Les Orangeries, Lussac-les-Châteaux, France

So often when I've travelled, it's me who does all the arranging: beforehand, with all the organising, and during, with all the frontline interfacing with folks along the way. However, on this trip, I'm learning that being the plus-one is actually the best-placed person. You get all the joys with none of the stress. Note to self: do this again!

Doorway of our room

I'm the tag-along on a trip visiting and reviewing 'green' modes of Channel crossing and accommodation in France for greentraveller.co.uk.

So, first up, we took Brittany Ferries overnight service from Portsmouth, England, to Cherbourg, France. You get on at 10.45pm, find your cabin – which is neat as a pin and amazingly comfortable – sleep like a baby, then wake up in time for a cup of tea and croissant before arriving ready for the day. Perfect! No time wasted and there you are.

Bedroom

Our first destination on this jaunt is Les Orangeries, in Lussac-les-Châteaux, southwest of Poitiers. I think I'll let the pictures do the talking here, because it's so terribly pretty: all honey-coloured stone buildings that run into each other, the roadside frontage hiding the large, lush garden with al fresco dining, a pool, an orchard, lawns and paths behind.

The garden with pool

Breakfast room

Al fresco lunch

It was an easy drive from Cherbough – maybe 4.5hrs? – but as my companion and I yakked and lauhged all the way down through the glorious French countryside, it could have been one hour in terms of how long it felt. And, as ever, the French roads are practically empty, well-kept and the roadside amenities frequent and, on the whole, well kept. Though the squat one took a minute or two to get my head around.

Dart Valley Trail, Devon, England

I was a little nervous, I admit, about doing even half of the Dart Valley Trail. The stretch I was aiming for is almost 9 miles, from Dittisham to Totnes – what if I got lost? What if I ran out of steam? And how was I going to get to Dittisham from Totnes anyway?

The answer was: take the Dartmouth Castle down the Dart River to Dartmouth, enjoy the amusing commentary as we went, pootle about Dartmouth for an hour, then catch the Dittisham ferry. Simples.

Dartmouth I'd seen before and it was a bit busy for my tastes, but there are plenty of boat comings and goings to entertain, and the ferry back up the river to Dittisham, which we'd passed on the way down, was a highlight. As we neared the village, the sound of rock 'n' roll came out to greet us. What's this? Fleetwood Mac? Oh yes, followed by a Steve Miller number. A quayside pub was putting on live music for Easter and a band whose members would have been young when the songs were first released was playing.

After a bit of listening, I pushed onwards and upwards. Up being the operative word here, but it's worth it for the glorious views over the Dart.

I actually took two maps with me: one I picked up in the Totnes tourist office for 50p, and another I'd downloaded off the internet. I think the tourist office one (called The Dart Valley Trail: Dittisham to Totnes) was marginally more useful, but being that I was a little worried about the getting lost thing – having found walking maps sometimes give information that's a few years out of date or speaks in a language I don't quite get ("...follow the green lane after the copse..." Yeah, whatever!) – I found it helpful to cross-reference.

So, off I set and, no, I never got lost. In fact, what I've learned is that I panic too soon. A right turn? Where? When? The answer is just keep going and eventually it will reveal itself. A word of warning though: there are a couple of serious uphills on this route, which are fine at the beginning, when you're feeling fresh, but after 5 or 6 miles, a steep ascent which you can't see the top of, because it keeps on going up after every turn, feels like a slog. However, by taking your time, stopping for water breaks (definitely bring water - there are no shops along the way, even when you pass through villages. Actually, having said this, I did pass about three pubs and of course you could stop in any of them to drink and eat...) and being in the moment,  it's all farily easily done. There are also fun rewards, like the stepping stones outside the village of Tuckenhay, that give you a bit of a shortcut.

I'm giving this much detail because, as a solo woman travel of a certain age, even something like this can feel like an adventure - and it is. I definitely felt proud of myself when the man with the dog stopped as I was admiring the view and suggested I take the cycle path as "It's easy to walk on and won't be muddy."

"That's alright," I said. "I don't mind a bit of mud!" and set off down to the riverside track. 

Or when the woman I'm housesitting for said, "You walked all that way? I've never done that!"

Ok, it's not a marathon, but it's beautiful and fun. I say, do it.

