You know that feeling when you first open a box of Green and Black’s chocolates? Butterscotch is better than…Ok, let’s not go there. Well, when I first went on Canopy and Stars website, it had the same impact really. Each web page unwrapped a delicious, quirky place to stay,and the choice almost overwhelming. Which is why I have invited them to write a guest blog, featuring places which are all accessible by public transport of one sort or another. I am all for leaving the car at home, so hopefully these places will inspire you to do the same. And after all those chocolates, it is best for me to get walking, cycling, canoeing there anyway. Over to the gang who created it…
“Holidays are great. Getting there… less so. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to stop at the M&S at the service station. You might even have a really good mix CD…
But it doesn’t have to be like that! Canopy & Stars, the leading new glamping company, is encouraging you to leave the car at home, and make your journey part of the fun! To get you started, here is a selection of unusual places that can be reached by unusual means…
The Gypsy Camp , Essex – where two Romany bowtop caravans lie between the apple trees in a private orchard – is connected to central London by the National Cycle Network, so you can cycle all the way there from ‘town‘. Or, if you don’t fancy propelling yourself, you can catch the train and arrange for Ann, the owner and creator of this rural gem, to pick you up in her pony and trap from Wickham Bishops, a short bus ride from Witham Station.
Millstream Camp, Shropshire – To reach this hideaway under the stars, you can take the single track line to Bucknell, a rural station so tiny the train will only stop if you ask the driver. Let Carolyn know and she can arrange to have two bicycles waiting for you on the platform. Then it’s just a three miles down quiet Shropshire country lanes to the Millstream Camp, where a homely shepherd hut just for two awaits you. You can even cool off after your journey with a dip in the dammed Millstream.
A stable by the shore at Lochhouses Photo: Canopy and Stars
If you have access to a noble steed, you can gallop along the beach right up to the Lochhouses Safari Tents near Edinburgh, and stable your horse there, too! If you don’t have your own horse, don’t worry! Trains from Edinburgh Waverley to North Berwick take about half an hour, and there’s a trekking centre next door, so you can still go riding on the beach.
A ‘post bus’ sets off daily at 3pm from Llandovery, Dyfed (where the railway station is) and goes right to the bottom of the drive of The Cabin – a cosy octagonal space in the lush Cambrian mountains. If you can’t be bothered with all the stopping and starting as they pick up the post, you can always hire a mountain bike from the station (a very reasonable £3.50 a day) and cycle there.
Inshriach Yurt in The Cairngorms Photo: Canopy and Stars
The Cairngorms are cool, especially when you discover them by canoe. You don’t even have to bother with much portage, with Inshriach Yurt, right on the water’s edge at. Take the train to Kingussie, and paddle all the way there in around three hours (with a guide from Spey Descents, if you don’t have your own canoe). Go down the Spey, through the Insh marshes and across Loch Insh. Enter Inshriach waters half a mile from Loch Insh and 2 miles later keep your eyes peeled for a yurt on your right hand side. Disembark for divine canopy, and of course, stars.
And if you really want to make an entrance, why not charter the Yacht Infanta to take you to By The Beach– a luxury yurt with a private beach on the Isle of Wight. Canopy & Stars has a wonderful collection of glamping places including a treehouse, luxury yurts, Gypsy caravans… even a boat in Regent’s Park!
Swimming in the Kornati National Park, Croatia with www.swimtrek.com
I look down at my hands pushing through the turquoise water and have a weird realisation. They are exactly the same shape as my father’s. I guess we rarely watch our hands in action, but here I am, twenty kilometres off Croatia’s coast, striding through the waves, and I have this bizarre hand moment. I have been swimming for an hour now, and have entered that solitary, pensive zone which only swimming helps me reach. Each stroke takes me back to early swimming days in the Irish Sea, when my Dad held on tightly to my hands, teaching me not to fear the water, but to let it carry me gently. “Go with the flow, and you will love it”, he would say, and how right he was.
I discovered Swimtrek, a holiday company which takes you on open water swimming trips in various parts of the world, about a year ago. Dreadfully unfit since having children, and with a bad case of middle aged malaise, I decided things had to change. While other friends tackled marathons, I headed for the pool, and started training in January for my first week-long holiday alone, no kids, lots of sunshine and, most importantly, the sea. I chose Croatia for various reasons. I hadn’t been there before, had heard great things, the swims were not as tough as some of their trips (average 3k) and jellyfish are few and far between in the Adriatic.
