The most adventurous way is Essex

You don’t have to travel to the Earth’s far-flung corners to be an intrepid explorer. Just head for the otherworldly Broomway footpath, as Abigail Blasi discovered

It’s said that the Broomway is the UK’s most dangerous walking trail. Only accessible at low tide, the offshore Essex path – or rather, non-path – is surrounded by cloud-soft quicksand and sprinkled with ordnance (the area has been a military testing ground since 1849). It’s literally a minefield.

Zoom in on Google Maps, and you’ll spot this improbable public right of way, not on the land, but in the blue of the sea, around 300m from the shore. Prior to a bridge being constructed in the 1920s, the Broomway was the chief route to the saltmarsh-fringed Foulness Island. Locals marked the way out with bundles of twigs set about 30m apart, giving it its name.

Even before we reached the starting point, the weirdness of the walk was apparent. The car park sits by the portable building at the entrance of QinetiQ – the private company that operates the local Ministry of Defence missile firing range – and the security guard, mildly surprised by our appearance, waved us along the mile-long lane to the coast that is normally closed during military exercises.

We drove past watchtowers, rustbrown structures that looked like abandoned Star Wars sandcrawlers, and low-lying fields ringed by hawthorn bushes. At the end of the road, Wakering Stairs seemed to be a causeway that petered out into nothingness.

Here we met with Tom Bennett, an experienced mountain leader who likes to look for different ways of exploring the UK (his other guided tours include the Surrey Three Peaks by night). He began to research the Broomway in 2019 – since the previous local guide had retired, there was no one regularly taking groups on the route.

Tom got to know Foulness locals, managed to visit the island’s seldomopen visitor centre, and tested the route. “I used a map and a compass, and plotted GPS points,” he told us. Of course he did: Tom’s the kind of guide you would want on a potentially lethal path. Affable and well-informed, he glows with outdoorsy competence, carries a walking pole, and, it turns out, a vacuum flask and some very nice chocolate biscuits.

As we set off into the sea, there was a growing sense of anticipation. Only the first few metres are causeway, crossing the unguent black mud of the “Black Grounds”. Beyond, all trace of a trail disappeared and it felt as though there was something almost magnetic about the negotiable danger.

The day was overcast, the vast, blank mud flats reflecting the big

Essex sky in shades of watercolour grey, from asphalt to dove. Birds huddled in the distance, occasionally lurching into fluttering flight. The scene reminded me of the Little Rann in Gujarat in India; salt flats, where, like here, distant objects seem to hover, perspective-free, and the sky merges with the earth.

Tom explained that when the tide rises, it comes from different directions, spiralling in faster than most people can run. If a sea mist rolls in, it’s easy to become disorientated and become trapped in the sand’s suffocating embrace. There are 66 people buried in Foulness cemetery who lost their lives here.

The first discernible feature we came across was a lonely clump of eelgrass. “This is where Robert Macfarlane left his shoes,” announced Tom, referring to the author who writes beautifully about the walk in his book The Old Ways. At this point, my teenage son decided to follow suit, giving up on his sodden trainers, and doggedly undertaking the walk barefoot.

We were ankle-deep in water and while the Broomway is firm, a misstep away from the hard ridge of sand sinks you into mud that feels cloyingly soft, like plunging into mould. The opportunities to walk here are dictated by the tides: we had six hours.

Looking back at the shore, it seemed as though we were walking on a gently shelving beach. “It lulls you into a false sense of security,” said Tom, telling us of a great flood that happened here in 1953. The water surge filled the houses of Foulness to their second storeys and people, goods and cattle were led out along the Broomway as it was the only route safe enough to navigate.

“People used to transport things with horse and cart along here,” Tom continued, revealing that beneath our feet were likely thousands of relics of other journeys, suspended in the tomb of London clay.

We squelched onwards until we reached the Maypole, the most imposing marker of the Broomway, with all the splendour of the North Pole. We traced how far the water rose by the barnacles on the mast: well over our heads.