Totnes, Devon, England

Even on a grey Good Friday, Totnes is rather jolly. Although it does have a Morrison's, a Co-op and a Superdrug, on the whole, the shops are one-offs, well-informed by the (now-ageing) hippy-ish folk who seem to have landed here some time ago. So there are plenty of men in those fabrc Fez-type hats with bushy ponytails and women of a certain age in layers of purple with sheepskin coats and long, loose hair, but they give the place a more relaxed vibe than some English towns, which can feel as if they're made up of one part retired stockbrokers and their wives and the other part slightly disgruntled townies, who'd probably prefer if you didn't stop and clog up the streets gawping at the buildings they don't even notice, though they're quite happy to take your money, thank you very much

There's a guildhall, which has been here for hundreds and hundreds of years, next to the churchyard that makes for the ubiquitous spot youths lurk to smoke weed which, ever since US states starting making legal, somehow seems to have taken the edge of danger off these skulkers.

There's also a very mooch-aroundable market on Fridays and Saturdays, with plenty of artisan bread and baked goods, organic vegetables, vintage clothing and old tools stalls.

You can park for up to 2 hours in the Morrison's carpark – free if you buy at least £5 worth of stuff from them and, also, free on Bank Holidays, of which Good Friday is one. That's plenty of time to wander up Fore Street, check out the charity-shop rails, buy clasps in the bead shop, postcards in the newsagents, hum and haw over the West Country sheepskin rugs in the market, buy a date slice and wander back again. It's also almost next door to the tourist information office, where you can pick up local walking maps, find out where the Dartmouth ferry leaves from (and when) and plan your stay.

Especially nice are the various narrow alleyways leading off Fore Street, giving glimpses back to a time before cars and the droopy-faced dog helping to hold up a half-timbered house.

Avoriaz, France

Getting to Avoriaz is pretty exciting all by itself and, if you haven't been before, can sound confusing in the abstract. Our man Andy, who had arranged our accommodation through another apartment owner (all his were full) and transfer with his friend Roland, kept saying things about lift passes and expressed concerned about whether the gondola would still be running when we arrived. Also, a google of 'geneva to Avoriaz' only brought up things like Morzine Expresss.

But when Brit ex-pat Roland met us, it all became clear. It's road travel all the way to Morzine, a ridiculously pretty town of streets lined with Heidi-style chalet shops and restaurants, followed by the high-speed Prodane gondola up the sheer rock face to Avoriaz, at 1,800m. In fact, the tower blocks of apartments blend just enough with the color of the cliffs to look at first glance like an extension of them.

Designed and built in the mid-1960s for the sole purpose of being a ski resort, you could be forgiven for thinking it wouldn't have a lot of charm. And while it isn't pretty the way Morzine or Megéve are, the place starts to grow on you fairly quickly.

One of its charms is being car-free, so transportation is limited to skis or boards, walking or horse-drawn – and in one case we saw, husky-drawn – sleds. Even delivery trucks are on runners, which gives the place a peaceful, quiet, relaxed feel. Also, it is, of course, very convenient. Steps from the front door of our apartment building ('Snow') was a supermarket with on-site bakery (essential for those morning croissants) and a café/bar that served great food at mealtimes, then mutated into a live-music venue during the late afternoon. In fact, just about everything was a few steps from Snow, including the lift-pass cashiers, ski hire, tourist office, souvenir shops, skating rink and children's snowpark.

It's also the ultimate ski-in/ski-out town because, as it's on a slope, with chairlifts taking off at the bottom of town and stopping at the top, you literally put your skis on on the doorstep and off you go.

 We were lucky in that it had snowed a lot in the previous week, but not at all during our four days, so we got all the blue skies and  sunshine. In fact, as we'd come the first week of March, on our third day, it was seriously hot, with the snow heavy slush on the lower slopes.

Buy an Avoriaz pass (€40 per day) to ski just in this domain. It won't disappoint, as there's plenty of skiing here, cleverly divided into two distinct areas so you can always escape the crowds, wind, sun or shade, depending on the conditions; or go the whole hog and get a Portes du Soleil pass (€48), which opens up whole other valleys and – even – countries, as Avoriaz sits practically on the Swiss border. We only did this on one day because there really is plenty of skiing just in Avoriaz.

However, our day over on the slopes above Chatel was sublime. This is a place I went to about six years ago now, when I did my first peak-week ski holiday repping, and the whole experience made a big impact on me for lots of reasons (this would take at least another whole other blog to explain!), so suffice to say the place holds a special place in my heart and it meant a lot to me to go back. Also, we cleverly skied through lunchtime (12-2pm) and had the pistes to ourselves for two hours. Awesomely amazing.

