Surfin' USA? Not this year: 10 European alternatives to classic American holiday destinations

The Guardian

5 hours ago

Sprawled on a towel, observing silhouetted surfers chasing the ocean-plunging carmine sun, I don't need to squint to imagine I'm in the Golden State. But my sandy toes and salty hair are products of the Atlantic, not the Pacific. And this Santa Cruz belongs to Portugal's Costa de Prata, not California.
Mutual monikers are not the only parallels: this coast has 300 sunny days a year, top-notch surf (after Malibu, nearby Ericeira was the second place to be designated a World Surfing Reserve), and blond sands stretching towards wave-carved coastal bluffs and ocean arches.
In this former fishing village, just an hour's drive north-west of Lisbon, tranquillity flows like the tides. A soul-healing clutch of low-slung, whitewashed streets waymarked by an out-of-place beachside crenellated turret – the sole remnant of a palace plan thwarted by the 1929 Wall Street crash – it's the kind of delightfully textbook Portuguese place you stumble upon serendipitously. And once you do, you won't want to leave. Japanese poet Kazuo Dan visited in 1971 to have a 'conversation between Heaven and Earth' – a chat he continued for 16 months.
If you're a surfer, you'll instantly agree. If not, lessons will leave you convinced. Check-in at chic Noah Surf House (room sleeping four from €320 B&B), complete with an ocean-view infinity pool and skate park, and arranging all-age surf classes is effortless. Flawlessly renovated Villa Galega (doubles from €115 B&B) affords a more homely escape.
Santa Cruz and surrounding Torres Vedras boasts 11 beaches certified as pollution-free – more than any other Portuguese municipality. Tread the dune-crossing boardwalk to river-wrapped Praia Azul to flop on the finest sweep.
Back in town, beachside feasts don't come better than breezy Bronzear. Split a steaming pot of arroz de peixe, a seafood-stacked rice stew, or take plump, signature crabs as your table's centrepiece during September's Festival da Sapateira. California cravings? Noah's grilled cheese and portobello burgers hit the spot. Pair with a local Touriga Nacional red wine – a robust stand-in for a Cali Cab Sav – or slip away to the family-run winery Quinta da Almiara for a vine-hemmed, in situ tasting.
Evenings usually end ringing the doorbell of Manel, the town's oldest bar, for jazz-accompanied candlelit cocktails and Lisbon-brewed IPAs. Out front, an engraved stone shares Kazuo's words contemplating chasing the setting sun to the end of the sea – the haiku that Santa Cruz's surfers now scrupulously honour.Daniel James Clarke
Almost two centuries after it was written, Walden; or, Life in the Woods, Henry David Thoreau's book about the two years he spent living in a self-built cabin on a lake in Massachusetts, still inspires generations of Americans to go in search of what he called the 'tonic of wildness'. It's an American dream of simplicity and self-sufficiency that was also beautifully captured in the 1981 film On Golden Pond, in which Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn fish, paddle and ponder life for one last summer in Maine (though it was filmed in New Hampshire).
But North America doesn't have a monopoly on this kind of bucolic escape. The Nordic countries know all about the appeal of cabin life – and Finland, with 19 hours of sunlight in midsummer and sublime wild landscapes, is an idyllic alternative.
Mökki, or Finnish summer cottages, sit on lake shores or on rocks by the seashore and are often passed down through families. With about 20% of Finns living within the Helsinki metropolitan area, these cabins are a sanctuary for spending time in nature: fishing and messing about on the water in summer; skiing, ice-swimming and snowshoeing in winter. Many are off-grid, so part of the ritual includes splitting wood, gathering water, warming up in the wood-fired sauna … and letting your phone battery die. You're free to roam the coast or forage in the surrounding forest too – the Jokaisenoikeudet or 'everyman's rights' law gives everyone the freedom to wander and collect wild food.
You don't need to have friends or family with a mökki to stay in one – there are an estimated 500,000 of them and only a fifth of Finns own one outright, so many are available for those new to mökkielämä (Finnish cottage life). Lomarengas and Finland Cottage Rentals allow you to rent directly from owners, while on Sviskär in the southern Åland archipelago you get a 28-hectare (69-acre) island all to yourself – perfect for foraging, sea dipping and the 'tonic of wildness'.Sian Lewis
In 1948, Earl Shaffer, a US second world war veteran, set off on a long walk. He had his ex-army rucksack and some old boots, but no tent or cooker. His goal was to be the first person to complete the 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail in one continuous yomp, a thru-hike as it came to be known. When 67-year-old grandmother Emma Gatewood repeated the feat in 1955 (with even simpler kit), the Appalachian Trail was on its way to becoming the world's first long-distance celebrity footpath.
