Booking a trip in the British Isles makes for a rewarding treat

When you get bitten good and hard by the intrepid international globe-trotting bug, there’s a danger that you dismiss a huge avenue of adventure that abounds with excitement and promise; namely, the discovery of good old Britannia. That we travelling Brits tend to take our own back yard rather for granted, and never see it as the same garden of paradise that foreigners do, is something of a crying shame. There are many jewels in the United Kingdom’s crown, and to dismiss them for the thrill of more exotic locations and climes is to cheat yourself out of some real magic.

Let’s take city breaks for a start. Availing yourself of the many delights of our wonderful capital, or indeed one of the other fine cities Great Britain has to offer, will open your eyes to a plethora of art, culture and architecture just waiting to be stumbled across. You could start with the main candidates such as York, Edinburgh, Durham, Manchester or Birmingham, but it can be immense fun picking out some of the less-visited examples like Sheffield, Brighton, Cambridge, Lancaster, Exeter, Chester… the list isn’t endless, but it will keep you going for quite a while.

And when you’re done with cities, start ploughing your way through our fantastic collection of towns and villages – if you haven’t a clue where to start, just decide how far you want to travel and literally stick a pin in the map.

If you don’t fancy driving, why not consider the train, bus or coach – try to see even the most mundane forms of transport as a passport to adventure, and always take your camera and a notebook to keep a record of your trip.

Book journeys well enough in advance and it won’t cost a fortune either, and when booking accommodation, your online world is pretty much your oyster. Whether you’re after a humble guest house or something offering a bit more luxury, you can bag some amazing hotel deals from some of the leading chains, especially at weekends. Don’t just rely on sites like Booking.com either – make a note of all the good UK hotel operators and get into the habit of searching their own websites too; there’s many a good deal to be had as they all compete for your lucrative business.

And a fantastic time to start your little odyssey is in the run up to Christmas – why not be adventurous and do your Christmas shopping out of town? Your gifts will be different and you get to have a mini-holiday too.

Post Christmas is also great for an indulgent little treat. The bright lights of the festive season are over, and the long, dark days of January can easily fall flat and lacklustre. Book your early new year break now and you’ll be surprised how it bucks you up, sustaining you throughout the stress of Christmas, and giving you something special to look forward to after you’ve returned to work.

Of course, it doesn’t mean you’re never going to go abroad again, but it will hopefully enable you to appreciate some of the finer points our beautiful little group of islands has to offer.

Finding a ‘proper’ pub these days can be a tall order, but here we present a West Lancashire gem

In these times of pubs closing right, left and centre, one wonders what will actually become of the great British boozer. It’s a tradition we’ve always cherished, and it seems odd that we should blame the smoking ban – or even the recession – for preventing us from availing ourselves of this national institution. Odd it may be, but true none-the-less, and in our travels throughout the land we have encountered heart-breaking stories from landlords and landladies who have ploughed their all into these cornerstones of the great British way of life, not always successfully. So what makes a pub a winner? It’s quite easy to see how a pub-cum-eatery in a tourist spot can eke out a more than meagre existence, but what about that very special breed, the ubiquitous ‘local’? To survive these days, these must be made of sterner stuff.

Happily, we are blessed with such an establishment in our very own little coastal town of Fleetwood in Lancashire. The Queens Hotel is lovingly presided over by landlords Benny and Gail Emsley, and run pretty much to perfection by their dedicated team of Jamie, Lindsey, Adam and Kathryn. Here is a pub where you can pop in for a pint after work, chat with fellow regulars, pass the time of day with strangers and generally just relax without having to stand on ceremony. It caters for sporting enthusiasts and music lovers alike, offering regular local band spots usually on a Friday night. But if you do just fancy a drink and a chat, finding a quiet corner shouldn’t be too difficult.

The Queens has atmosphere, feels clean and cared for and is a congenial and safe space, thanks to Benny and Gail’s no-nonsense approach to trouble makers. The regular clientele see it very much as ‘their’ space, and a culture of friendly respect is observed at all times.

Prices are reasonable too, with a great selection of ales and lagers, wines, spirits and shots, and a good range of snacks – not least the deliciously well-stocked Holland’s pie oven for those times when a pie and a pint is all that will do.

So if you just fancy a beer down the local, but sadly that means standing awkwardly like a fish out of water while armies of family diners and their delightfully well-behaved offspring scream and shriek around your feet, you might just find the solace you seek at this quiet, unassuming Fleetwood ale house. It’s the great British local at its best.

