on empty back roads.

Part of the fun of a long ride is watching the country change and enjoying the moments of transition. Coloured roof tiles on the bishop's palace at Sens confirm our arrival in Burgundy, and we buy our first picnic wine of the trip there, a Chablis Vieilles Vignes from the grower's stall in the covered market. The first vineyard is another happy moment, a few miles north of Chablis.

On a bike you feel every crease in the land beneath your wheels, and we recognise Burgundy for what it is: the spine of France, its bones separating the Atlantic and Mediterranean. After sweating our way over the Montagne de Beaune we hurtle down to a carpet of priceless vineyards, rolling the famous names around the palate: Pommard, Monthélie, Meursault and finally Puligny-Montrachet, where an unusual wine-tasting lunch awaits.

Olivier Leflaive is an entrepreneurial local wine négotiant with a boutique hotel-restaurant where the food is no more than a platform for the main event, a fixed-price wine menu to accompany it. "Now for the real test," says our waiter-cum-guide, lining up the bottles to compare and contrast premier cru wines of Chassagne, Puligny and Meursault.




Residents can go for a lie-down after lunch. For the rest of us, breathalyser kits are available from the bar. The problem with these gadgets is focus. Finding it elusive, we sober up on the towpath of the Canal du Centre and manage not to fall in or mow down any pedestrians.

Saying goodbye to Burgundy, we cross the Saône into the Bresse, home of blue cheese and the Rolls‑Royce of poultry. The time is right for a chicken lunch at Vonnas, the gastronomic theme-park village which has become the personal fiefdom of superstar cook and one‑man brand Georges Blanc.

On the village square of the self‑styled "premier village gourmand de France", Blanc offers customers on different rungs of the spending ladder a pick'n'mix gastronomic and lifestyle experience – shops, hotels, health farm, heliport, serious restaurant and a simpler auberge for the Blanc-lite experience. It may all seem a bit gastro Disney, but the proof of the poulet is in the eating, and we find no fault with ours.

Down the centuries the tramp of travellers has fostered the art of hospitality. Ambitious chefs set out their stalls along the road, their Michelin-starred pit stops – étapes gastronomiques – springing up to delay the traveller like healing shrines on the road to Compostela, with names from the pantheon of French gastronomy: Meneau at Vézelay, Bocuse at Collonges, La Mère Brazier in Lyon.

While Trenet was immortalising the N7 in song, a hotelier near Montélimar was giving serious thought to the future of the étape gastronomique in the age of the motorway. Assembling a group of like-minded establishments along the road from Paris to the Riviera, Marcel Tilloy founded the Relais de Campagne in 1954, with "La Route du Bonheur" – the happiness trail – as its slogan. All shared a commitment to a new style of gracious country‑house living marked by soigné decor, culinary excellence and peaceful rural surroundings. Tilloy's idea caught on and bred a new kind of traveller for whom the hotel is the destination and the journey the holiday. The prestigious Relais & Chateaux association, which evolved from Tilloy's Relais de Campagne, still uses the "Route du Bonheur" slogan.

"The French call the path we are following the Route de Bonheur," wrote American travel editor Jerry Hulse. "It could also be called L'Avenue du Poundage." His first stop was the Poste in Avallon, a classic 18th-century coaching inn where the imposing René Hure was one of only 10 chefs in France with three Michelin stars to his name. Even allowing for journalistic exaggeration, Hulse's grande bouffe (blow-out) dinner seems incredible now: "Goose soaked in Meursault, ham stewed in rare Chablis, curried chicken with cream, chicken in Chambertin wine, duck cooked with orange, woodcock flambée à la riche, pancakes flambés in three liqueurs, and a five-layer cake which when squeezed will fill a quart bottle with booze… M Hure's approach is subtle. Get them to the table and they'll stay the night. No one can read the road signs after eating dessert."

The Poste at Avallon still stands, boasting of its "timeless charm", but the decor looks tired now and the Poste lives on its memories. The Relais & Chateaux banner has passed to Marc Meneau at nearby L'Espérance, a stylish bolthole beneath Vézelay's famous pilgrimage church. "We could never serve food like that today," Meneau had told us earlier in our journey. "No one would eat it." That may change in the postmodern age of the gourmet cyclist who brings serious hunger to the table. We'd warned Meneau that we were cyclists, so the chef served up a special reinforced menu, beginning with a thick soup, as he explained, "to rebuild your strength at the beginning of the meal". It worked.




Now rolling down the Rhône, we stop for wine tastings at Tain L'Hermitage and the rival house of Chapoutier. Further on, friends are waiting for us at the foot of the Col de Tartaiguille, and we find them sipping pastis under a plane tree, beside the village fountain, with a plate of olives and a refugee Parisian philosophe-hotelier wearing jeans and intellectual Rive Gauche hair. If only there was a boules game in progress, this southern scene would have all the hallmarks of Provence.

Later, it is a warm ride over the hills to Nyons, with lavender and cicadas for company. At this point the cyclist on a mission would retire early in preparation for the Mont Ventoux, a famous cycling challenge to rival the Galibier and other nightmarish Alpine climbs. We also retire early and sleep soundly, confident in our mission to ignore the Ventoux in favour of the wine road that takes us down the western flank of a beautiful miniature mountain range, the Dentelles de Montmirail, through Gigondas and Beaumes de Venise. After a picnic beneath the Dentelles and a cooling-off period in the shallow stream of the Ouvèze, our final approach to Avignon is a dusty stretch of the old N7. The old stones of the Papal city are glowing in the heat of a balmy summer evening.

The morning train ride back to Paris will take less than three hours. We watch our ride race by as if on fast rewind. We flash through the Tartaiguille tunnel – an hour's hard cycling – in a few seconds. The cows have changed from brown to white, so we must be in Burgundy. It is good to get the return journey done quickly: heading north is no fun at all.

Adam Ruck is the author of France on Two Wheels (Short Books, £8.99). To order a copy for £7.19 with free UK p&p, click on the link or call 0330 333 6846. For more information, go to france2wheels.com