We woke blind to our surroundings. First glimpses out of the back windows came with anticipation and excitement as we lay in our sleeping bags, tucked up in the warmth of the van. The faint sound of a dog’s tail sweeping the lino floor, big brown eyes like daggers into the backs of our heads and the start of a whimper told us it was time to get up. Arriving in the darkness the night before, we’d brushed our teeth and made our beds by head torch, surroundings a complete mystery; just the soun

I zip my sleeping bag up to my neck as the glowing warmth of the bothy fire fades; my legs are tired after the day’s cycling but I can’t sleep. Two shafts of silvery light from a full moon briefly stream in through the back windows before the cloud and rain return. The wind is whistling, searching for any gap in the walls or roof, but without much success. It was in even stormier conditions in 1944 when an RAF Dakota plane crashed into Ben Talaidh, the mountain only a few hundred metres away

I was standing on the ridge above the monument, engulfed in torrential, horizontal rain and sleet, soaked to the core. My hiker companion Tommy, ‘Walkie Talkie’, was a way back and still stumbling after celebrating at the monument. And the surrounding yellow larch trees weren’t going to offer any comfort – I threw up on one the night before last. There was about an hour before dark with a little over five miles to hike until we got back to camp, but I was nervous because I couldn’t quite vis

Stumbling in the half light on boulders, numb fingers clawing at wet neoprene I swore and shivered into dry clothes before laughing with the mild hysteria that accompanies such moments. I turned to Tim – teetering on weed-covered rocks at the edge of Loch Snizort, engrossed in his own private struggle for dry warmth – and looked out over the wild expanse we had just crossed, the last of three crossings on a long day during our journey around the Isle of Skye. Open crossings were an obvious

To South-East Asia we went, meandering through the north-east hills of Thailand, soaking in every bit of charm we could find. From limestone karst caves to bowls of khao soi soup in rustic kitchens, we sought the most luscious landscapes and people we could find. Perhaps a bit foolish, we deemed our Kokopelli packrafts essential components in our ventures. It was possibly the most parched dry season there ever was in the region, and when our first ‘river trip’ involved a week of more boat-dr

I roll over under the covers, trying to reach for my phone while keeping as much of my arm as possible inside the cocooning warmth of my sleeping bag. It’s after 6am. I never sleep this late, but it’s pitch black inside the yurt, the only window in the top covered up to keep the warmth inside during the freezing night. Normally, I’m alone in my small tent, the silver nylon illuminated by the first light of the sun and waking me to another mountain sunrise. Normally, I’m already awake because

The sun was setting as I followed the road winding up the volcano, but it didn’t matter how many turns I made, the summit was not coming into sight. ‘Richness comes with struggle’ – I repeated those words in my head like an incantation, surprised that I had managed to form a thought between my ragged breaths. I was cycling at 5,000m and my body was desperate for oxygen; I began to muse over the symptoms of altitude sickness. ‘Richness comes with struggle.’ Well, at least I was able to tick t

‘There’s a problem, a bloody big problem. Out there, where you’re going, there’s only one way in, maybe one way out. Us locals don’t even venture in that far.’ This was how the Villmark Expedition began, with dire warnings and scare tactics from a local guide in the foyer of our accommodation. As she scrolled through digital mapping software, we hovered over her shoulder, anxious and deflated, clinging to the hope she might say something at least a little ambitious about the region. No such

The engine purred and belched as our boat skimmed through deep water, which reflected a night sky shining bright with stars. In the distance, a much larger boat could be seen sitting eerily still, a couple of cabin lights reflecting towards us. I looked out to my left, and could barely make out the faint silhouette of the island Malenge. For three weeks we had been travelling up through Sulawesi, the Spider Isle: one of the largest islands of the Indonesian archipelago, home to sprawling jun

We are looking for the beyond. Beyond the city limits and beyond the Trossachs. Beyond the great Rannoch Moor and beyond the mountains. Beyond the rock of the mainland and the trivia of everyday life. The plan was simple: walk, see, learn, eat, sleep, look, listen and laugh. We’d spend a weekend hiking, eating well, camping out. We’d also heard about a bothy called the Lookout along the northern cliffs of the island. We heard it’s the most spectacular location of any bothy in Scotland; quit