The Queens Hotel
Poulton Road
Fleetwood
Lancashire
FY7 8PR

Telephone: 01253 876740

Nige Burton takes to the skies on the wings of a Cessna-172

The sun shone brightly and directly into my eyes, serenaded by the incessant throb of a willing little Cessna engine, as I taxied my way around to one of the main runways of Blackpool’s international airport. Here I was, the world’s most abounding aviophobic, about to take flight under my own steam, albeit with the much needed and very welcome guidance of the venerable Captain Philip Mundin of Westair Flying Services. It was do or die time; kill or cure. I figured if this didn’t sort out my ridiculous and unreasonable sense of panic at the thought of any impending air travel, nothing would.

Of course, I hold Aircrash Investigation largely to blame for my affliction, complete with the dramatic sincerity in the dulcet tones of Jonathan Aris, who could make the mildest bout of turbulence feel apocalyptic. But my Fear of Flying course at Manchester airport in 2006 had only partially straightened out my aeronautical neurosis, and pained anxiety is not a good airport look for a seasoned traveller whose passion is discovering the world. This had to be fixed once and for all, and I figured if maybe I got to feel what actually flying the plane myself was like, I might be in with a ghost of a chance.

Turns out ghost was the operative word; the registration of my four seater craft, a Cessna-172, was G-OWST. Oh, bloody hell. It must be an omen – maybe I shouldn’t bother going up after all. Who flies a plane called Gowst? Well, obviously quite a lot of people, rather uneventfully. Time to grab my wrist, concentrate on my breathing and get a grip – an old counselling technique I was once taught. It sometimes works.

Captain Mundin was sympathetic. I fessed up to the whole sorry mess, and he just smiled calmly and said “are you ready then?” I’d had my pre-flight briefing in the classroom, affording me the necessary knowledge to sort my flaps from my ailerons and my elevators from my rudder. I even knew, in theory, why it was important to fly ‘in trim’. So there.

Take off was impressive, with Philip taking control and me keeping a light grip on the stick (actually, a wheel in my case) so I could experience the procedure and ‘feel’. And once we were climbing high above the Pleasure Beach, as if by magic, my fear literally started to melt away as the excitement of what was taking place supplanted it. We were actually flying, and it somehow felt different. I thought that the size of the aircraft would make me worse, but it had the opposite effect. As we soared over Blackpool Tower and headed for Windermere, ascending to our cruising altitude of just 4,000 feet, one of the biggest grins I’d worn for a very long time spread inexorably over my clock. Wow! What a thrill; what an experience! I was actually flying. And this is no exaggeration, as Philip handed me control about ten minutes into the flight (“you have control,” – “I have control,”; it’s airspeak, you know) and I got to feel what this crazy old experience of flying is actually like. Many will tell you it’s addictive, and I can see why. Within half an hour, I was already projecting way forward to the day I got my pilot’s licence. Hard to believe, I’m sure, but absolutely true. I’d go up again tomorrow.

The remainder of the flight saw me largely in control, as we headed out across Morecambe Bay, taking light turbulence in our stride, and then returned to circle Fleetwood and Cleveleys. I was even allowed to descend and fly in a holding pattern over Poulton (I live a very glamorous life, you see) before finally handing control back to the captain for approach and landing.

This flying lark is an activity I can wholeheartedly recommend – it’s great fun, inspiring and gives you a tremendous feeling of accomplishment, especially if you’re a nervous wreck of a flyer like I was. Has it cured me? Probably not completely – I’m still apprehensive when I have to take a flight, but nowhere near as badly as before. Nowadays, I just want to get in the cockpit and play co-pilot – then, I’d be absolutely fine. Must be something to do with having control… now, what was it Doctor Freud said again?

To book your flying lesson, take a look at:

Westair Flying Services Ltd
Blackpool Airport
Blackpool
Lancashire
FY4 2QS

Visit www.westair.uk.com

Tel: +44 (0)1253 342660

Email school@westair.uk.com

Aerial pictures by Jamie Salisbury-Jones

The Sanctuary, a hideaway at the stunning Cranleigh Hotel at the heart of Bowness-on-Windermere, ranks easily with some of the world’s finest

Imagine a place where nothing else exists apart from the means by which you can totally indulge your every whim. A hideaway where you can be as far as you like from the madding crowd but within a hair’s breadth of a cosy bistro or intimate bar, and all within a stunningly beautiful setting at the heart of the English Lakes.