A word about the Swiss border: when we arrived, there was one of those sweet-looking dogs trained to sniff out weed waiting to greet folks as they got off the lift. One of his tricks was jumping up to check out backpacks belonging to young men of the boarding persuasion, which made me think they could call them  'boarder' patrol (ha ha ha...).


On our last day, our mission was to visit the igloo we'd seen on our very first run of the first day. Inside it was another world: of snow carvings, disco balls, colored lights, banging music and a bar. But, being our last day, we wanted to enjoy that most Alpine experience of sitting outside, soaking in the mountains in the sunshine and enjoying the kind of carb-fest you can only allow yourself when you're spending hours a day hitting the slopes.

Would I recommend it? Let's just say that, on our last night, we were looking in the real-estate agents' windows...

Avoriaz from above

Cordon, France

Am writing this from the dining/breakfast room of Les Bruyères, a two-star hotel above the small village of Cordon, about an hour's drive from Geneva, just before you get to the better-known ski towns of Combloux and Megève. Mont Blanc, which is across the valley from me and seen through a huge picture window, seems to be winning a battle with the clouds, so it looks likely to be another beautiful day in the Portes des Mont Blanc region.

I was looking for somewhere to skip away to for a quick few days of skiing, so I didn't want a huge long drive after we landed in Geneva. I'd been to Mefève twice before – once in winter, for a few days' skiing courtesy of Stanford Skiing, who run a number of chalets and a hotel there, and again last summer (also courtesy of Stanford Skiing, who run a summer offering as well, for those who want to hike and enjoy the Alps without the snow – definitely to be recommended!) – so I knew the area a little and, crucially, that it didn't take long to get there. I was paying for myself and grown-up son, which is why I wanted to do it as cheaply as possible, hence the two-star. Yes, the decor was old-fashioned; true, the hot water took a very long time indeed to get a reasonable bath at the end of the day and, no, no one there spoke English, but? Aside from the hot water (if you ski, you know how nice it is to have a hot soak after a day on the slopes), those things actually made it quite charming. The old lady proprietess spoke to me in French and I spoke back in Franglish, to which she didn't bat an eye; the cook (who makes a mean omelette and home-made French fries [that's chips, if you're a Brit]) was always smiling and friendly; and it was very relaxed and homey. Also, as we found out on our last day, literally around the the next chicane (remember, we were high up a mountain) and about a 2-minute walk away from the front door, was the green slope of the Cordon ski domaine. This, by the way, is very limited: a couple of greens, a blue and a couple of reds, none very long, but if you felt like just running out the door and warming up, it was there.

We ended up doing most of our skiing in Combloux, the next town along. You can buy a ski pass that lets you ski Cordon, Combloux, Demi Quartiere, Les Gettiaz and Megève. Only Combloux and Les Gettiaz are connected by lifts/pistes, and none of them are vast like, say, the Portes du Soleil or Trois Vallées ski domaines. But, personally, I liked them all the better for that and for four days provided more than enough skiing.

We did ski Demi-Quartiere one day, just because we felt we ought to make full use of the ski pass, but Combloux was so nice and close and, as my son pointed out, very pretty, with piste-side pine forests. Even when the French school holidays kicked in on our last day, we never had to wait more than a couple of minutes to get on a lift, much of the time we had pistes to ourselves; and there's nothing like a mountainside Alpine lunch.

I still remember the first time I enjoyed this treat: as a north American, winter to me meant freezing. But in the Alps, there you are, surrounded by snow in the middle of winter, sitting in warm sunshine, your coat, hat and gloves shedded, wearing shades and eating cheesy, buttery carbs and, if you like, a glass of wine or a beer.

Hell, you can even get up and start partying, if you're anywhere near one of La Folie Deuce establishments (they're scattered about the Alps). Mid-afternoon, they kick off with DJs, party-starters in animal onesies dancing on tables and urge you to get involved. Not like the old days of northeastern USA skiing, where you huddled over your cocoa, trying to warm your frozen fingers.

We had two amazing evening meals out: one at Chalet d'Emilie, which is both slopeside at Combloux, so you can jump off the blue Gentiane run and stomp over the to Airstream parked on its patio and order a sandwich; or drive up in the evening and have a scrumptious dinner inside by the roaring fire for about €30 a head. Not bad for the Alps.

The other night out was at l'Alpaga, one of two Megève restaurants to receive its first Michelin star last winter. This was a sublime experience: the dining room is in a cube-shaped room with non-stop glass around three sides, all the staff speak perfect English and are happy to talk you through your dining experience, which starts with an extraordinary amuse-bouche of three items: a slice of vegetable purée with a delicate crumble topping, a pumpkin ball with melted chocolate inside and a square bite of another vegetable concoction. At the end of your meal, after you've gorged on artichokes three ways, porcini ravioli and cheeses, plus chocolate pudding – boom, back comes the amuse-bouche, but this time an inside-out sweet version. So, for instance, the ball is chocolate with a  bang of pumpkin inside. Amazing.