These days about 3,000 people attempt a thru-hike every year (about a quarter of those succeed) but the experience is now very different, with huts every six to eight miles, water stashes left by 'trail angels', and well-established support logistics.
In Europe it can be harder to find sustained remoteness, but the 2,050-mile Scandinavian section of the E1 long-distance footpath is about as close as you get.
This full 4,420-mile route had its origins in post-second-world-war rapprochement ideals and was devised by a team from the then European Ramblers Association led by the British walker Arthur Howcroft (who died in 2023 aged 96). The path starts at Norway's North Cape and officially finishes in Palermo, but it is in Scandinavia that it crosses the greatest amount of wilderness.
The early stages are well inside the Arctic Circle and not to be underestimated, with navigation, river crossings and snowfields constant challenges. Long stretches are unmarked. There are some concessions to practicalities: both Norway and Sweden have excellent systems of mountain huts.
Once you reach Halmstad on the Swedish coast, you have almost one Appalachian Trail's worth of walking under your belt, but there is no need to stop: in E1 terms you are not even halfway. A ferry crosses to the Danish port of Grenaa, and the path begins again, continuing across Germany and the Alps with several long, tough days. Some great stages then cross Tuscany and Umbria, but once in southern Italy the path, by all accounts, can be a bit sketchy and seems to fade away in Campania, though route-marking is improving.
After his failed attempt to complete the Appalachian Trail, author Bill Bryson described the benefits of long-distance trails succinctly: 'For a brief, proud period I was slender and fit. I gained a profound respect for wilderness and nature and the benign dark power of woods. I understand now, in a way I never did before, the colossal scale of the world.'Kevin Rushby
Buzzy and culturally rich, with extensive museums and galleries, oodles of nightlife and concerts – from classical venues to techno clubs – lush green spaces, family-friendly activities and striking architecture, New York and Berlin have plenty in common. But as someone who knows both cities well, Berlin gets my vote.
While NYC's nightlife is diverse – and has bounced back since Rudy Giuliani's ugly, destructive campaign against it in the 1990s – it's way more commercial than Berlin, whose underground electronic scene, especially techno, is edgier and more experimental. From Berghain to Sisyphos, Berlin's clubs also stay open longer (sometimes for days; it truly is the city that never sleeps, at least on weekends). They also don't tend to have dress codes – unless you count skimpy lingerie and kinky harnesses. VIP areas and even mobile phone photography are strictly verboten. Berliners can quaff beers openly on the streets, and indulge in a bit of public nookie at nightclubs – as distinct from official swinger or sex spots such as KitKat.
Berlin gives great gastro, too, excelling at affordable, mid-range restaurants that tick all the trend boxes – small plates, natural wines, plant-based menus found at buzzy neighbourhood spots such as Kreuzberg's vegan haven Happa, Neukölln's La Côte and Sorrel, and Prenzlauer Berg's Estelle. And while it doesn't have a Chinatown or a Little Italy, you can find every national cuisine on the planet (albeit with less spice, to appease the sensitive German palate).
NYC certainly has fantastic cultural big-hitters, from the Guggenheim and the Met to Moma and the American Museum of Natural History, but Berlin has the Unesco-heritage Museum Island, Mies van der Rohe's slickly modernist Neue Nationalgalerie and its own natural history and German history museums. It also excels in unusual venues that New York doesn't have, such as the Hamburger Bahnhof, in a former railway station, the Boros Collection inside a second world war bunker, and Silent Green, an art and concert space in a former crematorium.
As for green space, New York's Central Park may be one-and-a-half times the size of the Tiergarten, but Berlin has vastly more green recreational spaces overall, with about 2,500 inner-city parks and unique areas such as the sprawling Tempelhofer Feld, a former airport, and the massive Grunewald forest.