So here, at last, is the real thing. After five months of swallowing chlorine, being pushed aside in the fast lane, dry skin, verrucas and endless bad hair days, I find myself on the tiny car-free island of Prvic, a thirty minute ferry ride from the medieval city of Sibenik. This is just one of 1185 Croatian islands (of which only 47 are inhabited), along its nearly 6000 kms coastline. Prvic is base camp for the week, where a group of fifteen of us take over a local hotel, overlooking the shore. We are a mixed bunch and, despite all my anxieties, not the swimming club types who do endless arm stretches, slurp funny coloured drinks, and besport tight swimsuits which might as well say “I have absolutely no cellulite, and absolutely no life”. These were all real people, with wobbly bits, warts ‘n’ all. The only coloured drinks on show are beer or wine, and stretching is not recommended for open-water swimming, so I am safe. We range in age from late twenties to fifties, equally diverse in swimming experience, and are a good mixture of Swiss, Irish, American, English, Scottish, with swim guides from Finland, South Africa and Canada.
On the first morning we are instructed to meet on the beach, some proudly buck naked, bar Speedos, and others, like me, slowly peeling off sarongs before daring to dive. The guides assess our levels over a 200 metre swim, and then split us into three groups, giving us pink, orange or yellow swimming hats according to our level. I delight at the fact that I am put in the bottom yellow hat group. No pressure, just go with the flow, remember. My Dad’s words are, however, long forgotten as I get off to a bad start on this first mini strike-out into the Adriatic, my chest tightening horribly, as I struggle to breathe smoothly. “That always happens on your first open-water swim, it’s just anxiety, don’t worry about
Swimming along the Krka River, Croatia
it”, one of the pink-hatted “Speedophiles” (his term not mine) tells me, as he sunbathes just a little smugly back on the beach, not even out of breath.
But there is no turning back now. We jump on board our boat for the week, and Jadran, the Croatian captain, leads us out to nearby Tijat island, where the calm water is about 24 degrees, and the air about 32. We yellows are to take off first, getting a head start from the oranges and pinks. “Before you get in, I have to lube you up”, says Kate, our superfit Canadian swim guide, donning latex gloves and Vaseline. We stretch out to have our sensitive bits smothered, so we don’t chafe. Salt water does strange things, apparently and this is, for sure, the most bizarre holiday ritual I have ever had to undertake.
Within minutes there are fifteen fluorescent hats bobbing along the coast of this stunning little island, its pine trees and white rocky shores disappearing past us as we swim. Within minutes, the oranges and then pinks disappear past me too, but rather than trying to compete, I stop and watch the impressive athleticism of my fellow swimmers. Each group has a boat following alongside, in case we need anything. We have been taught some hand signals, including a ‘W’ sign, to let them know when we are stopping to wee. There’s no sign for chest tightness, unfortunately, which is still hovering, but I try to ignore it. By the time I reach the target lighthouse, just under an hour later, I realise I am ahead of my fellow yellows and, miraculously, still breathing. Back in the boat, the guides hand me an orange hat, and I get cheers all round. As if by magic, the chest tightness disappears, and I am ready to take whatever the waves throw at me.
Later that day we are filmed swimming in the open water, which we watch back over beer that evening at the hotel, and given some tips. The next day I concentrate on putting all the tips into practice, and sail through a beautiful swim between the islands of Zmajan and Kaprije. This is our first ‘crossing’ as opposed to following the coastline. No more clear, shallow waters, this is the deep blue sea, with nothing but a pink cottage in the distance to aim for. But the sun’s rays which cut through the depths provide a guiding light of inspiration as we all eventually find a steady rhythmical pace over 2kms.
The feeling at the end of a swim is pure elation. I fall back into my meditative state on this crossing, only to be jolted out of it by the appearance of white sand, rocks and fish below me. This is when you realise that land is near, and lunch is waiting. No holding back on the food on this trip either, with divine spreads laid out on board of pasta, couscous or rice salads, cold meats, cheese and fruit. Jadran also spoils us on a regular basis, emerging from the sea with a load of Whitebait or mussels, which he throws in a pan with butter and garlic, and hands out like sweets. The crème de la crème is when he produces oysters. Just like that. He must be making some Croatian woman happy somewhere, I think to myself.
We take on two swims a day, totalling about 5kms, although the distance is irrelevant if the water is choppy. One day we head inland, up the Krka River towards the Krka National Park. We moor at the yacht metropolis of Skradin, and hike 4kms alongside a wooded gorge to the breathtaking Krka Waterfalls, seven of which gush down moss-covered steps, to merge into one magnificent mother of a fall, which finally hurtles into Visovac Lake. Here we join hundreds of other bathers, and bask in our first freshwater swim. The afternoon’s challenge is to swim 4kms back down the river, with the current carrying us most of the way. At least, that’s what they tell us, but I struggle here, fighting off a stitch, drinking most of the river in an attempt to find finding breathing space between the waves, and slowly drifting from my group. Kate checks in with me; “Please tell me we are over halfway”, I beg, but I know by her face that she doesn’t have the
Lunch
answer I was hoping for. I give in and slump back into the dinghy feeling sorry for myself. After a few words of encouragement, she drops me back up with the group, and I’m off again for the last two kilometres, still a battle, but I get there in the end.
