I opted for a scattergun approach to hiking in Cyprus, visiting various unconnected areas accessed via a mix of public transport and my own trusty boots. For one reason I wanted to pack as much as possible into my short stay but in truth I found the maps sadly lacking (I love you Ordnance Survey) which curtailed my trailblazing somewhat. The Cyprus Tourism Organisation describes the island as a “land fit for gods” so as they say, if it’s good enough for them….

Today, I’m here on the stunning Akamas peninsular in Cyprus close to the baths of Aphrodite and I plan to travel along the South Western coastline to Lara Bay and Aphrodite’s Rock over the course of 2-3 days. First, I decide to take a peek at this famous bathing pool.

There’s a striking scent of jasmine amidst the faint tinkling sounds of water. Legend has it that Adonis came upon Aphrodite as she bathed here. Locals maintain that she was trouble with a capital ‘T’ pitting men against each other in a battle to win her affections. Daggers at dawn and all that. What a girl.

My route onwards is awash with olive trees and men loading huge bunches of unripe bananas into trucks. I take a short cut through an orange grove where the fruit hangs so heavily on the trees that my world is bathed in an orange glow. I can almost taste the juice as the scent is so strong. One thing I love about Cyprus is the light. It’s so clear and intense that even a novice like me can produce some pretty acceptable photographs. With minimal photoshopping.

Falling into an easy stride in the warm sun I continue along my rocky route just as a snake slithers right across my path. It’s big and black so thankfully not the highly venomous blunt nosed viper which inhabits the island. Although chances of an encounter are slim it’s essential practice to wear ankle high walking boots and to carry a walking pole or stick with which to prod logs and rocks before sitting down to take a breather.

Official snake encounter advice is to remain still and silent. I just about manage the first one but am too late to smother a loud shriek. The commotion attracts the attention of a goat herder who – bless him – comes over to offer advice. “You sing” he said “snake go”. After a few language setbacks and many hand gestures I work out that if I make a bit of a racket as I stride along, the snakes will stay well away. So would you if you’ve ever heard me sing. I did Google this later that day and apparently the snakes pick up on the vocal vibrations which sends them into hiding.

Moving on, I give it a go. As the entire snake population of Cyprus scrambles for earplugs (do snakes have ears?) I belt out my tune. I have absolutely no idea how or why I chose the song…but I settled on Eric and Ernie’s Bring Me Sunshine. I know, I know. I was tempted to add the little departure dance as I left the hillside but from the sobbing I guessed the goat herder was already on the verge of self destruct. A man can only take so much.

Lara Bay is a long, shingly stretch of undeveloped coastline and is preserved as a haven for loggerhead turtles which return every summer to lay their eggs. Monk seals also inhabit the caves in the area. Access is via dirt tracks littered with pot holes ensuring that the area never gets too crowded and the beach is closed to visitors completely during the breeding season. I heard a really sad story whilst I was here. Apparently, as the endless development continues unabated in nearby Paphos, the turtles returning to Lara Bay to lay their eggs are becoming disorientated by the light pollution from nightclubs and bars and are veering off course. Finding their nesting bay is now a much more difficult affair. How terribly sad.

Further along the coast is the site of ”Petra tou Romiou”, the rock of Aphrodite where the story goes she came ashore after her birth. Various local legends abound here. One rumour has it that if you swim around this rock at midnight during the full moon, Aphrodite will make you ten years younger. Another relates specifically to men and states that any man who wants to look ten years younger should bathe naked at Aphrodite’s birthplace; however, it must be at midnight and on Friday the 13th. As I was checking with a local about the likelihood of a full moon that evening, he scuppered my anti-ageing regime. “Yes” he agreed “those who swim around the rock ten times at midnight will look ten years younger. But take care! You must  swim in the right direction – otherwise the transformation will have the opposite effect.” Like low fat cheese, alcohol-free lager and nipple piercing…some things are just too awful to contemplate.

The incredible thing about the great outdoors is its uncanny ability to dish out wake up calls just when you start to show the slightest signs of complacency. I was embarking upon the 34 miles of the Avon Valley Path which runs from Salisbury cathedral in Wiltshire through Hampshire and to the sea in Dorset and Christchurch Priory. The route is dotted with mills and weirs amidst endless stretches of rolling hills and fields.

