From the Norfolk Flatlands to the Mountains of North Wales

The past few weeks have delivered some of the best weather Britain can muster, along with a rather splendid contrast in scenery.

A week in Norfolk with Sheila was our warm-up for October’s big adventure to Madagascar. We had imagined an energetic kayaking holiday, but the wind had other ideas and the river opposite our rental house was racing along with alarming enthusiasm. We managed one outing in the kayaks, then happily switched to some lovely walks. The evening skies were beautiful, and we spotted marsh harriers, buzzards, kites and a barn owl. On the way home, we stopped at Grime’s Graves, Britain’s only surviving open flint mine. I had never heard of it, but it whisked me straight back to O-level Archaeology with Mr Dyer. If you find yourself near Thetford, I highly recommend a visit.

After a brief return to London, I set off for Ynys, near Harlech, just as summer was bowing out and autumn was beginning to show off its colours. I was heading north for a dog-and-cat sit arranged through the Trusted Housesitters platform, feeling only slightly nervous that shouting “Quentin, come back!” across Harlech beach might expose me as a fully paid-up member of the metropolitan elite.

I arrived in beautiful Ynys to find a quaint house and two impeccably named residents: Quentin, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, and Morris, a cat sporting a bow tie. Their owner, Mary, welcomed me and casually revealed that she is a friend of Jeremy Corbyn. I shall leave that intriguing detail right there.

The house could hardly be better placed. A short stroll down the lane brings views of Portmeirion across the water and, farther round, Cardigan Bay. I had struck house-sitting gold: the area was glorious, the house was fantastic, and being able to lie in the bath while looking out at Snowdon felt wonderfully extravagant.

Mark arrived the next day for a short stay, and we soon settled into a routine: quick walks first thing and last thing for estuary views, plus one longer expedition designed to tire Quentin out. At dinner, he still made a determined attempt to beg for food but could barely keep his eyes open. Quentin, that is—not Mark.

On the drive to Wales, I had stopped at the Rhug Estate farm shop. I am powerless in the presence of a good farm shop, although this one sits firmly at the grander end of the spectrum—not so much eggs at the end of someone’s drive as gourmet temptation at every turn. On a whim, I bought a bison steak, something I had never seen before. It was absolutely delicious, so the return journey may involve a suspiciously purposeful detour.

We visited Portmeirion, walked across the beaches at Harlech and Criccieth, and took a trip to the Magic Lantern Cinema in Tywyn. Originally opened as the Towyn Assembly Rooms in 1893, it has been showing films since 1901 and is a wonderfully atmospheric place—although I cannot say I would recommend The Death of Robin Hood. For most of it, I had absolutely no idea what was going on.

Naturally, no visit to this corner of Wales would be complete without a ride on the Ffestiniog Railway. Glorious sunshine accompanied our short journey, and I fell completely in love with this way of travelling. I would happily return to do the full route. We had planned to take Quentin, but after his long morning walk he watched us getting ready with pleading eyes and, for once, did not race around in delighted circles at the prospect of another outing. We took the hint.

Now Mark has gone home, after this morning’s small adventure at Tywyn station. It is a request stop, so we waited with just enough uncertainty to wonder whether the train would actually collect him. It did. I have one final night here and one more morning to draw back the curtains, stay tucked up in bed and simply stare at the hills. I am yet again reminded of just how wonderful this year has been, but also that you don’t need a long haul flight to see some amazing sights.