Nights back on Prvic are never a dull moment. The guides book us a group table at a different restaurant most nights, where the food is always excellent, and the company superb. Sea bass, tuna, sardines, mackerel and squid are regulars, eaten at restaurants so close to the water, you can almost fish for seconds. Some of the swimmers are able for copious amounts of Croatian wine, but I show my age and retire early most nights with a book. Having been carried by the hands of Neptune every day, I want nothing more than to sink ecstatically into the arms of Morpheus every night,
After the hiccup of my river swim, I decide to not let it set me back, and enjoy every swim from now on. I feel myself get stronger every day and, although I’m never head of the pack, I battle on at my own pace, encouraged by the determination of those just ahead of me. One of the most exciting swims starts just outside Sibenik harbour, where we head one morning for coffee, shops and “to clear a few heads”, says Mia, our other gorgeous swim guide. Back on board, Jadran drops us at the entrance to a sea tunnel carved into the cliffs by WW2 German occupying forces, which they used to conceal their boats and then surprise incoming enemy ships. We swim through the tunnel, sticking together tightly in this eerie hideaway, called “Hitler’s Eyes” by locals, and let the water carry us through like some sort of water theme park ghost ride. The light at the end of the tunnel reflects off the Adriatic, which then sucks us back along its glorious coastline for a few kilometres as far as another ancient sea construction, the 16h Century St. Nikolas fortress. Now derelict, we are able to wander around every corner of this imposing structure, with views across the channel we have just conquered.
Sadly, every good trip has to end, and our final two hour boat ride takes us out into the far reaches of Croatia’s sea
Island of Prvic Luka, where we stayed at lovely Hotel Maestral
territory, the Kornati National Park. Here, cones of white rock, covered in sunbleached shrubs emerge from the water in their hundreds, creating endless reefs for us to swim around. There is no water on these islands, rendering them uninhabitable, but totally swimmable. We jump in and swim straight to the shoreline of one of them, which we cling to for nearly 3kms, following the underwater contours which conceal endless caverns and schools of fish. I enjoy every stroke on this last day, as favourable currents help us along our last two swims of the week. As Jadran’s tanned, strong, hand reaches out to pull me back onboard for the last time, I hold it tight, and thank him for all his support during the week. And later that night, as we all toast each other’s achievements, I quietly raise a glass in thanks to, and in memory of, the strong hand which first led me to the water all those years ago.
The recession has forced many of our golden gates of tourism to open to new ideas and new visitors, indirectly creating a more responsible and accessible form of tourism. I recently visited the five star hotels of Parknasilla in Kerry and Castlemartyr in Cork which have opened their doors to us mere mortals. This is not the work of Nama either, but a company called Natural Retreats (www.naturalretreats.com) which already owns sustainable (and sumptuous) houses in the UK and has, for the last year, been moving into self-catering lodges in the grounds of Ireland’s most exclusive hotels, making them just a little more inclusive.
I wrote about this company when it first entered the Irish market , impressed by their ethos of developing sustainable tourism in areas of important cultural and natural heritage. Recently, I checked out how they were doing. First stop, Parknasilla, where we thought we might have to go through a separate interlopers’ entrance so that ‘battered old Volvo’ alarms didn’t go off. But the integration of posh and pleb was done seamlessly and without judgement. We checked in at the same desk as golfers with their Golfs, and Foxrockers with their furs, as they headed to their suites, and we to our self-catering.
The pool at Parknasilla is almost precocious in its beauty
However, it was the outdoors which beckoned at Parknasilla, and is the reason why people have been coming since 1895. There are five hundred acres of woodland and coastal walks here, with tiny islands linked to the hotel by wooden bridges. On an early morning stroll to catch the mist coming up over the many inlets, there was an eerie silence with only the oyster catchers on dawn duty. The beauty here is truly mesmeric.
Guests staying at Natural Retreats’ lodges are given full access to hotel facilities, sharing hot tubs, croquet lawns and extraordinarily beautiful swimming pools with the great washed. The Victorian ‘children should be seen and not heard’ still hovers a little at Parknasilla, being asked to leave the pool at 5pm, only served dinner at certain times, and a general air of hushed tones around the lounges. The games room is in a separate building and equipment was on last legs. But when the pool shut we just ran down to the Victorian bathing huts on the shore and dived into the Atlantic, letting our screams echo around the bay, hushed tones long forgotten. The hotel restaurant was beyond our budget anyway, so we ate in from the nearby butchers or out at O’Shea’s pub, with its fab fish pie. Both in nearby Sneem.
