Too many of us bypass the closest part of France to the UK – those who linger enjoy soaring chalk cliffs, vast beaches, superb seafood and verdant marshes ideal for exploring by boat

With the tide out, it is a magical moment, rivulets of water swirl and eddy through the sand, the white cliffs of Cap Blanc-Nez loom behind me. There’s not a soul in sight. This jagged headland marks the start of the Côte d’Opale, which runs south-west from Calais for about 75 miles, and is part of the Pas-de-Calais region.

While most travellers arriving in Calais or Boulogne head straight for Paris and beyond, I’m here to explore this affordable and often bypassed corner of France. The wild “Opal Coast” has sandy beaches, fishing ports and quaint seaside resorts, and 30 miles inland are the fascinating and attractive vegetable gardens of the Audomarois: immense, unspoilt wetlands outside the medieval town of Saint-Omer, my next destination.

From Puerta del Sol plaza in Madrid to Place du Trocadéro in Paris, guides reshape stories continent tells about itself

Dodging between throngs of tourists and workers on their lunch breaks in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol plaza, we stop in front of the nearly 3-tonne statue depicting King Carlos III on a horse. Playfully nicknamed Madrid’s best mayor, Carlos III is credited with modernising the city’s lighting, sewage systems and rubbish removal.

Kwame Ondo, the tour guide behind AfroIbérica Tours, offers up another, albeit lesser-known tidbit about the monarch. “He was one of the biggest slave owners of his time,” says Ondo, citing the 1,500 enslaved people he kept on the Iberian peninsula and the 18,500 others held in Spain’s colonies in the Americas. As aristocratic families sought to keep up with the monarch, the proportion of enslaved people in Madrid swelled to an estimated 4% of the population in the 1780s.

If you want to know what makes the Spanish capital tick, head for its back-street bodegas, tiny tapas bars and neighbourhood food markets

Freshly fried churros, golden and crisp; a cup of velvety hot chocolate alongside; circles of aubergine striped from the griddle; mushrooms silky with chorizo; a jumble of potatoes smothered in spicy sauce; handmade crisps, crunchy and salty; slivers of jamón serrano; plump Nocera olives; and crumbly, herby morcilla … By the end of our first day in Madrid, my sister Penny and I have eaten all these things. A touch indulgent, maybe, but when you’re staying in a city that runs on its stomach, it seems rude not to go with the flow.

Madrileños are famous for eating late, mostly because that mid-evening supper is the last of five meals, starting with a light breakfast – often coffee and a pastry on the fly, before an early lunchtime snack ( almuerzo ), a full sit-down lunch, usually between 2 and 4pm ( comida ), then coffee and cake ( merienda ) and finally supper. Once you understand this, Madrid really starts to make sense: a city of centuries-old pasticceria, hole-in-the-wall tapas bars, neighbourhood markets and dimly-lit bodegas, all crammed with diners. Someone is always eating somewhere. During our visit, it was usually us.

The scenery – and delicacies – get better and better for our slow travel expert as she takes a local train through Canton Fribourg to a beautiful medieval village

It was a handpainted sign on a wooden barn that piqued my interest in Gruyères. I was travelling from Emmental to Montreux last year, following the wonderful Golden Pass rail route. Our train paused at Montbovon, the start of a steep climb up to the line’s final dramatic mountain pass. There was the prospect of stunning views of Lake Geneva ahead. To the right of the railway, I spotted the bold sign: “La Gruyère vous salue” (the cheese lacks the village’s final “s”).

With time to spare earlier this month, I returned to Montbovon to explore the branch railway that runs from there down the Sarine valley to Gruyères and beyond. This time I arrive on one of the new Golden Pass trains which now run through from Montreux to Interlaken , relying on some technical magic to slip from narrow-gauge to standard-gauge tracks along the way. The tourists in the posh prestige class are tucking into platters of charcuterie accompanied by Swiss wine. The climb up from Montreux is as magical as ever, twisting and turning up into the hills with Lake Geneva far below. Forty minutes out from Montreux, the train makes its first scheduled stop. This is Montbovon, a village that my old Baedeker guide advises is “noted for good cherry brandy”. I am the sole passenger alighting from the train, which after a brief stop is on its way again, now following the Sarine valley upstream towards Gstaad.

