Going away for the festive season has left me with unforgettable memories, from a boat trip with Bangladeshi fishermen to exploring Castro’s Cuban hideout

I have made a point of escaping Christmas for as long as I can remember. Not escaping for Christmas, but avoiding it altogether – the stressful buildup, consumer chaos, panic buying, the enforced jollity and parties. When the first festive gifts start appearing in the shops in September, it’s time to confirm my travel plans, ideally to include New Year’s Eve as well.

Sometimes I travel independently, but more often in a group, and while it’s not always possible to avoid the tinsel and baubles – even in non-Christian countries thousands of miles away – I just relish not being at home at this time of year.

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The most exciting places our writers came across this year, from untouched islands in Finland to an affordable ski resort in Bulgaria and the perfect Parisian bistro

On a midsummer trip to Ireland, I saw dolphins in the Irish Sea, sunset by the Liffey, and misty views of the Galtee Mountains. The half-hour train journey to Cobh (“cove”), through Cork’s island-studded harbour, was especially lovely. As the railway crossed Lough Mahon, home to thousands of seabirds, there was water on both sides of the train. I watched oystercatchers, egrets, godwits and common terns, which nest on floating pontoons. Curlews foraged in the mudflats, and an old Martello tower stood on a wooded promontory.

From glühwein to lebkuchen, bratwurst to stollen, recreating the delicacies I sampled in the city’s festive markets is wholly achievable. Plus, a new digital cookbook for a good cause

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Without wanting to sound tediously Scrooge-like, the German-style markets that have become seasonal fixtures in many British cities over the last few decades never make me feel particularly festive. What’s remotely Christmassy – or German – about Dubai-chocolate churros and Korean fried chicken, I grumble as I drag the dog (who enjoys all such things) around their perimeters.

Hamburg’s markets, however, which I was myself dragged around last weekend, are a very different story. For a start, the city has many of them, mainly fairly small – and some, such as the “erotic Christmas market” in St Pauli, with a particular theme. What they all have in common is the range of food and drink on offer … though let’s gloss hurriedly over the phallic gingerbread shapes on sale at St Pauli in favour of the eye-opening range of glühwein (white, rosé, kirsch-spiked, blueberry-flavoured), which was far more appealing.

Most metros use plastic or metal, but the distinctive fabrics on London’s network are full of clues to its history

When I first came to London from Yorkshire in the late 1980s, I found the tube replete with bizarre novelties. Among them was the way most trains required me to sit sideways to the direction of travel, as on a fairground waltzer. Directly opposite me was another person or an empty seat, and while I knew not to stare at people, I did stare at the seats – at their woollen coverings, called moquette. I have since written two books about them, the first nonfiction, Seats of London, and now a crime novel, The Moquette Mystery.

I was attracted to moquette firstly because it, like me, came from Yorkshire (most of it back then was woven in Halifax), and whereas many foreign metros have seats of plastic or steel, moquette made the tube cosy. Yet it seemed underappreciated. The index of the standard history of the tube, for instance, proceeds blithely from Moorgate to Morden.

It’s a far cry from the sun-kissed beaches of Cape Town where she grew up, but the simple pleasures of a seaside village in Cornwall draw the author back year after year

The idea of the sea that I grew up with was associated with sundowners and souped-up cars and skipping classes to sunbathe with the models who took over Cape Town’s beaches each summer. As a student, long nights would end, not infrequently, with a swim at sunrise (until, one morning, the police arrived to remind us that sharks feed at dawn). So it’s hardly surprising that, after moving to Norwich to study in my 20s, the British seaside trips I made felt tepid. Cromer, with its swathe of beige sand sloping into water an almost identical colour, seemed to suggest that over here, land and sea were really not that different from one another. That the sea as I’d known it – with all its ecstatic, annihilating energy – was an unruly part of the Earth whose existence was best disavowed.

It was only several years later, burnt out from a soul-destroying job, that I took a week off and boarded a train to Cornwall. I was 25, poor and suffering from the kind of gastric complaints that often accompany misery. With a pair of shorts, two T-shirts and a raincoat in my backpack, I arrived in St Ives and set off to walk the Cornish coastal path.

As Wuthering Heights gets a raunchy Hollywood remake, our writer takes a pilgrimage through Haworth, the village where its author lived – and finds her spirit still electrifying the cobbled streets and windswept moors

It’s a crisp afternoon in Haworth, West Yorkshire, and I’m drinking a pint of Emily Brontë beer in The Kings Arms. Other Brontës are on tap – Anne is a traditional ale, Charlotte an IPA, Branwell a porter – but the barman says Emily, an amber ale with a “malty biscuit flavour”, is the most popular. It’s the obvious choice today, anyway: in a few hours, Oscar-winning film-maker Emerald Fennell will be at the Brontë women’s writing festival in a church just up the road, discussing her adaptation of Emily’s 19th-century gothic masterpiece Wuthering Heights.

