These days I head to the Med like everyone else: but it wasn’t always so. As a young man, just starting to travel under my own steam, my instinct was always to head north: to the Pennines, the Lakes, Scotland. To a soft southerner there was something compelling in these landscapes – and at that age I preferred a stiff walk in any weather to the languors of the beach. The final adventure was to take the little train north from Dingwall, across the vast peatlands of Caithness, to the end of the line in Thurso. It seemed something to stand on the very top of Britain, to peer at the distant Orkneys through a veil of rain, and to remind yourself that you were now on the same latitude as Stockholm or Juneau.