We follow James to the parking lot out front. Right enough, there it is: our very own Morgan – at least for the next hundred days – gleaming proudly in the sunshine. We marvel at the sleek curves of the black aluminium body and savour the rustic smell of the brand-new tan leather interior. Everything about it is just right, from the wire wheels to the chrome dials. There’s a big leather suitcase strapped to the back; ample space for our supplies. A man walks up to us; he’s here for a test drive with Sophie. “Go on”, James encourages her. She hops in eagerly and starts the engine. From under the long bonnet comes the most sophisticated sound; not a roar, but a distinguished, confident hum. All smiles, Sophie releases the handbrake, shifts into first gear, revs determinedly, and drives out the factory gates; the first miles of many 

It’d been raining lots and we knew things would be slippery, but, tempted by the views at the top, we’d plodded up the muddy ochre-red path anyway. Soon, though, came a bout of torrential rain. But, fortuitously, not before we managed to take a peek at the snaking road below; it takes but one look to understand why Cheddar Gorge is considered one of the best drives this part of England … 

The Isles of Scilly constitute the southernmost point of the United Kingdom. For those familiar with this archipelago, the name conjures up images of immaculate beaches, endless ice-cream, and semi-tropical weather. The islands are also known for their narcissi, which have for hundreds of years been a mainstay of the local economy and are grown in small, high-hedged enclosures that protect them from the tempestuous winter winds. When we travelled, the Isles of Scilly could be reached in two main ways: quickly, by air (either by helicopter, or in a small 19-seater turboprop plane, which is how the flowers are transported), or, more slowly and in the summer months only, by sea. Of course, we’d opted for the ferry – surely, the more adventurous choice. There are no cars allowed on the islands, other than those of the residents, so we left ours safely on the outskirts of Penzance to continue as pedestrians …

After breakfast, we drove down to nearby Cadgwith – a picture-perfect Cornish fishing village. There were few other people around and we had the narrow streets, flanked by cutesy-named thatched cottages, to ourselves. On the shore, fishing boats basked in the sun and children looked for crabs and other beasts between the rocks. Supposedly, so our host had told us, traditional Cornish songs were still sung here every Friday at the local inn, but unfortunately we couldn’t be there to hear them. After a cup of tea, we sped on along the coast …

While we enjoy our prosecco, Charlotte grabs a cooler bag to produce some oysters she harvested earlier that morning. Skilfully, she shucks them, prying them open with a small knife. She’s brought mignonette (shallots and red wine vinegar) lemons and Tabasco to have with them. We’re a little apprehensive, as we’ve not previously been fans of oysters. Still, these are supposedly different to the norm, so we tilt our heads and give them a try. They’re remarkably good – salty, of course, but decidedly fresh and satisfying. It’s like tasting the beautiful bay we’re overlooking … 

We saunter along the cliffs, looking for a suitable place to sit. The sun has scorched the long stalks of grass to arid shades of amber. They contrast beautifully with the cerulean sea and the white chalk. I think that, while the drought was unfortunate for some, it made for an interesting palette. It’s not long before we find a good spot. From where we are, there’s a splendid view down to the red-and-white lighthouse at the base of the Beachy Head cliffs. The situation is perfect, so we recline and slather ourselves in sunscreen. We have brought plenty, and a few bottles of mineral water, too, but several people nearby are already turning a worrying crimson … 

We continue to our accommodation in Twickenham, in the south-west of the city. On our way, we drive through Richmond Park. Suddenly, we’re surrounded not by concrete and brick, but by lush greenery and even deer. Next, we cross Richmond Bridge, where we’re treated to lovely sunlit views across the Thames. The waterfront is lined with historic houses, the river flows gently, and there are wooden rowboats moored along the banks. Pleasantly surprised, we think to ourselves: perhaps there’s more to this part of the route, after all … 

Berend’s wiry frame appears from behind his white riverside house. A beer in each hand, he crosses the road – barely wider than a footpath – and walks up the old dyke. He sits down beside me and hands me a bottle. I take a sip. it’s cool and crisp: a perfect companion to the view. The sun illuminates our faces and gilds the edges of creamy, billowing clouds as it sets on the Yare. A warm, velvety breeze sways the reeds and their shadows dance on the gold-speckled water. The river-waves splish-splash clumsily against the banks and the hull of Berend’s old boat, as the current continues faithfully to the North Sea … 