You’d be forgiven for thinking it either sounds too good to be true, or would come at such a premium price as to make it prohibitive. Happily, neither is true. Believe me when I say that I’ve stayed at some rather fabulous rooms and suites in pretty exclusive locations across the globe, having been lucky enough to review them for a selection of high-end publications both online and in print. Now these do come with a price tag to match (on occasions that’s been several thousands of pounds per night) and there’s no denying they’ve been very impressive, but I’ve always come away with the notion that it’s just somewhere to put my head down at the end of the day, and the money I’d have had to pay would feel wasted, no matter how well-heeled one might be. But I’ve had my head turned and my heart changed, and I kind of feel like I’m revealing a secret that I don’t really want everyone to know about, but then that would just be selfish and defeat the whole object of World Travel Blog.

Ok, so I’m going to let this one out of the bag. I had the good fortune recently to stumble across the Cranleigh, a stunning little jewel of a hotel in the centre of Bowness. It’s always worth noting that, when booking anywhere for the South Lakes, you might want to consider Bowness over Windermere if it’s the lake you’re after; whilst Windermere is a perfectly pleasant, picturesque Lakeland town, it has no actual lake. Lake Windermere itself is actually situated in Bowness, and this is a good five to ten minute drive (so a considerable walk) further on. The Cranleigh is in the very centre of Bowness, just four or five minutes from the lake.

Upon arrival, I’d have been perfectly delighted to have been staying in the main hotel itself, but was fortunate enough to have booked the Sanctuary, a self-contained apartment tucked quietly away off the main drag. Private and unassuming from the outside, absolutely nothing on earth could have prepared me for what was on the other side of that little front door. For the first time in many a long year of staying in hotels, this stunning pied de terre literally took my breath away, from its luxuriously opulent decor right down to its incredible attention to detail. Chilled Champagne and chocolates welcomed us as soon as we walked through the door and, still reeling from the surprise of this, my eyes started to drink in the other details making this surely the best room in the Lake District. A huge bed, fit for royalty, dominated the main room without overcrowding it, and yes – it was as comfortable as it looked, affording me the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages. Add to this a 46” LCD television which is connected to a Bose surround sound Lifestyle system with iPod docking station and DVD player, well-stocked bar (with complimentary sherry) and all the comfort and trappings you could imagine in your ideal environment – there’s even free internet access – and you still couldn’t begin to have a picture of what the Sanctuary is all about.

And then there’s the bathroom, which I’m perfectly sure I could have lived in quite happily, with its glass Ben de Lisi bath (the first ever to be fitted in a hotel room), walk-in shower and relaxing LED light show to boot. Oh, and of course there’s a separate 18” widescreen TV in the bathroom, situated perfectly to enable relaxed viewing whilst bathing. Outrageous.

The icing on the cake has got to be the private hot tub, situated externally to the property in its own little ‘courtyard’ – the perfect environment in which to enjoy your Champagne (in, of course, the plastic ‘glasses’ provided. Mustn’t forget the Health and Safety Exec).

All in all, it’s hard to imagine accommodation which could be more luxurious, and in such a perfect location. If you want a real treat – that all too rare occasion when pampering is the order of the day, and you feel like living someone else’s life a tad more glamorous than your own – then this should be at the top of your list. But the real surprise is the price; the Sanctuary comes in at between £250 and £400 including bed and breakfast, based on two sharing, and trust me when I say this represents breathtaking value for money. Once you’ve lapped up the Black Magic Marble floor tiles (and underfloor heating), the Samara Platinum wall tiles, the wall papers and fabrics from the Royal Collection in the Queen’s archives and a fantastic night’s rest in the super kingsize bed with goose down bedding, let me suggest you take the breakfast like a king in your room. Ample, carefully selected local produce, beautifully cooked and lovingly presented, provides not just your average full English, but a gourmet extravaganza which will round off this whole experience with lasting finesse. This is the stuff dreams are made of, and every now and then, it’s nice to acknowledge just how ‘worth it’ you are.

For more details, visit: www.thecranleigh.com

The Cranleigh
Kendal Road
Bowness-on-Windermere
Cumbria
United Kingdom
LA23 3EW

+44 (0)15394 43293
Email: enquiries@thecranleigh.com

all images © The Cranleigh Hotel

Happisburgh – a magical corner of the north Norfolk coast

Ever fancied staying overnight in a 1901 signal box built for a railway that never came? Not the sort of question you get asked every day, I know, but if you like your adventures a little different and want to meander off that well-worn beaten track, you could do a lot worse than fetch up at the Hill House pub at Happisburgh (pronounced Haysborough) on a remote stretch of the north Norfolk coast.