‘We anticipate only a hope unseen, casting long glances towards a cold, ink dark east. We are surprised once more when it finally begins again. Sunrise. A reminder that faith, persistence rather, was and always is, worth it.’ I closed my pen, my journal, and then my eyes. Thousands of wind-born needles screamed across the sky, raking my face as the wind buffeted from east to west. Rain. I grimaced, retreating further inside my hood. Below, an 80˚ slope of rock and razor scree cascaded 1,000

Rain came down heavily as I made my way towards the harbour, down Port Alberni’s empty streets, and dawn’s first light struggled to break through a thick layer of fog. When I boarded the Frances Barkley, ready to sail down the serpentine Alberni Inlet, it was with several other keen hikers, all easily recognisable by their backpacks, gaiters, and hiking poles. In the course of the four-and-a-half hours it takes to reach Bamfield, the freighter drops mail, groceries, and supplies to the diffe

As I sit and dream about the next big adventure, I often forget our humble little island. It gets lost; swallowed up by bigger dreams of wild coastlines, burgeoning forests, and mountains so huge that I daren’t even climb them. I feel depressed, perhaps even a little claustrophobic, as I remember the impossibility of finding any true wilderness here in the UK. But, as I drag my kayak up onto a deserted beach along the Cornish coast, twilight settling on the water behind me, I heave a sigh of

It was not raining so much as just soaking. Hills, grass, and plants all heavy with moisture made an inauspicious start to a few days of paddling and camping. We had travelled north to the wild west coast of Scotland to escape the madness of urban life. An attempt to extricate ourselves from desks, laptops, phones and television. Boards inflated, dry bags packed and secured, we dragged our gear across massive green kelp beds to the water. The drizzle cleared as our small team paddled out int

We were the first human contact he’d had in thirty days and I figured hurrying him up, or even communicating with him, might be difficult. We called his name and coaxed him out of the forest, like coaxing a wild animal from his familiar den. We said hello; he didn’t make eye contact, but hid behind his sun-bleached cap, his smeary glasses, his unkempt beard and grubby skin. He wore faded jeans that hung from his waist, and the collar of a pale denim shirt peeped out from beneath a shabby jum

This is the third in our foraging and wild cooking series exploring different landscapes and ingredients within the UK. To follow the routes and for more ideas, visit Viewranger.com.  Clouds painted in tones of grey and white stream overhead, hinting at wilder conditions to come. On the verge stand our packs, slowly being filled to capacity with food, firewood, sleeping bags, mats, pots, water and a sneaky bottle of wine or two – all hinting at a long night beside a fire with good friends a

I ask Mirza how much longer we’re going to be driving to Shimshal. He says about three hours – which is what he said about three hours ago. 
After a couple of days in Pakistan we’ve already made up a standard calculation to make their timing match ours: Pakistani time times three equals our time, more or less. 
I lean back into my seat and try to relax while the jeep is shaking. But let’s go back to the beginning. We arrived in Islamabad after a few hours squished into tiny airplane seats. S

As the plane jolted down through turbulent layers of cloud towards Keflavík Airport, Charlie the Bike Monger’s words rang loudly in my ears: ‘Iceland is amazing, tough, remote and life-changing.’ Looking out of the window, my thoughts were interrupted by the realisation that we were only a few hundred metres above a damp lunar landscape of jagged rock and moss, stretching as far as I could see. If the flat bits of the island were this rugged, I wondered, what on earth were the mountains goin

In the third of our Mountain Bike Adventures we head to Slovenia and the beautiful Soča River Valley. We’re both really excited to be riding here having planned it this summer, obsessing over pictures of the turquoise river and autumnal forests. After two and half days driving through France, Switzerland and Italy, stopping on the way to take photos of the mountain passes, I arrive at Bergamo Airport and collect Manu. It’s been a year since we last saw each other, a year since our adventure

In Sidetracked Volume Eight, Laura Bingham describes the early stages of her 7,000km bikepacking adventure through South America with no money, whilst hauling her bike up the hills in the Ecuadorian Andes. Here, the story continues from later in the expedition. My eyes close, stomach cramping with hunger – no dinner tonight. The rain is pouring so I can’t make a fire to cook the small amount of rice I have left. In my tent, I lay on my roll mat in my sleeping bag, on the side of the road, t