From the atmospheric expanses of the Peak District, we descend into Stoke-on-Trent, which to us appears a surly, rumpled clump of dark, sooted brick. After an unprepossessing drive, we arrive at Middleport Pottery – the home of Burleigh pottery since 1889. Listed and recently restored, it stands out as an example of successful regeneration. We park our car and walk through the imposing entrance to meet Jemma in the factory shop. It’s an unexpectedly welcoming place: rather than austere and commercial, it feels distinctly homely. ‘You’ll notice that there are pieces of furniture from around the factory,’ she proudly points out. ‘There are tables that workers have worked on for decades. When these come to the end of their lives, we try to find a home for them here. All the chairs you see – these kind of low, wooden metal back chairs – they’re what the workers used to sit on. I have them dotted around everywhere. We also still have an open fire that we light. I try to keep the shop like this – the way my mum had it …’

It’s a quiet day in the town. The bright sun casts abstract shadows across the cobbled main street. The Yorkstone houses soak up the warmth, and light floods through their big windows – relics of the place’s weaving past. From a backyard comes the clucking of hens. A man hums a tune as he saws in a small workshop, its double doors wide open. This is the kind of idyll we’d hoped to find, but we’d never thought we’d find it looking down on the smokestacks of the Calder Valley. This is certainly one of the most alluring towns we’ve seen so far and, already, after only a short walk, we’ve all but decided to stay forever …

Elliot inspects our Morgan. We sip our coffee. Shortly, we’ll be heading into the Highlands. For the next three weeks, we’ll be touring desolate moorland and wild coastal roads. To make sure our Morgan’s in good shape – we’ve already driven more than 3,000 miles – we’ve dropped by Revolutions, the Morgan dealership in Perth. ‘Looks fine,’ Elliot says, emerging from behind the car. ‘I’m sure it’ll bring you back safe and sound.’ He hands us a screwdriver. We’d asked for one, because previously we’d had to tighten our door screws, which had come loose as we braved England’s bumpy backroads. ‘This should be all you need,’ Elliot smiles … 

With much diligence and precision, Sophie inches the Morgan onto two nets, carefully placed on the concrete pier by the crew of the Good Shepherd IV – a stocky, navy-coloured vessel capable of carrying a single car and twelve passengers. I shiver in the frigid morning air – it’s early and overcast, and we’ve already been here a good few hours, waiting for the boat to emerge from behind Sumburgh Head. The doors locked and the hood securely fastened, car’s wire wheels are now inspected by the ferrymen to make sure everything’s in order. A Shetland News reporter readies his camera. I suppose you don’t often see a Morgan getting hoisted onto a ferry – much less the first Morgan ever bound for Fair Isle, Britain’s most remote inhabited island …

Mati gestures out the window, toward where Fair Isle’s rocky shoreline ends and the undulating, infinite grey mass that is the North Sea begins. ‘Imagine all that being filled up, hundreds of ships passing by every year,’ she poses. ‘That would’ve been 19^th-century Fair Isle. You’d be looking out there, and there would be seven or even ten ships going across. All the men would be called, because just now the sea is calm and it’s perfect. I’d be sending my husband, telling him, “Go, go, there’s another one coming,” and he and the other men would be rowing in their wooden yoals [small boat] to intercept the ships. They’d exchange knitwear for rare things like sugar and coffee and spices. We’d all be celebrating like it’s Christmas. That was Fair Isle then, and unless you’re sitting here and hear the stories and visualise that, you won’t understand what Fair Isle knitwear means …’

It takes another half an hour before we reach the cliffs. Without a doubt, these are some of the most dramatic we’ve seen: sheer, craggy escarpments off which dive countless plucky puffins. We sit down to enjoy their antics – and those of a handful of photographers. Puffins are stocky and adorably clumsy: rather than take off graciously, they simply plummet off the cliffs. When landing, they frequently crash into other puffins, who don’t seem to mind. Here, as on Fair Isle, they aren’t the least bit shy. One glares at us with a bill full of sand eels, clearly a bit annoyed, and then waddles around us to enter its burrow …