Lovingly run by Clive and Sue Stockton, this exceptional hostelry is one of the very few that make it onto my list of establishments which are actually run for the benefit of the patrons. My first taste of this homely welcome was during the drive down to Norfolk, some six hours from my home in Lancashire, on a Friday evening. Knowing full well that we’d be lucky to arrive in time for last orders, we phoned on ahead and advised Sue of our slow progress.

“Have you eaten?” she inquired, completely unfazed.

“No,” we replied, rather sheepishly.

“Don’t worry – you must be starving. I’ll make you something nice when you get here.” You could feel the smile on her face even over the phone.

And sure enough, on our eventual arrival we were shown straight to our quarters where we quickly dumped our bags, and within ten minutes were enjoying a glass of real ale while anticipating a culinary treat from Sue’s kitchen.

The signal box itself was superb. Still almost completely original, it is situated in the pub grounds, making it a real hideaway. For the thirty quid or so per night tariff, the accommodation was bountiful, but it would be a sin to make cheap bed and board your main reason for being here; this is a chance to stay somewhere beyond your wildest imaginings, and in a location which is both remote and stunningly beautiful. The signal box’s spooky, nostalgic charm makes it one of the most exciting places I’ve ever stayed, although at times I was convinced I’d been caught up in the creepy drama of the forties film The Ghost Train, half expecting Arthur Askey to pop out at any moment with his immortal “Hello playmates!”. Apart from two ample rooms over the pub itself, there’s also an original coach house which has been converted into a stylish, ground level apartment. Deliciously quirky, the bar has a more important claim to fame: it was a holiday favourite of Sherlock Holmes creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and it is thought he actually penned The Dancing Men whilst on holiday in the village. Happisburgh itself actually doubled as Aldeburgh (although called Seaburgh) for the 1972 BBC film version of M R James’s classic ghost story, A Warning to the Curious.

After a comfortable night, a day of exploring was heralded by one of Sue’s mean fry-ups over at the pub – a true touch of breakfast heaven! Replete, we made for the nearby sea front, with its raw and rugged cliffs. The battered skeleton of 1950s ‘Hold the Line’ defences which snake up and down the beach is now almost completely impotent in the war against coastal erosion; little Happisburgh doesn’t seem to matter anymore to the powers that be, and the village has been consigned to its fate. As the great north sea pounds its way inexorably landwards, it devours a few more metres of land every month, and with it go livelihoods, homes and heritage.

At nearby Cliff House, a bed and breakfast establishment literally holding on by the skin of its teeth, Diana Wrightson has no choice but to sit and watch her home and her business slip away as disaster edges closer by the day. “We’ll stay open as long as we can,” she told me, “but we may not see another season. We lost eight metres in one night during a particularly nasty storm a few weeks ago.

“I used to offer guests either a view of the lighthouse or a sea view – now I can offer them both!”

And when, along with many others, Cliff House finally topples into the advancing ocean, there won’t be one shred of compensation for devastated residents. The 15th century church of St Mary is only a stone’s throw away, as is the striking red and white striped lighthouse, built in 1790; there is presently nothing in place to protect either of these historical edifices.

But despite their fierce battle, villagers remain proud and focused, always with a warm smile and hearty welcome for the visitor. Waiting for us back at Hill House was a delicious meal and more of that beautifully kept ale – something for which the venue has quite a reputation, especially at Clive’s summer beer festival every June.

“We started the event in quite a small way,” he told me, “but each year it gets more popular – we’ll be running out of space soon!”

But with the boundless hospitality of these wonderful hosts, you just get the feeling that they’d always squeeze you in somewhere.

What a breath of fresh air.

Could this possibly be London’s best hotel?

A busy weekend in London, reviewing shows and interviewing celebrities, can sound like a very glamorous way to spend your time. It’s true that it’s a great privilege swanning round the capital, chatting to the rich and famous, occupying the best seats in the house for the cream of West End productions and then dining out in style at some of the city’s finest and most diverse restaurants. But, you know – sometimes it doesn’t quite work out the way you planned it; the scheduling of shows and events can be so tight it would make a duck look like a cullender, the interviewee is an arrogant fool who’s doing you the biggest favour of your life and, by way of compensation, you just have to mix with the commoners at the end of a gruelling day and indulge yourself in one of those wonderful gourmet burgers at Garfunkels.