The film, to be released just before Valentine’s Day next year, is already scandal-ridden. It all started with Fennell’s casting of Hollywood stars Jacob Elordi and Margot (“Heathcliff, it’s me, it’s Barbie”) Robbie causing uproar. An erotic teaser trailer full of tight bodices, cracking whips and sweaty bodies had the same effect. But heads were really sent spinning by reports of a scene with a public hanging and a nun who “fondles the corpse’s visible erection”.

You don’t have to be a child to enjoy Seiffen, the magical ‘home of Christmas’ where they’ve been making traditional wooden toys for hundreds of years

I feel terrible … I’ve left the children at home and Seiffen, nicknamed Spielzeugdorf (The Toy Village), is literally a Christmas wonderland. Every street is alive with sparkling fairy lights and soft candlelight. There are thousands of tiny wooden figurines, train sets and toy animals displayed in shop windows, wooden pyramids taller than doorframes and colourful nutcracker characters. Forget elves in the north pole, this is the real Santa’s workshop. For hundreds of years, here in the village of Seiffen, wood turners and carvers have created classic wooden Christmas toys and sold them around the world.

Near the border of the Czech Republic, Seiffen may be well known in the German-speaking world as the “home of Christmas”, but so far it has been largely missed by English-speaking seasonal tourists. Tucked away in the Ore Mountains, about an hour and a half south of Dresden, it is not the easiest place to get to by public transport – the nearest train station is in Olbernhau, nearly 7 miles (11km) away. Buses are available, but we opt for a hire car and make our way into the hills, arriving the day after the first snowfall of the year. The roads are cleared quickly, but snow clings to the branches of the spruce trees. We half expect to see the Gruffalo’s child, but only spot a rust-coloured fox making its way through a fresh field of snow.

A cultural initiative in Piedmont is unlocking a trove of priceless medieval frescoes in rural churches

The Santa Maria di Missione chapel in Villafranca Piemonte, northern Italy, stands at the end of a long cornfield. Behind it, the mountains rise gently, their outlines caressed by the sun. The colours of autumn frame the 15th-century frescoes that embellish the structure’s interior, painted by Italian artist Aimone Duce, of the Lombard school. The chapel is the municipality’s oldest religious building, serving about 4,000 inhabitants, and stands on the site of a pre-existing building dating back to 1037.

Inside the small chapel, my footsteps echo softly against the walls, breaking the stillness of the surrounding countryside. The sharp scent of plaster mingles with the earthy smell of the fields outside, carried in on the wind along with the sweetness of wheat. Light filters through the narrow windows, catching the vivid hues of a fresco that depicts the seven deadly sins – a theme often revisited in medieval iconography.

Italian sweets, Irish smoked fish, honey cakes in Belgium … travel writers choose the stores and local delicacies they make a beeline for when travelling

I fell in love with Belgian snacks when cycling the amateur version of the Tour of Flanders some years ago. The feed stations along the route were crammed with packets of Meli honey waffles and Meli honey cake. I ate so many that I suffered withdrawal symptoms after finishing the last of them at the end of the 167-mile route.

In the snowy mountains of Grövelsjön, visitors can get a rare glimpse into a little-known traditional way of life – and sleep in a tipi under the stars

On the summit of a snow-covered hill, two men sit on a patch of lichen, their backs against their snowmobiles. They are wearing thick padded clothing and hats with ear covers. One is scanning the valley with binoculars, the other is checking their drone. “We’ve got a speaker on it to play various calls. Thermal imaging helps. The dogs do the rest.” The younger of the two men, Elvjin, pours out tots of strong coffee for everyone. “The main job at this time of year is to keep the herd up here where we can see them,” he says. “When they start calving, the danger from bears, wolverines and eagles increases. We need to see them.”

If I had a mental picture of reindeer herding before arriving here in the mountains of western Sweden, it certainly did not involve drones and thermal imaging. But that is the aim of this trip: to see an authentic and little-known European way of life, which for centuries suffered repression and abuse, only to be swiftly cannibalised into tourist-trap Santa experiences – all sleigh bells and traditional embroidery.

Wonderful art, amazing design and beautiful locations have drawn our tipsters to chapels, churches and cathedrals from Norway to Bulgaria

The Tromsøysund parish church, commonly called the Arctic Cathedral, in Tromsø is a modernist delight. The simple, elegant exterior that reflects the surrounding scenery and evokes traditional Sami dwellings is matched by an interior that has the most comfortable pews I have ever sat on. The stunning glass mosaic titled the Return of Christ at one end may not be to everyone’s taste, but to me had power and majesty. Exiting this magnificent building after an organ recital to be met by the northern lights flickering overhead was awe-inspiring.
Bruce Horton