It wasn’t until I reached the proposed starting point under the reproachful eye of the statue of The Walking Madonna that I realised I’d packed the wrong map. I only had half of my planned 15 mile route plus some hastily scribbled directions on the back of a piece of card. No smartphone today (don’t ask) and hadn’t bothered with my GPS. Truth be told, my friend was using it. Well, it was just an easy hike wasn’t it? Faced with a choice of going off into town in search of another map or ploughing on with my meagre instructions, I opted for the latter. Two hours later I was lost. And hot. And frustrated. I’d broken two of my cardinal rules:

- Always take a map. And check it (no brainer)

- Never rely solely on directions downloaded on the internet

I reacted as expected under the circumstances and fished out some cake. Dorset Apple, if you’re wondering.

This was a good time to reconsider my plans to hike solo through europe. Very enticing but a tad ambitious when you’re already stumped just off the M27. I’m sure I could still hear the screech of the coffee machines in Costa.

I was mightily pleased at that time that the spire of Salisbury Cathedral is the tallest in Britain. It does make you realise just how prominent a feature that spire would have been, before we littered the landscape with so many buildings. I could still decipher the vague outline in the distance. So let me say at once that the situation was not urgent. Far from it. But it could have been.

Then he appeared. A knight in shining armour; a man, walking my way. With a map. Faced with a defeated 2 hour trudge back towards Salisbury, I couldn’t have been more excited if Mr Darcy had emerged from the lake before me. We chatted, I confessed my plight and greedily eyed his Tuff map. So huge thanks to John from Blandford for your excellent company during the next few miles when we walked together until I hit the edge of my map. And sorry again about the stinging nettle incident.

It was really warm in the sun and although my feet were super comfy in my beloved Berghaus boots, they were too hot. It was definitely time for a paddle. My map revealed several spots close by in the pretty River Ebble. Job done.

Time for a quick lunch with Joshua Scamp. A fellow rogue. Mr Scamp (oh, I want that surname!) took the blame for theft in place of his son-in-law. Everyone knew he was innocent, which is why he was granted the unusual privilege of a churchyard burial. His rose-covered, crumbling headstone rests in picture postcard surroundings in the tiny churchyard in the village of Odstock. If you’re interested, read about him here.

I was aware that just before entering Fordingbridge there is an area where kingfishers are a common sight. I kept alert for the telltale flashes of blue but apart from brief bursts of excitement induced by my hair flicking into the peripheral view of my sunglasses, all remained still. Just as well, really. Wouldn’t want to get in their way.

The next day my route continued southwards and was exceedingly boggy in places despite the ongoing drought in the South of England. The effort required to constantly suck my boots out of the cloying mud was tiring but I forged on as I knew I would be pulling away from the river soon and thus reach drier ground.

As I neared the priory, I tried to work out how many people I’d seen over the entire 34 miles (discounting entering towns). I settled on around a dozen. What solitude.

Unsurprisingly, this coastal stretch is often littered with photographers. Literally. Lying at all angles vying for that elusive shot. I stopped for a chat on this Tripod Trail and picked up some great photography tips. Who knew that photography was a sport? Positioning yourself in anticipation of the next “move” about to take place is critical; but it can also be a bit of a hit and miss affair. You need to understand the nature of the game.

I knew that some poor soul had tumbled from these cliffs a few years ago and I have to say that the path does occasionally skirt alarmingly close to the edge. A sprightly local walking my way advised me to “try not to look over the top”. Righto.

Drinking in the constantly stunning views induces a strange sort of apathy. Funny how quickly you come to expect and take for granted that another corker will be awaiting over each hill and around each corner.

Stopping for more cake (fat and sugar rule – eat lots) at Winspit I peered down at the quarry far below. This has featured in episodes of Dr Who.

I glanced around me at the hills rolling away and the great expanse of sea before me. Not a soul in sight. There was absolutely nothing I could do if a stray Dalek came out from behind the rocks hell bent on extermination.

Suitably fed and watered I gathered courage to tackle the crippling steps carved out of the cliff (a giant’s idea of a joke) at St Aldhelm’s Head. And yes, I saw you Mr Coastguard in your cosy station giving me that pitying look.

With visibly quivering knees, rapidly blackening big toenails and shattered pride (I was overtaken by an octogenarian) I emerged on to Emmett’s Hill. Damn, those toenails had only just grown back as well. Ladies, if you’re thinking of taking up hiking regularly then be prepared to ditch the pedicure and polish. It’s not cheaper for the salon to paint just 8 nails. I asked.

Myself and 2 fellow hikers continued body popping along the narrow path in a desperate attempt to regain control of unresponsive limbs.

Rounding the headland you get the first views of Houns Tout Cliff and the cliffs beyond towards Kimmeridge, Worbarrow and Lulworth. It was slightly too hazy for me to make out Portland in the distance.