But what can really make the difference is where you ultimately lay your head and, in my opinion, there’s nowhere better than the stunningly stylish but oh so accessible Metropolitan London. Standing tall and proud in its very understated way, the Design Hotels London flagship is the pride of Old Park Lane, and manages to strip back all the clutter associated with your traditional English hotel, without so much as a shred of compromise. This makes for a calming, uncomplicated stay in rooms and suites appointed to perfection without being either flamboyant or fussy. But I think the most impressive aspect of my stay here has to be the management style; the entire team, from reception to concierge, porters to waiters, duty managers to housekeepers, somehow pull off a minor miracle: they are incredibly attentive, polite and knowledgeable without once making you feel uncomfortable or out of place. This fervid approach runs through the whole ethos of the Metropolitan, creating that reassurance that you’re in the best possible hands, and your every need is going to be taken care of.

Ideally situated on the borders of Mayfair and Knightsbridge, the hotel caters admirably for the most discerning diner, with a range of options including the prized Nobu restaurant with its distinctive Park Lane views. Founded by Nobuyuki Matsuhisa and presided over by Executive Chef Mark Edwards, this essential eatery affords guests a relaxed lunch or dinner of Michelin-starred, Japanese-Peruvian cuisine, with specialities including black cod with miso, sashimi salad with Matsuhisa soy sauce dressing, Hamachi sashimi with jalapenos, and squid ‘pasta’ with light garlic sauce.

Staying at the Metropolitan doesn’t come particularly cheap, with two bedroom suites costing up to £3,200, but some nifty footwork with an early booking will secure you an exquisite city room from just £179. Expect to pay £50 to £60 on top of that for a breakfast for two, but trust me when I say it’s breakfast like you’ve never had it before, and worth every penny for the experience alone. The food’s pretty amazing too, and the presentation unbelievably inventive.

For me, the Metropolitan is quite simply one of the most enjoyable stays I’ve ever had in a hotel, and I don’t say that lightly. Its cool sophistication is edged with a simplicity which makes it a real pleasure to be a guest here, without even a hint of anything being remotely hard work. If you’re looking for that rare place which is actually run exclusively for the benefit of its guests, look no further; the Metropolitan London has it all.

Metropolitan London
Old Park Lane
London W1K 1LB
United Kingdom

Visit www.designhotels.com

A MEMBER OF DESIGN HOTELS™
Reservations www.designhotels.com/contact
Email res@designhotels.com

Seaburgh’s warning to the curious

If, like me, you’re a fan of the good old English ghost story, then you’ve probably read at least one by M R James. My favourite, I must confess, is ‘A Warning to the Curious’, but this is due largely to the iconic BBC adaptation of the short story which was made in 1972. Directed by Lawrence Gordon Clark, and starring Peter Vaughan and Clive Swift, with a memorable performance by John Kearney, this classic little chiller can still send a shudder up many a spine today. Being frightened out of my wits by this film as a child is what started my interest in the story and, undoubtedly but thankfully, led me to the many ‘anxious’ hours I have subsequently spent in the deliciously dark company of England’s master of the traditional ghost story, Montague Rhodes James.

Tracking down the locations in the story can be a tricky business and, if you’re trying to do it in one trip, it’s probably best to choose either the film or the text, as one will point you to Norfolk and the other to Suffolk.

So let’s deal with the original source material first. James’s chilling little number is set in the fictional seaside town of Seaburgh, which is simply sited as being ‘on the east coast’. In a prologue to his ‘Collected Ghost Stories’ the author states clearly that his inspiration for Seaburgh was the sleepy little resort of Aldeburgh, nestling quaintly but quietly on the Suffolk coast. Although born in Goodnestone Parsonage in Kent in 1862, James had a lifelong affinity with the seaside town, visiting it often for holidays. He describes it thus:

The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider is Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south, recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse, inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells. How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle at the south end of the town, and yet others on higher ground to the north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs… but why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with the word-painting business yet.

Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left (you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top, with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it, that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills, red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello tower on the south.

Once James as narrator has evoked the setting of the story, he allows his friend to take over, who goes on to tell us of a stay in an inn called ‘The Bear’ at Seaburgh, where he came across a very nervous-seeming young man who was afraid to be alone. This young man, Paxton by name, then tells his story of having learned from the local rector of a legend of three Anglian crowns buried along the coast as protection from foreign invaders. One crown, according to the legend, had been discovered and melted down, and the second had been washed into the sea by coastal erosion. The third crown, the last remaining defence, was still buried along the coast but protected through generations by the men of the Ager family. When Paxton discovers that the last of the Agers has just died, his curiosity is piqued. When he ascertains from another local the possible location of the buried crown, he is compelled to unearth it. Having done so, however, he finds himself constantly followed by a mysterious presence. He is desperate to put the crown back where he found it, but it may be too late. It is for this task he enlists the help of the other two main protagonists of the tale.