From there we splish-splashed onward, while underfoot the reeds and green mermaid hair flowed in the direction of the stiff breeze as we neared the

point when we could turn inland.

Here my son had to be extra careful about where he put his bare feet, as anything glittering could easily have been ordnance left over from testing. Artillery shells were first blasted out here in the 18th century by Lieutenant General Henry Shrapnel, and tests still take place several times a week. Treading carefully, we spotted a metal object in the sand: a knobbly, sinisterlooking shell the size of a squirrel. The MOD asks that they’re informed of any such detritus, so Tom dutifully marked the location on his GPS.

Closer to the island, there are several paths leading from the landing point, but the rest of the land is restricted, flat fields. Signs read “Do not approach or touch any object or debris, it may explode and kill you”; Military land bylaws detail at length the local restrictions, dated 1935. They prohibit any “costermonger, hawker, pedlar, huckster… rag and bone and bottle gatherer… night walker or common prostitute”. It’s hard to imagine a lesspromising spot for a night walker. Also banned are charabancs and hackney carriages. Luckily we left ours at home.

We retraced our steps across the sands. Our footprints vanished as quickly as they were made and as the others drew ahead of me they looked like the sculptures of Antony Gormley’s Another Place, walking on water, ready to be enveloped by the sea. This historic ancient byway, mud-desert and firing range within earshot of the Essex suburbs, is a reminder that you don’t have to look abroad for adventure.

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The juicy burst of tomato, the tart slosh of wine and the creamy tangle of pasta. Italy, above all, is an adventure for the mouth. Like a truss of grapes, she dangles between the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian seas and the ripest region of the bunch is undoubtedly Tuscany. But even this highly popular region has unexplored areas. “Most travellers know ‘Chiantishire’, or northern Tuscany,” said Dario de Luca Gabrielli, owner of Poggio al Pero – an olive grove-fringed villa near Capalbio, just under two hours north of Rome. “Maremma, in the far south of Tuscany, is lesser known – it’s an area for writers and creatives.”

On my first day wandering through Rome, each glimpse of home life had been cut short by a shutter being drawn. A new Local Living Tuscany tour by G Adventures aims to remedy that by arranging for small groups to live alongside different local families. Hosting us was bohemian film-producer Dario, his casting-director wife Fabiola and their daughter Giulia.

We arrived in the cicada-humming heat of the late afternoon. Their shaggy dogs, Romeo and Thea, legged across the flagstones, weaving between our legs and licking our hands in welcome. Muslin curtains danced in the gentle breeze, a wasp dipped down to sip from the clear swimming pool, and waiting on the porch were hammocks and a magnum of something bubbly and rosé. Giulia popped the cork and decanted the pink fizz into flutes. “It’s from the local vineyard – let’s visit.”

Riccardo Simonelli, the winemaker at La Vigna sul Mare, claimed to speak not a word of English – Giulia translated – but later, with a glass or two in him, the words started to flow. He got into viniculture “because my grandparents made wine”, he reminisced. “Age six, I’d come back from school and pick grapes. I had my first sip while I was still in the cradle and I had my first hangover at 12!” he declared, proudly. I watched him swirl the Syrah

his glass, sniff, eyes closed, and for a second he was gone – transported away. He caught me looking. “Forest fruits, jam and imagination, imagination, imagination,” he smiled.

For our first meal at the villa, Giuliana Vasquenz – former cook at Il Tortello, the local village restaurant – prepared an antipasto of fried zucchini flowers filled with melted mozzarella and salty anchovies; a primo of spaghetti al pomodoro “as it should be, with fresh fragrant basil, the ripest tomatoes and cooked slowly”, insisted Giuliana; followed by a secondo e contorno of slowcooked pork ribs marinated in wine, and zucchini carpaccio with rocket, parmesan and lemon; and finished with a chocolate and almond torte dulce. By the time we leaned back in our chairs, bellies bulging, the stars were bright and the moon high.