One last thing: with much lower population density and fewer tourists (12.7 million people visited Berlin in 2024 versus the 64 million who went to New York), there's more room on the streets and fewer queues for the major sights. Bis bald (see you soon) … y'all. Paul Sullivan
Let's get one thing straight: size wise, the Grand Canyon sprawls for 278 miles along the Colorado River, whereas the Tara River Canyon covers a mere 51. But what the Montenegrin canyon lacks in size it makes up for in depth: as Europe's deepest gorge, it plunges 1,300 metres (4,300ft), only 300 metres less than the average depth of the Grand Canyon (and just over 500 metres less than its deepest point).
As this Unesco world heritage site slices through northern Montenegro's Durmitor national park and eventually slides across the border into Bosnia, it adds even more drama to this section of the Dinaric Alps' forbidding mountains and glacial lakes.
For adventurers who like a challenge, Tara means one thing: white-water rafting. The choice of excursions all around the region is enormous, but you can get a taste of it in a few hours by joining one of the trips from the town of Žabljak, which in winter is one of Montenegro's ski centres. Eventually, you'll be rafting under the soaring concrete arches of the awe-inspiring Đurđevića Tara Bridge, whose beauty is best admired from below.
There's a whole mini industry set up around the bridge, including ziplining and stalls selling souvenirs. As someone at the opposite end of the daredevilry scale – and thanks to speeding cars and a concrete path that's barely a foot wide – I found it scary enough just walking on the bridge to take in the admittedly extraordinary view.
But there are other ways of enjoying the beauty of Tara without worrying about Montenegrin motorists. Not far from Žabljak is the car park for the Ćurevac mountain peak and viewpoint, which is reached after a 40-minute hike and offers sweeping views of those magnificent gorges. It's only one of scores of hiking routes that wind above and alongside the river, some of which are part of the 1,200-mile Via Dinarica trail that goes from Slovenia all the way to Albania.
Right by the border with Bosnia and the confluence of the Tara and Piva rivers is another collection of rafting centres as well as campsites offering mellower ways of exploring Tara. Boat trips along gentler stretches of water give you the chance to swim in absurdly clear waters, lunch on organic food and drink cold beer brewed with spring water. And in this land of €3 pints, you'll find your euro going way further than your dollar ever would.
Stay at Green Top near Žabljak, which has well-equipped one-bedroom self-catering wooden chalets with gardens, barbecues and mountain views from £95 a night.Mary Novakovich
When the Italian film director Sergio Leone chose to shoot his westerns in Europe, there was only one place that could convincingly double for the American west – the Tabernas desert in south-east Spain. With its dry riverbeds snaking through arid mountains and sandstone canyons, it's easy to imagine yourself in California's Mojave desert.
Tabernas might not have the Mojave's famous Joshua trees, but it is home to flora, fauna and a landscape reminiscent of the US desert. Prickly pears, giant aloe and palm trees line the trails, while lizards scuttle among otherworldly rock formations and eagles soar in the vast sky.
Tourism is still low-key here. For decades this barren part of Andalucía was not on the radar of the Spanish tourist board, and large areas are monopolised by swathes of plastic greenhouses. But with a growing appreciation for Tabernas' unique status as Europe's only desert, as well as the renaissance of Leone's movies, its charms are being re-evaluated. You can take a guided horseback ride through the desert with the Malcaminos ranch and pitch your tent at Camping Fort Bravo (€45 a night), one of the original movie sets still in use today. For a little more comfort –and to live out your California homesteading fantasy – you can book into one of their western-styled log cabins (from €80).
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It's an easy sell for me. Bewitched by cowboy lore as a teenager, I rode across the American deserts in search of the mythical west (admittedly on a motorcycle rather than horseback), seduced by the romance of life on the trail – billy cans boiling over campfires and a wide-open wilderness that promised a freedom unimaginable in fenced-off, old-world Europe.
Joshua Tree national park in the Mojave desert became my go-to destination each time I found myself in California. But in recent years, I've been exploring Spain, scouting routes for the forthcoming Spaghetti Western Trail, and finding the same magic in the Desierto de Tabernas. The scale is of course smaller than the Mojave, but the silence, the stillness, the hint of sage on the warm air and the sense of exploration are as thrilling as my early US road trips.
Leone was enthralled by American style and myth but always from a distance. 'I can't see the US any other way than with a European's eyes,' he said. 'It's a country that fascinates me and terrifies me at the same time.'