Apart from the total loss of the old battery and settlement of Slaughden to the ravaging sea, Aldeburgh is pretty much today as the author described it. Many of the landmarks featured in the story can easily be tracked down, and the footsteps of the characters can be followed with little difficulty. A good base is The White Lion, a Best Western hotel which, although now considerably altered and devoid of ‘sitting rooms’, was actually ‘The Bear’ in James’s narrative. If you’re looking for more modest accommodation and don’t want to pay almost a fiver for the smallest glass of red, you could try the excellent ‘Toll House’ situated on Victoria Road, just off the main roundabout as you enter Aldeburgh. You’ll find no bar here (although the lively and convivial ‘Railway’ pub is literally just across the way) and you certainly won’t have a sea view, but this clean and friendly establishment is well run by Richard and Isobel, and is no more than five minutes walk from the town centre. And they do serve up a mean full English, packed with delicious local produce cooked to perfection; just the ticket to set you up for a day’s ghost hunting.

The short walk to the beach will take you past the Parish Church of St Peter and St Paul. Although only featured briefly in the story itself as young Paxton, accompanied by the narrator and his friend, Henry Long, attempts to return the crown, it’s worth a brief sojourn here to visit the graves of Suffolk composer Benjamin Britten and his lover Peter Pears. Much is made of Britten’s connection with Aldeburgh, which by contrast seems to highlight the fact that absolutely nothing can be found relating to M R James or ‘A Warning to the Curious’. Even the ‘literary expert’ to whom we were pointed at one of the town’s main book shops, could only manage a cursory, dismissive grunt as she thrust a copy of Wilkie Collins’ ‘No Name’ at us without really listening to our question. “M R Who..?” she barked eventually, “No. There’s nothing,” and then, without further ado, promptly turned her back on us to strike fear into the heart of the next customer patiently waiting for her contentious wisdom.

Also worth examining at the Peter and Paul Church is the stunning Britten window by John Piper, before meandering your way through the graveyard to the claustrophobic ‘narrow path with close, high hedges’ – the route taken by the three men on their way to return the misappropriated treasure.

These secluded paths lead down to the beach itself, which is exactly as described:

There was a choice of ways: past the houses on the sea-front, or along the sand at the bottom of the beach, which, the tide being now out, was fairly broad. Or of course we might keep along the shingle between these two tracks and have some view of both of them; only that was heavy going. We chose the sand, for that was the loneliest, and someone might come to harm there without being seen from the public path.

From the sea front, you can walk southwards towards, first, the only remaining windmill of the several James describes, now sadly without sails, and second the martello tower. The latter now belongs to the Landmark Trust and is probably in far better condition than it ever was. At the north end of the beach lies the timber framed Moot Hall, which has the dual function of museum and town hall, and has one or two interesting exhibits to complete the story well worth the modest one pound entrance fee. An 1860s print clearly shows the old gun battery just north of the martello tower intact. The second half of the nineteenth century must have seen a great deal of damage; by the turn of the century the battery was a crumbling ruin. This whole coast has suffered from the inroads of the sea. In the sixteenth century there were three whole streets to seaward of the current front, and the Moot Hall itself, now practically on the beach, was well inland. You’ll also find a picture painted around 1900 depicting the railway (which fell victim to Dr Beeching in the sixties), the ridge of firs where the crown was supposedly buried, and, in the far distance, the north sea. The trees were much more sparse then, but the picture gives you a good idea of the scene as it was in the story.

The church at Froston, whose porch houses the coat of arms depicting the ‘three Anglian crowns’ which initially fuel Paxton’s interest in his folly, is not so easy to place. It could be at nearby Friston, where there is indeed a church, but the absence of both the heraldic clue over its porch or any other intelligence bequeathed by James himself, leaves this open to some conjecture.

Now, as I’ve already intimated, this is all very well if you’re following James’s actual text. However, if you are a devotee of the film and not the literature, you will have come completely unstuck as soon as you set foot in Aldeburgh. Trying to uncover the actual locations for filming can frequently be frustrating, as what meagre sources of information there are can be at best sketchy and at worst conflicting. What’s absolutely clear is that no filming was done either in or around Aldeburgh or, indeed, anywhere in Suffolk.

To follow the location of Clark’s masterpiece, you’ll have to migrate to Norfolk, to the even sleepier Wells-next-the-Sea on the north coast. A modest trip eastwards will have you fetch up at Happisburgh, where you’ll definitely locate the church featured in the film, together with the red and white stripy lighthouse to which Vaughan’s older Paxton cycles.