The next day we drove to Capalbio, a postcard coil of russet rooftops on a hilltop crowned by a medieval double city wall. “The Medicis conquered Capalbio, which had been ruled by the Aldobrandeschi family,” explained Veronica, our curly haired guide, pacing between the 11th and 16th-century walls.

In Italy, friction literally builds beauty. “Families competed against each other, not with swords, but by building taller towers – the town once had 74, today only 14 survive,” she said, iSalute! You see, after a few days on a Tuscan home stay you soon pick up the lingo pointing to the squat elevation peeking out from the village centre.

I peeled off from the group and wandered Capalbio’s flagstone streets. Past women gossiping on a bench, a man reading his book beneath the light of the street lamp, and a living room containing three nonnas nibbling cake. To my surprise, they didn’t close the shutters on me, but rather nodded sweetly and carried on chatting.

The following day we drove an hour inland to Pitigliano, a sea of terracottatile roofs perched on an outcrop of tufa rock. Another Aldobrandeschi stronghold, it later passed to the princely Orsin ini family that spawned three popes. “Some families descended from the Orsinis still own houses here,” said Veronica. “The name still counts for a lot if you want to live here.”

Little has changed since the town’s medieval heyday. The ancient aqueduct and Orsini Palace still stand and its streets are filled with potters, leatherworkers and jewellery makers.

We pulled up a chair at Ceccottino, where each dish on the menu was accompanied by a kilometre reading. “KM 0 or kilometre zero means the dish is from here,” explained Veronica, to my already wine-and-heat-hazy mind. We spent two and a half hours lunching on buttery truffle-topped tagliatelle and vin santo dessert wine, while the afternoon sun slipped across rain-eroded statues and dogs snoozed under tables.

On our last night, Giuliana gave us a cooking lesson. Dressed in a blue button-down pinafore and sandals, she handed her La Regina della Cucina (Queen of the Kitchen) apron to a member of the group and set to cracking eggs into a bowl of flour constructed on the table. “You can see why Italian women are so strong – from kneading the pasta dough,” said Veronica. With Dean Martin’s That’s Amore blaring and the prosecco flowing, we filled little parcels of spinach and ricotta ravioli.

Hours later, we plated the pasta with pomodoro sauce and gathered around the outdoor dining table – as we had done most nights. Giuliana stood proudly, Giulia passed the olive oil, and Dario and Fabiola arrived and stuck a fork into Giulia’s plate.

It was this coming together, this sharing of tables and meal after mouthwatering meal that formed the backbone of the trip and opened the shutters on real Italian life. Time savouring the juicy burst of tomato, the tart slosh of wine and the creamy tangle of pasta.

‘We leaned back, bellies bulging, the stars bright’

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On a quiet morning, so early the birds have yet to begin their dawn chorus, a rhythm slides softly through the open door of the train carriage. It’s not the clickety-clack of wheels rushing over tracks – that sound is long gone, in these parts. Instead, it’s a heavy splish-splashhhhh, splish-splashhhhh of water.

I lift my still drowsy head and listen. I’d left the curtains and sliding door open all night – insect screen closed – because I’d hoped to be woken like this, by the sounds of the wild world outside. I wrap a satin robe around my body and step out on to the balcony.

Fifteen metres below my feet, a hippo is returning from its nocturnal grazing to the cool waters of the Sabie River. Splish-splashhhhh. It’s a sound that might well have woken this region’s very first safari tourists as they slept up here in a train that paused overnight on the 300m-long Sabie Bridge before continuing its journey through the Lowveld.

It’s almost a century since those first visitors spent a night suspended above the wilderness in what would become one of the largest national parks in the world – and it’s almost five decades since the last steam train ran the Selati Line in South Africa’s Mpumalanga province. Since the tracks were removed in 1973, the Sabie Bridge has stood silent witness as the sweet grasses, combretums, marulas and knob-thorn acacia trees sunk their roots into the scar of the railway line.