If you feel the same way right now, but still yearn for a cowboy adventure, you could do worse than follow in his footsteps and head for Tabernas.Lois Pryce
The jaw-dropping landscapes of the US's 63 national parks lure millions of visitors to the great outdoors each year. Yellowstone, established in 1872, is the oldest of them all – a sprawling 3,472 square miles of dazzling scenery including canyons and active geysers. Mostly in Wyoming but stretching into Montana and Idaho, it's home to wildlife from grizzly bears and wolves to bison and antelope, and is crisscrossed by thousands of miles of trails.
Although it can't compete in size, the rugged, forested Făgăraș mountains in Romania offer a thrilling taste of the wild and exciting wildlife-spotting opportunities closer to home. This area of Transylvania, on the southern edge of the Carpathians, is among the wildest places in Europe, where brown bear, wolves, lynx and – recently reintroduced – bison roam.
It's where the Foundation Conservation Carpathia is working to create the continent's largest forest national park, buying land for conservation and reforesting clear-cut areas on its mission to establish a 200,000-hectare wilderness reserve, which has been dubbed a 'Yellowstone for Europe'.
As I hike through forests on steep zigzagging paths with my guide Răzvan, the thrill of the wild is real – we see a viper and pass fresh bear prints. Gouge marks on a tree and overturned stones reveal the bear's hunt for food. I watch with bated breath as a group of bison wander on a hillside close by – thankfully upwind of our scent.
We stay at Bunea hide, a wooden shelter overlooking a lake, with bunks, a double bedroom, a kitchen and huge soundproofed windows that make the most of the views. As night falls, I stare into the dark as if glued to a movie. Something moves in the half-light – and slowly a young female brown bear wanders into view, sniffing the air, rubbing against a tree. It's not long before a large male appears, just metres away from the hide. I'm mesmerised as I watch him pawing the ground for food before sloping off into the woods.
Unlike the vast lodges in Yellowstone, staying in these tiny cabins mean you're close to the action, engulfed by the landscape. We hike higher to Comisu hide, at 1,600 metres, with sweeping views over the mountains as a storm rolls in. Owls call out in the moonlit night as I drift off to sleep, dreaming about this vibrant wild world.Jane DunfordVisit Foundation Conservation Carpathia for more information
For all our sniffiness about American cuisine, few people dispute the quality of the country's seafood. Although you can no longer get a lobster roll at McDonald's in New England, the fast-food joint is one of the few places in the region where they're not on the menu. Cycling down the Atlantic coast last summer as part of research for a US travelogue, I rejoiced in the casual abundance on offer at the roadside – baskets of fried clams in Connecticut, oysters in Maine, crab benedict in Massachusetts … 3,000 miles and a world away from the grand silver fruits de mer platters of Europe.
You don't have to fly across an ocean to get your shellfish fix, however. While you're unlikely to find yourself tempted by a lobster surf and turf burger in France, seafood can be surprisingly accessible if you swerve Parisian bistros and go straight to the source.
La Cale, in Blainville-sur-Mer on Normandy's Cotentin peninsula, an easy drive (or a day's cycle) from Cherbourg, is typiquement français for its pride in local produce (oysters, whelks, clams etc, as well as galettes and spit-roast meat), but rather less so in its casual feet-in-the-sand ethos and informal service. Remi, the proprietor, is described online as 'eccentric' – his van is graffitied with the words 'Rosbeefs welcome … frogs too'. Do not pass up the moules frites, or the teurgoule, a traditional Normande spiced rice pudding.
Further down the coast, in Brittany, I've earmarked Cancale, in the Bay of Mont Saint Michel, for a return visit, because if you ever wanted proof that the French can let their hair down, look no further than the people sitting on the sea wall with paper platters of oysters and plastic cups of cold sancerre. The oysters come from the seafront marché aux huîtres, which offers a bamboozling selection, all shucked to order, and the wine from an enterprising booze van parked nearby. The shells, once you've finished, are thrown on to the beach.
One step up, in that there's table service, but with no more steps between sea and plate, is Maison Quintin, on the Atlantic coast near Saint-Philibert, where you can feast on the family's own oysters under the pines as the sun sets over the estuary, supplemented with skewers of plump prawns and langoustines, crab, grilled lobster, and their homemade seafood rillettes on toast. Reservations essential – laid-back vibes guaranteed.Felicity CloakePeach Street to Lobster Lane: Coast to Coast in Search of Real American Cuisine by Felicity Cloake is published by Mudlark (£16.99)
It was on a slow journey through the extensive wetlands that border Italy's Adriatic that I first came upon the little-known Laguna di Marano, a carefully preserved eco-paradise, barely touched by tourism. This gossamer web of interlocking lagoons, canals and river deltas stretches from Venice all the way up to Trieste. Local legend has it that Ernest Hemingway called these wetlands and the adjoining sandy beach resort of Lignano 'piccola Florida', because it reminded him of the Everglades and the Florida Keys.