A group of seven Moorish villages in southern Spain are the perfect place to recharge – offering mountain air, sparkling springs and any excuse for a party

On our first morning in Atalbéitar, I walk into the kitchen to make coffee and wonder if I’m feeling the effects of the previous night’s festivities. Then I remember it’s not me; it’s the kitchen floor, which is on a gentle slope. I have to be careful carrying the coffee back to bed as the steps are at different heights, and the doorways are small enough to bump your head on. As I lie there, beneath a ceiling constructed of woven chestnut branches and stone slabs, I survey my surroundings, and come to the pleasing conclusion that there’s not a single right angle in sight.

We are staying in a Moorish house in this Andalucían village, and I may as well have travelled back the 700 years to when it was first built. I’ve been visiting Spain for years, as my husband leads wilderness tours here and we’ve travelled from one end to the other, seeking out hidden corners and mountain trails. But arriving in Atalbéitar at night, negotiating its tangle of passageways, ducking under ancient covered walkways while spring water rushes past our feet, we both agree, we’ve never been anywhere quite like this. The village gives the impression of having grown out of the land, rather than been imposed upon it. Its streets are too narrow for cars, the village cats roam freely, and the only sound is the occasional bleating of goats across the slopes. As I look out over the valley on this crisp winter’s morning, the sun is blazing in a solid blue sky and early almond blossom adds splashes of pastel pink to the rocky hills. Everything is still and silent.

From Monet to Degas, the luminosity of Paris has inspired countless artists. As the city celebrates 150 years of impressionism it’s still shining bright

Paris is called the City of Light, possibly because of its early adoption of gas street lighting. But that would not explain why, as I approach Gare du Nord on Eurostar during daytime, I experience a soft dazzle, similar to when I see a pebbly beach. This is not a meteorological phenomenon; the weather in Paris is only slightly better than London’s. Instead, the luminosity owes something to the buff or light-grey limestone of the older buildings (including the Sacré Coeur, rearing like a great ghost to my right), its pallor perpetuated by the whitewashed exteriors of newer buildings.

The light in Paris was a concern of the impressionists, the movement whose 150th anniversary is marked by the Musée d’Orsay’s forthcoming Inventing Impressionism exhibition. On 15 April 1874, a group of 31 artists, including Monet, Pissarro, Degas and Renoir, “hungry for independence” (as the Musée d’Orsay website has it) from the strictures of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, staged their own exhibition. Inventing Impressionism will feature works from that show and others of the time: “Painted scenes of modern life, and landscapes sketched in the open air, in pale hues and with the lightest of touches.”

After a lifetime exploring the country’s cities, coast and countryside, our France expert chooses her personal highlights

When you can gaze on the salt pans of Guérande, near Nantes, cycle through lavender fields in Drôme, in the south-east, and bask in the splendour of the Cirque de Gavarnie in the Pyrénees, you have to wonder how France got so lucky with its diverse landscapes. Most recently, the volcanic landscape of the Massif Central captured my heart. The chain of extinct volcanoes runs south from the highest, Le Puy de Dôme (there’s a rack railway to the top) near Clermont-Ferrand.

A new sleeper train from Brussels is bringing the Czech capital’s contemporary art scene within easy reach of rail travellers

For decades, cheap flights, nightclubs and booze made Prague one of Europe’s stag party capitals. City officials have spoken out about tourists’ drunken behaviour, but Prague remains popular among men dressed as Smurfs drinking 50 koruna (£1.70) pints of pilsner.

I arrive on the train from Dresden, the German city just north of the Czech border, shortly before the launch of a new night train route. On 25 March the European Sleeper between Brussels and Berlin extends to Prague, arriving at Hlavní Nádraží, Prague’s main central station, at 10.56am.

From roadside picnics to Michelin-star restaurants, the former editor of France magazine picks her most memorable foodie moments

Standout moments from nearly 20 years of writing about travelling and eating around France include meals in legendary restaurants and the joy of a shared dinner at a chambre d’hôtes . That said, there’s a venue that can’t be underestimated as an opportunity to enjoy France’s culinary delights: the car boot picnic.

Standing under the shade of an open car boot, I have discovered some products so delicious they didn’t make it as far as a gîte kitchen or dining table. It might have been a chunk of comté so fruity it didn’t get beyond the car park on market day. There was the punnet of gariguette strawberries bought from a farm in Brittany’s Plougastel-Daoulas, famous for its microclimate. My family and I each took a bite and stared unbelievingly at each other – the sweetness was off the scale.