At Castlemartyr, the ambience was very different. Although equally luxurious, it had a younger feel to it, with bikes for everyone’s use, the kids were allowed to walk the hotel’s dogs and blind eyes were turned when ‘adult time’ kicked in at the pool when it was quiet. The games room is ‘soooo cool’ with leather sofas, a Wii, snooker table with all the balls and board games with all the bits. We cycled into the village for supplies, picnicked on the lawns and noone blinked an eye.
One disappointment, however, was the welcome hampers which had impressed me so much at Natural Retreats in
Yorkshire, brimming with local produce. Here they were more white sliced loaf and instant coffee. Natural Retreats’ Director, Ewan Kearney reassured me, “We’re working through an ongoing list of improvements at each site, including implementing local produce in the welcome hampers, improving the guest information manuals with things to do and see in the local area, eco-friendly cleaning products and see this as a gradual process that is more likely to succeed if the business is financially stable”.
These are not cheap breaks by any means, but as George Bernard Shaw said of Parknasilla, “This place does not belong to any world that you or I have ever worked in or lived in. It is part of our dream world”. Natural Retreats has brought the dream a bit closer to reality for many and, with sustainability at its core, aims to make the same possible for future generations to come.
This article, by Catherine Mack, was first published in The Irish Times 28 August 2010
A campsite where there are just a few tents in a luscious meadow, no cars, a breakfast buffet, and a shebeen onsite is a rare thing. Even rarer, it does not involve an overnight ferry crossing, just a two hour crossing from Rosslare to Fishguard (stenaline.ie). From here, a thirty kilometres drive, taxi or indeed cycle, will take you through the gates of Fforest, one of the UK’s coolest campsites. It is just outside the village of Cilgerran, in the heart of Wales’ beach and beauty-filled Pembrokeshire.
And it keeps getting better, as all tents and equipment are provided at Fforest. These are no ordinary tents either, with a choice of very funky, cream canvas geodesic dome tents, tipis, bell tents and a more basic tunnel tent, known as the Nomad. All have wood-burning stoves except the Nomad which has, however, like all Fforest’s accommodation, the inspired touch of reindeer hides to keep you toasty, or gorgeous Welsh woollen blankets if skins don’ t do it for you. You need to bring sleeping bags and towels, however, although a double duvet is provided in the dome tent. All tents are positioned on raised wooden bases to keep damp at bay, and adjoining kitchens are covered and fully equipped. Even the shower blocks and loos are beautifully designed using green oak, larch and cedar, and effluent is channelled to a reed bed filtration system.
We opted for Fforest’s latest development, the Crogloft, which was originally a stone barn, and now home to those who love the outdoors but can’t do canvas. I love canvas but it was April, so we chickened out, and opted for solid walls and doors. The four croglofts are equally stylish, with cabin beds for the children and mezzanine bed for us, all draped with Fforest blankets, and a sofa bedecked with another reindeer. And the luxurious wetrooms are heaven for those who just hate to wade through nature when nature calls. You still get the camping vibe in the crogloft, however,
Canoeing on the River Teifi at Fforest campsite
because the kitchen areas are outside, albeit covered from the elements, but in full view of the meadows, moon and stars.
Despite the cosiness of the croglofts, I must admit I still pined for canvas, wood burning stoves and fresh air. I got my daily fix of wood-burning in the woodland sauna, which is in a cedar barrel, heated by a wood stove, with a shower round the back for cooling down moments. The kids were delighted as they got to come in too, usually a health and safety no-no in conventional spas. But then most conventional spas don’t have a field full of buttercups to run through afterwards either.
The space at Fforest is impressive. There are only a handful of tents in each field, each one strategically positioned for privacy. There are just enough people in each field to be sociable, but you never feel crowded out. Just head to the main wooden lodge for the real social scene, where a delicious breakfast buffet is served every day, with endless pots of good coffee on the go, home made breads, eggs and fresh local produce such as jams and honey. I loved the communal breakfast as it gave everyone a focus for the day, whereas we never seem to get going before about midday on normal campsites.
Activities abound at Fforest, although you could easily come here and just do nothing. However, I highly recommend taking the canoe trip down the river as well as the woodland creations sessions, when the boys made pencils out of green hazel wood, freshly cut in the forest, and necklaces out of elder. All those bushcraft things they love and which I get overly neurotic about like lighting fires, sawing wood and playing with penknives.
Chillin' as the sun goes down over Fforest
Fforest owners James Lynch and Sian Tucker have pulled off something special here. Although stylish and sustainable, they have avoided the current trend for designed-to-death campsites which kill the very thing we all want from the outdoors. Spontaneity, fun and nature. And plenty of dirt under the fingernails. As a result, the clientele is more green wellies than pink, choosing local cider over chardonnay. What they need now to add to the fun is just a few more Paddies.
For more details on Fforest see coldatnight.co.uk, 00-44 (0) 1239 623633
An edited version of this article was first published in The Irish Times, 17 July 2010