Soon, Dom appears from under a vehicle. We explain what happened, and he rolls his eyes and lets out a deep, dolorous sigh – it’s clear we’re not the first people this has happened to. He takes a pensive look at the dent and decides to give it a go. For the next twenty minutes, Dom tries everything he can. First, he pushes the dent from the inside of the wing in the hopes that it’ll pop out. His face goes red with exertion and little droplets of sweat appear on his forehead, but it won’t budge. Next, he fetches a hammer and carefully taps at the dent, but that doesn’t get the job done either. To me, it seems to be getting a little better, at least. Or perhaps I’m just being hopeful? There’s nothing we can do but watch anxiously as Dom whomps away at our Morgan …

Across the strait rise the mountains of Skye: towering, dark, awe-inspiring. Squinting, we make out the red-and-green ferry bobbing in their shadow. It’s headed our way and it won’t be more than five minutes before it’s here. Upon arrival, the crew manually pull the lumbersome car deck into position so that the two cars that are on it can disembark. We’re the last of four cars to drive on. Sophie pays an amiable deckhand – accompanied by an equally friendly ferry dog – £15 for a one-way, five-minute journey. All being ready, the engine hums and the green water churns as the Glenachulish turns slowly to take us over the sea to Skye … 

On the edge of a small huddle of houses, on the shore of a remote loch, we find a tiny petrol station that is also a post office and a shop. We decide to fill up: in the Highlands, it’s never certain when you’ll next find fuel. That especially goes for Ardnamurchan, one of the last wholly unspoilt corners of Scotland. The main – and only – road to the peninsula is single-track. It weaves through woodland, along the seashore, and across rocky moorland. It twists and turns and surprises us with hidden dips and blind summits. It takes effort to drive, but it’s a good day and we’re rewarded with unparalleled views across the Sound of Mull. We progress slowly: partly by choice, but often because of sheep demanding the right of way. Just before the road nears its inevitable end, at the westernmost point of mainland Britain, we turn onto a track leading to what we can only describe as one of the most impressive places we’ve been in Scotland … 

As we arrive, we learn that Bainloch Deer Park isn’t so much a park as a perplexingly vast timber plantation with a tall fence around it. A gruff-looking man waits for us at the gate. We park our car in the shade and secure the hood. ‘Mr Bond,’ the man introduces himself in a husky voice. He looks a seasoned outdoorsman: brawny and barrel-chested, with a deeply furrowed face in which lie small but observant eyes. His broad jawline is framed by a well-trimmed beard. He’s not tall, but his presence is towering and resolute. I think this looks like a man who knows how to find a deer. We follow him to his Land Rover and enter the park …

The boulder-strewn landscape makes it hard to determine, but it seems there’s no further traffic coming down. We decide to take our chances. A hill start: the engine rumbles and Sophie releases the handbrake. We plough through rivulets pouring down the road as we climb steadily, our eyes peeled. There’s the first hairpin; Sophie nimbly steers our Morgan through it. So far so good, but the wind’s whirling fiercely around the car and the road surface is worn smooth in places. In classic Morgan style, droplets form in the corners of the windscreen and fall onto the dashboard. It’s a taxing drive and our adrenaline levels are rising …

Opposite me sits Will, engaged in lively chatter with Sophie. On the dark wooden table between them are two pints of amber lager. I’m still waiting on mine. We’re in a dimly lit pub in the west-coast town of Peel – which seems an appropriate name, considering our day’s been all about apples. Earlier, Will and his partner, Charlotte, had shown us how they press their delicious juices, made from local fruit famed around the island, and they’d taken us to see a bright, sunlit field of saplings that would, sometime soon, grow into their very own apple orchard. They’re the passionate founders of the Isle of Man’s first and only fruit exchange: Apple Orphanage – a unique, community-centred concept we’re here to learn more about. Charlotte enters the room through a low doorway and, once we’re all seated, she and Will burst into an infectiously enthusiastic duologue …