Memories of Kruger National Park’s earliest safari-goers had settled into dust – but now the spirit of those early train journeys is being revived and the Sabie Bridge is once again playing host. The 109-year-old bridge has been reenvisioned as the location of one of Africa’s most sublime safari lodges – offering a unique twist on the usual safari experience. Parked permanently on the bridge are 24 refurbished carriages – and a swimming pool – that comprise the suites and bar of Kruger Shalati: the Train on the Bridge.

The property first came onto my radar in early 2020 when images showcasing the magnificent location of the carriages began to filter into my Instagram feed. A video, taken from the bridge, of a herd of elephants walking through the riverbed below; a close-up of the fabric commissioned by a South African designer for the robes; carriages adorned in a beautiful contemporary interpretation of 1920s glamour.

And then in December, a countdown to the official opening. Alluring though the Instagram images were, they couldn’t compare with the experience of actually being there; of stepping into the carriage and witnessing the views through floorto-ceiling windows. Acres upon acres of trees stretch into the horizon; below me, channels of the Sabie River rushing past reeds while five buffaloes laze in the mud. And then from the mid-bridge infinity pool – me with a cocktail in hand – water birds in flight below, and a fish eagle calling from above…

The sense of both place and space at Kruger Shalati is quite remarkable, and it has just as much to do with the design of the train as it does with its location. “It has taken some very clever engineering and design tweaks to make the carriages as spacious as they are,” explains executive manager Judiet Barnes. “A passage through the train would take a metre away from each suite, so the engineers designed a walkway that sits beside the bridge – quite a feat as the bridge is listed as a heritage piece, so may not be altered.”

With the 1950s-built carriages themselves, the engineers had more leeway: the sides could be expanded in places to create more space for the bed and the bathtub, which overlooks the river.

Each carriage holds just one suite, and contains a lounge and bar area, super king-size bed and a lavish bathroom. With a geometric pattern inspired by the bridge that’s echoed on many details, and with shades of railroad rust woven into the design, the décor offers a nostalgic nod to the glory days of train travel. But there is an element that is undeniably South African. “Our aim was to find a way to capture a safari experience in the texture, tone, culture, art and design,”

explains Barnes. “Simultaneously, it needed to be an offering so refreshing and honest that it would surprise and delight our international guests.”

Surprise and delight it certainly does. From hand-stitched art and custom-designed fabrics to handmade ceramics, woven baskets and delightful twists on traditional cuisine, Kruger Shalati is a showcase of South African talent and craftsmanship. But the connection goes deeper than that: “Shalati” (Selati is a modern variation) is taken from the name of a female chief warrior of the Tebula tribe, who once lived in the area. The majority of the staff are related to the tribes who once resided in what is now Kruger National Park.

Unique as it is, Kruger Shalati does have one thing in common with other safari lodges: game drives. Early every morning and again late in the afternoons, guests are invited to head out with guides into the southern section of the park. It’s an area revered for excellent predator sightings, but there’s also every chance of seeing elephant, buffalo, hyena, warthog and a whole host of antelope and birds. Plus, there’s the alluring offering of early morning coffees and sundowner drinks served out in the bush. Of course, should one decide to indulge in a bath at sunrise or a swim in the pool at sunset, there’s a very good chance that these animals will head down to the river, and that coffee or cocktail could be sipped to the gentle rhythm of splish-splashhhhh…

Double rooms from £380 pp sharing, including meals, drinks, two game drives a day and transfers to Skukuza Airport. Book through Lankester White (07876 682 291; lankesterwhite.com) or direct at krugershalati.com.

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Best boot forward on the Broomway, left; trees were once used to mark the black sands that run along the coastline

Tom Bennett seeks different ways of exploring the UK

G Emma Thomson is put through her pasta paces hThe nearby town of Pitigliano was pretty mouthwatering too

The ultimate pool with a view The original carriages have been expanded to accommodate double beds – and a bath tub

iAll change please for the scenic Bridge over the River Sabie