Discovering the islands off the Cumbria coast

I’d been wanting to visit Piel Island for at least two years, ever since I’d glimpsed the stark, imposing ruin of its castle from the shores of nearby Walney. I remember going on about a two hour wild goose chase at the time, frantically trying to locate this eerily romantic half-structure so that I could photograph it at close quarters in the near-perfect light, before I finally abandoned my inherent maleness and sheepishly resorted to the road atlas in the boot. Oh, so all I had to do was drive round to Rampside and proceed along the causeway at Roa Island, and Piel was just a hop, skip and a jump away by ferry. Easy peasy! Except the ferry wasn’t running, and nobody really had a clue as to when it might be.

From that moment, I knew that one day I just had to visit the island itself and explore those curiously inviting shores. It was a trip that proved to be more elusive than I would’ve liked, but I finally had my reason to visit when it was agreed I would do a feature on the place for this magazine.

Right – the trick here was going to be in the planning. I knew I wanted to spend some time on nearby Walney, so I booked a Friday night stay there at the Castle House Hotel, and then made a reservation at Clarkes Hotel in Rampside for the Saturday. All that remained was to book my ferry trip over to Piel on the Saturday afternoon. “No problem,” assured the local ferryman, “just give me a call about half an hour before you want to go and I’ll meet you at the harbour!” Fabulous, I thought – we’re all sorted.

Travelling from Fleetwood to Walney on the Friday night was an absolute delight – it was one of those sunny evenings (a bit of a rarity this summer, admittedly) and there was virtually no traffic (even more of a rarity), so the journey was a 90 minute breeze, door to door. After checking in to my hotel, it was an unexpected pleasure to just relax with a nice glass of red while basking in the warm glow of the Morecambe Bay sunset, looking forward to a weekend of adventure.

Saturday morning arrived, and I was up and out early for a walk along the beach. This is such a hidden gem on the ‘Lancashire’ coastline (ok, so it might be Cumbria now, but it always was part of Lancashire before all those silly boundary changes of the 70s) and well worth investigation. Walney has a strange feeling to it really: you could almost be on a remote western isle off the north west coast of Scotland, and yet you’ve got busy and thriving Barrow-in-Furness just across the bridge. Follow the road around the west side, and you’ll eventually come to Biggar Village, and the incredible Queen’s Arms pub. It looks incredibly spooky – almost like it could be straight out of The Wicker Man – but serves a gradely pint which washed down one of the best homemade steak and kidney pies I’ve had in years. This claims to be Furness’ oldest inn, dating back to the fourteenth century. It doesn’t actually look as if it’s changed much since then, either, but it would be a sin if it did. The Queen’s Arms’ ancient charm makes it one of those places that just puts a quiet smile of amazement on your face.

After lunch, with excitement mounting rapidly, I drove the six or so miles round to the Clarkes Hotel at Rampside. Piel Island was getting ever closer: time to ring the ferry man and summon him forth! I waited with bated breath as my mobile made the connection.

“Hello..? What..? The ferry..? No, I’m afraid it’s broken down. Waiting for a part – won’t be fixed til Monday.”

“But I’m here now. I’ve paid a fortune for my hotel and I need to take some pictures and explore the island for a magazine article, and… and…” I was virtually hysterical and bordering on being unreasonable.

“Sorry mate,” came the chirpy little retort from the other end. “Nothing I can do about it. We’ll be back up and running on Monday.” And with that, he rang off.

Of course, he was absolutely right. No matter how unreasonable I wanted to be, there was simply nothing anyone could do, and it was nobody’s fault. This didn’t, however, assuage my bitter disappointment. I felt like the child with no Christmas presents; I couldn’t go to Piel Island and I was moribund.

I trudged back into my hotel room, defeated. I had been thwarted and I needed consolation – maybe I could just park the car up and resort to more beer. It would help numb the pain of my aborted adventure. I had waited forever for this trip, and now I couldn’t go.

I don’t usually sulk for long, and I can’t stand petulant behaviour in others, so always try not to indulge myself in it for more than a few minutes. I didn’t opt for drowning my sorrows in the end, but drove across the causeway to Roa Island so I could at least look longingly at Piel and maybe get some shots with my zoom.

It was while standing there weighing up light and distance that I noticed a little yellow boat zipping back and forth around the jetty. Eventually, the little craft bobbed up and moored itself alongside me. It was piloted by young Carl Richards, a native of Walney, who was keen to show off his recently acquired vessel, the Ooloo.

“I don’t suppose you’d take me across to Piel Island?” I asked, rather hesitantly. Why should he? He didn’t know me (I could be an axe murderer) and I didn’t know him (he could be an axe murderer). “I’ll give you twenty quid if you do,” I said anyway, obviously willing to risk anything in my desperation.