I hurried on to Chapman’s pool and here I stayed, drinking in the glorious view for a good 30 minutes or more. The area is a prime spot for finding fossils and that brings me to another good reason for paying a visit to the Square and Compass – where else could you find a pub with its own fossil museum?

Just as I reluctantly prepared to leave I detected the beep of a text message. “Welcome to France. Calls cost…” Must definitely brush up on those navigation skills…

Happy hiking!

Except when it comes to hiking routes. Maybe this small rebellion is my outlet for all that exemplary behaviour. I’m not one to simply retrace all the steps taken before me. What if I went the other way?

I have a constantly nagging feeling that the real world is lying there waiting to be discovered. That there’s more. Just off the beaten track. And a walk is rendered dramatically different simply by changing your direction of travel. If you have ever completed a route clockwise then returned and followed the same path in the opposite direction, you’ll know what I mean. What if I went down there? What if I turned left instead of right? (Do not try this on cliff faces…)

So this was how I walked the Purbeck Way; almost following true to the route. So don’t be puzzled if I mention places that are not strictly a feature of the established route. I probably decided a detour was in order for some reason- invariably a great view or site of special interest of some sort. Think of the Purbeck Way as shaped like a frying pan. The ‘handle’ runs from Wareham to Corfe and from there you enter the ‘pan’ section which defines a vaguely circular route down and along the coastal path before returning to Corfe. This is a stunning 28 miles through heathland, woodland and downland and the dramatic scenery of the Jurassic Coast. The last time I was here – so were a pod of dolphins but this time, it was not to be.

Leaving Wareham and heading towards Corfe on a spectacular spring day, I didn’t see a soul for six miles. Some sections are fairly remote and the inland terrain – sod’s law – all looks exactly the same so don’t forget your compass. My route was awash with dappled sunlight, birdsong and many a startled deer until I emerged from the woodland to meet this view

It would be rude to ignore the cream tea boards dotted throughout the village of Corfe so I grabbed a spot with a terrific view of the castle. I can’t imagine ever tiring of that first view of the ruins silhouetted against the skyline as you drive towards Corfe. It always affects me and most others too, judging by the ‘oohs’ and ‘aah’s’ on the bus as it weaves through the Purbecks towards the castle. I have travelled a great deal yet for me that view is up there with the likes of the Grand Canyon, Victoria Falls and endless other wonders. Not as spectacular, but moving all the same.

A father and son team on the next table were talking about murder holes. Dad was explaining that these were gaps in the castle walls through which the defenders could fire, throw or pour harmful substances, such as rocks, arrows, scalding water, hot sand, quicklime, tar, or boiling oil, down on attackers. And they say the Brits are reserved.

Striding on towards the coast I reflected on the information I’d gleaned about my upcoming “rigorous” Jurassic coastal ramble: Notably, the area can be “very wet, slippery and inaccessible, with hazardous cliffs and shore and a feel of danger. Look out for landslides and mudslides. There is a risk of being trapped in mud here. Adders are common enough to be dangerous unless gaiters are worn”. And people come on holiday and pay for this?

Suitably rattled, I fancied paying a visit to my Old friend Harry.

Old Harry’s Rock sits alone as Old Harry’s Wife met her demise some years ago and disappeared beneath the waves. She does resurface temporarily at very low tide. Men everywhere will undoubtedly sigh with envy.

As evening approached it was time to pull off the route and the boots for the day.

And before I sign off for today may I introduce you to someone? Meet Munro my hiking bud. I only take him so I can say I’ve bagged a Munro as he slides back into my rucksack at the end of each trip. But don’t tell him.

Happy hiking!

If you’ve enjoyed reading Karen’s blog and want to become an Everyday Adventurer yourself you can find out how to apply here.

Karen is a solo hiker and has several multi-day hikes in the pipeline so she was a perfect candidate for this month’s theme of multi-day backpacking.

Here is Karen’s 100 word submission:

“I nearly missed your tweet appealing for Everyday Adventurers as I was ploughing along the South West Way and more concerned about falling rocks than the world at large. I’m Karen, this is my wonderful 50th year and I hike solo. I have several multi-day hikes lined up: South Downs Way, Isle of Wight Coastal, around Cyprus and a route (undecided) in France. I like to use a mix of video, photography and written word. If you’re looking for an Everyday Adventurer with an insatiable curiosity, liberal sprinkling of humour and a modicum of trepidation then I’m @happy_rambler on Twitter”.

You’ll see Karen’s blogs on the Berghaus website from April, in the meantime you can check out the blogs from our current Everyday Adventurer, Paul Calvert here.