Where the track ends, we find a little white-washed house. Blue smoke drifts hazily from the chimney; the smell of a peat fire. We walk around the house to find the door open – as is common in this part of Ireland. Inside, there are people talking but we can’t make out what they’re saying. Tentatively, we open the door a bit wider. A woman notices us, and she beckons us to come in. Seeing that we’re miserable and wet, she promptly puts a kettle on the black cast-iron stove to make us tea. ‘I’m just helping the children with their homework,’ she excuses herself. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Instantly, she switches languages, from English back to Irish … 

Pale birches, whispering in the wind, line the road. Peaty streams gurgle and tumble down the boggy hillsides. Anthracite clouds billow imposingly overhead. In the distance, we hear a rumble – thunder, perhaps? No, it’s a local in a pick-up truck with a big trailer. Sophie knows what to do and she deftly dives into a ditch to let it past. The driver waves ‘thanks’ and we wave ‘anytime’. Moving on, the tarmac tapers and twists as it takes us further into the mountains. The landscape transforms: now, there are only craggy boulders and precipitous escarpments. It’s rugged and unspoilt and – it would seem – little-known. Quite unexpectedly, we’ve stumbled into one of Ireland’s best drives …

At the summit of the pass, there’s a small cabin, and inside that is a man named Don. He tells us he’s been trading here for more than fifty years, selling souvenirs and coffee. We think that’s an awfully long time and we hope he’s still able to enjoy the wonderful views across Bantry Bay as much as the day he started working. We pay Don for two cups of coffee and after finishing them we cross from County Cork back into County Kerry, to drive down the other side of the pass …

A faint lowing breaks the silence of the valley. The sun covers the land in a golden glow and the blanketing fog rolls back. Glistening droplets of morning dew bedeck the lush, green fields. We’ve learned not to romanticise rural life, but pastoral scenes such as these never cease to stir our souls. They’re well worth waking up early for – certainly after a good night’s rest in Tom’s cosy granny flat, which he’s cleverly converted into holiday accommodation. In the pale rays of the parky morning sun, the gravel crunches beneath our boots as we walk to find Tom’s cows, who await their daily milking … 

Splashes are followed by joyful shrieks and squeals as schoolchildren jump off the quay and into the harbour. The sun is out and blazing – as it has been for a few days now – but the water’s still ice cold. We’re a little tempted, but then we remember that the Irish are much hardier than us. We’d probably just spend the day shivering afterwards! Besides, we have something else planned. Just a few minutes later, Ken the Ferryman casts off the ropes and steers us out of Coliemore Harbour. A native of Dalkey, a small picturesque town just outside of Dublin, Ken knows these waters better than anyone. Tiny waves caress the bow of his boat, the Lilly Rose, named after his late granddaughter. It’s just small enough to access the shallow inlet of Dalkey Island – Dublin’s best-kept secret …

‘Like a chef wants good ingredients, I need good, clean seawater,’ David explains to us as he trudges along the mussel-speckled shore in his waist-high waders, the onshore wind tousling his hair. Beside us, the Menai Strait ebbs. Using a pipette, he gathers a sample of seawater to inspect. We’re not sure what he’s looking for exactly, but as he squints through his mottled spectacles, a broad smile appears on his lined face; it seems he’s satisfied with what he’s found …

Everything around us is grey and our Morgan, jostled by forceful winds, shudders despondently. Hesitantly, we navigate the narrow roads until we at last reach the cliffs. The storm snarls, urging the frothing waves against the craggy shoreline. We’re not hugely keen to get out, and indeed we begin to wonder whether we should. Just then, the clouds part and the wind goes quiet with a forfeiting sigh. Swiftly, we wriggle out of the car and sprint down the steps leading to the chapel, miraculously illuminated by what appears a divine light … 

I get out as fast as I can and clamber up the hillside to get a better view. ‘Drive across the dam again, so I can get a good picture,’ I call to Sophie. As she turns the car, I feel tiny raindrops on my scalp – there isn’t much time. I snap as many pictures as I can before larger droplets obscure the lens. The rain intensifies, and soon I’m soaked. Soaked, but happy …