However! Easily as memorable was the crêpe stall in downtown Combloux, just down from the tourist office. We went after skiiing twice because the sucre buerre salé version was like Alpine crack...

Final tip: we rented a car from Europcar on the French side of Geneva airport. No problems with the rental company, no problems with the car. But, trying to return it? Like one of those weird horror-film sequences when the characters are stuck in a loop of time. We went round and round and round, through the closed police check border, through the tunnels, past the World Trade Center sign, over and over, trying to find the entrance to Geneva's French aiport. At long last, we took the small, inconspicous side road with a little black and white sign saying parking for 151 cars and, voilà, there we were. Maybe simpler to rent from the Swiss side!

Charmouth, Dorset

Go to the beach in February? It did seem kind of crazy, especially as this is turning out to be such a cold winter, but once we were below the clifftops, the wind dropped and the variations in light were worth it on their own. 

Charmouth is fossil central on the Jurassic Coast, as it's called, and there were a fair few people out with little hammers, knocking on rocks' doors, looking for those ammonites or – wouldn't it be amazing? – something even more exciting. 

I find, when I look up at the cliffs, I start imagining that every jutting rock could be a dinosaur vertebrae, but even if you don't find anything more thrilling than a broken belemnite, of which there are plenty, it's still a wonderful environment to be in. No wonder so many folk retire down here.

The thing to do is just go small. Stop, squat down and just look at the patch of ground in front of you. Interesting rocks, bits of sea glass, bits of fossil vertebrae of something... It almost doesn't matter. It's just the going small, the focus, the being there for a minute or two examining the world.

We didn't notice at first, but the tide was going out and, as it it did, these incredible clay flats emerged, sticky to walk on but not slippery or unsafe. It wasn't long before the sand beyond them became visible and dog walkers strutted out, throwing tennis balls.

Did we find anything?!!!! No. At least, not of the physical, pick-it-up-and-put-it-in-your-pocket sort. But a bit of beauty and peace? Plenty.

Sherbourne, Dorset

Head south-west out of London and, after a bit of Buckinghamshire and a slice of Hampshire, a serving of Wiltshire and just a taste of Somerset, you (finally!) get to Dorset, to my mind, one of England's nicest counties. Slightly wonky hills; beautiful, wild beaches; thick, high hedgerows lining the roads; and plenty of pretty towns, history and opportunities to go fossiling.

We've come down for a long weekend, staying in very sweet, thatch-roofed Mouse Cottage, courtesy of West Country Cottages. But, to break up the approx 3hr journey from town, we stopped in Sherbourne, also in Dorset, as it calls itself 'one of the prettiest towns in England'. Let's see, I said to companion...

Inside The George

I have to add here that, being that it's the first weekend of February when we visit, it's bitingly cold. The sun does something to take the teeth out of the wind, but not enough to make us want to spend too long outdoors, so it's going to be a quickie.

Cheap Street

We park in the pay-and-display car park, helpfully signposted as we entered town. It's conveniently just behind the high street, which is called, delightfully, Cheap Street. Our goal? Find a pub still serving lunch, as it's nearly 3pm. At the top of Cheap Street, we find two: The White Hart, which looks like it can't decide if it's open or not, even though the sign outside says it is, and, almost opposite, The George, which turns out to be the oldest pub in town.

This is the one we choose and yes, the waitress says, glancing at the clock, they're still serving. We quickly grab a table, get told the specials (variations on pork roast, lamb roast, beef roast and chilli with rice) and glance at the menu, which lists exactly what you'd expect from a pub: baked potatoes with various toppings; cod and chips, scampi and chips, and a ploughman's lunch (translated means: some form of bread, often a baquette, with Cheddar cheese, chutney pickle and sometimes a bit of salad on the side).


After lunch, we brave the cold with a brisk stomp down Cheap Street, which is, as promised very pretty, though the most arresting thing I see is a life-size statue of a bear on an upper terrace.

At the far end of the street is the Abbey (flying buttresses, very pretty, c-c-c-can we get back in the car now?), and then a quick trot back up the street, through the archway into the alley and round to the car park again.

The Abbey

Sorry, Sherbourne, I'm sure you deserve more time, but it will have to be on a warmer day.