The US author first came to this part of Italy as a volunteer at the end of the first world war. He returned in the 1950s to find inspiration for his book Across the River and Into the Trees while duck hunting and fishing on the Marano Lagoon – though for sea bream and mullet rather than marlin, his favourite quarry in the waters around Florida.
At the bar of the rustic Trattoria Barcaneta in the bustling medieval port of Marano Lagunare, I order a glass of refosco dal peduncolo rosso, a rustic local red wine favoured by the writer. It may not be as glamorous as sipping a Hemingway martini in a Key West cocktail bar, but it was the perfect aperitivo before tasting chef Claudio Moretti's exquisite cuisine, a delicate carpaccio of sea bass and grilled eel from the nearby Stella River delta, both freshly caught by the port's many fishers.
Marano Lagunare is the perfect base for exploring the surrounding wetlands. The tourism office can arrange activities from canoeing and kayaking to walking and horse riding. Renting a small boat with a guide is my choice, a retired pescatore (fisher) for the perfect insight into local life on the water. While the vast, open expanse of the lagoon is breathtaking, dotted along the edge of the water is something you will never see in Florida – traditional casoni thatched huts still used today by fishers.
The landscape changes dramatically as we enter the protected reserve of the Stella delta. Here, the freshwater channels become narrower, bordered on both sides by tall golden reeds – definitely a feel of the Everglades – as we catch glimpses of pink flamingos, purple herons, egrets, cormorants swooping down and a neat squadron of geese flying past. It may be smaller than the Everglades (62 square miles as opposed to 2,357), but the one thing truly different from a Florida nature excursion is that there is no need to look out for alligators.John Brunton
My left foot shook on the clutch – not from tiredness, but from something resembling fear. Conor Pass had seemed like a good idea at breakfast. One of Ireland's highest and narrowest mountain roads? Why not? The car seemed to float as the road narrowed to a one-lane ledge between cliff and sky. No turning back now – just a slow crawl upwards with mist curling over the bonnet from the valley below.
Still, this is the scenery the Wild Atlantic Way promises – and delivers. It's a 1,600-mile coastal drive from Malin Head, the country's most northerly point, in County Donegal, to Kinsale in County Cork in the south-west – and Ireland's answer to California's Highway 1, the 656-mile Pacific Coast route that skirts sea bluffs, redwood groves and epic coastal views.
Big Sur's iconic Bixby Bridge resembles the Mizen Head footbridge in West Cork. Highway 1's 'million dollar view' is eclipsed by the Atlantic sweep from Slieve League, or the cliffs that tower above powder-white Keem beach on Achill Island. Connemara's Sky Road and the Burren's Atlantic Drive echo Big Sur's drama, winding between limestone and ocean. However, my favourite stretch – the Dingle peninsula – is hard to match. Its mountain-to-ocean setting is visual theatre dialled to max.
Inch beach, a long curve of sand stretching three miles into Dingle Bay, is a gentle introduction before I turned north to hair-raising Conor Pass (optional and clearly marked) and descended into Dingle town.
The road then turns otherworldly along the Slea Head Drive with Ventry beach's three miles of bone-white sand perfect for barefoot walking – somewhat like Highway 1's famous Moonstone beach.
As I drove on I stopped at every layby I could, because there's always something around the corner; a hidden cove or early Christian monument. At Coumeenoole beach, I stepped out on the headland and watched the surf pound the shore ferociously as if it was punishing it for some ancient grievance.
And then came Dunquin Pier – the lane zigzags down a steep slope like a spiral staircase that plunges into the ocean, which was enough of a reason to ditch the car on the roadside and walk down. This is where the boats leave for the Blaskets, and it feels like the edge of the world.
Offshore, the Three Sisters – three jagged peaks rising from the ocean floor – remain in focus, their silhouettes a reminder of the sea stacks off Big Sur. About halfway along the Slea Head Drive, the magnificent Blasket Centre delivers staggering island views.
Vic O'Sullivan