After thinking about it for a few minutes, Carl decided he would take me across if I was prepared to share the trip with a few of his mates (they might all be axe murderers). I took a gamble on the likelihood of their murderous intent and, deciding that they probably didn’t have any other plans than a night’s camping, agreed to the proposal with the caveat that I only handed over the cash when he came back to pick me up (much as I relished the prospect of exploring my mysterious island, I didn’t want to be marooned there for the rest of my life). All points agreed, I was loaded onto the boat along with my fellow passengers and several cases of Stella Artois and within minutes we were bound for Piel Island at last.

Ten minutes later, I was disembarking on the island’s shores, ready – at last – for my adventure. Carl zipped off into the distance and I staved off the vague notion that I might be left stranded after all, reflecting on what a sad state of affairs it was that we all seem to operate in an environment with such a lack of trust these days. A sign of the times, I guess.

Piel was not disappointing. The day was perfect, and as I ambled around the island and its incredible ruined castle, I yearned for more knowledge of its history. My research had already told me that this 20 acre island has been designated a ‘Site of Special Scientific Interest’ (SSSI) and is owned by the people of Barrow, having been gifted to them by the Duke of Buccleuch in 1920 as a war memorial. It is managed by the ‘king of Piel’ – a title given to the landlord of the Ship Inn public house, the island’s only watering hole, although the pub has been without a landlord since Rod Scarr, the last incumbent, sadly ‘abdicated his throne’ at Easter 2006 after a 20 year reign. Rod and his family have now retired to the ‘mainland’ of Walney Island.

The Inn is in need of vital renovations, and I understand the local council were supposed to start work in late 2006 to restore and make the premises habitable. This work has still not been started, but the council now appointed a new ‘king’, Steve Chattaway. Planned refurbishment has not yet taken place, so it remains to be seen when the official ‘coronation’ will occur.

Along with the pub, the island’s only other buildings are a block of six privately owned cottages, a public toilet and shower facility (the island is a favourite destination for campers) and, of course, the magnificent ruins of the 14th century castle.

The Furness area has always had a chequered history in spite of its relative remoteness. Piel was also known under its Scandinavian name of Foundry Island (or Fotheray Island – the name possibly originating from the old Norse ‘foder’ or ‘fouder’, meaning fodder and ‘ay’ or ‘oy’, meaning island, so literally a foddering place for early settlers to graze their animals). Along with its castle, it has been witness to some of the greatest events in history.

Piel was probably visited by the Celts, and later the Romans, during their conquest of Britain. In 1127 the island was given to the Savignac monks as part of their original land grant for an abbey from King Stephen. After the Savignacs merged with the Cistercians in the middle of the century, Furness Abbey started to grow and the need for a safe harbour was felt. Foundry seemed to be the ideal answer as it was protected, was close to the Abbey and there was land to build a warehouse in order to keep cargoes safe.

There is no mains supply of gas or electricity to Piel, so life can become more than a little harsh for those who wish to stick it out over the winter. It’s not all hardship though, as fresh water is piped from the mainland and there are flushing toilets! Communication is by ship to shore radio and, in more recent times, mobile phone. Supplies are brought across by ferry from Roa, but residents usually get their own provisions either by private boat or across the sands by tractor to the mainland at low tide.

During the summer months, the clear waters and exposed sandbanks around Piel attract numbers of shore birds and in recent years seals have occasionally been sighted. The original marsh pond in the centre of the island has, with careful management, become a haven for many other types of birds and wildlife.

Information boards at regular intervals provide both historical and environmental facts, which helps to give you a feel for this rich and wonderful place. An unexpected haven of peace, Piel Island is the perfect escape if you need to be far from the madding crowd for a few hours. I would have loved to have stayed for longer myself, but Carl had sent one of his scouts, young Danny McMullan, out to find me – he was anxious to get me back to the mainland and go home for his tea.

It had been every bit the adventure I had hoped, and Carl had played a vital part in making it happen. Without his trust and assistance, I may still not have explored the delights of Piel Island, so I thank him unreservedly for being my personal ferryman. And I urge anyone with a sense of adventure to explore this magical place for themselves.

How to reach Piel Island:

By Ferry from Roa Island.  Two ferries operate in the summertime.  Contact Steve Chattaway on 07516 453784 or
email pielisland@tiscali.co.uk or Alan Cleasby on 07798 794550.

A local guiding company, Murphy’s Miles is happy to take groups across the sands at low tide to the island.
Contact John Murphy on 01229 473746 or email murphysmiles@hotmail.co.uk.